Tomorrow is April Fools Day and I have to spend some time tonight thinking about what joke to play on my husband……(I’m open to suggestions.)

In the meantime, I’m going to re-post something I wrote a while back about Rachel’s discovery of jokes. (The advantage to not having anybody reading your blog for the first month is that you can use the posts later.) It seems to me that humor is subjective. Although I am not particularly funny in the outside world, I can make my family crack-up and that counts for something, right? That is until the kids get to be about 12 or 13, at which point I will be embarassing I’m sure and not funny at all.

Anyway here’s the post:

Last October, Rachel discovered jokes…sort of. I have a few scribbled down in my notebook, From October 23. Feel free to laugh….or not.

“Why does a funny joke stand on a stick? Because it’s a white car.”

“Why did the doggie step on a can? Because it’s all mushy.”

“Why did the bubby cross the road?” “Mommy knows.”

Hmmmm. She might take after her mom, only funny when not trying too hard.

And of course, the poopie jokes started, too. Those were simple. Only one word needed. “Poop.” A word powerful enough to put a room full of three year old in hysterics and place grim looks of disapproval on their parents faces.

After she temporarily accepted the fact that the word poop was really only appropriate in the bathroom, she moved to the word “ko-ko.” At some point we must have laughed when she said it in a conversation, and thus, in her mind it was a great joke.

The great thing is, when she had a friend over a couple of months younger than her, Rachel said “ko-ko” in an animated voice and her friend started laughing hysterically. Then this friend started rattling off words, expecting reciprocal laughter, “hamburger,” french fries”….(laughing after each word). I think she thought Rachel meant cocoa (a reasonable assumption), and thus she was continuing the joke with other food items.

Rachel walked over to me and whispered, “But Mom, that’s not funny.”

Tonight, I’ve been looking through the first journal I ever wrote. It’s quite a piece of work. I was eleven years old, not particularly skilled in writing, but quite ambitious, and just the teeniest bit vain (okay a whole lot of vain). Here are some of the best lines: (Before you start, please remember you are laughing with me, not at me.)

First few lines in the journal:: “I think you are a great idea. I can write down all my feelings and look back at them. I wonder how many people in the world have diaries?…..You know, it is your birthday.” (Such a thoughtful, inquisitive soul. A real philosopher. Quite amazing, really.)

(A few days later) “Yesterday, I told my Mom I was seriously thinking of being an actress…..(People think I have talent)….I am also trying to write a book. But I can’t get down the plot. I want people to admire me. But not too much.” (Yea, right.)

Then later: “Sometimes I think humans are very vain. They think only of their kind. It’s so cruel to kill any animal….When i grow up I’m going to be a complete vegetarian. Bye. P.S. Or maybe I won’t.” [I didn’t.]

And a few days later, again with the animals: “Sometimes I wonder if we are the smartest thhings on earth? All animals are probably equal. Though we invent things they know how and when to move, build houses thicker, hibernate, act. We think being smart is to invent thing, look into space, talk, etc. I will look into animals more carefully.” [I didn’t.]

When we got home from vacation: “Well I’m home. It feels good. Our cats Samantha and Cheescake were glad to see us. That’s what I like about our cats. They know that we’re their owners and they follow us around.” (They might have also been hungry.)

And then I had this annoying habit of starting out each entry apologizing to my diary for not writing. To settle it once and for all, I finally wrote at the end of one entry: “Oh yea, I decided not to say sorry if I haven’t written. You’ll just know I am.” (Glad that got straightened out. Mr. Diary would have been really offended.)

And then on some other page I note: “I am not going to write about every little detail from now on, only the highlights.” (Oh, okay. Thanks for sharing)

There’s nothing like vanity in the guise of sympathy: “I’ve been practicing the guitar a real lot now and have gotten pretty good at it. I wonder if it will lead me into a career. But there’s one thing I don’t like. It’s when people comment [I think I meant compliment] me on the guitar because I don’t want (my sister) to feel bad. Because she started first and stuff. I know how it feels.” (Cause you know, I could have had a career and all.)

Alright, I had my fun. Who’s next? Did you keep a diary? And where is it? Come on. Give me a peeksy.

After sucessfully tackling a massive amount of clean laundry, I am now sitting down to write a witty post, except that it is very late and my brain is a fog. Every day I promise myself that I will get to bed on time, and every night after we put the girls to bed I get this rush of excitement and adrenelin and stay up way past my bedtime. Every morning my three year old “morning glory” comes to wake us up sometime between 6:00 and 6:30. Every afternoon when the clock strikes two, my morning glory turns into a pumpkin and melts away until I get her down for a nap. When I’m lucky my one year old goes down at the same time. Then my one year old who is still not convinced that she should be taking an afternoon nap, rather than a morning one, wakes up grumpy. This is one area where she differs from her sister. As adorable and delicious as she is (sometimes I just want to eat her up), she usually does not wake up happy. For about a half hour or more after her nap, nothing that I do is the right thing. She has the saddest face you’ve ever seen, and that face often breaks into the saddest crying ever until I have to just hold her and rock her and try to get her to let it all out. And I think to myself, tonight I’m going to go to bed early so I can deal with this a little better tomorrow. And then when I get them to bed, I get this rush of excitement…..

I’m on a bad cycle. No witty post tonight. I’m off to bed. Not early, but possibly on time.

Last week a Candyland board game arrived at our door. “Best Daddy Ever” ordered it. It’s not the first game we’ve played with Rachel, but it’s the first board game. Cootie has been the game of choice up until now. My first thought upon opening the game was that this “isn’t [her] mama’s” candyland game. If you change something isn’t it supposed to be improved? This new gameboard is much less impressive than the candyland I remember. I had to search for all the candy. I remember a simple board with the lollipops and gumdrops shouting out at you. And where was the root beer float? I loved that! about the old game!

Anyway, Rachel didn’t seem to mind. We played happily and Hannah was having a rare manageable moment. She was sitting on my lap, letting me play without grabbing the board and yanking it off the table. About five minutes into the game, Rachel’s game piece moved a few squares ahead of mine. “I’m ahead. I’m winning. I’m going to win, right mom?” This line of questioning kept up the entire game. When did she develop this competitive streak? A year ago, running was all about fun. She didn’t know what the word win meant. Now when we’re walking upstairs and she reaches the top of the stairs first, she says, I won. Hmmm.

Candyland has particular significance for me because I cheated at it once. Big time. Well I tried. And failed. Big time. It would have been the best game ever, though! I had this fantasy of playing candyland and getting all the candy cards. You know, the perfect game. So, being the clever girl that I was, I arranged the deck so that every other card was a candy card, starting with the second card. And then I volunteered to go second. I think I was playing with my sister. I don’t remember. I just remember that the opponent caught on to me. Bad poker face, I guess. I was so busted.

The only other time I remember cheating on something was on a science test in the ninth grade. Again, I failed. It was awful. I was new to the school, very shy, and hadn’t studied for this test and somebody handed me a cheat sheet. I took it into class with me and I got caught! Right in the middle of the test. Terrible. I was a nice girl. Really. I couldn’t even cheat well. I had to go tell my parents and have them sign the test. Just awful. I never cheated again.

Do you have any cheating stories to share? I won’t tell. Promise.

I’m the youngest (in front). I miss my sisters. (Love you guys!)

This photo is particular resonant with me because a few months ago, my husband made a house out of a cardboard box. For weeks, every night we had a scene similar to this with our girls. We finally had to throw the house out when it started collapsing.

Hi. This weekend is full of fun with a small birthday party here and Easter tomorrow. This comes on the tail of two Purim parties last week. We are an interfaith family so there’s lots of holidays–lots of partying.

Anyway, Christine from Mommy Matters wrote this beautiful post describing a discussion she recently had with her daughter about death. I know how she felt because we’ve been having those conversations this year. One of the first real posts (the earlier posts were from my journal) I wrote here was my first discussion about death with Rachel. This was followed by two other conversations. Since I’m so busy this weekend, and I don’t think anyone was reading my blog then (other than my wonderful mother-in-law and my sister) I’m going to repost the “Truth about Dying” series here. Happy Easter to those who are celebrating it tomorrow.

Part I (February 2)

Several months ago I was tucking Rachel into bed and settled in to “talk about the day.” It was holiday season and my mother was staying with us. Rachel started asking me about my mom. Is she really still your mom? And then, still troubled, she turned to the topic of my dad, “Grandpa Jerry,” who had died before Rachel was born. “But where’s your Daddy.” We had never really spelled out death to her. I mean, I’m not one to crash something down on someone’s world unless I’m asked about it. We had talked about him, and how he was in heaven, but never really explained the concept of heaven (like I understand it?!). Every once in a while she’d make a comment about seeing Grandpa Jerry somewhere, like the day she told me she thought she saw Grandpa Jerry at her Dad’s work. It was clear the “heaven” discussion-or lack of discussion- had left her confused. We have the DVD of Charlotte’s Web and Rachel was taken by Wilbur’s emotional line “I don’t want to die.” She’d say it dramatically every now and then not knowing what it meant, but clearly intriqued, and concluding, logically, that it was not something one wanted to do. Now here she was, digging for the truth, suspecting she might know it, wanting it all straightened out.

“But, where is your Daddy?”

I paused. And then I used the “D” word.

“He died.”

“Am I ever going to see him again?”

I paused. She wanted to end the confusion. “No.”

And then she started softly crying, “But that means I only have one grandpa.”

I was blown away. It was dark. I sat thinking about what to say next. I talked briefly about being able to talk to him and he would listen, but it didn’t seem to be the right thing to say at the time so I kept it brief. She needed to mourn and it was so natural and profound and I felt strangely awkward witnessing it because my own mourning had not come so gracefully and automatically.

After this she was preoccupied by death for a while. For example, one night she was happily taking a bath and then blurted out suddenly “Mom, I wish you could come back after you die.” and then continued playing. Another night in her room she suddenly burst out,while trying to pick ou clohtes, “I don’t want to die, I like my clothes.” And she suddenly developed separation anxiety again and had major trauma when I had to leave the house at night for a meeting or a movie, fearing I wouldn’t come back.

I’m sure this is all explained in a chld psychology textbook somewhere. But it was pretty heavy stuff here.

We love you Grandpa Jerry. I wish you could come back, too.

Part Two (February 10)
Rachel is starting to dig deepr on this death issue…but this time a little more lightheartedly. I was driving her to school last week when she suddenly asked, “Where was Grandpa Jerry when he died?” “Did he say good-bye to Grandma Pat?”

I just couldn’t answer that question in that situation. To tell her that his heart stopped in a bathroom after taking a shower and no he did not say good-bye to Grandma Pat was pretty harsh stuff to lay on a child two minutes before dropping her off to school.

So, despite her insistence on getting an answer, I suggested we talk about happier things about Grandpa Jerry right then. I told her we’d look at pictures later and I’d tell her some stories.

Part Three (February 12)
When I put Rachel to bed tonight she chose to have me tell her a story rather than “talk about the day.” I asked her what kind of story she wanted. I was all set to to tell a story about when I was three, which is the direction these story-time sessions have been going, but she wanted a sad story. She wanted to hear about when Grandpa Jerry died. I looked at her and asked, “Are you sure that’s what you want to talk about?” She said yes. I asked again, “Are you sure?” Then she hestitated a little so I suggested we talk about Grandpa’s life first. I jumped up, went into my filing cabinet and came out with a book/magazine my mom had published about him after he died, it had pictures of him growing up, pictures with us, and lots of letters from people who wrote about him after his death. She really enjoyed it and asked about all of the pictures. I didn’t want to give her the publication because it was fragile and the only one I had. I gave her a copy of the funeral program with a xeroxed copy of his picture on the front, but she kept asking if he was dying when he took that picture (perhaps because it was fading?) Therefore, I didn’t think it was the most appropriate picture for her to keep, so I ran and got a framed picture of him with me when I was a baby. She wasn’t satisfied at all and seemed upset. In the end it became clear that she wanted to own the book about him. I told her she could borrow the book for a few days, but I’d take it back and put it in a special place. She started crying. I thought this was odd because she loves to borrow things from me and give them back. Anyway, after a lot of conversation it was clear that she deeply wanted this book. I called my mom, asked her if she had another one, and put her on the phone with Rachel so she could explain to Rachel that she would send me another book and Rachel could keep that one. Rachel was very subdued when listening to my mom and talked in a small, emotional voice. And when she got off the phone, she said emotionally, in a tiny voice, “I’m very happy now.”

When I was thinking about it later, I realized that perhaps the reason it was so important to her to own the book rather than borrow it was because she wanted to have a piece of him. Just as we all had.

While we were looking at the book Rachel asked me if Grandpa Jerry was sad before he died. I explained that he died very quickly and didn’t know he wasn’t going to die and therefore he wasn’t sad. She then added that Grandma Pat and I were sad, though. I said, yes.

We didn’t get much more deeply into the concept of death, but I did tell her that sometimes peoples bodies get so hurt that God takes them up to heaven so they don’t have to hurt anymore and he can take care of them.

I am terribly behind in reading Catfish and Mandala (by Andrew Pham) for my book club meeting tonight. It is beautifully written and very powerful. Unfortunately Hannah is on a new nap schedule and I’m not doing too well on the spead reading. It’s been a somewhat rough week. I’m trying to get Hannah on an afternoon nap schedule, rather than a morning nap schedule. It’s late morning and she’s walking around with her blanket and her thumb in her mouth but I can’t put her down for a nap because I’ve got to pick Rachel up in a half hour.

Wish me luck.

Update: I did not pull a honeystyrain and finish the book, but I did pretty well. I got far enough to contribute comfortably to the discussion (got 3/4 of the way through}. The book is a powerful account of a Vietnamese-American’s journey (via bicycle) back to Vietnam in search of closure and identity. Not as good as last month’s pick, The Kite Runner, but definitely a good ead. It will take you there in vivid detail. Achingly.

Make sure your stomach is ready. He had dysentery most of his time there. Lots of talk of the food he ate, and the way it exited his body.

But very good. Really.

We had chicken for dinner tonight.

Rachel asked, “Does chicken come out of the ocean?”

Mom and Dad: No

Rachel: Is it an animal?

Mom and Dad: Yes, it’s an animal.

Rachel: (thoughtful and eyes wide) Not anymore.

Later in the conversation:

Rachel: (looking through the chicken) But where’s the animal?

Dad: Mom? This one’s yours.

Me: Let’s not talk about this anymore.

I’m such a wimp.

What would you have said? Do you hold these kind of loss-of-innocence type conversations off as long as possible, or do you tell it like it is the first time you’re asked?

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charlie, originally uploaded by raehan.

Just testing Flickr. Here’s the culprit.

My husband told me about it, but I didn’t quite believe it. And then I saw it. Hannah, our 17 month year old, is literally trying to climb the walls.

I was so ready to write a glowing post about you. I was going to talk about how I notice that you thump your tail on the floor when you hear the kids talking, even though it looks like you’re sleeping. I was going to let everybody know how much I appreciated having you with me when Dad was gone on business for several days last week. How I felt safe knowing that you were with us, and how you kept the bed warm at night. And how you were the first one at Hannah’s door this morning when you heard her crying.

I might have also talked about how we thought we had solved the problem we’ve had with you unlocking the back sliding doors, going out, and coming back in with muddy paws when we’re gone. You know, that curtain rod we carefully placed to keep you from sliding the door.

But then you had to ruin it. You had to go and tear the curtains covering those sliding glass doors. One curtain panel is exactly three feet shorter than when you had your anxiety attack! You tore it off so cleanly it looks like someone cut if off with a scissors.

Too bad, Charlie. Too bad. You were about to become a blogstar.

I know we’ve only been together a very short time (one week to be exact), but I’m beginning to feel uneasy about our relationship. You see, since I’ve been with you I feel greedy and confused. There are some issues we need to discuss before we take this any further.

You say that if I do what you say, my “blog traffic will explode.” This traffic, this gold that everyone is seeking, is it good? I have this FRIEND for example, who racks up points by running over to the computer every 30 seconds between wiping snotty noses, cooking dinner, and playing “baby” for the millionth time. I’ll admit, she does blogmark sites that look interesting, but to date, she hasn’t visited her blogmarks yet. As enthusiastic as she is about winning points, my “FRIEND” that is, she has this feeling that all of these other bloggers that qualify as traffic might be doing the exact same thing. But she keeps on at it, because she’s gotta win another lottery ticket to attract more of these bloggers who are surfing in their greedy ways.

Why do you have to make this relationship so much harder than it has to be. I mean why are those numbers all jumbled up in the left corner. Shouldn’t I just be able to push the GO button? I shouldn’t have to work that hard.

I worry that you are decieving me sometimes. You once explained our relationship to me this way: “You read other blog sites and they in return visit your blog.” Are these visitors to my site really the same bloggers that I visit? I have a hard time believing that Mr. Explosion. There is some distrust developing, and that is no way to begin a relationship. No?

Another problem I am encountering, is that our relationship is a bit one-sided. I can choose the categories I wish to surf, but I keep looking for a way to choose the categories that visit me. Let’s face it, the author of the “How to Succeed at Business” blog has no more interest in my discussions of snot, floors, and nursery rhymes than I have in the top 10 ten business trends. So you see, I need to have some control here, too. Please consider that.

So, dear Blog Explosion, I am thinking about putting an end to my greedy affair with you and your traffic. But first, I need to surf some more. I won a 10 credit lottery ticket yesterday and know I can do even better. See ya tonight, darling?

When Rachel was a baby I made a point never to play kids music in the car because it was my only chance to listen and catch-up on the news. Since she didn’t expect music, she didn’t miss it. Instead, she talked non-stop, expecting you to return the favor.

This year I have to drive through a bit of traffic every morning to get her to pre-school, and it’s really hard that early to have to talk and drive. And then to top it off, Rachel and Hanah stars getting really grumpy at a certain point in our drive and I begin to lose my patience.

So, I broke my rule. Now we listen to music happily on our drive and I enjoy hearing Rachel’s sweet little voice singing along with the tunes and Hannah’s deep hum that reminds of the hum my mom makes when she’s trying to sing along but doesn’t know the words.

We’ve been listening almost exclusively to Laurie Berkner’s Victor Vito. There’s this version of Froggy Went a Courtin’ that is so fun, sweet and jazzy it always makes me feel that all is well with the world. The lyrics are a bit different than the original version:

Froggy went a courtin and he did ride Uh-huh (3x)
wore his jacket on the satin side

He went down to Miss Mousie’s den Uh-huh
Said Miss Mousie won’t you let me in

Said Dear Miss Mousie will you Marry me
Way down yonder by the old oak tree

Oh Froggy Dear I’ll marry you
Let’s grow old together cause I love you

(Jazzy Piano solo)

First they told her uncle Rat
Said hey uncle Rat what you think about that

Next they told two little black aunts
Everybody got up and started to dance

(Jazzy piano solo)

I get the same way when I read through Rachel’s big book of nursery rhymes. Some of them are so fun to read. I didn’t appreciate them when I was younger. Are there any lyrics or rhymes that you have rediscovered?

Last week I made an announcement on my site that I was going to start a new feature highlighting, each week or so, some aspect of motherhood in history, or a particular mother in history. I know my throngs of readers (all three of you–sis, mom, and MIL) have been waiting, all agog, (couldn’t resist throwing that word in) and the only reason you haven’t flooded me with e-mails asking why it has taken me so long to start this feature is that you are holding your collective breath.

Seriously though, I’ve been hesitating because I haven’t been sure how to approach it. There is not a lot written about the history of motherhood. Since the blogosphere is a place where all this journaling is done, I think it will be fun to take a look (each week) at an excerpt from a journal, letter, or the like. This is a trial run. Bear with me. Here I go.

I have this journal that my maternal grandmother wrote for me in the early nineties. I was living in Scotland at the time and sent the blank journal to her with a book of questions. A year or two later I received it back in the mail, full of her writing and with little envelopes of pictures and momentoes. I’ve been looking through it this week again.. It makes me laugh and tear-up on each page now, probably because now I’m a mother myself. There is so much I want to say about it, but I will just post a few excerpts that speak directly to the issue of motherhood.

Background: My grandmother was born in 1918 and into a third-generation German-American farming family in Minnesota. She and my grandfather had six children. She herself grew up in a large family. Her Memoir documents her childhood with descriptions of things like butchering day on the farm, kids sewing their own clothes, knitting, bringing wood in, using a wash board to scrub clothes, threshing grain. It reads just like the Little House books. She still has an amazing work ethic. At the end of the day when it is time to sit down her knees bounce because it is so hard for her to be still.

My grandpa was in the army and later the navy and for sixteen months during 1944 and 1945. My grandmother didn’t write much about that time, but it is clear that was a difficult time for her. “So I was left alone with three small children. P__ wasn’t quite five, B__ was three, and A___ was just one. That was a hard time for me….I wrote a couple of times a week and waited for the mail carrier to bring me a letter. It was quite a lonesome time for me.”

At that time they were renting a house that didn’t have water and used only a wood stove for heat. They had to carry water from the neighbors houses. When my grandpa came back from the war, they bought a house. She talks a bit about sewing , keeping busy in their big garden (which they continued to keep up until a couple of years ago), sewing clothes for the kids, and the draftiness of their house.

The longest paragraph about parenting is about her kids illnesses and injuries:

“We went through a number of illnesses and cuts and broken bones. M____ had Pneumonia when he was 14 months old–that was when the other children had Measles and M___got them, too. He couldn’t breathe lying down so I had to sit up holding him for a few nights. Not much sleep for me as I had the care of the other four. The doctor came to the house each day for a few days. M___ used to get cruop when he was just months old. J____got Bronchitis at eleven months and stopped breathing a couple of times. Very scary for me. P____ swallowed a bottle of baby aspirin when he was three. That was a trip to the doctor. B___got a broken arm playing football and another time had a head injury. K___ ran into a stopped truck with his new bike he got for his birthday, his eighth.

This is such a powerful paragraph for me knowing my grandmother. She hardly complains at all in this journal, but as long as I remember she has been chronic worrier, suffering from ulcers. It strikes me that she remembers each of these illnesses and injuries so vividly. ( I might add, though, that she didn’t mention the fact that my mom once broke her arm when it went through the wringer on one those old-fashioned washing machines).

What do you think you will remember about being a mother 20-30-40 years from now? And/ or (here’s a question for non-mothers, too) do you have stories from your grandparents about what it was like to raise children in their time? (This paragraph is my lame attempt to get a discussion going. If you have more interesting things to reflect on, please do.)

I’ve been sitting on the coach playing pretend with Rachel while Hannah naps. For some reason she’s been calling me “darlin’” when we play house these days. Not darling but “darlin” as in “Oh my darlin’ Clementime.” I don’t use the word darling. Go figure.

We took a break from our game and she asked me what the names of my great-grandmas are. I was born after they died, but I know one my mom’s grandmother’s name was Catherine, so I said Catherine. She asked me if Catherine died and I said yes. Then she started laughing and asked, “Are you just kidding?” These are the kind of wacky turns our convrsations take these days. I can’t quite stay on top of them.

I can’t quite believe it but for a brief moment, my floor is actually clean. Never did I think I could get so frustrated over a floor. It just gets way under my skin. The floor literally can’t stay clean for more than an hour at time. If it isn’t the kids, it’s the dog unlocking the door and coming back in with muddy paws when we’re gone. When I was about three or four years old we lived in an apartment building that we co-owned with a number of other families. There was this great family that lived downstairs with younger kids. I used to love going down there because they were so much fun. Another lure was that the mother was from Columbia and I loved her food. I must have been messy, though, because I remember getting lectures when I was visiting them, about how much food I was getting on the floor. (My kids take after me on this one) A few years back, my sister shared a memory with me. She says that I went down to see this family and the door was partly open. I swung open the door and exclaimed happily, “Hi, Margarita!” and in the process I knocked over this bucket of water that she had by the door. She had just mopped the floor. According to my sister, she was so frustrated she picked me up, spanked me, and firmly placed me outside.

My sister and I laugh at this story because I was just a happy kid saying “Hi!” The truth is, I’m starting to see where Margarita was coming from. I know the feeling of spending 20 minutes getting the floor clean only to have someone’s grubby little fingers grab a bowl off the counter and spill its contents all over the floor. I’m not a neat freak, honest, I just want to be able to walk across the floor without hearing little crunchy sounds underfoot.

What drives you crazy on a daily basis? Something you never thought would when you were younger.

I had high hopes of posting something today that has absolutely nothing to do with my kids. The truth is, I am not ready to do this because I chose the treadmill over writing this morning and Hannah might wake up any minute. Man, I feel refreshed though. Exercise is so cleansing.

Rachel will perform as a flower tonight and I am looking forward to that. I’m actually proud of myself because I made two pretty respectable flower head costumes. Do I qualify as crafty now? I have this very crafty lineage that ends with me. My daughters sleep with little quilts made by my maternal grandma, and my mom used to sew a lot of my dresses when I was little. Maybe, if these flower heads don’t fall apart during the performance, I will make ‘em proud.

Have a great Friday everyone.

Note: The costume held up fine. The three year olds, who were sitting on the floor in front of me, did not. They were all past their bed times. It was fun though.

I am going to preface this post by telling you what a wonderful big sister Rachel is. It is the thiing I think I am most proud of her about on a daily basis. It’s not only the way she embraced Hannah so absolutely and enthusiastically into her life, but the little things. Like the way she spends hours worrying that Hannah is going to cry at the doctor’s office and then starts crying with her when she does. And the way she really gets how funny and cute Hannah is with her toddler antics, and laughs so sincerely with us.

Having said THAT…I will recount an exchange that went on yesterday when we were playing in our garage.

Rachel: “Hannah, you’re an evil witch…..Mom, she’s an evil witch, right?”

That’s not a phrase we use in our house, so I was taken aback.

Me: “No, she’s not an evil witch. We don’t call people that.”

Rachel: But she’s evil, right? She was taking toys from me.”

Me: “No, she’s not. Don’t use that word. We don’t know anyone that’s evil.”

Rachel: (Confused and deep in her own logic) But witches are evil, right mom?”

And then a couple of minutes later, “But she’s a wild woman, right?”

Suddenly I understood the association she was making. She must have heard me calling Hannah a wild woman to another adult. And for some reason, maybe because of the W sound, she thought a wild woman was a witch.

I asked her if she thought witch and wild woman were the same thing. She said yes. I told her they were different and that yes, Hannah was a wild woman, but not a witch.

About five minutes later, my back was to them and I heard Rachel scream out as Hannah was grabbing a toy from her,
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO, WILD WOMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!”

Once again, I am up way past my bedtime. I wanted to post a quick note to let you know how excited I am that the wonderful Michele has tagged me and sent you all over. (Click on the title of this post if you haven’t visited her site yet. It will take you there.)

I love Michele’s spirit. Going to her website makes me feel like I’m all dressed up and at this great party where I get to play games and meet really interesting people. And there’s this great hostess at the party that, without having me realize it, has me exchanging viewpoints comfortably with people that have very different views than me. And the most amazing thing about going to her parties is that I’m having conversations that have nothing to do with my kids! Now that’s a great hostess.

Thank you, Michele! You have provided a place for me to escape that, it turns out, is not a guilty pleasure after all, but a real enriching experience.

Thanks for all of you who have come to visit, I’ll be visiting your sites soon.

These are the games I like to play. You can play them, too.

1. “Na-Na” This game is easy. Just go up to something that makes mommy say “No” and then smile devilishly and say “na-na.” You’ll get the biggest reaction if you climb on top of the kitchen table.

2. “Uh-ow” This game is a little more complicated, but always gets a laugh from guests. Drop something down the stairs and then look at it thoughtfully and say “Uh-ow.” Or, just say “Uh-ow” when you see somthing on the ground that shouldn’t be there. (Tip: dropping a whole bowl of cereal on the floor and saying “uh-ow” doesn’t usually make mom laugh.

3. The Big Tease. The aim of this game is making mom go slowly crazy. Hand her a shoe and motion to her that you want it on your foot, then when she tries to put it on you give a deep grating scream. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. There’s another version of this game that you can play with a sister. Offer her your doll, then as she starts to grab for it, scream as if she’s taking it from you. Repeat. Repeat.

4. Bye-Bye. Get your dollie all set in a stroller, or wrapped in a blanket. Then say, “Bye-bye,” kiss the air with a big clean smack and walk to the other side of the room with a satisfied look on your face. You can jazz it up a bit by saying “Bye-bye Da-da.”

5. Scare the %#@! out of mom. Climb on top of any unsturdy piece of furniture and begin moving about precariously so it looks like you are about to fall head first onto the floor. Then yell, “da-da-da” (down) and “Na-na-na,” laughing away.

6. Animal Sounds. This one is a crowd pleaser. When you see a picture of a cat, say “owwwww” in a sqeuaky voice. When you see a dog, say “oofff, ooof, ooff.” And when you put your lion towel on say “oooaar” in a deep voice.

That’s all for now. Gotta go play.

(Mom is coming down with a cold today, so Rachel is guest posting)

I did food slicing [at school]. I wish it was cheese slicing, but today it was apple slicing. My mom picked me up. I like my Dad and my school. I like you a lot, my school. I want to take a walk today. I’m having a Spring Festival at school. I like it a lot, but I haven’t had it yet.

Good-bye. Rachel (3 3/4)

Question from the Editor: Does anyone know how to make a flower headress? I went to Michael’s today and got Eazy Felt, headband, glue and glitter, but I have to figure out how to make it all look like a flower. Our guest writer is going to be a flower in the Spring Festival performance. I’m not particularly crafty. How should I glue the felt petals to the headband—or am I going in the wrong direction entirely?

I probably won’t be writing very much this week as I’m planning to clear my desk of some projects, and also to work on making this template more interesting. I’m also planning to add a feature to this blog. Each week I would like to highlight some aspect of motherhood in history or a particular mother in history.

As I am working all of this up, I am wondering if some of you could answer a question or two for me.

Why do you write? and Why do you blog?

I’m asking because I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this blog and my relationship to it. I’ve only been at it for a little over a month. I am at a point in my life where I feel a strong need to write, and blogging helps me to that regularly. But, I have to admit that I am not entirely comfortable with it. I started this as a journal and even spent the first few days pasting old pre-blog journal entries into the blog-to have all my writings about my children in one place. And then, I became aware of other blogs and of how public this forum is. Sometimes I’m not sure who I am writing for–myself, my children, my family, or other bloggers. And then there are issues of privacy, security, etc. that I am struggling with as well.

The thing I really like about blogging is the discipline it provides. Knowing that some poor…or unforgiving soul might wander on in makes me work a little harder at putting together something presentable. It makes me think harder about what I write. Is that good, or bad? Both, I’m concluding.

If you are a blogger, I would also be interested to know whether any of the issues bothered you at any point and how you resolved them.

So, if you are stopping by, please take a minute to share your thoughts. Thanks!

Just a note to anyone planning to invite my 3 year old to a birthday party. No make-up in the party-bag please.

I just went to check on her as she’s going down for a nap and she had sparkly hot-pink “make-up” (I don’t know if the stuff is supposed to be lip-gloss or blush) all over her face. She looks like a clown. When she wakes up we’re going outside to play with friends. Looking like a clown. You try wiping the stuff off.

I think I hear Hannah attempting to climb out of her crib. If so, my life is going to get a lot harder the next couple of months. Wish me luck. I hope I’m wrong.

1. I have two girls: Rachel (5/2001) and Hannah (10/2003)
2. and one husband.
3. I met him when I was 18. That was almost 18 years ago.
4. Actually, he was in my freshman humanities class. I think I was 17. But I don’t think we ever talked to each other in that class.
5. He had long hair. So did I.
6. I have three nieces and a nephew that are around 17 (actually 15, 15,17, anf 18) on my husbands side of the family; when I met them they were babies and I was a teenager. Now as teenagers, they are playing with my babies. I point this out to them ad nauseum.
7. When I met my husband at 18 he had short hair. He was really hot. Still is.
8. I used to watch him play soccer from my dorm room window.
9 I didn’t know this at the time, but he saw me watching him.
10. I think I knew he might be the one for me because he laughed at my jokes. He still does.
11. I have a really bizarre sense of humor and in college I looked like a wholesome farm girl. No one knew I was joking half the time.
12. Right after we started our relationship I started travelling the world. He did some exploring of his own.
13. We wrote a lot of letters.
14. I tried to sort through them a few months ago, but it was completely overwhelming. The letters have been sent back to their storage boxes.
15. I have two sisters.
16. This is why I was so happy to have two girls–not because of the pink and frilly stuff, but because every girl needs a sister, in my opinion. And girls are what I know. I’m used to that “argue, cry and then make-up” culture that baffles many husbands with sister-in-laws.
17. I have six nieces and three nephews.
18. I love being an aunt, but I don’t get to see my nieces and nephews enough.
18 1/2. There is a constant battle going on in my head between the sensible part of me that thinks two kids would be just grand, and the wild part of me that wants one more.
18 3/4. Wouldn’t care if the third was a boy or girl.
19. I was born in New York City
20. I was also married there.
21. My father died there.
22. In the time in between these major events, I lived in many other great cities: Jerusalem, Kyoto, St. Andrews, Berlin.
I am now living near another fun city but I’m not going to tell you what it is because I promised my husband I’d keep my full identity private. Most of my college/graduate school years were spent in the midwest.
23. There are a lot of stories I could tell about my husband, but I probably won’t tell too many of them because he is private and I respect that. That’s one of the good things about a long marriage. You learn things over the years, like how to shut up occasionally.
24. My parents dedicated their lives to working for world peace.
25. No, really.
26. My mother still does; my father died almost ten years ago.
27. They were influenced by the Catholic worker movement.
28. My parents had a great marriage.
29. We had little money.
30. Until I was about 14, we lived in an inner-city apartment building owned cooperatively by an ecletic group of families interested in social justice/world peace.
31. I was on of the few white girls in my class from Kindergarten thru third grade. I got beat-up a few times. It was character building, but I am not choosing that option for my own kids.
32. From 4th through 6th grade I was the only poor kid in a private school in a wealthy neighborhood.
33. I went to a lot of rallies in Washington as a kid, but my real political awakening came under George W. I think the occupation of Iraq is a moral outrage.
34. I am worried about what our current administration is doing to the fabric of our Democracy and our place in the world.
35. I am also deeply saddened about all of the innocent lives lost in this war, American and otherwise.
36. On a lighter note…I got married when I was 23. (How’s that for awkward segways)
37. My husband and I moved to Scotland immediately afterward.
38. We were both graduate students.
39. We both have doctorates in history….but the doctorates came many years later.
40. Currently, neither of us are working in the field of history, but we wouldn’t give up those years for anything.
41. I am a stay-at-home mother right now.
42. I finished my doctorate right before my oldest daughter was born.
43. I decided to take a part-time job at a local history museum, rather than pursuing tenure-track.
44. I loved the job. It involved working with a lot of “old-timers” who knew how to put me in my place, but also take care of me when I was pregnant.
45. When Hannah was born, I decided to stay at home.
46. I love that too.
47. Eventually, I would like to work as a special collections archivist.
48. Yes, I get excited reading letters written by dead people.
49. Becoming an archivist will entail taking some more classes. I hope to start that sometime next year.
50. I have never been fired from a job and hope my husband doesn’t fire me for writing this blog.
51. The only job I quit on the first day was a foot-messenger job in New York City.
52. In Scotland I worked for four months as a chamber maid at a hotel. I was the only non-local working at that level.
53. I won Employee of the month there and I’m not sure why. I think it was because I saved the hotel from burning down.
54. This blog isn’t going to be particulary witty or cool.
55. See, I am so uncool, that I use the word cool.
57. I’m not sure what a “blogger friend” is but I don’t think I have any yet.
58. I have a lot of “real-life” friends.
59. I didn’t know what a blog was until election night 2004.
60. And then I stopped listening to main stream news and started going to websites like this.
61. I even wrote a letter to editors of major news organizations that started out “I am not a blogger.”
62. I don’t know whether I love the blogosphere or am frightened by it.
63. I think it is a little creepy to have people I don’t know reading my stuff.
64. But at the same time, I want people to come visit me and read what I write.
65. When I was younger I wanted to be a writer but had no writing going on in my head.
66. Now I write in my head constantly, but don’t care about being published.
66 1/2. I blog because it’s the only thing that gets me writing regularly.
67. So far, this blog has been mostly about my kids.
68. Because I am a SAHM.
69. And because they are magic to me.
70. I do have other interesting things that occupy my mind. If I start getting some more sleep, maybe I’ll write about this other stuff sometime.
71. It is very late right now.
72. I am extremely anal about getting my kids down at the proper nap and bed times.
73. I am extremely bad at getting myself to bed on time.
74. I have a very strong personal faith, but am not very religious.
75. I would be if I found a church that spoke to me the way the Catholic worker movement spoke to my parents. I am hoping for a revitalization of the social gospel movement within our churches.
76. My husband is Jewish. Well, actually, he was raised in an interfaith family and gravitated towards Judaism after college.
77. We are teaching our children about both faiths.
78. I love being a mother more than anything else I’ve done.
79. It’s a blast.
80. I’m not very good at focusing on many things at once.
81. That’s why I decided not to pursue a tenure-track position.
82. I don’t miss teaching
83. I do miss having hours and hours of time to myself to do research.
84. The sad thing is, if I took that time, I think I would spend a lot of the time thinking about my kids.
85. That’s pretty pitiful.
86. Sigh.
87. My first year of being a Mom it took me a long time to find friends that I could really talk to.
88. I agonized a lot about whether to drop the academic path that year.
89. I don’t agonize about that any more.
90. I have a good network of mom friends now: all different.
91. I always thought I would grey late in life, since my mom didn’t start gettint gray hair until her 50s.
92. That didn’t happen. I’m getting gray hair.
93. I started getting highlights last year. I feel so much younger!
94. I’m trying to lose 30 pounds, so I can weight what I did when I was married.
95. Ten down. Twenty to go. (Due to the fact that I joined Weight Watchers 6 weeks ago).
96. I exercise on a treadmill pretty regularly. I’m a hiker, not a runner, so I go high incline, moderate pace.
97. I don’t wear very much make-up on an average day, and often none at all.
98. I do, very occasionally, treat myself to a manicure and pedicure.
99. I actually feel more attractive than I did when I was a cute young thing. As much as I hated pregnancy, it taught me to respect myself.
100. I am going to be so tired tomorrow.

This morning there was a boiled egg in my purse. It was intended for Rachel, for her breakfast. YESTERDAY. It was in a sandwich bag. I’m not going to mention the things in there that weren’t in sandwich bags.

So, I’ve been trying to make some changes to this blog template and was reading Advanced Help on blogspot. They have these HTML codes to “place in the Template” and I have no idea where to place them in the template. I wrote to Blogspot help about it and they told me they don’t give HTML lessons.

I am such a dork.

Yesterday, “The Best Daddy Ever” was outside sweeping the courtyard and the girls and I were looking out at him. It was sunny and I was aching to be out there with him so I opened the door and stepped out, inviting the girls to come out with me. And then I looked at their feet and realized that they didn’t have shoes on. “You have to put shoes on before coming out,” I explained. “But Mom, you don’t have any shoes on?” Rachel said politely pointing to my sock-covered, but indeed shoeless feet. Oh yeah. I forgot. Why does she have to make so much sense all the time.

On the way home from our walk to the grocery store, we stopped to give the girls juice boxes. Rachel was walking and then decided she wanted to take her seat in the double stroller. We have one of those long front-and-back strollers where the front seet is a little smaller than the back seat. Hannah was in the back seat and I was too impatient to move her so I made Rachel sit up front. Rachel complained, but I didn’t want to reward whining so I made her sit in there with her feet on the foot rest and her knees practically up to her chin. It was ridiculous. She did whine a little but I threatened to make her walk, so she hushed up. Then Hannah started leaning forward and playing with Rachel’s hair, then pulling it. I stopped that. Three minutes later Hannah started hitting Rachel on the head with her empty juice box. I started telling Hannah to stop and Rachel said very respectfully, “That’s why I should sit in the back.” Again, she made perfect sense.

Last week when Rachel and I were talking about the day, we went over playground politics and talked about a few incidents where someone wasn’t being nice to Rachel. Then she mentioned that she didn’t respond to a friend from another class when she approached Rachel in the playground because Rachel didn’t feel like playing with her. I was fuming and gave Rachel this lecture about hurt feelings and asked her to promise she would play with her the next time this happened. She said okay and then began to ask “But, if I don’t see her….” I thought I knew where she was heading, so I firmly repeated that Rachel better be nice to the friend. Finally Rachel said, “but Mom, stop interupting me.” When I thought about it later, she had a point. She wasn’t trying to be clever, she was just exploring the different scenarios. I was interupting her and should have listened better.

Sometimes when Rachel asks me a question, it takes me a few minutes to focus and answer because I’m thinking about something else. I know what it’s like because my mom used to do the same thing when I was a kid, especially when she was writing. Rachel is so used to this that when she sees me in this fog and I’m not responding right away she says: “Mom, yes or no?” I have to admit though, sometimes it’s really not my fault. She’s got these questions that are really hard to wrap my brain around. I can’t think of any now, but I’ll write a couple down in the future so you know what I mean. Once, the question was so nonsesical, that after she went through her “yes or no?” routine, I came out of my fog and said, Rachel I just didn’t understand the question. She smiled, and admitted that it really didn’t make much sense.

There we go. That’s better. That’s the proper order of things.

(next day) Examples of Questions I can’t wrap my brain around:

On the way home from a walk as we were passing our neighbor’s house, “They got their grass before ours, right Mom? right?”

This morning out of the blue she asked, thoughtfully, “What about strawberry pudding?”

Ummmmm.

‘Yes or no, mom?”

Last week we started Hannah and Rachel in gymnastics on Saturday morning. They have separate classes at the same time. This week I took Hannah, while “The Best Daddy Ever” watched from the balcony (last week he had her while I watched).

I gotta tell you, Hannah is this rocket of wild, unchanneled physical energy. At gymnastics I just point her body in the direction she’s supposed to go and she’s at it with this crazy force. She especially loves rolling sideways down the foam slide, but she’s all over the place so I have to be there directing this ball of excited energy down the mat. Then I’m placing my hands on either side of her and guiding her towards another mat, showing her how to place her hands on the the stars, wait for her to fold her head under so she can flip into a frenzic somersalt. When I take my hands away from either side of her, she’s off, heading towards who knows where, some mats? the foam pit? Not sure, I pick her up and head back to the group. Then it’s time to head towards the rings. Hannah likes the idea of the swinging, but doesn’t quite get the fact that she’s got to grab onto the rings tightly with her hands. When the teacher starts swinging her she let’s go and plops to the floor. They try it again and the teacher cradles her as they’re swinging and Hannah has this blissful look on her face as she’s swinging back and forth. When she’s on the trampoline she shoots forward running into she falls splat on her face, and then she gets up and rockets forward again and again. She continues running once she’s off the trampoline and she’s going so fast that I have to catch her before she run right off the end of the foam.

Hannah’s body is foreign and fascinating to me. She’s got these real muscles on her little body. She’s pure athleticism, her body singing with a need to move. I was athletic as a child, but nothing like this. it’s a curiosity to me.

In the midst of guiding Hannah, I take looks at Rachel all grown up and on her own in the three year old class. I remember when she was the wild toddler, running off in all the directions. She had a big toddler tummy then and a head of blond curls. I look over at her now and I am struck by her poise and grace. She’s got the same curls, but now her hair is longer, and her tall body is lean and steady. She’s jumping on the trampoline and turning directions in mid-air. She’s got her hands on the shoulders of the child in front of her as they move forward to the next activitiy. She’s quietly concentrating on walking on the balance beam all by hesfelf. She’s a picture of grace. My Rachel. My beautiful girl.

My beautiful girls.

When Rachel started her pre-school (which as a strict Montessori has a mandatory 5 morning a week policy) ,there was a part of me that wanted her to love it so much that she would wake up on Saturday mornings wanting to go to school. Yea, right. Okay, I’m a little weird sometimes. I just wanted her to be in a place that made her so happy that she missed it when she wasn’t there. Turns out, she loves her school, but she loves her weekends more. I gotta admit, I see her point. No morning rush, and Dad all day.

Where we live, spring is starting and we had a break from rain this weekend. It set the tone. We cleaned the yard. We took walks. We went to gymnastics and Rachel went to a birthday party. We were together. We were relaxed.

To my memory, the only time in the post-kid era that I didn’t particularly enjoy the weekends is when Hannah was a newborn. Weekends were just a tease. One big facade. Like this carrot dangling in front of us in the form of “sleep.” My husband and I would start off each weekend rolling over in bed, muttering that it was our turn to sleep in–and our moods would remain that way for the greater part of the weekend. I guess we finally accepted the fact that no-one was going to get a chance to sleep in. Or maybe, we just started getting some sleep. Who cares.

Only five more days until next weekend.

Rachel has two friends that are both boys. I don’t want to give away names, so I’ll call them Mark and Ethan. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago the two boys were together and Ethan was upset because he wanted something and his mom said he couldn’t have it. Mark, who had been listening to the argument, leaned over to Ethan and advised, “Cry, Ethan. Just cry.”

You know you’ve been watching too much reality television when in the same dream you are congratulated by Paula, Randy and Simon for winning the American Idol contest and someone you barely know gives you an engagement ring the size of one of the rings offered to the Bachelorette.

All of this took place while I was casually shopping at a flea market. After telling me how much money they were going to make on me, Paula, Randy, and Simon each, in turn, kissed me, before heading into what must have been a Chevy’s restaurant to order shrimp and steak fajitas. I didn’t go in the restaurant with them. I went, very happily I might add, on my way. Don’t ask me how I know what they ordered. It was a dream, okay?!

I must say, I woke up in a really good mood this morning.

Last night when I started running the water for Hannah’s bath, she lifted up the lid of the toilet seat and patted it politely as if to say, go ahead, have a seat now. When Rachel takes a bath with Hannah the routine is that Rachel goes “potty” when we’re running the bathwater, so maybe that’s what Hannah was thinking about.

This morning, I think she said “pa-poo” (poo-poo) as she was pooping. That’s new. For about a month now, she’s been trying to pull off her shirt when she’s got a poop in her diaper, as if to say, take off these clothes and this diaper. These are signs that she should be ready for potty training….except….she screams if I put her on the potty seat. So, that’s that.

A few days ago I was going through the pre-nap routine with Rachel. She was sitting on the John, going poop. She wanted privacy, but didn’t want us too far away. So Hannah and I sat outside the bathroom door chatting and sitting on the two step-stools underneath the bathroom sink. Rachel asked for one of her dolls for her nap, so I picked Hannah up and headed downstairs to get it. As I went, I heard Rachel yell after me, “It’s stinky in here!” “Oh,” I responded. “It isn’t stinky in here!!” she decided, calling down to me. “Okay,” I responded as I picked up the doll and started back upstairs. “Mom, (she called impatiently), it ISN”T stinky in here.” “Okay,” I said wearily.

Then we went in Rachel’s room and I read Rachel a fairy book while out of the corner of my eye I watched Hannah climb up on Rachel’s bed and then challenge me repeatedly, straddling the bed rail and yelling “da” (down) with a huge smile on her face, in imitation of what she expected me to say. At the same time, Rachel kept pointing to the fairies and asking me what all their names were.

I wish I could say that I am a good multi-tasker by now, but I’m really not. I do what I have to do, but I’m not graceful. Think frazzled.

I’m trying to understand Hannah’s attachment to play-doh. She’s obsessed with it these days. “Day-doh?” “Day-doh?” she cries, pointing at it. I give it to her and she just walks around with the play-doh can as if it’s a doll. “Day-doh?” she says, holding it up to me. When I reach for it, assuming she wants me to take the lid off, she retracts and makes a motion with her arm indicating that I should go away, stop interfering. At other times she does want me to take the lid off. And then she wants it right back on again. This morning she wanted to bring the play-doh can in the car with us when we drove Rachel to school. I vetoed that. I’ve just taken the lid off the can and she’s carrying the can around with her contentedly.

At times Hannah and I are talking the exact same language. I know how to get her rolling on the floor, catching her breath with cackling laughter. With this one, she’s on her own. I’m clueless. But she’s not putting it in her mouth, so I’m going with it.