The tao of Sacha

Me, reading this: He tells me that God is a word.
Sacha: God isn’t a word. God is a Hebrew person.
Me: Well, we can’t really know what God is. Lots of people believe he’s not a person, and he doesn’t belong to anyone.
Sacha: God is a man!
Me: What makes you think so?
Sacha: Well, if you look at him, you can tell that he’s a man. Also, sometimes he goes invisible.  
Me: How can you look at him if he’s invisible?
Sacha: I know because it says so in the pledge - god, invisible, and justice for all.
Me: Indivisible, not invisible. Do you know what that means?
Sacha: Just read.

******

Me: Go sit on the steps.
Sacha: No.
Me: Now.
Sacha: I don't want to!
[Sacha sits.]
Sacha: I don't want to sit on the steps! It's not fair!
[Me, going about my business.]
Sacha: You're not listening to me! I'm telling the truth!
Me: I’m sure you are. You’re still not getting up until you settle down.

******

Me: TV time’s over. 

[I turn off television.]
Sacha: Hey! Don't do that.
Me: I just did.
Sacha: Never do that!
[I leave the room.]
Sacha: New rule. Never turn off the tv. Without asking. A kid for permission first. I just made that up.

******

Me: Sacha, pick up the cards.
[Sacha continues to play.]
Me: Sacha, pick up the cards!
[Sacha continues to play.] 

Me: Sacha!Sacha: I’m not your servant. Sheesh.
Me, silently snickering: Go to your room.
Sacha, on way up stairs: Ah, finally, I get to rest!

[I pick up the cards myself, while Sacha plays happily in his room.]

Bad doggie treats

Everyone knows that positive behavior modification is the ideal method for motivating people and changing bad habits. The problem with this approach is that where children and annoying behavior are concerned, it’s more expedient, and satisfying to cut to the chase. If I say to Gabriel, “Stop X right now, or you will lose Y,” I have a roughly 50% success rate.

In the 50% of the time that this threat is ineffective, Gabriel loses a privilege, he often resorts to crying. And then I get angry that he can’t take responsibility for his actions, and tack a second day of privilege loss to the punishment, which makes him cry more. This is a masterful manipulation on his part; he is sensitive and empathic, and wears his emotions on his sleeve. Because he knows how he tugs on my heart strings, he goes for my emotional jugular. For years, we’ve been stuck in this vicious circle.

A few years ago, after we saw Dr Expensive, we instituted an elaborate positive behavior modification ticketing system. In hindsight, our system was ill designed, and generally a pain in the ass to administer, and within six months we let it fall by the wayside. Recently, Gabriel began clamoring for its return. I ignored this for a few weeks, until I realized that he was telling me he needed it. And so we re-instituted a new and improved system.

I have been trying unsuccessfully for years to explain to Gabriel that lying, and refusing to take responsibility for your actions is worse than the actions themselves, and only makes me angrier. With the new system, I began offering him a ticket to encourage him to fess up to his mistakes. It’s been working pretty well, and I was feeling very proud of both of us.

Recently I watched an episode of Modern Family in which a grocery clerk, played by Manuel Lin Miranda pitches a business proposition to the family patriarch, at the behest of his soft-hearted Latina trophy wife. His idea is a for behavior modification technique in which a dog receives a bacon flavored treat from the mouth end of a long dachshund shaped tube for good behavior, and a bland treat from the ass end for bad behavior. It was a spectacularly bad idea that backfired when the dog wound up preferring the bland treats.

Although it was very funny, as I watched, I had the uncomfortable realization that I HAVE BEEN GIVING MY SON BAD DOGGIE TREATS, and it was time to stop. And so I decided to just come down harder on his ass. As it turns out, since we are both a few years older and wiser, this also works pretty well.

STFU

MORNING EDITION

I like to wake at six o’clock, before my kids are up, so I can have quiet time with a cup of coffee and the news. If I only get halfway through the Daily Wrap before someone awakes, that constitutes a BAD NEWS DAY, which makes me very cross, because that is my only opportunity during the day to see what is going on in the world. And then I feel conflicted, because although I am happy to see my children, I can’t help but wish it was not quite yet.

Lately I’ve taken a harder line about their respecting my need for my quiet time. And though they try as best they can, of course they can’t, because they are children. So I close the computer, but can only pretend to listen, because my brain is shouting: SHUT THE FUCK UP*, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LET MOMMY READ THE NEWS, which of course I would never say.

At least, not yet.

A friend of mine told me that one of her most liberating parenting moments came when her children were teenagers, bickering in the back seat while she was driving. She turned to them and without malice, said, “Shut the fuck up.” And they did.

I can’t wait for that day.

DRIVE TIME

During short trips around town, I keep the radio off, so I can talk with my kids. I am not very chatty, so mainly they talk, and I listen, and we have some of our nicest conversations this way, as I hear the news of their days, and their hopes and dreams.    

Sometimes, though, I just can’t concentrate on safely piloting the car while trying to answer vexing questions, like “What is the difference between a prostitute and a whore,”** “How do cats decide who to marry,” or, as Sacha is fond of asking, “What are we having for dinner tomorrow?”

At these times, I impose a talk amongst yourselves policy, but because the habit of car chatting is so ingrained, I find myself instinctutally answering questions, and then remembering that I told them not to talk to me. And so I cut myself off mid-sentence, and sternly say, “Please don’t talk to me, I am DRIVING!”

When they are older, I hope they do not hold this confusing mixed messaging against me.

*How I wish this book had been around when my children were younger.

**In an eerie self-fulfilling prophesy, I was recently asked this, several weeks after pondering this very question in this space.

Love bites

Everyone knows that a penis is a boy’s best friend, and Sacha and his have always been extra-special close. Lately he’s discovered the art of self-massage; after a recent bath, I watched him in a trance, with a dollop of cream having a good go at himself.

On Friday afternoon I asked Sarah to get Sacha for changed for karate and she came running into the kitchen.

“Mama, Mama, come look, THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH SACHA’S PENIS!”

Sarah can be a bit alarmist, but when I looked at him, I couldn’t help but mutter, “Holy shit.”

His groin, penis and balls were covered in angry red hives. Sacha wasn’t complaining about it, and it was four o’clock on Friday, so there was no point in calling my pediatrician, but it looked really alarming nonetheless.

I used my complete lack of medical training deduce these were some kind of bug bites. We’ve had a minor epidemic lately, and both Sarah and I are spattered with welts.

But still, given that Sacha is a bit precocious where masturbation is concerned, has mildly sadomasochistic tendencies, and his penis looked like it’d been scrubbed with steel wool, I felt it was time to call in a medical professional. I have a friend who is a dermatologist and I knew she’d be seeing Sacha the following morning at karate. Because I am a sensitive wife, and  didn’t want to put David in the position of asking our friend cold if she could please examine our son’s balls, I sent her an email to give her a head’s up.

She confirmed my diagnosis, and advised that we treat the bites with antihistamine and cortisone. Just when I'd finally gotten to the point where I was completely out of the business of dealing with my son’s business, every evening, for medical reasons, I have to give him a genital massage. 

Two steps forward, one step back.

On housework and its contents

I love to clean; I need to clean. Even being in someone else’s messy space makes me edgy. If you are my friend, and you keep a messy home, I do not love you any less, but know that while I am having a lovely time visiting with you, I am also fighting the urge to straighten up.

Recently I had a conversation with a woman who described herself as superficially neat. For a few days, that phrase sent me into a minor existential crisis, as I fretted about the possibility that I was actually a messy person in disguise, and have been living a lie. Eventually I talked myself off the ledge — my junk drawer is neat, for god’s sake, — and realized that even on a messy day, my home is tidy.

But, as neat as I am, I have a friend who is even neater. I’m in her house often, and I have never seen a single thing out of place. I am in awe of her; she has a job and a family, and yet, without daily domestic help, maintains a supremely pristine space. I am actually jealous of her basement, because although it is a completely ordinary unfinished space, it is as empty as the deep blue sea. She assures me that she has clutter, but she must keep it really well hidden, because I cannot detect any evidence of it. I really hope she shows it to me some day, because then I will be able to take her off her pedestal, and our relationship will reach a whole new level of intimacy. Until that day, I can not dare show her my basement, for fear she would loose all respect for me.

One of the best things I got out of writing boot camp was the realization of the extent to which I use housekeeping as an extremely effective form of procrastination, because unlike surfing the Internet, cleaning is PRODUCTIVE. My writing teacher told me I needed to get over my cleaning mania if I wanted to write. And although I knew it was true, it got my back up. This was not what she said, but what I heard was, “If you are to be a Serious Writer you must become messy,” which is tantamount to telling me I must have a sex change operation. As a result of boot camp, I am more relaxed about the state of affairs in the house, and (slightly) more comfortable letting things get a little seedy.

Today, I got around to cleaning the children’s bathroom. I was dreading it a little, as I rarely enter this space. I came, I saw, I conquered, and was left with just three disturbing questions:  

• What the fuck was growing inside the electric toothbrush?
• How long do they go between toilet flushes?
• How long has the soap dispenser been empty?

In the interest of maintaining peace in the house, I shall file these under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Mind your money

In March, a friend who works in the television industry was contacted by a colleague looking for a third grade class to film a segment on kids and money for the Suze Orman show. My friend’s children attend the same school as mine, and Gabriel’s class was chosen to film the segment.

The first thing Gabriel said when he came home from school was, “Mama, Mama, I am going to be on TV!”

Because I am all about MANAGING EXPECTATIONS, and knowing he could end up on the cutting room floor, I replied, “You might be on TV.”

When I relayed this conversation to my friend, she said, “Don’t worry. I know your son; he will be on TV.” Still, I kept this information in my back pocket, because of the MANAGING EXPECTATIONS.

Gabriel’s classmates were asked to write short essays about money, and what they like to do with it, and sure enough, Gabriel was selected to be on the show. Before the day of filming, we got his hair cut, and chose a clean shirt for school.

Suze Orman airs on Saturday night at nine, and we set the DVR to record it, hoping to watch it on Sunday. 

Saturdays at nine is a sacred time in my household, when the new season of Doctor Who, which started only three weeks ago, airs.

We are embarrassingly serious about Doctor Who. There is a long gap between seasons, and the start of a new season is a time of much rejoicing. I actually blew off friends to whom I'd extended a dinner invitation, because I hadn’t realized the night I’d suggested was the SEASON PREMIERE.


As nine o’clock approached, Sarah, who is very into Doctor Who herself, lobbied hard to watch Suze Orman, and although David and I really, really, really would have preferred Doctor Who, given the choice between family and our favorite television show, we did the right thing.

I had never seen the Suze Orman show; until that night, I didn’t even know her name is pronounced Susie, not Sooz, which make more sense phonetically. I felt a little conflicted about her, as I found her both extremely annoying, and thus hard to take, but also, a hard-assed straight shooting bitch, which I respect. In the end, annoying won out: she’s very shouty, and kept referring to Mother’s Day as “Mommy’s Day.” It was painful to watch in real time, and the show is an hour long, but we persevered, for Gabriel.

Sarah didn’t much care for the show either:

“I don’t like her hair.”
“Her teeth scare me.”
“She looks like she should have wrinkles, but she doesn’t”
“She’s not a mother, is she?”
“Maybe she’s a lesbian.”

Just as we were about switch to Doctor Who, we saw the preview for Gabriel’s segment, featuring GABRIEL. By this point, Gabriel had grown so bored that he had passed out on the couch, but the rest of us were rewarded with five minutes during which I nearly DIED of adorableness, as we watched Gabriel and his classmates speak bluntly about money.

http://video.cnbc.com/gallery/?video=3000020252

And while I was irritated that a woman who pronounces her name in a manner defying phonetic norms could not correctly pronounce Macaluso, I am grateful to her nonetheless, for allowing me to see my gorgeous, disarming, good-natured, delightful son display his charms on national television.

It was a pretty great Mother’s Day present.

 

Basketball jones

Sacha has always been obsessed with basketball.

It began when he was barely walking, and I asked him to put his dirty diaper in the trash. As he threw it in, I said, “He shoots, he scores!”, and unknowingly unleashed an enduring passion. From that day forward, every diaper change became a basketball game.

The the height of the hoop continues to progress as he grows; he went from one suitable for crawlers, then toddlers, and now he insists on a full-sized backboard. Like a bloodhound, he sniffs out backboards, and begs to be hoisted up to take shots. When he became too big for me to hold over head, he would seek out any available adult, stranger or not, and demand to climb on their shoulders. If we are out for a walk and we pass a pick-up game, we must stop to watch. When he gets home from school, he drops his backpack and heads straight to the our disgusting basement, to work on his game. David regularly takes him to the Y to shoot hoops.

This is especially funny because mine is not a sports loving family. My father is something of a sports neanderthal, and one of the things that attracted me to David was his complete lack of interest in organized sports.

I find baseball dull, and although I pretend to watch the Super Bowl in an attempt to conform to social norms, I find football brutal and clumsy. But of all sports, I’ve always felt basketball has the most potential; it is fast paced and graceful, and I can appreciate it as an art form, even if I had no interest in watching an actual game.

When he was younger I used to DVR games for Sacha to watch when I needed to keep him occupied, and because he was unaware of the larger world, he had no idea that by the time he watched them, the games were ancient history.

This sort of thing will no longer do, because this year we introduced him to March Madness. I used it as a very effective behavior modification tool while getting him ready for bed, when he is generally batshit crazy. At first, I would sit with him, reading while he watched, but he would climb into my lap, making reading impossible, and then I had no choice but to watch the game. By the end of the series, our entire family was gathering to watch the games, and I found myself beginning to look forward to this ritual.  

From the Final Four, we quickly proceeded to the NBA playoffs, and somewhere along the line, I I found myself watching the Knicks versus the Celtics, not just as an opportunity to spend time with my son, but as a pleasure in and of itself. I started off simply appreciating the mechanics of the game — how can one be unmoved by a basketball player’s balletic form, the beauty of their arms — but not really caring who won. By the end of the play-offs though, I was heavily invested in the Knicks.

Although these things are elementary, here are a few of the things I now understand:

• Carmelo Anthony
• A’mare Stoudemayer
• give and go
• fast break
• back court vs front court
• center line, free throw lane, 3-point line
• shot clock
• bank shot
• offensive vs defensive rebound
• feint
• field goal vs free throw
• the distinction between one, two and three-point shots
• flagrant vs offensive vs personal foul
• floor violation
• running out the clock

Then there are the things I know about, but haven’t quite figured out. I know that a team consists of a point guard, shooting guard, small forward, power forward and center, but cannot yet recognize which player plays which position. I know there are different strategies, such as man-to-man defense, low percentage shots, keepaway games, and full-court press.

In short, I am beginning to know what I am talking about. Before the end of the series, I found myself two doors down at my sports loving neighbor’s house, talking about Friday night’s game, and anticipating what I was feared would be the final game of the series on Sunday afternoon. When David came in from a day of gardening, I brought us each a beer, and we sat down by ourselves, to watch the game. 
The second half was tense and exciting, and by the end of the third quarter the Knicks were only down by ten points, and I could  feel the energy on the court palpably shifting, as the Celtics began getting sloppy and the Knicks hungry with the possibility that the could actually win the game, and thus, prolong the series. When David left for the market, in the fourth quarter, I found formerly sports indifferent self on the edge of my seat, excitedly texting him updates.

What started as a labor of love is quickly becoming a passion of my own. I find myself looking forward to next season, and feeling a bit sad that we cannot afford the even the cheap seats for a family of five. But I’ve made a promise to myself that someday, we will take Sacha myself to a Knicks game, and I will thoroughly enjoy watching him (hopefully just metaphorically) pee himself with excitement.

giving thanks

Prior to Thanksgiving, Sacha's teachers asked the class what they were grateful for, and the answers were documented in last week's newsletter. In a class of seventeen, sixteen answered some variant on 'my family.'

Ever the outlier, Sacha was thankful for his Kung Zhu&trade hamster.

He's never been one to mince words. At the beginning of the school year, the kids were paired with a classmate with whom they had to collaborate on a drawing, and say why they liked their partner. Jonah likes Henry because he's funny, while Eli likes playing basketball with Max; Eleni appreciates Kyra's drawing skills, and Sadie loves that Joseph is a good sharer. Meanwhile, Sacha likes Rachel because he likes her. I don't know if he likes her, or likes her, I appreciate his honest, straightforward approach.

And so when he declared his gratitude for his battle hamster, I couldn't help but feel proud of my boy, for proving once again a consistent ability to cut through the bullshit.

Insult and injury

This week Sacha has developed an unfortunate habit of waking at that dreaded unnamed hour, when the sky is just beginning to lighten around the edges. When this happens I dare not look at the clock, because it will only confirm that although my sleep has been effectively ended, it is still far from time to start my day.

I think these mid-night wakings are due to a combination of daylight savings and a few too many nights of eating a late dinner, but whatever the reason, they have resulted in a seemingly endless loop of sheet washing — perhaps some semi-secular alliance between god, the water utility and a shadow arm of the Coin Laundry Association are having a laugh at my expense. More than once this week I've stripped Sacha out of wet pajamas, and brought him up to my bed. I could change his sheets and put him back in his bed, but I am constitutionally opposed to doing laundry in the middle of the night. Hope springs eternal, and I am unwilling to risk what little chance I have of falling back to sleep for the sake of housework.

While a middle of the night snuggle with a delicious child is decent consolation for disrupted sleep, recent experience has taught me that even this innocent act is not without risk. A few weeks ago when Sacha had an accident, Gabriel was already in our bed, so I tucked Sacha into Gabriel's bed and laid down with him for a few minutes. Sometimes, it's like a French bedroom farce around here. Sacha could not get back to sleep, and several failed attempts to make my exit later, I decided the only reasonable thing to do was to slip him a mickey give him a tablet of melatonin.*

He quickly grew still, but as I tried to extricate myself from his bed he popped up once again. At this point I accepted that there was no way I was getting back to my bed, got myself a melatonin and settled back in with Sacha. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I felt a hot stream of urine hit the small of my back. Now, two beds were wet, and I was wide awake. I walked stiffly back to my room in my cold wet nightgown, changed my bedclothes, and got into my warm, dry bed. As I pulled the covers up to my chin and exhaled, David's alarm rang.

And so, with some trepidation, as I carry my son up the stairs to my bedroom, I issue a silent prayer that nothing, or no one, gets pissed on. Because if this goes on much longer, I may take to sleeping in rubber fetish gear, which would have the advantage of being both and practical and sexy.

*There are drugs that save, or vastly improve the quality of lives, and while I can't claim melatonin has done either, I still consider it a miraculous substance. Before we started giving it to Sacha at bedtime, it could take him hours to fall asleep. Although he was never loud or disruptive, he would lay quietly in wait, and every night, as I checked on him on my way up to bed, he scared the shit out of me when he popped up and gave me a hug.

Heat wars

Here on the east coast we are enjoying a gorgeous, temperate fall. Last year by this time I was deep in the heat game, donning my makeshift burka and doing wind sprints up and down the stairs. But with the exception of a few rainy days earlier in the month, I haven't yet been tempted to turn the heat on.

Sarah disagrees, appearing every morning for breakfast with her shoulders hunched, shivering in her coat. "It's freezing!" she declares, and asks for a cup of tea. I am happy to make tea, but as someone whose hands and nose are perpetually cold, I am categorically certain that it's quite comfortable in the house.

Until this week, the thermostat has read sixty-eight degrees during the day, which is one degree warmer than we keep the house in the winter. When I mentioned this to Sarah, she shivered in disdain, whimpered and wrapped her hands tightly around her hot mug.

And so I was surprised when David mentioned he was contemplating setting the heat to go on from 5-7:30 so it's warm when we come downstairs in the morning. He less susceptible to cold than I, so I knew what he meant by we was Sarah.

Sarah has a flair for high drama, and is very comfortable ordering people around — sometimes I find myself listening to her before remembering that I am the one in charge, and just this week, when I didn't give her a check for a school function as quickly as she wanted, she offered to write it for me to sign. But as her parents, I like to think we are not so readily fooled.

I was momentarily surprised to see how easily snookered David was, until I remembered that when it comes to daughters, a father is reduced to a pat of butter in a hot pan. Mothers, of course, are made of stronger stuff, especially when it comes to their sons.

Brother can you spare a blue skirt?

Sarah is going to be a rainbow for Halloween this year. Her plan is to layer her clothing in Roy G Biv order, with her outfit unfolding: red headband, orange necklace, yellow shirt, green shirt, blue skirt, indigo and indigo and/or violet leggings. She is mightily into layering as of late. I'm not sure how she plans to handle the legs, but I'm hoping we can strike a compromise with purple.

I asked her to take an inventory of what items she already had, so I could get a handle on what we needed to purchase. Her answer was everything.

I suggested an alternate route; since she already owns orange leggings and yellow shorts, perhaps she could work from the ground up. She disagreed, asserting that the concept will not work if people have to scan bottom to top, because a rainbow is not Vib G Yor, and so she most definitely needs a blue skirt.

At this point I realized her mission is two-fold; not only had she come up with a clever DIY costume that does not require sewing, but had done so in such a way as to maximize the number of new clothing purchases that can continue to be worn well past Halloween. Win-win; I was powerless to disagree. She did throw me a bone by agreeing to wear her grey sneakers.

Meet the porcelain god

One night last week Sarah complained about the state of our powder room toilet. I couldn't argue with her assessment; I've been busy lately.  While I did scrub the sink recently, I didn't bother with the toilet, and was looking slightly unsavory, with an unappealing dark halo at the waterline.

I decided it was time for Sarah to learn how to clean a toilet. She is extremely competent in every respect; a crack babysitter, she can get Sacha fed, bathed and to bed and still have time to read before we get home. I don't intend for my children to leave this house without knowing how to change a light bulb, or make ice.

And so over the weekend we had a date with the porcelain god, during which I introduced her to the rudiments of scrubbing and swishing. Now, Sarah is ready to host a dinner party, where her guests will be assured a delicious meal, and a sparkling bathroom.

And next time, she will think twice before criticizing my housekeeping skills.

Crowd surfing optional

This year we went to synagogue for Simchat Torah. I'd never been to this service before, but the class of new Hebrew school students, of which Gabriel is a member, were being consecrated. While I'm not against the idea of going to synagogue, I do find it fairly boring, but on Simchat Torah I had the best time I've ever had in a synagogue.

It was partly due to the joyous nature of the holiday, which celebrates the end of the annual cycle of Torah reading, and culminates in a ceremony where the congregation forms a circle around the children and unfurls the entire Torah scroll. I'd always thought touching the Torah was verboten, but apparently not, at least if this is to be believed.

There was a relatively short service accompanied by a klezmer duo, and many families with small children were present, signifying a behavioral bar set low enough for limbo. During call and response readings, Sacha repeated things, fortissimo, half a beat after the congregation. This included lot of enthusiastic oh yeahs! amens! and much indecipherable ad-libbing. The service culminates with singing and dancing, during which Gabriel and Sacha fought over playing the bongos, and Gabriel spun wildly like a dervish.

Speaking in tongues and ecstatic dancing; perhaps the key to enjoying synagogue is to behave like you're at a tent revival or a rock concert, and let your freak flag fly. Next year's highlights will include pogoing, and slam dancing.

Random musings for a rainy day

A WINK AND A JAB

Today as my nurse called me in for my allergy shot, it looked very much like she winked at me. She may have been blinking, or perhaps it was a trick of the light, or an involuntary twitch, but from where I was standing it looked very much like a wink. This is a standing appointment, and I chose the time slot because not only is it convenient for me, but also because this nurse is the best jabber in the office. Shots don't make me nervous, nor do I find them especially painful, but she has a very light touch, as opposed to the other nurse, who has a more muscular, flesh wielding style. The more I think about it, considering that she was professional in every other respect, she probably didn't wink, but it would have been kind of exciting, if inappropriate, if she had. 

DEPARTMENT OF LAME

The kids always come home from the first day of Hebrew School with a care package. This year's contained a notebook and pencil, to signify knowledge, (fake) honey candy for sweetness, a penny for tzedekah, and a container of what they called "tradition soup," which is supposed to be chicken noodle soup, but is actually vegetarian chicken flavor. This is a kosher version of Cup Noodles — which I remember being called Cup O Noodles in my youth, which I guess is now too hokey and unsophisticated, or maybe too faux Irish — aka ramen in a bowl. I'm not sure what I find saddest about this; the lack of imagination demonstrated by dried soup to represent the rich history of Jewish civilization, or the imitation chicken flavor.

MAMA PONG

This is what it sounds like after school in my house. Sarah is to my right in the dining room, doing homework, while Gabriel is on my left, having a snack at the kitchen table.

Sarah: Mama, does it make sense to say, "I relish my phone?"
Me: Not bad, but it might be better to say —
Gabriel: Mama, do you know if you sell ten boxes of chocolate you win a free iPod?
Me: Really? Coo—
Sarah: Mama, how about this sentence: When I get in trouble I get very morose?
Me: Pretty go—
Gabriel: Mama, can I tell you what you get if you sell 100 things?
Sarah: Mama, I'm out of money on my hot lunch account.
Me: I thought we just put money on last—
Gabriel: Mama, today in music we got to put our names on our recorders.
Me: Did you learn any—
Gabriel: Mama, what are cats made of?
Sarah: Mama, don't forget I'm staying after school tomorrow.

At this point, Sacha's bus arrives, relieving me of my whiplash, and inability to complete a sentence.

ODD YET BENIGN YOGA SKIN AFFLICTIONS I OCCASIONALLY EXPERIENCE

Pincamayurasana elbow burns: like carpet burn for elbows
Peeling big toe pads: from tucking the toes on the back foot, which sometimes prevents me from getting a pedicure when I sorely need one

the new routine

I am a midday, as opposed to a morning or a night person. It takes me a while to get going in the morning, and I am happiest when in bed by 10.00.



I like to ease into the morning slowly, in silence, and darkness, which is not entirely compatible with family living. Spouses rise early for work, and young children often wake well before you would like them to. Because David has the peculiar habit of getting readying with the lights on, I have been known to stumble into the brightly lit bathroom like a wounded lemur, covering my eyes and grunting while he shaves and tries to chat me up.

My favorite part of the morning is the 30 minutes I spend alone with a cup of coffee, reading Andrew Sullivan or the newspaper. For years now, I've tried to be downstairs by 6.30 so I have 30 minutes to myself before the children wake. That this only happens one out of five mornings is besides the point; it is the sacred ideal to which I aspire.

Sarah started middle school this year, which begins at an uncivilized 7.50am. Never mind that getting up early is difficult for a child who prefers sleeping until 10, and who tried, admirably but without success, to get in the habit of waking early during the week prior to the start of school. My point is that this new routine has completely upended my morning ritual. Sarah's bus comes at 7.23, and so when I come downstairs she is already in the kitchen preparing her lunch. It is rude not to acknowledge one's children, and so I must say things like, good morning, how did you sleep, and you look very pretty today.

By the time my coffee is ready she is sitting down for breakfast, and I feel boorish retreating to the living room and leaving her to eat alone. And so I join her at the table. But then, there is laundry to do, and a dishwasher to empty, and I wind up sitting for only a few minutes before I am compelled to do some work, periodically stopping for a sip of coffee.

After a week of this, I decided that if David is in the kitchen it would be alright to retreat to the living room. And so I settled in the my chair in the dark living room, triggering the ass sensor, at which point Sacha appeared at the bottom of the stairs, warm, tousled, and smelling of sleep, wearing nothing but his briefs, demanding to snuggle. A mother is powerless to refuse. But instead of abandoning myself to Sacha, I tried to continue to read over one shoulder and drink my coffee over the other. Which is how I wound up reading roughly 150 words in a coffee-dampened robe.

DIY

This morning while Sacha and I snuggled and watched television, he took my hands, which were folded around his middle, and guided them toward his groin. Being a person of sound judgment and a respecter of boundaries, I resisted his request. He, in turn, resisted my resisting, and so our hands remained suspended, as if subject to the force of magnetic repulsion.

I am quite familiar with the sight of my son's naked form, and consider it a thing of great beauty. I have laid hands on him countless times, as I've snuggled and bathed and otherwise groomed him. I will continue to rub his feet and goose his bum, kiss, hold, hug and squeeze him, for many years to come. I expect I will still want to do these things long after he no longer needs my assistance.

But Sacha, as adorable I think your penis is, I do not, under any circumstances want to touch it.

Some time—not until your late teenage years, if I have any say in the matter—you will no doubt find yourself a friend with whom you will spend hours happily fondling one another. Until then, I'm sorry son, but you'll just have to do it yourself.

Flotsam and jetsam

Gabriel's second grade teacher, Mrs McChesney, runs the most effective behavior modification system I've encountered. She prints her own money, McChesney dollars, which is earned out in exchange for desired behaviors: turning in assignments on time, completing extra work, sitting quietly, random acts of kindness.

One of her classroom rules is that all correspondence from home must be penned by the student and signed by a parent, if necessary. Gabriel will write her a note about anything, which has resulted in a string of highly amusing, if somewhat tautological correspondence.

Dear Mrs McChesney
I'm sorry I couldn't get a white shirt. So my mom is going to get one. I don't know when she is going to bring it in. Mabey around 10:00-1:00. 
From Gabriel

Dear Mrs McChesney  
Gabriel has permission to walk home from school by himself with Sarah. She can come over and get me. Or I can go over to her when I see her come out. Either way is ok, really. So Sarah can get Gabriel, or Gabriel can get Sarah. And they can walk home together by themselves now. 
From Gabriel

When I mentioned to Mrs McChesney how amusing I found Gabriel's notes, and his zeal for correspondence, she smiled and told me they receive McChesney dollars for writing notes. I thought requiring students to write their own notes was clever, but paying them to do so elevates it to brilliant.

The highlight of the week is a shopping expedition to the McChesney store. So sweet is the experience that more than one of Sarah's fifth grade classmates cited the McChesney store as their fondest elementary school memory on their yearbook page. The children can choose to save up for big ticket items, such as lunch with Mrs McChesney or the principal. More often, they buy from the store's inventory of the usual tchotchkes that middle-class children have in spades yet covet nonetheless, and enjoy for roughly twenty-four hours — pencils, erasers, stickers, notepads, whistles, yo-yos, plastic rings and Mardi Gras beads — before being consigned to the metaphorical slagheap for parents to manage.

At this time of the year, Mrs McChesney holds the equivalent of a reverse fire sale, and this is where she really shines. First, a a note came home soliciting donations: do you have half a box of granola bars your kids hated? Old forgotten pez dispensers? More unsharpened pencils than you'll go through before they leave for college? All your flotsam and jetsam is welcome in the McChesney store.

But instead of selling these items for a song, they go for prices that could only be considered extortionist. In the past week, Gabriel bought a black synthetic leather checkbook cover, two silly bands for $200 apiece, an empty slot-machine shaped candy container, a composition notebook decorated with pink and purple flowers, and my favorite, a DIY balsa-wood star ornament bearing a symbol of unknown origins that resembles a double chai or an unwound caduceus. When I noted it's obvious handmade character, it's fine color scheme and superior draftsmanship, and asked when Gabriel had made it, he replied that he bought it. My son happily spent $300 for an anonymous child's discarded craft project.

That the children use their money to purchase the sorts of things they already own, and at obscene prices, does nothing to diminish their zeal to accumulate and spend their cash. She really has their number, because the fact that the McChesney store is nothing more than a pint-sized Ponzi-scheme does nothing to dimish it's appeal.

When school is over, I am contemplating hiring her to see what she can do with some of my own less desirable behaviors.

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.

Good-bye to all that

Shortly after Sacha was born, a friend stopped by with dinner, and upon seeing a shiny new car in the driveway said, "I don't know what's more surprising, that you have three kids, or a minivan."

Me and the minivan never got along. I drove it for four years, and enjoyed doing so for one billing cycle, which is about the length of time it took for the novelty of automatic sliding doors to wear off.

I'd like to say it's nothing personal, but really, it is. There's nothing materially wrong with a minivan. I have dear friends who not only do not mind, but enjoy, driving one.

I am just not one of them. I have a long list of grievances against it, both ridiculous — I found it  intimidating to drive a car that was taller than me —  and legitimate — the second row sliding doors stick in weather below freezing, forcing passengers to enter and exit via the passenger front door and climb about the cabin in order to get to their seats.

If you are in the business of shepherding a flock of children about, the minivan performs the job with distinction. Designed with family convenience in mind, it has many handy storage compartments. There is a built-in slot for everything from cups to eyeglasses to toys, which makes it not unlike traveling aboard a houseboat. I would not at all be surprised to learn that there are hidden compartments, a-la-Nancy Drew, that I never discovered.

And therein, at least in part, lies the problem. The minivan's commodiousness — it's raison d'etre — overwhelmed me. Perhaps I wasn't woman enough for it. I found driving it not unlike piloting a small boat on dry land. It has the turning radius of a straight edge. In order to avoid hitting a curb, I had to swing so wide that when the front end rounded the bend, the back was left stranded in another municipality.

Behind the wheel I felt like I was in an airplane cockpit, isolated from, yet responsible for the safety of my passengers. The acoustics are terrible, which made it difficult to hear my kids. While this may sound like heaven, it put me in an awkward position. I could pretend to hear them, and thus risk agreeing to something to which I would never acquiesce. Otherwise, I could request that they speak up, but as I spend a considerable amount of time telling them to lower their voices, this is something I never, ever want to do.

But the worst thing about driving a minivan was the filth. The chasm between the first and third row — the children's domain — is large, and it did not take long before the back of the van began to resemble the Collyer brothers' brownstone. Being orderly and controlling, the very thought of going back there made me shudder. If you recall the experience of being many months pregnant, and then getting an unexpected glimpse of your inaccessible lower half, you know what I'm talking about.

The dreaded back row attracted an assortment of items including: books, notepads, writing implements, stickers, sample paint chips, spare change, action figures, matchbox cars, legos. My fatwa against bringing food into the car was difficult to enforce, so at any given time there could be chip wrappers, melted and re-solidified chocolate, snack containers, straws, and beverages in various stages of completion strewn about. And then there were the collections of twigs, rocks, and leaves that children seem to attract, which combined with the cookie crumbs to form a thin layer of humus.

My conviction that the car has a blind spot on the front passenger side of the bumper was validated by a survey of Toyota Siennas in any parking lot, which frequently bore similar patterns of nicks and dents. Our bumper was already in need of repair before I had a fender bender in March, and we were waiting until right before our lease terminated to fix it to avoid the possibility of incurring further damage.

The accident forced us to repair the bumper a few months earlier than planned, but we only had to shell out for our deductible. David and I resolved that when the car was repaired, because it would never again look this good, we had no choice but to get rid of it immediately.

When the body shop called sooner than expected to say the car was ready, I may or may not have replied, "Oh, shit." I disliked the minivan so much that I preferred the rental car, a decidedly unsexy Dodge Grand Caravan. Ambivalently reunited with my own car, I drove straight to a car dealership. Twenty-four hours later, we bid adieu to the minivan, and I drove home in a Mazda 5, which, because I am the zeitgeist, was profiled in the Sunday Times last week. 

The Mazda 5 is a micro-minivan; it's built on a car chassis, and is about two feet shorter and a half-ton lighter than a typical minivan. It has three rows of seats like a minivan, but seats one person fewer. The first time Sarah got in, she asked if it was a sports car. The experience of trading down to a smaller car has been exhilarating, like exchanging a septuagenarian for a teenage body. Things that were long impossible are now be done with ease. Three-point turns now contain only two points, and when I step out of the car at home, my feet are in my driveway, as opposed to my neighbor's garden. I no longer parallel park as much as glide into tight spaces with one hand on the wheel and my eyes closed.

Although I'm not much of a driver, I am delighting in the experience of being behind the wheel of this smaller, nimbler, and cleaner car. And while the honeymoon will end eventually, in the meantime, to maintain the illusion that the car is, and will forever remain brand new, I subject the children to mandatory disrobing and strigiling prior to entering the vehicle.