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Miss M is very into Curious George at the moment. She must go to sleep with every CG book she owns (currently 4, sometimes more if we have from the library) next to her, like a security blanket.
In the Runup To Potty Training, we purchased some CG underpants from Target. Still in the package, of course.
But! This morning I was IM’ing with my mom, and she writes this:
I was planning to write a book–Curious George Goes Potty. I would write the story first and run it by you to make sure you approve of the story line, messages and vocabulary.
How’s that for an awesome grandma (and mom)?
Shavuot is, in my opinion, the least stressful of the major religious holidays.
On Pesach, there is the cleaning the chametz stress. This was stressful when it was just the two of us and we never, ever, ever had food in the bedrooms. Now there are four of us and I’ve found Cheerios in every room and most of the closets. So we pretend we don’t own our apartment for a week and move in with Taxman’s parents instead.*
On Sukkot, there is the stress of moving meals with small people outside, plus the eating in rainy/cold weather factor.
On Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, there’s the Praying For Your Very Soul For The Next Year stress. (With the added bonus for me on Yom Kippur of trying to nurse people and not pass out from dehydration by 3 pm.)
Shavuot doesn’t have the bells and whistles of all that. You don’t have to get high on oven cleaner prepare weeks in advance. You don’t have to spend your kids’ inheritance school tuition to buy a lemon citron.**
But in its quiet way it is the pinnacle of the year, a commemoration of the revelation of the Torah at Mount Sinai. There is a widely observed tradition to stay up all night learning Torah, as if waiting for our own personal revelations. I am really not an all-nighter kind of girl–never did it, even in college, because I just become a total zombie at around 3 in the morning–I’ve only stayed up and gone to the accompanying dawn prayer service (usually at around 4:45) one time.
In the life of a religious Jew, the Torah is that from which everything flows. Sometimes it’s subtle, sometimes not. It informs aspects of food, clothing, shelter, morals, ethics, calendar, prayer, timekeeping, living, and art. So celebrating its inception, as it were, isn’t a minor thing.
Where was I? Oh, right. Cheesecake.
Traditionally, Shabbat and holiday meals are meat-based. I suppose this goes all the way back to the times of the Beit Hamikdash, when there were cow/sheep/bird offerings on the altar on those days, some of which were then eaten. (Probably a lot of people Taxman grew up with would be horrified to know that his wife has made him eat tofu fried rice for Shabbat lunch.) There is the understanding that things like meat and fish add festivity to the meal, so should be included on joyful occasions.
So why is Shavuot the exception? (For some people it isn’t–they have a small dairy meal, reset the table, and an hour later have a meat meal. Or have dairy meals at night and meat meals at lunch.)
There are a few explanations. First, that when the Torah arrived hot off the press from Mount Sinai, including the laws surrounding food and ritual slaughter, everyone realized their pots were treif (not kosher). It would take time to kasher their cooking implements (i.e. make them acceptable for use again), so for the celebration people turned to food that did not require cooking, like cheese, instead of using the meat meals that had been prepared in advance. As a bonus, one of three times in the Torah that the injuction of cooking meat and milk together appears, it is in the same verse (Exodus 34:26) that describes bikkurim, bringing the first fruits of the season to the Beit Hamikdash as a tithe–this, as I alluded to here–was done on Shavuot.
Another explanation is that up until the giving of the Torah, people hadn’t been eating dairy products at all because of a strict interpretation of the Noachide laws–namely that taking the milk of an animal was equivalent to taking its limb. (I personally find this explanation a bit of a stretch.)
The most poetic reasoning is from a verse in Song of Songs, where the words of the Torah (according to allegorical explanations of the Song of Songs that compare the relationship of Israel–the people–and G-d to that of a bride and groom) are compared to milk and honey.
If words of Torah = milk and sweetness, surely there can’t be a better way to express that in pastry than cheesecake. (Although cheese blintzes from a little patisserie in Ramat Gan, down the block from my brother-in-law’s in-laws, definitely can give a good cheesecake a run for its money.) Or brownies made with sweet butter. Or lemon bars with a buttery crust.
One might argue that since the Torah is a year-round presence, dairy meals should be as well. But I can picture Taxman’s grandmother’s face blanching before me (she’s almost 95 and has had a lifelong love affair with salami-and-eggs–if a meal doesn’t have meat, it’s not worth eating, so much), so I’ll float that theory another time.
* It’s not quite this easy. Maybe I’ll explain next Pesach.
** I am still beyond sad that the comments to this particular post are no longer with it. It was fun. Click on the link to see a really old pic of the kids. Some day I will figure out exactly how to post photos on WordPress so you can see them now.
Cheesecake post is coming, just interrupted by a semi-spontaneous trip to the zoo.
So here’s a pet peeve of mine.
At the zoo, we were about to get in line for the Wild Asia Monorail. We showed our membership card to one zoo employee, but I decided to head for the other side of the line (either was ok). In order to get there we had to pass behind another zoo employee. As AM (strapped to my front) and I edged past her, she turned and said “EXCUSE YOU!”
Now really, what is that supposed to accomplish?
Either I had said “Excuse me” and she hadn’t heard me. So that was my fault? Hello? Not nice.
Or I hadn’t said “Excuse me” and she was trying to make an example of me. To whom? Any one of 100 strangers who couldn’t care less? Who the hell does she think she is? And this was a zoo employee! Shouldn’t they make nice to the paying customers?
I honestly was so flustered I couldn’t remember if I had said “Excuse me” (while trying to make sure the four of us–including Miss M ranging around on foot–stayed together and away from the hordes of schoolkids). But how is making me feel bad any less rude?
I admit that in situations like that I tend to murmur, so even though I almost always say “excuse me” or “thank you” it’s not always received. But when I’m on the opposite end, I always assume that someone either was polite or meant to be but was distracted by their kids, their thoughts, their whatever. Which happens, of course!
Exceptions made for cases of clearly aggressive rudeness, but honestly, what are you going to do?
* rant over*
What’s bugging you today?
Shavuot was good. On the first day I actually went to synagogue, by myself, and stayed there for the entire service, beginning five-minutes-late to end, for the first time in many, many months (more than 13, surely). Taxman had to get up at 4:30 in the morning to make that happen, so kisses to him.
There were many buttery desserts. Cheesecake, of course. Nice lunch company. The weather was gorgeous. The sprinklers were on at the park today and Miss M got to take her “new! water shoes!” for a test drive.
But poor AM is suffering through some hard teething. He’s sad and barely eating because his mouth hurts and sleeping has been, no pun intended, a bit of a nightmare. I’ve further relaxed my nighttime standards and nursed him whenever just to get some calories/fluids into him, but he’s still just so sad. I foresee more infant Motrin in our future….
Other than the continuous running of drool and the constant knuckles-in-mouth at the moment, AM’s quite entertaining. He’s got about 20 words, all of which sound like “ba-BAH.” (If you can’t figure it out based on the context, that’s your own damn fault.) He points a lot and manages to really make himself understood (we think that’s why he has no inclination to sign). Although I spent most of his first 12 months in despair of him ever using a book for anything other than a chew toy, he now fetches them for me with regularity, and if I recite the first few lines of one of his favorites he finds that specific book.
He also understands a frightening amount. To wit:
1. Last week, as Taxman was carrying him through the kitchen, he pointed to a container of cold elbow noodles (staple food around here). Taxman tried to feed him one, but he spat it out. Then he pointed to the microwave. Yes, he wanted his pasta warmed and happily ate a whole bunch of it.
2. Last night, during one of about 2,376 nocturnal restless periods, I thought he might be too warm. So I stripped off his onesie. He looked confused and kneaded his chest, as if to say, “Where the hell did my shirt go?” Then he pointed down the hallway (towards the guest bathroom, where the tub is) and said “ba-BAH?”* He said it over and over until I finally said, “No honey, no bath right now. No bath.”
3. He also totally plays up his interactions with Miss M. If he’s feeling snarky and she’s a little bit reckless, he cries extra-loud, knowing she’ll get into hot water and he’ll get picked up. A future in politics, perhaps? Hmm.
* Punctuation mine.
In my continuing quest to aid in the understanding of Judaism through the use of pastry, I bring you Shavuot. The “Feast of Weeks,” seven weeks after Passover. Important spiritually because it is the celebration associated with receiving the Torah (therefore also called The Feast of Tabernacles, although not by any Jew I know). Important agriculturally (more so in the past) because it is the holiday where the first fruits of the harvest were brought to the Beit Hamikdash.
The food most closely associated with Shavuot (at least in modern times) is cheesecake. There is a reason for this.
Unfortunately, I gravely miscalculated all the cooking and assorted errands I had to do. At this hour the cooking is mostly done (somehow I managed to do it with the kids underfoot for part–let’s just say I was not a nice mommy yesterday), but there are three loads of laundry to be folded. And we’re having lunch guests tomorrow, so leaving all the clean clothes piled on the love seat isn’t really a great idea.
So the explanation of cheesecake–and blintzes–will have to wait until Friday.
Has anyone seen the new Poland Spring sport bottles?
Does its interesting, um, curvature, make anyone else a tad uncomfortable? They are selling water, after all. Not cigarettes, condoms, liquor, or anything vaguely adult. Of course, they have bottles aimed at kids, but really, isn’t spring water a beverage that should be kind of plain-jane in body and spirit?
Taxman thinks I am insane and my mind is in the gutter. I think if something like this is so obvious that I can see it, it’s Too Much.
Opinions?
I affectionately call Miss M’s preschool room “the Petri Dish.” (Twelve 2- and 3-year-olds who sneeze on each other? Germ central.)
AM gnaws on toys, furniture, books…just about anything. He’s been known to eat sand.
So.
How is it that I, a person who washes her hands probably a minimum of 25 times every day, seem to have contracted pink eye?
Is the goodness of a multi-grain waffle completely obliterated by the slathering of Nutella on top of it?
In which case I am probably several years away from celebrating…
Last year I was full of hope. This year I am full of grumpiness.
My pinnacle of mothering for the year was probably last night, when Miss M opened her hands, leaned against AM, who was standing and not holding on to anything, and pushed him to the floor. My instinct was pretty violent. I managed to ignore my dark side, but instead scooped her up, changed her diaper, brushed her teeth, and left her sobbing in the dark and pleading to nurse.* (She fell asleep in 10 minutes.)
I keep sweating the small stuff, expecting too much of her (like to have common sense–think I’m a little unreasonable? Just a smidge?), and wishing I could do better. Maybe one day I will actually be better instead of just bitching about it and feeling like an idiot for not changing. Stuck in a rut much?
In the meantime, I think the “Mother’s Day” and “Father’s Day” concepts are kind of a sham. I couldn’t do this by myself, so singling us out one at a time is stupid. Taxman is my partner and sounding board. He cleans up my messes. When Miss M woke up and cried at 8:45 (the front door is noisy) last night and she told him the story through breathy sobs, “Miss M push AM! Ema change you and brush teeth and go night-night! Miss M lost her chance to nurse,” he backed me 100%. When she woke up crying to nurse at 4:50 (unsurprising after last night’s debacle), he fielded that too.
But I still love them. All of them. Fiercely. I hope that’s enough for now.
* I have threatened, on occasion, to put her to bed without nursing, but the hysterics are usually just too much and not worth it. But I definitely needed a time-out from her–so I carried it out.
Sorry. The witty and charming and snarky, tired yet perky One Tired Ema has been replaced by the absolutely beyond exhausted One Tired Family.
I am having trouble forming sentences. We all are–those of us who speak.
The whole family seems to be suffering under the reign of terror unleashed by its youngest member, who is attempting to turn us all nocturnal. One o’clock in the morning is a good time to sit up in bed and coo, don’t you think? He’s only sleeping about 9 hours a night, which is NOT normal. He’s making up for it during the day with two huge naps, but I have things to do. Those dishes won’t wash themselves. The laundry pile can only rise so high.
But seriously, we are wiped.out. Someday I think I will relish the 5 o’clock hour as a time to be at peace with myself, but that’s only going to be when bedtime is at 7 and there aren’t all those pesky interruptions (from anyone).
