Itchy Friends

Elan hero-worships his friend Joey, who is a year his senior. But when they're together, all they seem to do is fight. Then they can't wait to see each other again. I love eavesdropping on their conversations.
Recently, I caught the tail-end of this gem:

E, angrily: "Well then why do you even come over?"
J: (eye roll) "Because I like you."
E, caught off-guard, but delighted: "You do? You like me?"
J: "Yes, I like you."
E: "Well, then...that makes you a friend."
J: "I am your friend."
E: "A friend. You are my friend! Let's go play."
J, shrugs: "Ok."

Today, it was:

Me (noticing J. clutching his, uh, "area"): "Joey, why don't you go use the bathroom?"
J: "I don't need to go to the bathroom. I'm just itchy."
E, nodding empathetically: "Mine itches too, sometimes."

Well put, Elan. Well put.

Good Behavior

Elan is getting to a difficult age. Scratch that- he has been in a difficult age for about 9 months now. 3 has been a developmental year for him: he's learned how to back-talk, stand by his convictions NO MATTER WHAT, wrestle with his younger brother and WIN, steal, use "bathroom" words in the living room (and supermarket), successfully refuse to sleep at my in-laws so Y and I can go out for a night, and work the remote control.

My behavior-modifying parents said I had to get him on a reward-system, the whole positive reinforcement thing, where he earns points and eventually a toy for continued good behavior. Drawing lines got messy, and I decided star stickers on a piece of paper on the fridge would do the trick. Sometimes it works well- it certainly did at first.

But then yesterday Elan's nursery got out early for parent-teacher conferences (don't get me started- they don't even have to be in school yet, legally!) so he and a friend were playing at our place while I worked (re: read other blogs) at the computer nearby. They were soooo good and sooooo quiet for sooooo long, that, well, I'm an idiot for not checking things out sooner.

When I finally got up, the boys had done some redecorating: the two hundred or so star stickers were stuck all along the wall next to the staircase. Beautiful. As a top-off, there were several random star stickers strewn about on other walls, appliances, light switches--like a little scavenger hunt. Lucky me.

I sent the other kid home. Elan confessed that he "really just wanted everything to be shiny," and that the stickers were individual "clues." I have no idea what he had in mind, but he and I spent about an hour last night working on de-starring the staircase wall, a process that made me nausceous and dizzy because each time I scraped off a star my fingernails would scratch the wall with the effect of that on a chalkboard.

Afterwards, we shared a big hug of accomplishment and he got a star for good behavior.

PBS Hates Kids

Most nights, I sing my boys to sleep. This habit started when Elan was first born and has been pretty much going on ever since. As someone who was listening to Metallica on the bus home from school when I was 12, I knew I probably couldn't swing traditional lullabyes, and that aside, I didn't know any. I had to devise a playlist.

I went classic.
I went Beatles.

It worked like a charm- "All My Lovin'" became the only way to get newborn Elan to stop screaming and go to sleep. By age 2 he knew every single word to at least six or seven Beatles songs--the kid has an eerie knack for memorization.
Ariel turned out to be a kid after his brother's heart, and while Elan's new fave became "Let It Be," Ariel need only hear the first four bars of "Hey, Jude" before looking at me like, WTF, I'm going to sleep, see you suckers tomorrow, and nodding off.

Since I'm one of those types who have an only mediocre voice, but REALLY like to sing, and my boys seem to think I sing like an angel, their bedtime has become enjoyable for me, too--my only chance to let my inner Katherine McPhee out, uninhibited. Plus, their little dry-wall bedroom has inexplicably kick-ass acoustics.

All was well. Peaceful, even. Then, recently, it hit the fan. Ariel decided he was entitled to an opinion. And what did HE feel they should be listening to? The theme songs to the PBS Kids morning lineup. These songs are, to be quite honest, the bane of my existence. I HATE THEM. I freakin' hate them. And the worst part is, I know Every. Single. Word. To every. Single. One. They've just crept into my subconscious, I suppose after years of serving as the subtle soundtrack to my everyday life.

Ariel thinks they are wonderful. He sings along, claps, barks, all with his eyes half-closed, curled up in my lap, in those damn-adorable fleece PJs with feet so I can't bring myself to hate him, or deny him his beloved muzak. Elan thinks they aren't half-bad, and at 3 1/2 with a new preference for super-heros, still gets a stoned and happy look in his eye during my rendition of "Clifford."

Which leads me to believe, PBS really hates kids and is playing some sick joke on them by making their parents miserable via awful theme-song so that they will eventually, inevitably, snap and take it out on their innocent, crap-loving children.

Think I'm being dramatic? Try "Calliou" for a few days and call me back.

With this ring...

Last night I had a dream about my wedding to Y. It was very realistic- the kind from which you wake up confused about your surroundings- except in this version, Y and I were getting married at the summer camp I attended as a kid, and we were sharing our wedding with another couple who I haven't actually seen in years. Things were kind of harried, my veil didn't match my dress and I slapped it on my head just before my walk down the aisle, during which I realized I had forgotten to order a bouquet and so I didn't know what to do with my hands. Clasp 'em in front of you, I decided, and walked awkwardly and quickly down while trying to balance the veil that was slipping off my head.

In retrospect, I guess it was a little upsetting. But I've had variations on the everything-goes-wrong-at-my-wedding dream before, so I didn't panic in this one.

Actually, on the contrary, I was thrilled in the dream, looking at Y and knowing I was about to marry him was the best feeling in the world, and it really took me back to that time with him. I woke up with a smile on my face.

Last November we celebrated our 5th anniversary. We usually don't make a big deal out of occasions, even birthdays and anniversaries, and rarely (since we're poor and can't afford anything good anyway) even bother with gifts. This under-reaction habit of ours drives my in-laws to the brink of insanity, by the way, which is maybe why we insist upon it? We once forgot their anniversary (aren't anniversaries supposed to be celebrated between the couple anyway?) and it just wasn't pretty.
For another post. This year, we were both feeling kind of romantic- none of our friends have been married five years yet, so I guess we were proud of ourselves and a little lovey-dovey. We didn't talk about presents except for me to hint really obviously that it was NOT ok for Y to skip giving me one this year.

I knew what I was getting him: when we got married, we had even less cash than we do now, so I got him his wedding band from my grandfather, who's retired but still dabbles in the jewelry business. It was a beautiful ring but more ornate than what he would have chosen, yellow gold instead of white, etc. It was free so he didn't complain. He's worn it for five years but I knew he didn't love it, so I planned to get him a new wedding band for our anniversary. And I did.

Meanwhile, Y hinted that he had bought me something big (re: expensive) and he really hoped I was going to like it because he had saved money for the past six months to afford it and put his heart and soul into picking it out...blah blah blah. I was terrified because I knew it was jewelry and I'm not big on jewelry, only wear my wedding rings most of the time, and am picky about style. It turned out to be a very beautiful diamond and sapphire eternity band set on 18K white gold. Gorgeous. I loved that it was a ring, something I could wear everyday till it felt like part of me, and I was completely impressed with his choice. He loved his ring too, by the way.

About a month into wearing it, my finger turned red, itchy, and flaky under the new ring. I shmeared on some Cortizone, took the ring off, and let the rash clear up. Then I tried the ring again. A few weeks later, same reaction. I am allergic to the ring. I took it to a jeweler, who said many women are allergic to white gold, which can contain nickel, and he coated it with Rhodium, which is pure. He said that would do it. Once coated, the ring looked even prettier than before. But it didn't work--my precious, Platinum-only skin, saw right through that Rhodium and broke out yet again. I gave up. The jeweler Y bought it from refuses to take it back, it didn't sell on eBay, and basically I'm stuck with a very expensive, unwearable ring. Happy anniversary to me.

Y's ring, in the meantime, was too loose. I took it to a jeweler and had gold beads put into the inner perimeter to make it fit better, which worked. Recently, I've noticed Y wearing his old, original band again. When I asked him what was going on, he said he thought he just liked it better. The beads made the new one uncomfortable. I said I'd get it sized instead, he said fine. I haven't done that yet and he's still wearing the old ring.

We are back to square one-- no new rings, anniversary gifts tucked away for safe keeping. Humph. Now broke, we'll probably go back to the no-presents-just-order-wine-and-dessert-at-dinner-and-get-a-funny-card-thing.

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

The title of my blog? It's not that I love Steinbeck. It's just that in my life, the two subjects have always been related.

Thinking back, it might have started with Felix, my carnival-prize goldfish that lived for six years and was ultimately buried in our backyard instead of flushed, as homage to its longevity, only to be later dug up and eaten by our dog. I really loved that goldfish and the entire family was impressed with its will to live.

Skip a few years. Sometime post-Felix, two of my four brothers got into the tropical fish tank hobby. They weren't that successful and there were many losses. Frankly, most of the time the tank was just dirty, which makes your house seem dirty, too. But they really tried, often on multiple tanks strewn about our house, and I never saw the appeal. Even my mom was into fish, and she always liked to have one or two of her own in a little (dirty) tank in the kitchen who she could sing to while she cooked. You know those sad, droopy, anti-social ones called Betas that are really gorgeous when they puff themselves up so you can see their flowy fins but they only do that as a defense mechanism when they feel threatened so you hold a mirror to their bowl so they'll do it and it's really exciting but then they get PTSD from the experience and die shortly after? Those are the fish she liked to have. Maybe she thought she'd be able to cheer them up? We weren't supposed to do the mirror trick, but it can be hard to resist.

I'm pretty sure she still has them. I do know that lately, she's been quoting "A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" incessantly. Back to childhood. What little disposable income my parents might have had floating around at any given moment tended to go to the local aquarium stores and I just couldn't relate. I wanted shoes, everyone else wanted...fish? Eventually they moved on to saltwater, which is even more difficult and expensive to maintain, and that's where they were around the time I met my husband, Y.

I grew up in a house of testosterone, the only girl among four brothers. I couldn't relate to a lot of things. I had to be the voice of reason, the advocate for balance, and I usually got ranked on for it by them brothers.

But I always had this (apparently rediculous) notion that I'd be able to leave behind certain behaviors and interests in which I had NO interest once I had a place of my own. Suffice it to say that not only couldn't I leave behind the fish when I got married, but Y thought it sounded GREAT and FASCINATING and CHALLENGING to create one of these aquatic environments. My brother gave us (him) a 30-gallon tank and stand as a wedding present and offered his set-up services to Y for FREE! Imagine my utter joy. It was the gift that kept on "giving"- in true Y fashion, my obsessive husband became, well, obsessed, and decided that he had to take the hobby and "kick it up a notch."

He raided Amazon and bought every book known to man on how to build a stand from scratch. Then, at his grandmother's shiva, he bonded with some random guy in the neighborhood who loves to just build stuff, and who offered his garage and know-how to help Y achieve his goal. This was two summers ago. They bought wood, metal, G-d knows what else and started building a high-tech frame. Then they just...stopped. The builder guy went MIA on my poor husband and refused to answer his phone calls. Y had no idea how to proceed.

So what did he do? Give up? Not by the hairs of his chinny chin chin. He just plunked these gigantic chunks of wood and raw materials on our tiny balcony, and plunked his cash into buying a gi-normous ready-made stand and tank from the local aquarium supply shop. He bought metal-halide UV lights so powerful that we used them on our son Ariel when he was born jaundiced. Ok, we didn't actually do that, but we definitely discussed it. He bought a crapload of live rock, coral, fish, you name it- he bought it. He was a man posessed, and frankly, my words of reason couldn't penetrate the surface.

Fast-forward two years. Right now I'm sitting in our small, two-bedroom apartment, about a third of which is taken up by our 100-gallon saltwater coral reef tank. We don't actually know how many things are alive in there- Y finds all kinds of super-exciting, creepy, crabs and starfish that he "never even put in there!" Good at pretty much everything he tries to do (oh, except cleaning, which he conveniently just sucks at), Y has what I call a blue thumb, and every disgusting creature in there has just THRIVED for the last couple of years. I can't tell you how much money has gone into the tank- I'm embarrassed. It really is beautiful, objectively. And it's a good conversation starter when we have awkward company. But for the love of G-d, it is noisy, humongous, time-consuming, and expensive. It's a pain in the ass. SOOOO not my style.

My husband got a job and finally realized he had no time left for the tank. He wants to sell it, to save money, to be practical. I can't say I told him so- I have to just act like I'm going to miss it as much as he will, but, sigh, we're doing the right thing. If I gloat, he might get defensive and change his mind. I can't risk that. I WON'T risk it.

So far it hasn't sold. But his one casual mention of wanting to get rid of it has sent my imagination into a frenzy about what I'll do with the seven extra feet of space I'll have in my living room. I picture doing cartwheels, running for miles, my kids playing soccer indoors...Seven freakin' feet of freedom. I'm going to rearrange every single piece of furniture in my apartment once I have that extra wall. I'm going to do yoga all day. It's going to change my life. I can't wait.

Did I mention no one seems to want to buy the thing yet?

Anyway, I've come to realize that the evolution of our fish tank represents the evolution of my husband in the years I've known and been married to him. When Y does something, it's all the way or not at all-- he knows what he wants and likes to get it. Yet recently, he's started to see room for the gray area too. My little boy is growing up.

But when I think about it, if it weren't for that go-for-it-tenfold aspect of Y's nature, we might not be together right now or have started our family like we did.

So maybe I'll miss the tank a little bit.