Of Fish and Family

Eat that, NPR!

2008-05-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

...which is why, for the past half-hour, we've been discussing rising debt in America...

Ariel: "Debt in America? CAPTAIN America!"

Elan: "Who? Are they talking about Arak Obama and Hillary Clinton again?"

The Simple Definition of 'Three Years Old'

2008-04-30T19:20:00.000-07:00

"Noooo Mommy, don't gooooo...stay with me. Lie down with me a little bit."
"Fine, but just for a minute. Like literally, one minute."
"What does 'lidderally' mean?"
"It means...really. No more, no less."
"What does 'really' mean?"
"It means the truth."
"What does 'truth' mean?"
"Ariel! Enough! It means nothing. Stop it!"

Pause.

"What does 'nuffing' mean?"
"GOODNIGHT."

This is How They Play

2008-03-02T20:56:00.000-08:00

Not too long ago, one of my work colleagues got a puppy. A really adorable one - a mix of Pug and Boston Terrier, just supremely cute. And supremely wild, as puppies are meant to be.

One day, another co-worker brought his dog - a larger, older, hairier Shelty into work to meet the newcomer. They circled each other, did their sniffing thing, and finally just began fighting like mad. The two canines were pawing each other, growling, biting, barking - the works. I began to freak out, certain someone was going to end up dead, and nervously suggested we pull them apart.

My two friends laughed it off, one telling me to "Relax. They're having fun! This is how they play!"

I guess I looked skeptical, because the other quipped: "They're dogs. They don't have opposable thumbs. What are they supposed to do for fun?"

Whatever. This is LA. I once watched a dog surf.

It didn't look like "play" to me and I probably wouldn't be convinced were it not for my two puppies at home. I'm told girls sit and play with dolls, quietly tucking the creepy plastic mini-mes into minuscule beds. I've witnessed my two-year-old niece conduct a tea party to end all tea parties for a room full of guests (just don't ask her for more imaginary sugar when the imaginary sugar has OBVIOUSLY run out. She gets PISSED.).

These are quiet activities. Elan and Ariel, bless their little hearts, don't believe in many quiet activities. Actually, that's not totally true - each on his own will partake in coloring, reading, and playing with action figures up until a point. But together -pretty much all they want to do is fight. The physical kind. With hitting? Kicking? You've seen it, I'm sure, in kung-foo movies.

Y is used to it. But even as the only girl growing up in a houseful of boys, I wasn't exposed to much of it. Not for sport, not for spite....Just not.

Of course, as Y is always apt to point out: "No, you guys preferred to just think of the most hurtful, below-the-belt, straight-to-the-heart, ripe-for-future-therapy-sessions things to say to each other, instead. Much classier."

Touche. We're a word family.

So all of this physical fighting, the limb-flailing, the knee-buckling is relatively new, and even after a couple of years more than a little unsettling to me when my boys are in the midst of it, smothering each other with the couch cushions, which, as I mentioned, is pretty much any given waking moment.

For all of the noise and the number of arms or legs or other strange, stem-like swords, light-sabers, bicycles and kitchen sinks flying through the airspace of our small house on, say, an average Tuesday at 4 PM, I often feel as though I might as well have six boys instead of two.

I went through a stage of yelling, naturally, because it seemed the only way to get heard. It was, as the Super Nanny would surely have predicted, largely unsuccessful and even more exhausting. I'm afraid, you see - I'm ALWAYS afraid - someone will get hurt. Because someone always does. Always. It never ends any other way. So I screamed, in vain, for them to stop, put them in time-outs, untangled their bodies a toe at a time and shoved them into separate rooms, slammed the doors shut.

They'd just open the door. Yeah, after some time and struggle, I'd get them to calm down, apologize, the whole nine yards. I'd try to get them to explain WHY they felt the need to be touching each other, bothering each other, as long as they were awake, WHY they needed to pretend they were super-heroes by actually trying to make one another become dead.

Eventually, I'd win. I'd get mumbled answers followed by requests for food and drink. But their answers were never very good, their arguments anything but logical ("He said my NAME and he said it in A VOICE" or "It's fun" or "Ariel flies"). And by then, I'd be emotionally and physically spent, aching to put them to sleep, and feeling, mostly, like a maternal failure.

So I decided to change tactics. I'd just...do nothing. Let them destroy each other, and instead of trying to prevent the injury, simply clean up after it. Bandage, ice, kiss. Fight over. Accept the inevitable boo-boo and uh-oh and let them figure out for themselves when it's gone too far. In the meantime, shovel the wild mess of bodies into the backyard, whenever it isn't raining.

It doesn't rain much here, so this has become my coping mechanism of choice most of the time. And it works, sort of. A little.

So the other night, when the Computer Guy was over treating my ailing PC with antibiotics or whatever it is they do, and it was bed-time, and everyone was crying and screaming and whining and demanding ALL AT ONCE, I did a whole lot of nothing. I just brushed little teeth straight through the noise, dealt with the chaos, pretending it wasn't there, until I re-gained control and got the boys to bed. It was ugly and a little humiliating but I didn't lose it entirely. And the Computer Guy witnessed the whole thing.

Something happens when you become a mother - maybe it has to do with the process of giving birth and all of those interns you've never seen before coming in to brazenly check how dilated you are, but you concede most shreds of dignity at the door. And though you do, naturally, worry that others are scrutinizing your mistakes, blaming you for every obnoxious scene your child puts out there - you also give up trying to save yourself the embarrassment. You borrow a wet-wipe and blot up the barf. You let the tantrum unfold in the snack aisle of Ralph's. You let your kids act like maniacs in front of guests - anything, not to give in. Not to let them win.

Now, the computer dude is a dad himself and not the judgmental sort, but I acknowledged the scene later anyway, when all was quiet, as I cut him a check. "We had a bit of a rough night. I take it your kids aren't quite as insane?" I asked sheepishly, by way of apology.

"Well, mine are smaller," he admitted. And you've got, what, like three or four boys?"

HA! VALIDATION: If you build it...

"Nope, just two! Believe it or not."
"There were only two boys in the house all night?"
"Mm-hm."
"It sounded like - well, double that."

"Trust me, I know. This is how they play."

All They Need is a Mahogony-Paneled Smoking Room

2008-02-09T22:03:00.000-08:00

"I like Obama."

It's bedtime and I tug Ariel's pajamas over his head and look up at Elan, surprised. "Do you now?"

"Yep. I saw him on the news this morning. I like him because Uncle B. wants him to win. So I do too."

Amused, I turn to my little one. "So, Ariel. What are your politics? Obama or Hillary?"

Ariel tries not to smile and stalls for time. "I....like...."

Before he can take a side, Elan quickly leans forward, whispering in his younger brother's ear conspiratorially. "Hillary's a girl!"

I fall back on the floor laughing. In a sea of politeness and jargon, my son, the buoy of laymen reason...

"Then Obama, Obama," Ariel quickly opines.

They high-five.

Oh No She Did NOT

2008-02-06T09:47:00.000-08:00

"Move Auntie Mardo!"
"Hannah, you know what?"
"What!"
"If you sleep all night in your crib tonight like such a good girl and don't cry at all and don't wake up your mommy, Auntie Margo is going to take you to the toy store and buy you a toy!"
"A toy?"
"A Strawberry Shortcake toy!"
"No stahbewwy shotecake! iPod!"

Everybody's Gotta Eat

2008-01-30T20:05:00.000-08:00

This morning at work, my hard drive passed away. Considering it belonged to a year-old, 24-inch Intel iMac without which I'm utterly inept, the whole thing was pretty disturbing. The drive itself, of course, is replaceable, but it's a little more time consuming to try and have my data recovered first.

So I left work early. I had two and a half hours to kill in the neighborhood before I'd need to pick up the boys, and I really, really, should have headed to Y's office to get a little work done for his company over there. But somehow, I ended up in a nail salon. I couldn't explain it if I tried.

Okay, I could. It's been forever since I've had a manicure and my disgusting, cracked skin and flaky cuticles were...disgusting. Maybe they wouldn't offend a stranger on the street, but I was at my limit. So I took advantage of time when I could have been getting paid in order to pay someone else instead. Surely you can understand.

Since it would be who-knows-how-long until I was back again, I upgraded to a paraffin treatment, which, if you've never had one, is weird and cool. You dip your hands in very hot, moisturizing liquid wax, which quickly hardens into creepy gloves, then bundle them in saran wrap, and settle into some gigantic oven mitts for the better part of ten minutes. If you're lucky, you'll get a massage. I did.

While I'm waiting, I hear another customer enter. She is obviously a beloved regular, because all the technicians hug her and call out her name in excitement upon her arrival. My back is to her, and I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes to relax for a few minutes, my terry-mitt covered hands poised awkwardly on my lap.

However, it proves hard not to eavesdrop.

"It's this nail, honey," Customer says in a thick, unmistakable New-York Jew accent. "I don't know what to do! It won't stay put. It's unwrapping. It's such a mess. Whattya gonna do to help me?"

She's clearly anguished.

"Oh-kay," the manicurist replies in a soothing, sing-song tone. "I take care of it. I re-wrap all the nails. I have to because your nail grow back underneath and it's no good."

"So you're going to re-do all of them?"

"Yes, I have to."

"DO. WHAT YOU HAVE. TO DO."

"Oh-kay!"

I smile to myself. Women at nail places inevitably crack me up. I am all for grooming and self-indulgence if you've got the time for it, I love the perfect shade of almost-black red as much as the next girl, but some people take it so seriously, you'd think they were discussing life-or-death open-heart surgery. For their only child.

I close my eyes again, happy not to put a face to the voice yet.

"Can you put the TV on? Quickly? Channel 7!" Customer demands, gesturing to the large flat-screen suspended high on the far wall. (Nobody can say LA isn't stylish.)

I'm a little surprised. That's a bit pushy, even for a nail place. The technicians hurry to fulfill her every desire, but they chatter away in Korean to one another, unable to keep their lips from curling up at the corners. It's obvious they are trying not to laugh, and I wonder what they are saying, just as I always do.

It's hard not to be paranoid. Once, a couple of years ago, I had my nails done while a younger manicurist gestured towards me, whispering wildly behind her palm to the woman patiently buffing my fingertips. It was painfully obvious that she was talking about me, but I didn't want to make any accusations and risk the embarrassment of being wrong. I sat there, turning deeper and deeper shades of purple, until finally, she stood shyly next to my manicurist and nudged her, pointing her chin at me. The older woman sighed. "She say, she like your face," she finally told me.

So I try to be less suspicious, but it's hard not to feel slightly embarrassed on behalf of Customer's curtness. After all, this isn't New York, despite the audio. Oh, to be old enough that I won't care to step so cautiously. I read somewhere that it kicks in in your thirties.

The technicians stop tittering. General Hospital appears on the screen and Customer audibly melts into her chair. "It helps me relax," she announces.

Sitting quietly, undisturbed, not rushing anywhere for half an hour - forcing myself not to scratch an itch and risk sacrificing true art - is the part of the manicure that helps me relax. I'm now reminded just how complicated - albeit in a good way - my life has become.

I look at the monitor.

No...it can't be...

Are those REALLY the same exact actresses that were on this show when I was 16?

Because yes, once I got my drivers license and a car, my girlfriends and I used to take "extended lunches" from high school consisting of, typically, pancakes, leftover lasagna, and an hour of GH well into the afternoon. (I was a lot heavier in high school.)

One of my friends still records the show every day at 2, but I never got that into it. Still, I remember the faces, and indeed, they are the same ones I'm looking at today, barely a day older.

I can't help but share this. "Have these same actors been doing this show for, like, 15 years?" I exclaim, turning around in my chair and directing this towards Customer, who I've obviously startled with the sudden attention.

She recovers. "I guess so. My husband just got me the soap channel on cable?" Her accent belongs in a Woody Allen film. I love. "So I just started watching it. But that one actress? Right there? I once saw her here in this very nail place, having her nails done. She didn't have any makeup on, so I almost didn't recognize her, but she was reading a script and I caught the name 'Sonny' so I said to her, I said 'Are you so-and-so?' and she said yeah, she was. They look so different without makeup, you wouldn't even know!"

"Yes, makeup is a beautiful thing." I peer at her a little more closely now.

"Morah Elaine?!*" I exclaim. Because, as I should have guessed all along, I know this woman. I don't just know her type, I actually know her specifically. She is the one who assigns Elan davening awards on an almost daily basis. She conducts the morning prayers with the Pre-1 class.

She doesn't know me, but I introduce myself. We talk about the school for a bit. We talk about The Valley, which might as well be China to those in Hancock Park. We discuss paraffin. We're old friends by the time I admire my re-born hands, tip heavily (I want that massage again next time!) and say my goodbyes.

And what have I gotten out of this whole experience, I know you're wondering?

Namely, that soap-stars stick with the same jobs, the same storylines, the same co-workers, for years. Decades. And I know that getting paid well probably helps, I don't kid myself. But I have so much trouble being in the moment with my own line of work and not constantly thinking about being further along, more accomplished, more successful, new and difference experiences and skills under my belt. Regardless of my salary. Ambition can be very exhausting, even if it sits on a shelf in your mind while you try, in complete and utter vain, to persuade your three-year-old to just taste a vegetable while he's still young.

Yet Sonny is still on that show. Robin is still doing it, if a bit Botoxed at this point. I think about their ambitions. Have they reached the peak of their art? Do they know it, are they just coasting at the top for as long as they're welcome?

Everybody's gotta eat?

*Morah = teacher, in Hebrew. Names have been changed.

What They Get Out of It

2008-01-24T10:37:00.000-08:00

Awhile ago, I wrote about Elan's sudden interest in world news and politics, notably with regard to natural disasters and untimely deaths. It piqued when Southern California was on fire a few months ago, and was more than likely reinforced by my own - equally sudden - shift in addiction from Kevin and Bean on KROQ to everything NPR. We're all growing up, I guess. This means that the kids start their day watching the ABC morning news, and drive home from school with "All Things Considered."

I'm not sure if this makes me a good parent. Probably not a responsible one. After all, there is only so much that the boys can possibly understand and relate to their own experience. But I'm sure you can imagine their excitement when a real-live TIGER jumped out of its pen at the ZOO and KILLED one boy and INJURED SEVERAL OTHERS! Obviously, nothing could have been more fabulous or thrilling.

Ariel, apparently, repeated the story verbadim to his teachers, (along with a little tidbit about his daddy driving too fast on the highway and a police man came and gave him a ticket while we were all in the car!). Naturally, this was told over to my sheepish husband with good humor and yet eyebrows raised.

There was the story on the radio about Striker, a beloved police dog, who died in hot pursuit of
a felon and was to receive an honorable military burial. The criminal jumped off a 200-foot bridge just as Striker sank its teeth into his leg, taking the animal overboard with him.
Just like a german shepard, I imagine, Elan's ears perked up from the backseat. "What's that, Mommy? What are they saying about that dog? What did the police dog do?" I relay the tragic story. "The bad guy survived and will probably go to jail, but the dog didn't survive the fall," I explain.

"STRIKER'S DEAD?" Elan is indignant, like they were old friends.

"Well, yes, it was a 200-foot drop. But he did his job so well and the police are so proud of him, they are giving him a real funeral, like a person. He was the best dog they had."

"I can't believe this," Ariel mutters from his car seat.

"He was the best they had?! What did the bad guy even do?" Elan wants details.

"Um..he probably did something really bad, like steal - like a candy bar or something."

He sighs. "I'm not going to be upset because one day, Hashem [G-d] will bring Striker back again, and if I find him before the police do, I'll just grab him and make him my own pet," Elan decides.
"Yes," agrees Ariel. "When Yerushalayim comes." This is what he calls the Messiah.

So it was obvious that their grasp of real-life tragedy and disaster was limited to the sensational, the glamorous, that which they could simplify to super-hero, good vs. evil terms. And that, in a way, was fine. They didn't need to understand evil on a grander scale, and yet it helps not to grow up in a total bubble of naivete, I figured - knowing to be careful and protect oneself. I'm not a fairy-tale kind of girl, and respect my kids' efforts to understand their surroundings better.

I knew I had to start censoring, however, when I came out of the shower one morning to find Elan glued to the television, perched on my bed, a forkful of syrupy waffle paused in mid-air halfway to his mouth. Upon seeing me, he exclaimed: "You won't believe this! That boy was kidnapped from his parents for FOUR YEARS. He's just coming back to them now after FOUR YEARS."

"Elan, that's terrible," I try and explain. "That's not stuff you should know about."

"But it is why we have to be so careful not to talk to strangers, right Mommy? So they don't kidnap us?"

Now that's just scary. The stuff of nightmares. And I hate scaring them, but better safe than sorry, right?

"That's right."

By now Ariel had wandered into the room and the conversation, full of wisdom and experience and knowledge, on the ready:

"And THAT'S why whenever a stranger tries to give me candy, I won't take it even though it's candy and I love candy because I know that when a stranger gives you candy it's toisonous, and he wants you to take it because he knows you love candy."

"Toisonous? You mean 'poisonous'?"

"No, TOISONOUS. Like the stranger wants to TOISON you. That's what strangers try to do."

Oh. Well sure.

Executive Decision-Making

2008-01-20T18:56:00.000-08:00

Hi. I know, I know, you thought I didn't do this anymore. But a lot of you have asked me if I was ever going to write again -- and believe it or not, NOT just my mom -- and the truth is, I've wanted to. A lot has happened in the last few months, lots of great, post-worthy kid stuff, and I've meant to blog it all...I just didn't. Time ran away...I've been busy...yada yada yada.

But I feel like starting again, so I'm going to try. The boys give me a lot of material, stuff I don't want to forget later on.

So without further ado, if anyone is still out there...
...
...

I'll catch you up on Ariel first. Both boys have been doing well in school, and Y and I are very happy with the place so far. I was particularly pleased when Ariel's teacher told me that she'd mentioned to the Early Childhood administrator that she thought he should probably skip a grade, go directly into Kindergarten next year. His birthday falls two weeks after the deadline, and as a result he's markedly older in several ways than his classmates.

I'd been planning to try and say something about it myself, since otherwise he'll have another year of nursery after this (re: an extra year's tuition), but I'd been discouraged from making the attempt by other parents at the school.

"Oh, this school is notorious - don't you know? They almost NEVER skip a child."
"They won't go for it. I mean, every parent thinks their kid is advanced, but in reality it's not necessarily the case. I've only heard of one kid who was moved up, ever, and she was seriously an obvious genius. Is Ariel really a genius? Because otherwise..."

Ahem.

"Yeah," I'd interject. "But his birthday is right after the deadline. He just missed it, you know? If he'd stayed at the old school, this wouldn't even be a discussion since they're deadline is November, not September..."

"Are you kidding?" said the woman at the birthday party, amid Dora the Explorer paraphenalia. "I've planned every one of my pregnancies around this school's deadlines."

I stuff some cake in my mouth to hide the gape.

"Well for the tuition we pay, I would certainly hope that the school really considers what's best for each child," I manage with sincerity. But I was certain I'd have to fight to make my case.

Surprisingly, not so. The principle, who is wonderful, called me at work one day to discuss.

"We think Ariel might benefit from trying the grade older. He's clearly ready to learn more, and more formally. But please be forewarned that most educational studies have proven that it's better for boys emotionally to be the oldest in the class than the youngest."

"Oh, but he plays so well with the older kids already," I began. He already spent the last two hours of the day in their class, so I could extend his hours in order to work.

"I know. And he fits right in. But the discrepancy might not show for a couple of years. And while the decision is up to you - we definitely think he's up for the academic challenge - I want you to know the potential ramifications. It can be hard on boys later, when they're a little socially developmentally behind. It's different for girls, somehow. But I'll tell you what - why don't we try it for a few days and reassess at the end of the week?"

Y and I agreed. Ariel seemed excited. And indeed, he seemed fine in his new class, too. He didn't complain, and the teacher told he fit in like a missing puzzle piece.

But I worried about this whole "boys do better as the oldest" thing. I really had no idea what the right move was in this case, and felt like it was one of those Very Big Parenting Decisions. So I asked around.

"I was the youngest in my class," Y claimed. "I did well both socially and academically. In fact, if anything, I was a little bored academically."
"Yeah, but you were tall. And athletic."
"So?"
"It makes a difference."
"Ariel is tall."
"So was I, until ninth grade."
"Duly noted."

"There is kind of a narrow window at which children's brains are staged for optimal learning and absorption," said my mom. "He's so precocious, it might be good to take advantage of that by making sure he's challenged during those important peak years."
"Maybe, but studies say that boys are better off gaining confidence as the oldest than by being challenged intellectually."
"Hmm. Yeah, I really don't know any cases where the boy skipped a grade and wasn't a social outcast."
"Thanks, Mom."

"Your uncle skipped a grade and he just never quite fit in with the other kids," said my grandmother. "Mind you, he was brilliant, but he never really had friends until college."

"Why would you risk it?" asked my brother, who himself had skipped the (fourth? Fifth?) grade. "You want him to be happy, to have friends. School work is less important."
This, coming from the most competitive academic I know. Thanks, so much.

And so the conversations went. I asked and probed and researched and the answers were all...highly variable. Depends on the kid, bottom line.

How to know?

Meanwhile, Ariel, unbeknownst to me, had been telling his old, original teachers and classmates, when he'd meet them on the playground, in hushed tones, "Don't worry. I'll be back in your class soon." They laughed and felt missed, thought it was very sweet.

But Ariel likes to be taken seriously. On Day 5 of the switch, at 9 AM, I received a call from his old teacher on my cell phone:

"Hi, everything's okay, but we have a situation."
"Oh?"
"Well Ariel came to our room this morning and announced that he was back. He's so cute and we love him so much and he won't leave. What should we do?"

And there you have it. He made the call.

While I fretted and tore my hair out, he simply took over the decision-making and did what HE felt was right. Didn't complain, gave it a fair shot...and then chose to end the trial period.

And what can I say? I respect that. I'm certainly not going to stress a happy three-year-old about his potential for Harvard when he finds his comfort zone, well, pretty comfortable. His academic future can wait.

At least until the fall.

Out of the Ashes

2007-10-24T10:58:00.000-07:00

You've probably heard So-Cal is basically in smoke. It's terrible. Many, many people have lost their homes and belongings and the air quality is nauseating.

At 6 this morning, Y and I flip on the news while getting dressed. Elan leaves Maggie and the Ferocious Beast and his plate of waffles in the family room and drifts into ours, curling up on my side of the bed to watch the flames.

He sits, glued to the coverage for half an hour, periodically making comments like, "Man, it's a good thing OUR house isn't on fire," and "Those people didn't even realize their house was burning down because they were SLEEPING, and their neighbors knocked on their door to tell them they had to get OUT," and to ask on-point questions like: "If our house WAS on fire, who would carry which pets out? Wouldn't their tanks be heavy? What would we DO?"

And I briefly entertain the image of the four of us, outside in the middle of the night in our pajamas, watching our house become engulfed in flames. I toss Ariel into Y's arms and run back in, calling in explanation to my bewildered loved ones NOT WITHOUT THE PRAYING MAAAANTIIIIIIIS!

Finally, I tell Elan he's got to go get ready for school. He sighs that big, full, happy sigh, the one that comes at the conclusion of something he's thoroughly enjoyed, like a bag of sour sticks, a book I've read with voices, or a BBC America Walking with Dinosaurs DVD.

"I love this show," he says dreamily. "Can you tape it for me?"

If Only

2007-10-08T23:24:00.000-07:00

For Elan's birthday, my grandmother sent him a $50 bill, scotch-taped to the inside of a card, with swirly, cursive instructions to "Make your mommy buy you whatever you want!"

The following Sunday morning, we head to Target, a little red-and-blue Spider-Man wallet tucked inside my purse beside my own. In the car, Elan asks me if we'll be getting Ariel - left at home with his dad - a present, too.

"Nope," I reply. "It's your birthday trip. This one's just for you. Anyway, I'm not spending money today!"

"Oh. Well, I'll just pick out something for him and pay for it with my money, then. That way he won't be jealous."

Just like that: sucker-punched. Guess I'm spending money today.

"No need." Sigh. "Spend your money on yourself. I'll buy something for him because you were so thoughtful."

My son is pleased with this result. We traipse the endless aisles of toys, Elan seriously considering his options. Finally, he's decided on two, bringing us to a grand total of twenty-six bucks.

"Will that use up all my money?" Elan is hesitant.
"No - actually, you'll still have almost half of it left."
"So I'll pick out more!"
"You know, it might be a good idea to go with these two toys for now so that you'll really be able to enjoy them. Then you can save the rest of your money for the next time there's something you really want."
He thinks. Then: "Okay."

Okay. I pay for my paper-towels, Pull-Ups, throw pillow, and the headband I'll never wear. I ask the cashier to ring up Elan's purchases separately.

Proudly, he reaches into the nylon wallet and produces a crisp fifty, handing it gingerly to the smiling teenager in red. He is shocked when, a minute later, she hands him back a bunch of bills and some coins.

"Why did I get back MORE money than I gave her?!" He asks as soon as we turn to the exit. He cannot believe his luck.

"It's less money, babe," I laugh. "It's the leftover money you have from the fifty dollars Buba gave you, minus what the presents cost. It's a smaller amount, but it's broken into a bunch more pieces. You call it 'change.'"

He looks at me like, Oh yeah. Of course. Change! I totally understand that whole concept...I was just testing YOU.

I smile down at him, incredibly proud of my parenting skills, how I've managed to wrap Responsibility, Basic Math, the Value of a Hard-Earned Buck, and Social Assertiveness into one big, warm-and-fuzzy lesson, sandwiched neatly into a Memorable Birthday Outing With Mom.

Together, we tackle an envelope of point-of-purchase M&Ms.

This was in July. Yesterday, Elan had a play-date with his best friend, Kevin. I overheard him impart the following wisdom to his shorter, and obviously less worldly buddy:

"You want more money? Shd'I tell you what to do? Go buy something, like a toy? Because when you buy something, and you give them your money to pay for it, they give you back more money than you gave them. It's really awesome."

Yeah.

They must have started math.

2007-09-11T08:22:00.000-07:00

"Daddy, Joey has changed 100 percent."
"Excuse me?"
"He's 100 percent a different person now. He used to be really nice to me and always said hi and now when I see him he just ganores me, it's 100 percent different."
"That's terrible."
"Yeah, I don't like it."

Do I Hold Him To It?

2007-09-11T08:14:00.000-07:00

"Mommy, there is this toy that Kevin wants for his birthday but it's very espensive, and I told him we would get it for him."

"How expensive is it?"

"It's 100 dollars."

"Elan, I can't spend $100 on a present for one of your friends, honey."

"But he really wants it."

"Still."

"Well, maybe I will just buy it with my own money. I'm very rich."

"Are you?"

"Mm-hmm. I looked at my wallet and counted all of my moneys and I have, like, sixty of them."

"Wow. That's a lot. Well, if you're looking to make more money, maybe we can start something where you help me around the house and I can give you jobs, and if you do them well, I could pay you a little bit. Then you could save all of your money and buy something you want."

"Like what kinds of jobs?"

"Like cleaning up, helping me with Ariel -"

"-I KNOW! On the days Theresa doesn't come, I could clean our house!"

"Yeah, like that."

"...And then I'll make so much money, I'll have 100 dollars and I'll be very rich!"

"You know, being rich is nice, but it isn't the most important thing in the world."

"Well when you're rich, you have lots of poor people come to your house and you give them money all the time."

"You do?"

"Isn't that what rich people do?"

"I guess that's what some very good rich people do..."

"Well, I'm a really good person, so that's what I'll do when I'm rich."

The Trouble With Pre-School

2007-09-05T19:05:00.001-07:00

"Ariel, who did you play with at school today?"
"Well, I tried to play with Coby."
"You played with Coby? Is he nice?"
"I said I tried to play with him. I tried, but it didn't work out because he don't talk."

The Beginning of the Rest of Your Life

2007-09-03T19:35:00.001-07:00

The last two weeks have been pretty hectic - we ended the summer with a bang at my parents' house in Chicago, headed home for the boys to start school, and then made a quite last-minute decision to switch schools altogether.

The new school is one we had always thought we might end up at in the long run, and Y and I both feel pretty good about the decision for way too many reasons to bore you with. But taking the leap was definitely scary. For one thing, the new school is in another neighborhood, around twenty minutes from our house -- although only a few minutes from both of our offices, respectively -- and that meant Elan and Ariel wouldn't have many school-friends in the neighborhood. Birthday parties would be a schlep, not to mention play dates. And Elan had a tight group of friends already, cultivated over the past three years, and felt at home wherever they were.

For another, Elan was terrified and Ariel was flat-out refusing the change. The night before their first day, I held Elan in my lap as he sobbed, "I'm not going, I'm not going, I'm not going," over and over again into my dampened shoulder, unable to gain control. He explained, breathlessly, that he was afraid of getting lost in the vast building, of eating unfamiliar hot lunch, of not recognizing a soul.

And I cried, too, because I felt his fear, completely understood how daunting the prospect of such an enormous change was, especially to a child like Elan. A child who, in the past, has been slow to warm to anything new, who felt a comfort zone exceeded everything else in importance.

He cheered up a little when I explained that I'd be shifting my work hours to pick him and Ariel up from school more often, that they'd be in the care of our (admittedly wonderful) babysitter far less. More time with me was promise enough for him to agree to try.

"But you can't leave me there," he said, finally calming down, wiping wet streaks from his cheeks. "You need to stay with me the first day, okay?"
"I'll stay as long as they let me. And as long as you want me too," I soothed.

The next morning, as I pulled out his old orange lunchbox, Elan stopped me. "I want to use that little Bob the Builder one, okay?" He gestured to a small metal one decorated with the cartoon character, unused, shoved to the back of the cupboard.

I was surprised, but figuring he thought it might impress his peers, I found no reason to argue. Hell, I'd have given him gummy bears for breakfast that morning, had he asked. He got dressed quickly in his new school uniform - a white polo and crisp navy pants - and looked adorably excited as he climbed in the car.

And, as I had expected, he didn't want Y or me to stay with him long, because Elan would rather die than be looked at as the class baby. The other kids had started two days prior and seemed pretty well-adjusted. As the teacher led the line of students from the play yard into the school, Elan shrugged, gave us a small wave goodbye, and followed. The other kids chattered to one another, and ours looked so small, so alone, and so out of his element. And yet it was clear he'd made the decision to be brave; he'd go with the flow.

Ariel, naturally, looked around his new classroom, checked out the playdough, his chubby little classmates and enthusiastic teachers, and decided he'd rock all of it. He, too, let us go without a fight, and Y and I headed to work, dumbfounded that it had been so easy.

I spent the day on pins and needles, watching the clock and waiting for the moment when I could dart out of there and discover how my babies had fared in the big, new world we'd introduced them to. I was certain Elan would moan about missing his friends, about being lonely or shy. I had pep talks about it getting easier with time, with new adjustments always being difficult, all prepared, but wasn't sure I'd have the strength to use them, should he crumple in tears.

I wasn't as worried about Ariel, for he'd had a short day, and my sister-in-law had picked him earlier. Apparently, he'd had a ball, and claimed his new school was the "biggest one you ever saw." One down.

When the time came, I found Elan in the cafeteria, waiting for his name to be called indicating that his ride had come. He was sitting quietly, clutching his lunchbox, looking around nervously at the other children. My heart sunk; it didn't look hopeful. I reached him before he noticed me and folded him in a bear hug, unable to resist the urge to kiss his entire face. He grinned with relief and squeezed me back. Pulling him away from the group, I knelt on the floor, my hands on his shoulders, looked him squarely in the eye, and braced myself.

"So? How was?"
I cringe, waiting for the blow.
"Awesome!"
"What?"
"I loved it. Love this new school. Let's go home!"

Trying to contain my shock, I led him by the hand to the car. "Really? That's great! So does that mean you made friends?"
"All the boys in my class are my friends."
"Wow. That's great," I repeat.
"This is the school I want to go to. I had gym class. The teacher couldn't catch me!"

He chatters for a few minutes, and then we fall silent, him gazing out the window , me, just processing. He's okay. The world didn't hurt him. He can handle change. This will be good.

Suddenly, he interrupts my thoughts. "But Mommy? I never want to take that lunchbox to school again! Never! It was so bad!"

"What was? Why? What happened?"

"At lunch, two girls teased me about it! They said it was babyish! They laughed at me and said 'your lunchbox is for BABIES!' I was so embarrassed and I'm never taking it again."

My stomach lurches. He had gotten hurt, after all. Ugh, the cruelty children can impart on one another. Those hideous little girl-brats...

"That's terrible, honey! I'm so sorry that happened. You never have to take it again, don't worry at all."

Gulp.
"So, um, what did you do? When they teased you?"
"Nothing. I just ga-nored them."

Phew.
"Well, I'm proud of you. That was exactly the right way to handle it. They're just some girls, they were being mean and silly. You really just ignored them?"

"No. Actually I said," he curls his fingers into fists, I notice in the rear view mirror, "you say that one more time and I'm going to punch you in the face!"

I gasp. Oh, no. He's going to be expelled. The first week.

"What? You really said that?!"
There's a pause. And then he lets out a sigh. "No, I just ga-nored them. I didn't say it."

And I realize with a smile that he's thinking, but man, how I wish I did!

I'd sent him out into the world that morning, just five years old, in a white polo shirt, little navy pants, painfully wrong lunchbox in hand. I'd left him to fend for himself.

And already, he'd become someone I could relate to.

Rapidly Learning to Work the System

2007-08-27T20:16:00.000-07:00

Ariel: "Mom-my, Elan's not sharing his to-oy!"
Me: "Elan, that's not very nice. You should give your brother a turn."
Elan: "Well, he didn't share his toy penguin with me this morning - the one that walks and talks? I asked him Please Ariel can I play with your toy and he just said 'NO!' and he took it away from me."
Me [under my breath]: G-d, I hate that thing. [Out loud:] "Is that true, Ariel?"
Pause.
Ariel: "No, it's just that I didn't share it because I take-ded it away from Elan and I turn-ded it off because it was giving Mommy a headache. THAT's da reason what I was flinking."

Hey, no argument there.

Overheard in Chicago

2007-08-27T10:24:00.000-07:00

"So, how old are you?"
"Three and a half. How old are you?"
"Well I'm five."
Pause.
"Like...your whole hand?"

By George, I've Got It

2007-08-03T18:20:00.000-07:00

"It" being the perfect workout song playlist.

Stress release is absolutely necessary for mothers of young children, and exercise is the recommended tonic. I used to be of mind that yoga was the way to go - utter reverse of body tension, complete shut-down and focus of mind.

Maybe I'll go back to that one day. But right now, it doesn't seem to be what I need. Right now, all I care about is cardio. I've always loved cardiovascular exercise when it wasn't for its own sake - like a game or sport. But when, in the past, I've used machines or gone to gyms for the health benefit alone, it's felt like a definite chore. I thought the best way to get through a workout was to distract myself from it, such as by reading or watching television. But doing so never really kept me from checking the timed count-down every minute and a half.

Now I realize that the best way to get through a cardio workout - and to reap the stress-release benefit of it - is to be in the moment, to focus on the feeling of moving and of being, for that moment, powerful and in control. The feeling not doing anything else (re: wiping your kid's snot from your sleeve, AKA his or her personal kleenex box).

For me, part of it is listening to THE PERFECT soundtrack. Nothing less will do.

And I think I've devised it.

So get your iPods, or iPhone, if you're me (- like how I worked that in? See what I did there? -), out and at the ready, because here it is. This playlist is particularly effective for running and elliptical workouts, but should lend itself nicely to anything that involves easing in, working up a lot of steam, pretending you're Rocky Balboa, and eventually - reluctantly, even - succumbing to exhaustion and returning to real life.

And, by the way, it isn't really about the lyrics, but if your taste in music tends to be conservative or religious, a couple of these songs might not be for you.

Otherwise, they're just plain motivational, and you can grab them all on iTunes. Here we go.

For your warm-up:
"Pictures of You" - The Cure
"Fooling Yourself (The Angry Young Man)" - Styx
"Mystery" - Live

Add speed and/or intensity:
"Makes Me Wonder" - Maroon 5
"Born to Run" - K-OS
"Hash Pipe" - Weezer

Hit your stride & go crazy:
"Bleed It Out" - Linkin Park
"Numb" - Linkin Park
"In the End" - Linkin Park

Bring it home:
"Sunday Morning" - K-OS
"Slow Hands" - Interpol

Calm down (you aren't really a professional athlete):
"Oil and Water" - Incubus
"Young Folks" Peter Bjorn and John

Stretch:
"Say It Ain't So" - Weezer
"New Slang" - The Shins

And there it is. Obviously, you could tweak this list to taste or time, and I'm sure I'll tire of it and have to start fresh in a few more weeks. But honestly, if this can't get you happily through at least 500-or-so calories - and make you a nicer, more heavily-endorphined human being for it, I don't know what can.

But then again, what do I know?

P.S. Everything, now that I've finished the 7th Harry Potter.
P.P.S. I don't do drugs, swear.
P.P.P.S. Above playlist works equally well at drowning out sounds of Dora the Explorer (yes, I have boys, so? SAY IT TO MY FACE.), Dragon Tales, and The Legend of Tarzan.

Still Innocent Enough

2007-07-17T20:37:00.000-07:00

"Mommy, if you would just let us do whatever we want, we would never eat candy again."
"But what if I let you do whatever you wanted, and the first thing you wanted to do was eat candy?"
"It wouldn't be."
"How do I know that?"
"It wouldn't, I promise. I'd never eat candy again."
"Unless, of course, you wanted to, in which case I would have no choice."
"Right, you would have to let me if you were letting me do whatever I want, but really, I'm telling you, I really wouldn't do that so it's still better for you."
"I don't believe you."
"So no? We can't do whatever we want?"
"No deal."

Elan turns 5 in two days - old enough to try (and often succeed) at talking me in circles, yet young enough that when he opens his eyes at night to find my face eerily close to his, watching him sleep and examining every line, curve and feature with an intensity that surely anyone else in any other situation would find unsettling- his first reaction is still to smile.

Our Summer So Far

2007-07-08T20:45:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure when, exactly, I'm going to feel less surprised when, come each June of my adulthood, I discover I don't get summer vacation. At least, not in the traditional sense. I might take a little vacation during the summer - in fact, I'm going to Chicago for (count 'em!) 5 long days at the end of August - but there won't be any lazy days with nothing to do except swat at mosquitoes.

So be it, I guess. Work is a year-round thing.

I know most of you are probably in the same boat as me, so I'm not trying to sound like a baby. I mean, I have babies. I change their diapers. I know how annoying they are.

Anyway, consider this a catch-up post, or, as I like to call it: What I Did on My Summer Vacation - So Far. You can tell me if it's just my imagine, or if it's truly sucked.

1) Elan graduated nursery school. I couldn't enjoy said graduation because I had righteously ignored the school's request not to bring younger siblings to the event. Ariel, who I'd assumed was far more mature than they were giving him credit for, became incredibly jealous of the attention bestowed on his brother, and saw the evening as his Big Chance to assert our Mommy-Baby love for one another in a public forum. He not only insisted I hold his 35-pound load - standing - throughout the 45 minute ceremony, but also took the opportunity to forcefully kiss me on the lips. Or cry. You choose.

2) Ariel made promising strides at potty training. And then pooped on Elan's bedroom floor.

3) We found two roaches in our house. My husband - all 6 foot 3 of him - panicked, cried like a 9 year old girl, and let one get away. Alive.

5) Y became a gardener in his abundant spare time. He spent hours one Sunday carefully planting colorful flowers of different varieties in circular rows around our front tree. Due (I'm guessing) to the heat, they are now almost all dead.

6) Speaking of trees, I discovered, much to my delight, that the Mystery Fruit Tree in my backyard was growing nectarine! They were about a week away from perfectly ripe. A week later, the tree was bare, due (I'm guessing) to the same animals that have littered my yard with thousands of apples from our two out-of-control apple trees. Um, a house? = A ton of work.

7) We went to Big Bear for the weekend, up in the mountains, and stayed in an incredible log cabin mansion in the forest. We had perfect weather and a view to die for. I, naturally, had altitude sickness the entire time and could barely stand.

8) Elan swallowed a ball.

9) We lost our turtle.

10) Elan got Hand, Foot & Mouth Disease. So did Y. We spent the Fourth at Burbank's Urgent Care.

11) We paid for a week and a half of camp that Elan didn't attend.

12) I went to Home Depot, twice, to be largely ignored, twice. Apparently, women are not any more welcome at Home Depot than they are at a Fantasy Football club meeting. I tried looking cute and dumb and tried flattering every burly guy in an orange bib into helping me, and it didn't work at all. Instead, the guys in the orange bibs literally rolled their eyes at me when I asked for assistance with stuff like, you know, cutting an 8'x4' hunk of plywood in half, like Typical. Chick can't even manage heavy machinery without crying about it. I walked around muttering, under my breath, "You can do it - we WON'T effing help."

13) I tried to build an outdoor pen for Mr. Turtley with aforementioned sheets of plywood. The walls had to be at least a foot deep in the ground so he couldn't dig himself out. In 90-degree heat, digging is a lot harder than it looks. After an hour of hitting tree roots and stubbing my shins on rocks, I was sick and dizzy and defeated. When I finally came in, soaked with sweat and covered in dirt, collapsing in the Lazy Boy inherited from Y's grandfather and screaming "I GIVE UP!", Y actually laughed at the sight of me. Not his smartest move. He saved himself by closing his laptop and offering to take over, spent about five minutes digging before proclaiming the mission moot; apparently, there was no need, as the plot of land was underscored by cement. Mr. Turtley had no way to dig himself out. Which meant, of course, that the plywood pieces were way too tall. Which meant Home Depot - and my associated self-esteem shattering, glass-ceiling struggle - had been pointless.

14) Ariel, when told that he talks quite a bit for his age, took to replying "Yup, and I do shows, too!" His shows involve, mainly, "flips" (re: somersaults). He's also taken to inventing a false history for himself, most stories involving my mother. He finds a friend's kid's pacifier on the floor in our family room and scoops it up, announcing "Oh yes, yes. My pacifier. Bubbie gave it to me when I was a baby and I used it all the time." The child never took a pacifier for a moment of his babyhood. When asked if he knew what fireworks were: "Oh, yes, yes. My Bubbie took me to see fireworks when I was much younger, a very little baby." Never happened. When Maroon 5's "She Will Be Loved" comes on the radio, it's "Oh, yes, yes. This song. I remember this song from when Bubbie sang it to me when I was a little baby. My Bubbie teached'ed me ALL the best songs She wiiiiill be loved...."

My mother claims to feel a little guilty getting so much credit where it's not entirely due, but I told her to just TAKE IT. Own it, baby. Ariel can be convincing.

And that pretty much brings me to tonight. It's 9:30 and I still need to fill out scholarship applications, call the life insurance guy, call the alarm system guy, grocery shop, and plan Elan's 5th birthday party. Which, I can tell already, is not going to be anywhere near snake cake caliber. Oh, and I've got no entertainment ideas. Any suggestions?

I think instead of doing any of that, I'll go outside and read on the patio. And maybe swat a couple of mosquitoes.

Comings and Goings

2007-07-04T11:55:00.001-07:00

A week ago last night, I was giving the boys a bath and planning an early, restful night. Although I love my work, it's a been a struggle to keep up with the other odds and ends of my life lately, given the 40+ hours a week devoted to it. Sometimes I run a tight ship and a tight schedule, and it works extremely well. Other times, it feels a bit messier and I get a little overwhelmed. Last month was an extended one of those times.

So I'm tired. Elan gets out of the tub and puts on pajamas. I hear him playing in his room while I wash Ariel's hair. Then: a scream. He runs into the bathroom, clutching his throat and crying hysterically, yelling that he "swallowed a BUH!! I SWALLOWED A BUH!"

Phew, I think. Who hasn't swallowed a bug or two in their lifetime? Granted, it usually happens outdoors, and at a campground, but whatever.

"Calm down, honey," I try to soothe. "It's gross, but it's okay. It's just a little bug."

"Noooo!" He wails, just as upset. "Not a BUG, a BALL! A TOY BALL! I feel it in my throat!! I'm going to diiiiiieeee!"

I try not to panic. He's talking, which means he's breathing. Which means he's not choking.

"What should I do? What should I do?" Elan keeps repeating, tears streaming down his face. He's so afraid, poor guy. "Am I going to die??"

He's smart enough to understand consequences, you see. He knows a foreign object doesn't belong in his body, and he can only guess that one plus one would equal - death. So smart, my child.

Just not smart enough to avoid SWALLOWING a PLASTIC BALL.

I have no time to try and figure out how it had happened. I do a little rudimentary Heimlich, and it doesn't work. He says he feels it in his throat, so I figure we need to head to the E.R. for what must be the eighth time in eight months. I manage to get Elan to sit on the floor and take a few deep breaths. Then, I hear Ariel cry and turn to get him out of the tub. Unfortunately, in the mayhem, he's climbed out himself and is sprawled across the bathroom floor, having slipped. Great.

In the car, I call Y, who is on his way home from work and fill him in, tell him where to meet us. "He's really upset, says he feels it still in his throat," I say breathlessly.
From the backseat, Ariel chirps up: "Well I fell in da bafroom and bumped my knee!"

It never ends, the competition. Never even pauses.

Ariel, who has been telling whoppers of stories, lately, all of which occurred "when he was much younger" or when "he was a little baby," invents one now about the time he swallowed a ball - a green one (Elan's is red) - and it went in his tummy and he went to the hospital, you know, when he was a baby. Funny that I don't remember.

Neck, chest, and abdomen X-rays indicate, indeed, that there's a ball in there, but at least it's in his tummy and only 14mm wide. They say it's small enough to pass on its own, "naturally." Every mother I tell this to recommends something else to speed the digestive process: a half-cup of olive oil, prune juice, "special" tea.

If only they knew Elan, who thinks any food that doesn't cling to his molars is a waste of precious time.

When Elan finally calmed down, he told me what had happened. Obviously, three weeks shy of five years old, he hadn't put the toy in his mouth to see what it tasted and felt like. He'd invented a game involving a hollow tube which he'd put the ball into, and, by blowing into one end, shoot flying out and into the air. All good, until, of of course, the time you accidentally suck instead.

In the midst of all this, Mr. Turtley goes missing. He's gotten lost in our backyard before, to be sure, but never for 4 days. I'm trying to not care, but the tears that keep welling up in my eyes seem to imply that apparently, I do. Every little accident with your kids makes you question or even doubt, at least a little, your ability to be a proper parent - an adequate protector - so I suppose I'm already a little more sensitive than usual.

But the poor turtle, I keep thinking. It's so hot outside, and he's such a picky eater! Last time I checked, I didn't grow high-quality, organic red-and-green leaf lettuce in my backyard, so he's probably starving. Or worse, he's gone and provided a raccoon or opossum - both of which roam my yard at night - with a hearty meal. And, of course, it's my own fault for not building him a proper pen in the first place, something I've simply put off for as long as I knew I could.

Elan is a little sad, but keeps mentioning that we'll just "get a new turtle," which is when I realize that this is truly my pet and mine alone. Elan has no deep feelings towards it.

So when, yesterday, a little girl who lives two doors down accosted me upon my return from work, asking if I'd been missing a turtle, I almost cried with relief. Apparently, the little bugger had dug under two fences, marched across two yards, and had been with them since Saturday. Unsure what to do, they kept him in a metal cage outside, which clearly upset Mr. Turtley very much. He couldn't burrow to escape the heat of the day and the chill of the nights, and he'd probably only been offered iceberg lettuce.

As I carried him home, he gave me a look like You wanna tell me what the hell I did to deserve Alcatraz?? and I knew my baby was back. The boys were overjoyed.

A week later, my other baby, however, has yet to show any signs that he isn't planning on keeping the ingested ball forever - slightly more worrisome. We took another round of X-rays yesterday, which I've yet to hear the read on, but I peeked at the picture when they took it and didn't see any ball this time around.

"I guess it might have passed without my realizing it," I tell the young tech.

"That - or maybe he never swallowed anything to begin with," the too-cool-for-school man tells me in a haughty whisper.

"Excuse me?" I say.

He grins, like these idiot parents, they believe everything their brat kid tells them.
"I said, maybe he never swallowed no ball."

He obviously didn't know Elan. But I still relished responding, "Oh he swallowed a ball, all right. We've already taken X-rays, and there was a big old ball right there in his stomach."

Also? You're a jerk and an idiot. And I'm late for work. Where I use my brain.

Okay, I didn't say that part. But for some reason, I kinda wish I did.

Especially when I remembered seeing Elan sneak Mr. Turtley a quick kiss - right on the shell - not knowing I was watching, on the night he returned home.

Yes, I made him rinse with hydrogen peroxide, but, sigh. If they only knew Elan.

Prized Possessions

2007-06-10T21:23:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those days off of work where you have a million and two non-work obligations. Kicking it off was Elan's last game of Little League, and, more importantly, the end-of-season trophy distribution. Baseball season has been a lot of fun for us, primarily because Elan looks so darned cute in his little uniform, but also due in part to the snack truck from which Ariel orders French Fries smothered in ketchup at 9 am each Sunday morning. There's Elan, hauling ass from base to base like his life depends on it, and there's Ariel, happy as a clam on the bleachers with his "breakfast," shouting "GO-ELAN-GO BATTER-BATTER BASEBALL!" between mouthfuls. And there's Y or me or both of us, pretty okay with life.

When Elan is handed his trophy this morning to the applause of all the families present, it's obviously one of the most spectacular moments of his own life, and it's true when they say your children's' joy is yours a million times over. Even though every player gets a trophy, regardless of talent, and even though his last name is shamefully misspelled, I am overcome with pride for my kid, and even happier to see him so incredibly happy over something so relatively small in the grand scheme of things. And, I figure, he probably won't ask about the name mishap for at least a year or two, because G-d knows I am way too lazy to go through the steps of having it fixed.

After the game, we have back-to-back birthday parties to attend, and, it turns out, Mickey Mouse is invited to the second one, too. The Mickey impersonator, clearly hung-over, talks in a painfully-high-pitched voice, ignores the timid birthday boy, and, without waiting for a crowd to form, stands in the middle of the yard and shouts, "DO YOU LIKE MAGIC??" As very few of the kids are even yet aware that the Mickey has arrived, Ariel, and Ariel alone shouts back, "OH YES I DO!"

"GREAT!" Shouts Mickey, and asks Ariel's name, which my son proudly announces in the order of First-Last-Middle, and proceeds to lead the magic tricks with the star of the show. I soon realize the "magic" is mainly a rousing game of Ring-Around-the-Rosy, and the impersonator's falsetto is driving me nuts.

"Do you think that's really his voice?" I whisper to Y through my teeth.
"No, I think his throat really, really hurts right now."

Elan turns to me. "I don't flink that's even a REAL Mickey Mouse, Mommy. Look at those hands!"

I do. Mickey's been too generous with the vodka-tonics to have remembered his white gloves. Stubby, hairy man-hands are poking through the sleeves of his Mouse suit.

"You're right." I squeeze Elan's hand. There's never any fooling him, anyway. We walk to get drinks and I overhear a little girl tell her mother, "That Mickey's hands aren't even white!!"

Mickey fashions a balloon samurai sword for each of my boys and I wonder how much the guy is making from this gig. "If he'd worn gloves, he couldn't make balloon animals," a friend jokes. "First of all, those aren't balloon animals, last time I checked, and besides, the real Mickey would know how to do EVERYTHING in his white gloves!" I snap back.

My kids love the swords, but Ariel's pops as soon as we get to the car. Part of it's still inflated and twisted so I try to convince him it's something even better, like a starfish or a flower, but he isn't interested. He wails, and in one of Y's prouder moments, to be sure, he points the longer end and says, "No, look! It really looks like a gun! Much cooler!"

Truthfully, it looks phallic, and I do a you know what it REALLY looks like... to Y, who shushes me. Ariel's still upset, so Elan, who tends to offer Ariel his most treasured possessions in moments of weakness, thrusts his own balloon-sword at Ariel. "Okay?" he urges, and I feel a pang in the pit of my stomach. "You can have mine. Just until you feel better, but it's yours, okay? Just stop crying. I'll give you candy from my goody bag, too." He rifles through the plastic pouch and Ariel wipes the tears from his cheeks. Within minutes, he's rocking out to Daniel Powter's "Had a Bad Day" in peace.

When we get home, I help Elan struggle out of his athletic-gear: knee-high red socks, tight white pants, red Phillies jersey and cap. He strokes the gleaming trophy on his dresser, and looks at me, his little heart obviously very full. "Isn't it beautiful?" he sighs. "I am never going to let this trophy get dirty, ever." I'm thinking this is quite a vow coming from someone whose fingernails are currently black from combing the backyard soil for collectible beetles, when he impresses me further:

"And I'm going to put it somewhere where Theresa can't even reach it. 'Cause she would get it wet, or break it."

Because that's an actual life-lesson: Housekeepers do ruin your things.

In the evening, Y and I treat ourselves to a night out, a movie and some food. Ocean's 13 is about as good as you'd expect it to be, maybe even a little worse. But it's nice to be out, and afterward we head hungrily to a nearby restaurant for steaks. We've never been to this place before, and I'm nervous when I notice the prices on the menu combined with the fact that we are very nearly the only patrons there, but we go for it anyway. The service is incredibly slow considering that the entire staff is, in essence, cooking dinner for two. Y's steak isn't rare, as requested, and because it's expensive, he sends it back. I'm done with my plate by the time Y's, still-mooing, finally arrives, so I twiddle my thumbs and watch him eat. Super fun.

When we ask for the bill, the owner comes to ask Y if his second attempt at the steak was satisfactory, and Y, kindly, tells him it was delicious. "You know," the guy says, "the first one was rare too, it's just that when they set it on fire at the table" - they'd done one of those Cajun-style, flaming alcohol things - "it changed the color. So next time, just be sure to tell them not to light it on fire."

Y smiles politely and agrees, and as the man walks away I whisper, "You know what else turns the steak a different color? COOKING it more!"

Y laughs. "I know, does he think I buy that? Yes, the steak is just like our lizard, just like a chameleon, when it senses it's about to get eaten, it quickly changes color to fool the predator. 'Oh my! This guy likes me rare! I better turn brown quickly to save my ass!' Yup, steaks are highly defensive creatures."

I find this hysterical. "Just be sure" I manage between gasps of laughter, "to tell the waiter to skip that color-changing trick next time you come to this empty, maroon-threw-up-all-over-it, we-forgot-you-ordered-soup absolute GEM of a restaurant!"

I often think about how so far, in life, I've continually held this position as the only girl in a sea of boys, and there are times, to be sure, that I feel outnumbered, out of my element, and generally like screaming DOESN'T ANYONE IN THIS ROOM CARE ABOUT MOISTURIZING THEIR CUTICLES??!

But tonight I think if you've gotta be the only girl in a sea boys, it does help if they're awesome.

The Importance of a Good Title

2007-06-06T22:55:00.000-07:00

"Did you finish your macaroni, Barsi?"
"Mommy, you know I don't like to be called that."
"What - 'Barsi'? I can't call you that?"
"No. I don't like it."
"So what, only 'Ariel?'"
"Yes, only call me Ariel."
[Pause]
"...Only 'Ariel,' 'Batman' or 'Lion.'"

A Member of the Pride

2007-05-28T23:07:00.001-07:00

"Have you noticed they seem to be filling out zoos these days with antelope?"

Y smiles. "It's true," he nods. "They make these glorious exhibits with cool backdrops and then it's just, like, antelopes. Or gazelles. Every other exhibit. You expect something more, but they're trying to trick you into getting all excited about filler!"

We're driving home after a long day in the sun and I'm inclined to say something serious - something we'd learned that very day - about how it's probably due to so many other species gradually becoming extinct, but decide against it. Too depressing, and it's good to see Y smile. He works like a dog these days, often straight through the night. I don't know how he does it, but he feels he has to to stay afloat managing his tech start-up.

Nobody ever told us 26 was going to be so much work.

But it's Memorial Day weekend and we have Monday off. Well, scratch that, I have Monday off and Y will be working from home. Which meant Sunday was...extra!

We decide on the Wild Animal Park, part of the San Diego Zoo. They tell us we'll get closer to the animals than ever before. In my head, (and, it turns out, Y's,) cheetahs will be licking popcorn off our palms. Lions will paw us playfully as we ruffle their manes. Zebras will obviously talk to us, as in the radio commercial, and there will SURE AS HELL BE PANDAS THERE. That might or might not give hugs.

I didn't question these assumptions, though, of course, I recognize now they might have been overly optimistic. I didn't care how many Xanax they had to give the Wild Animals to induce such a level of touchable, cuddly tameness. All I knew was I wanted in. Badly.

Luckily, my husband gets just as hot and bothered about the idea of a safari as I do. And sure, Elan and Ariel would probably like it too. After all, they are a little creature-obsessed. Ariel tells me he simply cannot wait to see lions. No, wait, the leopard. No, no, not the generic leopard, he wants to see a jaguar. HE TAKES IT BACK. It's the puma he's been waiting for all his life!

My sister-in-law is floored: "A puma is a real animal? Not just a shoe?"
"If one of my boys says it, trust it, my dear."

We've got the Discovery channel in all its 50-inch, plasma-screened, high-definition glory, after all.*

When Y says what the hell, screw work, let's go, I'm ecstatic.

We borrow my mother-in-law's minivan, which is just about the most luxurious ride I know. It comes stocked with a DVD player, which I'm avidly against for shorter rides but am counting on to occupy Ariel for the two and a half hour, holiday-weekend trek into Escondido.

No good. Why would he watch Dakota Fanning in Dreamer when he can alternate professions of love for his mother with are we there yets for the entire 150 minutes? According to my Freud-quoting, prescription-wielding father-in-law, Ariel's deep into the Oedipal stage and way ahead of the curve in terms of when. And while he may find this phenomenally interesting, I am generally quite embarrassed by my son's vehement denials of my marriage to Y and insistence that we peck on the lips at least every once in awhile. A little too embarrassed to be proud of how mature he is.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the physical love, I eat most of it up, and this kid is as cuddly as they come. But seriously? One day he suddenly noticed a framed picture of Y and I looking into each other's eyes at our wedding, and he burst into tears.

I bring this up because he's been clinging to me lately like white on rice and yesterday was no exception. And the lines were insanely long, the crowds near impossible, and while it's a pretty zoo and all, it's really nothing special - neither in terms of how close you could get to the animals (not very) and the variety of species there (um, mostly rhinos, and, natch, 2.4 million antelope).

And I could not so much as use the ladies' room without company in the stall because Ariel found any and all absences of mine to be grounds for an earth-shattering downpour of tears, accompanied by an extremely dramatic My mo-o-o-mmy LEFTED me! And Y just didn't deserve suspicious stares from strangers on his day off.

Luckily, provided Ariel and I were skin-to-skin, the kids had a marvelous time and Elan didn't seem notice that the Special Zoo was Nothing Special. On the contrary, he declared it the best he'd ever seen, and the ear-to-ear grin plastered to his face as we left would have justified a far pricier entrance fee.

Ariel, whose name means Lion (of G-d) in Hebrew, deriving from the Germanic Leo (Y's late grandfather's name was Leonard), was, as he'd warned, especially keen on the cats. The lions there spend most of their time lazing on the roof of a rusty old Jeep (ruining any real photo op), and Ariel called out to them from the safety of my embrace: "Hey, big lion! I'm a lion too, because my name means Lion! It's Aryell! My daddy even told me! I'm not scared of you because I am the same as you!"

Having foregone his daily nap, said little one nodded off in the rented stroller as we headed for the exit. We passed the Lion Camp once more on our way out, and just as I was thinking about how annoying it was going to be to have to reach into the backseat (to hold Ariel's hand) for the duration of the car ride home, a small informational sign caught my eye:

Did you know?
- That a lion cub clings to his mother for the first two years of its life?

I nudged Y and pointed. "Well, that should make you feel better," he laughed.
"It does, I guess," I only half-joked. "Except...Well, isn't ours going on three?"

*For another post, working title: How the Impulse-Purchase of a 50-Inch Plasma Television and HD Cable Service Can Seriously Threaten an Otherwise Solid Marriage.

By Nature of Comparison

2007-05-20T09:57:00.000-07:00

In general, child comparison makes me ill. When mothers of kids the same age get together, it seems to be natural instinct for many of them to size up another's kid in relation to their own. You can kind of see the wheels in their heads turning feverishly, taking notes, as they shoot all kind of questions at the mother of the short, round-faced competition:

How old was she when she started walking?
How long as he been talking like that?
When's his birthday?

I get that last one a lot lately. Ariel's quite the little comprehensive chatterbox, and his verbal aptitude became plainly apparent to the other parents in the class at his Passover recital. Basically, the other kids sat silent in their parent's laps while mine sang and shouted the entire program, word-for-word, in two languages. It was a little embarrassing, actually, because suddenly all of these moms and dads who'd barely spoken a word to me the entire year were positively staring at me, Ariel, and then in turn, their own children, some sucking contentedly on pacifiers and bottles.

The class recital turned into The Ariel Show, and I've been getting the questions ever since at morning drop-off.
Did you practice the play at home?
No.
Oh.
When's his birthday? Is he three yet?
September.
Oh.

I hate it. It's stupid and awkward and I don't know why these mothers insist on having The Comparison Conversation. They don't even do it casually by talking to me about anything else. They just look at Ariel, look at me, and launch into the "When's his birthday?" nary a Good morning! lead-in.

And it makes me supremely uncomfortable. All kids are different, develop different skills at different rates, and, (serious developmental-delay issues aside,) I think they generally all catch up to one another eventually. And even if they don't. So the heck what? No good can come of
that When's his birthday?

I back out of these discussions, of those mothers' penetrating looks, as quickly as possible, and with no reciprocal questions, with an excuse about having to get to work. And I try to never indulge in the comparison thing myself.

Except...

Except when it comes to obedience. Because although I wouldn't trade my kids for the world, and although they are generally as well-behaved as most people expect from boys their ages, I do occasionally wish Elan and Ariel considered my demands of them more than polite suggestion. More than mere recommendations that they could also - in equal measure of both importance and likelihood - simply ignore.

With other children, parents and teachers, my kids are lambs and never doubtful of rank or authority. But I, apparently, don't pose much of a threat to them. Good and bad, I suppose.

Mostly bad. I think I'm a bit of a joke to them. A lovable joke, but funny nonetheless. I guess I kind of expect more.

So a week ago, we were invited to eat shabbos dinner with a family in the community who is quite famous for their ten-going-on-eleven perfectly behaved children (nine of whom are boys). And not perfectly-behaved in a freakish sort of manner - these children are just delightful and friendly, yet kind, polite, and helpful. Like, every day. In every situation.

I had to see it to believe it. And see it I did: at dinner, seven boys (two weren't home) and one little girl sat lined up neatly at the table, the older ones helping the younger fill their plates & clean up spills, others making trips to and from the kitchen with their mother to serve soup and clear at the meal's end.

There was - G-d's honest truth - NO fighting. NO teasing. NO rib-poking, NO climbing under the table to remove guests' shoes and tickle their feet (that is, except for Ariel. I was extremely proud, as you can imagine). As we ate, they told their parents about school, about their friends. They made jokes. But not one picked on another.

I was in shock. Elan was almost completely silent throughout the night - which isn't really unusual for him in an unfamiliar setting - but that night he did a lot of staring. He watched the other children steadily with an open-mouthed, dumbfounded expression, as if they were a zoo exhibit (or a new Caillou episode).

The next day, I was telling our lunch company that it was true, that those kids really were as amazing as their reputation, that I had no idea how their parents did it.

"I've seen them at shul, the dad's not real critical or anything," a friend added.
"He doesn't have to be!" I marveled. "Those children do the right thing because they want to! They're happy and everything, not beaten into submission."
"It's gotta have something to do with genetics."
"Yeah, but combined with stellar parenting, I think."
"Those two should at least write a book! When you've got an anomaly like that..."

At some point during the conversation, Elan sidled up next to me, and stood there, listening to every word, my arm wrapped subconsciously around his shoulders. When the topic shifted to something else, he turned to me and said, for my ears only, with a big smile:

"I know what you're flinking. You're flinking you WANT those kids!"

"Oh, Elan," I sighed. "I don't want any kids instead of you. But I do want you to ACT like those kids, maybe just sometimes. Would that be so hard?"
"When we were there, at their house, I just stared-ed at them the whole night," he replied, surprising me with precocious self-awareness. "I just couldn't stop looking at them."
"Yeah, I noticed. Why was that?"
"I was just feeuling shy. I didn't know them."

Or anything like them, I thought.

When, on Friday, Elan covered Ariel in mud - I'm talking head-to-toe, caked-in-the-ears-scalp-and-nostril covered - I did a fair amount of hollering, then sent him to his room for a well-deserved time-out, followed by a bath. As I helped him undress, utterly frustrated, I sighed again. You need to level with Elan, rather than criticize, so I decided to let him know how I felt.

"Elan, when I tell you not to do something, I'm not trying to take away the fun in your life. I'm just trying to make you a better person. You're a very good person, but as your mommy, my job is to try and make you even better, all the time."

As usual, he didn't appear to have been listening, but at this remark he met my eyes suddenly.

"Better like those kids at that house we ate at last week?"

Wow. Did I need to be careful. I caught myself.

"Nope. Just like you, but better behaved. That's all."
"K."

That night, all I could think was: When is his birthday? When's his birthday? Is he three yet? Did you practice at home?