Jumping Through Hoops

"Margo, seriously. That doctor is OLD. I mean, I know you said he's really old and everything, but I didn't imagine him to be like this. He's OLD. How is he still practicing medicine? Oh, and he was kind of mean to me."

That was my mother-in-law's assessment of the Legendary Dr. King. She took Elan to his follow-up visit at the orthopedist's yesterday* because I wanted to work straight through the day if I had any chance of getting this job. It started with:

Hi Margo,
Thank you so much for your submission for our second round interviews. We really loved what you did with the email blast and the fact that you programmed it made quite an impression. We have narrowed down the pool to you and one other candidate, and because the two of you are so drastically different we have one final task for you to aid us in our final decision.

Oh, man. Just when I thought I could rest easy and leave it up to fate, I've got to work for it. Again.

The second round of interviews consisted of, well, a contest. We each had to design a sample email blast featuring a particular fashion designer that would, in theory, be sent out to the registered users of Company's website. Like the ones Loehmann's and Bluefly send out. Only higher end.

Apparently, I did a good job. Good enough to get ANOTHER CHANCE. And "the fact that you programmed it made quite an impression?" This, obviously, means that we didn't HAVE to program it. Which took me hours. And nobody else thought to do. At least it "made quite an impression."

The "final round," (As my brother said, "So cool! It's like you're on Survivor or something!") BTW, was more open-ended, because we got to write the copy, too. And even though we were told we wouldn't be judged on the wording, rather on how we arranged the typography, I couldn't help but think, score! In case you hadn't noticed, I like to write. And copywriting? I tend to kick ass at it.

I planned my concept and did a mental layout on Monday night, so designing the thing took only yesterday. I sent it in and now I'm just waiting. I never even knew if I wanted this job and then I realized I was going to have to work for it, to put myself out there, and I couldn't stomach doing a half-job so I gave it my all, and now that I've put so much into it all I can think is that if I "lose" I'm going to be way more disappointed than I'd have been initially. Sucks. Maybe they planned it that way.

On the other hand, I've never really gone head-to-head with other designers before, and I was just thrust into doing so and I came out in the top two. So I suppose that alone should be esteeming. And maybe enough?

Yeah, right.

I should know by the end of the week. Think of me.

*Elan's arm is doing great. Cast expected to come off in 4 weeks. Y, meanwhile, is going to have to keep his torn ligament elevated for the next 6-8, followed by physical therapy. He can't drive, walk, or stand for more than a few seconds. Will someone please point out the light, because this tunnel is looking pretty dark.

I Am So Not Having This Conversation

"Mommy? When are we going to get another baby?"

"Not quite yet, Elan. I still feel like I have two babies."

"But when?"

"I don't know exactly. Sometime. But not nearly yet."

We're lying on the couch at a friend's house, alone in the room. He places one palm over my belly, much as he did that of my gorgeously pregnant sister-in-law moments earlier, in contemplation over whether she'd be giving him a boy cousin or another girl one. He voted for boy, so that he'd have "one of each." Babies were on his mind.

"Is there a baby in here?"

"No, there isn't."

"What is in here?"

"Just a tummy."

Sits back, looking upward and left. Thinking. Wheels turning.

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"How do you GET the baby in here, when you want it?"

Gulp.

"Um."

Elan looks at me expectantly. Nu?

"Well, G-d puts it in there. When it's time."

This satisfies him. Sort of. Then he realizes that there must be more to it.

"Do you have to do any'hing to get it in? For G-d to put it in? Like do some'hing?"

Shit.

There's a few ways to go. The whole truth and nothing but. A kid-friendly lie. Diversion.

I choose the latter. "Uh, G-d puts it there. So, should we check out these Legos?"

Thank goodness four-year-olds are easily distracted. This isn't the first time I've employed that tactic. Frankly, with Elan, I'm just too often caught off-guard.

He's in the bath. I'm at the sink, examining my pores in the mirror.

"Mommy! Oh my GOSH! YOU AREN'T GOING TO BELIEVE DIS!"

Nervously: "What? What happened?"

"COME HERE NOW! YOU'VE GOT TO SEE DIS!"

I turn towards the tub. He's pointing at his manhood.

I'm wary. "What?"

"Look. At. Dis. There are two hard 'hings in my you-know-what. Mommy, they are like two little...balls. I can't believe dis. I don't know what these 'hings ARE!"

It might be time Y took over baths.

"Relax, honey. It's okay."

"WHY? Did you SEE dis? Two hard 'hings like BALLS?"

I decide to level with him. Swiftly.

"Yes, I know about them. All boys have them. They're called...'your balls.'"

WHY ME????

"Huh? ALL boys have dem? I never noticed dem before..." He furrows his brow. Thinking. Wheels turning.

Sigh. "It was inevitable that you would. I just didn't know it would be so soon."

"Does Ariel have dem?"

Diversion-time: "Hey, let's wash your hair!"

"Okay!"

My next kid? I'm thinking - girl.

And The Saga Continues

Ugh. I'm not sure why I was so excited and sentimental about Rosh Hashana. Apparently, I'd forgotten that lately, it hasn't been my best holiday.

I remembered two years ago, when it fell two days after I gave birth to Ariel, when I rushed out of the hospital to avoid bringing in the New Year in an 8x8, claustrophobia-inducing prison, only to find out that little Ariel was quite jaundiced, not tan, and proceed to run back and forth to Cedars Sinai so that he could get his heel pricked every three seconds.

Eventually, we wound up checking back into the hospital, only this time in the neo-natal ward, so that my newborn could get hooked up on an IV and lie in a tanning bed wearing only a newborn diaper, foam baby sunglasses, and an umbilical-cord stump to blast those Bilirubins out of his hours-old system. Y and I slept on the floor and a cot, respectively, worried constantly about Elan, who we'd never left overnight before, not to mention the 7-pound creature we hadn't even yet named. My milk came in, I had to nurse constantly, and the hormonal mayhem left me sobbing through the entire ordeal, cramps rocking my body, concern the same to my soul. I know, lots of babies are born jaundiced. We treated it, and Ariel got better, had his bris on time, was, generally, great. But Rosh Hashana that year was tough.

The year that followed: wonderful. Ariel's first year of life.

Last year's holiday, however, I had blocked out of memory. Last week, for the life of me, I could not recall any moment of the previous Rosh Hashana. I couldn't, that is, until last night, when my brother-in-law reminded me: "Hey Mag, remember what we were doing this time last year?"

And then I did. Last year, he and I both got food poisoning after eating dinner at the same house. Because we don't drive on holidays, he and I left services simultaneously to walk each other home, trying our damnedest not to puke on each other and the sidewalk. We walked as quickly as possible, both of us white as sheets and rapidly turning green, pushing each other both physically and verbally: Almost there...We're almost there...We'll get to the toilet in time. You hold it in and I will too. Just keep going...

We made it to our apartments JUST in time. I was in bed, sick as a dog all day, and he wound up in the ER to replenish his fluids after dehydrating himself. It wasn't a good time, and once again, it hardly felt festive. It was like Rosh Hashana came and went and I was somewhere else.

Another not-bad good year. There were some tough decisions and tough moments and, for me, quite a few emotional ones. But overall, I wouldn't complain and I feel we made a lot of progress, as a family.

On Thursday night, not long after I posted my optimistic piece on Rosh Hashana, I melted into the couch. It had been one of those Very Long Weeks, and I'd worked like a fiend to finish three major projects on my agenda before the weekend. I'd done it, and I liked my work, but I was utterly spent. Y was also burnt out after several late nights at the office, and went to play basketball, as per usual. I took a very hot shower, brought some of the pizza I'd taken out for dinner and a cup of tea to the coffee table in front of the television.

I was so relaxed, so at peace. At 11:30, I wanted to head to bed but was too lazy and comfortable to move. Before I had the chance, the front door opened and Y hobbled in, announcing, "I think I need to get to the ER."

His ankle had a grapefruit sticking out of it, swollen to the point of deformity.

Why, oh why, am I getting so good at recognizing bone injuries?

"I'm pretty sure I broke it," he says. "Went for a lay-up and came down on the guy who was on me. I did this once before, playing ball in high school. Same thing. And I think I heard a crack. It really hurts."

I was shocked. Speechless. I mean, come ON. We JUST took Elan to the emergency room. I was JUST about to go to sleep. Rosh Hashana was starting the next night and I was having company and I hadn't shopped or cooked or begun to clean and both kids were going to be home from school and I'd left everything for the next day.

I needed this like a hole in the head.

Y wasn't pleased either, mostly because he was in a lot of pain. His mom came over to stay with the kids and we went to the ER. We were there? Until 3:30 AM. Whereas everything had moved quite smoothly when we'd visited the same place with Elan's arm all inside out two weeks prior, Thursday night yielded inefficiency at every point on the food chain, every stage of the diagnostic process.

To be honest, the entire staff seemed mildly retarded or at the very least, like they'd been passing around some recreational drugs and were majorly inconvenienced by our forcing them to deal with things like overdoses and sick children and, of course, sprained ankles. We were beyond tired, at the point where it physically hurts and makes you feel like you'll cry if someone so much as taps your shoulder, crabby, and one of us had a citrus fruit for a right ankle.

Oh, and emergency rooms are very, very cold. Like chill you to the bone cold.

[Note: Always take five minutes to gather sweats, socks, and blankets before you visit one. Trust me. You'll end up waiting there, anyhow.]

After two hours without so much as a painkiller, just before Y's turn to see a medic, a young Asian gang-banger rolled in, covered in his own blood, his head wrapped in white bandages - the victim of a stabbing. Despite his circumstances, his attitude was well-intact, and he demanded to be seen before we were. "Look at me, and look at everyone else here!" he told the nurse. (It was true that he'd caught Y and me in a rare moment of laughter - but it was the hysterical kind that borders on- and sometimes verges into sobs, probably over something Ariel had said that day.)

Gang-boy then demanded I pass the cell phone he'd been casually chatting on to the fireman who'd brought him in. After doing a "Who? Me?" glance over both shoulders, I fearfully took it from him, only afterward comprehending that it, too, was sticky with the red stuff. Glaring at him, I raced to wash my hands, certain I'd contracted something.

[Note: Never take a gang-banger's bloody cell phone in your bare hands just because you're scared to say no. You might contract something.]

Everyone seemed to agree that Stupid Bloody Jerky Verizon Kid was more important than the guy with the wife and the fruity foot, and he was quickly ushered in to get stitched up. The cops came and spoke about arresting him. The rest of his cronies showed up, with matching shaved heads, refusing to talk. We continued to wait. Tee-rific.

After finally scoring a bed and a curtain, the man designated to splint Y's now cantaloupe-proportioned joint sauntered in, taking more time than it would Mr. Turtley to make it across our backyard. His scrubs hung low under a jiggly pot belly, and his arms were covered in elaborate tattoos. Y and I looked at each other. Hey, tats can look cool. But they're not especially reassuring when clutching surgical tape.

"You're going to use tape to splint my ankle?" Y asked, only half-joking. "I think it might take more than that."

Stoner looked up, startled at having been spoken to. "I'm just using this to measure the length of your calf," he replied. And then he ripped the tape off Y's leg. Y's leg, like most of those belonging to men, has hair on it.

"Oww!" Y exclaimed. "What the hell?"

Stoner shrugged and shuffled off.

Y and I made about a hundred jokes in his absence. We looked after him towards the rest of the staff. Another male nurse looked like an Elvis impersonator. The female was a dead-ringer for Diana Ross, and wore sunglasses. Indoors. At night. It wasn't Halloween but we were in Twilight Zone. What was going on?

Every sane-looking person in a lab coat passed us right by, and we stretched our arms out after them like, NOOOOOOO!!!!! WAAAAAIIIIT! DON'T LEAVE US! NOT LIKE THIS! NOT WITH - THEEEMMMM!

Eventually, Stoner returned and began, at snail's pace, to messily splint Y. I watched him spitefully, willing him to move quicker, to move - at all. Y asked him something about the state of his bones, and the guy actually replied, "I don't really know anything. I actually just came back from my break and the doc said I should throw a splint on you."

Y looked at me, his eyebrows flying off his forehead, indicating, Oh, really. Your break. I couldn't TELL. Did you have an AWFULLY fun break?

And then, perhaps to convince himself that everything was normal, that this was okay, my husband decided to strike up a conversation about the tattoos. As if this man wasn't already sufficiently distracted from the job at hand. Y wanted to know, how much does something like that cost? Like that one of The Joker?

Stoner answered, diplomatically, Well, that depends on who the artist is and where you go. Genius. It got very awkward.

Later, Y asked him another injury-related question, to which he responded, in what was becoming his signature fashion, "Well, that depends on who the ortho is and what he tells you." As he walked away, looking very pleased with himself, I spun to face Y and said, "'Or it might depend on who the artist is and where you go!'"

I thought it was hilarious. Y shot me a look and muttered something about me being mean and I came to realize that it was 3 am, our kids would wake us in three hours, we were shivering from cold, he had a 9 AM meeting, and he was in too much physical agony for me to keep making jokes at Stoner's expense. That this was the last place either of us wanted to be just then. Every party's got a pooper.

As luck would have it, we couldn't get in to see the orthopedist on Friday because they refused to accommodate us on such short notice and we spent R'H pushing Y around in a wheelchair meant for an 80-lb., 99-year-old woman, half-asleep in a Vicodin-induced calm. Poor guy. He's too tall to get around very quickly on the crutches the hospital gave him (which Stoner adjusted for his height, and other nurses proceeded to re-adjust so that Y wouldn't break his arms, too). It was nice to spend time with some of our families, but we were always tired, and Y's foot hurt too much to sleep. We're going to take him to the insurance-designated orthopedist tomorrow and raise hell until they agree to properly set his leg. They want to put it off until Thursday. I hate our HMO.

Y can't drive, so I'll be shuttling him around a lot. People in our community kept asking him what happened, and he'd say, "I told Margo something she didn't want to hear." Ha ha. I considered putting a bandage over my nose so it would look like Ariel had to be the one with the temper.

Even more embarrassing: they'd look at him, on crutches, next to his son in a sling, and ask if there had been a car accident. I told Y he's too old to be playing basketball anymore.

It's crazy, ridiculous, really, and the timing couldn't be worse. And it happened on the eve of Rosh Hashana. That's three years of incident running.


Let's hope it's a sign that it'll be another decent year.

The Eye In The Water Glass

Rosh Hashana is coming up. For those of you unfamiliar with the Judaic calendar, Rosh Hashana is the start of the Jewish New Year. Most Jews recognize it, whatever their level of observance.

I like that we don't bring in the new year with a kiss on the lips, sincere or not-so-much, and a bottle of champagne. I like that we spend two full days doing it, quiet of television or telephones, eating meals with friends and family, praying for hours as a collective voice with individual needs, wants, requests for the months and days and minutes ahead.

I like that, while we spend Yom Kippur purging our souls, rinsing the palate, we use Rosh Hashana to hope and wish and ask. To reflect on the months, days, minutes past, deciding how and what we'd change, if only we could. If it were in our grasp. If we were given another chance. If we really wanted to.

In the weeks before Rosh Hashana, we tend to watch ourselves a little more closely, our tongues and our actions, we try to be nicer and to gossip less - sometimes we stop ourselves mid-sentence. And though we say, "Forget it, I shouldn't have started saying anything, it's almost Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur," I believe we don't really mean, ...And G-d is judging us now more than ever, harsher than ever, He's this close, so much as: ...And the New Me is right around the corner, the Better Version is this close, maybe I'll just start walking in that direction now.

That it's not out of fear but desire that we watch ourselves.

I like the many, many traditions of the Jewish New Year, too many to list off-hand. We put myriad unusuals on our tables, each symbolizing something else, many of them having to do with sweet, with ushering in a sweet beginning, a sweet year. Simple explanations spoken aloud as an excuse to send the point home to the Heavens. Apples dipped in honey: We want sweetness. Exotic new fruits: Let us welcome the unfamiliar. Pomegranates: Give us abundance, plenty of everything good.

The head of a fish, typically removed immediately after reciting the reason for it - This year, may we be at the head and not the tail. Make us leaders, not followers - before anyone throws up from the reflection of the eye in her water glass.

Thanks for staying with me these past five months. Shana tova. Happy New Year. May it bring all of you health and whatever else you might specifically need.

And may your fish heads always be plated on your table rather than attached to bodies in a 100-gallon tank in the middle of your 1100-square-foot apartment.

(She said to herself.)

Shooting the Messenger

The boys are both in school. Both of them. One, and the other, as well. Nobody's home with fever today. Nobody's on the couch watching Dragon Tales. On this Tuesday morning, I am home alone.

It's been a slow start to school, from fevers to broken bones to drippy noses to more fevers and still more in the way of fevers. Despite that, however, I'm pleasantly surprised with how much I like my kids' teachers this year. With how comfortable I actually feel about leaving them there each weekday morning.

In the past, that hasn't always been the case. Elan's teacher last year, someone I can now recognize as a kind woman who is decent at her job, rubbed me the wrong way for awhile. Elan seemed intimidated by the volume of her voice, the forcefulness of her over-familiar hugs, and while he's slow to warm to most new situations, it was obvious that he was going to be VERY slow to warm to her.

But that was all fine because he was happy in school. He played with his friends, namely the K-man, and when you're 3, you're less concerned with the intricacies of your relationships with the adults running the show than you are the EFFING AWESOME Power Rangers cell phone that somone closer to your own height brought for Sharing Friday.

Like I said, all was well. Until. Until parent-teacher conferences. Yes, they have them for toddlers who aren't yet required by law to socialize or exercise their brains in any manner or fashion. You know, so that you'll realize JUST how seriously these teachers take themselves, how undeniably deserving of end-of-the-year tips they really are.

Elan is one of those kids about whom you think, at least I'll never have a bad parent-teacher conference. If he's challenging, it's because he's so thoughtful and intelligent. Attention-span is a non-issue for a child who might not wander very far from his parents yet, but can plug away at a 100-piece floor puzzle for however long it takes. He beat most of the developmental-milestone deadlines, and I know he could be reading now if I only knew how to teach him. And most importantly, he has a great big heart, is sensitive and giving, and forms genuine, lasting, rather adult friendships. Okay. I'm done bragging. He's a good egg.

So. Last year, when parent-teacher conferences rolled around, I didn't make an appointment. It takes a lot to get me out of the house at 7 PM on a weeknight, and this particular need didn't make the cut. I dropped Elan off at school the morning of, and hurried off, calling over my shoulder, "I don't need to make a conference appointment, right?"

"Oh." Pause. "You didn't make an appointment?" Teacher asked.

"Uh, no. I kinda figured everything was fine with Elan. Was I wrong?"

Teacher gives me a worried look, checks that her assistant has the class under control, and pulls me aside, gently touching my upper arm. "Can we talk now?"

"Um. Sure." I reply, confused.

"Elan - well, he can't count to ten." Teacher tells me, apparently pained from having to deliver such crushing news.

"Of course he can," I snap. "He was counting to thirty at 18 months!"

Teacher looks at me sympathetically. Like she deals with disillusioned mothers frequently and it breaks her heart every time.

"Well. He skipped 6 when I tested him."

Maybe it's because you scare the crap out of him and he got nervous, I thought bitterly.

"Ahem. I suppose I'll have to go over it with him," I chewed my bottom lip, hold back...hold back... It begins to hurt. "But I'm not terribly worried."

"Good," she says, pleased that we have moved past denial and onto acceptance. To problem-solving. "And I have to tell you, I'm worried about how incredibly shy he is."

Who doesn't shudder at the sound of that word?

I raise my eyebrows at her. Continue...

"In 25 years of teaching, I have NEVER had a child as, um, inward as Elan is. He won't talk to me. He won't look me in the eye. He won't answer questions in class, even when he knows the answers. He won't be the Abba at the shabbat parties. He won't wear the costumes that we make. I don't know how to bring him out of his shell."

It's true Elan doesn't like to wear the costumes that they tend to make at school. I'd pick him up and every single other child in the class would be wearing a cute and silly paper crown and there would be Elan, crown in a plastic bag to take home, looking at his peers and then at me, as if to say can you believe these suckers? I'll tell you one thing: you won't find me falling for that garbage.

But all I could say was, "Really? In 25 years?" Disbelieving and maybe even a little bit proud that we'd won at least one contest. My son - an all-star in the sport of non-acknowledgement.

"Yes. Never," she replied, grimly.

And here is where I lost a bit of the restraint I'd so elegantly displayed.

"I must say, Teacher, that I'm not sure this is such a problem. I understand that many of the kids in this class are different from my son culturally, perhaps closer to what you are most familiar with, and that they are very shallwesay outgoing. I know that Elan doesn't like being the center of attention, and yet I'm not so sure that's a BAD thing. He is only 3. He doesn't even have to be at school. Do you really think we need to beat this out of him just yet?"

Teacher is taken aback. "I just want him to be comfortable with me, to trust me. To be happy and secure."

And that's on ME?

"Well, he says he is. He loves school, raves about you, has no complaints. That's enough for me."

"Alright," she says, recognizing a losing battle. I excuse myself, dial Y on the walk home.

"NOT ONE NICE WORD ABOUT ELAN!" I yell, when he answers. "NOT ONE WORD ABOUT HOW FREAKIN' LUCKY SHE IS TO SHARE A ROOM WITH HIM, TO BE IN HIS PRESENCE EVERYSINGLEFREAKIN' DAY. ONLY THE NEGATIVE - SHE ONLY GIVES ME NEGATIVES. NOT ONLY ISN'T HE SMART, BUT HE'S DUMB! HE CAN'T COUNT TO TEN MY ASSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!"

"Whoa. Calm the heck down," Y says, "And fill me in on what happened."

I do.

"You're over-reacting."

I know.

"Who cares what she thinks? She just likes the Israeli kids 'cause they're wilder, easier for her to understand. Why do you need to know that SHE knows how smart Elan is?"

"I just want to feel like the person I delegate to helping educate my child genuinely loves him and appreciates him and understands who he is. From this conference," I say the word in a snooty, nasal tone, "it's clear to me that she hasn't paid attention to him at all. Whatsoever. That she has no bearing on who he is."

"Maybe," Y agrees. "But your expectations aren't quite fair. There are tons of kids in the class, and maybe some slip through the cracks more than others. The important thing is that Elan has fun, he's happy to go, and he's making new friends. It doesn't matter whether Teacher knows what he's capable of or not. Not at this age. Not when she's only in his life for six more months."

And then, because he knows me all too well: "And please don't punish her for this by being curt and rude for the rest of the year. Please."

Damn.

Time passed, and Elan came out of his Russian Tortoise shell. Teacher was thrilled, couldn't get enough of telling me how "Loud!" he'd become. I, too, moved on. Forgave. But never fully forgot.

This morning, Elan's new teacher - the same woman who, upon my son's debut in all his cast-ed glory, bought the class a book she'd ordered specially online about the workings of the human skeleton - exclaimed, "Thank you for bringing Elan back!" (He'd been home, yesterday, with fever. Natch.) "We just enjoy him so much, both of us," she said, gesturing towards the assistant teacher.

"Really?" I asked, smiling broadly. Tell me more.

"Oh, yes. First of all, he's so smart. And in such a nice way. Like he's not arrogant about his intelligence - he's kind and sweet and a very loyal friend. But he's so bright! We're learning basic math and he caught on immediately! Really, he's a great, great kid. A complete PLEASURE for a teacher."

HELL, yeah! Now that's what I'm talkin' about.

"THANK you for telling me that. And feeling that. He loves every minute of school and adores both of you," I tell her. I walk home and call no one. I don't have to. It's enough.

I'm not naive. I know the new teacher can't possibly know him so well yet, and maybe she says that to every parent. She probably does. I HOPE she does. Because when we send our kids to school at such an early age, I think most of us need a little stroking. If there's a negative to deliver, we need it tempered with a little padding. A little niceness. Then we might not shoot the messenger.

And THEN? We can talk about tips.

No Surprises

[VERY non-specific spoiler alert! If you are a movie-buff who hasn't seen the latest new releases, it's possible, possibly, that there's a slight chance you might not want to read this. Not that I actually name the movie I mention. But I don't know how clever and crafty you people are, and I don't want to ruin anyone's life. So here is my sort-of disclaimer. Consider yourself warned. Love me!]

"They faked the death!" Y suddenly whispers in my ear.

We're out, a semi-rare occasion, seeing a movie. Afterwards, we'll head to a nice dinner. This is in joint celebration of our 26th birthdays - Y's is tomorrow. He says he's not celebrating it this year, so I can choose the movie. I say, that's very mature-sounding of you but don't worry, we don't really have any parties planned anyway, it's a work day. But thanks, I will choose the movie.

I do - go for the one that got the best reviews. The only way for me to make an otherwise painstakingly hard choice. Who knows when we'll be at a movie theater again?

Show begins. It's good. Intriguing. I'm not at the edge of my seat, but I'm taken in - no small feat. Soon enough, a climactic scene unfolds.

Y leans over and whispers: They faked the death!

I'm pissed. "Thanks a lot," I stage-whisper back. "I might as well have already seen the movie, now."

"Come on...You didn't guess that yet?"

"No, actually I hadn't." Terse. I'm terse.

Y grins. He LOVES making calls on movie-endings. "It was so obvious!"

"You're so annoying!"

I settle back into my seat, telling myself, maybe he's wrong! Just enjoy the rest of the movie, because you don't know FOR SURE that they faked the death.

But I do know for sure. Y has never made a bad movie-call, as far as I can remember. And I don't mean that as a compliment.

They faked the death, of course. And truthfully, I'd probably have guessed it myself, given another ten minutes or so. But I was still genuinely irritated. We'd discussed this before.

Two hours earlier, when parking the car on the way in, Y asked why I wanted to see this particular movie over the others on our list. I told him it had gotten the best reviews.

"I don't usually agree with the reviewers anyway," he says.

"I do. Almost always."

"That's because your family likes to dislike movies," Y says. This is an ongoing debate between our tribes. Mine are tougher critics. It's true our idea of a particularly great night is one that includes sitting around a table, eating guacamole and shredding an extraordinarily brain-dead film, high-fiving each other's wit. As a family.

"Actually, I think it's just because we are Thinking People who aren't entertained by Nothingness and Lack Of Entertainment," I shoot back.

"Nah," he goes on, smiling, enjoying the button-pushing. "You just don't like to have a good time."

"Hmm. Could be. That, or we aren't simpletons. One or the other. Whichever."

Leaving the theater, we agree that the movie was pretty good. Y is still shocked he'd actually spoiled anything for me.

"You know I hate guessing ahead. I don't go to the movies with the goal of out-thinking them." Then, remembering our earlier conversation about fun-haters vs. simpletons, I add, "Unless, of course, the movie is so mindless that it's impossible not to."

"I always try to guess the mystery in a plot before it unravels," Y answers.

"Then how is the experience fun for you? Is it all about ego-boosting?"

"Not at all," he replies, and I know that's true.

I know, because even though Y can guess the ending of every movie we've ever been to, he rarely complains about any of them. I see it. I wish I didn't, but I do. So long as it isn't about women's clothing, Y will like a movie. A great movie, a mediocre one, and an embarrassing piece of crap, in almost equal measure. I've been forced to watch "The Sting" as often as I have "American Pie." "The Rainmaker" has made our Recorded TV list seven times in the past four months. There's a reason they keep playing it on TBS. And it ain't 'cause the people in labs curing cancer keep requesting it.

Y can watch a movie time and again, regardless of how intellectually or emotionally stimulating it is or isn't or couldn't ever remotely be, and never get bored.

Last year, I re-read "The Great Gatsby" because I remembered it as being a favorite, and it had been ten years and I no longer really remembered the ending. After a decade, I could finally stomach an encore for one of the most popular classics ever written by one of my most personally-revered authors. Anytime sooner woulda' been way too risky. WHY would I want to invest free time into something I've been/done/seen before? Life too short.

I've always wondered how someone as bright as my husband - someone I consider so much brainier than myself, someone who can't even read fiction because he feels like he's wasting time that could be spent analyzing volumes of hard-covered world history, someone who can solve brain-teasers at first glance and Calculus problems in his head - can be captivated, during his time off, by stuff that is just so...uncaptivating. Ordinary. Silly.

And someone like me - the flightier sort who allows movies to simply take her where they intend to, who rarely second-guesses a scene, who gets easily confused by the storylines of most too-loud, mine-is-bigger-than-yours action movies - can't be bothered to waste even one second watching something unless it's entirely fresh, both to my being and in concept.

I always kind of thought that intelligent people, by nature, bore easy. But then I met Y. And his dad, who is brilliant, and yet in perfect agreement with his son's movie tastes. And I know what you're going to say, what they themselves say, that whole thing about going to the movies to relax and NOT have to think to get away from real life and NOT be challenged and blah and blah and blah and blah and blah.

But I'm not sold. For me (and others like me - I know, at least I really think you exist?) zoning out to something stupid just isn't relaxing or enjoyable. Not for one millisecond. In fact, on the contrary, it's rather surprisingly unpleasant, like the rubberband they wrap around your upper arm before drawing blood at your inner elbow - it's not even the part that's supposed to hurt and yet it hurts like hell.

I know people are all different and some like it cold and some like it hot or whatever, but this one, this issue, this difference - baffles me.

I need a bigger sample size, which leaves you. How about it? Are you a smart person who likes dumb movies? Do you get a kick out of guessing the surprise endings and calling them out loud to at least one witness for posterity? Is that a male-female thing?

Or would you, as I almost did today, just as soon get up and walk out of the theater if it were to happen?

---

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY WONDERFUL, AMAZING, MOVIE-SPOILING HUSBAND! I love you more than words can express, despite it all. And I know you're "not celebrating it this year," so don't worry, ahem. I won't tell anyone it's your big day.

Transparency

Elan's been sleeping in our room for the past week, ever since he broke his arm, really, so that we can let Ariel "cry it out" when he wakes up at night without disturbing his older brother. Of course, I never really do let Ariel cry, because I am an incredible wuss, so it really just means we have a four-year-old body camped out on the floor between my bed and the bathroom over which to stumble in the middle of each night.

But there are some nice things about having him there. There's the occasional entertainment factor, which usually begins before he falls asleep, when - as though he is imitating the stereotypical child his age - he informs me that he is afraid of monsters. I tell him, to his great amusement, that even if they DID exist, any monsters on the prowl would have to go through me to get to him, and that I'm a natural-born monster assassin. That I have a touch-button relationship with the mighty Grey Goose Monkey, an invention of Y's, who can come to my aid in a heartbeat, should I be overwhelmed by said monsters' powers.

"But how will you know if a monster comes for me? When I'm upstairs and you're downstairs?"

"Oh, well, I didn't want to have to tell you this, but parents can see their children at all times. Through walls, doors, across miles of distance...Always. I'd know well before any monster could reach you, no matter where I was."

I know. He'll be in therapy by ten.

Elan smiles. It's a smile that he employs all too often, one that implies, I know you're as full of shit right now as anyone has ever been in their life, yet I'm so enjoying this role-playing we're doing: Me, as the innocent, unknowing toddler who'll believe anything his parents tell him, his conscience unbefuddled with matters like TRUTH and LOGIC, and you as the standard belittling mother who thinks I'm dumb as bricks, who treats me like I'm four, unworthy of straight-talk, instead of a more respectable age like four and almost-two months. This is super fun! I'm pretending to think you can see me at all times, like I'm not afraid anymore, like I was ever afraid in the first place and not just trying to prolong the bedtime routine. I'm doing well, aren't I? You're funny, too. We seem so normal right now!

"Wow. That's really cool," he says aloud. "Can you see through this door, right now?" He points at the bathroom door.

"Not in your presence, of course. I'm not even supposed to have told you about any of this. I just didn't want you to feel scared."

Elan, flashing the smile again, eyes narrowing with sleep: "Okay, Mommy. Thanks. I'm tired now. See you in the morning."

"See you in the morning, my angel," I say, kissing his forehead.

"See you in the morning, my angel," he repeats.

In the middle of the night, I got another treat. When you've been tossing and turning for hours because of three measly sips of red wine you took before bed, you're not too irked to hear a little voice indignantly piercing the 4 AM silence with:

"What da HECK? What just moved dis room?"

"Huh? Nothing," you grunt.

"Somehing just moved us. Is our entire house on an airpu-lane right now, and it just started flying with us on top of it?"

"No. We didn't move. Just a dream, go back to sleep."

How I wished I'd been having the same dream. Instead, mine involved a baby opossum running loose in my apartment, Y chasing it around with a broom. Damn wine.

This morning, after another restless night, Y told the kids it was my birthday. I rolled over, pulling the covers over my head, and Y placed a card on my stomach.

"Wowwww!" Elan said, softly. "Good for you, Mommy. Whatever you say today, I will say OK, because it's your birfday and I love you."

"That would be great. Ariel," I turn to the short one, "It's my birthday today."

"No! Ees Ariel's birdday!" he says, angrily.

I don't bother arguing. After all, he is two now, and he's certain he's at least five.

By breakfast, Elan had clearly gotten to thinking.
"But Mommy! What do you want me to GET you for your birfday? What present do you want from me?"

"Just love, honey. Just hugs and kisses."

Elan rolls his eyes skyward, like Do you see what I'm dealing with here, people? Gimme a break. "REALLY, Mommy. What should I get you?"

"Really, babe," I start. "I don't want you spending your money on me. Just be a good listener today, make it an easy day for me. That's enough."

"I don't have any money, silly!" Elan looks at me like I'm mad. "I'm going to make Daddy buy it for you, with his money, and then I'll give it to you - from me!"

Ah. Quite a different story.

"Well," I reply. "In that case..."

And Onto The Next Quarter-Century

"Dear Margo,
It was really nice meeting you today, we would love to have you come back for the second round of interviews."

This, and I turn 26 in one hour, ten minutes.
Somebody, please, hand me the nearest adult diaper.

Order Of Importance

If there is any justice in this world, I will land this job based solely upon the way Ariel was dressed this morning. Remember, I'm interviewing with a fashion company, and though I will probably change clothes and shoes at least seven times (pointy flats or heels...Pointy flats or heels...No suits in LA...) before leaving the house, which will probably be in a mad rush - Ariel sauntered out this morning, the first morning of his third year of life, looking - effortless.

Hot, if I'm being honest, though I wouldn't normally apply that word to anyone under the age of 21 without feeling like a child pornographer. Studly. Cuter than ever. With his long hair, think rockstar. I've always said he was my rockstar.

The cuteness factor of the outfit was due in large part to the shirt my parents sent him yesterday, which looks like a funky-striped button down under a navy-blue cotton tee with some kind of motorcycle/punk-related emblem scrawled on it. I rolled up his sleeves, added faded jeans and Nikes: Perfection. My kid looks perfect for his birthday.

I need to go back in an hour to bring cupcakes or something. Promise pictures.

Me, on the other hand...I'm nervous. I am always nervous before an interview, and it's not much of a pep talk recalling that I haven't had much luck with them in the past. You should be nervous.

The thing is, I shouldn't really, because I don't NEED this job. Or any full-time job, for that matter. I've got my own thing going and I can keep it going. Anything else is little more than an option, a Plan B, a Something Worth Investigating Because Why Not Just See (what it pays). I'm in the position of control, then, right? I'm the one at the advantage? They need me, and in this case, they really need ME because they are advertising for someone far less experienced yet whom they expect to have mid-career qualifications and know-how.

But no matter how many times I tell myself this, my hands quiver a little at the thought of sitting in that room. The social grace and confidence of my youth has somehow abandoned my adulthood - rendering me a nervous talker who inevitably says something awkward when I'm anything but completely comfortable. I can't tell you how many, "Why the HELL did I just say that?!" moments I've been having in the past 3 years, and I have no explanation for them.

"Why are you looking for full-time work, after freelancing for so long?"

(Want to say:) "At this point in my career, I've helped so many different companies in varied ways, and I think I'd really enjoy both the challenge and reward of helping one company, exclusively, to succeed over an extended period of time - to build a more intimate relationship with them. I know that in-house, I can make a tremendous impact on multiple facets of the e-commerce arena, in enforcing the image of a strong brand, and I'm looking for the right place to make that happen."

Or something to that effect.

(Will probably say:) "Um, well until now, I had my kids at home and now my youngest is at school all day - it's his birthday, by the way, brought the class cupcakes this morning, he looked so cute! - and I see that I have the opportunity to make more moolah, if you know what I'm saying. IF, of course, everyone at this office recognizes that the earth revolves solely around me, my schedule, and my family's needs. Kapeesh?"

Or something to that effect.

Remember - you are in the position of control. They need you. Not the other way around. But when in doubt, shut the f--k up, kapeesh?

You're so lucky to be privy to my thoughts. Anyway, by some miracle, I slept from 10 pm to 6:30 am last night with only one - yes, one - interruption at about, naturally, 1. So I'm in as good physical shape as I've been in the past four years, which comforts me a little. I normally can't sleep the night before, well, anything - a plane ride, a busy day, an interview - you name it. And I so desperately, maniacally needed sleep. So thank you, G-d, for giving me that.

The most important thing that happens today is my impeccably-coiffed baby's first in-school birthday party. The interview for the in-house job comes second.

And, as I'll probably tell myself tonight over ice cream and a Tivo'd "Project Runway" after blowing the whole thing, it really shouldn't rank at all.

Rollercoaster

The Good News:
Ariel has adjusted beautifully to school. He comes home every day with his hair braided, sings the entire class to sleep at naptime, and reads himself a book before closing his own eyes. He no longer cries when I drop him off in the morning, lunges happily into his teacher's arms, but continues to inform anyone who will listen that his mother "leaves him" on a regular basis. Some of the administrative staff have mentioned that whenever they pass by his classroom, he is standing in the window, gazing longingly across the hall to the room containing one Elan and one Kevin. The teacher and assistants all seem to adore and appreciate him as much as I'd want them to. He comes home in a good mood. My Ariel turns two on Thursday.

The Bad:
Ariel turns two on Thursday, and he still does not sleep through the night. He wakes up frequently, and won't go back to sleep without me in the room. If I let him cry, he cries for hours, often begging for "beeg hugs." He's never been a good sleeper and he hasn't gotten any better with time. Last night, I got about three hours of sleep, total. At 3 AM, I started to cry out of frustration and compounded exhaustion and no idea what to do. At about 6, Y pressed a mug of coffee into my hands before I was even close to lucid, and I had to take it down in one gulp in order to allow slits of light to hit my irises, only to remember that I had a full day of work and running around ahead of me. Sometimes mothering is awfully hard, and though you do adapt to less sleep than you used to need, you don't really adapt to almost NO sleep on an ongoing basis.

The Nice:
Elan is back in school, almost fully functional despite the rigidity of his right arm. He's achieved celebrity status in an environment previously untouched by the taint of popularity, and the office staff is no longer rude to me. In fact, they are sort of kissing my butt, which is a welcome and pleasant change. They obviously feel guilty and somewhat responsible and even though I've made it pretty clear that I'm not about to sue, I think they're still fearful of the possibility. As they should be. For the rest of their lives.

The Trying:
Elan is back to his old self. He is, against my warnings, bouncing off the walls between the hours of 4 and 7 pm, leaving me in a constant panic over what would happen if he broke his left arm, too. One of his frogs died, and he mourned for about one full minute before asking what he could get in its place. Yes, he's back. Partially, perhaps, in the physical sense, but fully in spirit. Again, I'm tired.

The Excitement:
I have a job interview on Thursday. It's for a full-time, in-house web/graphic design/art director position with a high-end, Los Angeles-based department store's e-commerce shop. A friend of a friend contacted that friend asking if she had any friends who might be interested, so my friend sent the email to me. Job meets my qualifications well, is close to Y's office, and sounded fun. I write the best cover letter of my life and the friend of a friend wants an interview, at MY convenience. Though I have very mixed feelings about anything full-time or in-house, we could really use the money that that kind of job provides. With freelancing, I'm kind of hitting a glass ceiling, of sorts, and it's tough not knowing when my next check is coming in. I've told you all this before. So I was elated, on a cloud all day. Then, I checked one of those free salary calculators to see what this kind of job might pay, and was BEYOND thrilled with the median salary for zip code 90046. The idea of change, of a new beginning - it was at least as invigorating as my new citrus-scented body scrub, and made my lazy heart beat a bit faster. I was even able to substitute Diet Coke for a third cup in the afternoon.

The Let-Down:
I'd gotten the job description via email. A quick Google search of the company name and position title yielded listings on multiple job sites, along with the lovely phrases "entry level," "break into the industry," and "1 year relevant experience" - words that had kindly been omitted from the message I'd received. No wonder I got the interview so quickly - I'm way overqualified. Even if I'm not, these job sites also listed the projected salary range the company was offering, and it's WAY lower than anything I'd anticipated as a starting point. Way. Lower. Nowhere near the median that SalaryFinder had dangled in front of me. Stupid girl. I should have known it was sounding too good to be true. I should have remembered that I'll probably never be paid what I'm worth. I should laugh at my own folly. Instead, I wanted to cry. Still kind of do.

The Bright Spot:
I got both kids to bed earlier than usual. Well, sure. They're effing tired.

The Pathetic:
I don't even think I'll be able to stay up for "House." I don't even think that I want to.

Begs the age-old question, doesn't it: Which came first, the depression or the fatigue?

Edit: Ariel woke up within an hour of the miraculous early-to-bed, burning up with fever. So he's sick. Needless to say, there wudn't a whole lot of shut-eye last night. To his credit, he did tell me he was "hot" before falling asleep so easily the first time. Always question what comes easy. Always.

The Trade-Off

I've changed health insurance plans at least four times in the past six years, and, with two pregnancies, have been to at least that many obstetricians. The various HMOs I've had always require you to choose a primary care physician who will take care of your basic ailments, and then refer you to a specialist if and when necessary. The only specialist you get to choose yourself is your OB-GYNY, and, as I said, I went through several, never fully satisfied with any which one.

However, as far as PCPs went, it never really mattered to me who or what they were like, because I never intended to go to them anyway. I would just call my dad, in Chicago, if I had a sinus infection, or a chronic muscle ache, or a quivering eyelid, an ingrown toenail - you name it, he'd diagnose and tell me what to do over the phone, call in any necessary prescriptions. He didn't really like this role, always urged me to build a relationship with a local doctor, but I kind of forced him into it. He is, after all, my father. He's not going to deny me meds when I'm in pain and my PCP is out to lunch. For two hours. In the middle of every single weekday. Except Fridays, when he simply doesn't work at all.

The thing is, I like my current PCP, who is a family practitioner, and also sees my kids. I like his style, which, naturally, is reminiscent of the one I grew up with. I don't need a lot of stroking from my doctors, nor a lot of shmoozing and smiling and excess niceties. I don't need a shiny-new office complete with a medi-spa. I just want medical service. Competent diagnostics. Right-on-the-first-try treatment. Confidence. Skill. Experience - least twenty years' worth. Credentials visible on the wall. That's all I ask. Oh, and toys in the waiting room are nice.

But it's nice to be able to get an appointment, too, and not with the nurse practitioner. And it's nice when the office calls you back when you're waiting for a pre-authorization on a non-approved medication. These are my doctor's weak spots. And it was getting on my nerves. So I decided I was going to find someone new.

I made that decision the day before Elan broke his arm, and didn't have any time to act on it. Which was lucky, because Dr. S. redeemed himself by handling the break so well, and by that I mean going out of his way to look at the X-rays and getting us a same-day appointment with the most reknowned pediatric orthopedic surgeon in the area.

Of course, we didn't know about Dr. King's reputation that day. And while, like I said, I'm all in favor of experience, the fact that he is about 80 years old shook me a little. I've had older doctors. But this man was actually old. And he wasn't nice. He took one look at Elan and his X-rays, and basically, as I described, shot him up with morphine, kicked us out of the room, broke the bone clean in half and smacked it back into place. Then, he left without a word, leaving the PA's to finish up with us.

We got the feeling this man could set a broken arm in his sleep. Still a little pissed that we hadn't been allowed to hold Elan's hand, but more relieved that the ordeal was finally over, we left without a clear idea of how we'd regarded Dr. King.

But when Elan claimed to feel absolutely fine all night long and the following day, when we didn't need to dose him up with the painkillers he'd been prescribed even once - we felt pretty warmly towards him. He'd clearly done a pret-ty good job on Elan's bones, one that exceeded even his own expectations.

Things got better when, on Friday afternoon, Joey and his mom came by to visit. "I heard you went to Dr. King," she said. "We took Joey to him when he broke his back and then when he went through all that stuff with his legs last year."

"You did? I didn't know anything about this guy. He was just so old!"

"I know. He's legendary though - the best in his field. He's had thousands upon thousands of patients over the years. When we were referred to him, we were warned about his bedside manner - that he'd make us cry, but that we were also lucky to have him work on Joey."

He had certainly made us cry.

"He was pretty awful," I agreed. "But he also did an incredible job on Elan's arm. No pain whatsoever."

"Yeah," she said. "And he's totally humorless. He won't get a single joke, nor will he crack any."

"I noticed there wasn't a whole lot of smiling going on. It seemed kind of strange - his arm was in a sling too, when he came in. We were like: a guy with a broken arm is going to fix a broken arm?"

"Oh my gosh! I know! When he came in the room to see Joey, the first time we were there, he wheels in in a wheelchair!" Joey had needed a wheelchair.

Hmm. Maybe, as I originally suspected, he's just old, and prone to injury. But maybe the guy does have a sense of humor. Maybe the joke's on us.

In shul on shabbos, a local pediatrician confirmed what we'd heard about King: "Oh, well, the guy is a legend. Grumpy, though, right? He was already getting up there when I first started out thirty years ago, so I wouldn't be surprised if he was at least eighty."

I'd guessed a hundred. Close enough.

We went back today, for a follow-up. We dropped Ariel off at school first (no tears!), so it was just me and Elan, and hanging out with him alone is fun. He chattered away happily, about things like why we can't walk on clouds and at which point does the sky turn blue, if sky is really just air that exists all around us. And he also enjoys comfortable silence, gazing out the window and daydreaming when we're talked out. Like me. We bought licorice nibs and gave some to the guy in the booth at the entrance to the parking lot.

Today's visit was pleasant - calm, unhurried, familiar. The X-rays looked good, the bones still straight, the swelling had gone down so they tightened up and re-bound the cast with more glow-in-the-dark tape. Dr. King came in, sling-less (hey, the Elan's bone was straight, so...), admired the pictures, and was gone with nary so much as a goodbye. I wondered how someone who has little interest in actually speaking to children goes into a pediatric field. Are little-kid insides that much more interesting, from a medical standpoint, than adult ones?

No matter. Elan was doing well, and he was in good - though liver-spotted - hands. I didn't need conversation. But I was reminded of the time I took Elan to a pediatric dentist to get an opinion on a visible cavity on his left eye-tooth. The guy spoke only to me, never addressing Elan, and generally looked at my then-three-year-old as if he'd never seen a child before in his life. Elan was terrified, and the man did nothing to try and calm him down. Instead, he roughly pried Elan's jaw open, looked around, and said, "Yeah, he's got the one cavity. But you can wait a year or two to fill it because there is no way he's going to let me drill in his mouth if he's acting this way when I just look at it! We'd have to put him completely under and you probably don't want to do that at his age."

And I thought, Well maybe if you actually SPOKE to him and TOLD him what you were doing and stopped looking at him like he were something vile he might not be so goddamned AFRAID! Pediatric, my ass.

What I said was, "Mmm-hmm. Thanks. We'll be going now." I took Elan by the hand and led him out of the hall, which was lined with the signed headshots of famous child-actors. LA.

"Don't forget to pick out a toy!" Dr. Evil called over his shoulder.

We looked at the trays of dusty, filthy trinkets, most of the them still emblazoned with the McDonalds Happy Meal emblem. After much deliberation, Elan reluctantly chose a nasty plastic ring.

I felt so badly for him after that traumatic first trip to the dentist that I took him to the mall, bought him books, a bagel, a pure-vanilla ice-blended, and new shoes before taking him back to school.

I've been to two specifically-pediatric doctors so far, and neither seemed to really like children much. I'm stumped. I certainly liked one better than the other, though. At least Dr. King, despite his notoriety otherwise, was funny. In his own, special, slightly-sick way.

Fractured Limb, Broken Heart

Yesterday's emotional distress over Ariel was replaced, immediately upon publishing that post, with upset of the other kind, the physical kind, and this time with regard to Elan. This is because seconds after I finished writing, the phone rang, and it was the school.

"Margo? This is Helen. From the school?"
"Hi. What's up?"
"Elan fell. And his arm...doesn't look right. I think he needs a doctor."
"Is that him screaming in the background?"
"Yes."
"I'll be right there." Click.

I knew he'd broken his arm, however it had happened. I knew, because she'd said it didn't look right. With a sprain you can't really tell from the outside. A break? You know by looking at it.

I knew this despite the fact that none of my brothers or I, as far as I can remember, had ever broken a bone. As kids, we got stitches on the kitchen table. But casts? Never. (This is either testimony to our good luck, or the fact that we're just not that athletic. But we play killer Scrabble.)

Rather, I knew about the "look" of a broken limb from "The Babysitters Club." The one where Claudia breaks her leg? The mental impression that description made stuck with me forever, only to be yanked from my subconscious when completely necessary. Much obliged, Ann M. Martin.

I drove like a fiend, and within moments, Elan was in my arms. He was, to say the least, hysterical, obviously in tremendous pain. He'd gone down a baby slide, a slide much too small for him, and somehow, in a freak accident, had fallen funny, landing on his arm. He was convinced he'd twisted it, and was begging for us to "untwist it," to "put it back in." This had led Bernice to believe he had that condition in which your elbow dislocates frequently, that this was a common occurrence, that I knew how to pop it back together. I shook my head. This arm is broken, I told her, pushing back both tears and dizziness. You will not cry, I ordered myself. You will not get sick.

Because the arm was grotesque. My baby, my little Elan, was sitting there, holding a forearm that looked inverted, that dipped down in the center, that looked as though the elbow were sticking up an inch or two from his wrist, where only blond baby hairs should have been. His arm looked hollow, bizarre, save for the sweet, familiar, even-toned toddler skin covering it, reminding me who it belonged to. How important that arm was.

I'm going to the hospital, I said, holding Elan bride-over-the-threshold style and making for the car. I'll drive you, said Bernice. I didn't argue, simply climbed into the backseat next to Elan, hovering over his car seat with my body in a half-hug, kissing his wet eyes and trying to sound in control, trying to hide the shakiness of my voice, the beads of sweat rapidly forming on my nose.

Elan's main concern wasn't the physical pain, though he felt plenty. He was worried about the treatment, the unknowns to come in the next few hours. He doesn't enjoy unknowns. He asked me how the doctors would be fixing his arm - would they use magic? Would I be taking him to that doctor both he and I didn't like that one time (a dentist - for another post)? Would they pop it back in? How long would he need to wear the "giant Band-Aid" for?

He was so exhausted from the tumult that he periodically quieted down, dropped his head on my shoulder, and fell asleep. The ER took care of us right away, taking X-rays, confirming the fracture of two bones, giving him Tylenol with Codeine and a splint. He never left my lap, handled everything with an inner strength, a resolve to get through this I didn't know he possessed. Y met us at the hospital, and distracted Elan through waiting periods by regaling him with tales of his journeys in the jungles of East Asia, battling wild animals in search for the legendary, extremely rare Nightingale Blue Butterfly (I don't know where he comes up with this stuff).

The ER staff told us that the break wasn't terrible, and that he wouldn't likely need more than the splint, that we should try to get to an orthopedist in the next few days, which was extremely reassuring. However, once our family practitioner saw Elan's X-rays, he urged us to go to the orthopedist immediately, and got us an appointment. So after I'd taken Elan home, set him up on the couch with lunch and loads of therapeutic candy, and told him he'd been through all he would have to until the next morning - I had to tell him the opposite.

The orthopedist was about a hundred years old, and was wearing a cast himself, about which I wasn't sure how to feel. He had a staff of what seemed like millions of young hipsters in scrubs, who helped him to hold children down while jamming and sealing their bones back into place - on this day, Elan's bones. After a traumatizing series of morphine shots, Elan managed a quick, stoned nap, and then was woken up to have his arm broken again for a cleaner adjustment and casting. We were not allowed in the room during the procedure, much to our chagrin. When I asked why, we were told that we would probably pass out, and then they wouldn't know who to take care of first. I probed one of the younger guys, and he suggested that "I wouldn't really want to be in there with my kid all screaming and stuff!" I let him know that it wasn't really about what I wanted - it was about what was best for Elan. That we were tough. I could handle it. They said no.

Y and I stood outside the door while they worked on Elan's arm, listening to him scream - albeit in terror, not pain - unable to touch him, for what seemed like hours but was probably only ten minutes. We couldn't look at each other, couldn't bear the expressions on each other's faces. Hearing our son feel that way was the worst either of us had yet experienced, though we knew rationally that he'd be absolutely fine in a few minutes. He was just so...Little. Too little. Yes, people, kids, went through much, much worse. We knew it could be so much worse. But this was our personal, family high to date, and for us, it stunk. It reeked.

We were informed that because he was so young, his bones so malleable, he'd recover beautifully - that an adult with the same break would need surgery. In two months' time, he should be healed. We saw the before and after X-rays side-to-side, how the bones, once again, were straight, and that was sort of cool. At least it would have been, had they not belonged to our child.

Elan chose a glow-in-the-dark cast and a navy blue sling, which goes with everything - my boy has good taste. We went straight to the toy store and must have spent $600 on comfort gifts. He was the king for the day, promises of toys had gotten through some of the worst moments, and the reward seemed to genuinely cheer him. I saw him smile for the first time in eight hours.

But the sight of him in a cast, in a sling, his eyes rimmed red from a combination of tears and fatigue - it was horrible. Adorably wrong.

That evening, he talked and talked and talked about what had happened, trying desperately to understand how his bones could have broken when they seemed so very hard. Elan is nothing if not a scientist - the whys and hows of his world so much more important to him than the whats. He and Ariel hugged and kissed before bed, professing their love for each other, the little one stroking his brother's bad arm, and my heart broke for the umpteenth time that day.

But Elan was so tired. I tucked him into a mattress next to my bed, safety-pinned a blanket of padding to his cast, propped it up on a pillow. I kissed his entire face, admiring his thick eyelashes, the complexion so fine and delicate that you could make out the purple vein structure underneath. I was relieved but dreading the night - we'd been warned that it would really hurt once the morphine wore off, and even the prescription for more codeine served as small comfort against that thought.

"Mommy?" he asked, relishing my attentiveness, "Can we talk about this more in the morning? Because I really don't understand how my bones broke. I think they were twisted. And if they aren't broken anymore, how come I need this cast for six or eight weeks. And when will I get stickers to put on it. And who will color on it. And do I need to wiggle my fingers EVEN IN MY BED? So can we talk about it when I wake up?"

Yes, baby. And you're sleeping right next to my bed. If you need me, I'm right here. If it hurts, wake me right up and I'll give you medicine.

He was already asleep.

I went downstairs, where Y was trying to watch mindless TV, to detox, looking as though he'd been through a war. He asked how I was, and I burst into tears. I'd managed to hold it in all day, to present a face of utter calm, and the release was both inevitable and necessary. Out of sheer stress and misery, Y and I had been snapping at each other in the car and at each medical facility, taking our nagging helplessness out on each other.

Now, though, we could breathe again, and he hugged me close, laughing gently, telling me how kids break their limbs all the time and bounce back, how the orthopedist's office had been his second home as a child. I told him how, irrational as it was, I'd spent the last few hours trying desperately to figure out the way in which this was all my fault, because I was certain it was, that it had to be. I knew it wasn't, but I also, in my heart, knew it somehow was. Crazy. Ridiculous. The weight of Jewish motherhood.

"It's funny," Y said, wiping tears from my cheeks. "When I met you, I never pegged you for a crier."

I sniffled and smiled. "Silly rabbit. That was before we had kids."

Digesting the Drop-Off

I've been through this before. I went through the same exact thing when Elan first started school. And now he can't wait to get there. So why am I surprised that Ariel is a heap of hysterics each time I leave him there in the morning? Why does it still feel like I'm doing the wrong thing?

Because I seriously wonder if I'm doing the right thing. It didn't help when another kid's grandmother was dropping him off, tears rolling down his cheeks, and she confided to me, "Well, in my day we never put them in school so young!"

In my less emotional moments, I can tell myself what each teacher, administrator, and fellow parent in the school has told me, upon being met with my stricken face. I can tell myself the following:

He's going to stop crying within a few minutes.
He's excited to go in the morning.
He's learning about healthy separation - that you will come back.
He's learning to develop a social life outside Elan's.
He's fine when you're gone, even took a nap yesterday. He'll adjust in a week.

And most convincing: You don't really have a choice because you need to work because you need the money. He's not the first kid to have endured day care and at least you know he's in a good one.

In other moments, namely the ones immediately following drop-off and pick-up, my thoughts are more along these lines:

People can adapt to anything, doesn't mean it's ideal for them. Would you think it was okay to drop him off in a jungle and have him raised by wolves just because he might be able to survive? Are there even wolves in jungles?
The day is too long for him, plain and simple.
He's too young to spend any time away from his Mommy. At all. Ever.
For two measly years of his life, the kid ought to get whatever he wants.
He's not going to have fun with the kids in his class. They don't play make-believe yet.
The assistant teachers are weird. One shouts at the kids every time she speaks to them, and the other looks like she's from colonial times. Why would Ariel trust them?

And most convincing: There is one kid in his class whose mother I cannot stand.

I know. It's terrible. I'm a horrible person. Or am I? Because, as far as I can tell, nobody really like this particular woman. She's the kind who married into money, and thinks that she can control every institution she supports as a result. She's also really, really loud and aggressive. Which wouldn't bother me so - if she weren't also stupid and obnoxious. And if she didn't talk to my kids, especially Elan, in a baby voice, her Ls and Rs as Ws, while he looks at her, brow furrowed, like she must be mentally disabled because why else would she be speaking to a him like that? His eyes dart to my face, questioningly: Doesn't she know I'm four?

The problem is, while I've a hunch that I'm not alone in my dislike, everyone else seems to be able to tolerate her. Whereas my skin crawls in her presence. The first day of school, she dropped her baby off and stayed with him for about two minutes before darting off, yelling something over her shoulder like, "He's going to cry whenever I leave, there is no point in staying for any period of time." When Bernice, who runs the school, found out that she'd left so quickly, she was furious. And rightfully - the child sobbed straight through the day, I was there to witness it.

This morning, I came on time so that even if I stayed a half hour with Ariel, easing him into the environment, I'd still get out of there at a decent hour. She came in with her kid, and started babbling to the teacher, Roya, and another mom about how, "When they are two, they know. They know you're going to leave - they know. But he?" She gestured to her little one, who, I suppose, is about 22 months, "He knows but he doesn't know. You know? So it doesn't matter if I stay a few minutes or not, because he doesn't really know what's going on. I told so-and-so that if she stays, she's just STUPID because she's thinks her kid doesn't know and he DOES. He knows."

I'm quoting WaiterRant here: You can't make this stuff up.

I can't be sure exactly what she was talking about, you know, because it didn't make any sense. But I THINK she was justifying not staying a minute longer during drop-off because she perceived that her child was incapable, for the next two months, of understanding that life was anything other than sheer chaos, a random series of nonsensical events and moments and drop-offs, a blur of colors, sounds, feelings, losses and relationships.

At least until he turned TWO. Because then? Then, he would know.

And I guess she indirectly called me stupid (though it wasn't me she was talking about at the time, I was sitting right there!) for staying and playing with Ariel, for trying to help him see that school is anything other than mad torture.

She was probably rushing off to a waxing appointment. I mean, you can't just be late for those things.

So her son, I can only believe, is going to grow up as the result of such mothering. Of such a mother. And he's going to be in Ariel's class? She also has a kid Elan's age, a girl who was in his class his first year. She bit my son on the second day of school. Forgive me for being less than ecstatic about leaving Ariel today.

And Ariel? He more than knows. He has processed it all, emotionally, and is communicating what he knows to everyone he sees. On Friday, he told my mother-in-law, brother-in-law, and father (via Skype and webcam), separately, when asked how school went, "Tool? My mommy left me." In a very grave and secretive voice, like he's not sure he should rat out his abuser in the hopes of getting help, because what if it backfired?

When I asked him how school went, he replied, "I cried. I called, "Mommy!"

I repeated, "You cried a little when I left?"

And I suppose he thought I was indicating that I didn't really understand what that entailed, because he proceeded to act it out for me, fake sobs, whimpers, variations in octave and volume - the works: "I cried BOO HOO HOO WHAAAA! WHAAAAAAAA! I WANT MOMMY, WHA WHA WHAAAA!"

Yeah, so Ariel gets it. He knows. And something tells me that other kid does too, no matter what his mom tells herself so she can sleep at night. Something like the fact that he turned into a screaming, snotty, crying, shaking mess the second he turned around and realized that his mother had suddenly vanished.

But - enough procrastinating. Enough judging, enough blaming - it's not good for my skin. Positive, kind thoughts, positive, kind thoughts...Yom Kippur's coming up. I did put Ariel in school so that I can work, and last time I checked, this blog wasn't paying the bills (Oh, my Google ads? $19 in two months. Yeah, I know, it's insane, I'm thinking I'll buy that minivan and probably put the rest in mutual funds or whatever...).

I can't wait to pick the little buggers up.

In San Diego...

• Alcohol is of supreme importance. It started early, like at check-in: I'm so sorry but they are still cleaning the room we have reserved for you. It should be another 15 -20 minutes more, max. May I buy you guys a round of cocktails at one of our three bars, while you're waiting? I thought you'd never ask. By the time we'd returned to the lobby, however, there so many not-ready rooms that they'd simply placed a pitcher of screwdrivers on the counter, alongside a stack of paper cups. The newbies stood in line holding paper cups with only the little umbrellas missing.
  



• They're big on youth. I'm not entirely sure, but from what I can recall offhand, I don't think we interacted with a single person over the age of 24. In two full days.
  



• They've got something to prove. During the wait for our room, I picked up one of the magazines on a lobby coffee table. The editor's letter included the following passage: If you are one of those people who moved to San Diego from somewhere else and constantly complains about what San Diego isn't - well, nobody asked you to move here. Think it's no San Francisco, as far as fine dining goes? Move to San Fran. Miss Miami's nightlife? Stay in Miami. We didn't ask you to move here and frankly, we don't dig humidity.
  
  Okay, then.
  



• People are romantic. Y and I, after several hours of serious vegetation in our zen-decadent hotel room, ventured out for a late evening walk around downtown. Couples were everywhere, all of them holding hands or kissing or holding hands and kissing...
  
  Love and lust warmed the cool ocean air. Y and I were cute, too - and nobody can say we weren't feeling the romance. We held hands, walking in a strange city in the dark, and had the following conversation, which I suppose can only occur during the seventh year of a relationship:
  
  "Ohhh...My stomach is acting up again. I think we need to head back to the hotel. I'm about to throw up. Seriously. Damn virus. I might not make it..."
  "Come on, we'll go. You gonna barf or is it going to go the other way?"
  "Not sure. It could be either one."
  "So which would you rather, if one was inevitable: throwing up, or having the runs?"
  "Well, that depends...What situation am I in?"
  "This one. Like right now."
  "The toilet. Although, I'm not the worst thrower-upper. I learned to handle throwing up in college."
  "Loser. But yeah. I'd take the runs too."
  "We're back."
  "Cool."
  



• Elevators are like confessional booths. You say what you're thinking, even if you shouldn't. Or maybe it was the constant and ready flow of martinis that loosened lips so. Either way, elevator conversations between strangers were honest and lengthy, conversations mostly between people heading to or from the Labor Day party on the W rooftop "beach," which Y and I politely skipped in favor of chamomile tea and sleep, though we had primo entrance slips for being hotel guests (like, I'm on the list!). People held their drinks in the elevator, and when a beautiful girl with legs for miles got on with her boyfriend, a less-beautiful woman told her, "I NEVER had legs like that. I'm 42, and I didn't have those legs, not EVER. Not when I was 22, not when I was 32. Wish I could say I did, but I didn't."
  
  Beautiful girl smiles and giggles, unsure what to say. Her boyfriend is both proud and protective.
  
  This wouldn't have been so painful a scene had the 42-year-old not been wrapped around the body of her own, at least twenty years junior boyfriend, who looked sad, like a bubble had just been burst. At least until then he'd been able to hope.
  
  On yet another elevator ride under the influence, a girl wearing a super-short dress over jeans asks her beau, "Tell me, just You. Tell. Me. Where on earth could I wear this as just a dress?" And he replies, "Anywhere they allow skanky whores!" Then he sees us and laughs, "Oops! Did I just say that out loud?" To which Y replies, "It's okay. We were all thinking it."
  



• I got my first 7 consecutive hours of uninterrupted sleep in four years. Maybe it was the pillows. Maybe it was the comforter. Maybe it was the utter lack of the nauseating, mauve-and-teal hotel bedspread patterns (which scare me so much that I can't help but stay awake staring at them) that are typically part of my hotel experience. Maybe it was the vast amount of white, the solid blocks of blues and purples that surrounded me. Maybe it was the quiet - even the rooftop festivities couldn't seep through our walls.
  
  Whatever it was, I slept like a baby. From 10 pm to 5 am, or 4:51, rather, when I finally woke up to pee. I can't usually REM that long even on the nights one of the kids doesn't wake me - my body just doesn't settle into a deep enough sleep. After my trip to the bathroom, I slept for 3 MORE HOURS. The point of this trip was to rest. Rest I did. So did Y, though after vomiting everything he'd eaten in the past week just before bed, I'm not really surprised. Poor guy. This virus really blows.



• I learned that caffeine addition might, maybe, possibly be born of necessity and not be a mere biological truth that most of us embrace but some inexplicably attempt to deny or overcome. Because after seven consecutive hours of sleep, I didn't need my coffee the second I opened my eyes this morning. Or even before I opened my eyes. I didn't even have a latte until we had packed up and checked out of our hotel, and I both spoke to people and didn't murder anyone in the interim. This is big, folks. Big. I search my brain and vaguely recall a time, living in NY, before Elan was born when I used to buy my coffee on the street on the way to school, which means I didn't brew it myself before getting dressed. No kids --> acceptable caffeine time delay --> having children --> would prefer injections rather than wait...I'm thinking, a connection?



• They're big on massage. But since getting one at the So Relax store at the mall was about $208 less than getting them in our hotel room, we went for that. For twenty minutes, a Vietnamese woman beat the shit out of me, and I could do nothing but hold still, through both punchings and slappings. My back is sore now, but Y says he's in heaven. He obviously got the better masseuse.
  



• "The Sentinel" is still a pointless movie. Why even pretend Eva Longoria's sole purpose was to serve as anything other than eye-candy? No one'll notice!



• "Everything Is Illuminated" is still perhaps the most enjoyable novel I've ever stuck my nose into.



• Y and I missed and talked about our kids. A lot. Shamelessly.



• I didn't see a single sippy cup. For many hours. Not a Gerber, not an Avent, not a Playtex, not a Nubi. Not one.


Thank you, San Diego.

The Best Laid Plans

Tomorrow morning, Y and I are off for our first 48 hours away from the kids since either of them was born. We're going to San Diego for a little R&R.

I made reservations somewhere nicer than we'd usually stay because it was only for one night, and frankly, we don't sleep well at most of the more economical hotels. Which kind of defeats the purpose in going anywhere.

A week ago, though, Y asked if I really thought we should be spending the money on going anywhere at all, and though I was kind of crushed inside, I agreed with him that the REASONABLE thing to do would be to just go away for a day and not stay overnight. I promised to cancel the reservation, but held off. Just in case.

One night last week, just as we were going to sleep, Ariel woke up. He KNOWS when we go to bed each night, even though we try to throw him off by mixing it up every so often, and he never fails to start screaming the very second that my head hits the pillow and I ask myself why I waited so long to climb into bed.

This time, we tried desperately to ignore him, but it got hard when he yelled, louder and louder and louder until OH MY GOD MAKE IT STOP, "I wanna come OUUUUUUT.........I WANNA COME OUT.....I'm TY-URD!!!" At that point, Y rolled on his side and groaned, "Did you cancel that reservation yet?" I said, "No, I'll do it tomorrow." And he said, "Don't. Let's go."

So we're going. We're ridiculously excited. We plan to go out to eat! And see movies! In the theater! And lay out at the pool! And use the work out room (ha ha! You see what I did there? I made you think we work out)! And get severely, irresponsibly inebriated (just kidding. I've never actually done that in my life.)!

(Or am I? Like I said, it's been about four years since we've gotten out.)

(I'm so not kidding. W's are famous for their bars. We gonna party like it's 1999.)

(We don't actually know how to do that.)

And my kids will stay with Y's parents, and hopefully they'll survive the separation and we will too. Even though Ariel asked me tonight, "Mommy ahboo me?" To which I replied, yes, I love you. And he said, "Ahboo too," and kissed my chin.

Like, Good, 'cause I'm trusting you to never leave me!

I'm sorry, but the child is all-knowing. He knows when I go to sleep and he can sense when to lay on the guilt, too.

Of course, as luck would have it, Y is currently upstairs barfing with his week-overdue turn at the Family Stomach Flu, so who knows if we'll actually go anywhere at all tomorrow. I really, really hope we do.

Because I made the best car playlist. And a good mix is a terrible thing to waste. May the Force be with us.