Category Archives: Kids

Extreme Family

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On Sunday, just as we and our apartment were recovering from the New Year’s that was, we had two cousins (children of dear cousins Ricky z”l and Judy, and dear, if young, cousins in their own rights). FOB (father of blogger and their great uncle) joined and so it was a multi, collateral-generational event.

It was scheduled for 11am and then re-scheduled for 10:30am by one of my young cousins, so she could catch a train to get upstate for school.  She had lived in New York for a year but in short order we forgot that she is never, ever, ever on time.  If this fact was lost to save another, more necessary fact from slipping out of my memory banks, so be it.  [As a digression (of course), does anyone else fantasize about have one of those 8 GB memory cards inserted in your brain?  Did I just admit that this is the subject of my fantasies?  Ugh, my filter was gone years before I could blame age.]

I didn’t even bother to tell FOB of the earlier start time because, as I have discussed before, as a person gets older, a person arrives earlier and earlier at any event.   So I knew he would be on time, even early, for the rescheduled time.  And FOB did not let me down. I was a little worried that he would be so early as to eat dinner with us on Saturday night, but we aren’t at that stage yet.

POB (partner of blogger) got up early to get provisions.  She is a G-dsend and she reminds me of that daily (the memory thing again).

So while the rest of were all assembled at 10:30am (FOB even earlier and her younger brother exactly on time), my little cousin and her NEW boyfriend arrived at 11am.  We didn’t realize he was ACTUALLY coming — a little mix-up on that score — but we always buy enough lox, bagels and white fish salad.  And we have food on hand if a person is not Jewish — gastronomically or otherwise.

We endured her old boyfriend who was Dutch-Israeli (how did his parents get along long enough to procreate, you might ask, but I really, really can’t go there).  You might be having trouble imagining the effect of a Dutch and Israeli genetic mixture?  Rest easy, I have your answer:  You get someone who tells you his opinions framed as THE TRUTH (there is only one) in a smug and arrogant way.  Really, I am not joking.  But wait, it gets weirder, the old boyfriend works in the hospitality industry. Let’s pause on that point for a moment because you cannot make that stuff up.  There was something undeniably charming about him.  But I digress.  [Sigh] Yes, I digress AGAIN.

So, bottom line, we were prepared for anything. And quite curious.

Also, just some background on her (right) wing of the family.  They are somewhat religious so non-Jewish partners are problematic.

The boyfriend (now, probably, “ex” after meeting us) is not Jewish.  Never letting inappropriate conversation get in the way of a family gathering, my other young cousin reported that his grandparents on the OTHER side of the family have issues with their older brother’s relationship with an older non-Jewish woman who has two kids.  Pause.  I contemplate that both my siblings are happily married to non-Jews and that I, THE LESBIAN, am the only one with a Jewish partner.

Not wanting the new boyfriend to feel toooo bad about this xenophobic-is-it-good-for-the-Jews conversation, I offered helpfully that my cousin’s eggs are Jewish so the family should be ok with a Christian boyfriend (assuming that he wasn’t yet dying to run screaming out the door), but of course we will need some of his blood in order to make wine for Passover.

Did I really mention the blood for Passover wine?  Happily I can say, with little or no guile, that I honestly don’t remember.  Maybe I don’t want that memory chip after all.  [cheesy smile]

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iFamily

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For my 40th birthday (just about 7 years ago), POB (partner of blogger) gave me an iPod.  There is new, souped of version of this dinosaur called “iPod Classic”.  Just like those “classic” Chryslers with all the conveniences of modern technology but with the fins and the chrome edges.  It was amazing in its time and, just seven years later, its limitations are quaint — in that way that a lop-sided homemade cake is really so, so, so, “homey”.

Then, it wore out  as iThings are designed to do after 360 charges. So, it stays planted in its iPlayer for music when we are in the house.

Then, we got something for the gym.

And this doesn’t really hold a charge anymore.  And so I get iRate at the gym when the battery idies on me and all I have to watch is the 24-hour-news-recycle to pass the tortuous 30 minutes on a constant-sweat machine of choice that day.

Ok, so then we got one that had more “juice” for the family.  But we didn’t know about the iDeath that happens after 360 charges (don’t leave an iPod in a charger or re-charge willy-nilly).  So this iDevice splits its time between two places: the kitchen, and, after hours, in SOPOBAB’s (son of POB and blogger’s) room so he can listen to audio books and then go to sleep to the music of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong (yes, SOPOBAB is an old soul).  This requires TWO iBose systems for its two iHomes.

Ok, that was not enough, so we got two, TWO, iTouches.  Two iTouches. SOPOBAB has dinosaur, bird, football, baseball and hockey apps so he can play, too. (Our child cannot conceive of a world with typewriters, dial-up connections, Basic 8 computer languages.  Thank G-d, he loves real, honest-to-goodness books.)

The batteries are draining too quickly.  So we are probably going to get another one.  Oy.

Then we got an iMac.  [picture not included because of iMalfunction] [imagine iPicture here].

THEN, a MacBook Pro.

Now, an iPhone.  Not for me.  For POB.  Cool and groovy.

But I am a little iParanoid that our dependence on Steve Jobs is getting addictive.  But I really hate PCs since Microsoft Vista came out and ground our PC to a halt even for simple tasks, like say, logging on.

There was a time when there was no “I” in “team” (but there IS an I in family, which stinks for the metaphor).  Apple will get rid of that problem by creating the iTeam (who knows if that is true, but one has to believe that something like that has to come out in order to continue the mind control and advance the global domination).

In life, you pick your battles.  Steve Jobs, you win. iLove you and so does this iFamily.

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Walkin’ in a Winter Wonderland

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Today was the truest snow day ever.  18 inches of snow in New York City.  Stalled car and buses every where.  Blizzard-scale winds that made me believe in Mary Poppins.  Law firm offices closed.  Let me say that again.  LAW FIRM OFFICES CLOSED EVEN AS THEY TRY TO MAKE BUDGET FOR 2010.  Now, that, THAT, is saying something.  I live in the City and there was no way I was going to make it to the office except by walking, and the blizzard-scale winds would have taken me way off-course.  The Upper West Side of Manhattan is not even plowed 12 hours after the last snowflake fell (don’t they realize that we vote with our ballots and pocketbooks?  Has anyone noticed the UWS demographic has changed????)

POB (partner of blogger) was supposed to go east to the beach with our son (SOPOBAB) and his cousin, our nephew.  Oh, I think Mother Nature is a teeny tiny bit stronger than the sheer will of POB.  Although Mother Nature won, she was bruised and hospitalized.  Anyway, my beautiful prizefighter POB thought that we needed to go sledding.  I thought we needed to drug the boys (just kidding, for all the Child Protective Services personnel who read this).  How else do you keep two rambunctious 8 year-old in check?

So, a-sledding we went.  A winter wonderland.  Sheer, treacherous beauty on West 108th Street.

As I was fretting about the absence of protective gear while trying not to fall down the hill at scary velocity (I remember all too well flying down the hill with SOPOBAB when he was a littler kid.  I also remember buying another life insurance policy the following day, because SOPOBAB would bounce, as children do; I would not have survived another run.)

But, then, life has a way of keeping it all real.  A child, whose family apparently fell on hard times (they must have been slumming by spending year-end at home), stated with disgust, “There isn’t even a hot chocolate shack!” If that were my child, he would be enrolled at military school tomorrow.  Yes, I am passing judgment (and also stating a fact).

Toto, I have a feeling we are not in Aspen anymore. It was so pathetic and sad at the same time that I couldn’t, simply couldn’t, take a picture of the spoiled brat who uttered that line.  Ok, I almost did, but G-d intervened and the battery of my camera failed.  Lucky kid, but karma, as we know, is a boomerang.

BUT, THE BATTERY DID NOT DIE BEFORE I GOT A PICTURE OF A SARTORIAL/PSYCHO-SOCIAL TRAGEDY.  Before I share this vignette, I will note that my own outfit could remind a person of Pippy Longstocking — everything was mismatched in that way that you wear whatever will keep you warm.  In fact, I was wearing a serial-killer hat (depicted in every artist sketch in an all-points bulletin) that made me look particularly deranged and very much like a predicate felon.  But that isn’t what I am talking about.

I am talking about an outfit that could scar a child for life.

A MOTHER IN A SUMMER’S PEASANT SKIRT, WINTER JACKET WITH FUR LINING, CARRYING A BRUSHED COPPER COLORED PURSE, TOTALLY IGNORANT OF THE GRAVE EMBARRASSMENT AND LIFETIME TRAUMA SHE WAS CAUSING HER LITTLE SON:

Later she yelled at her son who is out of control as he sled down the hill, “watch your kepilah [head]!!!” as if summoning G-d to deliver her from this pagan ritual that assimilation has thrust upon them. The only saving Grace is that this the Upper West Side of New York, with a Jewish population larger than the whole of Israel.  So, we understand.  Because was heard these humiliating stories from our parents as part of their own, very personal, Exodus stories.

A bastardized adage still holds true:

One person’s winter’s wonderland is another person’s proof that Hell DOES freeze over.

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Space Travel

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Ok, no more “t’was the night before” parodies.

Today, I introduced my son to Star Trek: The Next Generation.  He thought it was cool but couldn’t believe that Star Trek (at least the original series) preceded Star Wars and — Heavens!! — The Clone Wars.

He loves the look of the Starship Enterprise (I think he will be disappointed with the original series’ ship) and wanted to learn about all the classes of starships (there are websites cataloguing the fictional fleets of human and alien ships — who knew?) and he had a field day looking up warp drives and matter/anti-matter things.  (I guess; I didn’t look because my eyes glazed over with all the data.)

My son was ready to watch the entire Star Trek: TNG marathon today; I was not.  Not only would I be a lazy and bad parent, but when you watch shows as a parent, you notice the sexual innuendos, etc., that never before fazed you.  And you wonder about the overtly sexual costumes (especially on the original series) and wonder how much is lost — or found — on the kids.  The episode we saw featured an incident with the Farenghi — a misogynous species (they don’t talk directly to women and women aren’t deserving of clothes).  As a parent, I wasn’t so sure that the writers did enough of a job smacking down these creatures for their hatred of women.  And, of course, time-honored feminine wiles saved the day.  So cliché.

But the thing that made it all worthwhile?  My son thinks I know A LOT about space travel now and wants me to watch every Star Wars: The Clone Wars episode to discuss insights.

Wow, do I have much studying to do.  Yet I will boldly go where I have never gone before if only to be a heroine in my son’s eyes.  “Lay in a course for the Alpha Quadrant, my young son, Warp 5.  Engage!”

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All quiet on the Upper West Side

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Our son is sick and so POB (partner of blogger) and I have split the task of caring for him so we can have at least a half-day at work.

Sometimes, the delicate balance maintained by two working parents is thrown off and you have to deal.  I was able to be on conference calls and do some work, all the while hugging and kissing my child and saying things my mother would say, “My poor tsatskela, I am so sorry you are sick.  If I could have it for you, I would!”

Our son wanted to watch a nature video on the Grand Canyon.  So, I am watching as a tarantula hawk wasp (as in insect) paralyzes a tarantula (as in huge, hairy and gross) and drags it off so the wasp’s larvae can feed on the tarantula.  Something small dragging something comparatively elephantine is quite extraordinary.  It is also quite disgusting.  But it is better than a SpongeBob SquarePants marathon.  I am grateful for life’s small graces.

Now, the nature show has moved to the effect of human intervention on the natural course of the Grand Canyon on humpback suckerfish and chuckwallises (sp?).  I keep returning to reading proposed model changes to credit agreements made necessary by the lessons (??) learned in the economic downturn.

Suckerfish and chuckwallises are more interesting.  Now, that is a statement.

We are now looking at the ecosystems of the Everglades.  Two many reptiles and I keep thinking of Horatio Caine and CSI: Miami.  This, I can tune out.  Work wins this round.

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Holiday Photos

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Most every other family can get it together to take a photo, get prints done, put in envelopes, address the envelopes and mail them.  We can’t. 

In fact, POB (partner of blogger) would rather do laundry and I would rather destroy the house under the guise of “home improvements” than undertake this gargantuan task.  (As an aside, we have had to contract repairman to correct my home improvement projects, but I digress. . . )

So . . .  Not happening until our son is of an age where he can do all of that.

But we love getting the holiday pictures from our friends and family.  (Note to friends: we love seeing your kids, but we also want to see you in the picture as well.)

SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) especially likes the pictures of the kids he knows.  Even he says stuff like, “wow, they’ve grown!!”  There is one family with an adorable little girl and two younger twin boys (you know who you are) whose card was particularly of interest to SOPOBAB.  (I think he likes the willfulness in the girl.)  But he is betrothed to another (this, he decided at the tender age of 7, so his interest in the willful one is merely big-brotherly.)

He also likes to see pictures of my college friends’ families.  A group of us female friends have remained tight-knit (the “Soeurs”).  SOPOBAB asked POB, “when are the Soeur kids getting together?” 

He also asked POB, “[Blogger] is a Soeur, and I am a Soeur kid, then what are you?”  POB responded, somewhat sheepishly, “I am a Soeur Consort.”  Since not everyone has a spouse and partners may change from time to time, it seemed like a suitable name — heck, Queen Elizabeth’s husband is called “The Queen Consort” (I think). Unfortunately, it sounds a little tawdry.  Maybe we will all get married by the time he is old enough to think the name is ooky and then “Soeur Consorts” will be “Soeur Spouses”.

But our boy is used to eccentricity.

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Being sick

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It is Saturday, and I am really sick and in bed.  This time what-ever-ails-me is in my chest, my throat and my ears.

At one point, I thought I was febrile and delusional because I kept thinking there were men on scaffolds outside one window of my bedroom and large pieces of rock being hoisted outside another window.  In fact, POB (partner of blogger) confirmed that I may be crazy but I am not delusional (dontcha love her?) because indeed all of this is happening while I need quiet to rest and repair.  (I also note that those hoisting the large rocks to our building’s roof don’t seem to care about the damage if any to the sides of the building because those slabs nearly knocked out our air conditioning unit.)

POB and SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) have gone to Hebrew School and then a party of one of SOPOBAB’s classmates. I am too sick to join them (and I really don’t want to share my germs).  Assuming I feel ok and the antibiotics kick in, we are all supposed to meet at SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB’s (husband of SOB’s) home for the 11 day of Hannukah.  (Ok, we could not get it together earlier to have a family Hannukah party during Hannukah.)  So, a little Festivus, a little Hannukah, a little food.

What could be bad?  Well I am glad you asked.

First, HOSOB is making the latkes.  That would be lovely, except that he doesn’t really cook.  Also, since he is not Jewish, he wants it to be really authentic, which means all the advances we have made in making latkes less artery-occluding are out the window.  This old-style, with schmaltz.  My mouth is watering, but my heart valves are scared.

Second, HOSOB is inviting some of his friends.  That’s fine, we love other bird nerds.  Especially, SOPOBAB, who is a Bird Nerd, Jr.  Except one of the guests is Japanese, which will mean my father will talk about his living in Japan during the Korean War (almost 60 years ago) and proceed to say, “Hai!! Muskudeska?!!”  He doesn’t know what he is saying and we don’t know what he is saying.  And one can mangle a language so it comes out meaning something offensive.  Also, highlighting old wars just can’t be good cocktail conversation.  Assuming HOSOB’s friend is not offended, and responds, Dad wouldn’t understand.

Third, Cousin Gentle who is single, will be there.  HOSOB has invited someone who is single and there may be a shitach (a “match”).  The problem for me, as keeper of the family archives, is that there will be pictures taken, additions to the archives and this lovely woman will need more of a footnote than iPhoto allows when things take a southerly direction (we have had this issue come up with other of Cousin Gentle’s girlfriends).

Fourth, I may be too sick to go.  And I love my family.  SOB and I need each other to brave our dad’s pushing our every button like a maestro at his instrument of choice, as a way of sister-bonding.

I’ll let you know what happens.  Now time for a nap.

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My son, the Prince

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This weekend, POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) and I went to see dear friends who live outside the City.  The wife, M., is in the travel business so she knows how to spoil people with sumptuous accommodations.  The husband, C., is the sweetest man ever and, together they are generous with their hearts, their time and their money.   These are the kind of people that should have G-d’s grace shine upon them forever and always (not that I am a religious person or anything).

They have taken an especial liking to SOPOBAB and SOPOBAB adores them — simply adores them.

M. made sure his bedroom for the weekend was filled with presents, like Christmas morning in the movies.  Our room had a gigantic bed with matching pajamas in case we forgot ours, a gift basket and bottled water.  The bathroom was the size of most Manhattan apartments. So, this was SIX star accommodations and, because we were visiting our dear friends, it was a TEN-STAR experience.

I forgot to tell our friends that SOPOBAB said after the weekend that he slept in “luxurious comfort” (he is 8 year old and where do 8 year-olds get this vocabulary).

We kept saying, “they must think you’re royalty — a REAL prince!!”  He wondered after the weekend if he should tell them that he wasn’t really royalty, after all.  But then, he figured, there might not be as many presents or endless games of hide-and-go-seek and tag.  (G-d bless C. for running all over and watching cartoons.)  So, SOPOBAB thought he would keep his commoner status quiet.  Still, he felt a little sheepish about the ruse.

Yet, during the weekend, SOPOBAB got a little toooo into the groove of “ask and ye shall receive” when he asked that his burger be pan-fried, like in diners.  C. was braving the frigid temperatures to grill a delicious carnivorous fare.  (I was personally horrified, first, that my son would be so bold as to make that request and, second, that he would have a palate that desired pan-fried burgers, but I digress.)  I was a little concerned that C. might accede to his wishes and then we would have to send our son to boot camp to bring him back down to real life.

But G-d not only gave them wonderful hearts and souls, but “seychel” (Yiddish for “smarts” and the “ch” is a guttural German-like sound).  C. brought a pan outside and deposited the grilled hamburgers into it and then brought them into the dining room for our son.  SOPOBAB pronounced them the most delicious burgers he had ever eaten.  I had the biggest smile on my face.

A fabulous weekend getaway.  Except that our son now asks, “what if I am a real prince, only kidnapped by you like in a fairy tale?”  I think, “sweetie, most times, only us, your real mothers could love you,” but I keep that thought inside.  I merely said, “we treat you like a prince, so does it matter?”  “But, M. and C. treat me better!!”

I know he knows that that is all because they are not his parents and they can (and do) spoil him.  But, oy.  Boot camp here we come.

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Art

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My son really wants to go back to the Met this weekend.  If I know my son, it is because of all of the pictures and sculptures of naked women.  I thought about that last night as I was attending an art gallery benefit and auction.

I don’t get art.  But I did see a picture of a nude, so, thanks to my son, I knew it was worth seeing and, well, art.  But most of the stuff I didn’t get. A mixed media work was a paint-on-your-wall with hooks from which dried tea bags were hung.  I couldn’t get past what the art would do to my skim-coated walls.

The auctioneer was a poet, so the auction was led in verse.  The artists were young and funky cool (also funky as in smelly).  One artist wore a crazy snow hat and jeans.

People said things like “[the artist] innovated a new figurative realism and invigorated it against abstractionism”.

I bought something anyway because I liked it, not because I understood it.

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A Morning at the Museum

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Yesterday, POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and blogger) and I joined HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) and FOB (father of blogger) went to the Met to look at the Kubla Khan exhibit (everyone now spells Kubla in a more authentic way, but it was 10am on a Saturday and that kind of information will not get absorbed into my brain).

SOPOBAB is studying Chinese and the information on a significant dynasty was appealing to him.  Also POB talked up the portraiture galleries which had pictures of Revolutionary heroes, etc.  SOPOBAB has read a lot about that, too, and seemed interested.

Great, I think, ancient Chinese dynasties and portrait galleries, could there be anything else I would want to see LESS on a Saturday morning at 10am?  Arms and Armor.  Ok, I am lucky I think.  At least no trifecta.

As a child I hated going to the Met.  It was an overwhelming place with furniture exhibits, armory and ancient Greek statues.  None of it mattered to me.  As an adult, I enjoy the Modern Wing and some of the African art, probably because I have studied some about the art in these areas.

I actually enjoyed the Kubla Khan show, most especially because I watched SOPOBAB find things of interest and talk to FOB and HOSOB about portions of the exhibit.  SOPOBAB, at 8 years old, is a young man who can navigate an exhibit at a museum.

The American Wing was closed for renovation.  The gods were smiling on me.  No portraits of American heroes.  Phew.  Waaaaaitt!!! Where are we going now?  Not to the diner for lunch?  no?  Arms and Armory?  Really?

Ok, so I walk through the exhibit that totally freaked me out when I was a kid.  All of this body armor.  I am a sport and try to focus and learn something.

I look at the body armor and read about the history.  And then, in a moment, the one sight that compelled a blog entry:

It is hard to see, but Kind Ferdinand of Spain needed a lot of extra space for his genitals.  No other body armor has this.  I think this was a message to his adversaries.

So, I learned that in every exhibit, there is something for everyone.

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