Tag Archives: children

Sunday night dinner chez nous

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Further reinforcing my hypothesis that older people progressively allocate more time to traveling and invariably arrive early, our fathers came for 6pm dinner at 4:30pm, which coincides with the time-honored “early bird” hour.  Which makes one wonder whether restaurateurs named, rather than caused, the phenomenon.

I don’t know about other Jewish families, but the first dinner after the Yom Kippur holy day involves comparing Yiskor books (books of remembrance for those who have died) and book plate honors (having someone’s name put in a prayerbook) from the various synagogues to which various members attend.  It is a morbid combination of “Bingo”, “Wheel of [Mis]Fortune” and “Celebrity Match-ups”.  I like to think of it as “Did You Remember to Name that Dead Person?”

My dad was upset that he forgot to list POB’s (partner of blogger’s) mom (z”l).  I said, “Don’t worry.  You’ll remember next year, Dad.  We had her covered.”

I mentioned that we also covered several uncles and cousins and he mentioned a few we forgot and also the grandparents.  Oooooh.  Darn!!!  Missed that!  Harumph. We need to have a huge list for next year, even if the dollars pile up (wait, you thought it was free?).

But we had a book plate put in a prayerbook for Dad’s 90th birthday.  SCORE!!!  (POB is sooooo awesome.)

POB’s father and our son were watching the football games.  The other Jews shrugged and then started to talk about concussions and debilitating diseases, as a way of showing interest in the football game.

Then SOB (sister of blogger) wanted to take out the old family pictures so we can mount them on poster board for my Dad’s birthday party.  We all got a little teary-eyed about how young and vibrant everyone looked and how most are now gone.

So, to recap:  we have talked about death, destruction and death again.  Just what Jews need to work up an appetite.

POB made a delicious dinner, over which we discussed the importance of building that Islamic Cultural Center right where they planned it and argued about the meaning of life, chaos theory and the mysteries of the universe.  It got rather heated when we were contrasting a Jewish, G-d-centric approach that assumes that actions have meaning and can cause change versus the view that most of what we do doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.  I ventured that, while I am not so sure that I believe the former, if I in fact believed the latter, then what’s the point and POB should just get my life insurance.  At that point, POB’s father then asked, “how much?” in a very oddly interested tone.  My brother-in-law (the bird nerd from other entries), quietly advised me not to go anywhere alone with my father-in-law.  All this while I was choking over the salad course.

Dessert brought calm to the table as we talked about the Million Moderate March on October 30th and exhorted our TV-challenged relatives to tune into Jon Stewart on the web.  (I could not speak to Stephen Colbert, because I remember him when he was really a right wing-nut at Dartmouth.)

So, death, destruction, death, religion & chaos, politics and comedy.  Another excellent family dinner with the extended family.

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This Atonement Day and Beyond

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Yom Kippur started Friday at sundown.  We have our services at the Jacob Javits Convention Center.  It is a free service — no one is turned away.  Keeping an open door policy is part of who were are as a community because the synagogue was started nearly 40 years ago by gay Jews who were not welcomed anywhere as gays, as Jews or as gay Jews.  Now our synagogue welcomes people of all sexual orientation (including straight) and all gender orientations (I only know the two main ones, but I am told that there are as many points on that spectrum as, let’s say, colors in the rainbow).  Almost 4,000 people attended Kol Nidre on Friday night.

The senior rabbi is a woman in her late forties but she looks like a pre-pubescent, book-ish boy.  She is a thoughtful and insightful speaker.  And, she does have moments of levity, as when she announced that she would like to be known now as “Lady Syna-Gaga“.  Ok, there is a reason why our synagogue can never really go mainstream.

We ended around 10pm last night and started up again this morning.

This morning, we all went to the children’s service which had a fair amount of substance.  The rabbis talked about seeking forgiveness, saying, “I’m sorry,” etc., and otherwise tried to distill the elements of the Holy Day without dumbing it down too much.

Then we came home and I fixed our son a sandwich for lunch.  He is 8 years old, so he does not fast but we do put techno-toys away for the day.

I was about to sit down at the table to keep him company while he ate, but he said, “E-Mom, I would like to eat alone so I can think about all of the things I need to say sorry for and all the things I need to do better.”

Ok, my son is wonderful and all, but this is out of hand.  Reflexively, I asked, “Really?”

Right after blurting that out, I thought “I need work on not being so cynical and more trusting of my son’s motives, because we were at this substantive kids’ service and maybe something spoke to him —-”

My thoughts were interrupted by my son — ever the honest little boy, “Nah, I just want to play with the iTouch and I didn’t want you to see.”

At least he is honest.

We returned to synagogue for the late afternoon service through to the end of Ne’ila, the last service of Yom Kippur.  After services were over, as we poured into the street to find our ways home, two attendees who were, just minutes before, wrapped in prayer shawls, stole cabs from us. I started screaming at one in the cab that was then stopped for the light, “Yom Kippur is just over and this, this, is how you act?”

Then, I realized that my son was watching me and I thought to myself, “Yom Kippur is just over and this, this, is how you act?”  So, I stopped.

We hailed another cab and we went home, a tired but happy family.

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The Children’s Hour

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Every year, before and during Yom Kippur, I wonder if I will forgive G-d.  Then, I wonder if I believe in G-d.  (Ok, the order makes no sense.)

I wonder whether either or both statements are blasphemy, although the rabbi of my synagogue believes that G-d accepts non-believers.  Ok, so I may be in trouble for the first statement.  (Big trouble.)

And even if anyone (other than me) would venture that I had the right to stand in judgment, one has to tread lightly with the One who created Heaven and Earth, etc., because, well, power is as power does.  (If I were to make these statements in my sister’s presence, she would step away from me in anticipation of a lightening bolt striking.  It has gotten so routine that, with an almost imperceptible nod to her, she knows to move for safety and brace herself for the heresy that will follow.)

(As an aside, I wonder why G-d or anyone else would want to hear from me if I don’t have caffeine in my bloodstream and my teeth brushed.  Also, Yom Kippur is the one day each year when you have a guaranteed, no cancel-at-the-last moment date with G-d.  What’s wrong with a little lipstick?)

I recognize that humans created most, if not all, of the problems that are endangering our planet. But G-d let evil and injustice in the world, assuming one accepts the existence of G-d.  (You can see that I am having trouble both believing and not believing.)

Ok, so where are the miracles?  Where is the redemption?

Children.  They are the miracles and they are humanity’s redemption.  (Let me say that I feel this mostly when I am cuddling with my child or checking in on him after he is asleep.  Some of the time I think the devil lives in our house and he is our son, as evidenced by unseemly tantrums.)

Children.  They have wonder in their eyes.  Their emotions are real.  They play with any kid who is around, without regard to differences that parents point out.  They embody the best of humanity, until we ruin them.  They also embody the frustration and angst that we all feel, except they do it in tantrums in shopping malls or in front of our in-laws.  But, compare their tantrums to those adults in politics these days and you’ll find that they are more becoming on a 5 year-old than a 50+ year-old.

Children.  My mother (z”l) and my father always worried about what we were teaching “our” children.  They always looked to the children as a measure of society’s successes and failures.

Children.  Jews only believe in original guilt, not sin, so we are responsible for how our children treat Earth and each other.  In these times, when I feel a little lost and a lot hopeless about our country, our world, our common humanity, I look to the children.  My child, your child, our children.  They can change the world and we have to do our part.

G-d bless the children.

G-d, (assuming you are there), are you listening?  If so, tap me on the shoulder and freak me out.

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Back to School — FINALLY

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So we have been torturing our son with our rendition of the parents’ back-to-school jig made famous on last year’s Staples commercials.  Our son is alternatively amused, and a bit peeved, at his parents’ dancing around like we’ve won the lottery.

After much lobbying, we agreed reluctantly to buy our son Lunchables for the first day of school only.  Lunchables is some chemical and saline combo-fest that passes as food per the FDA.  There is a special place in hell for parents who feed Lunchables to their kids.  Of course, the mushballs that we are, we also ate dinner out and let our son have french fries since it was — after all — the night before school FINALLY starts.  He did have a grass-fed beef burger at least.  POB (partner of blogger) swears we are just going to put a salt lick in our son’s room to satisfy his salt lust; we are not sure how to deal with the grease lust.  Seriously, he would give us up in a New York minute if someone guaranteed him french fries every day for life.  No contest.

It is the middle of September and he is just now going back to school.  Now I understand it when my parents used to say — sarcastically, I assure you — that they paid private school tuition so we could have more vacation than at public school.  In 1971, when SOB (sister of blogger) started at a private school in Manhattan (where nearly all the students were Jewish), my dad had to go to school and speak to the headmaster to make sure that a teacher had to postpone a test scheduled for Yom Kippur.  Even in 1981 at our little private school, Jewish students were excused from class on the High Holy Days but school was open.  Now, schools in Manhattan give off the major Jewish holidays, as a matter of course.  A lot has happened in 30 years.  Maybe next year, the kids will have off for the festival end of Ramadan.  It is only fair.

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A Day in the Country

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I am a city girl.  FOB (father of blogger) doesn’t drive anymore (he is 90, so thank G-d), POB (partner of blogger) doesn’t drive, SOB (sister of blogger) won’t drive (because she doesn’t feel her skills are good enough) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) let his license lapse. Son of POB and blogger is 8 years-old and we don’t let him drive.  Just call us strict parents.

So, I am the one.  Why do they call it a “minivan”?  The back half of the car was still in New York State for a full two seconds after the front half was welcomed to Connecticut on I95.  There is nothing “mini” about it.  Try parking that behemoth on a city street.  The good news is that I buy all the insurance the rental place sells, so I can ram cars forward and back to enlarge an otherwise snug parking space for only a $12.95 per day premium.  You get what you pay for.  (I am REALLY just joking although clearly I have considered the pros and cons.)

So, POB, FOB, SOB, HOSOB, our son and I set out for this place in idyllic Connecticut (that is, unless you have to drive there, using back roads, but I digress) where HOSOB has 3 bird paintings on show.  Lovely paintings.

But before he spoke, there were other bird nerds describing chickadees and their mating habits and such other interesting matters.  It caused me to take to a stone wall outside and try to snooze while knowing that bugs were crawling on me.  It was out in the country after all.  I fail to see anything remotely civilized about nature.  Ok, that is oxymoronic, but really nature is sooooo . . . creepy-crawling; how does one nap during a bird-nerd convention? By listening to them.  (Ok, that was a trick question.)  It was such a small space that it would have been ruder than even I could muster to lie down inside the gallery and snooze while the nerders were nerding.  (Don’t think it wasn’t a reasoned decision not to embarrass HOSOB; I have napped in the Islamic wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art (pre-9/11) because it is sooooo soothing there.)

Then it was HOSOB’s turn to talk about the birds in his paintings.  HOSOB is really smart and his mind moves in many directions at once, but not all roads should be taken (if you understand my drift).  Luckily, he looked at SOB who was making the universal choking motion, as code for “you’re killing me” and he looked at me and I gave the universal “keep the ball in play” signal and he wandered back on the reservation and ended his talk.  Phew.  Of course, my son, Junior Bird Nerd, wanted to comment on the migratory habits of the subject bird.  I have made peace with muzzling my child.

FOB, a lovely man, tries to help me drive and give me directions and short cuts and then says, after I have committed to an exit, “Beats the hell out of me what you do once you get off . . . .”  Pause.  Grip the wheel.  Make sure that I keep everyone safe (including those outside the car) while I re-join the highway traffic.  Did I mention what a lovely man my dad is?

Any way, I have to go to his house tomorrow and fix the fool proof method I set up by which he can access Free Cell and his email account. By fix, I mean, I have to undo the buttons he pushed indiscriminately to fix a perceived problem — the computer took an extra second to re-load.  Oh well.  Did I mention he is a lovely, lovely man?

At various points during the day, I pretended to commit hari-kari and sometimes held out the back of my sweater in a point to show SOB where the sword had gone.

We all survived the trip, saw HOSOB’s beautiful art and, all-in-all, not so epic as, let’s say . . . . the trip to an family unveiling (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=35)

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Our day today

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POB (partner of blogger) had a great idea this morning — go to Governor’s Island for a picnic.  Governor’s Island is a decommissioned military base island in New York harbor (right next to Ellis Island and Liberty Island) that has been turned into a park and fairground.  It is an easy subway ride followed by a ferry ride.  Ok, “easy” refers only to the directness of the route.  When on the subway or in line for the ferry, a person is subject to the sea of surrounding humanity and their insipid conversations.  (For the record, our (i.e., this blogger community) conversations are never insipid — too revealing? Maybe. But insipid? Never.)

First, there was a more-unsteady-than-elderly lady for whom POB gave up her seat.  (I was already standing.) POB asked if she wanted a seat and the woman turned to her friend and said, in a cartoonishly nasal voice, “Oh, see!! A seat opened up!!”  Poof, like, magic.  Really?  No, because a well-mannered person got up (in contradistinction to the mopes and slouches around us).  Her friend started to talk about food processing in a loud, screeching voice.

What the woman said was important and true — that if you saw how fast food is made, you would never eat it again and that most processing is bad for humans in both nutrition and the environment — but did we need to hear it in outrageous volume with a holier-than-thou tone at 11am on a holiday weekend?  And, just across the aisle, a scary-looking, tattooed dad with a beer gut (who was playing with his child by pretending to strangle him — really) was giving the child huge helpings of Pepperidge Farm flavor-blasted gold fish (hmmm, salt, chemically reconstructed “cheese” and polysorbate 60, anyone?).  Our son loves them, too, and we know we are going to a special place in hell for parents who let their kids eat this junk.  None of the kale or broccoli or grass-fed beef that our son eats will save us from this punishment.

And why DO men need to sit so wide that they take up nearly two seats?  I note that the smaller the shoe size of the man, the wider he sits.  Is this some psychological melodrama playing out?

Fast-forward to the line waiting to get back on the ferry to Manhattan.  A group of women and one man was behind us.  The man, who was overweight, and a bitchy effete garden gnome, was commenting to women passersby, “hey, do you think you could have tighter clothing?” or “do you think you could be any fatter?”  All I wanted to say to him was, “come out of the closet and stop being bitter with baggage”.  But I didn’t.  I could take him down in a minute.  The women, however, would lay me out.  One of the women had a son who was going to grow up to be the bully of his neighborhood.  He dropped a juice carton on the street and someone picked it up and handed it to her and said, “I think your child dropped this.”  I thought it was an elegant way to force the woman to deal with the litter.  She got all huffy, with heavy hip and neck action, saying to her friends, “the baby drops this and he gives it to me?” Ok, who else?  She is his mother for G-d’s sakes.  And the baby?  BABY?  Try 6 years-old, going on 12.  And mean.

Too much humanity.  I wanted to take a private water taxi followed by a cab.  I couldn’t handle any more.  But we did continue on the public transportation route.  On the subway, three 20-somethings were talking and POB and I were transfixed by the car wrecks that were their conversations and their outfits.  One was falling out of her skimpy outfit and had used eyebrow pencil to highlight her auburn eyebrows into a Groucho Marx effect.  I think she thought I was admiring her instead of not being able to take my eyes off this mobile crashing unit, so when she got off, she shimmied at me and smiled.  I was sooooooo grossed out I could barely breathe.

I took to my bed for a nap.  Oh, I forgot, once you get to Governor’s Island, it is perfectly lovely.

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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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Pre-High Holy Days Mayhem

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So, because POB (partner of blogger) reminds me that in “good homes” the carpets and the furniture are cleaned annually, and the windows are cleaned twice, before Passover and before Rosh Ha-Shanah, we have been in a cleaning frenzy.  Also the mice episodes gave the cleaning rituals a bit more fevered pitch this year.  Also the bed bug scare in New York had us getting new mattresses, etc.   In short, we are doing what we can to raise the retail sales numbers nationally.  Now, that is patriotism.

Our housekeeper comes on Fridays.  Our housekeeper is a wonderful and robust woman in her 60s who comes from Poland and, as she says, “knows hard vork”.   But since she is in her 60s we try to get others to the hard vork.  In this case, POB and I wanted to lay the cleaned rug down in the dining room (we had already done the heavy lifting in the living room).  This endeavor also involved cutting the mat underneath so that the rug laid properly. 

Here are the many dramas that came into play:  Our housekeeper said, “[Blogger], you are educated; I know hard vork.  Step avay from the mat and I vill cut!”  Ok, POB and I were raised to respect our elders and never to let someone older do work we could do ourselves.  We are also the “employers”, adding another level.  Also, POB is strong like you-can’t-imagine strong. 

So we are all on the floor playing out our social, economic and cultural dynamics.  The window cleaner walks in (we had left the door open for him after the doorman announced him) and sees three woman on the floor with scissors and box cutters arguing over who is cutting the mat that goes under the rug.  He asks, “where do I start?”  Really?  Really?  Is this a usual scene for the window cleaner?

We all stop.  I agree to cede the fight to POB and our housekeeper in order to get the window cleaner guy started as long as I get to move the dining room table.  Pause.  I seeing nodding and I retreat.  A little victory of sorts.

Of course, I should have known that even though I was allowed to move the dining room table, everyone would have an opinion on its precise location.  POB was the most forceful in her opinions.  “A little to the right.”  “Closer to the windows.”  “No, too much.” 

“Are you listening??” 

NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, I scream in my head, but all that comes out is “Yes, dear.” 

Back in my head, I am thinking you thought we should get our windows cleaned before a hurricane.  This is not like wearing good underwear in case you are taken to an emergency room.  The hurricane won’t treat us any better.  But then the hurricane passes us and POB is right — again.

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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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My new morning routine

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I used to watch Bloomberg TV in the mornings so I would know what was happening in the markets, etc., and because the morning shows are too chatty for me. 

My morning routine has been up-ended as of late because my son is still on vacation and barrels into our room in the mornings to watch cartoons.  We settle into “Phineas and Ferb”.  POB (partner of blogger) brings me coffee (how did I get so lucky?) and I cuddle with my little baby-soon-to-be-a-tweener (who will thereafter never let me hug him again, but for now, it is a little bit of heaven).  And I am in a good mood for the rest of the day.  (But I do run very late for work.)

Today, my son slept until after 9am, which is an unprecedented late hour.  I, however, was watching “Phineas and Ferb” since 8:30am because the show just by itself puts me in a good mood.  Cuddling with my son makes it a little bit of heaven, but the cartoon is really funny. 

The references to the “Love Boat” and other things of the 1970s and 80s as well as the comments from the mother (“yes, dear, I have a few minutes before my bladder bursts like a water balloon”) are hilarious.  And the kids are good natured and nothing bad ever happens and there is no real violence, etc. Ok, there is some suspension of reality needed — there is a platypus named Perry who is also a secret agent and his nemesis is Heinz Doofenschmirtz. 

So, forget the Dow Industrial Average and Bloomberg News in the mornings.  I am tuning into my pals Phineas and Ferb.

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