Tagged

Ok. I don't usually do blog-chain things, BUT. I kinda liked this one, because I had to think about it. It wasn't a list I could just rattle off the top of my head, and who - without a paid therapist - doesn't love an excuse to get all self-reflecty?

You see, Ali of Cheaper Than Therapy tagged me to do a 9 Weird Things Meme, in which I am to share 9 of my personal quirks, and encourage you to do the same. I'll get the ball rolling, at the risk of sounding way too self-involved.

1. I can't fall sleep if a drawer is cracked open in my room. Forget about a closet door. I will get out of an insanely comfortable bed, half-freezing in the air conditioning and ninety-nine percent asleep, rather than go through with it.

2. I have an ideal natural audio volume. A notch above or below, and I might get cranky.

3. I like food done right: If a sandwich doesn't include lettuce, tomato, pickles, melted cheese, sauteed onions and mushrooms and a slew of condiments, I'm not why you'd bother wasting the calories. Every now and then Y will present me with such a sandwich and I'll forget that any other foods exist as well as for what purpose.

4. When I decide I want or need something done, the ensuing gratification has to be immediate: the non-excuse behind many obviously self-administered haircuts over the years.

5. I often crave extreme darkness. Can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark, not neglected-to-open-the-curtains gloom. My idea of bliss.

6. When I watch someone crawl through a tunnel or get locked in a room in a movie, I have to actively remind myself that I can still breathe.

7. I read magazines back-to-front and I have no idea why.

8. I change my clothes so often before leaving the house that when I actually do end up wearing the first thing I've put on, I congratulate myself. Out loud - in the form of a question: Y, aren't you proud of me for wearing the first thing I put on?

9. I remember my lines from a play I did in the fourth grade. Should you ever mention them in my presence, I'll probably also remember your phone number, address, and social security number. For life.

And I'm supposed to stop there.

I tried not to dish out 9 of my top neuroses or insecurities or obsessive compulsions, no small feat. And now I want to hear from you. You don't have to give me 9. But for the love of God, comment! Let's have it: what makes you weird?

And those of you with blogs, in particular:
Lisa, Jackson, Kate, WriterGirl, and Scribbit.

No, you don't have to.

But you know you wanna.

Another Link on the Food Chain

Elan got his cast off on Friday.

I desperately wanted to be the one to take him to that appointment. I felt like it was a momentous one, something he'd remember for a long time, and I wanted to be in that memory. But the appointment was at 9 AM and on week two, I didn't think it wise to come to work late, so Y got to take him - and call me an hour later to divulge every detail of the experience. I love when Y gets chatty.

Elan was supremely well-behaved during the cast-removal, and even Dr. King was more amicable than usual. Y claims he even made the stodgy old guy laugh, which I find hard to believe. Elan was thrilled to discover that his old arm looked practically normal, that despite feeling weak and a little ashy, it was otherwise entirely familiar. Y and I were, too. He was shown some exercises to do, which, naturally, Elan took very seriously, and they were out of there - split glow-in-the-dark cast in a Ralph's bag to keep.

Ew. Not a decision Mommy would have made.

Afterward, they stopped at Y's parents house to pick something up, and Elan discovered a praying mantis on the front door. According to Y, the boy's face lit up like a jack-o-lantern and he did a:

"DADDY! COME HERE FAAAAAST! YOU WON'T BELIEEEEEEVE IT! IT. IS. A. REAL. PRAAAYING MANTISSSSSS! BRING A CUP!"

Y, of course, probably wouldn't have recognized a praying mantis for what it was, but after two years' of library late-fees, we've learned to trust the Elan's classifications. So Y, once again, fought his natural squeamishness, took a deep breath, mustered up all of the courage of his 26 years of life, and paper-cupped the enormous, alien-like thing.

What my husband wouldn't do for his sons.

A week ago, during a routine feeding, Elan discovered that one of his two remaining frogs had, in fact, left this world (re: dried up. As gross as it sounds.) Distressed over the possibility that we simply weren't taking good enough care of our pets (we weren't), he suggested we return the Last Remaining Tree Frog to the pet store.

As you might have guessed, I was relieved. More than ever, I really don't have time to drive 6 miles to pick up 5 dozen baby crickets on a weekly basis anymore.

I reported to Y, who suggested: "That would kill our entire day. Just let it go in the backyard."

So very cold. Right?

Well it sounded good to me. Elan happily released "Hopper" (not to be confused with the late Hoppy) along with the baby crickets. And I relaxed for the first time since the rattlesnake sighting.

Elan and Y delayed the school drop-off just long enough to stop home and stash the praying mantis in what had been a very briefly-empty frog tank.

There's something fun about taking your child to school. You get to peek at the world your baby - that little extension of you - shares with people OTHER than you. You get a glimpse of how he or she reacts to people and environments you don't always pre-approve or create, and while there's something remotely sad about that, it's also indescribably thrilling. You're sending your kid Out There. He's got friends and relationships and you don't know every little thing about them.

Y doesn't get this opportunity all that often, so when he does, he really appreciates watching his boys in action - watching their responses, and those of others to them.

When they got there, Elan's class was outside at the playground. Y scanned the area and didn't see any of Elan's friends, so he asked the teacher where they were.

"Oh, they're all over there," she answered, motioning towards a cluster of hunched little-boy backs in a corner of the yard.

"Why?" Y asked. "What are they doing?"

"You don't know?" The teacher seemed surprised.

"Know what?"

"Ever since Elan broke his arm and wasn't able to go on the playground equipment at outside-time, he got the entire class to look for bugs in the bushes instead. They all do that now. Nobody goes on the slide anymore!"

Y smiled: My kid - out in the world.

Elan made his way over to his friends, who tackled him excitedly. "We found worms!" They screamed. "And pincher bugs!"

Elan beamed. "Well I found a praying mantis," he said proudly. "And look - my cast is off."

"Cool!"
"Awe-sim!"
"Your arm looks nice!"

His friends were appropriately impressed. But Elan, ever-cautious Elan, needed them to understand:

"I still can't play on the playground or swing or punch. And you all still have to be VERY careful with this broken arm of mine, okay?"

The boys nodded. Rules were rules.

And a leader is a leader.

That afternoon, I watched yet another little creature devour yet another unsuspecting cricket.

The H-Word

I never kidded myself - I knew that my going to work full-time was going to require an adjustment period for the kids. I never told myself otherwise; to be perfectly honest, my sons are young enough to be obsessed with me, and there was no way that my spending more time away from them wouldn't, on occasion, take a toll on their moods.

When I was interviewing for my current position and on a constant rollercoaster of emotions with regard to how I felt about the possibility, I asked nearly everyone I talked to for their opinion. There aren't many people in this world from whom I value actual decision-making advice, but with this decision, I felt the need to bring the topic to the universal table. Perhaps to bolster myself against any future criticism, should I decide to actually go for it.

Most of my friends are stay-at-home moms, and while perfectly supportive, they also Andsounded appalled by my prospective schedule, by the amount of hours I'd actually be at work. Most people stated the obvious, which was that it would be an adjustment in every way imaginable, and let the conversation lie at that. Those who know me best, who understand the internal pull for me to try and be creative in areas other than parenting, provided the most encouragement.

But one of my friends suggested something I hadn't even considered. She said, "I think there's something nice about spending a little time away from your kids during the day and coming home hungry for them. And I also think it's particularly good for boys to have mothers who work because the example provides them with a built-in level of appreciation for and expectation from women when they grow up. I find that boys with working moms are a little less spoiled and babied in general, aren't raised thinking they have everything coming to them - which might pass when they're young, but makes them harder to deal with as boyfriends and husbands later on."

This was something new to think about, and it's what I held onto, kept reminding myself of, in the darker moments of decision-making - the times when I could only see cons.

My first week and a half of work went so smoothly on the homefront that part of me thought maybe the kids wouldn't take it so hard in the end. They were thrilled to greet me each evening, literally tackled me at the door, but never really complained about me having been gone.

The last few weeks have, however, coincided with Ariel's societal debut as a Terrible Two - he's discovered the joy of tantrums as well as the need to grant stubbornness a new level of meaning. But his favorite way of acting out, much to our chagrin, is by using the word Hate.

Yes, Hate. That word that you're not supposed to teach your kids? Well, I'm not sure if he heard it from me, but he heard it, and he understood its impact. He's only two, but when he feels something, he feels it strong, and when he's annoyed by something, he also Hates It. He abhors most everything lately, including his diaper (this was proclaimed while standing butt-naked at the top of the stairs, offending product in hand) and his big-boy bed, which was rejected as such after a week of use, and underlined by a dramatic return to the crib.

He also, once, told me he hated me, and before you go telling yourself you should have become a psychoanalyst you are so damn good at this, it was before I started my job. It made me surprisingly depressed and I felt only marginally better later that day, when, following a tantrum, a time-out, an apology, and a make-up hug, he announced that he "not hate Mommy anymore. Not again."

However, worse than being hated myself was what he said today: "Hate work." I'd been expecting the other shoe to drop, and it did. As a rare treat, Y beat me home, and apparently, wasn't who Ariel expected to come through the front door. My poor, present husband was greeted with tears over my absence, and when I did get home 45 minutes later, both boys fought for my attention. They actually tried elbowing each other off of me. And when we finally collapsed in a group hug, Ariel announced that he hated my working.

And there it was, staring me in the face: the adjustment. The setback. The other shoe. The downside, because I've really just been enjoying my new job more than I think polite to share. There was the downside. I honestly don't believe he's felt this way every day for the past week and a half, but today, for almost an hour, Ariel hated my job.

And yes, I do know that he understands the impact of the word, and that impact is his main cause for its utilization. But my kids are nobody's fools; he also knows what it means.

There are loads of perfectly sane, logical, and true ways to convince myself that my working is ONLY a good thing. I'm well-versed in all of them, and most of the time, it's how I really feel.

But for that almost-hour tonight, I just let myself wallow.

I'm done exhausting the topic.

Lullabye. And Goodnight.

It's Friday night. Y and I are going to sleep early. Like at 8:30. It's been a busy week, neither of us has slept much, and all we want out of this weekend is - exactly that.

But it's 8:30. It's hard to actually fall asleep at 8:30. We're awake.

Y: "Can you sing me to sleep?"

M: "Are you kidding? No. No. I have two babies, I just sang two boys to sleep. I don't need a third. Leeeme alone."

Y, thinking this is funny: "Pleeease? Just one song?"

M: "No. Too tired. And also? NO. Good. Night."

Y: "But I can't fall asleeeeeeep."

Me: "You sound 2. I know, why don't you sing me a song."

Stupid. STUPID STUPID STUPID.

Immediately, I know what I've done. How dumb I've been, how unforgivably reckless. But before the words "BUT NOT PIANO MAN OR AMERICAN PIE!" fully escape my mouth, my ears are met with a loud, characteristically off-key, all too familiar:

"IT'S 9-O'CLOCK ON A SATURDAY!"

"Stop it. Y, I am begging you. I will never fall asleep now. Please, not this song. Not this song, and not 'American Pie'...they'll be in my head all night. And while you're singing them. Please. Stop. Have mercy. I'm humbled. I'll sing. K? I'm begging you."

"THE REGULAR CROWD SHUFFLES IN..."

"You know, just because you know every single word to a song does NOT make it an enjoyable song and MOST CERTAINLY does not make you sound like the original singer..."

"THERE'S AN OLD MAN SITTING NEXT TO ME..."

"You really think you sound like an angel, don't you."

Grin. "MAKING LOOOOVE TO HIS TONIC AND GIN!"

"I can't. I can't cope. This is abuse of some sort. The octave spike - that surely qualifies as some sort of spousal abuse."

Wider grin. "HE SAYS SON! WON'T YOU SING ME - A MELODY!"

"You know, in a court of law. I'll get the children. They almost always give them to the mother. And if I tape this, there won't even be a custody battle."

"I'M NOT REALLY SURE HOW IT GOES..."

"If I had a nickel for every time you mutilated poor Billy Joel, I'd have TEN houses by now. So long, apartment after apartment. So long, perpetually-defunct, management-provided microwave. We'd be loaded. We'd have a crazy, chrome, off the hook microwave."

"BUT IT'S SAD AND IT'S SWEET AND I KNEW IT COMPLETE WHENIWOREAYOUNGERMAN'SCLOTHES! (ALTOGETHER NOW,) LA, DA DA, DA DADA..."

At this point, I roll over and begin replaying the week, minute by minute, in my head, complete with any and all conversations I'd had, in a desperate - but not entirely unsuccessful - attempt to drown out Y's careless genocide of the classics. I'm not that big on old Billy to begin with.

I'm brought back to the present, however, at:

"MAN! I BELIEVE! THIS IS KILLING ME!"

Because then?

Nothing. Silence. No fade-out, no indication that the next line wouldn't be as loud, as dramatically emphatic as the last. Sudden silence.

I count to ten, still lying with my back to Y. And then I hear it.

SNORE.

"Y? Did you just sing yourself to sleep?" I am positively gleeful with disbelief.

Nothing. So I shove him.

"Y!"

"Hrmph?"

"Did you just sing yourself to sleep? Ohmygosh you totally just sang yourself to sleep!" I'm in a fit of laughter now, thrilled at the outcome of 8:30-to-bed.

I mean, how often does a wife get THIS to use, in a court of - the world?

Grumble. "Did I?" He's sleeping soundly now. I'm wide awake.

But so very, very happy.

And to think, all this time we've said that Ariel takes after me.

In His Shoes

I feel as though I've made a few good decisions. Getting the Honda was a good decision. It's easy to drive, and I'm happy not to be carrying around so much bulk. It has that new car smell, and not just from "New Car" scented air freshener.

Going to work full-time was a good decision, even though it looks like I'll be getting home even later than I'd expected to. It's good because it's fun, because I get out of the house, and because I'm thirsty for the kids by the time I get home. I don't count down the minutes until their bedtime anymore, and I sit down and play with them without wondering what else I could or should be doing. These are important changes, and maybe I'll tire of work eventually. But for now - I'm all about the New.

Another nice aspect of me working full-time is the way in which it levels the playing field in my marriage. I think this is affecting Y more than me, as he's the one who brought it up. In his words:

"I'm loving this. I'm loving that everything is flipped - that you can't call me much during the day, that it's you who has to be curt and cryptic when you do, that you finally understand the stress of having to be at work while wanting to get home at a decent hour."

Me: "You love that I can't call you so much?"

Y: "That's not what I meant. I just like that you finally understand why I can't call YOU as much as I might like to. That you can't get mad at me anymore for being so short with you over the phone!"

Me: "I never did get mad about that. I did understand. That's your perception, not the reality of how I felt."

Y: "Come ON. You always sounded sad when I had to get off, that I couldn't shmooze for thirty minutes at a time about everything under the sun when I had you on speakerphone and there were 12 other people in the room with me."

Okay. It's possible he had a point. Our weekday phone conversations as of last week usually went something like this:

"Hi, Y? What's up?"

"Not much. You?"

"Ohmygosh. I went to the grocery store and there was a new checkout person so I'm like are you new? And she goes, I've been here 3 months. So I'm like, oh, I guess that makes ME the new one, ha ha. So I got everything except I forgot frozen waffles so I tell Elan this and he's all upset but then when Ariel gets upset about it Elan turns the tables and starts comforting him, seriously he is such a good kid. Really looks out for Ariel. And Ariel can recognize numbers one through ten by sight now and counts to thirty, I had no idea. Also, while I have you on the phone I spoke to your mother and she wants to have this whole thing for your brother's birthday and so we need to get cards, so I know they have cards in the lobby shop at your office so will you get them? Or should I? Pasta or chicken for dinner?"

Pause.

"Hello?"

"Did you hear what I just said?"

"Um, Mag? I need to go. I'm in a meeting right now and I REALLY can't talk."

Me, embarrassment turning to huff. "Fine, whatever. I'll make the decisions."

Him: "Love you."

Me: "Whatever, bye."

And while I don't think I really took it personally, I can't blame him for detecting a little something in my voice to promote any pangs of guilt he might have already felt for not being able to give me the time I wanted. The adult time.

Now, our conversations from work go more like this:

Him: "Hey babe. Things okay?"

Me: "Yeah, fine. You?"

Him: "Fine, you liking work? Sounds like a party there."

Me: "Yeah, a lot. No party, they just blast music all day."

Him: "You check on the kids yet?"

Me: "Yeah, you?"

Him: "Yeah, fifteen times."

Me: "Sounds like you. Gotta go. Talk to you later?"

Him: "Sure, me too. Love you."

Me: "You too."

So far, so good.

Time As Commodity

This is a first. I have time in the morning.

In anticipation of my first day of work, I set my alarm for 6:10. Ariel woke me at 6:07, calling out a series of "Where are you, uptairs or downtairs? UPTAIRS OR DOWNTAIRS?"s until I grabbed him before he could wake Elan, threw him under the covers with me, and cuddled him for a half an hour. In anticipation of my first long day away from him.

Work doesn't officially start until 10. 10:00. I'm hoping they'll let me shift my hours up so I can get home earlier in the evening, but today, I don't have to be there until 10. 4 hours after waking up.

So what do you do with extra time? Make your bed - check. Make lunches - check. Eat breakfast - check.

Blog? Check.

Speaking of checks, check out Dooce from a couple of days ago, where she talks about her lawsuit. Then, Google it to find out what the case is about - and here I'd heard book bublishers weren't interested in blogs. Really interesting, and about the blogger who seemed to have it all.

Happy Monday.

Fear Of Commitment

This week hasn't turned out the way I planned. The plan was, with the boys home from school because of Sukkot, this week would be our last mother-child hurrah before I officially join the workforce on Monday. I'd spend the days calmly catering to them, and the nights relaxing in front of the TV with Y. I'd wear old t-shirts and ugly Crocs and no makeup or contacts - just because I could. Because it'd be my last real chance to do so. Somehow, I don't think the crew at my new office wear Crocs.

Anyway, come Monday I suddenly realized that this week would be my last chance to do a LOT of things, as I'll soon have much less free time on my hands. And, being kind of Type A - okay, very much so - I wanted to be uber-organized and on top of things on the domestic front during my initial foray into the 9-5 machine.

I started making lists. To-do lists, daily agendas, and perhaps the most comprehensive, itemized-by-store grocery list anyone has ever devised. It's truly a work of art, and I'm considering entering it into Word and printing out copies on a weekly basis. Except I'd be mortified should anyone IN the grocery store catch me checking things off of a typed and printed list. I'm the only one truly privy to the extent of my uptightedness. Right. Besides for you.

The lists were so long, some of the tasks so complicated (Research, purchase, deliver, and build bunkbeds for the boys! And get a new car!), my time so limited, and my arms so bogged down with small bodies, that I began each morning by sitting at my desk, staring into my coffee, and attempting to breathe through my self-prescribed panic over where to begin. How to get it all done. WHILE STILL CATCHING UP ON THIS WEEK'S GILMORE GIRLS.

Then, I'd attempt to calm myself down by wasting a good two hours browsing wholesale bunkbed dealers online. Something that, naturally, could wait weeks, probably months. Yes, Ariel decided on his own accord that he'd prefer to start sleeping in a twin bed and never look at his crib again. But he's on the trundle for now. It's fine. It can wait.

The two most emotionally exhausting aspects of the week involved deciding which car to buy, and, surprisingly, a trip to Costco.

You can probably understand car-buying anxiety. It's a big decision, and a pricey one, and even though I'm excited about getting my first (new) car ever, I agonized over every bit of it. Do I get a larger car, like the Nissan Murano or Chrysler Pacifica, which would be nice with the kids and looks cool, but which also costs a lot more and guzzles gas? Or do I get another (bo-ring) sedan, save the money, worry about getting something bigger when the need presents itself? I went with the latter, and am getting an Accord. An '07 EX. On my own accord. Hee hee.

It's been a long week.

It's just a car, a thing, and despite living in LA I've never been a car fanatic, so I didn't expect this to be such a draining decision. After all, I figured, anything is a step up from the Taurus. And I'm leasing, so it's not like I'm stuck with whatever I choose forever.

But no matter. The devil on my shoulder kept reminding me that if I didn't get something stylish and fun like an SUV I might NEVER have fun again, EVER. And the angel kept politely hollering about throwing money in the toilet and how if I didn't get the sensible sedan I would feel guilty for THE REST OF MY LIFE.

Damned peanut gallery.

I get the car tonight, but the amount of phone calls that took place this week between me and my lease broker, who happens to be a friend, can probably only be compared to the quantity on 9/11. Or so it seemed.


Then, last night, just as I'd chosen my car and felt I could rest easy for the first time in days, I threw myself into another decision-making nightmare: I went to Costco. You know, so that I could rest easy knowing that not only did I decide on a car but that I also may never run out of paper plates again. I needed - wanted - that security, and so I know I brought the ensuing trauma upon myself. But 'emotionally exhausting?' Doesn't seem to cover it.

I'm not fragile, really, and I tend to cope with stress pretty well. With action. But Costco humbles me, reduces me to a terrified bridegroom afraid of commitment with a wedding date rapidly approaching. I stand in front of the boxes of stuff, the ten bottles of shampoo bundled into one crazy-low price and think, I like Herbal Essences just fine. But will I like it for the NEXT THREE YEARS? I mean, I didn't really plan on having to think about that tonight but here the hell I am: it's crunch-time! Yeah, the boys eat Cheez-Its, but 12 lbs.?! They'll eat it, I'm sure, by their bar mitzvahs. And I'll have saved so much money, like at least twenty dollars. But what if they wake up one day and hate Cheez-Its??

And while I'm here...I might as well grab a baby grand piano and a plasma flat screen TV. I mean, they're right here, next to the smoked salmon. And they'll probably never be this cheap again!

I reasoned through the TV and piano (other cash-register rejects included 6 lbs of Bartlett pears and about 18 of batteries), but do have enough paper plates to last a lifetime. I left with cardboard boxes, a migraine, cognitive dissonance, and a serious deficit in our checking account. Nice.

I think I got it all done. It's Thursday afternoon, and I plan to spend what's left of my week enjoying the kids and watching TV.


As it should be.

Shorn

Well, the day of reckoning came and went: we got Ariel his first haircut. And nothing earth-shattering occurred. No volcanoes erupted. Believe it or not, his personality didn't even change.

For those of you who were under the impression that we'd be letting it grow until he turned 3, it was never our custom or plan to do so. We cut Elan's hair at a year, and only left Ariel with long, wild ringlets, because, well, he had long, wild ringlets. And they were so. Freakin. Cute.

It fit his personality, too, to have long hair. He's our wild-child, the one who goes where the wind blows, the relaxed one. The - though I hate to say it outright - easy one. Sure, he hates sleep. But he likes just about everything else, and has always seemed to maintain a zest for adventure, an up-for-anything attitude that his older brother has yet to visit.

Y and I are continually shocked by Ariel's frequent displays of normalcy, mainly because the experience is so new to us. Because Elan so despises change of virtually any kind, anything remotely unfamiliar becomes a fight. We're having lunch at some friends, and ask Elan to go sit at the kids' table with everyone else under three feet tall. He looks at us, questioningly, like, Surely you can't be serious. Can you give me one good reason why that would BE OKAY?

We shrug, let him work his way onto our laps, eating from our plates.

Ariel, why don't you take your plate over to the kids' table with your friends?

And just like that, he goes. He plops down, and begins to eat. Independently. No fight, no argument. No "no," for No's own sake. He just goes.

Y and I look at each other, confused. This can't be our child.

Later, we discuss it.

"You know," I whisper, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the subject is nowhere within earshot. "Ariel drinks milk. WITH CALCIUM IN IT. I don't have to convince him or anything. He likes it!"

Y is surprised. "But that's so...normal. Only Normal Kids drink milk. Not ours."

"I know. I don't understand it either," I reply.

"Unless..." Y begins.

"Unless what?"

"Well, unless it's just Elan who doesn't do those things. Unless 'our kids' do, it's just Elan who doesn't. Maybe he's set the tone, but he's only HALF of 'our kids.'"

Simple, huh? Well, I hadn't thought of that.

We didn't understand it when Ariel marched into our neighbor's house to play - lay on their couch on his belly, legs up and chin in hands to watch Sponge Bob - despite the fact that his twice-as-old brother wouldn't dream of it, were I not by his side. Neighbors in our building.

And I'll be completely honest. We kind of attributed it to his hair.

Y did, especially. He was terrified, irrational as it sounded, that Ariel's personality would change if we changed his 'do. That he'd become less fun. And he felt so strongly against cutting it that he threatened to buzz-cut it entirely should he, one day, come home to such a travesty.

So I left it alone, even though most strangers assumed he was a girl. It was a pain to wash and impossible to brush and perpetually in his eyes - but I left it alone. He allowed his teacher to French-braid it, but I was barely allowed to touch it, he claimed it hurt so much. Still, he looked cute. Even if his head typically smelled of maple syrup.

Lately, though, Ariel was channeling more Mad Scientist than Bohemian Rockstar. His hair got kind of frizzy, the curls less defined, like when humidity does its magic on your professional blow-out and you wind up wearing a hat. Only Ariel never wears hats. He just looked crazy.

And he was genuinely uncomfortable. I convinced Y that it wasn't really fair to allow Ariel's hair to cramp his style for our viewing pleasure. So we got it cut. We took him to Tony, of course, even though he doesn't cut curly hair well, because we are loyal. And there was something touching about having him cut four generations of hair for Y's family.

At first, Ariel was a little scared, and cried. This was to be expected:

Soon, however, he realized that he was the CENTER of attention, and began to enjoy it as only a free spirit could. This, too, was to be expected:

And finally, the new Ariel emerged. Shorn. Slick. Older. Almost unrecognizable.

And looking more like a girl than ever. Apparently, the hair had nothing to do with it.

It was the lips all along.

Wisdom

I'm putting the boys to sleep and Elan is already halfway there, snuggled under the covers. Ariel, on the other hand, is singing the lullabye with me, line by line, having absorbed the (made up) lyrics after two steady years of exposure. I'm in shock at the words he knows, the way his voice goes up a few octaves when I reach the high notes - that he can carry a tune. He's been singing a lot lately.

I guess Elan could hear the smile in my voice, because as I glance at him in the dark, I notice that he, too, is grinning.

"Your brother's getting pretty smart, huh?" I ask him quietly, and he agrees with pride.

"He's SO smart! Ariel, you are so smart! You're as smart as an elephant!"

He turns to me, nodding knowingly: "Elephants are very smart."

I think perhaps he learned about elephants and their memories at school or something. Or from TV. They're always picking things up from school. Or TV.

I say nothing and he elaborates: "See, elephants can hear every'hing, even a tiptoe, because they have big giant ears. And they can swipe 'hings with their loooong loooong noses that are called 'trunks.'"

He takes a deep breath and concludes, in a very voice-over tone: "Elephants are very strong predators."

Ah-ha. The Discovery channel. Just as I'd suspected.

As I try to leave the room, just as I do every night, Ariel begins to cry and beg me to stay. I tell him I'll stay for one more minute, and, like every night, he counters with, "No! Tay twunny twunny meenutes." I ignore him and sixty seconds later I'm heading out the door. He cries again, which, as it does every night, sends Elan - who would gladly start REM the second his head hit the pillow, but who also can't bear the sound of "his baby's" tears - into a panic. He, too, begs me to stay, for the little one's sake.

I recall Ariel's teacher telling me that he sings the class to sleep at naptime, a medley of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," the ABCs, and something about two little ducks going out to play. I tell Elan to ask Ariel to sing to him, rather than sob.

"Why don't you sing me a song, Ariel? I LOVE your singing!" Elan's voice is thick with faux-excitement. The way adults talk to toddlers.

"Okay!" Ariel replies happily, launching into a heartfelt, squeaky rendition of "Where is Thumbkin?" and forgetting all about me.

I'm getting used to smiling in the dark. I think:
Elan - when it comes to smarts, you're something of an elephant yourself.

Indicative of Success

There are two ways to look at second-hand clothing: "thrift" or "vintage."
Today, we say vintage. In high school, we called it thrift.

Vintage implies romance. Edge. Special.

Thrift implies - cheap.

When I was in high school, things were kind of grunge on the fashion scene. We were listening to Nirvana, and we were wearing gas station shirts, 40-inch men's jeans with the waist rolled and rolled to sag just-so, men's white v-neck undershirts, oversize blazers, hemp necklaces. I know, it's a miracle anyone ever had a boyfriend.

My friends and I found such jewels at the thrift shops we'd scour near Clark and Belmont streets in Chicago, and paid anywhere from 60 cents to ten(!) whopping bucks for them. They were more than gently-used, picked over, and pretty much nasty until we'd given them a good washing. But we didn't really mind. We thought we looked great.

Our mothers, oddly, didn't complain, but that could be because an entire wardrobe usually only set them back about $20, accessories (knit cap!) included.

In college, we met the New York girls, who were so much more stylish than we ever were, who listened to Neil Young and wore New Clothes from places like J. Crew, that both cost and smelled a whole lot better. Within a couple of months we were hooked, and I don't think we've looked back since.

I said goodbye to old, made the conscious decision that if I was going to spend a cent on clothing, I'd be the first to have worn it.

Then I discovered my grandmother's basement. Suede trench coats from Madrid. Hand-pleated and trumpet wool skirts. My great-grandmother's short, belted mink. Piles of leather belts, ranging in era from Fifties to late Eighties. In other words, treasures. Racks of them. Just sitting there.

My grandmother wasn't sure how she felt about me wearing old things, but my value-driven grandfather was pleased as punch. With each item I yanked from its hanger and hugged to my chest, he'd declare, "You can't get something that good nowadays. You just can't. They don't make 'em like that anymore."

While I'm less certain, many of those finds have become fast favorites, the pieces that people comment on the most, the ones about which I've been interrogated by strangers in elevators.

They deserve to be called vintage.

The cool new job has necessitated a bit of shopping, a wardrobe overhaul, really, and this is my week to do it. So today, I ventured downtown to the vintage clothing boutique where my sister-in-law works.

This girl has the most enviable sense of style of anyone I know up close, and always manages to stand out while still looking effortless. Yeah, you can hate her. Except that she is also the kind of person who genuinely wants everyone else to look as good as she does, whose love and enthusiasm for clothes - especially vintage ones - is share and share alike.

Much to my brother-in-law's delight, her shopping habit finally paid off when the owner of said boutique, Shareen of Shareen Downtown - the best-kept not-so-secret of young Hollywood - asked her star shopper, my sis, if she wanted a job. Shareen, who'd started out with a stand at the Sunday morning flea market at The Grove, was marching full-throttle into proper retail and wholesale, and she needed a wing(wo)man. In addition to the vintage stuff she sells, Shareen has her own line of re-worked pieces as well as brand-spanking new dresses that you'll see on the pages of US and Life&Style. She sells in all the hot stores now, and this is good news for Jasmin.

She's been trying to get me into the store forever now, and today I arrived just as it opened. It's a warehouse in the middle of nowhere, and the no-boys-allowed policy means that there are no dressing rooms, either. You have full conversations with other women while half-naked, which took some getting used to, but eventually I stopped apologizing for my state of undress when Jasmin introduced me to someone new. Because they didn't bat an eye.

But the clothes. Oh my goodness. Where to begin.

Which is how I felt: Where to begin? Prints and colors and silk and lace and double-faced wool everywhere. Luckily, Jas had pulled piles of skirts and dresses with me in mind before I even got there, and she had a nervous, hurried expression on her face.

"Don't bother trying these on yet," she said in a hushed tone, throwing them in a pile on a bed. "Just walk around the store and pull anything you like, anything that might fit. Don't worry about size. If you like it, grab it and put it in your pile because the other girls will get here soon and they'll take the best stuff. Everyone wants first dibs."

By "the girls," she meant the weeklies. The hawkish, deep-pocketed, size-2 twenty-somethings that arrived each Wednesday morning to check out the newest stock. Apparently, they were a force to be reckoned with.

Jasmin led me to the racks of "new" finds, and, as instructed, I yanked anything that caught my eye. She informed me that I wasn't leaving without a navy trench with large silver buttons, nor two black dresses that fit like a glove. I'd never seen her this serious and I was a little scared, so I wasn't going to argue.

Shareen Downtown is a lot like my grandmother's basement, but better padded, with large, plush sofas, and tables of snacks and drinks. A variety of energy bars were spread like magazines on a coffee table, as if the Pucci prints and myriad textures aren't adrenaline-pumping enough.

I'd throw on a dress and Jasmin would come at me with a belt or a ribbon to make it look "right." Once, I attempted to belt a dress myself. I thought I looked pretty good, but Shareen took one look, jutted her chin in my direction and, looking at Jasmin, declared, "Tighter. And higher." She meant the belt. Jasmin quickly fixed things, and Shareen nodded her approval before turning back to the phone clamped between her ear and her shoulder. The girl is in the right industry.

I came away with four stuffed-to-the-gills bags of goodies, including the trench, four long-sleeved dressed (a rare commodity in my world), the Perfect Black Pencil Skirt, and some sweaters. I spent a lot for my standards, but pennies considering the quantity and beauty of that which I took home. I can't wait to get to Loehmann's to return some of the crap I got there yesterday.

I guess it's a far cry from that long-gone old-man jeans I used to live it, but I so enjoyed revisiting that time in my shopping-life, the thrill of the hunt for something unique, the racks of Where To Begins. I'm not sure I could have managed it so successfully without Jasmin's help, though. Not two babies later.

Did I mention that Shareen's stuff is professionally cleaned and rendered scent-free before it hits a hanger?

Talk about a step up.

For It's Own Sake

As part of the Yom Kippur services, we recite the biblical story of Jonah and The Whale. It's one that's popular with kids, because come on - a guy goes overboard, gets swallowed by a sea creature, lives in its stomach awhile, and finally gets spit out, unharmed.

Prior to any Jewish holiday, my boys learn about it in school and make projects accordingly. These projects pile up, sometimes ten in a week, and by the end of the school year I am swimming in them, desperate for somewhere to stow them because they were made, supposedly (and this is often hard to believe, sometimes even flat-out denied), by the little, precious hands of my little, precious children and it would seem sacrilege to throw them out.

Unless someone were to give me permission to. Please? Can I dump them? Does anyone?

Uh, just kidding. Retract. I'd never do that. Unless any of you do...

Anyway, most of the pipecleaner, paint, and feather projects we took home last week depicted, in one way or another, the above story.

So Elan and Ariel come home, and I ask them what they learned about Jonah. Ariel's version is a little more violent than Elan's:

"Da beeg beeg whale eat him like dees: AHM!" (He demonstrates taking a big bite.)
"Den eet 'PIT Yonah OUT! Ptouty!" I'm drenched in saliva. Thanks for that.

Elan didn't agree:

"It was not a whale! It was a big fish dat no one is really sure what kind of fish it was!"

Clearly, they simplify things less for the oldest class than the youngest.

Ariel was pissed: "No eet EESN'T! EET WAS A WHALE!"

"You're wrong. A fishdatnobodyknowswhatkindoffishitwas!

"Eesn't!"
"Is!"
"No eet isn't!"
"Is!"

"Break it up." That was me.

Ariel is REALLY into asserting his opinion these days, typical of two-year-olds, I suppose. And he's especially assertive anytime he can adamantly disagree with something you've just said. On principle. Whether it makes sense or not.

The boys woke up at 5 AM. Elan first, wasn't quiet, and Ariel followed. I tried convincing them it was still the middle of the night, as I tend to get anxious about the total number of hours they sleep on any given night, but to no avail. They spent the following two hours chatting and singing in bed before charging at me, requesting drinks, pancakes, and Dora the Explorer, in that order.

"I'm not getting up," I told them. "You guys woke me way too early today. And, Elan, it's your fault that you're going to have to wait now."

"NO EET EESN'T!!!" Ariel bellowed aggressively. "EET'S MY FAULT!"

Apologies

...for the lack of posts lately. I know I'm coming up short. Things have just been - busier and crazier than usual. Promise more in the upcoming week.