Adventures in eyewear

Last month Sacha began wearing glasses. Apparently, he has been farsighted since birth; who knew? Such glibness can only come from a woman of remarkably laid back temperament or several years of mothering under her belt. Because had this been my first child, I would have spent weeks bemoaning my poor mothering skills to anyone who would listen for having thought my son merely clumsy when in fact he was NEARLY BLIND.

I brought him to the eye doctor for what I expected was a routine, $20 co-pay exam, and left $400 poorer, having purchased one, dare I say sexy, set of frames.

As soon as he put them on he exclaimed, "I can see better," and between that, and all the complements he's been receiving from adoring classmates, teachers, and mothers, he wears them happily. Apparently, girls do make passes at boys who wear glasses.

And thus, our adventures began.

WEEK ONE
The glasses went missing, but were quickly found.

WEEK TWO
The glasses went missing again, and David and I spent a frustrating hour searching the house, causing us to almost cancel plans to meet friends for dinner in Brooklyn, because the thought of having to replace Sacha's very expensive glasses so soon would have dampened my fun.

David and I take very different approaches to looking for lost objects. As a far more organized person, I will methodically comb an area, taking it apart and putting it back together bit by bit. Because I am a bit compulsive, I cannot resist the urge to sneak in a little cleaning as I go.

David is more a locating whisper; a modern-day Jewish St. Anthony. Once he found a coveted three volume set of Romance of the Three Kingdoms at the Strand, which a clerk had failed to find, by standing in the correct section, closing his eyes, and repeating come to me, to himself. He subsequently opened his eyes, strode confidently across the room and picked up the book.

David was annoyed to find me emptying the boys' bookshelves and toy bins — and because I am a model of efficiency, dusting as I went — because my moving of things interfered with his room scanning abilities.

This is especially uncanny when you consider the assortment of papers, ticket stubs, lottery tickets, receipts, change, pebbles, clothing tags, collar stays, orphan game pieces, figurines, screws, drill bits, and guitar picks corralled in the tray on his dresser.

When Sarah went to his office this spring, she took an admiring look at his nest desk, nodded and conspiratorially declared they must never speak of this to Mama.

Shortly thereafter, the glasses found David, luring him to their resting spot in the dining room, under the china cabinet.

WEEK 3
Defying all odds, Sacha broke what were widely considered the toughest, most indestructible frames available for preschool boys. We spent a week waiting for a new hinge, during which time Sacha was once again blind, albeit temporarily. Suspecting this was not to be an isolated incident, we went to Costco and ordered a considerably less expensive, but only slightly less devastatingly handsome, back-up pair of glasses.

While demonstrating the impressive flexibility of my eyeglasses as an alternative to Sacha's tough yet sexy-preschool frames, the nose piece snapped in two. The optometrist declared my frames DOA, thereby earning me the distinction of besting my son by needing to replace, rather than repair my frames.

Thus concluded a good month for the optometry industry, and a bad one for family finances.

TEEVEE

My children have all had a few annoying habits in common, corresponding with specific developmental stages.

First, was shoe flinging, which they all did as young walkers. Whenever they were seated in a stroller or car seat, they immediately proceeded to kick their shoes off. After you spend five minutes wrestling your baby's limp feet into, and then tying the laces of their first pair of shoes, only to find on arriving at your destination that said shoes are nowhere to be found, you get a little annoyed.

On more than one occasion when he was a baby, Sacha flung off a shoe while we were out for a walk, except I did not discover this until we were home. With one shoe. (Retracing our steps didn't help.) And so, I let him go barefoot in the winter. THAT REALLY TAUGHT HIM A LESSON.

Then, there is sock stuffing, which all three are still guilty of. Whenever I do a thorough house clean-up, I find socks hidden in every imaginable crevice; under couch cushions, behind radiators, under rugs, in the dishwasher (really; that's Sacha, I'm sure). They are all so reliable about this that it is a wonder I keep buying them socks, rather than sweep the premises when they tell me they need new ones. Sometimes a trip to Target is quicker than an archaeological excavation.

But the most annoying habit is the carping to watch television AS SOON AS WE GET IN THE CAR FOR A RETURN VOYAGE. This is a toddler habit which Sarah and Gabriel have aged out of, but Sacha is still in his prime. When the key turns in the ignition, Sacha brightly asks, “Can we watch TV?” I don't have a television in the car, so he is referring to the one in our den, which, when he asks, IS MILES AWAY.

That I refuse to answer this question in the affirmative does nothing to deter Sacha. So, we now have a well-worn conversational loop.

“Can I watch TEEVEE?” Sacha asks as I pull out of the parking space.
“Do you see a TV here?” I respond. I try to handle many discipline issues via the Socratic Method.
“Can I watch TEEVEE?”
“Please don't ask me about TV until we are home.”
“Can I watch TEEEVEEEE?”

This is followed by the sound of me banging my head against the windshield.

Today, on our way home from the pool, it began as soon as Sacha was buckled in his car seat.

“Can I watch TV?”

I opened my mouth to repeat my line, and Sarah chimed in: “Sacha, do we have a TV in the car?”
“Can I watch TV?”
I opened my mouth. Again, I was beaten to the punch.

By round three, I no longer bothered trying to speak. I gave Sarah the keys, and let her drive home.

On nudity

It's possible that there was a stripper somewhere in our family lineage, because our kids sure love to streak.

Perhaps David and I set the bar for this, as we have always both slept in our altogether, even before we knew one another. (I hope this does not cross the line into TMI?) But at this point in time, with three children, we're discrete about this, and keep bedclothes immediately at hand for any middle of the night emergencies, and the occasional noctural bed visitations.

Sarah is at an age where she has developed some modesty, but my boys are still going full force.

If I put the television on for Sacha, I am no longer surprised when I check on him to find he has TAKEN IT ALL OFF.

Adorable yes, but problematic.

First, he is not toilet trained, and thus armed with a LOADED WEAPON (technically, two). Second, as much as I love to see my kids naked, it is part of my job as their parent to socialize them, and as we do not run a nudist colony, that means that we put our clothes on in the morning, and keep them on until it is time for bed.

Sacha's other main offense is that he loves to remove his clothing after we have put him to bed. I have always been in the habit of checking on the kids before I go up to bed. (What mother doesn't do this? I do not understand how fathers can be perfectly comfortable retiring for the evening before a)gazing upon their beautiful sleeping children in awe, and b)being reassured that they are still breathing. But maybe it's one of those Men are from Mars divides.)

In Sacha's case, this pre-bed check is also necessary as he is NEVER WEARING EXACTLY WHAT WE PUT HIM TO SLEEP IN. Sometimes he takes off his pants, sometimes his shirt, sometimes both, until he is down to his onesie.

And then, some nights, he takes it all off, including his sheet. On those nights, it's also highly likely that he's peed in the crib, necessitating not only a change of clothes, but a change of bedding. Being his mother is truly exhausting.

Gabriel also enjoys sleeping in the buff. When he was younger, he wanted to sleep naked so badly that it provided an incentive for him to toilet train. He has two modes of dress for bed; feetie pajamas in the winter (which he calls his babies), and once the weather has warmed, nothing at all. So dedicated is he to the art of naked sleeping that although he falls asleep reading on the couch a few nights a week, when David carries him up to bed, he rouses himself sufficiently to slough off his underwear off.

One recent evening as the kids were getting ready for bed, Gabriel teased Sarah, giggling, "Ha- ha, I can see your underwear." This sort of conversation between siblings would be nothing to write home about, were it not for the fact that HE WAS STARK NAKED WHEN HE SAID IT.

Today, I was the subject to Gabriel's tittering. I recently made my first foray into old-ladydom with a sexy compression thigh-high for my left leg, proscribed to me by a vascular surgeon to soothe my aching varicose veins. (As I roll it on, I imagine that I am a flapper; it helps me feel more sophisticated, and less old.)

Sarah and I spent a wet day in New York City today, and by the time we got home, we were both soaked. I went upstairs to change, but my spare stocking—don't you also think stocking is sexier than compression hose?—was on the first floor. I ran downstairs in my underwear, pants in hand, so I could put it on. Gabriel was absorbed in a book, but not so much that he couldn't stop for a moment to tease me. He giggled and said, "Mama, I can see your underwear!"

This, coming from a kid who would spend most of his time naked. So I replied, "Hello, pot, may I introduce you to my friend kettle?"

And then I reclaimed what was left of my dignity, grabbed my stocking, and slunk out of the room.

The apple does not fall far

I would say that Sarah is only a slightly fussy eater. In the scheme of a child's palate, hers is is pretty broad; she enjoys pasta with walnut sauce, all sorts of fish and like all my children, has a passion for mangoes that is slightly frightening.

She is also a highly articulate food critic. When she does not enjoy something, she will explain, in great detail, precisely why she can not eat it.

I suppose you could call it damning with faint praise:

"I like the flavor of this chicken, but the sauce is a little too slippery for me."

Or "I don't care for the way you made the asparagus tonight; it's a bit too crunchy."

Or "This pasta is good, but it's not my favorite because I prefer when you don't make it with whole wheat pasta."

Or my personal favorite, uttered when she was approximately three, in response to something delicious, "It's just too flavorish for me."

When I went grocery shopping this week, I bought a new kind of ice cream, Haagen-Dazs Five. It was on sale, and I'd heard it was good. (Since having children, I only buy ice cream on sale; holy shit it's expensive!)

Tonight we broke out the chocolate ice cream for the kids after dinner. David mentioned to me that Sarah hadn't eaten much of her ice cream, and if I was curious, I should try some.

I responded, "I don't really like chocolate ice cream, but I do I love chocolate."

I continued, "it's just that I think it tastes best on it's own. The flavor of the milk dilutes the the taste of chocolate. Actually, I feel the same way about most chocolate desserts."

David listened to all of this. We tried to keep a straight face, because I really did sound ridiculous. It was obvious who I sounded like.

As he left the room, he called out to me, "You reap what you have sown."

Busted

Sarah had a Spanish project due today. Although she knew about it for several weeks, I only learned about it last week, and not from her, but from another mother. Once I found out, I asked her about it, and then promptly forgot about it myself--my mind's been a bit of a sieve lately; I poured orange juice on Cocoa Puffs this morning--until Saturday, when she called said friend to play, only to find out she couldn't because she was too busy working on her Spanish project.

Ah, yes; shouldn't my daughter start working on that as well? When I told Sarah why her friend couldn't play, and asked how was the work on her Spanish project going, she coolly told me she was planning to do it on Sunday.

This is what was on our agenda for Sunday: Hebrew School, followed by a baptism (I like the ecumenism of this), then a visit from grandparents, as well as a guitar lesson.

I suggested perhaps Sunday might be a bit...crowded, and she should start now. She protested, she was busy, (playing Pop Tropica, I believe).

I asked to see the assignment, and after some rifling through folders, she pulled out a sheet dated April 27, and marked "second copy." (She'd lost the first.) Sarah is whip smart, but lacking in organizational skills. She is in fourth grade now, and I think she is old enough to be managing her school assignments. It is becoming apparent that she is not a natural at this, and I may need to intervene a bit more.

So, after some light maternal coercion, she got to work.

She may resemble me, but this mindset is exactly how my husband is wired. He was the kind of student who got high before high school with his friends (it pains me as a mother to think about this), arrived at school to discover he was taking a standardized test, and still did brilliantly. While I am glad she is confident in her intelligence, and doesn't stress about completing assignments, as her mother, I do feel strongly that you still have to DO said assignments.

I, on the other hand, was a classic over-achiever, and could have had a much more relaxing time during my school years, and possibly skipped graduate school altogether, because it wasn't until I was three-quarters of the way through with my PhD that I realized I was actually a fairly smart cookie, and perhaps I needn't have gone to all the trouble, not to mention stress, of getting this degree just to prove it to myself? But, I was so close to finishing, so I did.

Sarah pulled together the bulk of the assignment in roughly an hour (complete with much drama), and I let her go outside and play.

Later in the afternoon, my next-door neighbor, who is a passionate gardener, mentioned to me that she had almost enlisted Sarah's help with some composting. I replied that it was a good thing she hadn't, as Sarah had had to work on this Spanish project. My neighbor then told me that it was Sarah who had offered to help with the gardening, stating specifically that she had this project and she didn't really feel like doing it, and was "looking for ways to procrastinate." (WTF?)

As a consequence for this lackadaisical attitude, I took away Sarah's recreational computer privileges for the week. This is a particularly effective punishment right now, as she is just beginning to discover the pleasure of emailing and g-chatting with her friends.

But the best part of the story came later in the evening. David and I went out to see The Shins, and at one point I pulled out my phone to make sure our sitter hadn't called. Since I already had the phone out, I might as well check my email. (This is the charm of an iPhone; it does so many things, it is so damn irresistable. Here we are at a concert, and I'm CHECKING MY EMAIL?) In my inbox was a chain letter from Sarah. I was so amused by this that I turned to David, chuckling, and said "Hey, Sarah just got her first chain letter, and she forwarded it to me!"

It wasn't until we got home, and our sitter gave us a rundown of the evening, and she mentioned that Sarah had spent some time on the computer, that the bell went off. SHE'S NOT ALLOWED TO USE THE COMPUTER!

And so, my daughter, in learning about one of the Internet's many delights, hoist herself on her own petard.

Slinging hash: two pastas with asparagus, PASS/FAIL

Asparagus is in season and reasonably priced, so it is now in regular rotation in our house. Often I simply roast it in the oven with salt and pepper, and serve it as a side dish but last week, I decided to toss it in a cream sauce over pasta.

Although I cook most nights of the week, I try to make Friday night's meal slightly more special for Shabbat. This is one of my favorite family traditions. Though I rarely step foot in synagogue, I find these small ways of worshiping at home carry great meaning for me. We light candles, and say our prayer over the kindled light, make kiddush over the wine, and my children are allowed to have a "dip." (This is the part that would make the grandparents cringe, because my children, and Gabriel especially, really enjoy the wine. Even as parents, it is always a bit alarming to hear Sacha scream, "CAN I HAVE MORE WINE?" followed by David and I saying, "NO," in unison.) David always brings a challah home from Amy's Bread (it may not be kosher, but neither are we, and this is hands down the most delicious challah I've ever had). We say the hamozi, the blessing over the challah, and then eat.

One of Gabriel's favorite meals is Fettucine Alfredo, or, as he calls it, "feta-cheese alfredo." In the wonderfully long suffering ways of blessedly privileged children, he's always asking me when am I going to make it again, as he hasn't had it in so long since he'd had it. (I make it roughly every other week.)

My neighbor had mentioned that her chives were blooming, and I was welcome to them. So asparagus + fettucine alfredo + chives led to this dish. I warmed some cream in a pan with a few slivered cloves of garlic. Garlic warmed slowly in milk, or cream, is one of the most indescribably delicious, and simplest bits of kitchen alchemy I know. This alone, over pasta would be delicious. I boiled the water for pasta, blanched the cut asparagus, and then cooked some egg fettucine. (I really like deCecco egg fettucine, the kind that comes wrapped in little nests; it has a very nice bite, and the flavor of the wheat, and the egg, really shine through. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to find in my local supermarkets, which is a bit disappointing to me.)

I tossed the pasta with the cream, asparagus, lemon zest, a few ladles of pasta cooking water, and topped it with chives, complete with their beautiful flowers. The marriage of the mellow cooked garlic and the more robust garlic flavor of the chives made a nice contrast, and the lemon zest brightened it up nicely. This was a win-win-win dish, meaning Sarah, Gabriel and Sacha all enjoyed it. They may not have eaten much of the asparagus, but I'm willing to overlook these things, and so, by my own two out of three criterion, this dish received a passing grade.

On Monday night, armed with another bunch of asparagus, as well as a log of goat cheese in the house, I was inspired by this post on Smitten Kitchen. I didn't know how my kids would feel about goat cheese, but sometimes I just say, What the fuck, let's live dangerously, and see how it turns out. I cut and blanched my asparagus, mixed the log of goat cheese in a pan with some olive oil and a few ladles of the pasta cooking water while the pasta (I used penne) cooked. Deb, of Smitten Kitchen used tarragon in her pasta, but that didn't seem like the right flavor to me, plus, I had my neighbor's chives, which seemed, to my palate, a better match for goat cheese and asparagus. I finished the dish with the zest of a lemon and the chives.

While David and I were perfectly happy, on the grand scale of cooking for five, this dish was a FAIL. Sacha, who will eat pasta with anything on it was perfectly happy. (He is a somewhat picky eater, but his passion for pasta is remarkable. Not only will he eat alarming amounts of it, but I fear I could present him with a bowl of penne sauced with gorgonzola and shit, and he'd eat two bowls, and demand, "MORE PLEASE!") Although he gave me every bit of asparagus from his bowl, saying, politely, with eat piece, "Here, Mama, this is for you," he ate his requisite two bowls, and then the remainder of Gabriel's as well. As I suspected, Sarah and Gabriel found the goat cheese too tangy, and they barely touched their dinner.

Such is life. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. And when you lose, hopefully, as in the case of dinner, the consequences are not dire.