Honk: So what do you want to do today?
Me: Hmmm... What do I want to do for Mother's Day... Not much. Maybe just to be entertained, inspired, touched, educated, moved, charmed, amused, and cherished.
Honk: How 'bout fed?
Me: That'll work.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Speakin' My Language
The Lakers are playing tonight which means this evening's conversations with Honk will be about as stimulating as a Will Farrell movie. Here's one that took place five minutes ago:
From the kitchen I yell to Honk who's eating dinner in front of the TV, "How are they (Lakers) doing?"
him: "It's great, Hon! Thanks so much!"
me: "Whaaaat?... No, not the food! The Lakers! What's the SCORE?"
him: "Ohhhh..." (Still no answer to my question.)
me: "So, exactly how much of what I say do you hear when the game's on?"
him: "Not bad. How are you?"
From the kitchen I yell to Honk who's eating dinner in front of the TV, "How are they (Lakers) doing?"
him: "It's great, Hon! Thanks so much!"
me: "Whaaaat?... No, not the food! The Lakers! What's the SCORE?"
him: "Ohhhh..." (Still no answer to my question.)
me: "So, exactly how much of what I say do you hear when the game's on?"
him: "Not bad. How are you?"
Friday, May 29, 2009
The Teacher Becomes the Student
"Where did you learn that?" I've been asking this question a lot lately. It seems my daughter has mutated into Google Girl, a walking, talking encyclopedia of preschool facts. All day long Lil' Miss Smarty Pants fires a barrage of "Did you know...?" questions at me. It's like living with a Snapple bottle lid.
She says things like, "Mom, did you know red and blue are colors of the rainbow and together they make purple?" or "Did you know dreams come from our head? Our head makes up stories while we're sleeping." Yesterday, while pushing her on the swings at the park she imparts more of her scientific knowledge to me, "Mom, when the sun's out it makes shadows on the ground. See?"
Who is teaching her this stuff? Her preschool teacher? Dora, maybe? And what kind of lousy excuse of a mother am I? Shouldn't she be learning this stuff from me? And while we're on the subject, since when did a cocoon become a "chrysalis"?
This morning as I was madly trying to squeeze some honey onto my toast she starts in again, "Mom, did you know bees make honey?"
"Yes, actually. I did know that one." (I am pathetically proud of myself for this achievement.)
"Did you know the bees use sunflowers to make it?"
Now I am very quiet. I intensely focus on buttering my toast, hoping she is not expecting some kind of response from me. I'm not sure about this one. My gut tells me she's giving false information, but her confidence is making me second guess myself. Deep inside my brain, the questions begin to swirl, "Bees use sunflowers to make honey? No they don't! Or do they...? I don't think so, but maybe they do... I don't know! I DON'T KNOW!!!"
Something tells me motherhood has a truckload of butt kicking in store for me.
She says things like, "Mom, did you know red and blue are colors of the rainbow and together they make purple?" or "Did you know dreams come from our head? Our head makes up stories while we're sleeping." Yesterday, while pushing her on the swings at the park she imparts more of her scientific knowledge to me, "Mom, when the sun's out it makes shadows on the ground. See?"
Who is teaching her this stuff? Her preschool teacher? Dora, maybe? And what kind of lousy excuse of a mother am I? Shouldn't she be learning this stuff from me? And while we're on the subject, since when did a cocoon become a "chrysalis"?
This morning as I was madly trying to squeeze some honey onto my toast she starts in again, "Mom, did you know bees make honey?"
"Yes, actually. I did know that one." (I am pathetically proud of myself for this achievement.)
"Did you know the bees use sunflowers to make it?"
Now I am very quiet. I intensely focus on buttering my toast, hoping she is not expecting some kind of response from me. I'm not sure about this one. My gut tells me she's giving false information, but her confidence is making me second guess myself. Deep inside my brain, the questions begin to swirl, "Bees use sunflowers to make honey? No they don't! Or do they...? I don't think so, but maybe they do... I don't know! I DON'T KNOW!!!"
Something tells me motherhood has a truckload of butt kicking in store for me.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
To Walk is Human, To Swim Divine
Never in my lifetime have I witnessed such fear and pessimism about the future. The economic crisis, terrorism, and global warming have cast a dark shadow over many Americans and their dreams for the years ahead.
But recently, I discovered that for some (okay, for one) the future is much more grim than just melting ice caps and evaporating 401K's.
A few nights ago, I sat in the bathroom reading a magazine while Lil' Miss and Baby Dude were taking a bath. As she was assisting her Barbie mermaid dive in and out of bath bubbles, Lil' Miss looked up at me and excitedly announced, "Mom, when I grow up I'm going to be a mermaid!"
me: "Oh yeah?"
her: "Yeah!"
Not wanting to break her heart by revealing the mythical nature of mermaids, I decided to crush her dreams for the future instead. "Well, Honey, I don't think you can become a mermaid. I think you're either born a girl or a mermaid. It's either legs or fins."
her: "Oh..."
me: "Do you think you're going to be okay with a life of legs?"
her: "Yeah, I guess so..."
I've never seen such dejection on a four year-old's face. For Lil' Miss, this is the worst reality of the Great Recession. I know, kiddo. Bipedalism stinks.
But recently, I discovered that for some (okay, for one) the future is much more grim than just melting ice caps and evaporating 401K's.
A few nights ago, I sat in the bathroom reading a magazine while Lil' Miss and Baby Dude were taking a bath. As she was assisting her Barbie mermaid dive in and out of bath bubbles, Lil' Miss looked up at me and excitedly announced, "Mom, when I grow up I'm going to be a mermaid!"
me: "Oh yeah?"
her: "Yeah!"
Not wanting to break her heart by revealing the mythical nature of mermaids, I decided to crush her dreams for the future instead. "Well, Honey, I don't think you can become a mermaid. I think you're either born a girl or a mermaid. It's either legs or fins."
her: "Oh..."
me: "Do you think you're going to be okay with a life of legs?"
her: "Yeah, I guess so..."
I've never seen such dejection on a four year-old's face. For Lil' Miss, this is the worst reality of the Great Recession. I know, kiddo. Bipedalism stinks.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Please Pass the Kleenex Box (again...)
I recently accepted a part-time teaching job at a private school in our area. I know, I'm very fortunate. In this tough economy, most people are happy just to hold onto the jobs they have, let alone find new employment opportunities that just so happen to meet their family's every conceivable need.
However, right now I must admit that I'd rather be accepting a job at Hogwarts. Maybe as their new professor of phlegmology? Then I could point a wand right at my nose and cast the disappearing spell, "EVANESCO SNOT-O!"
I'm sick of being sick.
However, right now I must admit that I'd rather be accepting a job at Hogwarts. Maybe as their new professor of phlegmology? Then I could point a wand right at my nose and cast the disappearing spell, "EVANESCO SNOT-O!"
I'm sick of being sick.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Is There a Doctah in the House?
Bubby always had a way with words. They usually went something like, "You never call, you never write...," or "A little makeup couldn't hurt every once in a while," or "Are you really going out looking like that?" The words I heard most often growing up were, "I don't care who you marry as long as he's a Jewish doctor." She was slightly hung up on the idea. I could've been a drug dealer or double agent to the Russians and she would've been as happy as a matzo ball backstroking in a bowl of chicken soup so long as I was married to a chosen physician.
Honk never had a chance with her. ("Not a Jew?" "Not a DOCTOR?") Eventually though, the surfing gentile won her over with his charm and equally sarcastic wit. But not without any residue. For the remainder of her life, she never called him by his first name. Claiming "senior moments", Bubby always referred to him as "Sheldon" in a desperate attempt to Jew-ify his last name. He got her back by always responding to her with some random name, "Yes, Nancy?"
I think she was still secretly hoping I'd make it up to her by becoming a doctor myself. That's the least a good Jewish girl could do for her Bubby, right? But recently I was reminded just how far I really was from fulfilling the medical dreams Bubby had for me.
I had just picked up Lil' Miss from preschool and was meeting Katy and the boys over at Rubio's for lunch. The kids were all huddled around the gigantic aquarium while we were deciding what to order. Suddenly, the room was filled with the shrieking screams of a baby. My baby. I spun around and found Baby Dude hunched over on the ground, his head just inches away from the corner of a metal post. He was screaming hysterically. I raced over, picked him up, and that's when I noticed the blood pouring out of his forehead. There was a deep gash above his left eye. It was gruesome, right out of a horror movie. I'm pretty sure I saw tendons, muscles, and maybe even a few organs exposed in that wound. Blood was spilling out of it and streaming down his face, onto his clothes, and onto my clothes.
There wasn't a moment to lose. Baby Dude needed medical attention, stat! While I was no doctor, I figured it was as good a time as any to prove that I could act like one. And that's exactly what I would have done if the room hadn't started spinning and my legs hadn't turned to rubber. I just stood there, holding my screaming, blood-gushing boy, and crying right along with him. I was about as useful as a latka in a frisbee contest.
But, thankfully, help was on its way. Katy immediately grabbed paper towels and applied pressure to his wound to stop the bleeding (which evidently is a much better approach than just standing there moaning, "I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!"). Katy fielded questions and suggestions from the concerned customers crowding around us. Katy kindly refused the creepy church leader's offer to stay at Rubios and watch our other kids while she and I took Baby Dude to the hospital (freak!). Katy moved car seats and ushered all of us into her van after everyone in Rubio's begged her not to let me get behind the wheel. Katy drove us to the ER, steering with one hand and passing out suckers and fruit loops to all of our sobbing children in the back seats with the other. Katy did damage control after hearing my hysterical, hardly-coherent phone call to Honk in which I instructed him to "LEAVE WORK IMMEDIATELY, THERE'S BEEN A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT!" Katy quickly called him back and whispered into the phone, "Your son's fine, but you need to go to the ER and be with your wife." Katy basically saved the day.
When Honk arrived at the ER a few minutes later, he too was a cool cucumber. He calmly picked up our boy, checked out the gash and commented, "Nice one, Frankenstein." Honk helped hold Baby Dude down while the doctors glued his head back together. He watched them with the interest and intensity of an observing medical student. I, on the other hand, stood shaking in the corner, facing the wall with my back to our precious little boy until they were done. As we left the ER, Honk turned to me and asked, "Honey, why are you such a wuss? Seriously, you need to toughen up. He's a BOY. We're gonna be back here with this kid like eighty more times in the next fifteen years." (Don't sugar coat it, Honk. Tell me how you really feel!)
No, I'm still not even close to doctor material and I have a strong feeling that I won't be much better in the future. But I'm sure Bubby would be proud of me. I may not know how to stomach the gory messes of life, but I sure know how to surround myself with people who do. And that's worth some kind of degree, isn't it?
Honk never had a chance with her. ("Not a Jew?" "Not a DOCTOR?") Eventually though, the surfing gentile won her over with his charm and equally sarcastic wit. But not without any residue. For the remainder of her life, she never called him by his first name. Claiming "senior moments", Bubby always referred to him as "Sheldon" in a desperate attempt to Jew-ify his last name. He got her back by always responding to her with some random name, "Yes, Nancy?"
I think she was still secretly hoping I'd make it up to her by becoming a doctor myself. That's the least a good Jewish girl could do for her Bubby, right? But recently I was reminded just how far I really was from fulfilling the medical dreams Bubby had for me.
I had just picked up Lil' Miss from preschool and was meeting Katy and the boys over at Rubio's for lunch. The kids were all huddled around the gigantic aquarium while we were deciding what to order. Suddenly, the room was filled with the shrieking screams of a baby. My baby. I spun around and found Baby Dude hunched over on the ground, his head just inches away from the corner of a metal post. He was screaming hysterically. I raced over, picked him up, and that's when I noticed the blood pouring out of his forehead. There was a deep gash above his left eye. It was gruesome, right out of a horror movie. I'm pretty sure I saw tendons, muscles, and maybe even a few organs exposed in that wound. Blood was spilling out of it and streaming down his face, onto his clothes, and onto my clothes.
There wasn't a moment to lose. Baby Dude needed medical attention, stat! While I was no doctor, I figured it was as good a time as any to prove that I could act like one. And that's exactly what I would have done if the room hadn't started spinning and my legs hadn't turned to rubber. I just stood there, holding my screaming, blood-gushing boy, and crying right along with him. I was about as useful as a latka in a frisbee contest.
But, thankfully, help was on its way. Katy immediately grabbed paper towels and applied pressure to his wound to stop the bleeding (which evidently is a much better approach than just standing there moaning, "I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!"). Katy fielded questions and suggestions from the concerned customers crowding around us. Katy kindly refused the creepy church leader's offer to stay at Rubios and watch our other kids while she and I took Baby Dude to the hospital (freak!). Katy moved car seats and ushered all of us into her van after everyone in Rubio's begged her not to let me get behind the wheel. Katy drove us to the ER, steering with one hand and passing out suckers and fruit loops to all of our sobbing children in the back seats with the other. Katy did damage control after hearing my hysterical, hardly-coherent phone call to Honk in which I instructed him to "LEAVE WORK IMMEDIATELY, THERE'S BEEN A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT!" Katy quickly called him back and whispered into the phone, "Your son's fine, but you need to go to the ER and be with your wife." Katy basically saved the day.
When Honk arrived at the ER a few minutes later, he too was a cool cucumber. He calmly picked up our boy, checked out the gash and commented, "Nice one, Frankenstein." Honk helped hold Baby Dude down while the doctors glued his head back together. He watched them with the interest and intensity of an observing medical student. I, on the other hand, stood shaking in the corner, facing the wall with my back to our precious little boy until they were done. As we left the ER, Honk turned to me and asked, "Honey, why are you such a wuss? Seriously, you need to toughen up. He's a BOY. We're gonna be back here with this kid like eighty more times in the next fifteen years." (Don't sugar coat it, Honk. Tell me how you really feel!)
No, I'm still not even close to doctor material and I have a strong feeling that I won't be much better in the future. But I'm sure Bubby would be proud of me. I may not know how to stomach the gory messes of life, but I sure know how to surround myself with people who do. And that's worth some kind of degree, isn't it?
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Babysitter's Note
A few days ago, I subbed at the middle school where I used to teach. I don't leave the kids all day like that very often which probably explains the absurd note I left for our babysitter. If you'd call it a note. More like a case study in maternal neurosis. Here's the note beloved babysitter Amy had to sift through early Wednesday morning:
"Hi Amy!
Thank you so much for watching the kids today. My mom will be here at 1pm to pick them up and take them back to her house. She'll put Baby Dude down for a nap at her house so don't let that fellah fall asleep. Do whatever it takes, Amy, and look alive, little boy. Look alive!
"Hi Amy!
Thank you so much for watching the kids today. My mom will be here at 1pm to pick them up and take them back to her house. She'll put Baby Dude down for a nap at her house so don't let that fellah fall asleep. Do whatever it takes, Amy, and look alive, little boy. Look alive!
Here's just a few "foods" for thought about the day:
Lunch stuff is in the fridge- goods to make pb&j, turkey and cheese sandwiches, etc. I also bought you a salad because I couldn't remember if you were one of those "free-range" types and based on their customer service, I'm pretty sure Vons could care less about the quality of their turkeys' lives.
Help yourself to whatever else you can find- EXCEPT THE SPAGHETTI! It's older than Dick Cheney and probably tastes just as bad.
Baby Dude could also be fine with cut-up turkey, apple slices, string cheese and raisins in case you're like me and get a kick out of making separate meals for everyone.
I left money on the counter for you to take a walk to Golden Spoon after lunch if you want. Be forewarned: Lil' Miss may present a very convincing argument that "My mom MAKES me eat two toppings of m&m's on my frozen yogurt." Be strong, Amy. Be strong.
And some activity ideas...
- play with toys
- read books
- puzzles
- playdoh
- sing songs
- sidewalk chalk
- hopscotch
- go for a walk
- go to the park
- practice shapes and letters
- paint
- play in the front yard
- play in the backyard
- dance (no, I don't know where she learned those moves...)
- brush up on conversational Spanish
- compose sonnets
- joust
- arrange flowers (neighbor's flowers, please...)
- think outside the box
- think inside the box (see Baby Dude's closet for large box)
- party like it's 1999
- study Nostradamus
- reinvent the wheel
- shoot the breeze
- trap freeloading neighborhood cats who use our backyard like a tollroad
- Ignore abovementioned activities and just watch cartoons the whole time (Just make sure you turn the tv off and quickly grab a book to read to them when my mom's car pulls up in the driveway.)
Sorry if I was too detail-oriented (not neurotic, not micro-managing. Detail-oriented.). I just didn't want you to feel stuck or lost like I do most of the time as a mother. Call us if you need ANYTHING! ~Leilen"
Okay, so maybe this wasn't the EXACT note I left her, but it was pretty close. My first draft was even worse. Yes, I write multiple drafts and revisions of my babysitter notes. You got a problem with that?
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