strategic summer snarling

My goal for this month is to wear a mildly humorous, distinctly wry face when asked, so, how's the summer going? Last month, I managed a less than slightly desperate look, and when asked, offered practical demonstrations. Or loan of small children. Over the course of the month, the Giggles learned what his older brother already knew: when the mama has that wild look in the maternal eye, it's a really bad time for small Lego to be underfoot. So tidy up. Tidy it all up.

It is actually possible that the best parenting that I did all month involved time-ins. The Eldest was fined with three days of time-in (a.k.a. helping the mama), and learned to stack dishwashers. His mama-placating strategies took a big jump forward when he shared notes with his fellow inmate, and learned that the Giggles had been instructed in the art of cleaning the dryer's lint filter.

Together, they made a potent team. 

The lads still failed to understand the whole morning, get up and brush teeth and put on clothes business, but hey, they can splash in every single puddle in our perma-construction site of a block. Because they can do the laundry. And they can now eat their weight in fruit, if they like, with a solid 42% childsworth of cheese and corn thins. Because they can wash up.

Well, they can. And will, if there's sufficiently terrifying maternal incentive in front of them. 

i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. i will use my powers for good. starting right after dinner.

puppet, meet clown. clown, meet puppet.

Today's blog post has been brought to you by QG.

Blessed QG, who turned up unexpectedly, having returned from her holiday vacation exactly when she said she would. Somehow, I'd assumed she'd be back at the end of the week, but hey! I never turn down an extra pair of hands in the house.

In her honor, I give you the following two QG-related post-lets
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During winter break, the Eldest, the Toddles and I did our moderate best to keep out of trouble. Near the end of it, we tried puppets.

At $10/ticket, the cost was on the high end for us, but it was a food and drink-free establishment, and winter break was looong this year. Or just felt that way. Even so, we walked in with some trepidation: a few weeks previous, the Toddles and QG had gone to a show meant for preschoolers, and the Toddles had been frightened by a large school group and fled.

We went to the feater, he told me emphatically, an I was scared an I cried. Oh, dear.

Luckily, there's a play theatre-front in the lobby, and a generous box of puppets, QG told me, so the exile from the room of loud kids wasn't too bad. I figured it was worth a shot, paid up (tip: order your tickets in advance! they do sell out), and off we went.

We're going to the feater, the feater, the feater, sang the children en route. And, we're here in the feater, the feater, the feater, sang the children as they settled into their seats. Paul Vincent Davis, nice elderly man with a positively hilarious goatee came out and explained about puppets and clowns and clowns that look like puppets. That's a puppet! said the Toddles, entranced. Shhhh, said his big brother.

The lights went down, and the puppeteer went to work. The Toddles considered briefly and then very clearly said, I want to go out! I want to leave dis place! And so we did, with a nice grandmother offering to keep an eye on the Eldest.

With a curtain between us and the scary dark room with the stage, the Toddles relaxed. We played puppet theatre, and he made his puppets dance. Eventually, armed with a puppy-puppet, he agreed to go back in briefly, To check on my brovver, he informed me. Once in, he was distracted - fear - fascination - fear - silly puppet on a horse - fear - oh, different puppet, and now that one's sweeping up? and this one is...

One round of applause later, the boys went dancing out into the streets with clown noses, courtesy of Brookline's Puppet Showplace Theatre and Mr. Davis.

The grins alone might just have been worth the price of admission.

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The Toddles, bereft of QG (who is after all, far more inclined to play with him than his ever busy mama), spent some time explaining her to me. In this case, I offer a transcript taken down at 2.45 a.m.

(irritating little monster. Doesn't he know that most people like to sleep at this hour?)

waking up: NOOOO NOOOOO NOOOO NOOOO DIAPER. WANT THIS DIAPER. NOOO NOOO NOO NOOOO

considering possibilities: (politely) You give me milk, please?

later, when handed a tissue: the rubbing [of my nose] makes me sick. And then there's a gesudeit [gesundheit/bless you].

pause. I fall down on the stairs. I fall down because I am sad. It was not a good moment. You and Daddy picked me up and I was sad. Fall down on the stairs first me, then you. I go first and you go last. Two guys falled down and then free [three] guys falled down.

pause. Me and QG go to a place where there are big guys. And the big guys are grinding coffee and making coffee and having zids [lids?] on their coffee. Me and QG had to coffee dere. The coffee store is (considers) grab a zid [lid] for the coffee, because that's always really fing.

Note to reader: I think 'fing,' or 'thing' has an insert-word-here function.

...fing fell down and QG tell me it's not safe. QG's coffee was QG's, but coffee is bad - coffee is for QG and for big guys. Milks was good for me. QG has one or two coffees (considers) because QG has not two, just one bcause QG choose the one.

QG and me walk, me and QG saw the coffee shop where are big kids. [this last seems to have been the summary of the outing.]

Translation? The Toddles doesn't like having his diaper changed in the middle of the night, and he understands causality - but he's thinking it over. Note the spots where he directly reverses causality. And clearly, in the middle of the night there's two experiences on his mind. First, the time when he and I fell down the stairs. This was a very alarming experience for us all, and much discussed for the implications and outcome (although the Man wasn't present, so ya got me there). The next thing on his mind, however, was visiting a coffee shop known and frequented by QG. She and I had discussed the outing, and not only did her friends enjoy meeting the Toddles, he was much taken by meeting the 'big guys,' and the experience of having drinks there.

What was the 'fing' that fell down? I assume something allergenic for the kidlet, and goodness only knows why the lids were so exciting...

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You read this far? Well, o intrepid one, here's a tidbit for your valor: we're trialling the Toddles on soy. Yesterday, he had 6 ounces of soymilk. Today, he had 4 ounces of tofu. He is arguably just fine, but we await the morrow. Imagine: an Imperfect world with soy in it. I can practically hear the budgetary wizard collapsing with relief.

the small changes and the big bump(er)s

It's okay, I understand your confusion. You are standing on the street looking at our house (okay, our apartment) and you are just plain stumped. So let me explain.

Yes, that's the Toddles, washing windows. Someone, after all, needs to do it. And he seems to be having an absurd amount of fun, so I'm calling it Montessori-style education. Edu-tainment for the slacker, non-window washing mama? Edu-something, and I credit the ever-creative Zina with this one. So *that's* what you do with buckets once sandbox season is over! And rags - well, there's always rags around here. You might note, however, that while I provided the initial demonstration of rag and water-spritzing, that the adult begging the child not to soak the windows is not, in fact me. I happily demonstrated, collected happy child kudos, and left the ever-patient QG to the job.

And yes, that's my car with the bumper forlornly lying on the ground. Yes, and with the wires sticking out worryingly. Oh, and yes, the cute little PT Cruiser parked in front of it is also mine, courtesy of the nice folks at Enterprise and the rental coverage on our car insurance. Note also how nicely the street is plowed. Coincidence?

Oh, yes, silver linings abound. And it's awfully easy to see them from my nice, clean windows.

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If you've been at our shabbat table any time in the past three weeks, you've probably eaten an adaptation of this. Here is our version of the recipe (minus zucchini/squash/peppers and simplified somewhat), with a very satisfied nod to Vanessa.

(Imperfected) Chickpea and Green Olive Tagine

2 cans chickpeas
2-3 onions, chopped small
6 cloves of garlic, smashed
olive oil as needed (about 1/4 cup)
1 large eggplant, diced (smaller is better, but I'm always in a hurry so mine are about 1 inch cubes)
1 big, big can of diced tomatoes or 4-5 medium tomatoes (corn allergic: watch out for ascorbic or citric acid! You're safer finding tinned tomatoes without those, or using a combination of tomato paste and fresh tomatoes)
2 cups green olives, or 1 can of the Beit Hashita pitted green Israeli olives (reserve a little of the liquid)
1 tsp ground coriander
1 tsp cumin
½ tsp ground ginger
¾ tsp paprika
1 cinnamon stick
½ tsp salt
1/2 cup water (if reheating the next day for shabbat or as needed)

If you have one, this is a great time to use a wok or a good, big and deep nonstick sauteeing pan. If not, make it up - but you'll need extra oil if you don't have nonstick.

Saute onions and garlic until browning, then scrape to one side in the pan. Toss in eggplant, making sure that the eggplant is hitting the bottom of the pan and sauteeing nicely. The trick here is to only add as much eggplant as you have clear pan space for. Eggplant touching the base of the pan will get that nice seared surface, as opposed to simply steaming. If you are in a hurry, though, just chuck the eggplant in, stir a bit and move on. The dish will still be yummy and perfection is for people with extra time. Or patient children.

Add spices, and stir a bit. Then, dump in everything else. Cover and reduce the heat to low, let burble happily for about 15-20 minutes. The tomatoes (if you use fresh) will soften, the flavors will melt into each other. Stir occasionally to maintain culinary happiness and prevent burning. Stir more often if your pot isn't nonstick. Add water if the dish looks especially solid - you want a little soupiness.

Serve over rice.

Optional: in a hurry? measure your spices the night before.
want some pretty color? Toss a handful of chopped parsley, colorful bell pepper, scallion or avocado on top. Or, have prettily arranged any or all of these in bowls on the side, and let people decorate as it pleases them.
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FYI: Harvard: a mom's review Heh.

wanted: a little bit of healing

At 2 a.m., on night five of six nights of fever, the over-heated one woke for the nth time.

knock, knock
who's there?
silly chickens.
silly chickens, who?
Aoow, aaow, aaoowwooo! (coyote howl, as per the Toddles and Mary Jr.)

Almost worth waking up for, I thought.
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Yesterday, I took the Eldest to a psychologist specializing in kids with chronic illness. In the five minutes I had, I tried to explain what we were seeing and why I was worried. She tried to soothe me about things I wasn't worried, but instead of leaving, feeling frustrated, I ended up with a hopeful note: nice lady. We'll see what she thinks, two, three sessions down the road.

I have the habit of dressing carefully for doctor's visits. I heard a talk once by a psychologist that explained that children who are attractive in some fashion (appearance, behavior, etc) get better medical care than children who do not appeal to their caregivers in some fashion. It's a thought I've filed under 'nasty but probably true,' and I've always dressed the boys and myself carefully for these visits, for much the same reason.

Admittedly, years of dressing with the concept of tzniut, or modesty in mind have made me into someone who overthinks when she yanks out clothes for the morning. Different communities approach the question of modesty differently, some are okay with women wearing pants, others advocate for women in skirts. Necklines, hemlines, length of sleeves - all of these come into play in the delicate dance of what is considered appropriate. I'm usually quite happy to go beyond my personal standards to suit the community's when I visit friends more religious than I - I figure that I'd rather have people talk to me than fret about what I'm wearing. For a religion that builds sexual satisfaction into our marriage contract, we certainly get anxious about it on our streets.

The concept of appropriate dressing taken to such detail, such attempts at precision strikes me as faintly silly even as I do it. And do we get better medical care this way? Who knows - at least it makes me feel settled, which is probably worth something.

Let's see: we want to look nice, but not as if we're trying too hard. We'd like to look presentable, but not stiff and starchy, hmmm. The Eldest ended up in a soft, pale blue t-shirt and some ever so slightly raggedy (but fashionably so) khaki shorts. A leetle preppy, but not too bad. On the way out the door, though, he snagged a bright yellow pair of warm-up shorts.

They're mine, he informed me.

We got to the car, and he plopped them on his head. It's my pants-hat! he shrieked, and doubled over in giggles. His tidy-but-boyish image was ruined, replaced by a tidy but quirky look that is all Eldest's. Beneath the awful yellow of the shorts, the Eldest's grin caught fire with delight.

It was, I mused, the perfect ensemble.
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Well, she's packed and we've said good-bye.

As I noted here, our dear Mary Jr had a personal reversal sprung on her. She's gone home to, as the Eldest put it, "heal." The Toddles is wandering around the house, calling her name, asking if she's in the other room. The Eldest, suddenly realizing that he'd said good-bye to her for the last time (we meant it when we'd told you so, kid), panicked and asked to call her.

This morning, we declared her an honorary auntie, after she completed our Auntification Course, a rigorous affair including a written exam, visual identification, a visual interpretation section, and a practical exam. She passed with flying colours, and after deliberation by the committee, we awarded her a certificate of Honorary Auntieship. It was sweet, silly, and entirely appropriate. Families, after all, are as often made as they are born.

The Toddles, however, is worried about his newly named auntie. 'Mary boke?' 'He boke Mary?' Listening to our worried conversations about the situation, the Toddles is trying to fit the language he knows to the concepts we've been expressing. The Eldest, somehow a bit wiser in the ways of injuries and healing, is less worried. He knows that people can be bent, or broken, and yet heal. In the throes of healing himself from a bleed into his left hand, the Eldest holds faith.

Healing will come. But oh, will we miss her.

bombs away

Some days, the smart thing is to put the pillow back over your head and shout, 'Do over!' Preferably without ever leaving your blankets.

Other days, you drive past a fallen hat in the parking lot, and realize that it's the one your MIL gave you for Chanuka, fallen as you wrangled a stubbornly walking toddler back to the car.

Hm. It was the second sort of day, starting with coffee (thanks to the ineffable Mary Jr), moving on to a triumphant text message from the same (about her midterm, huzzah!), and concluding finally in a back spasm during which I and my offspring were fed dinner by the family who'd foolishly invited us over for a playdate. Blessed, blessed people, and what a bountiful day!

With that in mind, it is time to drop a cute-bomb. Or possibly three.

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The Grandmere had brought the boys a wombat and a pig. The wombat, part of an educational campaign waged by two generations of Australians, was duly ignored while the boys argued over the pig. We have, I pointed out to the combatants, two pig puppets - one large, and one small.

Some time later, I notice that it's ominously quiet in the family room. I peek. The Eldest frowns over his paper, thinks a moment and writes a letter. Mutters briefly, writes a second, then a third. He hands me a paper: P
L T
I raise an eyebrow. It says Pig Long Tail, Mum, I am informed. Ah. Some people stake a claim, others plant a flag - the Eldest, with his faith in the power of writing, wrote down which pig belongs to him.

Of course, he had to figure out the spelling first. And, mind you (I am shamelessly proud here), on his own. Nice one, kiddo. Now, if only your little brother could read.

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Buck-oo, says the Toddles, assembling the buckle on his high chair. I lift him down, his meal concluded. He grumps at me and climbs back up, to reassemble the buckle.

The Toddles is so enamored of his various buckles that we've been forced to lie the highchair flat, to keep him from climbing in and out to play with the buckles. Buckoo! he shouts, triumphantly, and off he goes.

With the language, of course, has come the search for the limits on the concept. What else could be a buckoo? According to the Toddles, the answer includes:

• childgates,
• child locks
• buttons
• zippers
• shoelaces, when tied
• seatbelts
• puzzles
• generally anything that clasps, fastens and bars one from access

Kid's got a point. Or possibly, a clasp.
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On Monday, the boys went off to the homeopath for NAET treatment (diary for the Eldest, grains for the Toddles - thanks, M/FIL!). After, I took the Eldest, very late, to school.

We arrived to find a flurry of kids headed downstairs for a Shushan Purim party - in costume. Quickly, the Eldest and I ran to his classroom, where he deposited his things while I looked for the costume stuff. What about this, I said, waving about a brightly embroidered jacket. No, he told me. How about this? this? this? Finally, I reached down and grabbed some elaborately ragged tulle. This?

The Eldest looked at me patiently. Nothing strikes me as beautiful, he said.

who could argue?

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The Toddles, as I might have mentioned, likes edges. The edges of my shirts, my sleeves, the hem of a shirt or skirt - and best of all, the neckline of my shirts. Never one for low-cut shirts, the Toddles seems to disagree with me, and has managed to stretch out a few of my shirts' necklines impressively. But then again, my boys have always pushed my fashion boundaries.

One day this past week, the Toddles was dangling off my shirt while I cooked lunch. Finding a nicely edged pocket on my pants, he switched to that - and nearly yanked the pants off my hips in the process, as he pulled and folded, pleating the fabric until it suited his needs.

At some point, he let go and was quietly standing next to my leg when I heard a telltale beeping sound. The little bugger had picked my pocket, and was calmly, curiously dialling my cellphone. I laughed and took the phone back, and put it back into the pocket - and waited to see what would happen next.

Sure enough, the Toddles barely paused for his beloved edges before jumping right in to the pocket for the phone. One moment a child's comfort mechanism, the next....an entree to a world of crime.

I suppose there really is something subversive about child-led parenting. Clearly, providing for a child's needs can only lead them to the dark side of the Force...
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Finally, a happy spring vacation to Mary Jr. Mary is named, as you may know, for Mary Poppins - for so extraordinary and unexpected a find was she, that she might as well have flown in on her parrt-headed umbrella.

This past week, she has been staying with us - an arrangement that has been, improbably, marvellous. I've had someone to share my coffee in the morning (otherwise, more than I can drink), company at odd hours of the day, a spare pair of hands when the Man has worked late, is late, needs me to take the Eldest to school, and someone who understands how marvellous it is when the Toddles, unprompted, identifies a duck (Uck! Uck!), or how hilarious it is when he calls himself Elmo (Ehmmo!).

Naturally, I worried about this arrangement. Is it going to damage the professional relationship? Are we getting ourselves into a role we shouldn't play? The Man, uncharacteristically, pushed all concerns aside, and invited her to stay another night. I was relieved and delighted. And a day later, I overheard this:

Eldest: Is V- really Mary Poppins?
the Man: I don't know. Why don't you ask her?
Eldest, thoughtfully: Can she slide up the bannister?
Man, choking slightly: Um. Have you ever seen her do it?
Eldest, with a touch of scorn: No. But she might not do it when I'm looking.

Ah. Bottomless carpet bag or not, she's a blessing and a marvel. And screw the professional relationship: how professional can one afford to be, when the job is really to fall in love with my child?

Mary? is that you, dear?

Hold your breath for me, cross your toes, toss salt over your shoulders, keep on wearin' those lucky boxers because I might, might, might just have a nanny.

No, I won't extol her virtues. Last time I did that anywhere semi-public, hordes of people from Harvard, MIT and Brandeis tried to steal her. (No, not exaggerating. More fool me.) But I will say that she has a sister with anaphylactic dairy allergy and can keep her head in a crisis. Oh, and she seems to love my children, thus I may just be inclined to adore her.

The belief in dirty children and neglected televisions might just be a bonus.

There is, of course, one complication. (Only one? Astonishing, no? Especially given my track record.) One of the two days that suit both our schedules is....Friday.

Yes, Friday, day of harried labor for those of us anticipating a religiously-sponsored day of rest. Friday is the day on which we scuttle around, cooking everything that we'll eat until after dark, Saturday night. And with the ritual sabbath meals, that's a whole lot of eating. The NY Times once compared the Christmas dinner to the Sabbath meal, and noted virtuously that the Jews appear to eat healthier than the Christians. Reading this, the Jewish community held their collective sides as they roared with laughter. Them's statistics for ya: Christmas comes once a year, but we sabbath-observers tend to have two NYTimes-style sabbath meals per week.

So, no, I don't think we're going to be the slimmer crowd. And given that, how likely is it that I can swing a cooking-free Friday? But oh, for my Mary P., I just might try...