The Downside of Exposing Your Child to “Culture”

Posted on April 27, 2010 by 40andover

My son went to the Museum of Modern Art today with his second grade class and loved it. Why am I shaking my head and wondering how the world gets so skewed?

My son saw Jackson Pollacks and figured he could do that, too. Check, he understands that no one knows why art is art. So far so good.

He noted that you can get the Picasso effect if you spin around and around and then look at someone sideways. Check, he already understands cubism. He is a prodigy.

He loved some of the Picassos and he thought Matisse’s dancers were fabulous. Ok, why? Because they were girls, and they were naked. He is a boy (with a heightened sense of the opposite sex for a nearly 8 year-old).

It sounds like the set up for my standing riddle: What do two lesbians moms produce? A hyper-heterosexual son.

Still, some of his aunts, uncles, cousins and grandfathers might think he is a prodigy. I won’t tell them that he stares at Victoria Secret ads with probably more zeal than he showed for the not-so-representational works of Picasso and Matisse.

I thought the prevailing wisdom was that boys get easier as they age . . .

I think my mother would giggle at this problem. And that makes me smile. But then I get back to reality and just shake my head.

Synagogue Retreat at the Norman Bates Motel

Posted on April 25, 2010 by 40andover

Ok, this is a long, random recounting, so bear with me.

My sister thinks that her trip on a Greyhound bus to a casino — where, no joke, a medical conference and training were being held — brought her very close to the common denominator of humanity. She emailed me that when she got to the bus gate at Port Authority, the woman in front of her on line just started talking to her. The woman was traveling back from Florida to Providence. She had to go to Florida to get her mother’s ashes, which were in the shopping bag that she showed to my sister in case she wanted to see. (I wish my sister knew how to use the camera feature on her cell phone. A picture would have really made the moment.) The woman had spent 3 days on a bus and needed to smoke a cigarette, had trouble in her childhood but has now straightened out, etc.

Dear SOB (sister of blogger), welcome to my world. It is good that you experience your birthright — i.e., Mom’s magnetism for the strange, creepy and absurd.

Well, I am at a synagogue retreat. It was a rustic experience. Lots of rules — you need to observe the Sabbath and subscribe to the Jewish dietary restrictions — not on the quantity but on the depth to which the culinary arts must sink in order to conform to Kosher laws. Alcohol is Kosher, for which many people gave thanks to G-d. Also, no coffee Saturday morning because it is the Sabbath and one cannot use electricity or fire. Really? Really? Does anyone want really want to deal with me de-caffeinated? Also tonight someone by accident started making coffee before the end of the Sabbath. Before we could descend on the heavenly libation, the moshkiach (the Kosher police) told the kitchen workers that they had to dump out the coffee. Wastefulness CAN’T be kosher.

There are many blessings that are new to me. The place has helpful plaques to assist in mastering them. I took a picture of the blessing after one eliminates in the bathroom, thanking G-d for the creation of certain cavities in the body. Really? My orthodox grandmother said this prayer? Even when she had indigestion? This must be an invention of those “too cool for shul” types. I am not kidding. Look at the picture.

Ever trying to make lemonade out of lemons, I have decided that we would learn this prayer and recite it every time our father discusses his irregularity. Maybe we could teach it to him. Clearly, I am going on the slow boat the Hell.

The place was kind of like that. As you enter, there is a sign saying, “We are blessed by your presence”. Ok, someone should be holding judgment until we leave. There should even be a sign flashed for a specific few (like me), “We are blessed by your leaving.”

“Blessed by your presence”? Trying to create holy, kumbaya, religious space and energy at crash-landing impact, after braving hellish Friday night traffic. I thought to sing, “someone’s kumbaya-ing my Lord,” but I didn’t want to say kumbaya to that. This is getting to crazy, with the aggressive, reverse Kumbaya on the Sabbath. Slow boat. Nah, I am taking the express train to Hell.

As you may have surmised, we couldn’t do much documentation on the Sabbath because that required use of electricity or batteries, so I had to take pictures in secret and I couldn’t blog. Now that was harsh. As my own little rage against the machine, I turned on my iPod just BEFORE I left the premises to go on my run. Ah, the little subversities. But, as usual I digress.

Friday night, after blessing the group with our presence (or so the sign said), we proceeded to our promised charming two bedroom cabin. The advertising was so wrong it should be a felony. So one civil crime justifies a religious crime — desecration of the Sabbath — to take these pictures:

Is this a charming two-bedroom cabin? Type that into wikipedia and I bet that you won’t see a picture of this. Really?? This is a three-bed cabin. Ooops, there must have been a mistake. No? No mistake, this is the very finest that the camp has to offer? In the county in Connecticut with the highest per capita income? Really? Really? I am in a mood most foul and approach the rabbis about the relative merits of, say, a Ritz Carlton. Not so my friends can get business, but it is a base level that to which we should become accustomed.

But at least the turn-down service left conflict-free chocolate on the beds:

But the real kicker is that in the light of day on Saturday, I realized that I had parked my rented super-huge, gas-guzzling monstrosity here:

Ok, I am a convert: There, but for the Grace of G-d, go I.

~ the Blogger

Lego

Posted on April 19, 2010 by 40andover

My son is into Star Wars and really, really, really, wanted a battleship cruiser (or something like that). It was expensive so we said this was an early birthday present. And he is really good about not asking (ok, not begging) for things everywhere we go and, well, he is our one and only child, so ok, we spoil him.

He and I go to the store to buy this colossal box and return home immediately to assemble this, the “most-awesome-gift-ever-thank-you-so-much”. Here is the trick, this thing requires assembling 1,180 Lego pieces, ranging from small to minute, in the right sequence and in the right place. There are two, yes, two, instruction manuals because all the instructions can’t fit into the first manual that is the thickness of, say, telephone books for most towns across America.

Who was I kidding — my son got distracted with the easily-assembled action figures almost immediately, leaving me with the assembly of the mother ship. I learned many things from this experience (which isn’t over by a long shot), the most important of which is that I need a stronger bifocal prescription.

Within an hour of starting the assemblage, POB (partner of blogger) takes my son off to a playdate in Brooklyn, leaving me on the floor with 1,180 pieces of a battleship. Two hours later, I am still on the floor. I go to the gym for 45 minutes but really can’t focus because I must conquer the Lego monster that is in pieces on the floor. The box says “For ages 9 through 12.” Hah!! I don’t know anyone that young that has a PhD in Lego construction.

POB and son come home to find me on the floor of his room, in a defeated, “woe is me,” pose. I simply need to take a nap. POB eyes me with that “you’re a wimp but I love you” look as I take to my bed with great pomp and ceremony.

That night is our date night, so we leave our young prince in the capable hands of a wonderful young woman studying to be a special ed teacher. When we get home, our babysitter says to me, “G-d bless you for trying to put together that Lego thing! It is impossible!!” Ahh, validation. Still, POB eyes both of us with suspicion.

Next morning I wake up (later than POB and our son because, well, my son may be a prince, but I am the Queen) and POB says, “Omigod, that LEGO thing is impossible!! I tried to attach some things, but I think I did it all wrong. It is insane!!” Ahh, validation.

I look and she got it backwards AND upside-down. Impressive.

My hopes of a project with my son are dashed. But I take appreciation — and, ahh, validation — where I can get it.

And I am reveling in it!!

Glory Days

Posted on April 6, 2010 by 40andover

My son is into trains. We allow supervised access to YouTube and Technorati. How can we not? He has access to computers at school and already he mentioned that one of his friends clicked on “inappropriate videos”. At least our son knows that it is wrong to watch certain things, but he hasn’t hit puberty yet.

He desperately wanted to see some train videos. They were entitled “Glory Machines”. Think about that for a moment. We are at a cross-roads. And he is only almost-8 years-old.

POB (partner of blogger) and I were more than slightly horrified at the thought of what would come up on a naked search (as it were) of that phrase. I kept trying to add “model train video” to the search and my son kept saying, “E-Mom, I know what I am doing!!” Oh, sweetie, I thought, if you only knew the dangers of what you are doing. Miraculously, the search (which I was ready to minimize with my fingers on the mouse) came up with the train videos. Phew, dodge a bullet.

We watched the train videos and while there was some innuendo (which was really funny because it was cut and pasted from 1950s movie reels), there was nothing untoward about any of it.

I bookmarked the videos so he would never have to do that search again. He was happy that I saved him a step in finding them again. I was happy that I saved him from pornography and kept him young for one more day.

I was happy I saved POB and me from having to confront raw sexuality with our 8 year-old. Although, to be honest, Oedipus Rex is alive and well and living in our house. When POB, our son’s biological mother, is not around, all is light and roses with my son and me. When POB is around, my son gets very territorial about POB. POB is happy that he is exhibiting the usual signs of a normal growing boy and I remind her that Oedipus killed his father (or in my case, his non-biological mother).

Just saying is all.

Life – one week later

Posted on March 13, 2010 by 40andover

Yes, to answer one comment from an everyday reader, there were sufficiently crazy things that happened in this last week, but, in my pledge not to alienate family and friends who read this blog, I must hold back. Think of a big

CENSORED

where blogs about this last week ought to have been. Maybe I will write about going to the acupuncturist. Mañana.

So, we start again with today:

When we were kids, our dad used to take us on more-or-less yearly pilgrimages to Paragon Sports on 18th Street and Broadway to get outfitted for the Spring and warm weather sports (we also did an ancillary run in late June, just before camp, but it was epic in a different way). We all grew over the winter (why do kids grow over winter?) so the prior year’s gear didn’t fit anymore.

For me, this was our family’s official opening day of Spring. Passover was religious but this was visceral. The promise of warmer, longer days leading into endless summer. I still hold on to the fantasy even though I am 45 years-old and haven’t had a summer of play in 28 years. I bet my siblings don’t remember this, but I do. My father, in his hat that looked vaguely Russian, with a dress coat and wing-tipped shoes, in a sports mecca. In fact, I would bet money that my brother doesn’t remember these excursions because he can only remember that Dad dressed him in a Mets outfit at a Mets game (in 1969 when they were the champs). But you have to remember that my dad wore wing-tipped shoes on the weekends until the mid-80s, so the man did the best he could.

In truth, since my siblings were 3 and 4 years older than me, these outings probably lasted until I was in 8th grade, after which it was impossibly embarrassing to shop with my dad. Maybe in my mind’s eye, these trips loom larger than they really did, although I associate Paragon with Dad. Also, in the 1970s, to schlep from the upper east side to 18th Street and Broadway with kids in tow was not for the faint-of-heart because Union Square was a needle park and there were many unsavory characters all around. And in these 28 years, that area transformed, so it is not like going parent-and-child into a combat zone.

Maybe today it felt like a Family Event because my son and I made the trek to Paragon, this time from the Upper West Side. My son wanted to stay home because it was raining cats-and-dogs (which is one of the stupidest expressions ever) and the wind was howling. No way we are staying in. We are going on a pilgrimage, young man. You have outgrown all of the sports gear you have. And, now that you are interested in football, hockey, baseball and basketball, we are going to get you the right stuff. Yes, sir. You may have two moms, AND you are going to have the right sports gear. Even if you NEVER use it.

My son is more of an intellectual sports fan. He likes facts and information and he likes to watch others play. So, this trip was a little, eensy, bit more about me than him. Never mind, one of the joys of parenting is that you can thrust your desires upon them and then pay for the years of resulting, required therapy.

We get to Paragon, which has gotten bigger over the years, but it essentially the same store (ok, I have been back over the years, but it is amazing how much the same it is). A young man, Vladimir, helped us get the right size baseball mitt (I got one, too), basketball, soccer ball and football. Also a solid, well-made baseball and an air pump. I inquired about oil for the glove and how long he needs to sleep with the ball in the glove under his pillow to mold the mitt. My son was browsing the sports jerseys for his favorite teams. Ok, this really was all about me.

I did not get him hockey gear because there is no way he is playing that insane sport. Oh, and, football, you ask? Only two-hand touch, thank-you-very-much. I did not bring him into this world to watch him go out on a stretcher.

I wanted to play with everything once we got home (even if doing so violated the house rules I set). He wanted to play Star Wars: The Clone Wars on the computer. Ah the picture becomes even clearer, you think.

At one point, I worried that I bought all of this gear and didn’t get my son a “cup”. Then I realized that I am the only one who will be playing with this equipment and I need different protective gear, including some for my ego, my heart and my hopes of playing ball with my son.

Privacy, please

Posted on March 4, 2010 by 40andover

It is funny how people give away private information about their kids without even knowing it.

I was at a meeting and we were talking about kids and dating and a colleague from the midwest said that her early-teens son was very friendly with girls but hadn’t decided on a girlfriend. Fine so far. Then she added, “but he is always out with them. If there are seven girls going to the movies, he’s the only guy.” Ok, ok, ok.

The difference between a New Yorker and a midwesterner is that we New Yorkers would know the implications of that fact pattern and would leave it to the son — and to time — to unravel the mysteries therein.

When my son is an Olympian

Posted on March 2, 2010 by 40andover

On Sunday night, we gathered for the usual family dinner. This time, we ate out, courtesy of Dad who stuck a crowbar in his wallet and sprung for the bill. It was my (older) sister’s 50th birthday. It was literally the least he could do. I did the least I could do as well by merely showing up. At least our son made a card.

Our son mentioned he would rather be watching the closing ceremonies of the Olympics. Ok, he doesn’t get the tact award. My cousin asked our son about what he saw and learned from watching the Olympics. He said that every night, he and I went over the sports that were too dangerous for him to try. My cousin asked what sport he could try and he answered, “curling”. My cousin leaned over and asked me in a sidebar, “how long do these prohibitions last?” to which I responded quite emphatically, “until I am DEAD!!”

Bottom line, my son will never make the skeleton or the luge team, as if they are sports anyway. They are kamikaze runs. Have you noticed that the winter sports are REALLY dangerous? Just ask any insurance agent whether some of these athletes can get life insurance. Ok, maybe Lloyd’s of London will insure these athletes. But then again, Lloyd’s insured the Argentine fleet against the British navy in that not-so-recent unpleasantness over the Falkland Islands. (Remind me why those islands mattered enough to risk lives?) Then again, Lloyd’s behavior seems quaint in the wake of the global economic collapse created by a few 25 year-old derivatives traders and short sellers. But I digress.

Curling isn’t really an option, either. It looks like “extreme housekeeping” with those hot iron and the brooms. And my son, a chip off the ol’ block that he is, knows gornischt (nothing) about housekeeping.

Subway Story

Posted on February 16, 2010 by 40andover

How do I know that a business man on the subway has a young daughter?

The man is well-dressed except for his hat. It has bear ears, nose and mouth and it ties under his chin. I love a guy who has a daddy’s little girl.

The Slug in Winter

Posted on February 8, 2010 by 40andover

Our son has no interest in going outside in cold weather. He would much rather watch movies and read books. I don’t blame him, but POB (partner of blogger) and I get cabin fever. Also, reading and watching movies is great until our son starts bouncing off the walls from lack of activity. Boys need to run around. Think golden retriever. Lots of running, for running’s sake.

Last winter I bought one of those tiny exercise-trampolines — the kind that slides under our bed when not in use (and it is often not in use). Realizing that our son is as strong-willed as she is (genetic code cannot be denied), POB brought out the trampoline and made our son jump up and down as he told us stories and whatever else came to his head. POB and I took turns taking walks outside. It wasn’t exactly “family” time, but it was the best we were going to get on a frigid winter day. (I hope Groundhog Phil was wrong and we will have an early Spring.)

It reminded me about the commercial with the parents running the kids up and down hills and then putting them on treadmills just to get them tired out. Life imitates art or art imitates life.

Oh when the Saints go marching in . . . .

Posted on February 5, 2010 by 40andover

My son wants the Saints to win the Superbowl. His reason is rather endearing: the only thing about football that amuses his other mom, POB (partner of blogger), is that she can sing, “When the Saints go marching in” whenever the team is playing.

Ok, enough cooing about my charming and sweet child. Why would I say such a thing? Since I have been watching all these football games with my son (a new test of my love for him), AND I actually want the Colts to win the Superbowl (I like Peyton Manning).

Leave it to me to turn a simple football game (ok, a Superbowl game) into a referendum on whom our son loves more. As if it matters. In fact, it doesn’t matter — as long as I win.

Who’s competitive?

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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