Tag Archives: children

Summer is for kids

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Memorial Day Weekend makes me giddy with expectation of a long summer of fun.  Labor Day Weekend fills me with a mournfulness about the summer-that-wasn’t, the kind of mournfulness that is rightly reserved for more weighty matters.

So this past week I was an interloper in my son’s summer.  We spent days in the pool or at the beach or on play dates.  Except he was the one who wanted to stay in the pool, dive into the waves, and had friends out at the beach.  I wanted to nap.  POB (partner of blogger) and I were relegated to the roles of adults and rule-enforcers.

We did have fun as a family and we giggled a lot.  And POB sent me off to the gym and for runs so that she didn’t have TWO kids to keep in line.  But those are not summer activities, as I remember summer.  We didn’t hop on anyone’s bike and ride on untrafficked roads to an old musty bookstore and then eat ice cream on the lawn of the town church or library.  We didn’t play tennis and then go to the lake for an instructional swim or make peach-pit rings in the art studio.  Those were the days of my childhood summers.

Even if my son were amenable to recreating those days, I can’t quite imagine how one navigates the busy roads and fast cars that are everywhere in sea-side communities.  Maybe I am looking for a time that is just lost.  And maybe, like some things, those memories are sweeter in the rear view mirror.

My son had his own magical summer doing his activities.  I am grateful and happy that he did.  He looks and acts older.  He is tanned (even though he was slathered in sun block many times a day) and looks rested and ready for school.

Me, I have a sunburn.

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Blogcation Year 2 Epilogue

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We spent the morning by the pool and planned to have a leisurely lunch and be on our way home via East Hampton to visit the family of POB (partner of blogger).  So around noon, a van with bicycles on top drives up into the driveway.  Oh, I guess, the next renters are here.  (They are supposed to come after 4pm.)  Anyway, tall, gangly man, who looks like Steve Buscemi in the movie, “Fargo” (see http://www.funpub.net/poze/mare/steve_buscemi_1235391217.jpg), got out of the car and introduced himself in the deep voice, capable of cackles of ghoulish laughter, “My name is Mr. [Scary Guy from Hell]” and this is “Gizmo” (pointing to a little dog).  I am afraid she is high-strung and a little scary.”

Ok, a man who reminds me of a murderous movie character and Lurch (from the Addams Family) all in the same horrifying moment expects me to respond in a similarly mannered way.  I can only muster, “Hi!  We’ll be out of here shortly.”  Two women are with him, one looks like Uncle Fester and the other is hefty version of Morticia. I am freaked out about these people and ask POB whether she hid the knives.

It was hot and the women dark, long sleeves clothes.  Mr. Scary Guy from Hell was wearing tennis shoes, calf-high socks, a random long-sleeved shirt, with a bloody axe hanging from his neck (just teasing about the axe).

POB was upset that they came early.  I was upset not to have left sooner.  Perspective is everything.

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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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The Apple Fell Not Far From the Tree

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I think about my mother, z”l [may her memory be for a blessing] every day.  I always draw strength from those thoughts, although they are sometimes tinged with humor or sadness, but always with gratitude for her life among us.

I reminisced about her with colleagues.  It wasn’t maudlin; it was apropos of the conversation and we laughed at her antics.

My mother was the epitome of discretion and a vault when it came to secrets.  However, if you asked her a question or her opinion, be ready for her whole truth and nothing but her whole truth.  Mom never thought she cornered the market on “Truth”, but she did believe everyone was entitled to hear her version of the truth.

A number of weeks ago, during a conversation with my sister, I stopped mid-sentence and said, “you’re thinking what life will be like when I lose my already limited ability to censor my thoughts, right?”  She nodded heavily, somewhat overwhelmed by what the future held in store for us.  My sister is the epitome of discretion and the vault for secrets.  While I dabble in discretion (and must be a vault as a lawyer), she inherited the qualities that allowed Mom to opine with impunity.  I just opine with impunity.  Look, Mom’s genes were allocated to three children.  Together we make a clone of Mom.  Separately, we struggle a little.  So, let’s accept that stuff that comes out of my mouth sometimes must be followed by a whisper (from a sympathetic witness), “she means well.”

It is hard to generalize about Mom’s more emphatic ways, so here are some specifics.  When Mom was well into her 60s, she joined an abortion rights picket of then Cardinal O’Connor (now deceased).  My mother started the chant, “keep your rosaries out of my ovaries!!”  Ok, it isn’t always easy to have a Mom who says things like that, but it certainly awesome.  Or, the time, she got up from her seat on the bus and move over to a young man who seemed foreign-born.  She put her hand on his forearm and said, “You’re such a good-looking man.  Why must you pick your nose in public?”  It turned out the guy ran the newspaper stand near where my parents lived and, whenever Mom passed, he would run out with a free magazine.  Mom always declined, with “You have rent to pay!!  Stop it!!”

My mother always believed that you opened your home to those in need or without family.  Needless to say, since Mom’s death, I have discovered that some of my “cousins” are related only by love and not by blood.  Mom taught us that love makes a family — nothing more, nothing less.

Mom believed that each person should leave the world a little better for that person’s having lived on earth.  She helped found New Yorkers Against Gun Violence, an organization that thrives today.  She helped plan the silent marches on Albany, NY, and Washington, DC, because people needed to visualize the empty shoes representing all who died from gun violence on the streets of America.  She loved America and only wanted it to be an ever-shining beacon of hope.

So, in the end, I only got her directness and inhibition about saying her truth.   My sister has her discretion.  My brother has some of her activism (ok, before he moved to the Republic of Texas and had a family but at least he is a Democrat).   My sister was right to shake her head, wearily.

SOB (sister of blogger), it is just going downhill from here.  Be afraid.

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The Bedtime Blues

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Raising a child is a never-ending learning process.

Our 8 year-old has had trouble falling asleep recently.  On Monday night, in particular, he just wouldn’t settle down.  He needed one of us to stay with him.  When I couldn’t coax him to relax and sleep, he whispered to me that it was time “to bring in the big guns” (i.e. POB (partner of blogger)).   In other words, he knew I did my best but I was just not up to the task.

Lesson No. 1:  My child needs to learn to lie or use euphemistic phrases.

It turned out that while we always ask about his day and the specific things that happened at camp, there was something he was holding back that was really troubling him and he wanted to tell us but was embarrassed.  Finally, at 10:30pm, he unburdened himself.   It was a childish (but not dangerous) thing and he had gotten a warning from a counselor.  We hugged and kissed him and re-assured him that all is ok and that we love him.  We also made sure he understands that what he did was inappropriate and that he can’t do it again.

Lesson No. 2:  We need to teach our child that any time earlier than 8:30pm is  a perfectly fine time to unburden his conscience.

Our son thinks by going to sleep he is missing out on something exciting.  As soon as we kiss our son good night, POB and I race to put on our pajamas and crawl into bed to read and unwind.  Notwithstanding the obvious visual evidence when he subsequently gets out of bed and stands in the doorway of our bedroom, my son seems still to believe that we are on the verge of laughing, dancing and having a party.  Or perhaps he thinks we secretly watch his Star Wars or train videos without him.   

Lesson No. 3:  If our son won’t go to sleep because he can’t accept that we are not about to have an awesome party without him, then we might as well have an awesome fun.  (Except he REALLY does need to asleep for THAT.)

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A Bar on the Side of the Road of Life

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Our goddaughter is in the midst of taking the bar exam — a two- or three-day hazing ritual — so that some day soon she will have the dubious honor of practicing law with a license. (In our family, many consider themselves lawyers even though actually allowing them to be licensed would be tantamount to yelling fire in a crowded theater.)

Any way, back to our goddaughter.   She’ll do fine.  She is smart and capable.  And those are not even prerequisites — have you looked at who gets admitted to the bar?  And then what percentage of those also get put behind bars (at penitentiaries)? 

Anyway, my sweet, I can’t wait to welcome you to the club.  Just remember, it is just a bar on the side of road. 

Life is bigger, wider and better than any heights of any profession.  I know you know that.  But you also know that, as I am in loco (LOCO) parentis in the State of Blogger, I must tell you anyway.

POB (partner of blogger), SOPOBAB (son of POB and Blogger) and I love you and POLTB (partner of lawyer-to-be) VERY, VERY, VERY much.

~ Blogger

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Tim Burton’s version of Toy Story

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I haven’t seen Toy Story 3 yet but I understand that there is a bear that is cuddly even though it is the evil character in the film.

Because life imitates art (for example, Mel Gibson is still a star despite hateful speech and threats of violence), this evil bear is all the rage among the under 6 set.  It wasn’t always the Cabbage Patch Doll redux; in fact, at one point, you could buy one huggable version and get the second one for half price. 

A friend has a 3 year-old who desperately wants one and now these bears are all sold out.  He knows that his friend’s wife bought two bears on special and wanted to buy one from her.  She wouldn’t sell it to him.  He then goes home and proceeds to scare his child into tears so he could take a picture and post it on facebook with the caption, “I am crying because Aunt [name withheld] won’t sell Daddy the cuddly bear”.

Even Seinfeld couldn’t have dreamed up this one.

I told my friend I would blog about this because the world needs to know this scary toy story.

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Bucolic Amidst the Grit

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For those of you who remember New York City in the 1970s, it is hard to believe that these are pictures of along the Hudson River between 103rd and 123rd Streets in Manhattan. 

Ok, the guy in the hammock is a little over the top.  So, much so that the kayakers stopped to take a picture of him.  I was in the middle of my run and couldn’t get out my blackberry in time to take a picture of the kayakers taking a picture of the guy reading in a hammock.

It seems a little like an exurban paradise, if you don’t think about the Riverside Stabber — the insane man who has been stabbing people in the Park recently.

I felt very guilty about running in the Park with a psychopath on the loose because I have a child to raise (with the least amount of trauma) and protect (with the most amount of neurosis).  Then, my son comes home after a day in the country with his cousin, and I learn that he was walking on railroad tracks!!!  My cousin quickly assured me there was no electric third rail like there are in subways.  With family like this, the psychopath in the Park is the least of my worries.

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The Monday Morning Blues

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My sister resembles my father in the way she gets out of bed in a happy mood.  My brother resembles my mother’s father in the way he gets out of bed (or did when we were kids) in a less-than-kind or communicative mood.  I am in the middle:  I am low energy, slow motion and hit the alarm six or ten times before staggering out of bed.  That is why lawyers’ hours in NY — in the office by the crack of 10:15am — work for me.

POB (partner of blogger), who wakes up at 5:30am, takes our son to school.  But today, she had to wake up even earlier to catch a train for an out-of-town meeting.  

I had to take my son to school.  That meant that I had to start slamming the alarm at 6:00am.  (For most of the year, the sun has not risen at 6:00am so in my book it is still the middle of the night.) 

Clearly, POB is a blessing in my life because our son would be a truant if I were responsible for getting him to school.  AND she made coffee for me.

In bizarre proof that gene replacement therapy works by osmosis and hypnotic suggestion when kids are asleep, our son is just like me in the mornings.  Which makes POB even more of a ROCK STAR.

We soldiered on through getting dressed, eating breakfast, washing up and brushing teeth.  (I am talking about both of us, here.)  Neither of us could talk but we grunted as humanely and endearingly as we could.

I dropped our son off at school and arrived at my office at the crack of 8:15am.   I need a nap now.

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the fancy-shmancy life

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Our son’s school benefit was last night.  The school caters to kids who learn differently from the “average child”.  I have never met this “average child” and I don’t believe one exists and if such a child exists, well, then, he or she would be just so — how do I say — incredibly average.  I just believe that schools are so overloaded that they can only handle children who fall within the least challenging bandwidth of childhood behaviors and needs. But I digress.

My son’s kind of school requires a huge amount of money to keep it going — over and above the king’s ransom we pay each year for tuition.   Usually, it is a cocktail party with slightly fancy hors d’oeuvres and a silent auction.  This year, however, two children attend the school whose parents have mega-star status.  So, they invited their pals to help out with the fundraising.  As a result, we attended a gala with Jon Stewart doing a stand up routine and Bruce Springsteen giving a musical performance.  Then followed by a dinner in a museum catered by NoBu.  (The one thing you know about the dinner is that everything was tasty but you leave the table hungry and wondering when dinner is really being served.)

I have never been to a concert.  Ever.  I know, people look at me in disbelief.  I don’t like crowds and I don’t like loud music.  So, it seemed ok that my first experience would be Bruce Springsteen having reached the age of Medicare and Social Security benefits.  At one point, he yelled at us, “loosen up, you stiffs!!”  Ok, that was embarrassing that a man nearly 20 years my senior is jamming and strutting all over the stage and we weren’t moving or standing, but we were all sucked into our fancy clothes that literally leave no wiggle room and so no loosening up could have happened without a seamstress on stand-by.

I guess it was kind of cool to have these performers in a small venue.  I love Bruce Springsteen.  I also love volume control.

POB (partner of blogger) and I are usually in bed by 10pm on the weekends.  We rolled in at 1am (and we left while others were still partying).  Our son woke up at the usual time, and G-d bless POB, she got up.  (I, however, did not.)

I was so hungry when our son ran into our room to wake me at 9am and then I realized why: we had a NoBu InSiDi (NoBu Insect-Sized-Dinner).  Had I thought of it, I would have eaten the garnish on the tables last night.  And I would have gone from table to table munching on the centerpiece flower arrangements.  No wonder I was dreaming about mutton chops (ok, I really have never eaten that) and getting in touch with my more animalistic traits deep in my genetic code.  In the end, I settled for cereal with fiber and some essential nutrients.  Nothing like beating your chest and immediately devolving into a whimper.

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