Category Archive

Tonight Taxman and I went out for dinner. (Any time we go out alone in May it’s my belated birthday celebration. A long standing tradition and bit of gentle ribbing for someone with a March birthday married to an accountant.) My parents babysat. AM put himself to sleep without any fuss whatsoever.

But anyway, the weird part was that we ran into my first cousin once removed and part of his family at the restaurant. We were not in our neighborhood–we were in the Town Across the Hudson With Lots of Kosher Restaurants. They were even further out of their element–they live in the NYC Borough With Lots of Jews, which is not really close to northern New Jersey at all.

We weren’t even sure it was him at first, but I recognized his wife’s voice. Then his daughter-in-law opened her mouth, and I whispered to Taxman that his son had married a woman from South Africa and this had to be them.

They were seated next to us. His wife looked up and saw me and said, startled, “Katie!” And I kind of wanted to die, a little, because really nobody on earth calls me that any more. Except sometimes my baby brother and I (mostly) forgive him because I’ve known him since he was, you know, born.

My family is sprawling and kind of unwieldy. We don’t keep in touch all that much. I filled my OuterBorough cousin in on my dad–and he graciously asked about my mom, knowing they’ve been divorced for 30 years–but I had no clue what my aunt or her kids (my first cousins) were up to. I should probably ask my dad about them, but his relationship with his sister has been distant since they were kids, so he never volunteers.

We left with vague promises to go to them for Shabbat, which would actually be fun, now that nobody would be pressuring me to stay religious, get married, or have kids. (Check, check, and check.) This particular cousin invites us to a lot of his family events–bar mitzvahs, weddings, and the like–and he did come to our wedding, which felt very far away when Taxman pulled out his wallet sized photo of the kids and said they were almost 4 and just 2.

Not that I necessarily believe in a sort of “heaven” where dead relatives hang out and check in on the living, but if there were my grandfather–this cousin’s beloved Uncle Maxie (his name was really Jack)–would be sitting there with a cup of coffee and a big sly grin on his face.

I guess we’ll have to blame the weirdness on Jersey.

I was describing my bizarre viral symptoms to my mom: a fever that segued into a sore throat, rash on my hands and feet. What about in my mouth, she asked. “I have a mouth full of canker sores,” I told her.

“You know,” she said, “this sounds like Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease.”

“Well, all I can tell you is that it isn’t Fifth disease and it isn’t chicken pox.”

“You should look it up. Although you had Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease. I remember your pediatrician called his whole staff in to look at you, because he said most parents don’t bring their kids in for just a rash* and some of the younger doctors and nurses hadn’t seen it.”

“I will look it up.”

“But I thought that once you had it you can’t have it again. Maybe I’m wrong. Anyway, feel better. I hope Miss M doesn’t get it too.”

So, yeah, I looked it up. And yeah, this is what AM had, caught from our 23-month-old neighbor (they are Teh Cutest–they play, they hug to say goodbye, and AM protests when we leave the elevator without her–but we live on 2 and she lives on 4). And gave to me, the devoted slave mother who wipes his nose and his drool and his tush. It usually occurs in kids under 10. One strain of coxsackievirus is responsible for most incidences. But let’s say I had that one in the ’70s…AM could have brought home some other viral goodie.

Of course between the two pediatricians** who saw the two kids, neither of them diagnosed it as “HFMD,” but rather just a virus. I guess there’s really no difference–it’s not like you can treat it with anything. Really, though, just ewwwww.

And I must drink some more water.

* Honestly, I think this dates the whole episode. I’m guessing it took place somewhere in the 1978-1979 range.

** Although I don’t know I would have taken him to the doctor for just a rash. But with the fever and crankiness and sleep problems I wanted to make sure to eliminate ear infection or strep throat. This is where speech would be really helpful–although he did tell me (in sign) that his head hurt when he was feverish and emphatically denied an earache.

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.

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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?”

Twice in the past few days I’ve had a couple of odd moments, one relatively shallow and one very deep.

Last night I was at an open house for a potential school choice for Miss M next year. It was really an introduction to the entire school (which goes through 8th grade), its philosophies and quirks. They did not, of course, mention the tuition, which is astronomical.

But I sat in on the “intro to general studies” (as opposed to the pep talk on their Judaic studies, which I attended in another session) with a second grade teacher. I loved, loved, loved my second grade teacher. I actually had her twice–for second grade and also for reading when I was in first grade because I was pulled out for part of the day and put in her class. (This was my educator-mom’s deal with the principal that kept me in public school. Apparently overwhelmed, novice first grade teachers and smart, uppity, well-read six-year-olds don’t mesh all that well.)

Anyway, the second grade teacher who spoke last night was completely bubbly with enthusiasm. I am sure she was handpicked among the dozen teachers who could have given the presentation for just that reason. But beyond that, I was fixated on the “daily schedule” posted on the board. Wedged somewhere between Recess and Writing Workshop was a yellow card with red letters, spelling “D.E.A.R. Time.” After the session was over, I approached the teacher (who can’t be more than two years older than I am) and said, “D.E.A.R ?”

“Drop Everything And Read,” she replied.

“I think I love you,” I said. To a stranger. But one who was channeling Ramona Quimby. So how could I not????

I wonder if Miss M could do second grade at age four. Hmm. Probably not. Could I do it over at 33?

The second person who I want to just hug and thank from the very bottom of my heart is Martha Beck. I am generally pretty “eh” on the topic of life coaching and things of that nature. I don’t read O Magazine. I had never heard of her before. But I ordered her memoir Expecting Adam from PaperbackSwap. And read it in about three days, which is pretty much a miracle in itself.

It’s funny and sad and perspective-changing if you read it all the way through. There are a lot of interesting thoughts about parenting and just personhood in general. But she had me pegged at page 58:

One of the great myths of our society is that when women are left with small children, they are not alone. The truth is that a mother left with babies is far more alone than she would be without them; every bit of energy, attention, protectiveness, and care she might use to meet her own needs must first be directed toward the needs of her children.

There, in black and white, from the mind of someone else, is a rational explanation of how I can think that cheese crackers and cold tea are acceptable sustenance for myself.

At the same time, though, it saddens me to think that there are so many of “us” like that–I mean here, where I am, living in my neighborhood, wheeling strollers to the park–and I can’t seem to really connect to any of them. What am I doing wrong and how can I stop it?

My book club is coming to my house tomorrow night to talk about this.

I spent the evening making these. (Supposedly the favorite cookie of this guy.) I’m serving this and this for drinks.

I was not cleaning the bathroom, mind you, nor folding the laundry that’s taking over the couch. But baking something that required beating egg whites and translating Celsius to Fahrenheit.

I confess: I am a little weird.

But most of the book clubbers are each others’ neighbors…and have to get in a car to drive to me–I usually go to them–so I want to make it worth their while. Or maybe I am trying to compensate for the fact that the book, which I picked, was so bleak. I think there’s a lot to talk about, but wow, talk about depressing.

Just keep your fingers crossed for me that the kids are already sleeping when they arrive….

On our way to our friends’ house yesterday, we passed this guy on Route 60. He had a two-car police escort. No kidding.

We went to the New England Aquarium today. It cost more than $30 to get in the door, but it was worth it when the freebie (AM) was loosed from his sling and ran pell-mell to the mangrove tank, pressed his face against the glass, and signed “fish.” Then he signed “please” and “more.” And then attempted to dive in with the penguins.

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Laugh for the day:

At the aquarium they snap a photo of your party as you enter. I’ve seen this a lot of places: the Bronx Zoo, various amusement parks, etc. As we were leaving, Taxman stepped up to where the photos are displayed. “I just want to see it,” he told me. We actually all looked reasonable, with the exception of Miss M, who has a pronounced “deer in the headlights” look when commanded to pose and smile by people she doesn’t know. 

Then Taxman said, “Can we keep it?”

Uh, no, honey, how else would these starving college students make their meager paychecks? But I’ll keep you!