Category Archive

AM woke up Monday morning and started calling Taxman Abba, just as I predicted, and it’s adorable and funny and shows progress and it’s great news–did I mention he’s also got words for baby and berries and apple and birdie? and we’re still on break from speech therapy–but holy crap he really isn’t a baby any more and someday he will really be talking and everyone will understand how cute and smart and riotous he is and where did my little baby (babies, if we’re being honest; Miss M is turning four!) go?

Preface: Miss M has never been to Florida, but many of her classmates have relatives there or go for vacation. So she’s heard of it.

Miss M: “I want to go to Miami.” to Taxman: ”Have you been to Miami?”

One Tired Ema: “I don’t know if Abba’s ever been to Miami.”

Taxman: “I’ve been to Miami.”

Miss M: “I want to go to my own Ami.”

Hysterics ensue.

One Tired Ema: “Where’s the computer?”

And I am not talking about the incessant whys. Things like “Why do I have a purple cup? Why is this cup purple? Why is that a toilet?”

At the airport on Sunday I watched over the kids as they watched a DVD; Taxman went to El Al ticketing to see if there were any alternatives to waiting around for 7 hours. At one point Miss M exclaimed, “My foot is cold!” This is a Miss M-ism, meaning that her foot is asleep. She used to get hysterical when this happened, but thankfully these days she seems to be taking it much better.

Anyway, a few minutes later, she got up and started shimmying around. “What are you doing?” I queried.

“I’m walking around,” she explained. “I have needles and threads.” *

* This is definitely a keeper. I have a feeling we’re going to be using this phrase when she’s 20.

Yesterday evening, from the bathroom: “Abba, Ema! Is Shabbat over?”

Chorus of every adult in the living room: “No! Not yet!”

(pause) “But I want Shabbat to be over.”

Purim (We were about to go deliver mishloach manot–gifts of food and drink–to friends in our building. Many people, including some spirited adults, masquerade on Purim.)

In the words of Miss Doctor M: “AM is a firefighter; he brings people to the hospital, and I make them better.”

Scene: Parking lot of a suburban grocery store. 5pm. Two tired, hungry kids protesting that they have not yet received their promised bribes (banana for AM; small orange juice–with straw!–for Miss M). One tired Ema fishing for keys in her coat pocket in order to open the minivan that will convey the three of them and $37 worth of food, medicine, and sundries home.

As I fumbled with my key fob, a mom with two young kids passed by my cart. The older of the two, who was maybe six or seven, came out with the following stunner not four feet from me:

“Mommy, are they Amish?”

I am still attempting to formulate what would have been an appropriate response, had it fallen to me to do so. My mouth is still kind of hanging open, though. Maybe I should have just gestured to the frozen pie crusts in the bag and said, “No, not Amish.”

(What I need is a second opinion from Chichimama, who actually saw me–and what all three of us were wearing–today.)

In the bath

Miss M: “Ema, look! I’m wearing soap clothes!”

(Aside to anyone who gets it: Could I market these in Beitar, you think? Lakewood?)

From Miss M: 

“Ema, that’s BIGNORMOUS!”

“I don’t wanna go in my ‘partment building. I want to go to Israel.”*

“Is today tomorrow?”

* We haven’t been there in almost three years but are going in three months.

From AM:

Picking at the tablecloth and signing “table” “blanket,” neither of which I knew that he knew.** (He’ll only sign in proper context.)

We taught him to say “Ema” which sounds like “mmmMA!” It was cute for about five seconds, but now he thumps up and down the hall whining “mmmMA!”

I think we’ll stick with the signing.

** It’s stuff like this that gets us disqualified from EI. When he was being evaluated he was shown a picture of a baby and was clearly supposed to say “baby” or “ba” or some such. No dice. He signed “bath.” Why? Because the baby had no clothes.

Walking to the library, hand in hand

Me: “Guess what, little girl?”

Miss M: “What, big girl?”

Me (trying not to laugh): “I love you.”

Miss M: “I love you, too!”

We had sleepover company for Shabbat, friends who have moved a few states north. Their daughter, D, was Miss M’s first real friend–we got them together at least twice a week. They still play well together, if by “play,” you mean harass the adults in their lives into reading every Curious George book (classic and otherwise) in our library.

Miss M was very excited to wake up on Friday morning and see D sleeping in her room. “Ema,” she stage whispered as she sat on the potty, “D is my best friend.” 

They were chatting as I herded them into the living room and went to see about their breakfast. “Ema,” Miss M called after me. “I didn’t nurse yet. I want to nurse.” Then she turned to D, who did nurse as a baby but is now three and very attached to the more traditional milk of preschoolers, and offered, “Do you want to nurse too?”

(Uh. At least her heart was in the right place.)

After Shabbat, D’s parents packed up to head for her grandparents’ house in New Jersey, and our kids got ready for bed. Miss M, as her parting gift, gave D a hug and one of her recently trademarked, inappropriately intimate open-mouthed kisses. Reserved only for really good friends and blood relatives.

One Tired Ema (tickling AM and nibbling his neck): “Are you yummy and delicious?”

Miss M (severely): “Ema, AM is NOT food.”

AM (turning to me, looking hopeful): “Food?”*

* This was, of course, in ASL.

(nude, after the bath) 

Miss M: “AM, do you want to flush my pee?”

AM (nodding enthusiastically): “Eh!”

(both clapping)

Miss M: “Hooray! Good job, AM!”

Miss M, finally ceasing from her relentless performance of Oh, Chanukah: “Antiochus!”
Me: “Did you learn about him in school?”
Miss M: “He dreamed about the big cows and the little cows.”
Me: “What?”
Miss M: “He had a dream about the big cows and the little cows.”
Me: “No, sweetie, you’re thinking of Pharaoh.”*
Miss M: “Oh. Pharaoh.”

* Genesis 41 and Pharaoh’s odd dreams are part of the lengthy lead up to the Passover story. By interpreting Pharaoh’s dream, Joseph establishes himself as a star in the Egyptian community. It is only several generations later, when a Pharaoh arises who does not remember Joseph (Exodus 1:1), that the trouble begins.

I digress–the point is I was impressed that Miss M knew this. I thought she had remembered this since Pesach, which would have been impossible ridiculous until I realized that this week’s parsha (weekly Torah portion) is Mikketz (Genesis 41:1-44:17), so she had talked about it in school. Recently.

On AM’s potential speech therapy: Visit from the case worker was a big to-do about nothing. It was basically signing his life away. Ok, not really, just agreeing that All the Important Professionals can share information about him. The case worker looked like she was about 18,* but she’s been calling every couple of days with updates as events warrant, so I can’t complain. Although she seemed pretty flustered when I told him that we don’t call him “J” (his legal name, but the one that we use for things like health insurance, medical records, etc.) but rather a-cute-Hebrew-nickname-for-AM. I had to repeat myself twice. But she might have been making sure that we did not need to redo all the paperwork registering him under “J TiredFamily.” Why is the idea of a nickname so hard to understand? No idea. To be honest, though, I thought that the case worker was going to have some minimal evaluation of him, in which case it would have been important to know that he does not respond to the name “J”–this is why I brought it up in the first place.

On nightweaning: Still a dumbass. But the beginning of the end is December 21st. I mean it.

On hats: No progress. I went hat shopping in upscale-New-Jersey-hotbed-of-religious-Jews and could not bring myself to spend $130 on a hat. And that was cheap. I tried on a brown felt (felt! not, like, mink or something) for $351. I kid you not. Maybe Brooklyn is cheaper, but going there requires a great deal of planning. Maybe berets are truly the way to go, so we can continue to, you know, eat.

On division of labor: As I was driving, singing along to Laurie Berkner, a voice piped up from the back, “Ema, stop singing! That’s Laurie’s job!” Perhaps LB would like to trade…just for a little while.

On excellent big brother potential: When our nephew (who is almost four and a half) met his little sister, he kept remarking about how little she is. But then he said he’d love her even when she gets big. Seriously, is that not the cutest?

* She also didn’t seem to know all that much about babies. When I said that I was concerned about AM’s drooling, given his age, I also said, “But he doesn’t have all his teeth yet, so who knows.” And she looked kind of confused.

Miss M got sent home from school yesterday because her eyes were provoking a lot of discussion. A trip to the doctor for antibiotic drops, a note to let her back into class tomorrow, a speech EI referral for AM, and two flu shots later, we were left with a “free”/”sick” day today.

Rather spontaneously, I decided to take the kids to the holiday train show at the New York Botanical Garden. We’re members, we have about six years’ worth of free parking passes, and even though it was too late to reserve timed tickets for today on-line, I doubted that the show would be fully booked, as I am sure it is on weekends and during Christmas week.

Predictably, both kids went nuts over the trains. (I personally would have liked to spend some more time looking at the replicas of famous NYC buildings, constructed out of plant matter. But trust me, neither of my companions had the slightest interest in my opinion.) AM, riding on my back in a BabyHawk, did a huge amount of excited yelping. Given the acoustics in the Haupt Conservatory, everyone in there must have, uh, perceived his joy. Miss M liked the trolleys in particular and kept demanding to know why not all of the trains were running.

But one part freaked her out. A single piece zipping around its own track, it looked like a small oval cookie tin and was painted to look like a ladybug. I kept expecting her to notice the ladybug features, but it moved past us, several times, rather quickly; I finally pointed it out, and she twisted away, burying her head in her shoulder. ”Ema,” she said darkly, “I don’t like the bug train.” Ok, fine; there was plenty else to see, and we did.

Instead of braving the wind to eat snack al fresco, I decided to pack it in and come home for AM’s nap. All the way back to the entrance, Miss M was reiterating her revilement of the ladybug train. As we passed through the gate, a NYBG employee said goodbye, adding “Leaving so soon?”

I explained that we were members and could come any time; we had just come for the train show. “Oh,” she replied. “Did you like it?” she asked Miss M.

“Yes!” exclaimed my pigtailed princess. “I did!” And then the kicker. “I liked the bug train!”

So all the way home, in between demands for more pretzels, I heard about how much she liked the bug train. She told our doorman about it. She left a voicemail for Taxman singing the praises of the bug train.

And what about me?

I am pretty damn confused.

Yesterday evening I had the incredible good fortune to not only go to the bathroom by myself, but also to close the door and, after a barging-in incident, lock it.

This is relevant to the story. (Really!)

While I was in the bathroom, Taxman was charged with the task of getting the kids into pajamas and brushing their teeth. Under normal circumstances, Miss M will, with appropriate levels of cajoling, put on her own pjs, but she was being oppositional in that “I am so tired, please put me out of my misery” kind of way.

There was a small scuffle between abba and daughter in the hallway right outside the bathroom door, probably due to the fact that Miss M has been known, when exhausted, to get frantic in a way resembling the dance of a honeybee. She slipped and fell, immediately proclaiming a boo-boo and demanding to know what had happened.

Taxman: “I didn’t see exactly how you hurt yourself. I’m sorry you did. Do you need a hug?”

Miss M: “Ema, I hurt myself!”

Me (through the door): “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Miss M: “Ema, can you tell me exactly what happened?”

Hmm. No?

It seems like age 3, so far, has been All About the Big Concepts.

Potty? Check.

Following directions? Check…if you are her teacher.

Love-destroy-love your sibling? Check.

But we’re still working on some.

Like the days of the week. Honestly, for a kid that knew the alphabet before she could talk all that well, she is having a really hard time with this. Almost every day she asks if it is Wednesday. Wednesdays at school they have music, which she loves, and pizza for lunch, ditto. So Wednesday, understandably, is popular.

This morning, she woke up crying. This is not unusual. I went in to encourage her to get out of bed and use the bathroom, and she was sobbing, “It’s not Wednesday, it’s not Wednesday!” I told her that it was, in fact, Wednesday and that she was going to have music and pizza today. Instead of turning her mood around, she continued to cry. “Tomorrow’s not Wednesday!” (Aha! Maybe she is getting it!)

“No,” I said, “Tomorrow is Thursday.”

“On Thursday I’m going to cry at school because I’m going to miss you,” she hiccuped.

“Ok,” I said. “Now can we please get on the potty?”

And then there’s marriage.

After the days-of-the-week hullabaloo was taken care of, we were lounging in bed, watching AM and Taxman starting to stir.

“Ema,” she said, “when I’m four I’m going to get married.”*

“Really?” I said. “Who are you going to marry?”

“Myself!” she exclaimed.

“Honey, two people get married to each other. You can’t marry yourself.”

“When I get big I’m going to marry myself,” she insisted. “When I’m 10.”**

“Isn’t there someone else you’d like to marry?”

“I want to be a wife! I’ll marry AM!”  AM, by now awake, sitting up and blinking, showed her a toothy grin. Oh dear.

“Uh, sweetie, people don’t usually marry their brothers. There must be someone you know you’d like to marry. A friend?”

“I know! I’ll marry Y!” Y is her first cousin. Her only first cousin, at least for the next 3-5 weeks.***

What will we tell the grandparents?

* Not random, I promise! In school they have been discussing the weekly Torah portion. We are smack in the middle of Genesis now, so lots of husband-wife things; Isaac & Rebecca; Jacob & his merry wives.

** Miss M thinks that being 10 years old is the pinnacle of grownupness because I once told her she had to be 10 to use a sharp knife in the kitchen.

*** My family has gone two straight generations without first cousins marrying. This doesn’t seem like the time to decrease the gene pool again, now that it’s getting so large.

****************************************************************************************************

Additional funnies!

I set her up with playdough after school in an attempt to get a jump on my Shabbat cooking (book club tomorrow!). As I’m mixing sweet potato pie filling I hear, “Ema, can you be excused from your work and come see what I made for you?”

And then as I’m nursing AM I hear, “Ema, you will clean up my playdough and then I can watch something. Is that true? Is that the truth?”

Miss M: “Ema, I’m a leper!”

Me: “Uhhh….” [pause] “Do you mean a leopard?”

Miss M: “I’m a leopard!”

Me: “Actually, that looks like a cheetah.”

* It’s on the inside of a brown jumper. I have no idea why. Ask Carter’s.

At the dinner table, over baked ziti, I said to AM, “You’re in a bit of a pickle!”

Miss M looked up and said, “I’m a pickle!”

Uh. Ok.

Ironically, she doesn’t even like pickles.

Me: “Miss M, where are you?”

Miss M: “Right here, Ema! I’m hiding under the blanket!”

• Miss M’s newest choice phrase:  (sad voice) “I’m having a hard day.” Perhaps she’s been eavesdropping on my late afternoon phone conversations with Taxman? But in her case it usually means, “I have to poop, and I don’t want to.”
• This morning I sent her to her room for the usual infraction (pushing AM) and popped in to find her lying in bed, covers pulled up, reading a book. Hey, if I misbehave, will somebody let me do that? Go ahead, punish me for a long time! Enough, say, to finish my book club selection.
• AM’s newest shtick for expressing frustration is to freeze in his tracks, squat, and give a howl of anguish. It’s meant, I’m sure, to elicit sympathy and melt my icy-cold heart. But whenever I see it, I burst out laughing–because Miss M has been doing the exact same thing for at least a year and a half. [Is that where he picked it up? Or is it just another creepy way in which they're the same?]

This is particularly funny if you’ve seen The Best of Elmo video, the scene where Elmo and Whoopi Goldberg are discussing the merits of skin and fur.

Scene: In bed this morning. Around 7ish.

Players: Taxman and Miss M. (AM was still asleep between me and Taxman. I was trying to figure out how to lie in bed until 9. Hahahaha.)

Miss M (looking critically at Taxman’s chest): “What’s that?”

Taxman (trying to figure out what she’s referring to): “What’s what?”

Miss M (answering her own question): “That’s fur! [One Tired Ema proceeds to dissolve into cackles.] I like it!”

I missed the follow-up because I was laughing so hard. And Taxman refused to relate it because he knew I’d blog it. But hey, with a lead-in like that, how could you go wrong?

My subsconcious has been giving me a workout lately. Anxiety dreams (failing out of, wait for it, vet school–What?!–and being consoled by my mom), weird stuff (a public pool as deep and large as a lake), and, hey, bloggers.

Last night Chichimama and I were somewhere nondescript. (How’s that for enthralling?)

Our kids were nowhere in the dream, but guess who was?

Phantom’s Baby Blue.

How did I know it was BB?

Because we had a discussion about Big Papi. Then she informed me that “the Yankees suck.”

LG should be wicked proud.

Miss M, to Taxman: “Ema’s still tired again.”

Yeah.

Just now, instead of putting on a video for Miss M while AM nursed to sleep, I pleaded with her to play quietly in her room with her Little People. The seventh (or so) request was the charm, and AM got a solid six minutes of blessed silence in which to fall asleep and completely ruin the rest of my Friday schedule.

I tucked him onto the floor of our bedroom and popped my head into Miss M’s room. “Octopus very clean,” she told me, proffering the turquoise octopus from the Little People Pirate Sea Skiff set.

“Oh,” I said, not really sure where she was going with this.

“Octopus very clean,” she repeated. I took the octopus and there was some tacky transfer to my hands. The scent was unmistakably grape-y and sweet. What had she gotten into? The infant tylenol? No, I got it.

Her toothpaste. (Aside: Oh, no, did they stop making this fluoride-free?)

She had used her (brand new, as of last night) toothbrush and her (brand new, as of last week) toothpaste to “clean” her octopus. In a bizarre twist of fate, I didn’t yell; I merely took the toy to our bathroom to wash it off and survey the damage. Miraculously, there were just a few purple dots in the sink, and the toothbrush was carefully laid on top of the toilet tank.

Someone without kids would probably be horrified that I had left her unsupervised for 10 minutes, that she had gotten into the toothpaste (our unsafe-to-swallow fluoride-filled Colgate Total was right next to hers), or that I meted out absolutely no consequences besides, “Oh, Miss M, please only use your toothbrush for your mouth. And only when a grown-up is helping you.”

I just lost my head because I was so entirely relieved that my bathroom (newly cleaned) wasn’t awash in sticky purple ooze. And she had ”cleaned” only one toy. Hallelujah to that. The rest is just funny.

After a rough few nights (teething), this morning I was sprawled on the couch, pajama-clad, glasses-free, and trying to gather my strength for a crappy weather, no-school day. Taxman came over to offer sympathy and a kiss on the forehead. Miss M looked up from her mosh pit of Little People, scrutinized me carefully, and pronounced:

 ”Abba, Ema’s grumpy.”

 Kid, you have no idea.