an unfolding deliciousness

I found them, of course, right beforehand.

Tucked into a bin next to some sawdusty roots, a raggedy collection of twigs were sprouting in a somewhat forlorn corner of the fruit-and-veggie store. Shopping carts whisked past, heading for the more promising broccoli, leeks and (barely deserving the discount) seconds. On the other hand, how anyone missed the burst of color in the sawdust and twig corner? I can't imagine.

Lychees.

I don't know how you'd pronounce them - my ligh-cheeze has never been quite right, but who has time to compare notes on pronounciation when that is dancing a delicate, swooping samba on the tastebuds? Liquid, apple and a light sweetness, with a little pineapple? or quince, maybe? definitely a tang that's halfway between a really aromatic Meyer lemon and a regular lemon, and oh, too much of my childhood for me to really taste the thing.

I think.

Judging from the looks on the boys' faces when they carefully divide them up, though, I might not be so far off. The boys' precision is overlaid by a sense of ruthless logic: if I'm really, really fair, then I'll get as many lychees as the other guy.  Unless mum's not watching, in which case..? um. Or not.

And for the Man, it's one more oddity in a pantheon of edible oddities that he's learned to enjoy. An unfolding of flavors in the mouth, a discovery of unexpected pleasures - yep. It's really rather the perfect metaphor for a rather extravagantly numbered anniversary. Even if I did have to work the image a bit too hard to make it fit, well, hell. There's a bag of lychees in my fridge. Get here before they're all gone, and I'll let you see for yourself.

Unless we eat them all, the Man and I, sitting at our table in that most private of restaurants, with the candlelight flickering. And the kids, hopefully cooperatively asleep, having eaten their own bag of edible yum earlier that night...

Wishing us another many, many lots of the lumpy bumpy delish, love. So glad to have you with me for the road thus far, and I promise to share very, very fairly the deliciousness that comes...

love, food and files

rebel66, thanks for your comment: I hadn't realized that Sarah's article was out. Hat tip!

It was a treat to see Breeding Imperfection featured in the magazine, and odd to see my voice - and paranoia about privacy - in print. (pause. sigh. return to keyboard.) You can see Sarah's list of blogs to follow here, and hello, Imperfect blog! I'm tickled that she put it on the list, but I note that modestly, she didn't include her own. So, allow me to inform you: Sarah's blog can - and should - be found here.

So, to anyone who trailed over from Barnard, welcome.

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I have an irk where St Valentine's Day is concerned, and it's probably an unfair one. I know, I know, it's a pin in the calendar, a reminder to be loving and that love will follow, and yes, that sometimes a flower or a yummy help show that you care.

Sure.

But I married the chocolate allergy guy, and with the boys' allergies? it's a savoury edible love for us, and we'll try to overlook the whole Saint bit on the Valentine's Day. (um) Cobble something together? The more traditional and chocolate-enabled might want to peek at this post, by the inestimable Shauna. She includes a range of suggestions for recipe tweaks, including one that's both gluten free *and* vegan.

Good for her.

[sidebar: If you are hunting down the same path, I should tell you that I had a lovely chat with the folks at Walden Farm. They have a chocolate dip that was labelled as gluten free, dairy free, and generally looked perfect for the Toddles' preschool. Laughing at my own paranoia, I called the company anyway. Oh, said an infuriatingly calm woman. But there's egg white in the dip. We changed the label to include it. I checked my label, read off the UPC code, and noted a general, freakin' scary lack of egg white on the ingredients list. Caveat allergic emptor, people.

end sidebar.]

Admittedly, I voted for skipping the cobble-and-overlook this year. Bah, humbug to cupids with sagging diapers. Phooey, piffle and scoff.

Had we been bold enough to venture out, we might have tried a newish, nearly vegan local spot, the Red Lentil. I'd gone there with friends, shortly after they'd opened. It's a small, snug place - except for one chilly table by the door. But we found a spot near the kitchen, and admired the lavishly delicious, vegan/vegetarian/gluten-free range of foods, then applauded the dueling, invented-on-the-spot desserts that were offered to an allergic friend. The waiter lingered, explaining the provenance of the avocado dessert that he'd made, while the chef smiled, then vanished. His dairy-free, eggless panna cotta needed no interpretations. Except, perhaps, to explain how he'd made it.

(coconut? possibly Hawaiian?)

((parens of explanation: I may have Hawaii on the brain. This is entirely the Eldest's fault, as I'll explain in a future post.))

Or we could have laughed at the constructed couples-only romance of St. V's, and taken the boys with us to celebrate Starbucks' new pilot program: Lucy's cookies! Peanut, tree nut, egg and dairy-free, the cookies are also gluten-free (but contain a small amount of oats). Phooey on red roses and black dresses, let's go with the ripped jeans and a burbling group of loved ones. At a cafe. The mermaid coffeehouses might be oh, yawn for you, but consider: what can my children ingest at a cafe? A box of 100% juice, sitting at a diaper-wiped table? We can make merry with that, adding something munchable from my ginormous mom-bag, but it's giddily fun to be able to spend money on a snack.

I called the S'bx people to tell them so, startling the woman who answered the phone. Oh! I thought you were calling with a complaint. Hardly. And while I might quibble over the cost (three cookies? $1.75?), I think they've firmly claimed their niche market. Last time, I bought two extra packages - on principle.

But no, we chose to skip St. Val's altogether. Instead, we celebrated with the Eldest's first sleepover. Sitting in the study, waiting to be called by a sobbing, sleepless child, the Man and I filed old papers, talking until the wee a.m.s. I fell asleep, caught between two thoughts:

2004 sucked, people.

That was the year that the Eldest coded in the ER, turning blue, then horribly grey from a massive allergic reaction to an antibiotic sent directly into his heart.* That was the year of multiple surgeries, scrambling to learn to use the kid's veins and a bargain that was truly born of desperation. We put a needle in the kid's hand, in exchange for a needle in our own. A crazy deal, paired with an unthinkable decision to try for another pregnancy. A roiling, razored, loving year.

Of all the years, it was that year that passed through my hands on this night.

But as the phone sat silent, as the Man and I talked and wished and grinned at each other, as the sun rose on a sleeping Imperfect bed - sans Eldest, plus slightly confused Toddles - I had a second thought.

It is laughable to even type it - ridiculously obvious - but in case you didn't know that I know, this is not 2004. And with the Toddles curled, fiercely independent-needy in our bed, it's not a classic Feb 14th, either. But I'll absolutely take it, any day, as a celebration of our love.

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*via port-a-cath. For those of you familiar with ports, I should note that this could have been avoidable, had a number of pieces fallen politely into place. It happens to be that the broad spectrum antibiotic that we were using - had used regularly - belongs to the cephalosporin family. And that the Eldest, scion of a family of enthusiastic penicillin allergies, was at risk for developing an allergy to it. Had we not pumped the stuff directly into his heart, had the Eldest not had so enthusiastic an immune system, had we not been exactly where we needed to be - in the ER - well. It would have been different.

And I'm still a fan of ports, if only because the icy, razoring fear of that night is separate from (balanced by?) the crucial, steady work that the port allowed; the eighteen months of teaching the Eldest's stubborn body to accept his clotting proteins. Tolerizing him incompletely, but sufficiently to allow him to play. To leave us overnight, and sleep on top bunks, shriek with laughter and tell the grownfolk to get out of the boy-room.

six months later: a hope in three doses (updated 11.14 am)

(as before, this post will be updated as new information comes in.)

2.15 am: if I don't go to sleep, will tomorrow not come? Or are the sleep-deprived the only ones so silly as to think so? Tomorrow is today, anyway, and today is the day that the Eldest returns to the allergy clinic, and drinks milk. Straight up, people, down the hatch. And maybe, maybe, maybe, six months of eating this three to five times per week, that four to a grueling seven times per week, and oh, yum! those two to four times - maybe it will have worked.

Or not, and he'll have a reaction. But what if he doesn't? What if he's beaten the allergy? I'm teetering between hope and a deliberately squashing cynicism, but I'm pretty sure I know which one of the two is keeping me awake.

8.22 am: Just arrived, says the Man, and my breath catches. Okay, then. Here we go. He'll spend the next little while, I'm guessing, handing in the paperwork that charted the Eldest's every bit, sip and bathroom run for the past three days, the stack of recipes, package labels and yes, even wee jar of poop. The kid's gustatory history for the days before today will be scrutinized and detailed to a degree that astonishes me - what on earth could the clinicians hope to learn? And will they tell us?

After the skin testing, the weight, height, placing the IV (in case of reaction), etc, they'll give the Eldest three doses of boiled milk. It's the last hurdle in the trial, the kid having already passed the dairy muffin, the cheese pizza and the rice pudding challenges. If he can handle the milk, then the (dairy) world is his oyster: any and all that he wants, for one month. If not? We have no idea. But I am completely, 100% sure that I can drink the milk, the Eldest told us. And honestly, he was probably in a better position to know than we were.

8.42 am: You know, this time six months ago, I don't think I was having nearly this much fun. The Toddles, all striped pajamas and dont-cut-mah-hair-ma grins, is sitting in my lap and laughing with me over the irrepressible, wonderful Tiffany Ard. (He shares her opinion on desserts and quotation marks, by the way.) And we're arguing over the best place in the world - is it curled up in mama's arms? Under the warmest covers ever (in a coincidentally freezing room)? Or at the pool, where the Grandmere might possibly maybe take him - if, of course, he makes it out of pajamas?

The Toddles is considering the matter, he says. is america the best place to live i typed this, he muses. And yes, typed. See? Deep philosophical thinking happens best in pajamas.

He's brought six tissues to help us while we think, because we both have streaming colds. He's graciously given me three so far, and I have three! three! left, he says, delightedly. And we're killing time until the Man's next report....which is here!

8.58 am: Skin test: boiled milk virtually non-existant. Raw: smaller than hystamine! writes the Man, somewhat hystamine himself. And so am I. The histamine control tells us the baseline response to histamine i.e., how big the hives are), but the Eldest's response to dairy? His body can barely be bothered noticing it's there. Oh. My. The Eldest smiled and calmly wrote fuk and ass in Bananagram tiles, while the adults fluthered around him. Ask him if he can make "quotient," I wrote back. The Man sniffed. Already made "quarter" and "quail." The Toddles expresses his admiration by running around the kitchen, starkers.

9.45 am: Eldest says he has a scratchy throat, asked for basin. Will call in 3 minutes. When the Man calls, he tells me that maybe, the kid panicked, maybe not. The urge to vomit might have been from a sense of tradition, or a true reaction. Or the family virus. Who can tell? The Eldest, toppled from a supreme confidence into a shaking, raw bundle of nerves, is hardly going to help. They don't think it's a virus, the Man tells me. They're not sure if it's the kid, being scared. We're giving it some time - and he told the doc that french fries might help. She laughed.

10.01 am: Daddy asks: is it possible that the milk would go down better with chocolate? Jing jing! Oh, yeah! ....so far, so good. The Grandmere, sweeping the Toddles off to play in water, pauses mid-sweep to admire the allergy team's consideration of the psych angles. I admire the determination of the chocolate-allergic dad. And yes. Maybe, we hope, it will be better with chocolate. Two doses down, one to go. The second dose - the one with chocolate - went down fine.

10.12 am: The Man calls. The third dose of boiled milk was also chocolate, and he's complaining of the scratchy throat again. We both take a moment to sigh, silently. But he managed the second one okay? Intriguing, no?

I'm getting the hierarchy here: good news = text message, wry news = text message, be on alert news = text message, bad news = phone call. Dose three (of three) is happening now, but a strong waft of anti-climax is in the air. Basin? Is that all? Pretty wimpy reaction, if you ask me. Scratchy throat - but not painful, tight, or closing? I'm caught, pulled between a sense of fierce, stubborn progress, nails dug in, holding on to some sense of perspective - and the internal toddler, jumping up and down and screeching gimme ice cream!

10.20 am: game over. The second dose was soy milk, the Man told me. And they want us to continue the protocol. I groan. The Eldest was so seriously, completely done with the muffin-per-day, he was moaning and wailing over the four-rice puddings-per-week, and willing to be brave about the pizza. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

And persuading him to keep on for another six months, when he's failed the milk challenge once? Not friggin' likely.

Oh, arrgh. Hope, she be a bitch.

11.08 am: the SIL calls - do I need anything? YES. I need something to make this better. Lessee.....I have a box of Honeypot Ginger Cookie mix, and maybe we can have a Who Needs That Dairy Stuff celebration dinner? She nods, and picks up berries, popsicles and general sympathy. Plan in place, I think I can go take a shower now. Brush my teeth, maybe?

Time to admit that I can't hide in the frozen, poised for something to happen moment of waiting, and shoulder my way into the realities of the day. No dairy. Some dairy. More than we had six months ago, more than we thought possible ten months ago.

So. Here we go again.

a wry grin, an impressively numbered giggle, and oops

Oh, I have to laugh at us.

The melodrama (oink flu!), the frenetic mama (dress! gigantic bruises on shins - need thick hose! thicker! where is the thermometer?), and the ridiculously bouncing children.

I have a big number, the Toddles informed me.

I nodded. He'd clocked in at 104.9F, and yes, that was a nicely large number. The Toddles, satisfied that I'd understood the situation, curled up in our battered papasan chair, and patiently waited for me to tuck a blanket around him. He peeped out.

I'm better now, though. And damn, but he was.

One nap later, he ate lunch, had hot cocoa (sans chocolate - duh), tested some homemade sunflower spread, and generally climbed all over his brother. (But he wants me to jump on top of him, said the Toddles, and I waited for the Eldest to disagree.) And declined to take his ritual afternoon nap - to my horror. Instead, we made family sorta-trees, had a blast requesting every book we could think of from the library, and made necklaces and bracelets.

Yep, we might be just about fine.

Just so long as nobody else gets it.

*

*

*

*

*

*

Hey, honey. Listen, the boss sent me home from work - apparently, I'm sick.

(sighhhh)

a sign and a bowl of leaves

At some point, autumn arrived. Which frankly, is kind of rubbing my nose in the absence of summer. The disappearance of August, the blur that was September.

Really, any number of things appear to have vanished on me. The summer, bursting at the seams with discoveries, such as this local resource, which allowed slightly grubby, map-wielding boys to practice the fine art of hiking, getting lost, unlost and peeing into local waterways.

(and no, I won't show you a picture)

The school prep arrived, mid-summer, hoisting a mammoth set of lists (school A, preschool B, to do for meeting 1, for meeting 2, for meeting 3, for follow-ups until late into many wee a.m.s), hollered continuously in my ear from oh, June onwards, and then suddenly, fell silent. School! School! School! School! rushed in to fill the space, with a small dash of ohmygoodbritchesandstiches - a carpool? Appallingly, we found ourselves inadvertently early to school, and then to preschool. For three weeks straight. Who can keep that up?

(When we pulled in 2.5 minutes late today, I offered up a quiet sigh - of relief.)

And then, the chagim were upon us.

If I stop being chipper for a moment, I'll admit that the second half of summer was an ordeal. Not the parenting part, that was tough in spots in an entirely (okay, almost entirely) standard-issue fashion. But the school prep was enormous, and worse, it was shared. The Man and I worked together on it for the first time evah to assemble resources for the teachers, to write explanations of how to handle allergens in the classroom, what Good Manufacturing Practices actually means - and why it's not even close to reliable as a way of saying "safe." And recipes, and lunch ideas, and snack ideas, birthday party ideas, and develop a gluten-free, vegan, kid-friendly *and* easy challah recipe, and, and, and, ack.

Let me put this simply: some things, it's easier to do myself. Some things, it's easier to do with someone - okay,anyone -besides the person I love, cherish and really hope to spend as many years with as possible. Some things, I should be smart enough to do with a girlfriend, or maybe a minion. (note to self: get minion) And, if I have to do it with my loved, I've got to remember to brush up on the diplomacy, and brace for long conversations about how the process is going, when I'm really just twitching to stop talking and get back to getting the job done.

Ah, meta-conversations. So almost-nearly-useful. Except when they are.

And a word of advice? If you do end up in this loving but rushed, ginormous To Do list of kid-with-thing school prep, buy a rope. And a shovel. Take up meditation. And when your partner suggests that maybe it's not worth doing something that you are certain is critical to helping walk that fine line between the child's needs and the school's needs, well, breathe. Put the stapler down, hon - it's really not going to make you feel better. Not in the long run, anyway.

Just breathe. (FYI, gritted teeth are acceptable)

And then blink, realize that the summer ended shortly before the kids hoisted their backpacks and bounced down the stairs, oh, a good four minutes before I managed to follow. Oh, and that so far, so good. And then, hello, it's Rosh Hashana, and there's the Eldest, unsubtly holding this:

Because if you are going to begin a new year, well, Nahman of Breslav might've had something there. Take another deep breath, hon, and find a way to greet each man with a pleasing face. The gargoyle thing does not seem to suit me, saith the Toddles, and he informed me that I was the grumpy parent, while the Man is definitively the fun parent.

Oh, ouch.

I walked around, smarting, and occasionally ranting about working parents vs home-working parents. And then apologizing to my offspring, when my rants became audible. Don't worry, Mum, I'm used to it, the Eldest soothed.

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow bloody ow.

Some years, Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are a necessity. A chance to back up and rethink, after a time of change and grumps. Happily for me, neither of our boys are subtle. Panim yafot it is, then. And a healthy bowl of these:

We sat on the bed, the boys and I, with Yom Kippurd daylight fading outside our window. A bowl of autumn, of color and leaves fading from bend to crackle, between us. We looked at the bowl.

Every year, I told my unexpectedly solemn audience, leaves grow. Leaves fall. And then, they grow again. And every year, we make mistakes, realize our mistakes, and try to do better.

Every day, the Eldest corrected me. And I grinned. Yes.

These leaves are falling, and we can let them take some of our mistakes with them. What kind of mistake, or "I'm sorry" do you want them to be?*

I'm sorry for hitting my brother.

I'm sorry for not cooperating

I'm sorry for taking his Pokemon card

I'm sorry, said the mama, for not taking good enough care of myself, so that I can take better care of you.

two pairs of small boy eyes swivelled towards me. One set of eyebrows arched.

Because, said the mama, when I'm tired or I have too much to do, then I'm grumpy. And then I'm not having fun with you, am I?

two heads nodded solemnly. So, then. I'm sorry. And I'll try to do better, to find boy time in each day. Because boy time is part of taking care of me, you know. Boy time is good.

two grins quirked. They already knew that, but were too nice to say so, I suspect. And so we sat, a bowl of sorry leaves by our legs, our hands and arms wound around each other. And we watched as the sky striped with pink, shading grey and blues at the fading of the day.

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

*this was a type of Tashlich , in which we cast away the burdens and sins of the past year, by throwing bits of bread or cracker into a body of water. The Eldest's class, however, raised the problem of throwing stuff into the waterways, and they chose to do a class tashlich with peat moss. Give nature to Nature, the Eldest intoned. And glared when I suggested a family tashlich with Imperfect-friendly bread. So, leaves.

and there it went

Did you drive past Battle Green today? I was one of the slightly melted looking figures, sitting in the grass, and blinking.

*blink*

and there went two hours of quiet chat, a very respectable pair of blushes and a rather nice peach Greek yogurt. (Thanks, L) And grass, and a guy in Revolutionary garb, and oh, was that a mom from the Eldest's school, wearing a bonnet and - no - hoop skirts? Funky.

Did I mention that there were trees? Grass?

*blink*

And I'm driving home with the Toddles, who is opening his car-friendly lunch. He sees the note I've tucked inside, and puzzles out the words. I help: Toddles, I love you! - Mummy

Oh, says the Toddles, thoughtfully. That makes sense. (I cock an eyebrow at him from the front seat.) Sense, clarifies the Toddles, like it's possible. (I wait, stifling giggles. He re-reads the note.) Yes. That makes sense.

I love you too, Mummy.

*blink*

and the boys are splashing in the BigFamousClever University's pool near our home, somehow having managed to collect the Eldest and leave the school parking lot in under 10 minutes. How? I have no idea. Possibly by using the same pixie dust that now has the Eldest zooming across the pool. Long, straight strokes of the arm - then a few slightly panicky short ones - and the kid pops up to breathe, gifting me with a lovely, gaptoothed grin. Look, Mom! What did you think of that?

As it happens, I think a great deal of that. And I tell him so, delightedly, while fishing the Toddles out of deepish water.

*blink*

and the boys are asleep after a hilarious Tanith Lee short story, the dishes are mostly in the dishwasher and the Man walks in the door. A wee trigger in my brain responds: exhale now?

But at some point in the day, I realize, I'd already done so.

any minute now: exhale. (ahem: ANY minute now?)

okay, okay, so it's been a ridiculous summer. And a quiet bloggish one, mostly because you couldn't hear me wailing, and there's this - and that - and I'm not ever getting enough sleep and ohmyfriggin'mmmmmphm there's THAT, and I just don't have time to blog about it (dissolves)

On the other hand, if you live within roughly 6.31 miles of me, probably you did.

It has been a ridiculous summer. Wonderful kid stuff, improbable mama stuff, some absurd kid stuff, some astonishing family stuff. And then slog stuff, which is expected and yet somehow seems to do a wonderful pufferfish imitation, when it comes to the amount of work-time it required.

I have a backlog of stories to tell you, but let me just let it rest with this: school has started.

The Eldest has begun second grade, and managed to be tense but pleased last week. He was even more pleased when the puppydog eyes worked on one of the teachers, and she let him take home one of the classroom books. He finished it the next day, and I spent a lot of time hollering for him, blinking at the silence before noticing the attachment of nose to binding.

Had that one coming, no? (Mother-mine, your comments aren't needed at this point. And yes, I can hear you laughing. You don't have to call and tell me how funny that is, because I was just like - oh. Hi, Mom.)

The Toddles has begun preschool, and did so with an astonishing lack of fanfare. While I hovered, teary-eyed in the background, the Toddles checked in with me once, twice, and then went to fall in love with his two new friends, Girl Adorable and Girl Lovely. When I picked him up, he asked if they could come and have a playtime with us? And sure enough, Girl Adorable did.

My teacher has a smile, he confided in me, that when I see it, I can tell that she gives hugs. I nodded. I knew that because, seeing me sniffle, she'd hugged me.

I inserted fanfare by managing to set off the fire alarm just before the kids sang happy birthday to the Toddles - a story that deserves its own post. (see? backlog!) And then took pictures of the aftermath, all of which have other people's children in them, so I can't show them to you.

Oh, and we managed to be on time 4 out of 5 times: an Imperfect record. This may have something to do with the promise of hot cocoa for children who are ready to go early, possibly related to the alarm clock that says hilarious things when you hit snooze, and then wake up enough to listen. And laugh. Which seems to set the day off to a good start. (except when they slow down and keep hitting snooze, rather than brushing teeth. Funny clock vs toothbrushing - can you see where this is going?)

But oh, yes. All manner of things will be well, and all manner of things will be well. Regular amounts of sleep will slink back in, and routines will establish. Even carpools. But for now, while the Man is resting his post-Jimmy Fund walk bones in another part of the country, I have to go and washdishesmakelunchespacksnacksprintdrivingdirectionsmaillettersfindcleanclothes and find the Eldest's bloody OT report (see? a whole backlog), so that I can argue with the insurance people tomorrow. Danged thing isn't filed, it's not in the random pile of Papers To File, and it's not, as I suspected, in the Man's inbox. He gave me permission to rummage through it, and while I did find any number of things that should have been dealt with 4-7 months ago, I didn't find the report.

At which point, still alarmingly tired and now out of sorts, I tossed out the surprising amount of extraneous paper, stapled repeat notices of various sorts together, put all of the recipes into a folder marked "RECIPES," and have made another folder marked "REQUIRING ACTION."

Because every escape from the loving home and hearth should come with a price, don't you think?

on the care and management of husbands

I feel dizzy, the Man commented. 

Four feet ahead of him, pushing a sandy, exhausted Toddles in the stroller, I nodded, noted and filed the remark. We'd spent hours at the park that day, relaxing in the shade while the boys played, picnicking on a patchwork of towels: luxurious. Walking home, it occurred to me that dizzy wasn't  the word I'd expected the Man to use on this day, at this time. Tired, sure.  Sleepy, oh I'm right there with ya. Relaxed, absolutely. I tucked away dizzy, sure that I'd understand it eventually, too busy floating on the pleasures of the afternoon to muster a proper worry. 

And oh, that afternoon.

The Toddles had stood under the jets of water, soaked and fascinated, his mouth open with pleasure - when it wasn't netting water. I'd filled my mouth instead with the tastes of summer shabbat: this week, it was Thai basil, grilled chicken, scallions and roasted plums. Ooooh. The Eldest, bolted barely enough to score dessert, then vanished to experiment with hydrodynamics. Dripping and banned from the sand until he dried (somewhat), he then found that the snazzy brushed metal of the park's slide and climbing structure made wonderful, resonant sounds. Boom, bim, bim boom, said the structure, as the Eldest swing his arms, concentrating. Nearby, the Toddles spluttered and laughed at his faceful of water while I grinned at the Man, who excused himself to help the percussionist. 

(and was promptly sent away, percussion being a solo affair, it seems)

So, I feel dizzy, the Man commented, and I barely blinked. Walking along, ripe with relaxation and smiles, I suggested that perhaps skipping his morning coffee did not help. It hadn't, as it happens, but that was merely ancillary.

Days before, the Man had felt dizzy - a moment here, a moment there, but nothing worth mentioning. He's made of stern stuff, our Man, and will lower his forehead and keep on keepin' on even when he's sick. I've yelled at him for it, and accidentally exploited him when he's done it. Sometimes, irritably, not so accidentally. The Man's lack of care for himself is legendary among the adults in the family, and hopefully not as well known to the children... Although today, the Eldest asked why the Man doesn't carry his own EpiPen - he carries one of mine. Um.

Over the week, our stubborn, determined guy felt his world teeter, then twirl around him.  Thursday was a fast day, and the Man felt - like the rest of us - lousy. And dizzy. He racked up some dehydration and didn't do much about it, hovering on the edge of slightly desiccated until Sunday. When the boys and I came home from a play&celebrate to find our guy in bed.

He had not eaten. (oh, wait, said he, a piece of toast. And, um, some jelly beans) He had not drunk. (well, perhaps some coffee) My raised eyebrows aside, it was clear that he could do neither now. And oh, he felt sick. I cultivated an air of mild irritation and pleasant care, and offered him some apple juice before going off to find out why Shaymin Level X was crucial enough for fratricide.

No apple juice.

No water.

Lemon slices? no, not helping the nausea. And urgk, the spinning room. 

There he lay, his eyes shut. I considered worrying.

The Man admitted at this point that no, he did not have a primary care doctor for me to call. I tamped down on a lecture that I'd given cyclically over the past couple of years - clearly, it hadn't been effective. Right, then. The ER it would be.

Dizziness is, apparently, a fairly common cause for a run to the ER. It can be triggered by stroke, by blockage in a major vessel leading to the brain, by dehydration, by something upsetting the inner ear - or even a canal of the outer ear. There could be a tumor in the brain, a viral infection, or a funny, spasmodic twitch of the eyes that fools the brain into seeing motion in a still, placid world. The eyes move, the world does not.

If I'm being fair, it sounds amazingly uncomfortable. My poor guy, staggering from the car and acting like he had the world's nastiest case of car sickness. He had an unstable, twirling world, and a zip through the potholed streets in our neighborhood had managed to give his internal twirl a nice high-kick and bounce.  

splaaaat.

So he won the door prize: IV fluids, dramamine, and a rookie doctor digging a ginormous chunk of eeewwwww, funky wax out of one ear. Whoa, said the doc, and carefully saved it. Ah, said the doc's boss, respectfully. That should do it, they chorused. And sent us home, where in fact, that did not do it. And so back we went the next day, this time to a different ER where the Man was again hydrated, prodded and invited to follow my finger with your eyes. The doc grinned, and showed me the slight twitch that was spinning the Man's world round, round, round. But, he pointed out, this muscular fillip should have responded to the dramamine. He offered some IV valium to the Man, and while our lad snoozed, the doc and I considered cheery things like tumors.

One MRI later, the boys were asleep in the Man's hospital bed, and I'd abandoned Cosmo (the Obama's sex life! your g spot!) for Good Housekeeping (spice rubs! pantry soups! remodel on the cheap!).  Muttering, I'd sewn together a felt fish that the Toddles had traced, ordered to be cut and designed. The boys had been admired, and shifts had changed. The Man had been lectured on the usefulness of primary care doctors while I made quiet-ish choking sounds, and had slept through the news that, in fact, he did not have a tumor. Nor a blockage of a useful vessel to the brain.

Sitting in the dark room, the sleepers piled on the beds we'd cadged, I began to breathe again. I'm often the only one awake at such times, it seems, standing guard over my family in the dark. Waiting for news to emerge quietly from corners. At some point in the long, well-trodden hours of that day, my carefully cultivated loving, mild irritation had faded. And I'd begun to worry. Just a little. By midnight, the worry had folded itself, origami-like, into a complex, fragile structure as I waited for the MRI's results. And then I set it aside, collected the sleepers and went home.

Why did you bring the boys? a friend would ask the next day, and I didn't have a good answer. They'd been left with friends on Sunday, but were very clear on Monday that they wanted to be with their dad. So I brought them. Because they wanted to go, and I suspect, needed to. 

Look! I'm learning so much! the Eldest exclaimed, maneuvering cannily.  I knew what he was learning, and thanked the friend who offered to help relocate the boys. The boys would stay, and watch their father take a rare turn at being not-quite-right. And yes, I knew that this trip would probably bolster our family myth that the ER is where you go to be bored and ultimately, fine.  Still, I brought them partly to share the vigil, partly to distract us, partly because we have no fear of emergency rooms, and know that we can ask the nurses for an extra blanket, a couple of pillows, and we can make sock puppets from the silly, thick hospital socks. We can laugh. 

The laughter is part of the mythos, of course.

And sometimes, we do all of that almost incidentally, focusing instead on the serious business of being together, loving and a family in a place that would otherwise leave you feeling silenced and alone.

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

The next day, I had a check-up. Women, mused my doctor, come in to the office for a range of reasons. Men, however, typically come because their wives make them. The doctor paused. Maybe that's why married men live longer?

I went home, and tossed my ideas of respectful partnership out the window. Flipped open the laptop and found the Man an insurance-approved doctor of 20+ yrs experience, evening hours, working in a practice at a major medical center, checked a couple of patient reviews - and signed our lad up.  You've got a check-up in August, I informed my love. You'll be seeing Dr. Z. 

He nodded, and humbly thanked me. I patted him on the shoulder and went to try a spice rub.

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

I'm doing a lot of cooking with the boys this summer, and they're happily recording their favorite recipes in their very own cookbooks. It's a mixed experience, especially when we're getting close to dinner time...but this spice rub was a lot of fun to put together with the Toddles. We smelled and touched everything, and grinding the spices was tops on the Toddles-O-Meter. Eating it did pretty well on mine.

The Tilt-A-Whirl spice rub

1.5 tsp black peppercorns

2 tsp fennel seeds

1 tsp coriander seeds

1.5 tsp cumin seeds

.5 tsp coarse salt

grind in a coffee grinder, or mortar & pestle, if you have a strong arm. Very strong arm. 

I dredged some tuna steaks in it, courtesy of a friend with good taste in fish, heated olive oil in a pan, and seared them for perhaps 3 minutes per side. I'll happily try this again for chicken, and definitely for tofu.

oooh, yum, said the Eldest. That's the most yummiest I've ever had! the Toddles trilled, and briefly set aside his current dislike of edibles to eat most of a slab. With ketchup. (sigh) And our current favorite salad!

Summer's Just Peachy Salad:

Like all my salads, this is more narrative than prescriptive. Or, as the Eldest likes to say, it's a matter of food math. You have your basic elements: green + something onion-y, x something crisp + something soft/mellow divided by something(s) sweet, salty, sour. Got that? Right.

For the specifics-lovers, try the following: 

a bowlful of greens, preferably one of those ridiculously soft, melting farm-fresh red leaf lettuces. Or romaine, if that's what's surviving in your fridge. Or a mix of anything - but go easy on the arugula, watercress and other tangy greens. 

2 scallions, chopped

a handful of pitted kalamata olives (I like Trader Joe's), or some other mild olive - pimiento stuffed olives are probably fine, too

2 rather crisp, underripe peaches

....and anything else you like. Can't imagine a salad that would go badly with toasted, slivered almonds, and this one is certainly happy with avocado, garlic croutons, and many other somewhat improbable things, including (no, really) a scant handful of blueberries.

 

Fill the bowl, then dress the salad. How? Well, try tossing with olive oil, sprinkle with chili powder (or cumin), garlic powder (fresh garlic will come in with big, heavy combat boots and stomp on everything in this salad, so don't use it - and did you ever think I'd say that?), salt and pepper, toss again. Drizzle slightly with a mild vinegar, and toss a third time. Woot!

a day for Dad

The Man is the insufficiently sung hero of this blog, he who does most of the kid-time on shabbat, while I sink into naps and mutter about gender-oriented sabbatical definitions in the kitchen. (note: the sabbath starts, but I'm still chopping and organizing food. ahem.) He's a happy father, a delighted cuddler of small children, a veteran of umpteen trips to the park, and a perennial volunteer for kid soccer. 

The boys made a list (a schema, Mum!) of their father's various praises, and the Eldest copied them out. They're glued, fittingly, to the back of his title: Daddy.

Happy Father's Day, o Man. You are a wonder, a marvel, and happily for me, Imperfect.

and to all, a belated wish

Happy Mother's Day. 

For the mothers who are made, shaped and discovered: thank you. There are many mothers in our Imperfect world, and I am grateful to all of you for your support. 

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

8am, Sunday morning: roll over and crack an eye at the clock. Close eyelid.

8:20 am: crack the other eye. Review the various things that need to happen before it's time to leave the house. Compare that list to the noises from downstairs: are those getting dressed sounds? breakfast sounds? Mmm - breakfast. Stomach rumbles, slam eyelid shut and require both to be patient.

8:35 am: okay, patience sucks. Did breakfast/clothes/making snacks/pouring water/finding the hats/finding the soccer ball (soccer today!) happen? And speaking of breakfast, am I getting my own? Roll over and grump quietly into the pillow

8:40 am: stop grumping. Follow the sound of keys tapping down the hall, and gently ask the Man if I can get up now? He stares at me. Get up? I blink. Get out of bed, I clarify. He stares some more. Get out of - OH. Uh, um - OH. No. You can't get out of bed! I try not to grin wickedly, and offer some highlights from the list of Things To Do in the next 30 minutes. He hyperventilates, and I suggest that perhaps I'll take a shower now, while he regroups. I escape down the hall while he splutters.

8:49 am: Mid-rinse, the bathroom door opens and the Eldest pops in. You have mail! he sings. I spit out some bubbles and say something coherent like, what? hello? But he has gone. When I get out of the shower, I squint nearsightedly at something that might be a card. Sitting on the toilet seat. I resolve to be nearsighted, and squelch down the hall.

9:10 am: Mouth full of toothpaste. The Man whisks in, did you get the card? can you get the kids dressed? can you make snacks for them? can you fill their waterbottles? I have to take a shower and get ready to go. I am faster on the draw this time, and spit out the bubbles before he vanishes - but only just. Sure, and I did get the card. Kid left it on the TOI-let. I crack a significantly arched eyebrow at the Man. I'm going to open it in the car, to make it a family moment. He huffs and races down the hall, trailing his towel.

(I do the petty thing oh, so very well, eh?)

9:35 am: we're in the car, and I make a production out of opening the car. It is wonderful, all snarks aside - the Man got the boys to make handprints, slipped a really terrible pun, and all three of them signed their names. The Man, in unreadable swirls; the Eldest, in tidy cursive; and the Toddles in oh my goodness readable printed lettering. Which, the Eldest delightedly points out, the Toddles did all by himself. With no-one holding his hand! I melt ever so slightly. No, a whole lot. I admire everybody's signature lavishly, and decide to hold off on explaining to the Man exactly how lame he is. (the toilet? a card-and-run? hello?) Oh, I am not going to get teary over the Toddles' writing his name. No. Not at all. Just a little damply proud.

10:05 am: I am climbing out of the car, and we're stuffing an extra kid into it. The car pulls away, leaving me and a bag of ripped clothes behind - I'll have a sewing mama-date with another soccer mom, a semi-regular Sunday arrangement.

10:06 am: there is coffee, there is a fabulously cute baby (oh yes, and his mom), and look! I'm going to sew that damned button on the skirt that has been waiting for the past seven weeks for me to get to it. Ha. I am alarmingly pleased with myself, and breakfast? Sure. Let me just grab a pan and scramble some EGGS. Yep: eggs, baby. Scrambled. With butter. Heh.

10:40 am: and there goes the ripped sweats, now reincarnated as shorts. I forget that I'm insisting on the righteous indignation thing and grin. Whee! I reach for the Eldest's unraveling kipa and hm -whazzat? 

10:42 am: ballet? what? WHEN - wait, ballet? Quick inhale. Quick jog down the memory, small grin. Bigger grin.

10:43 am: honey? honey? what do you think about me skipping out for a matinee? There's a last minute ticket - yes, I know. Oh, you didn't have anything planned for the afternoon? Really? Great!

12:57 pm: I have not a single fucking thing to wear. Pants are falling off my bony butt, and when on earth did that happen? Clothing is flying in my neat-freaky room, piles of things that used to fit are looming, and oh cripes, what is left? I swear quietly and creatively, trying not to wake up the Toddles, who is sleeping in my bed. 

1:03 pm: the Eldest pops his head in and cheerily informs me that my cab will be here soon. I remind myself not to snarl at the kid, and settle instead for informing him that I'm having a somewhat difficult time, and perhaps now isn't a great time to be here? He settles on the bed, and happily offers to help. Teeth clenched, I propel him out the door. I hate getting dressed. It's like playing Old Maid with a stacked deck: the pairs I want vanish, and giggle. What on earth did I use to wear with this shirt? Surely not that - why would I do that? Ack.

1:12 pm: I'm dressed. I'm also mocking myself in the mirror, but who cares? Cab should be here momentarily and oh, need to change the ratty burlap bag, okay, can do that, and hell. That was a ripping sound, wasn't it. Oh, bugger. 

1:20 pm: cab's here, I've found some things that kind of work, the hair is, well, it's pinned firmly on the back of my head, so I can't see it, and ignorance is probably bliss. Bag's changed, got a warm layer - right! Time to go.

1:20:56 pm: my dad? calling from Kosovo? Aaaahgrlfk - hi, Dad. 

1:22 pm: cab's gone. Call cab back. Chew nails. Curtain is at 2pm, furiously calculate just how late I'm going to be.

2:11 pm: standing in the dark theatre, waiting the usher to seat me in the second row from the freakin' holy hell front, I'm entranced. It's Eifman's Onegin, and it is wonderful. For the next two hours, the snarks and petty grumps will drop away. The muscles will relax. The jaw will drop, the vocabulary will be temporarily silenced. Instead, I'll watch elegant, brutal, thoughtful dancing, set against a backdrop of a carefully designed set, with a brilliant mix of classical and modern music, classical and modern dance.  The patterns of the ballet - a color theme here, a trail of prop there, an echoed dance step, bend of an elbow - piece themselves together in my head, and I stare at structures forming in my brain, intricate and deliberate. I remember those structures, remember building them inside my skull, lo these many post-grad years ago. And then onstage, a dancer will move and -

oh. 

OH. 

For two hours, I'll sit in  another world. When I step out of it and on to the train home, I'll carry wisps of it with me...and I will smile. And yes, no problem, love - I'd be happy to go online and order myself a gift. From the bit of paper I'd posted on the fridge a few weeks ago?The Man eyes me suspiciously, waiting for the petty, the snip or snark. Instead, I smile. I'm brimful of the oh.

OH. 

I drift off happily, completely forgetting about the thingamibob that we've budgeted for. I have, after all, been well celebrated today. At bedtime, I'll reopen the card and admit that yes, I am after all sniffling a bit over the handprints and the carefully - laboriously - written names. And the guy who had the foresight to make it.

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

A Mother's Day lunch: for a fast lunch, I had a bowlful of this, happily reworking the sabbath's leftover brown rice.  I suspect it would make an excellent meal for a new mum, baby in one arm, spoon in another...got to remember that. If only to bring it along to a virtual baby shower sometime.

B'sha'a tova*, Seamaiden.

Far From Leftover: Sweet Gingered Brown Rice Salad 

(based on "warm brown rice salad," Boston Globe 4/22/2009, G25)

serves 4.

salad:

3 cups cooked brown rice

1 small crown broccoli, cut into small pieces (stems and florets)

2-3 scallions, sliced somewhat finely

1/3rd c toasted sunflower seeds (or slivered almonds, pine nuts, or some other mild crunch.)

1 punnet cherry tomatoes, rinsed

1 can chickpeas, drained

optional: add more! I considered craisins and thinly sliced carrots, but you could replace the chickpeas with cubes of leftover chicken. Have fun.

Pour brown rice and broccoli into a oven-friendly casserole. Pop into a 300 F oven while you assemble, chop and mince everything else. 

dressing: 

1/8 c. maple syrup

1/8 c. tamari soy sauce (regular soy sauce has wheat)

1/3 c. olive oil

1 clove garlic, smashed and chopped rather finely

1/2 inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and minced. Yes, minced. Just do it.

1.5 Tb maple syrup

Whisk the dressing together while the rice and broccoli are warming up. Pull rice and broccoli out of the oven - the broccoli is now that bright green color that shows that it's barely begun to be cooked. Add the rest of the ingredients to the salad, and toss gently with the dressing.

Serve, having reserved a bowl for yourself. Eat that for thirds - it's only the fast and the cleverly prepared who are going to get that much. Fair warning, people.

* in a good hour. Meaning, may what happens come in the right time, and the right way - however that way, and whenever that time may be.

a time of rest (and food)

this is the view through the hole in the wall.
And this is on the other side: unfurling growth,

 a place of testing and trust,

a breath of peace,
and a pause for memory.
And always, but always, a spot of vibrancy and joy

 not to mention play! Much of which happened on shabbat, when I could not take photos. 

What photos I do have, I'm saving for spousal blackmail. But do imagine the Man on a child's pink tricycle, knees up by his ears and careening around corners. Me, screeching with laughter, while a crowd of sane adults cheer for him, or for the equally scrunched up athlete behind him.

With the children delightedly in grandparental arms,  the Man and I flung ourselves into the car. For a weekend, we lived in a fantasy in which we slept, ate and walked around the lake. I was persuaded to try acupressure, courtesy of a group of volunteers. I then managed to be persuaded to try massage, then reiki, then any number of excellent slices of angelfood cake with oooh, lemon-orange sauce. (Eight parts confectioner's sugar to one part lemon juice, said the chef, plus orange zest. Because you know, I really had to ask.) And endless cups of tea. And popcorn. And how-to insurance tips. And yes, you've got me, there were sketches of our ideal home. Mine was not, by the way, the only one with solar panels and a veggie garden. And I was totally out-greened by the person with the imaginary goat. And in-house claims manager. 

Damn.

Oh, but we talked. And talked. And laughed immoderately. And, while I was relaxing in a haze of not-my-allergens and people who know how to find the knots in my back and persuade them to relax a bit, the Man was reaching. 

He made it to one handhold and paused. Then he reached for another. And another. Until, blinking and alarmed, he was at the top. (need a visual? Scroll back up. Yep, that's it.) Roughly 35 feet off the ground, the Man sat down and laughed. The guy hates stepladders, you know. Made no difference.

Those Holes in Walls can hold the damndest things. Reliably, I fail to describe the place, let alone explain it. And I'm not even going to try now. Suffice to say that oh, it brings laughter and joy.

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

No KoolAid so far from the HitWGC folks, although there were many carbs rich with dairy and gluten. I tried hard to eat my weight in allergens, and I think I nearly succeeded...

We staggered to the car and drove home - where most of our GF, allergy-friendly fridge had been emptied. The grandparents nearly trampled us when we walked into the door, fleeing, perhaps, to more culinarily friendly climes? Well, maybe not. Taped to the countertop was a list of requests for recipes...one of which is below.

Curried Chickpea Polenta

(adapted from the Voluptuous Vegan, serves 4-6, can be made 1-2 days in advance)

2 onions, somewhat finely chopped

4-6 Tb olive oil

1-2 Tb curry powder, depending on your tastes (and the heat of your curry!)

2 tsp salt

1 c. chickpea flour

.5 c medium ground cornmeal/polenta

4.75 c water

In a cake mixer or food processor, blend the chickpea, cornmeal, water and salt. The stuff will clump, so a fast whipping is helpful. You can try mixing the water and salt while slowly adding the cornmeal and chickpea flour - sometimes that helps avoid lumps. Personally, I embrace my lumpiness (to a degree), and just move on.

In a pasta-sized pot/medium pot, saute the onion in the oil until deeply browned. Add curry powder, and stir for a couple of minutes, until the curry powder is warmed and smells wonderful. Pour in the batter, and stir to mix. Heat uncovered over medium heat, stirring occasionally until it comes to a boil. 

warning: this stuff will splatter a bit, so take me seriously when I suggest that...

Once the mixture begins to boil, turn the heat down to med-low and stir constantly. The mixture will start to thicken, but keep stirring for another 20 minutes or so (almost constantly, slightly less so if you have a really kickass nonstick pot). The chickpea flour can have a beany flavor, but heating it steadily like this will mellow that flavor wonderfully. At this point, you can add optional yumminess, like fresh corn kernels, freshly ground black pepper or a sprinkle of minced fresh herbs, or whatever else makes your mouth happy. 

Spray a springform pan (or other pan, I like the springform because it's easy to uncrate the thing after baking). Pour the batter in, and let the pan sit on the counter for a 30-45 minutes. Then, bake at 350F for roughly 30 minutes.

The top will be golden and somewhat cracked - and entirely delicious. Serve it warm! 

note: for the non-vegan/dairy consumers, a grating of Parmesan might just be perfect here. If it is, for heaven's sake don't tell me, okay? I think I might just be dairied out for now.

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....