Addendum

Apparently I can subscribe to The New Yorker digitally. It would arrive in my inbox on Monday, appear just like the printed magazine, and cost $40 a year.

“You should get it!” Taxman told me. “It will make you happy!”

But will it?

Part of the beauty of a physical magazine subscription is reading it on Shabbat or Yom Tov; toting it to read in the park while the kids play; letting it stack up while I read novels and then diving into the pile, searching for articles by my favorite staff writers and regular contributors: Gawande, Groopman, Sacks, Mead, McPhee, Angell.

So, yeah, silver lining. But I’m…undecided.

Depressing

(and this is where my dining room table…used to be)

Repurposed

I’ve been so caught up in the move and all that entails (the bad, the ugly, the worse, the “do I have to take my children with me because they are behaving like rotten beasts?”), I haven’t blogged about my breasts in at least five minutes.

And this is not about breastfeeding, per se, so if I have any male readers besides my husband (do I?), feel free to turn away now. I mean, you don’t have to; it’s a free internet and you might learn something.

After complaining about my bra situation for many, many months, I finally took advantage of being child-free for whole hours at a time (thank you, camp!) and went to a fancy, schmancy bra store. I am normally the opposite of fancy, but this was necessary. Back in the day, when I was a B cup and my parents paid my bills, I used to shop at a certain mall store that hosts a primetime special on CBS. I never felt particularly sexy or womanly, and I never sprouted angel wings, which would have been SO COOL, but the bras seemed to fit and were all priced in the neighborhood of $30-$35.

Now I cannot shop there. Nursing has changed me, by which I mean I don’t have the volume I once did. This mall store does not seem to believe in the A cup; rather, they don’t seem to believe that anyone actually wants to BE an A cup, so absolutely everything in the store in “smaller” sizes is padded. I stopped looking there. I also couldn’t find anything at the Hanes-Bali-Playtex outlet.

So a friend pointed me to a place in Manhattan. Said friend grew up in Manhattan and just knows things. It’s on the Upper East Side, and I? Am so not that type. I wore sneakers today–this turned out to be the smartest thing ever–and frankly I don’t own strappy sandals OR nail polish of any kind. My husband cuts my hair. I could go on, but won’t. Every time I even visit the UES it feels like I am about to be shown the door. (The shabby chic of the Upper West Side is what I aspire to on my best day. A day during which I’ve showered and matched my top to my skirt AND my hat.)

First I had to find parking. Which I did, five blocks away. (Pretty miraculous.) It was only one hour parking. (This is all there was, because I did not have a prayer of finding parking on the numbered streets, especially because I had the minivan. I did not even try.) I didn’t even notice that the one hour was costing me $1.50 in quarters because I was so worried that an hour wasn’t going to be enough.

I get to the store and ask for help. “Do you have an appointment?” Uhhhh, no. They tell me they can take me in 15 minutes. Mental calculation. I am invited to look at the merchandise, which includes some sale items of various bras, underpants, lingerie items. And some of these things cost more, on sale, than the worth of all of my shoes combined. So I get nervous.

I had to fill out a questionnaire before my bra fitting, explaining what I am looking for.

I snoop around looking at lingerie, wondering if there is anything I can possible imagine myself wearing or buying (gak! the prices!). I check my watch obsessively. Finally I say to a clerk stacking underpants that I am going to go feed my meter. She blinks, as if I’ve told her that the martians are coming to get me. (Perhaps “feed the meter” is code for “I cannot afford to shop here” and she’s authorized to lock me out.) “I’m coming right back! I promise!”

Note to stores on Madison Avenue: valet parking would be really, really helpful. I have never used valet parking at a store, but the parking situation on the Upper East Side is SO awful.

I dash to the car and back, buying myself an extra half hour and getting all sweaty in the process. Because who doesn’t want to try on bras when they’re feeling hot and uncomfortable?

But then I meet Stephanie. Stephanie turns out to be the heroine in this story. She asks if I’ve had a fitting before, where my bras are from. Ha!

Basically, in a nutshell: The Target dog is my bra fitter. I wear nursing tanks almost exclusively (although sometimes C9 sports bras!) because any bra that I’ve owned in the past 10 years does not fit me.

I get a spiel about how they don’t use tape measures, they just assess by looking. Fine, whatever. Stephanie is apparently expecting me to be a little more shy, but really, as has been established in the past, I will flash just about anybody. (Although there was not a nursling in sight, so I should have been more careful. I suppose.)

“I’ll bring you some 32s,” Stephanie says, “and if those don’t work we have 30s.”

“They make 30s?” I’m floored, really. How could I be a petite and not know that?

Suddenly things start to go right. Bras fit. They feel good. Stephanie brings me a camisole to try over one, and I have a silhouette. It’s petite, but wow, I feel like a person. Not like a hag, not like I’ve been up most nights this month until 2 in the morning (true!), but like a real woman with real breasts, nicely proportioned for ME and my size.

(Oh, if I could go grab my 16 year old self for five minutes and shake her out of those huge sweatshirts and put her in a real bra and make her stand up straight it would make me so happy. Sigh. /digression)

I spent a lot of money in this place, but I think it’s all for the best. I found a brand that fits me perfectly that I didn’t know existed. I feel like I finally am giving my breasts their due. They’ve done a lot for me and my family these past five years and deserve some respect. The Target dog can go back to the dollar spot; Stephanie is my bra fitter now.

AND? I ran like a bat out of hell when I was finished and made it to my car with three minutes to spare. Because spending an extra $60 on this day? Would have been even harder to explain than the American Express bill.

Bye, bye, love

I’ve started the long process of saying goodbye to my life in the States. I’m not yet really excited about going to Israel–stressed and freaked and so tired of the process already is more like it. I have started a mental list of things that I won’t miss. Most of them involve parking a minivan in various too-small, overcrowded, busy parking lots with weird angles.

Last night was my final book club meeting. Actually, I am in two book clubs, but this was the first one that I joined, back in 2005.

It saved my life, a little.

In July of 2005, my La Leche group had its annual summer picnic. We veered slightly out of the neighborhood, to the home of a member who had a backyard and a wading pool. At the end of the picnic, my hostess was bemoaning the leftover food, but said, “Oh, it’s ok, I’ll bring it to my book club tonight.” To which I said, “Book club? Can I join?” Very out of character for me, the wallflower, but Julia was very friendly (read: Canadian).

The next month I did. I loved it. Most of its members were neighbors to each other (and my La Leche friend) and genuinely liked each other. Some also connected through gardening, through their jobs, through their neighborhood association. People came and went through the years, but there were at least a dozen mainstays of various ages, from people in their late 30s to retirees in their 70s. I was the “baby” of the group, which, honestly, I loved. Here were people who had once had small kids and had lived through it and were intact and could still talk about books and be intellectual. Many of them were teachers–ranging from preschool to college–or librarians. There were four couples, three straight and one gay, who came singly and in pairs.

I loved that monthly disconnect from my kids. (Although AM did attend two or three meetings with me when he was tiny.) Two whole hours when I was totally free to be myself again, the person who could talk about characters and symbols and use three syllable words and be sarcastic and laugh loud and tease the sweet curmudgeon who always wanted to read Plato and Freud instead of contemporary fiction.

I loved being forced back into the adult world, to shake myself free of board books and What To Expect and even my beloved Ask Moxie. I spent part of every Shabbat reading my own book. In front of my kids. I would read to them, of course, but then I would say, “Now Ema is going to read her book and drink her tea.” And I did. Frankly, I think I set a good example, because now they do the same. They love to be read to, but are equally likely to dump a clump of books on the floor, sit in the middle of them, and page through them in silence.

I drove there in the rain, the snow, the light of June evenings. Usually skipped March, because Taxman was working ’til midnight. But, really, what a find.

I will miss it.

WANT

All my brownie dreams come true.

(Spent Shabbat with a couple of former foodies.)

Packing, playdates, pizza, and the park

A mom we know, who had a son in Miss M’s class this year, offered to take Miss M for a few hours so I could get things done. Because really, I don’t get a whole lot done between 7 am and 7 pm that can’t be done on the computer–even phone calls have the potential to get totally ruined by my screaming “NO MORE JUMPING!” at regular intervals.

Of course, I still had AM, but I figured I would work around that. What I did NOT figure on was that AM would be a seething pit of rage this morning due to Miss M’s playdate. To be honest, it is a rare get together that doesn’t include them both. Many, many of her 5 year old friends have 3 year old (approximately) siblings, so the parents get together and throw all the kids at the toys and attempt to have a conversation. (This works best at the playground.) Miss M and AM get along quite well, usually, so when she has a friend over it becomes three-way play.

But there were 5 year old twins awaiting Miss M. Their younger sibling is a 1 year old, who was otherwise occupied. There was really no place for AM, particularly because these are not our closest friends. Poor guy was just sad and jealous and in a snit.

So instead of spending the time packing or organizing? We had an outing to a special park (read: not the backyard) and then pizza for lunch. But I did get to make an important phone call, write two vital emails, and write two checks. Go me!

Increase your word power

Today is Miss M’s fifth birthday. I would love to share some introspection on that, but between it being Thursday and an incredibly rainy day…and did I mention the cardboard boxes threatening to take over my life? And the anxiety attack I had last night after our headboard went to its new owner and it dawned on me that this move across the world is really happening? Like right now?

Yeah.

Anyway.

So instead here are cute stories about my children and their vocabularies. While I do read a lot, including some erudite things like The New Yorker, my spoken vocabulary around the kids isn’t especially intelligent. Mostly because it consists of the same dozen phrases, including such gems as: “What do you want to eat?” “How do you want to ask?” “Stop bothering him/her.” “Please find your shoes/backpack/library book/sweatshirt.” “Please put on your clothes.” “Please take off your clothes and get in the bathtub.” Etc.

I do, however, read to them a lot, still, even though Miss M reads herself. We’re working through The Cricket in Times Square, and she’s trying, I think, to jump ahead in it by herself even though it’s written at a sixth grade level. AM’s book choices are slightly sophisticated for a 3 year old; he does enjoy Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, Monica Wellington’s books, and things of that ilk, but he also readily sits through the original Curious George stories (+ Cecily G. and the 9 Monkeys and Katy No-Pocket).

Miss M says funny things. A few weeks ago, when complimented on her Shabbat dress, she replied, “I’m glorious!” Um, yeah. And this week when we were hurrying upstairs for her to use the bathroom in the apartment, she said, “This is a good solution!” (I’d hate to know what the not-so-good solution was.)

AM is also in on it. The other day, when asked if he liked what he was eating, said, “Yes! It’s so tasty!” Tasty is now his new favorite word, supplanting yummy by a mile. I’m just not sure where he got it, because tasty is not a word that I’d use, preferring “delicious.”

Taxman is a little worried about their “Mother Tongue English” continuing when they are immersed in the Israeli school system. But with my parents as their pen pals and with a little nudging, I think they’ll be…glorious.

Sorry, no time to chat

I apologize for the radio silence here. Big things are happening, in that we are MOVING.

Not just any move. Our last move was from two blocks away. Although we did switch ZIP codes and have our car insurance jacked up as a result.

But I digress.

We are moving to Israel. This is an idea that we’ve been tossing around for years and years, started thinking about seriously last spring, and have sort of thrown together in the past six months. And when I say “thrown together,” I mean two trips to Israel to sort out jobs and houses and things. Gathered every paper of record relating to us and our children. And there is still so much left to do if I think about it too much I might cry.

It is four weeks until the movers come and seven weeks until we’re on a plane. Between now and then there is the end of school, Miss M’s birthday party, two weeks of camp, a visit to my parents, packing packing packing. We’re selling off a lot of furniture (Israeli living spaces are in the European model, i.e., inherently smaller) and miscellaneous STUFF–it costs $6.25 a cubic foot to move this shit, so we want to think carefully. Which isn’t to say I haven’t been stockpiling Lands End dresses (on sale) and raincoats (ditto) and Carter’s sleepwear from Costco.

And now I have to bake cookies, because when AM awakes from his nap to find that the stereo is gone he will be distraught and I will feel better if there are fresh cookies.

I am still here, still trying to keep up with who is having babies and reading when I can, but expect posting to be light for the next bit. One Tired Ema will continue to be tired and continue to muse about it, just in another time zone.

No cause for alarm

Miss M: “Can you show me a blog?”
Me, startled: “A blog?”
Miss M: “A blog. Where cranberries grow.”
Me, relieved: “Oh, you mean a bog.”
Miss M: “Yeah, a bog. Can you show me a picture of a bog?
Me: “Sure.”

Up in the air

So there is a lot of STUFF going on around here, but none of it is finalized.

I do not have the concentration to SIT and BE ON TASK for more than about six seconds because, I’m guessing, there is just flux in the air and it is totally messing with me.

By the end of the month there should be some serious resolution to things, but it will be a long four weeks to get there.

So, I’m here, just flitting.