Category Archive

The kids seems to be stuck on Atlantic time (Miss M sleeping 7-5:30 instead of 8ish to 7ish; AM sitting up at 5:30 this morning and signing for bread), so I may never be able to stay up until 10pm ever again. So instead of my thoughts on our trip, you get random stuff.

1. Should I get a gift for my speech therapy grad student? Last clinic session is Monday, and it’s not like she’s getting paid. I would like to, because I think it would nice. She and AM have a real rapport; I’m going to miss watching them. Anyway, assuming I do, what to I get? She’s single, mid-20s. I have no idea of her interests, since we only talk about AM. Help!

2. Speaking of speech therapy, AM had a great session on Monday. Came out with all kinds of things I did not know he knew (something akin to “ribbit” for a frog sound and “ruff” for a dog sound and “quack” for a duck sound). Maybe we’ll hear actual words soon.

3. Sprouty somehow survived two weeks without watering–I had left him for dead, really–and has the beginnings of another bean. He is now The Lima Who Would Not Die.

4. My book list for March-April

The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger *

Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting by in America by Barbara Ehrenreich

The Last Life by Claire Messud

The Midwife’s Tale by Gretchen Moran Laskas *

I Was A Really Good Mom Before I Had Kids: Reinventing Modern Motherhood by Trisha Ashworth and Amy Nobile

Plainsong by Kent Haruf *

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver

* = book club selection

All of this at the expense of The New Yorker, but I just can’t give up my subscription because my fantasy is to plop myself down at a coffeehouse one rainy Sunday and read the growing pile of them in one go.

5. I have a freelance assignment (supposedly) coming. When it gets here I will fail to have any sort of outside life whatsoever. So it’s not you (or your blogs), it’s definitely me.

Am off to the land of dialup, followed by the 3 day yom tov, followed by The!Plane!Flight! and 12 days abroad. Will be out of touch. See you in May! Happy Matzah (balls in my soup)!

Alternate title: Hey Kate, your life? UR DOING IT WRONG.

I’ve got to take a break and attend to the Housekeeping of Life. Because I keep blowing it. I don’t want to run out of chances.

(Hey, I almost deleted the blog entirely. But I didn’t; this is the closest thing to baby books my kids have. Super top-notch parenting. Again.)

I hope to be back.

In the meantime, I wish you good reading. The children heartily recommend Curious George.

Have you ever had a dream when your “conscious” self is observing your Dream Self and saying, “What an idiot!”?

I had a dream where I was eating something that my conscious self thought was completely disgusting. I couldn’t smell it or taste it, but just the look of it was totally icky. My mom, also appearing in the dream, made a face and refused to eat it. But in the background, my conscious mind was yelling, “DON’T EAT THAT!”

That was some weird goings on for a Monday night. Too much latke grease?

I need opinions.*

If offered a free ticket to a Broadway play (probably not a comedy), would you go?

What if you’d have to stay awake through the entire thing? AND be prepared to discuss it intelligently? Would you have the brain space and availability for that?

Would you rather go out for dinner? Take a nap?

* Extra weight to your opinion if you are home with your kids. Double points if you have a child who does not sleep through the night.

School.

Tomorrow.

At last.

Real posts resume…next week, maybe? Still have more Jewish festivities to cook for live through celebrate.

Update!

Despite some first-day jitters, which were overcome with a promise that we’d check it out for five minutes and reassess, things at preschool could not be better! There were so many of her favorite things to do in one room (drawing! playdough! play kitchen! sand table! painting!!!!), she couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. I stayed for three minutes, through one anxious look when I gave her a hug at the play kitchen, then waved to her from across the room as she scooted to the playdough.

Is it tragic that I was then so excited to go to the post office with only one squirmy child?

Now said child is napping, so I have one hour and forty minutes to myself. Seriously, what will I do? Read/watch the season premiere of House vs. kid laundry/dishes? Or finish the freelance assignment for my mom.

Or maybe just stare blankly into space, breathing in and out.

The combination of no preschool, 12 hours a day of potty discussion, a three-day sinus headache, and weird weather is kicking my behind.

Oh, and AM just discovered that the kitchen trash can is a perfect receptacle for, well, just about anything. (Puzzle pieces, sippy cup, car keys, etc.) It’s fun.

I hope that everyone is staying cool and (relatively) sane.

(Idea stolen from Suzanne.)

My mom’s here. I have to make real dinners, but I get out of the house a lot and the kids are enthralled. Beyond thrilled. It’s nice.

Will be back soon-ish.

Me: “Miss M, what are you going to wear today?” (She usually has an opinion.)

Miss M: “Clothes.”

I think I got whatever the kids had. Except maybe not, and I am not on anti-biotics. It’s flu-like and generally I feel like stepped-in gum.

For everyone staring down the barrel of another Pesach, here is a reprise of my
Passover Raspberry Brownies.

Will crawl back to the computer when I can.

AM’s better but Miss M is sick. She was up approximately 4,000 times last night and bounced from her bed to AM’s bed (once he was next to me) to Taxman’s side of the bed and then back to her own bed (with Taxman) when she would not stop crying. (Her fever broke this morning, but her throat is really red and her right ear has fluid* and she says her tummy hurts.)

There’s a layer of snow and ice all over everything. Taxman’s digging out the cars, but then he has to go to work for eight hours.

Our family fruit supply is down to a pear and an apple. This is the equivalent of Phantom being out of tortilla chips.

I should really go get more fruit, and other food items while I am at it, but there is the sick and the snow and the ice and the baby and the not sleeping in over.three.years and the am I insane to even think of braving any sort of grocery purveyor on a Sunday by myself with the kids and the sick and the cold weather?

Even a shower by myself this morning is not enough to save this sorry day. 

* As much as apartment living has its horrendous qualities, our upstairs neighbor is a pediatric resident, who graciously looked over Miss M with an otoscope borrowed from another upstairs neighbor, who is an intern. It takes a village and all that.

So Miss M’s school is having an “event” this Saturday evening. “The children,” as the administration always refers to them (never “the kids” or “the students”), are singularly uninvited; it starts at 8pm.

Naturally, we are in a babysitting panic, because it seems that my mother in law will be unavailable. I am going to play the nursing baby card and take AM with us, and hopefully we’ll come up with a trustworthy teenager to watch over the sleeping Miss M.

But that has nothing to do with this post, it’s just on my mind.

To do my part for the parents’ association, I volunteered to help with the event. What was needed? To solicit prizes for a raffle. OK, whatever. I should have warned them that I am BAD at this.

I took a terribly written letter from the head of the school around to some local establishments. The manager of the liquor store rolled his eyes and gave me a bottle of cheap kosher prosecco to get rid of me. The manager of the kosher Chinese restaurant was downright hostile; clearly she doesn’t need my business on any level.

I got several, “You’re going to have to speak to the owner/manager/boss at x time,” where x is an absolutely impossible time for me to be there. Seven in the morning at the bakery. (Are you kidding me? No, seriously. What are you smoking? Will it help me sleep and can I have some?) Nine at night at the pizza shop. (Would showing up in sweats a ratty, baby-sneezed-upon T-shirt and flannel pajama pants instill confidence?)

But really, I wasn’t going to chase these people.

The problem is with the businesses that said yes.

The fast-food franchise owner twho promised a voucher for a meeting room, coffee, and donuts (worth!100!dollars!) TEN days ago. He has yet to deliver. I have been in this business establishment four times in the past ten days. The owner keeps breaking his promises to have it ready, but what can I say to him? It’s not like I owe him anything.

$&@#

A friend of mine who owns a small business selling baby carriers offered a sling, even though she has no connection to this community or school. It was unexpected and very nice of her. But it’s Thursday now. No sling. And she’s not answering my emails.

%@(!

I was supposed to report to the head of the school this afternoon. What could I tell her? That, apparently, I am the loser of the universe who causes all verbal agreements to be rendered null and void? Am I wearing a sign that says “I’m diffident and non-confrontational, please take advantage”?

*sigh*

What am I going to dooooooooooooooooooooooooooo?

So, not six hours ago did I note that Miss M enjoys writing letters of all kinds, but cannot write her name, per se.

Apparently I was incorrect.

Tonight, in an attempt to get her to just sit still for five minutes 30 seconds as we waited for our vegetable tempura and other edible Japanese treats, I pulled a notebook and pen out of the diaper bag and told her to write her name, expecting to see the normal jumble of letters all over the page.

But she wrote.her.name. Six letters long. In order. Left to right.

Now, she has been obsessed with letters for a long time. And for months she’s begged us to “Write de NAMES!” of everyone in the family. Many times a day.

But still. She’s two years, seven months, two weeks, and four days old.

I know it’s really just rote memory and fine motor skills. But still.

Every Sunday through Thursday between 4:30 and 5. Shoot me if spring doesn’t come soon. Seriously.

Miss M (crying): “Miss M sad.”
Me: “I’m sorry. Why are you sad?”
Miss: “Ema, pick you up. Hug you and kiss you.”

Miss M (crying; AM has wandered within six feet of the TV): “Ema, get him!”
Me: “Honey, he’s just watching the video. Can’t he watch with you?”
Miss M: “WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Miss M: “WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Me: “What happened?”
Miss M (snatching her paper and pen away because AM pulled up on her little table): “Ema, get AM! Miss M writing!* Ema, get him! AHHHH!”

* She actually sits there and writes letters. It’s kind of scary, in a precocious sort of way. She can write all four letters that comprise her name. Never in a straight line though.

Well, we can spend the bulk of a small part of Miss M’s therapy fund.

Y was here this Shabbat. And all was well.

Taxman was home by the time she woke up from her nap to discover Uncle Y in the house. There was some hiding behind my leg, but we really had to hustle to get into her Shabbat dress and shoes.

Apparently they clicked on the walk to synagogue (less than one block), and they came home chattering like monkeys.

The high point of the evening was when Miss M announced: “Ema, Abba, poopy diaper.” (Beat.) “Uncle Y change you!”

Of course, we can’t spend the whole therapy fund, because after their wonderful Shabbat together, Miss M and Uncle Y had to part. He had to continue with his business trip and fly back home to his little boy; she had to take a nap. Taxman took the kids to the airport so that I could work on my latest freelance debacle.

When Y said goodbye, she finally broke down in the tears we had been expecting all weekend.

So…avocados. What do we know? Show of hands?

Grow on trees. About to become more expensive, even though the ones I’ve bought lately are from Mexico or the Dominican Republic. Can’t make guacamole without them (as far as I know!).

They’re also great baby food. No prep, has good fats (monounsaturated), lots of vitamins and minerals.

Hey, and also fiber. Did you know that an average avocado has about 10 grams of fiber?

Do you see where this is going?

No matter how much your baby likes avocado, maybe serving him a whole one isn’t a great idea.

But wait, there’s more:

Late breaking parenting/plant lessons learned: When your pre-schooler comes home with the proud, skinny bean stalk in the cup, do not (NOT) agree to let her hold it on her lap on the way home.

Yes, there was beanicide.

Does anyone know how to sprout the lima bean and plant it? We are going to need a do-over.

It’s been a long time since I had a “best” friend. Sixth grade, I think it was.

From 7th through 10th grades I ran with a gaggle of friends (we weren’t popular, so it wasn’t scary); we all kind of looked out for each other.

When I was in the middle of 10th grade, I moved two time zones away, to a place so utterly different it took about two years for the culture shock to wear off. By then I recovered enough to have a few pals, but I’m not in touch with anyone from high school now.

I am still in touch with a few people from college, but nobody lives that close to me, and everyone is busy with kids and jobs. Plus we spent four years dealing with each others’ crises of every stripe (academic, romantic, health, financial, the list is endless!), and I think we’ve spent the past 10 years decompressing.

Luckily, the person I married is also a good friend. To everyone, but especially to me. So I’d never really worried about the fact that I didn’t have a ready list of coffee dates and movie partners and phone pals.

Until I really needed to call someone at 11:30pm last week. I was in the throes of a delicate marital disagreement and needed perspective. And I had no one. So I had to turn to the person I was furious with and hiss to him that I needed a best friend because he was the last person I wanted to talk to right then. (I did anyway, or there’s no way I would have been able to sleep.*)

Thankfully, he understood.

Almost-32 seems to be very late to be in the “I need a best friend” game.

* In my limited fashion, of course. Basically you have to subtract 3-4 hours from the time I am actually in bed. So that night was 1:30-7:30 in bed, probably 3 hours of sleep.

Last Friday, I was going to post the following story, with the title “Our kids are in the same class, but we don’t inhabit the same universe.”

After dropping Miss M at school this morning, I walked to the greengrocer with N, the mom of Miss K; Miss K is a little girl in Miss M’s class. Miss K also has a baby brother, Baby E, who is a couple of months younger than AM. N and I aren’t as chummy as some of the other moms, some of whom I had known before school started, some of whom I met in September but just clicked with better. It was clear from the first week of school that our parenting differed in one way that’s of major significance when you have a small baby; during the transition to pre-school, when parents were required to stick around, I nursed AM while N fed Baby E bottles of formula.

As we walked, N mentioned that she was exhausted because Baby E had been up at 4 o’clock in the morning. I took that to mean that he usually sleeps through the night. (This is not something I’ve experienced in a while, but in part due to my own choices, so I didn’t get into the pissing contest of who’s really more tired.) Then she explained that she would have just left him to kvetch himself back to sleep, but he was really wailing and she was afraid that he would wake Miss K. It turned out that he had a soaking wet diaper.

I really wasn’t sure what to make of this, but luckily I was saved from further comment by the overpriced clemetines and the rock-hard avocados.

But then I started whipping myself into a frenzy thinking. Never a good thing when you are sleep deprived and often on edge. Who said that how we’re raising Miss M and AM is full of good ideas? Maybe we’re just lazy?

When Miss M was about same age that Baby E is now, she used to wake up early in the night, howling. She cried and cried in our arms, night after night. We couldn’t leave her; it was clear that something was wrong and we were just too dumb to figure it out. Finally our neighbors, who shared a wall with her, slipped a note under our door that said something to the effect of “If you’re trying to Ferberize your baby, you’re doing it wrong.” I was mortified to think that anyone would think we were leaving her alone through such agonized tears, and she didn’t sleep in that room again for another year and half.

But she went from a crib, which she clearly hated, to our bed. She was happy there, but after a couple of months she proved to be a rude co-sleeper, constantly twisting and flopping around in bed. (AM is quite well-mannered in comparison.) We moved her to the floor, then to a toddler bed, and finally to a real bed in her own room.

This parenting method is something I’d called “guerilla” or “make it work” parenting. Do whatever you have to in order to make it through the day/night with a minimal body count and without major regrets; don’t do anything that necessitates you or your kid to reconstruct personalities to meet the requirements. I disagreed with the Ferber method in general because crying has to convey everything when a baby is small–yes, dissatisfaction and loneliness, but also pain, discomfort, fear, and illness. Too many variables. But even at the very end of our rope with Miss M and her sleep, where we’ve been a few times, we knew we could never let her cry: because she’d cry all night, despite herself.

I’ve been applying the same principles to myself. I’d love to say that I could practice gentle discipline and not yell, but it’s not who I am. I wish I could do better, but I can’t. Not right now, at least; I’m a yeller, I am under-caffeinated, I am teh tired. We don’t spank, not for any high and mighty reasons, but for the simple fact that we cannot justify hitting Miss M but then turning around and saying she can’t hit us.

There’s other stuff too. I love babywearing, but I know that a lot of people think it’s weird or inconvenient. I’d never say that if babies that aren’t worn are cheated in some way; it just worked.for.US. Both kids have loved hanging out at adult level, making goo-goo eyes at the cashiers, being close to “home base.” Over the summer AM had a lot of sling-time when I was tending to Miss M, and I think we were able to prevent some cranky crying because of it, but who is to say that a swing wouldn’t have done the same? I personally have found it great for city living, where store aisles are narrow, entry doors are heavy, and winter weather makes huge messes on the sidewalks. But the number one reason I don’t have a double stroller? Because I remember agonizing over the “right” stroller choice for Miss M. Hours and hours on websites, hemming and hawing. Italian or British? Made in America or made in China? How will it do on the sidewalks? The roads? Will it fit in our trunk? What if we get a new car? For a stroller, people. I didn’t want to do that again. So I didn’t. And honestly, there have been maybe three or four times in the past nine months when I’ve really wished we had one. Four out of 270 isn’t bad. It certainly isn’t worth the outrageous sums charged for double strollers. (We could have gotten one used for $150. Instead we got a new mei tai for $75.)

The only baby-related concept I feel very strongly about is breastfeeding. As in, if a woman can do so without sacrificing her health or the health of her baby, she really, really, really should. Really. And, remarkably, it is the lazy mom’s opt-out.* Fewer (or no) bottles to wash, fewer supplies to buy; if your baby’s in bed with you, it minimizes the number of times you have to be vertical overnight, even if you aren’t sleeping.

Nursing had served us so well that I didn’t want my pregnancy with AM to spell the end of it for Miss M. We got through the nine months. We adapted and adjusted both before and after his birth. And now, another class mom (a child psychiatrist) suggests that my spirited defense of Miss M’s right to nurse (and also the fact that I am “attached” to him, i.e. wearing him instead of pushing him in a stroller) is creating jealousy and strife between her and AM and causing her 5:30 am MILK meltdowns.** See, if only I could have ended the discussion with “I believe in child-led weaning.” But I don’t, necessarily; Miss M’s current 150-second, tri-partite nursing schedule was created by me in an attempt to balance everyone’s needs.

So, yeah. The parenting-by-numbers, slightly fuzzy picture that I’ve made, with Taxman’s consent, seems to be a forgery.

On the other hand, other than the early morning fits, Miss M seems pretty normal. Happy, smart, rambunctious. Willful as hell. Loves making AM laugh. Tries to wash his hair in the bath. He loves her. I’ve always said that as messed up as these couple of years have been/will be, we have given the kids the gift of each other. I hope that remains true.

* I am not accusing nursing mothers of being lazy or disorganized. Just saying this shoe fits me.
** A wise, more experienced bloggy friend did point out that if it wasn’t the nursing, it would be something else.

Do I switch to the new version of Blogger? Is it better?

I wouldn’t lose all my stuff, right?

I am ashamed to admit how many times I’ve considered this and tabled it. (Uh, every time I’m at the login prompt?)

All opinions welcome.

Interesting aside: Blogger spellcheck doesn’t recognize “Blogger.” That’s quite an oversight, no?

The blog post I have been promising got eaten by Blogger disconnects and Taxman’s attempt to fix it.

I may or may not attempt to recreate it. Basically, a brilliant, beautiful woman I lived with many years ago, when I was young and single and lonely and mired in a soul-sucking existence, died too young (31 years old) of breast cancer, leaving a husband and two young daughters to try to figure out life without her.

I am indescribably sad about it, even though we hadn’t been in touch and had never truly been friends, despite living together for several months. I can only feel lucky that I haven’t had to experience such tough times up close. I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve that.

Very pretty; big fat flakes; sticking a tiny bit.

Please don’t cancel school, please don’t cancel school, please don’t cancel school.

Update: Fervent prayers answered. Sidewalks are slippery; the snow will probably be gone by 2pm. Just in time for the sopping wet neighborhood to freeze over tonight.

Does it collapse like a Trader Joe’s helium balloon left overnight?*

At 2:30 today, I was looking forward to a few minutes to myself. AM had nursed to sleep on my lap; Miss M was tucked in. But then came the call, “Ema, awake!” (She hadn’t slept.) “Ema, awake!” “EMA, AWAKE!” AM, whose naps have been crazy lately, sneezed six minutes later and that was the end of his nap.

Thankfully, I was steeled for a no-nap day. Miss M hadn’t dragged herself out of our bed until a quarter to eight, Wednesday isn’t a school day, and I was unprepared to face a windy, 20-degree day at the park. So I knew it was coming, which somehow made it better.

Also thankfully, of late Miss M has been better at entertaining herself. For minutes at a time, either with her Little People or at her little table “writing.” Although not traditionally a doll person, she and I loaded her doll into a play sling, and she wore her baby while she filled a page with As. It was teh cute.

*Y’all know I misappropriated this, right?

I have been trying to write a post for over a week, but I can’t find the words.

I hope to tomorrow, but it’s already been a long week.

But in excellent news I recruited four people to our La Leche League meeting, probably due in part to the fact that the meetings have moved to our house. (See above long week. I made cookies–nursing mommies need strength!–and separated the toddler toys from the infant toys.)

Now it is late; I have already Whined ™; I am tired; the emails I haven’t answered will have to wait another day.

Good night, New York!

Today AM has reached that dividing line; he’s spent more time out than in.

(I’m not quite sure where the line should be, and the 40-week pregnancy is technically 38 weeks, but “nine months old” seems poetic.)

I love that he has grown and changed so much. He race-crawls down the hall to Miss M’s room to check out what she’s doing. She is his constant object of fascination–a muse of sorts. She can make him smile more easily than anyone, but will probably be a source of danger in the immediate future; in the past couple of weeks I’ve caught her trying to pick him up off the floor and nearly attempting to ride him like a horse. (Ack!)

He loves Cheerios, whole peas, carrot and pasta pieces; if he can’t pick it up with his fingers rake it into his palm, he isn’t interested.

One of his favorite things in the world is taking a bath, from just watching the water go into the tub–he pulls up on the bathtub, pounding it with his open palms, and gurgles excitedly–to sitting in there with Miss M. After a few minutes of splashing he tries to pull himself up on the slippery sides; then it gets a little hairy for me, but you can’t deny him the pleasure.

But for all the growing, he is still a baby. He’s my baby, who cries if I leave the room at the wrong moment, who fusses when he is tired, who wakes if I move too suddenly from my bed in the middle of the night. Luckily, he is easily soothed, by the default–nursing–or just laying with his head tucked under my chin, softly slurping on his right thumb as we cuddle under a fleece blanket.

I have easy pregnancies, but as cool and alien as it is to feel a person (a person!) growing inside you and jousting with your organs, it just doesn’t compare to watching that little person developing on the outside. And quietly breathing on your chest, hair askew, fingers curled, heavy with life.

and now for your entertainment

New rules at some Broadway venues now allow eating during live theater performances.

Really?!

That’s insane.

I know I wasn’t consulted, but here’s what I’d say. Figure your average theater ticket costs $80. (Some popular shows don’t have seats for less than $100, from what I hear.) You’ll want to share that special occasion with a special person in your life. And get a babysitter, if you have kids.* So that’s a minimum of a $200 evening.

RUINED BY SOME ASSHOLE EATING POPCORN.

Seriously? Who’s going to want to risk it again if it happens once?

I really hope the actors make the theater owners come to their senses.

* It should go without saying, being the pseudo-crunchified tandem nurser that I am, that it has been lifetimes years since we darkened the doors of a Broadway theater.

An hour ago, neither of my children were sleeping. 3 pm is usually deep into nap territory, but not today.

I had plans: cook for shabbat, make soup for dinner, possibly shower.* You know, plans.

It is utterly my own fault that neither of my children were sleeping because I am so stupid.

At 2pm, Miss M was drifting off (but not, as I thought, asleep). AM needed to nurse and head to dreamland himself, after I changed his diaper. Alas, all of the diapers were in with Miss M; usually 1 or 2 are floating about the house, in a diaper bag or sling pocket or camped on my dresser, but not today.

So I crept into Miss M’s room rather than let AM go another 2 hours in a semi-wet diaper. I hadn’t changed him in a few hours, so I was feeling guilty.

I chose unwisely.

Then came 45 minutes of cajoling, bribing, and silent seething. (At least AM nursed to sleep in a lull in the action.**) Adding fuel to the fires of my idiocy, I then told her if she didn’t take a nap she couldn’t watch any tv or videos for the rest of the day. Excuse me? Yes, that’s right. An extra two hours of her being increasingly cranky, wild, and obnoxious and no electronic distraction for anyone.***

There’s been a lot of yelling.

Bedtime can’t come soon enough.

Help.

* It hasn’t been my best personal hygiene week.

** He woke up after only 45 minutes, which is not enough to prevent him from being a basket case in the 5pm-8pm range. If Miss M had been sleeping, I would have scooped him up and nursed him to sleep again.

*** I just decided I am going to watch the 5:00 news. Inconsistency can’t possibly be the worst parenting I have exhibited today. Apparently the worst parenting was how I dressed Miss M for school today. Her teacher chided me twice for her outerwear (a sweatshirt and light-medium weight winter coat and mittens–what she wore in the snow last week for hours). When I asked if she said she was cold, the answer was no, “but we go outside for half an hour.” Oh, bite me.

AM cut his first tooth last night. This has been a long time coming. He was in a lot of pain. There’s nothing quite as crappy as watching your baby writhe around the bed because he is so miserable.

Unfortunately, he has a one-trick pony as a mother. Unlike Miss M, who liked to nurse all night when she was teething, he refused to have anything in his mouth. So nursing and his self-comforting tool (thumbsucking) were unavailable to him, so he cried for about three hours in the middle of the night. It was pretty awful.

One down. Nineteen to go.

Taxman, thoughtfully:

“You know, you can’t marry off someone who has diaper rash.”

Why a queen sized bed isn’t big enough

Vacation with the grandparents in sunny New Mexico

El Nino = 24 inches

…and a quarter of a cafe wondering what the hell we could be talking about so animatedly. (Among other topics: Why Dr. Seuss is the bane of our existence; blog creation; guerilla parenting; and why 24-year-old women date flashy 40-year-old men.)

Not bad for two former strangers among the eight million souls in the City.

Thanks for getting me out of the house, Moxie!

Our return trip from the snowy southwest was actually much smoother than the way there; both kids slept on the longer of the two flights (AM, who is still under the weather, poor guy, slept for the whole flight), and instead of sitting 4 abreast we were 2-and-2 in consecutive rows, so Miss M kicked AM’s seat the whole trip, rather than an innocent bystander. Our breakfast yogurts were confiscated by TSA, but I couldn’t be mad because it was our fault for not eating it in the car and the TSA guy seemed pretty contrite.

But I have to know…what is it about bringing carseats on to a plane that makes people shoot such nasty looks? We paid for the seats! It’s for the kids’ safety! We’re not asking you to install them.

I mean, if you prefer, we can just let Miss M slide out from under her regular airplane seatbelt and thrash around on Taxman’s lap when she’s not running amok in the aisles, rather than sitting buckled in (through turbulence, thank you very much), eating her way across the time zones. Cripes. I don’t expect people to help us, but at least keep your rolling eyes and snarky comments until we’re past. Maybe it’s the kids rather than the carseats themselves? Should I make up a shirt for AM that says, “If I cry, it won’t be for the whole flight; I nurse.” ?

On a second nasty note, an old-school flight attendant on our 6:30 am leg seemed to be shamelessly flirting with a businessman who boarded at approximately 6:27. He was dressed in a suit, was nicely turned out, etc. (Given how late he boarded, he was probably the only person who wasn’t up at 5 or earlier.) The flight attendant seating him complimented him on his clothes, complaining that “Nobody dresses nicely to fly anymore.” What is this? The Golden Age of Flight? Maybe if you didn’t pack us in like sardines and serve us two bags of pretzels on a 2 1/2 hour flight we’d be more inclined to wear something that might wrinkle. (I was wearing jeans instead of sweats, so she can kiss my well-dressed behind.) Oh, and then she complimented him on how good he smelled! Ick, ick! He did give his wife credit for dressing him, though, so he escapes with only a slap on the wrist for showing at the last second.

It is very good to be home.

As seen everywhere, here’s my 2006:

The new year is upon us…but I don’t do resolutions.

I finally gave in to the temptation (I had been saving it for Taxman’s busy season, when I will truly never have access to a decent grocery store except for late Saturday night) and ordered from Fresh Direct.

Instead of my 15-minute haze of drowsiness while Miss M nursed down to her nap yesterday, I had a true nap.

Tax season with kid(s) is like having two Mondays a week.

Baby AM is a pretty chilled out individual.

Seen today on our block…Etched in pollen on the rear windshield of an SUV (natch!), above a Bush-Cheney campaign sticker: “Shame on you!”*

On Sunday we trekked to Brooklyn to look at a used car, eat breakfast out, and go to the New York Aquarium.

I can’t stop screaming.

Having a nasty intestinal virus was not the way I intended to shed the last pregnancy pounds.

The good news is that it is easier to fast carrying an extra 5-10 pounds and nursing an infant who is happy to take a pumped bottle than being 10 pounds underweight, 12 weeks pregnant, and nursing a toddler who will accept no substitutes.

Why[do] strangers insist on commenting on my “parenting” skillz.

We are having major connection capital-I Issues over here.

Kind of a mish-mash. Utterly appopriate, yet not exactly what I intended (expected?) to achieve. I am still working it all out. Thanks for bearing with me for any or all of the past 366 days.

* This is the whole post; it doesn’t make sense otherwise.

My mom and stepfather live in an area of the U.S. where brief snowshowers are common. Night and day temperatures are often vastly different, though, and the humidity generally hovers at around 30 percent, so when snow happens, it’s generally gone within hours, sublimating or melting into the clear blue skies.

But when we came to visit, instead of bringing a nice hostess gift, we brought record-breaking snow. The neighborhood we’re in is at the foot of a mountain, often enshrouded in cloud during bad weather. It started snowing on Thursday afternoon here, but down in the valley the sun was shining. Thursday night, however, the snow continued, as it did on Friday. As my mom and I took AM to lay in some Shabbat supplies, I asked if she had snow tires. “It didn’t snow once last winter!” was her reply.

The driving between grocery stores was slow and slushy, with frighteningly low visibility. On the way home, my mom’s Passat got stuck in the neighborhood. Twice. A kindly neighbor delivered me and a screaming, hungry AM to our door. Perishables were rescued from the trunk and arrived on foot. The snow continued all night Friday and ceased on Saturday in time for a gorgeous sunset.

But. In this city of few snowshovels and fewer snowplows (21 of them, a newscaster announced, to the hysterical laughter of Taxman and myself; for a city of about half a million people, it doesn’t seem quite sufficient), snow totals ranging from 15 to 24 inches–my parents are at the upper extreme of that–has made for quite a mess. The airport was closed yesterday; sections of the major interstates that cross through the city were iced over and closed; even large portions of some city thoroughfares were deemed hazardous last night and closed to traffic.

The sun has returned today, affording a spectacular view of the white-capped mountains nearby and warming the air to a balmy 38 degrees. After an hour and a half of several family members shoveling snow (on top of what had been done on Friday), my mom was able to stop stressing herself into a tizzy and get out to shop for her New Year’s Day bash (this year with a Show Off Your Grandkids Even Though The Party Is Smack In The Middle Of Their Naptimes Bonus!).

Miss M has been having the time of her life, clomping around outside in boots and borrowed snowpants, taking pratfalls in the snow and using a gardening spade to “help” shovel.

The snow has been everything that snow should be: pristine, pretty, white, wet. I got to watch the storm from a warm house. I saw bird, rabbit, and deer tracks in the snow when I took a walk with AM (can’t do that at home!).

And while it’s messy now, the driveway is clear, the streets are plowed, and we should be able to get home on Wednesday, as planned.*

Definitely better than a February Nor’Easter at home.

* I’ve got a blogger coffee meetup on Thursday that I am very excited about; if we get cancelled on the way home I’m going to go Miranda Priestly on someone.

Every December 24th for the past four or five years, Taxman and I have an unusually good time playing penny-stakes poker. With his parents.

Odd, right? It gets weirder. December 24th is my in-laws’ anniversary. So they celebrate their union (34 years now) by playing (and usually losing) poker with their family.

It used to be a larger gathering, but Taxman’s grandfather passed away the summer before AM was born, and his elderly grandmother is a bit too crotchety to stay up so late and to leave her hearing aid in. And now, of course, we’ve got the kids, so last year the festivities moved from my in-laws’ place to ours.

But the spirit is the same. Lots of jokes, lots of pennies. It sounds crazy, but I love poker night. It’s the one night a year when I get a glimpse of what my father-in-law was like years ago. Ordinarily, he has a pretty serious mien. He’s smart and studious; if he doesn’t have a child on his lap, it’s occupied by a volume of Talmud. Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t make funny comments from time to time, but it’s almost impossible for me to believe that in high school he and Taxman’s boisterous Uncle M were best friends.

On poker night, however, all the books are tucked away. It probably started because of “nittel nacht,” a leftover custom from Europe, where pogroms and such were popular on Christmas eve. Of course, the origins of the day no longer apply, particularly in the United States, but sometimes even the most casual of customs are rooted deep. So on the night before Christmas, my father-in-law doesn’t learn Torah. He plays cards.

We deal; they pick the most random wild cards for each round, relishing the hands as they are dealt: “Oh, oh, oh! Possible flush! Straightening! A wild nine!” My father-in-law, the most scrupulously honest person I think I know, insists that his deck is cut when it’s his turn to deal. My mother-in-law rarely folds, telling Taxman that she has to stay in “to keep him honest.” I lose a lot, but Taxman wins.

Last year we took them for a dollar and sixty-six cents. (More, incidentally, than Taxman spent on me on our first date.)

This year we played despite our early wakeup to get to the airport.

And we made eleven cents.

That’s right. That’s my son and his airplane debut.

Up the back, through the clothes. Didn’t even wait until cruising altitude.

The 1:1 child:adult ratio was ok for on the plane, but in the airport it was bad, bad, bad. Two kids, two adults, two huge pieces of carry-on baggage (mostly their stuff, of course!), and two Britax Roundabouts. Holy cow.

I didn’t sleep last night. Didn’t sleep on the plane. Didn’t catch a rest because Miss M and AM alternated naps when we got here. AM is suffering major stranger anxiety and refuses to let me out of his sight unless Taxman is holding him.

Vacation is going to get better, right? ZZZZZZZ.

Happy purple pajamas to all who are celebrating.

Everyone knows that two-year-olds are sponges, right?

So when Miss M kept pointing out her “New shoes!” to everyone and people responded with, “Yes! They’re green!” eventually it morphed to “Green shoes!”

Obviously, the most striking thing about Miss M is her hair. It gets a lot of comments (and comparisons to Little Orphan Annie). Recently she had been saying “Orange hair!” to people because a friend of ours told her that.

But yesterday she struck up a conversation with a woman in the elevator. She started by telling her our names (”Ema! Miss M! AM!”).

Then she tapped her head–just where a tiara would go, incidentally–and said, “Beautiful hair!”

(Side note: does anyone know how to make NY Times articles available without logging in?)

Justifiably? You be the judge.

Reason for Postcards from Buster’s delayed return

Hey, you, rabid evangelical asshats: Just because you refuse to see gay parenting doesn’t mean it’s not happening. Why don’t you go pick on TLC shows and leave fun, educational, apolitical kids’ programming alone!

Separation of Church and State…Not just for breakfast anymore! (Except in New Jersey)

The kid who stood up to the preacher, uh, teacher received a death threat.* Seriously! Does this situation make anyone else want to throw up? Don’t teachers get evaluated? Where was his supervisor?

* I was one of five Jews in my high school graduating class in a very churchgoing town. A girl in my Latin class told me point-blank that I was bound for Hell. But if a teacher tried that crap on me? Uh uh, no sir.

Well, you can knock me over with a feather.

The rumor is true and my destiny has come calling.

Dunkin’ Donuts, all gussied up kosher, has settled down just one ZIP code away.

Be still, my heart.

Literally, probably. Heart disease runs rampant on my dad’s side of the family. My dad has been beating it with a stick lo these 20 years; he eats well, exercises obsessively, takes his beta blockers and cholesterol-lowering drugs. My cholesterol at age 26 was 215, but I was busy trying to get pregnant, so I couldn’t take any drugs. I wanted to try to beat it without those anyway, so I got a bit obsessive about exercise myself. One January I joined a brand-new, fancy-pants gym, paying a ton of money upfront for one year. Taxman thought I would crap out, but I didn’t–because that would have been an immense waste of money. I lowered my cholesterol to the 140s. It was amazing.

The next January I joined a less expensive gym that was closer to home and kept going. By the end of that year, I was pregnant and paranoid. I nixed all the jogging and weights in favor of prenatal yoga.

After Miss M was born, I kept intending to get back to exercising. But she proved to have a delicate stomach and fussy sleep patterns. By the time I felt like I could carve out some time to myself in the morning, AM was on the way.

And now, well, it’s been a long time since I’ve done anything physical. I am beyond exhausted because nobody is sleeping. My eating patterns are crappy at best. (But eggs for dinner are easy, you know? Grilled cheese sandwiches are easy. And Taxman is in charge of both of those dinners.) Trans fats are everywhere. I am tired. I am weak-willed.

I don’t have to explain the appeal of donuts, do I? Sugar and fat and gooey toppings in a cute little round package? (And how it is difficult to eat just one?) Plus they go well with coffee; I will, of course, not be drinking real coffee for a while yet, but I can fake it with decaf.

I am afraid to take a cholesterol test, because I am pretty sure that I’d lose all my desserts, snacks, and half my meals in a single blow. Plus I’d have to find the time and strength of will to exercise. (And get these damn leeches off me for more than 30 minutes.) Did I mention it’s dark (really dark!) by 5:00 pm?

Maybe I’ll be brave in the spring. Maybe by the spring I will remember what three straight hours of sleep feels like. And what the afternoon sun looks like.

One of our friends/upstairs neighbors had a baby boy early today. It was a “perfect, easy VBAC.”

I am so thrilled for her.

(Cue violins)

At the same time, I am incredibly jealous that she had the birth that I planned for and wanted so desperately that I labored for three days before I gave up the chance to ever have it that way again.

How much do I suck?

Whoa. I am confused dumbstruck.

At 5 feet 1 inch, I am the shortest person in my immediate family.

At 5 feet 7 inches (so he claims, overestimating by about a half-inch), Taxman is the tallest person in his immediate family.

Miss M, at age two-and-a-half, is already 3 feet 1 inch. Over the past five months, she’s grown 2.5 (!) inches. (Yes, that’s an average of a half-inch every month. Is it any wonder that her clothes and shoes seem to fit for only three weeks?)

All the children’s height calculators that ask for parental height predict that she will be 5′5″ at most. But they don’t know about her tall grandfather, great-grandfather, or other random relatives. And they don’t know about the red, curly hair, which doesn’t seem to really fit anywhere either.

Now eight months, AM is falling off the growth curves, as breastfed babies are often expected to. But Miss M never did. She’s spent her entire life hovering between the 75th and 90th percentiles, in a way that seemed to defy her parental genetics.

I’d love a little flip-flap in the space-time continuum to find out where this is going. Is Miss M going to spend her adult life looking down at both her parents? Will she be taller than her brother? Will the WNBA recruit a nice Jewish girl?

Or will genetic trends win over time?

Mysterious.

Our blitzkrieg through the 781 area code included a stop at the Children’s Museum of Boston, where Miss M and my college roommate’s* son, J, would have gladly stayed on the floor with the bubbles and the running water for, I don’t know, EVER.

Miss M got completely soaked, despite the smock, and then we had to take her out in the 20 degree chill. A fine parenting moment; thank goodness we were only parked about a block away.

Shabbat ended at 5 Saturday evening, and I was itching to run away to Paris with Taxman do something besides watching our hosts, the Zs, wash dishes and check their email. Because Miss M had taken a late nap, I suggested candlepin bowling, with bumpers in her lane. (I lived in Boston when I was a little kid, so this was my only bowling experience until I was about 14. I was never good at the grownup kind. Well, either kind, to be truthful.)

Miss M grooved on the bowling shoes, but could only be coaxed to roll toss a few balls down the lane. Even though she refused to participate in the Mommies (& toddler) vs. Daddies showdown after the first frame, we kept the bumpers up.

I am sure the bumpers improved my game, but somehow it didn’t feel like cheating. I never managed to knock down all 10 pins, despite the three chances per round, and had a lot of trouble getting the four pins smack in the middle of the lane, but never had a gutter ball, naturally. It was fun, although I tended to forget the bumpers were there.

I got to thinking that this is how I want my parenting to be as the kids grow. I want to be the bumpers. To buffer Miss M and AM from the big stuff and the absolutely wasted chances. They will have the opportunity to make mistakes, to experiment, and to find their own holes, but I want to give them just a little boost. I want them to forget that I am helping unless they look back for a reminder. Then I’ll be right there.

* My roommate is a true carrot-top, and at the museum had the following exchange with a stranger:

“Oh! Where did she get those curls?”
“I don’t know; she’s not mine. I can see how you’d think that, though.”

We spent a lovely weekend in the Bay State, visiting two sets of friends and trying to keep Miss M amused. (We succeeded, except for the car ride home.)

But we spent our first night away sleeping on a blowup mattress, the camping kind. So I was petrified that AM would sleep on his stomach, as usual, and not be able to breathe so well. Taxman and I took turns staying up most of the night to make sure he slept on his back. Then at about 5, Miss M crawled in with us too.

Did I mention the mattress was a double? Four people. One small, squishy bed. And a tension headache THIS BIG.

I just called Poison Control.

They are just lovely to deal with. I wasn’t petrified, just mildly concerned, which could have colored my perspective. But still, the woman I spoke to is now high on my list of people I’d want holding my hand in an emergency.

Too bad I didn’t get her name.

(Everyone is fine, I promise.)

Seven years ago today, Taxman and I got married.

We were young and insane and hopeful.

Our wedding was joyous and beautiful.

Now we are older. We’ve learned a lot on this journey. We’ve made sacrifices for each other, grown together, and cemented our commitment. We have laughed and cried and laughed again. We have poured energy and time into our spirited, red-haired children.

Through everything, we have been a team. From vacation planning to inadvertently sharing our bed with angelically nursing leeches, we try to come to a consensus on everything.

You know how starry-eyed newlyweds answer questions in unison? We still do that.

I am not the easiest person to live with. But somehow he makes it seem effortless.

Late last night, as we whispered in the dark, we just couldn’t get over our good fortune. Seven years seems so long and so short, all at once. Looking down the road to multiples of seven, we can only hope that our luck keeps steering us like a gentle wind.

My only regret is that “I love you” is such an insufficient expression of gratitude and thanksgiving for what I have.

Last week we had our first of about 60 parent-teacher conferences. You wouldn’t think that a child two weeks shy of two-and-a-half would need a 20-minute tete-a-tete,* but we’re paying a lot for this experience, so we’ll just roll with it.

Believe me, I have nothing against parents getting an inside track on their children’s schooling.** The thing that got me was the way the information was presented—like we were probably not aware of facts “a, b, and c” about Miss M. It would be one thing if this were a boarding preschool, or even a full day, but honestly, she is there for 10.5 hours a week. That’s it. So when her teacher leaned in and said, sotte voce, “You know, she really doesn’t play with the stuffed animals and won’t take the doll that we pass around at circle time. It’s fine, though,” all I could say was, “Oh, just like at home.” Duh!

Another brilliant observation: “She loves the art projects and the sand table and the playdough. Tactile things.” Really? Is that why she pesters me to “Play playdough!” seven days a week? And wants to dig in the sand every time we go to the park?

Taxman was with me at the meeting and ran to work afterwards, but that night he turned to me and said, “You know what the most surprising thing was? That at school she only eats bread and pasta.”*** I agreed, but added, “Plus that they’d love more just like her.” I know she is a “smart young lady,” to quote, but she’s willful and a bit of a whippersnapper, so I wasn’t sure how that was going over in a classroom setting with a dozen other two-year-olds. I suppose everyone is fine with it.

What I wanted to know—if Miss M has any particular friends playmates—was dismissed with, “Oh, at this age it’s only parallel play.” (Although playdates outside of school are strongly encouraged. Why, if it’s “only parallel play”?)

The two other families we are friendliest with have their conferences next week. I am dying to find out if they have any revelations from preschool. I’m betting…not.

* I have no idea how to make the accent marks. Sue me.

**Geek alert: One of my absolute favorite parts of the school year when I was in junior high and high school was Back-to-School Night. I sent my mom and stepdad to school with a super-secret packet of information, with my snarky observations of each class and instructor. They always filled in their own comments, and my stepdad usually included a crude teacher caricature or two. Other parents could never believe that I spent time acknowledging that my home and school worlds were colliding for a night, but it was a lot more fun than math homework! Plus, I was a total dork.

***And dessert, it should go without saying. She’s not a great eater at home; I’d classify her as “good.”

We are having major connection capital-I Issues over here. Not sure if it is the router (probably) or the wireless card (evil spawn), but I am holding my breath that this 90-second post will make it.

I haven’t been able to really read any blogs–or anything else online (news? hello?)–since Monday. It’s making me tense and cranky.

I miss you people!

During our long weekend, we didn’t spend a lot of time outside. Thursday it rained; Friday we spent a lot of time in the car; Shabbat I was nursing a wicked sinus headache; Sunday we did laundry and restocked the fridge.

So Miss M definitely needed some quality time at the park. Thankfully the weather was beautiful (for late November) today, and she got her exercise. She pushed AM in the baby swing, and the two of them cackling at each other just cracked me up.

Then she climbed, slid, monkeyed around, and did her “jumping! and hopping! and skipping!” (She can’t skip, and she can only hop if she is holding on to me, but that doesn’t stop the attempts.) She literally jumped up and down, over and over again. She jumped all the way to the trash can in the corner of the park–a good 50 feet from where we were–to throw away a tissue and then ran back to me.

She usually demands that I participate in the jumping, but I try to distract her with the twisty slide. For crying out loud, it is exhausting just to watch. But then again, I don’t sleep 10 straight hours at night and take two-and-a-half hour naps. Could that be the difference? Because she doesn’t have jumping beans, or a lot of sugar besides fruit, in her diet–heck, she won’t even acknowledge the existence of eat beans.

Earlier today, instead of sitting down to a gourmet kosher Thanksgiving feast, we stayed at home, doing laundry and watching the kids nap.

We are traffic wimps. Our invitation to dine this Sunday was several exits down the New Jersey Turnpike, and we realized that we could have been trapped both ways—in football traffic on the way there and the frenzied post-Holiday-weekend traffic upon our return. The food would have been spectacular, particularly compared to what I offered up on Thursday (no pie, sadly), but the prospect of an afternoon with friends turning into an eight-hour odyssey of taillights and state troopers and an inconsolably screaming baby and a no-nap toddler….well, it was just too much.

Some other holiday bits:

I am very thankful for our washing machine and dryer. Although we were away for only three days, AM managed to pee, poop, spit up on, or otherwise soil almost everything I had brought for him to wear (at least 80% of his clothes that fit right now).

Thirty-six hours was a good amount of time to be with the kids in an unbabyproofed, toddler-unfriendly environment. Any more and I think people would have lost their minds. Or a body part.

AM’s stranger anxiety manifests itself in an amusing way: he’ll go to pretty much anyone, but then he takes a good, calculating look at whoever is holding him. His face crumples and he starts up with an “Oh crap, you’re not my ema!” wail. He’s totally happy flitting about on the floor, though, no matter where we are.

I am thankful that my dad and stepmom paid a lot of attention to redoing “my” room in their house. As a guest room, it’s a little cramped for a family of four, but the mattresses are so nice. The furniture is tasteful. It’s pretty. The blankets are soft. The pillows are fluffy. I don’t know that I would have noticed these things five years ago, but I slept quite well (when AM wasn’t hacking up a lung) so I really appreciated it.

The 7:1 person-to-bathroom ratio in my parents’ house really turned out to be 5:1, because the diaper brigade doesn’t count and two family members basically showed up only for dinner. My worries were unfounded.

My cousin, B, was so incredibly good with the kids. He was constantly reaching out to hold AM; he read to Miss M and listened to her blather on. He’s 24! He’s always been a sweetheart, but I made a point of telling him that a man who’s great with kids is very attractive. (It was to me!) Some girl is going to be really lucky to snag him–once his ex-girlfriend stops breaking up with him.

The Philadelphia suburb where my parents live has been reinventing itself for years. Now it’s the first “fair trade” town in America, meaning that every merchant and restaurant in town has committed to carrying or serving one fair trade product. It’s a nice idea if it makes people think, but would it be jaded to say that probably 95 percent of the people who will visit those establishments could care less?

Traveling at bedtime and naptime was stellar. AM conked out right away after the mandatory carseat protest; Miss M amused herself babbling about airplanes and cars for a bit and then slept. And Taxman and I had a fleeting sense that we could have an actual conversation.

It was a good trip and great to see my family—I wish we saw them more often—but I am always relieved to get home. Does this make me the Dork of the Universe? Or automatically 80 years old?

Funny–at least to me–coffee (cocoa?) mug in a neighborhood store.

I could give up chocolate, but I’m no quitter.

Apparently, a certain percentage of my bloggy pals have come down with the November sniffles.

I knew I would prove to be infectious in some way.

Here’s a good remedy*: squeeze half of a nice, fat, juicy lemon into a big mug; mix with a healthy dose (2 tbs? more? not sure, it’s Taxman’s recipe) of honey (good to soothe a raspy throat); dilute with boiling water. Adjust to taste. Drink hot.

Feel better.

*Based on the ingredients, not for very small people!

Another tradition that we established, way back when our marriage was new and we had the time and stillness to think about things, was the annual Brisket Shabbat.

To be honest, I have no idea why I decided to make brisket back in December of 2000. I am not a particular lover of red meat; when we used to have an occasional fancy meal out, I would usually get a fish dish and have two bites of Taxman’s steak– that was enough beef for me.* But brisket evoked my mom’s infrequent homage to traditional Jewish cookery, and I guess I had a hankering for it.

I did have Epicurious as my homepage at work, having given up my subscription to Bon Appetit. (I am not really a food snob, I promise. I have a few rules, but they’re not snobbish.) Somehow I decided to make Cranberry-Portobello Brisket for the Friday night dinner closest to our anniversary; as we jousted over the few leftover bits the next night, I realized this should be an annual undertaking. We had invited three other young couples, toasted to our first year of marriage, and had a generally excellent time.

That piece of meat, though, had been an extravagance. I remember it costing close to $60.** And that was just for a 4 1/2 pound slab of raw beef, never mind the other ingredients or the other parts of the meal. Both of us had new jobs, rent and bills and all that other grownup stuff to deal with. What had possessed me?

Whatever. It was good. Damn good.

And so the next December we were extravagant again. And then again the next year. Sometimes we held our “brisket Shabbat” in late November, to celebrate Taxman’s birthday; our anniversary is less than three weeks later. The side dishes and invited company changed annually, but it was always an Event, at least in our minds. (We don’t get out much.)

Which wasn’t to say there weren’t bumps along the way. Finding a piece of brisket big enough was a huge challenge after that first year. I suppose a four- or five-pound piece of meat serves a lot of people, but Shabbat meals of eight or 10 certainly isn’t unheard of. After a couple of years of settling for two two-pound pieces (tastes the same, just hard to fit in a pan), I started ordering the meat in advance, although this year I got screwed; despite my advanced order for a four-pound cut, I wound up with–you guessed it–two two-pound pieces.*** Last year I couldn’t find the cranberry juice concentrate and had to use an unsweetened variety, which wasn’t quite the same.

This year I completely overextended myself. Knowing that we’d need leftovers for Shabbat lunch, I made a lot of food. Many, many side dishes. Two cakes. Actually, it would have been overextended if I had been working full time with no kids. Attempting this menu with a toddler with a newly-later bedtime and an infant who will lately only sleep touching me was insane ridiculous. Thankfully Taxman came home from a two-day junket to Hotlanta with a wicked virus and was home sick, but not bedridden, for the rest of the week and could keep the kids entertained while I cooked.

On Friday night when we rolled into bed, stomachs pleasantly full and heads buzzing from lively conversation, I was happy to have pulled it off. Another Brisket Shabbat in the books, another year slowly drawing to a close. To my shame, however, I neglected to wish Taxman a happy birthday on Saturday–his actual birthday–until very late in the day. I was a touch too focused on the celebration, and not on the person. But based on how he dug into the leftovers at lunch today, I’m guessing that he forgives me.

* I do have a yen for a good burger from time to time, although I am infinitely more about the fries.
** Kosher meat = highway robbery
*** I had been buying the meat at a well-outfitted kosher grocery and butcher shop in New Jersey, but there is a new place in our neighborhood, owned by someone we know. I had to wait in the store with the two kids for a ridiculous amount of time (over 30 minutes) and wound up with something I didn’t order. Well, I know where not to go next year.

Taxman spent his birthday taking care of me (feverish), Miss M (Her Two-ness), and AM, who is fussy and gassy and maybe teething and up again.

I do want to spin the tale of my unsuccessful quest for a four-pound brisket, but it will have to wait. (Two two-pounders filled in; it was fabulous as usual.)

Don’t get me wrong, the joyfully shrieking little boy crawling into the kitchen to see if he can open the trash can yet is adorable. He is tremendously cute.

But we’ve already arrived at the dark side. Only six months in. (Yes, he’s seven months old now, but it’s not brand new.) There is the special scream reserved for when I have the nerve to eat bonbons go to the bathroom, particularly first thing in the morning. There is the open-jawed whine-and-lurch-in-Ema’s-direction when someone undesirable (sometimes even Taxman) is holding him. There is the full-out wail of desperation if I walk out the front door–or even out of his line of sight to the kitchen–in his presence. Apparently the circus trash chute will just have to wait until he’s sleeping.

Oh, and then there is the sleeping. It’s true, pride really does goeth before the fall. I was so thrilled that he could put himself to sleep, sucking on his thumb. He didn’t need to nurse to sleep. Anyone could put him down. For a brief few weeks he even slept in a crib!

Then it all fell apart. First he wouldn’t sleep in the crib. Fine, I wouldn’t either; those mattresses are like sleeping on plywood without padding. So he got used to our bed. Fine, he’s got good taste. (I love our bed. As badly as I sleep in it, it’s never because of discomfort due to the bed.)

But then…AM started crawling. Obnoxiously early in his life. Five-and-three-quarter months old. He’s now very fast. He could be off the bed and on his head in approximately 1.9 seconds. Recognizing this startling fact, we started to put him to sleep on the floor for naps and at the beginning of the night. The quilt-on-the-floor works for naps, sort of–about half the time he naps in our bed or on the couch because I am there too. But at night lately, exhausted and supremely cranky because we have been actively preventing the third nap, he nurses sweetly to sleep in my lap as I slouch on the couch watching television. At some point later, I decide that I really should take care of the dishes/laundry/Shabbat meal prep/freelance work that!actually!pays!money! So I lay him gently on his little quilt, with his head touching the pillow (shut up!), cover him with an afghan, and sneak away. Five to twenty minutes later, we hear his little palms hitting the hardwood in the hall. Wide awake and cheerful. He’s easy to get back to sleep (if you mean by easy that my breasts are not required), if I lie down with him. And then don’t leave, or the entire process will repeat. And repeat.

As much as I shouldn’t protest having to go to bed at 9 pm, I have a life, you know?

Last week’s freelance assignment is finished, but we’re having six guests over for Shabbat dinner. It’s brisket**, which is pretty low maintenance as entrees go, but there’s also the soup and the side dishes and the two desserts.

I guess we’ll see what happens tonight. At 7:45 I am running like hell going out to my book club. Both kids will be awake when that happens. Both will be extremely unhappy to see me go. There’s milk in the fridge for AM, although he hasn’t had a bottle since my last book club night. Eh, there’s always mashed banana.

*No, I’m not a ped0phile, nor training one, for nursing my toddler, as some of the comments to the articles on the recent Delta-airlines-nursing-mother-flap would have you believe.
**Believe it or not, this requires its own post. Forthcoming.

About six weeks ago, Taxman was on his first of three (four?) scheduled business trips. The time at home alone was pretty horrendous.

Now he’s away again, but it was just two nights and he’s coming home today! But really, it was much better on the home front.*

The difference? Now Miss M pretty much sleeps through the night now.** 8:30 to 6 or so. Very little in the way of random crying in the middle of the night. And as a bonus, for the last week or so she has been going back to sleep for an hour or more. I had to wake her today so we’d have time for the school-day routine.

Is that the sound of angels singing?

*If I could just get AM to stop pulling up on the furniture, the cabinets, the wet bathtub when I am trying to get Miss M washed, etc. He is going to crack his head open. Did I mention he’s seven months old? Today?
**Which isn’t to say that anyone else in the house does. It’s just easier to juggle one small being than two.

(Yes, I know this post sounds like a cross between an Ask Moxie question and a Wednesday Whine. If you don’t already read these blogs, you should because they, quite frankly, kick ass.)

I am worn out.

My lovely and wry brother-in-law, Y, is here. He lives abroad but swings by a few times a year as his business travels send him this way.

We are always happy to see him. And when I say we, I mean everyone except for Miss M.

Since she was very little, she has been nutty around Y. We’ve exhausted every possible reason in the past two years: stranger anxiety, separation anxiety, looking-like-Abba-but-not-exactly, sometimes wears glasses, has a goatee, was born in February. You know, the logical stuff.

Now it’s just obnoxious. She screams and runs away when she sees him, cries when she even hears his voice. It would be heartbreaking it if weren’t so damn annoying. She knows exactly who Y is, points him out in family photos, talks about seeing him after the fact. The crying is just wrenching, because Y is a really nice guy who is great with kids. His little boy, our nephew, is just 10 months old than Miss M, so he’s got a lot of patience for the typical behaviors of the age.

Y’s workweek is Sunday to Thursday, so the original plan was that he would entertain Miss M and AM on Friday while I ran to the kosher grocery to pick up some things and then cooked for Shabbat. My week had already been trying: a time-crunched freelance assignment, Miss M sick with a fever and out of school for two days, the usual sleeplessness (now with middle-of-the-night Motrin breaks!).

But with Miss M’s freakout in full swing, we all–Miss M, AM, Y, and I–made our way to the kosher store. Where she proceeded to cry piteously the entire time. I didn’t have a fleshed-out menu plan (after the week I had it should have been “pick up takeout,” but the prepared foods are expensive, salty, and, in my opinion, mediocre at best), so we wandered the aisles for a bit. But the hysterics were getting to be just too much, so I decided to figure it out at home. We left with two huge packages of chicken legs and challah rolls.

I didn’t sit down for a several hours–except to nurse or change diapers–but somehow I managed to get everything made, including cake and brownies, using the chicken and things from the pantry and fridge. (Thankfully neither Y nor Taxman are fussy eaters.) Y graciously kept AM entertained in an entirely separate room from Miss M, who watched videos and cried intermittently.

Shabbat was more of the same, although at mealtimes Miss M consented to be in the same room as Y. She did, however, attempt to eat dinner and lunch with her eyes closed (or with one hand over her eyes) so as not to have to look at him. She wound up with split pea soup in her hair. She seemed to call a truce after lunch today, and allowed Y to hang around as she played and read books. But then her nap seemed to erase all the progress and there was screaming with redoubled effort.

Somehow by bedtime tonight they were friends again, but I am already dreading tomorrow morning, when she wakes up to find that he is still here.

Did I mention I am worn out? But also sad that my little girl was so troubled. I took her to the park this morning to get a little sun and exercise, and she was so happy jumping and sliding and climbing. She fairly sparkles when she’s happy, but when we got home the clouds descended again.

But mostly I’m stumped. We just cannot figure it out her aversion to him. And when the hell it’s going to stop.

Ok, I know the “independents” in the Senate are sympathetic to the causes of the Dems, mostly.

But if the tally is 49-49-2, isn’t that still a tie? Who leads the committees? What’s Cheney’s role in all this?

I am cautiously optimistic, but still wondering.

No excuses, people. Exercise your right.

Vote for the guy who is very qualified but could be removed from office for ethics violations (that he’s admitted to)?

Or

Vote for the guy who is grossly underqualified. And Republican. And a shill for Bush.

Is it too late to launch a write-in campaign for Taxman?

Love and Obsession

I found out on Friday that Taxman checks my blog from his CrackBerry when he can’t use his computer. Like when he was away on business and didn’t have ‘net access in his room for a couple of nights. His CrackBerry loads at the speed of dial-up, yet still….

To quote: “I wanted to know what was going on at home.”

Because the morning and evening phone calls, instant messaging during lunch, and other random e-mails weren’t enough to satisfy his yen for the bizarre culture known as “temporary single parenting with infant and toddler.”

Adorable and Exasperating

Poor AM can’t seem to get his schedule together. He’s got a pretty sacred long afternoon nap, which is holding steady solely because that is also when Miss M naps. Otherwise, he is reduced to a series of catnaps at random times because we are taking Miss M to school, doing school pickup, errands, grocery shopping, et cetera.

Because I can’t predict how long he’ll sleep, and because the steam heat is so fricking loud and I am petrified I will not hear him before he tumbles out of our bed, I’ve been putting him down on the floor. When he wakes up happy, i.e. not crying, he has gotten into the habit of just crawling out to find us. If he doesn’t make any noise, I don’t even know he’s up until I hear the slap, slap of his little palms on the wood floor in the hallway. Then when I appear in his line of sight he grins and makes his happy excited noises.

It’s so cute I can forgive the fact that it happened twice last night (at 7:45 and 9:30), which essentially now means that he can’t go to bed, officially, until one of us goes to bed and tucks him in with us.

Precocious and Weird

Miss M has a liking for letters. In fact, she can write a few of them and will often fill pages of paper with crayon letters: A, H, W, M, O, X. At home we don’t give it a second thought, but when the pages started to come home from pre-school I suddenly stopped to think of what is running through the teachers’ heads. Do they think we drill her or something? That we spend our afternoons hunched over her with stencils, forcing crayons into her hand? They do realize this is