Category Archives: Kids

Mother to a boy

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Our 8 year-old boy is still very cuddly, but we know it won’t last for long.  Sometimes, when we are watching cartoons on a weekend morning, he says, “E-Mom!! Stop smothering me!!”

I believe it is my divine right of motherhood to be the quintessential overbearing Jewish mother.   I realize now that my mother, and her mother before her, were just trying to stuff a lifetime worth of love and concern into the few years they actually had control over their children’s lives.  And because, when I look at my child, all I want to do (when I don’t want to throttle him) is hug him and tell him how adorable he is and how much I love him.

So, today, when he said those awful words (“stop smothering me!!”) during our cartoon marathon, I reminded him of my divine right to smother and added, “you can’t spell smother without M-O-T-H-E-R!!”

With my new-found appreciation for the cartoon, “Phineas and Ferb” (today they went on a boat for a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour . . . .), I started imitating the show’s evil doctor, Heinz Doofenschmirtz, who invents “-inators” to do evil things to the entire tri-state area (no joke), and proclaimed myself, the “SMOTHER-inator”.

Yes, yes, yes, I know.  Any sane person would not admit to this.

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Child is teacher to the parent

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All of the talk of Hurricane Earl has my son asking about other types of natural disasters.  His questions are very specific:  why are there earthquakes in California and not in New York City (where we live)??  I didn’t want to tell him that earthquakes are possible in New York and we have had tremors before.  He is only 8 years-old after all and that could freak him out.

Where to begin?  So, I start with, “Not all the land under the oceans are connected.  And deep down, the earth is actually so hot and pressurized that it is liquid.  That is even true under dry land.  Sometimes, the pieces of land bump into each other and move apart and —- ”  My eight year-old son interrupts me, and says, “Oh, you mean plate tectonics?  It also causes mountain ranges.”

Well, all right then.  I actually thought I was doing a good job answering the question, way better than my answering of the Tampax question.  Apparently, I failed to give him new information even though I was essentially making up the connection between earthquakes and plate tectonics.

I knew there would come a time when my son knew more about stuff than I did.  I didn’t realize that it would happen when he is EIGHT YEARS OLD!!!!!  But don’t tell him that earthquakes can happen in New York City; he is still a little boy and might really get scared.

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Blogcation Year 2, Day Whatever – Too Much Information

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So, on vacation, one can lose track of days, especially when one has drowned one’s blackberry (accidentally).

Our G-d daughter and her life partner came over for a couple of days.  We gave them the downstairs bedroom (with two full baths – go figure) and POB (partner of blogger), our son and I took the two bedrooms upstairs (with one bathroom to share).

As is often the case on vacation, everyone’s toiletries bags are open and strewn around the bathroom.   I was downstairs with our G-d daughter and her partner talking, and POB and our son were upstairs so he could get ready for bed.

Our G-d daughter’s partner overhears our son’s question to POB, “Mommy, what are Tampax?”  She repeats the question to us.  I jump up and ask, “[POB], do you need help?” “Ye-e-es” she responds in a way that says I am too tired to deal with this.

So, I run upstairs, my mind blank about the “Tampax” issue.  I get to the bathroom and say (because my son is a bit of a bird nerd), “You know how birds make nests when they are ready to lay eggs?  Well, imagine that we have nests inside us.  If we don’t produce an egg, then the nest has to leave our body and we use Tampax and other products to avoid the messiness that ensues from the nest disintegrating.”

He’s 8 years old

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Bill’s and Hillary’s redemptive moment

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From what I read — how can one avoid it — the details of Chelsea’s wedding were better kept secrets than, say, our troop deployments in Afghanistan (thanks, WikiLeaks).

Good for them. It was Chelsea’s wedding and not a media event.  The Clintons, who have a love-hate obsession with media, kept it real.

Chelsea was the star of the show (and NOT Bill or Hillary).

I, for one, am glad not to know all the details.  I am neither family nor friend AND I don’t care what the bride wore or who was/was not invited.

I do wish Chelsea and her husband much happiness and joy in their lives together, as I would wish any newlyweds (whether or not the union is recognized by the laws of the several states).

But, Bill, really, don’t you feel a tinch bad about the Defense of Marriage Act?

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Parenting Skills (or lack thereof)

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My son likes to play the lottery.  He is 8 years old.  Ok, he likes us to play the lottery for him.  Which we do every month or so.

Why? If he wins big, he reasons, then we don’t have to work, or travel for work, and then we would get to be together 24/7 and end up killing each other.  (He doesn’t think about the last point.)

He has another reason.  He is endlessly fascinated by the rub-off function of finding out whether you win and by the incomprehensible instructions.

He has been winning some and we let him keep his “profit” — we take back the principal and he gets to put his winnings in his piggybank.  I have been thinking about teaching him about the cost of money — interest, exit fees, prepayment penalties and premiums — as well as keeping track of his losses so that we get repaid all of our principal before he takes a profit.  Real world stuff.  Most of my friends think I am nuts.

But I really want him to know that there are losses associated with the lottery and that he could lose more than he makes.  He needs to know that this is really not a feasible game plan for a self-sustaining future.  Also, because he is too young to have learned the lesson, “if it is too good to be true, then it is, and you need to run as fast as you can in the other direction.”

I have been thinking about how to introduce this subject without sounding like the Grinch who takes pennies from a child.  Then, the other day he asked, “what is addiction?”  We asked him why he asks and he said that on the back of lottery tickets, they write about getting help for gambling addictions.

Ok, a cool piece cardbard with potential prizes hidden all over has now spurred my 8 year-old to ask about addiction.

My son opened the door to the conversation.  POB (partner of blogger) and I walked across the threshold and gently talked about it.

So the biggest asset in the my parenting skills? My son.

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Behind the scenes at my son’s 8th birthday party

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First, let me say that my son had a great time.  Second, let me say that POB (partner of blogger) and I did the least we could do.  Everyday we star in our own MasterCard commercial.  In this case, paying for an all-in party at Chelsea Piers bowling alley, $___; seeing your kid smile, PRICELESS.

We were greeted by the shift manager, a friendly enough woman. She failed to enunciate when she said her name and between the thumping music (which I forced them to turn down) and my middle aged ears, I couldn’t catch her name.  Not to worry, my middle aged brain would have forgotten it in seconds anyway.  She asked who was the mother and we both said, “we are”.  Shock and consternation showed on her face.  She then asked, “are there two birthday boys?” Ok, maybe she was thinking she needed to charge extra or maybe she was worried that there was some foul-up.  But this is NEW YORK CITY on GAY PR IDE WEEKEND.  (As for our family, we’re here, we’re queer, we are sooooo over it.)

Ok, so it took a few screams in all of our ear canals to get the point across (remember there was the thumping, party tape playing — another gift by the gay community) in order for the manager to understand that there were two Moms and that all was the same as planned.  Phew.  One small step for us, one giant step for GAY families.

My dad arrived early but not as early as usual so I was tempted to start a police manhunt to track him down.  (He is almost 90 and I worry.)  I waited outside and caught him as he was passing the place.  He noted the loud music and then I wondered to myself, how can he hear the loud music but not hear me screaming “DAD!!!!” on the pier.  A cosmic puzzlement.  One of the moms of our son’s friends asked Dad, “whose father are you?” (as in is your daughter POB or Blogger?).  My dad misunderstood the question, and answered, “No father.  Two moms.”  He came over to me later and suggested that someone didn’t realize the family dynamics and whether he should have a word with her.  G-d bless my Dad.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the mom-in-question already told me about the mis-communication. So, I said, “Another time, Dad, and thanks.”

It is my son’s day, but I need to have a moment about my Dad.  Sometimes, being the sandwich generation has it joyful moments.

I have spent the day putting together Star Wars lego battle cruisers, whatever.  Every parent can relate.  That’s why we don’t march in the parade.  Who has time when there are Lego projects and Little League and Hebrew School and birthday parties?

I get emails from my college friends asking about the birthday party.  I did NOT tell them (not that I wouldn’t but we had facial moisturizer to discuss).  But one is “friends” with my sister who posted pictures of the event.  You can run but you can’t hide.

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A Note to My Sister

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Dear SOB (sister of blogger):

I really appreciated your notes of appreciation (“you’re a saint” — but we are Jews, for G-d’s sake) and helpful hints (“take care of [my husband] while I am gone”) this week.

It was epic to set up Dad’s computer and bring him into the 21st century, especially when he was so comfy in the 19th.  He still can’t access email even though I made it as simple as possible.  (I think the double-click is the problem.  He remembers to click once but not twice.  How do you teach a 90 year-old reflexes of the computer age?)  I guess sainthood — or beatification at least — is indeed warranted.

I am sorry you missed Sunday night dinner, but HOSOB (husband of SOB) carried on valiantly.  I appreciated your email reminding me (threatening me?) that HOSOB could only have one dessert serving.  Good thing we had a big enough plate:

 

Just kidding.  He had a small piece and some fruit to amortize the artery-occluding stuff in the chocolate cake:

 

ReeeLAXX, will you?

HOSOB and Cousin Gentle played with SOPOBAB (son of partner of blogger and blogger) and we all learned a lot of things about playing together.  Don’t worry, it was SOPOBAB that did most of the learning.  HOSOB and Cousin Gentle offered helpful hints, like “incorporate everyone’s imaginative story lines” and “don’t drop your pants until you’re in the bathroom, the light is on and the door is closed”.  These are important things that the bigger guys need to say to littler guy.  Lesbian moms just don’t have that authenticity when it comes to bathroom and trouser-dropping etiquette.

FOB (father of blogger) had a little too much wine, but what the heck, at 90, he can live a little.

He is coming over to my office tomorrow so we can go over “some papers”.  Um, BOB (brother of blogger), aren’t you a lawyer, too?  I think I may have to conference you on the phone so you can share these tender moments of wrapping up Mom’s estate and dealing with FOB’s talking about the end of his life.  [Imagine my putting my hands over my ears and making crazy noises to block out the conversation.] Ok, here is the deal:  I may be strong enough to put FOB on the internet, but I am wholly too young and immature for the rest of it.

FOPOB (father of POB) also came.  I think he had a good time, even with a large complement from our side of the family.

Cousin Gentle recounted his tour yesterday of Revolutionary War-era New York.  SOPOBAB was quite taken with the subject and Cousin Gentle needed to make up stuff to satisfy the boy’s endless curiosity.  I had to throw some curves into the conversation to give Cousin Gentle some time to come up with a plausible story line about the slave trade during that time and other assorted information that SOPOBAB needed to know.  FOB was so taken with SOPOBAB’s curious mind that, together with the extra wine, he was pronouncing our child Einsteinian.  Ok, I have to say that SOPOBAB’s questions were impressive in that they were probing and based on some knowledge he has gleaned from videos and books — more than I will ever know about that historical period, I assure you.

Also, Cousin Gentle bought Reddi-Whip after having it at your house.  He served it to a guest at his house.  He said it wasn’t as good as your supply.  Do you have private label Reddi-Whip because you buy it in bulk?  That was also a conversation topic.

Now you are caught up.

I leave on Thursday for my 25th college reunion.  I will blog from there — it will be like Anderson Cooper reporting from the field.

~ Blogger

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My son’s most excellent adventure

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My son is an intrepid traveler.  His partner in crime is Cousin Gentle.

They boldly go where no one on our family has gone before — Staten Island. 

Now Staten Island — that is RED state country.  We descend from the red palette, too, but closer to the blue–red (socialist) part of the spectrum.  The kind of red that would make today’s red staters would prefer to be dead (better than be red).

And these two did not just go to the ferry stop on the “other side” and then hurry back to the safety of our (Manhattan) island sanctuary.  No, these two Upper West Siders took the SIR — Staten Island Rail — to the end of the line, Tottenville.  You might be surprised that there are over 20 stops on the SIR and it takes an hour to go the length of that island.  

They stopped for pizza and the proprietor asked Cousin Gentle, “what country are you from?”  Cousin Gentle replied, “the Upper West Side”.  The proprietor nodded that he had heard of it.  Who knew you didn’t need a space rocket to visit Mars?

Apparently, Tottenville has a shore line and beach area and my son waded into the ocean not yet sullied by the oil spill.  Over dinner (back home in the bosom of our effete, white wine sipping, brie cheese eating, intellectual elitist Upper West Side), my son said, “Tottenville is just like East Hampton!!”  I looked at Cousin Gentle who whispered that he didn’t say that while in Staten Island (because those are fighting words there) and I checked that FOPOB (father of partner of blogger) didn’t hear that statement because, well, FOPOB has a beach house in East Hampton.  Honestly, I would rather risk offending FOPOB than inciting people to riot on Staten Island. 

There are so many sociological layers to my son’s statement.  I, however, will go with “my son, the pampered egalitarian”.  And leave it at that.

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25th Reunion

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I have 5 weeks until my 25th college reunion.  I have 5 weeks to be slim, prosperous, toned and, maybe, un-gray.

Nothing like waiting until the last minute.  I was a crammer in college — I was still buying the books from the class syllabus three days before the final exam.  (And my GPA showed it.)

I am 46 and, with 5 weeks to go, here is my status:

Slim:  I am much slimmer now than I was in college, even though I have gained “more than a few” pounds in recent years.  I call it the Recession 8.  Better than the Freshman 15.  (I had come in with the pre-Freshman 30, so I don’t have college to blame.)  But, in truth, I look pretty slim.  So, √ in that box.

Prosperous:  Ok, things were better a few years ago, before people on Wall Street got stupid and greedy. But, while I don’t stack up to the crazy high-profile entrepreneurs in my class, I am really fortunate.  So, √ in that box.

Toned:  I want to be buff.  I don’t look bad, although there is a certain sag to the skin on my legs from my fat days.  And gravity does “weigh down” some erstwhile perky parts.  So no short shorts and no tank tops for me.  Anyway, after a certain age, a person looks ridiculous in that kind of outfit.  I lost this last week to having injured my hip and back (a little arthritis in the hip leads to compensating with other muscles that spasm which leads to crippling pain), and so I think buff is out of the question, but quietly toned is still possible.  So, X in this box (with an “*I don’t care anymore because I am not so shallow” followed by “**Does anyone outgrow that infantile sour grapes attitude? Surely not I”).

Un-gray: I am unconvinced on this.  Covering the gray requires upkeep even after the reunion. That is a huge commitment.  Still under advisement.  So put a ? in that box.

My son just walked in and kissed me.  He really wants to use the computer, but the kiss was also real.  That’s the things with kids — they take you as you are and they don’t put on the artifices that we adults do as naturally as we get dressed in the morning.  POB (partner of blogger) calls out to me and wants to know what we want to do for dinner tonight.  I remind her to call her dad about coming over for dinner tomorrow night with my dad and assorted relatives.

Now, I think, do I care if I am thin, prosperous, toned and un-gray?  Yes, but not because of reunion.  I am happy and I don’t envy anyone or want to be envied.  I simply want my family to be happy and healthy and safe.  I have that.  Add new box and put √√√ in it!!! (with an *”still would like to be slim, prosperous, toned and less gray”) .

[break for dinner out during which my son has a mother of all melt-downs and tests my resolve against spanking as a disciplinary tool.]

Ok, so my son was temporary invaded by an alien life form, and all because we cannot go to his choice of local restaurants (there were no tables available).  This is not my son (usually).   The following race through my mind: (i) aliens are clever, (ii) my parents grew up poor and would not abide such behavior in us, (iii) we knew not to exhibit such behavior and (iv) what have I done to create this monster?

Am I still happy and blessed?  Absolutely.  Am I pissed?  You betcha.  But keep the new box with the √√√ in it, and don’t forget the all-important asterisk.


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Mother’s Day

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Mother’s Day is about me as a child and my mother as the celebrated one.  The one day when we muster up $5.00 for a card and still she did the dishes.  Ok, I am living in the past.  The past is easier; ok, only when nostalgia wipes away the discord and the angst.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I are the moms of our generation (note that I didn’t say “mothers” — the connotations can be so tragic).  And like our mothers before us, we got cards and did the dishes.  This is how you make people feel good about dishes, you call it a “tradition”.  SOB (sister of blogger) tried to convince POB to have take-out.  POB, in tribute and in astonishing similarity to MOPOB (mother z”l of POB), refused take-out.  POB opted for a horrendously, complicated — and delicious — dinner. (Note to self: block the Epicurious app on her iTouch.)

Between POB’s thinking of MOPOB and my thinking about MOB (mother z”l of blogger), we made quite a pair.  Being a mom is the best thing I do; it is just that I want my mom in the world.  Ok, enough self pity (for now; check back later).

So, we had most of the usual complement of family for Sunday night dinner.  Notable exceptions were a Cousin Hockey Player, and Cousin Gentle who visits his mother’s grave (MOCG) on Mother’s Day.  The warning was clear: be there or be talked about.  Email me if you want the minutes of the family meeting.

FOB (father of blogger) is turning 90 this year.  In an effort to have an intimate setting, the guest list was cut off on a generational level.  Grandnephews and nieces are not invited.  However, my father felt bad about certain members of that generation not being invited.  So, I was designated as the most direct and “Larry King”-like child to dispense the news.  FOB had to use the “facilities” as a ruse to find out whether I told his grandniece that he loved her but, in the interests of familial harmony, needed to exclude her from the celebration.  Meanwhile, I wondered why I was escorting FOB to the bathroom because I am not the MD in the family.  Does anyone else have this family or are we just nuts?

Back to dinner.  Dear Cousin Gentle: HOSOB (husband of SOB) is winning the race for who can eat the most.  He had two helpings on two different place mats (I won’t delve into that):

And there was your plate, sad and empty:

And did we mention the wine and the dessert?

Because you had a good reason for not coming (you were visiting MOCG), we didn’t talk about you — too much. But where were you for the bird walk lead by HOSOB?  Two family gatherings missed.  I understand through the family grapevine that you are alive and well (mother and father of Cousin Hockey Player), so HOSOB promises to let you even the score next time in the food eating contest.  You know that I need to know you’ve had at least one home-cooked meal a week.

Oh, and Cousin Hockey Player, I talked to your mother today.  Yes, I did.  But since you weren’t here last night, you’ll just never know about our conversation. Be there or be afraid.  Very afraid. (Ok, don’t be afraid; I didn’t rat you out as the incredibly hung-over Cousin in an earlier blog.   Ooooops.)

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