do all the things??

With thanks to Hyperbole and a Half, and if you are scratching your head right now, stop and go read this. No, really - I'll wait.

So, if I have a fault as a parent (what, me fault? cue the cackling children), it's my love of projects. Oh, I do love me some projects, possibly seventeen or so at a time. So we trip off happily to the yarn store, and find yarn to teach the child crochet. Or fabric, because we're going to teach the child sewing. And, in each case, we shall create marvels, and it shall be good.

Also? It will take so long to complete some of these marvels, whose marvellousness will expand and origami itself as the child gains competence and understanding of the technical skills needed for the project, that (deep inhale, cripes this sentence is running amok) the kid will lose interest. And I will end up pushing, because inevitably, that project was to be their grandmother's 60th birthday present, or a friend's birthday present two freakin' years ago or, or, or.

And then we both hate the project, snarl at it and each other, and stomp off. Until the next project shows up.

(sigh)

And then we'll do it all over again. Because for a brief, shining moment early in the whole project trajectory, the kid has an idea. The mama backs him up. There's a special trip to the store that sells the supplies, and we romp through it like selective magpies, falling in love with all of the shiny possibilities. We collect endless project idea cards and handouts, and gaze at them and a possible future of creative wonderfulness. And I take pictures like this one, which leave me damp of eye and proud.

That's my grandmother's sewing machine, schlepped to the country by my mother, and used (infamously) to make the Eldest's siddur cover.  And that earnest face? Well, it don't help us kick the habit, is all I'm saying. In fact, it's rather irresistible...

Note for the perceptive:
The buddy-taping in the photo is more or less for the reason you think - at the time, the kid had a bleed in the joint of his middle finger. It was a beeyoutiful shade of reddish purple, and worthy of admiration at the dinner table. Which is, of course, where I noticed it and inquired as to cause, duration and all of those finicky details. My hand? asked the child, surprised. And looked. Oh! Wow! the Eldest exclaimed, and seemed honestly surprised. That hurts!  Across the table from him, I nearly choked on my tea. And it really is purple!

Sometimes, the hard part about being a parent is the urge to howl with laughter - and not being able to do anything of the sort.

Note the second:
The kid is, of course, fine. And my diaphragm is still recovering.

a pattern's tale

So, I might have mentioned that I have this kid, and he's oh, himself. Except when he's in training to be the class clown, and then he's a caricature of That Kid. But mostly, he's himself. See?

Hm. Maybe if you got closer. Try this:

Better? Okay, then. Let's take it from the top: I have this kid. And he is...himself.

Hm. Still not right. How about if we back up narratively?

Every year, 'round about the winter holidays, I frog-march the boys over to the idea of their teachers. And saying 'thank-you.' Happily, the kids have needed little explanation as to why the first should go with the second, although the degree and quality of the thanks has needed some guidance. And, the 'say a really nice thank-you, because your teacher works her educator's tush off extra hard for you' is not a line that I can use. It may be true, but that's not a weight the kid can carry.  Which, as I say to the teachers each year, is why I intend to smile very very quietly, when my kids complain to me about their children. And carefully not say anything at all.

But back to the photos. Right, so there's this kid. Or possibly, kids. And each year, they say thanks. In our house, we do it with our time and hands, and sometimes, with our oven. Last year, the boys made sparklies, and a dry mix for By the Bay's fabulous cholent. Another year, they made a still-talked about ooh, yum granola bar, which the Toddles delivered in what was an act of ruthless appreciation (on my part, perhaps, more than on his). This year? This year, we went for fuzzy.

After watching me curl up with a creation of soft yumminess by the Space Cadet, the boys began to show glimmers of interest in the bags that I (occasionally - only very occasionally! honest!) bring into the house. I let them choose the yarn for their next kipa, and then, I brought them to the yarn store. For the Toddles, it was heaven: he could touch anything (gently). He could take anything off the shelf (one at a time). And everyone in the store wanted to hear what he thought. (no, really. everyone.)  The Eldest came to the store with more skepticism, and was seduced by the yarn - and oh, Mummy the colors! and why is this one softer than the other one? and why does the yarn change colors like that - how do they make it change - and why is this one twirled around itself? and then it's thicker here, and stringy like that - there?

Oh, said the Eldest. Yes, I would like to pick out a skein. For me? For a kipa? We spent over an hour at the yarn store, that day, and he finally chose a dark navy, generously flecked with orange, red, green and yellow. It made a lovely, stretchy kipa, with a curving trim of red sari silk yarn, and both of us were surprisingly accepting when his father accidentally felted it in the dryer. After all, we knew where it came from.

So, the fuzzies. And so, the boys.  I'll do a row if you do a row, I promised them, and the Toddles leaped right in. He chose a ball of yarn, and happily finger-stitched a row of chain stitches. Chose a second ball, did five finger-stitches, wandered off, and refused to be lured back. Ever.

The Eldest watched this burst of enthusiasm with a degree of fairly accurate skepticism. I dangled the offer. Any yarn you like, love. And watched him think it over. Remember. Crumble. And grin.

He started with a chain stitch, done with his fingers. It was loose, then too tight, and I hovered - then got smart, and shut up. You don't have to stitch in each spot unless you want to, a wise friend reminded me. And I didn't. Without my dangling over him, the kid looped, pulled, and let the yarn teach him how it worked. His stitches grew tighter - too tight - and he asked for a crochet hook. Then a smaller one. Then, a different stitch.

And so it went. His row, my row, his row, my row. We told stories of the teachers, as he looped yarn into their gift. She's really funny, but sometimes? sometimes she puts her head like this, and then you know that she's thinking about whether she's mad. He paused. I grinned. What do you do then? I asked. The kid wound some more yarn around his hand, and looked up. I keep going, he said. Which is probably how I get into trouble.


I nodded.

A skein for each teacher - and sometimes, a skein and a stripe. It took hours. And hours. A lot of it was rich with a quiet mellowness, and with stories.  Some of it wasn't, like the day when I sent him - spitting mad - to his room. He went, still hissing, then came down the hall to mine. Curled up on the bed, and watched me crochet. May I? Just a few stitches? I passed the yarn over, and let the rhythms of his stitches sink into his bones. It makes quiet in my head, he told me. And smiled. Thanks, Mummy. 

And then there were the days of the bitching and moaning. NOW??? But I'm in the middle of - but I'm about to - but I really want to -  and, of course, I can't do twenty stitches! It takes FORE-EV-AH!  And then, inevitably, there was this:

I'm done? Oh my gosh that was the last stitch - right, Mum? - thatwasitthatwasitthatwasitIDIDIT!

And he began to dance. The next day, I took photos, wrapped and wrote out washing instructions, while the kid made cards:   thank you for being my teacher.

The tough-as-nails teacher looked up from her card - at me. Thanks, Mom! she said. I laughed. Oh, no,  I said. I didn't do it. He did.  And I pointed. She looked. Really? you did this? she asked, and the Eldest nodded, earnestly. You knitted me - this?  He shook his head. No, he explained, I crocheted it.  And he began to point, to show her stitches - and she began to understand. Really? another teacher said, carefully quiet. She pulled photos from her envelope, and saw the Eldest, wielding his hook - she looked up, over the edge of the photos, and saw the Eldest, explaining his stitches to his still-fearsome teacher. Oh, she said. And laughed. Oh, oh, oh.

The tough-as-nails teacher melted into a puddle, and the others laughed from sheer pleasure. My scarf is prettier than yours, you know, said one, later that day. And I can't prove it, but I'm positive that she grinned. The other one probably tossed her head. No way, she retorted. Mine is. And wore it again the next day, just to prove the point.

As for me? Well, you know how I love those visual metaphors. The first, raggedly steps, the rebellions, the learning and the carelessness. The enthusiasm of the too-tight stitches, and the fat reliable stitches of the learned skill. But hey, the learning curve in yarn is pretty damned nice - and fuzzy - but it was beaten all hollow by the things I didn't catch on film. Like his teachers' faces, when they saw in their gifts the hours of patient work. Like the kid's face, when he was hugged, melted upon and given the gift of giving something that was joyfully received.

a few loops of yarn - and new FA guidelines!

It's been a long day or three, despite a sunlit 40 minutes today with Nicole Snow's yummy recycled (and fair trade!) sari yarn. It's a slim, pleasantly random mix of fibers from sari fabrics, and is obligingly turning into a toddler's hat. Or so I hope.

(For those of you who are interested, I'm adapting one of the free Lion's Brand patterns, this one for the Elfin Baby hat. I've corkscrewed the hat's tail, and am using half double crochet instead of single, to accommodate the yarn's tendency to twist. The stitch count is still 1:1, even with my changes, although I added a chain of 15 to the initial chain stitches to make the corkscrewed tail.)

Eventually, though, I had to put down the yarn and go be a parent. Not that my efforts in this direction were terribly appreciated today, but alas, the Eldest was due to find some way to balance the wonderfulness of the parent-teacher conference.

Even so? oy.

So here I am, procrastinating on a last bit of editing that I need to do, and grumping. And, with a hat tip to Jenn, I ended up doing some verrrry dry reading in the place of the much less dry editing. But oh, worthwhile. The National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases has released the new guidelines for the identification of allergies and their management. At last, a set of best practices for diagnosis - testing! standardized! finally! - and allergy management. Although I do note the deft ducking of the really tricky management questions, about outside of the home or clinic, still, ya gotta respect the rest of it.

Here's the summary, in tidy poster form. And the Wall Street Journal's article, with my favorite quote, It's especially hard to pinpoint a true food allergy in young children with eczema, since they make IgE antibodies to many foods. "If you did 100 food tests, all 100 would be positive. That's what we see from patients coming in from around the country," says David Fleischer, an assistant professor of pediatrics at National Jewish Health in Denver, which specializes in allergy and respiratory diseases.

Damn straight.

I did note that the NIAID's recommendations for managing anaphylaxis reaction seems to have removed antihistamine from the list of first response options for patients and parents, explaining that The use of antihistamines is the most common reason reported for not using epinephrine and may place a patient at significantly increased risk for progression toward a life-threatening reaction. Hm. Looks like it's time to put a call in to our allergy team, and to ask them if we should update the boys' allergy action plans...

quiet in the head

I'm entangled with yarn today, and the warm - almost ruthlessly warm - sunshine is falling just so, through the windows and onto me, the yarn, and the bowl of browned butter-and-edamame garlic pasta. Or, rather, what's left of the pasta - the boys, who loudly bowled out the door not five minutes ago, ate most of it.

(heh)

Wait - what? Oh. Yes, I left you in the middle of a story. A hike was about to happen, I know, I know. And oh, yes. Sorry - when I left you, the Eldest wasn't eating things like butter. There was this dairy allergy (and a few others). Um. Well, look: here's the deal.

Blogs die when people stop writing them. They stutter, look sad, pop up with the odd, apologetic, oh I'm so sorry I miss my blog post, stutter - and stop. Mine stopped, waiting for me to finish the next part of the story. And life burbled around me, asking me to write about it - and always, to write about it now.

But I'm about to go hiking! I told life.

Life snorted, and tried not to roll its eyes. But now, said life, you are making crystallized ginger. See? Isn't it wonderful and yummy? Doesn't the warmth of it unfold on your tongue? And now, the Toddles is being alarming and splendid and razing your ideas of parenthood all over again, showing you why he was obsessively playing with those number flashcards. Oh, and did he just explain negative numbers to you? Now is full. Write now.

And do it - well, you know.

Oh, I said to life. I will. Just as soon as I finish this other thing...and you know the end of that story.

So, yes. I will take you hiking with us, up the volcano - and into it. I will show you a net and a boy and a biologist, and I'll explain about the dairy that came back and the boy who silently built webs of numbers. But today, there is yarn.

It's one of my favorite yarns, the Mochi Plus Yarn, in the Neptune Rainbow - a swirl of green-to-blue-to-purple, soft and silky. I used it once, to make a kipa for the Toddles. He loved it, and it lasted only long enough for me to learn not to wash wool in hot water. (ouch.)

But today's work isn't a kipa, and it isn't really mine. With the crisp Thanksgiving weather outside, Chanuka is coming. And that means, the boys and I working to make some gift for their teachers. We talked a bit, explored a bit, and then I made them a deal: for every row that you do, I'll do one as well.

Okay, they said. And dove into my stash, choosing a yarn for each teacher. The Toddles chain-stitched a row, tossed it to me, grabbed a second ball of yarn - and made all of eight stitches before disappearing to soothe himself with some Lego. The Eldest, however, glared. He moaned. He bitched. And then, he was quiet.

He smiled. Forwent a grin. Finished a row, and reached for a second ball of yarn. The next day, he would be sent upstairs after shrieking at his brother for oh, goodness knows what. He'd find me, hiding in my room, working on my part of the bargain. He'll curl up in my bed, pick up a random ball of yarn, and chain-stitch for a while.

It makes quiet in my head, he'll tell me. And I'll understand perfectly.

It does, indeed.

too...many...posts... (and Purim)

I'm burbling with posts that are half-written, not-written, and seeping slowly, determinedly, towards the keyboard. But while I'm wrestling with ways to talk about what, exactly, is manipulation, or the NPV in relation to oh, allergy tests? People's interest in sneering at allergy tests? Prodding them thoughtfully to see if they deflate? Given that it took me a full hour and much muttering to write a sensible comment, I'm going to wimp out...and just slap down a photo post.

So, happy belated Purim! Below are the boys, fierce in their costumes as Moltres (a feathered, yellow Pokemon who gives of flames) and a pirate. See? fierce?

okay, maybe more like, sheeesh, MOM, just take the PICture alREADY. Try this one:


fiercer, right? Taking grr, boy pictures appears to be an art - and one that lends itself very very well to the blurry photo, aka the photo that is designed to show action, momentum and the vibrancy of the kid who didn't politely hold still. Oh, well.

Neither, as it happens, did their brains. And if you've not yet had the pleasure of researching pirate couture with your preschooler, allow me to recommend the experience. According to the Toddles, pirates havehats, Mum. Red hats. With white stripes - but the white stripes have to have red in them, too. And treasure maps. The treasure maps were tricky, but the eyepatch was easily faked. And, having discovered the joys of descending numbers of stitches, i used the same trick to make Vulcan points on the Eldest's hat. In the theory that these points were avian, of course. Because - did I mention? - we've turned into one of those irritating crafty homes. It was inevitable, the Man said, soothingly. You've always been the sort of person who likes to do things herself.

Yes. But in my defense, crocheting a hat is, apparently, much like pickling: it's a big, fat, no freakin' way could this be so easy! Two hours or so later, aargh, said I, pirate hat in hand, but it is. And oh, yes, it is also danged cute. See?

Details? Alas for you all, I'm delighted to offer some.

I used the pattern from here, on the grounds that it did not require more than an active neuron or two, nor did it require much time: with two chunky yarns wound together, this was a quick hat to make.

The Toddles' hat pattern also made the Eldest's flaming Moltres head - sans flames. Many thanks to magid, whose timely advice saved me from the perils of hyperbolic crocheting. Instead, I merely doubled or tripled the number of stitches per row, which is totally different, if only because it doesn't have that unnervingly mathematical name. My fibonacci'd stitches hung on chains of twisting, feathery thread, the elegant version of which would look more or less like this.

Or, in my case, like this:
I'm going to spare you the details of the Eldest's flaming, ribbonned wings, not because I have any mercy on the subject, but because I'm tired. And I am, for once, going to sleep. Where I shall doubtless dream of grinning pirates (with secret, hidden fire-wing-maps sewn into their pirate vest pockets) and swooping, laughing feathered boys....

an omission

for those of you who pointed out (quietly) that I'd omitted something in the covering posts, my apologies. I did.

I forgot the kid! 

Phooey on the crafty, back-patting stuff, the real point is the kid himself. Who looked me in the eye during chol hamoed (the interim days between the sabbath-like parts of the holiday) and said, you know, Mum, I usually daven [pray] in the mornings. While I looked both astonished and abashed, he fetched his siddur from the bookcase and began to sing.

Oh, my.

I have a sudden and horrible feeling that I should consider repeating this siddur cover, and making a simpler one for him to use at home. But - holy freakin' moses - that would mean making one for the Toddles, also, because summer is coming and that means I'll be standing guard over the daily davening times and then agkflgmandib

Editor's note: this post was terminated in haste, due to an unexpected fracturing of mental processes. Please pardon our appearance while we conduct repairs. Also, while we de-Passover the kitchen.

covering ideas: Part Two

I think I have appalled myself.

when an Imperfect falls on his/her face, someone helps them up. 

okay, leaving the regrettable grammatical knot aside (political correctness don't come cheap, ya know), that sentence has been echoing in my head, making me wince. I winced while writing it, winced and hit "publish" fast, before I could try to rewrite it a seventh time, and winced long after I'd shut the computer down. 

That's arrogance, that is. That's self-satisfied smugness. That deserves a zetz upside the head, it does. And oh, does it humble me.

For months now, we've specialized in being the proud possessors of just a little too much life to catch our breath. The siddur cover (your kid, the rabbi, the Divine and a book) declined to linger on the sidelines, and jumped right in to the Mike madness. While we bumbled through fabric stores and learned about such arcana as fusible webbing, bobbins and presser feet, the dryer declined to be fixed (a position it would maintain through Passover), the doctors refused to be pinned down, bosses to accept mere mortal limitations, and computers, well, alas the damn thing just sniggered, whiffed and shuffled off this mortal coil, not having completed its initial mozy download. So who had time to dogpaddle? Occasionally, we stuck our noses above water, if only to reacquaint ourselves with the idea of oxygen.

In the middle of the swirling, flaming chaos, the siddur cover was an oddly quiet space. I couldn't run while sewing. I couldn't email, blog, edit or just talk on the phone while stitching, nor during the hour-long drive to a hemo-mommy with mad sewing skills. But I could listen to the radio, and I discovered (yes, finally) NPR. And WTKK's Monica Crowley show, which I'll happily endorse as being just the thing for an overtired liberal to listen to during a long, late, late night drive home. She's Patrick Henry in a miniskirt. She told me so herself - and given that, how could I not listen?

Oh, but those were punchy, punchy days. Speckled by quiet hours with only a small amount of snarling over misplaced stitches. What you do is beautiful, my tea informed me. And I hoped like hell it was right. It will be beautiful, a friend informed me, sternly. He will love it. I hung on to that and muttered happily over my embroidery hoop. Upstairs, the Man hummed to himself, sketching micrographia for the bookplate.

Of course things went wrong. Sewing machine needles broke. At 10.30 pm, the night before the thing was due. I handed in a column, and laughed at my own gall. Purim came, giggled at us, and kindly left again. The Man and I fled to the Happiest Place on Earth for a training session, and oh yes, there were preschools. Many, many preschools, parading past my glazing eyes. And did I mention the Mikes? Yep. And of course, things went right. It takes a village to be this Imperfect, and I'm damned if I know when they all showed up. But oh, thank you thank you.

The morning of the ceremony, I screeched into the school office and handed it over. Done. I joined the rest of the parents and shared tissues while the kids sang bits of the morning davening (prayers), and explained them to us. They looked astonished and delighted as the teachers wheeled in the bookcase of siddurim, and with a flourish, handed them out. The Man and I watched the children and glowed. Damply.

The rabbi was right, of course. The Eldest hugged his siddur, and we only barely peeled it out of his arms at feeding times. By the end of the day, the bookmark was spotted with something oily, and there was ink on the spine. And a plastic cover, applied (as per the school's recommendation) to help the siddur survive all that love. 

The plastic, while wise, didn't exactly encourage decent photography, but this might give you an idea:

Tiny details entertained and pleased us, and the Eldest loved discovering them: the seven dark green knots on the Tree of Life, the echoes of the front and back covers, the tiny almost-emu and not-quite wombat, the embroidery threads in the colors of the prophet's robes, used for this wee fellow:
Yep, a tiny prophet. Echoing his more dramatic buddy, he stands with one hand on the Tree of Life, and the other hand holding his staff. Taking notes, you see, because his turn will come. 

We wish for you, we wrote to the Eldest, that you will hold on to the Tree of our family's traditions, and grow with it. And that you will use these pages to see the wonder in the world, and the gifts that God gave in creating it - and you. The prayers in this book are a way to connect with God...and those who treasure those connections may find paths open in unexpected ways..."

You are that unexpected path, we didn't tell the Eldest. But we didn't need to. He hung on to his siddur, examining it, delighted and fascinated, and told us just how much he loved...

...the bookmark.

***************************

Four days later, triumphant and now trying to catch up with myself, I climbed into the car. Early morning, time to go to school. The boys were dressed, fed, brushed (erm) and bagged behind me. I'd even remembered their buckles.  I put my hands on the steering wheel and promptly fell asleep. Scraped my eyelids open, and peered at the windshield. Fell asleep.  Scraped the eyelids open, rummaged around for something to yell at the kids about, in the theory that being pissed off might wake me up. Fell asleep. Gave up, and hauled the astonished children back into the house, supplied them with books and train tracks, and fell asleep on the futon. 

You are being an idiot, a friend told me, and watched me scrabble the shredded bits of myself together. I was being an idiot. And Passover was coming....

covering ideas: Part One

There are few things more terrifying than a piece of blank paper.

Except, perhaps, a meeting in which a rabbi informs a group of type A (type AA, type AAA) parents that they have five? weeks to sew a cover for their child's siddur. 

sew?

Program, yes. Opine, certainly. Perform molecular analysis, no worries. Sew? Around the table, intelligentsia began to twitch. Oh, said the rabbi, but we will not judge your parenting by whether or not you produce high art. As people began, minutely, to relax - he produced some.

Siddur after sample siddur gleamed at us, rich with thought and craft and, yes, a degree of skill. There was applique, silk-screening, embroidery and photographs, and and and and quietly, parents began hunting for paper bags. In, out, in, out. To hyperventilate is to lose face. A flurry of details followed, falling past our ears as we checked to see who looked calm. Then we checked to see if the rabbi was chuckling evilly. He wasn't.

The children would receive their siddurim at a ceremony for their class, said the earnest (and non-cackling) rabbi, celebrating their study of t'fila, or prayer. It would be a sweet and serious little event, he explained, and the children will fall in love with their siddur - in large part because of the cover.

Oh, repeated the rabbi for the third, fourth, fifth time, but this is not a test of your parenting. 

Um. No. Clearly not.

Except yes. On the one hand, a parent said ruefully, you have your child. On the other hand, you have God. How could this be a time to phone it in?

And there we were, me able to messily darn a hole, turn out a wavy - but enthusiastic - hem, and a blank page.

But then there were fabrics, textured and oh yes, from the bargain rack at the local mega-craft place.

And there were ideas. An alarming number of ideas, actually, unlimited by our ability to execute them, but what the hell? God. Parenting. Kid. Parents running amok was pretty much guaranteed, and I do so hate to not meet expectations.

and so, the pages filled.

We could have constructed something that would describe the Eldest - his love of sports, his conviction that endangered species can be saved by him. Or possibly by Obama. This is a gift to your child, and a way to personalize the siddur, the rabbi had explained. 

We could have designed something that would describe our family, and our values, reinforcing the Eldest's place in it. This ceremony is about mesorah, we had been told, which means tradition, if not Jewish tradition. And how could it be otherwise? The siddur is a book of prayers: in giving it, we give our child a text that has grown from the prayers of Jews before him. And we give the child a suggestion: use it.

Or we could have built something that describes the Eldest as we hope he will be, combining mesorah and his quirky, splendid self into, oh, whatever he will become. And what an opportunity that offered, to daydream about who we'd want our child to be! But also, how silly. Whatever the Eldest will become, is not something that we can really predict. He will be himself. So why pretend we can foresee that?

You can count on the Imperfects to take a simple project and tip it over the edge. We sat and planned and talked - and I loved it. I loved the quiet hoping for the Eldest's future (because we do indulge), and the debates over what we thought best represented our traditions, our child, us. And we laughed ourselves silly over jokes funny only to the very overtired. 

Worth every hour I spent muttering and getting lost on the way to fabric stores - and I hate, hate, hate getting lost. In the dark. On little, branching highways. (aaaaargh, by the way)

Slowly, things took shape: 

If we are idiots about building a manageable project, happily we are also idiots with friends. It's almost a rule: when an Imperfect falls on his/her face, someone helps them up. Why? I have no idea. But thank heavens, because we are idiots. Frequently.

The siddur cover could have been a private joy, held close to ourselves as we worked. But hey, it's us. It surprised me to to find that, as possessive as I felt, watching friends join us in constructing and celebrating the Eldest was part of the gift of this project. We needed the offered hands, partly because, you know - the idiot thing - but also because a caring and right-on-your-doorstep community is part of our mesorah. Damn, but when the universe nudges an Imperfect, it's got to give a solid shove, no?

And so, friends called to cheer us on, and to listen to me wail. My grandmother's sewing machine turned up, escorted by a breathless and delighted Grandmere. I eyed the thing dubiously. How does it work? I asked. She blinked at me. I have no idea, I was informed. I was hoping you'd show me. Oh. 

A fellow hemo-mommy offered her home - and her machine - and I watched the pieces of our life come together as she sewed. So silly, the boundaries that we draw, I mused, and promptly burned myself on the iron.

Things went wrong. Things went right. While the Mikes whistled happily and we talked the Toddles out of toilet training (no washer, no underwear), people encouraged, volunteered, shared materials and ideas. Until hours of shared work, late nighttime hours, a pair of crucial working playdates and one stitch & bitch later, we were looking at something.

It's beautiful, I whispered to the Man. I'm a little scared of it.

The Man looked at the tree and smiled. I can't wait to see the rest.

Oh, right. That.

music and practice: a review

My latest article is in, and in the thirty seconds between getting paid and seeing the money disappear into much-needed practical things, look what I found!

Oooh, ooh, ooh.

It's a good thing that I don't really have enough time on my hands to e-browse, let alone e-shop (or, alas, enough time to really e-blog) because our budget just couldn't take it. Still. Check out the tent by Haba - I love the Haba approach to children's toys, their colors and materials and shapes, and the tent is a winner. Unless, of course, you don't have over $100 to spend on such a thing, in which case you might try the Imperfect approach: buy a few yards of gauzy, lightweight stuff at your local discount fabric store, cut it up and get a friend to serge the edges, and drape that over things. Voila! tent. Or, redrape and voila! a cape. Or voila! a ballgown for the local Cinderella. You should, of course, explain that Cinderellas have to wash floors before they become princessly. Me, I have a nice, dirty floor you can use for the purpose.

And even so, oooh oooh oooh.

****************
Before the Chanuka shopping fest started, my children were deep in a compare-and-contrast also known as the Battle of the Jewcapella CDs. We have a certain fondness for a capella music (known to the Toddles as 'rockapella music!' for the first a'capella group he heard, Rockapella . One trip to Canada later, the boys were imitating the percussion in BOJAC, a.k.a. the best of Jewish a capella. The Toddles became firmly attached to 'Peanut Butter Shalom' (also known as Hiney Ba Ha-Shalom - wikipedia, where art thou?), and the Eldest was fascinated by Beat'achon's competitive singing in their L'cha Dodi.. Zina's other half laughed over 'Good Night Sweetheart,' yiddishe style. All good.

There's a particular void being filled here, as it happens. The Eldest, as an attendee of a Jewish school and as a happy shul-goer, gets a range of the sights and sounds of Judiasm outside of the house. The Toddles, as an attendee of Mummy-school, and as a non-shul goer (consider what children snack on. Now, shudder with me), has not this advantage. And yes, he sees the Eldest and the man wearing kippot (keeping kosher is invisible to him - he's too young to understand the choices being made in his feeding), and yes, I sing parts of the davening (services) on friday nights and shabbat or yom tov (holiday) mornings with him, but he hasn't got an awareness that singing these songs, or doing those things can be a communal, or group affair. His Judaism is in a bubble, and Judaism - as we practice it - is a tripartite business: personal, familial and communal. So a CD of this sort is great, as is the little book of Jewish holidays that we have (etc, etc, etc), to help crack the Toddles' world a little farther open.

I say this and worry about it, but when asked to show what makes shabbat special, I must admit that the Eldest drew a set table, lit candles and his family eating "yummy fish, rice, rice bread and salad." So maybe I shouldn't be so quick to discount the in-home aspects. Still.

Regardless, encouraged (and facing a long drive to Super Happy Fun Camp), we branched out to this.

Listening, immediately it is clear that you've wandered into a different corner of Yiddishkeit. Instead of 'shabbat,' you have the more yiddish-style 'shabbos.' Anglo or modern Hebraic-crisp 'o' sounds are now more yiddish 'oy's, and there's a greater tendency to inject soulful whining into the melody. (We were especially fascinated by the greater tendency for the singers to use nasal tones, and couldn't quite figure out why.) Still, the recording has some gems.

Beat'achon's Kah Ribon was a favorite, and "fun! I like dis!" said the Toddles of Kol Zimra's rendition of blue fringe's Vayivarech. The Eldest was taken with the strong beat of Jordan & Adam's Uray Vanim, and I grew fond of the two versions of Havdalah by Noah Solomon & Sean Altman.

Still, 'it's boychicks in the hood,' said the Man dismissively, and walked off humming Yehuda!'s Aishes Chayil.

*****************************
Mama's Humming in the Kitchen: a fish in three parts
This super-quick, sweet and tangy fish was a huge hit with my boys, even during a grumpy dinnertime. Serves 3.

3 fillets tilapia or other mild, white-fleshed fish
.25 cup cherry jam (warning: most jams have corn in there somewhere! Look for added sugars, citric acid, etc. I stock up on jams during Pesach, but some of the pricier jams are pure fruit.)
2 Tb ginger jam (see above warning)
1 tsp vegetable oil

Spray a baking pan, and set the oven to 350F.

Lay fillets in the pan. In a small bowl, mix remaining ingredients, then spread on top of fish. Bake until white in center and gently flaking - about 6-8 minutes.

Optional: our jam had whole, pitted cherries in it, and they were soft and delicious. You could try soaking dried cherries in hot water for 5 minutes, then adding them to the jam mixture for a similar effect.
Haven't got cherry jam? Try pomegranate jam - you are balancing the spark of the ginger jam with a sweet, full bodied flavor, so avoid the acidity of raspberry or strawberry, and try something else. Another option is to use a sweet marmalade, and have a ginger orange fish. If you do that, consider adding orange slices to the fish before cooking!

I tell a tale of a blue rhino..

Well, the Eldest continues to be one of the coolest kids I know: he's doing origami! I'd set aside an Usborn kids' origami kit, hauled it to Australia (we'd fold on the plane, right? wrong.), hauled it back (wrong again), and let it moulder in my study.

I pulled it out for our most recent allergy clinic appointment (I already know I'm allergic to eggs, I don't need testing - I don't want testing - no no no no nononononooooooooooooo). It was, happily, a natural extension of the little boy love of complicated paper airplanes, and we happily folded deformed penguins, samurai hats and lopsided houses (I think) until our allergist popped by. Then, we folded jumping frogs while the skin testing was done, and jumped them all around the room while we waited for results. Mine was named Oscar.

And so it began. Today, we drove out to a craft store in Everett to buy more origami paper, and the Eldest talked me into a kit with instructions for folding animals and dinosaurs. I'm such a sucker. We folded mostly-giraffes and nearly headless rhinos, and he glowed.



Two? three? weeks into the origami craze, I foresee a collection of small, papery triumphs. Remembering the Great Airplane Mania of 2006-7, I've made the Eldest promise to share his largess with family and friends. Every third origami folding must leave our home, I told him sternly. Clutching his kit he agreed, but in retrospect wondered if it was okay to mail off my folded works, rather than his own? Sneaky, kid. Very sneaky.

The blue rhino, however, may be here to stay for a while. I wonder if it has a name?

Meanwhile, fear not: the Airplane Mania continues unabated, abetted happily by a certain gentleman with stainless steel knees (or are they titanium?). And the A.M. has found a happy acolyte in the form of the Toddles, who is delighted to throw, if not fold.

********************
A new blog to look at, and a wonderful birth story. The pictures show a woman in labor, and like that woman, they are not shy but are focussed on the matter at hand. And the story? Well, let's just say that this is not the way that most hospitals (and doctors!) work. But maybe they should.