Bottles, Purim, and more, oh my.

Look who's holding his own bottle.



Tricked you. That's actually Ziv drinking from a non-BPA-free bottle. For comparison purposes, here is Shai.





Do you think there's a chance that his eyes will stay blue??

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Yesterday was Purim, and N decided he wanted to be Haman.

D: What does Haman look like?
N: Well, he wears all red clothes, and a hat with three corners, and triangle shoes.

Done and done (except for the triangle shoes), although N forgot to mention the sunglasses, which everyone knows Haman liked to wear too.



D's mom: How did you convince him to be Haman?
D: He asked for it.

And since we had the eyebrow pencil out, we also decorated Shai.



Then da boyz posed for pictures while Ziv tantrumed because he wanted to be Haman too, and how can it be that Purim isn't celebrated in his school, and why can't he have a hat like N's?





Turned out that in a world of store-bought costumes, Haman kicked butt.



And here is a picture of baby Eben, for good measure, dressed as the jock he will no doubt grow to be (a sensitive, intelligent jock, of course, and everyone knows soccer players are the best).



B and I attended the parade, of course. If you click through, you can see N marching grimly in the background, as is apt for a villain about to meet his end.



Shai, being a baby, was less morose.



Significantly less morose. As for B, he was zombified.



All the cheeriness continued until I took S to the doctor to make up his vaccinations. Then he became very morose indeed, although not before he'd charmed the nurse practitioner, who was like, "How can you not play with him all day long?"

Receptionist: Looks like his older brothers have been busy!
D: No. We're just Jews.
[No, not really.]
D: Ha ha.

*

N: What does it mean when your heart melts?
D: When you get a warm, fuzzy feeling all over. Does that ever happen to you? Maybe with Shai?
N: Well, I can't stop loving Shai.

And later:

Z: I hate everyone in this family except the baby!

So there you go.

A bit about art

You may recall that long, long ago, like maybe a year ago, B found a wad o'cash in the street, which we then turned in to the police. Nobody claimed it, and eventually we got a letter in the mail telling us to pick it up. I think it was summer by then. B sprinted over there, only to discover that the cop who had taken the wet wad o' cash from him (it was raining) had placed it in a plastic ziploc, where the wad proceeded to grow mold and to look sufficiently freaky that our bank refused to take it, instead instructing B to send it back to the schmTreasury for exchange. This involved sending the cash registered mail and facing some ridicule from our local post office workers who were like, "Nobody uses registered mail to send around such puny amounts. Registered mail is for diamonds!" But whatever. The website said registered mail, and so I sent it registered mail, and it cost a pretty bundle too, which I couldn't, you know, take out of the wad for fear of unleashing some kind of contagion upon myself and my loved ones. But so what? Only a year and three months after finding the wad, we've been... uh... rewarded?... for our noble and rule-following approach.



Let that be a lesson to you doubters. (Speaking of doubters, is having our address up there for God and everybody to see a mistake? B, I leave this to you to correct.)

*

Big bad wolf!



*

Back over winter break, I decided to imitate an artsy coworker and make a mobile for the baby. If you click through, you will see that she is way more successful at this task being, you know, artsy and regularly lauded by various design magazines. But this is our blog, so here's my take.





Pleased with myself, I went on to copy another mobile from the coworker's website.





It was here that disaster struck.





That's right. I nearly sliced off the tip of my finger. This didn't stop me from making one final mobile, albeit stained with blood and tears.



To my body's credit, you can't even tell anymore that I was injured in the line of duty. I have, however, developed a fear of and a healthy respect for xacto knives.

*

Baby!



*

But really, who cares about my travails, when (a) Ziv keeps calling me a bad mommy even as he threatens to follow me around the house until I am forced to begin kicking in walls myself, and (b) he keeps making his own art, which frankly, is as good as mine even if he still has a ways before he becomes artsy like my coworker. And my coworker, incidentally, is quitting her job to be artsy full time, and also because she apparently actually likes spending time with her kids.

Okay, so anyway, a few weeks ago, Z went through a robot phase, in which he drew many robots that he calls Crazies (aka Krazies).



Z's love of the Krazies is a sign that B and my brainwashing does work on rare and fairly useless occasions.

This past weekend, Z decided to take his Crazies into the world of 3-D. As far as we know, no one has showed him how to do this.





He worked on this project entirely by himself, using an whole tube of glue just to line the box with black paper so that his Crazy could look like it was floating around in outer space. Am I wrong to blown away by this, and by the fact that he woke up early both on Saturday and Sunday to work on this project long before the rest of us crawled out of bed and began picking on him unfairly?

Before Z decided that he hates me, he drew a picture of me that Nadav likes to keep under his bed for nights when I'm not there, or something.



Note that Nadav is wearing green footie pajamas in this picture. It's because this is a lifelike rendering of all involved. Except, you know, for my smile.

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Finally, this morning I found a list among Ziv's papers.



This is apparently his schedule for living on a farm in "The Olden Days" in the summer. Yes, I know it's nearly impossible to read, so here's a transcription:

6 a.m. Wake up. Milk the cow.
7 a.m. Have breakfast.
8 a.m. Plant crops.
9 a.m. Carve brooms.
10 a.m. Collect goose fethers (Okay, I have to ask who is doing the writing at this point--I sincerely hope it's one of the other kids.)
11 a.m. Sew
12 noon eat lunch
1 p.m. take a nap
2 p.m. play time
3 p.m. have water and a snack
4 p.m. make pillow
5 p.m. knit
6 p.m. eat Dinner
7 p.m. milk the cow / collect eggs
8 p.m. PJs. Bedtime

From this, I can only conclude that in the olden days, Z did a lot of hanging out with the women folk. And, of course, had plenty of pillows upon which to nap.

*

Baby!

Can't think of a title--maybe something to do with grinding?

On Tuesday, we had a night of familial harmony unlike any we've had in a long time. As we'd planned, Ziv and B cooked, N and I read, there was no yelling or crying. Occasionally, we'd arrange ourselves in heartwarming and artful tableaux, like Ziv giving Shai a bottle, or all three boyz in the bath, that would have made Norman Rockwell proud.

But that was Tuesday. Yesterday, things went back to their regular bleak normality. I was sure the problem was going to be that Nadav wouldn't want to help B cook as scheduled, but it turned out to be Ziv who spent a good two or more hours weeping. The first hour was because he didn't want his one-on-one time with me to begin until Nadav got home, and it wasn't fair, and did I ever make it to the level in DoodleJump where aliens showed up? Did I? Did I? The second hour was because we were out of pancake mix, which meant pancakes from scratch and that Nadav got to do more complex cooking than Ziv thought was fair. We spent some time sitting at the bottom of the stairs with Z kicking the wall. Eventually, I got tired of that and headed to our bedroom, figuring that we could at least be comfortable while he raged. So I picked up the nursing pillow to toss it on the floor to make room on the bed, and the moment Ziv saw me reach for it, he started crying even harder than he already was. "And now you're going to feed Shai!" he howled in such frustration and grief that my hair is still standing on end from all the guilt. He's been so good about the baby, so understanding about us having to attend to the baby's becks and calls and various dirty diapers, that somehow we missed how left out he was feeling. Which brings me to that eternal question: exactly how much damage are we inflicting upon da boyz with our inadequate parenting without our knowledge (as opposed, you know, to the deliberate damage we're going for)?

Then, of course, we did some wrestling and had some supper, and by the time Z went to bed, he was like, "This was another really nice evening, wasn't it, Daddy?" And B and I were like, "You've got to be kidding us," before spending the rest of the night ignoring each other while B programmed and I played obsessive round after round of Angry Birds.

Today, incidentally, B and I were supposed to head on a wild, one-night getaway to Chicago, where the folks in my profession are congregating for our profession's annual conference. We originally were thinking of three crazy days and nights + baby while my parents took care of da boyz, but then the reality of hotel prices in Chicago hit us, along with the reality of attending a conference with a baby and husband in tow. Whatever. "D," you might be asking, "Why drag B and baby with you? Why not go alone to your conference while B stays with the kids? After all, isn't B heading off on his own in just a few weeks for a four-day conference in sunny California?" Well, there are several reasons. The first is that I'm shy and awkward and can't handle small talk without an intermediary. The second is that my understanding is that the main entertainment at this conference involves drinking and hooking up, and I don't drink because drinking is just a gateway to a raging addiction to meth, the illicit drug of choice for busy women and nursing mothers. Plus, I really shouldn't be hooking up because, you know, I'm married. The third is that I have a bad case of Impostor Syndrome, and I don't really need to to go to Chicago to hide in my room and play Angry Birds when I have the game right here on my iPod. I think there are other reasons, but I'm too tired to remember them because I was up too late, yes, playing Angry Birds and feeling sorry for myself. Oh, and of course there's the all important reason: if I go to a conference on my own, I won't have a right to complain when B abandons me with Mr. Cranky and his cranky associates during a school week for a frigging five nights or something b/c of the time difference and the length of the flight to California. Plus, a hotel in Chicago costs the same whether you're one person or two, and last week we spent a good $250 on babysitting alone, etc. etc. etc.

All of that, though, is to say that today finds me a little frustrated, a little sad, and a lot tired. Next week is my spring break, and I think last week also pretty much rules out any spontaneous getaways or days off on B's part. Grind. Grind grind grind. And B is home sick today and swearing at his computer while we once again don't talk to each other. We're good at it. It's a life skill.

Feelings... woah woah woah

Today, da boyz came home and Ziv started laying into Nadav as he is wont to do. "Here," I said, "let's write down the problem." (See? That's all those parenting books at work!) Ziv's complaint was that when he comes home he's hungry and tired and all he wants to do is hit and tease Nadav. N's complaint was that he comes home angry at Ziv and at us for yelling. Sticking to the script, I was like, "Let's come up with some solutions." This was when both boys demanded a piece of paper each. Ziv worked for a very long time to write, "I feel that we need to start doing 15 minutes when middle when." In fact, he took so long that he never quite finished his thoughts or his pizza.

N: But I don't know how to write.
Us: We'll help you!
N: Okay. Look, I made a big P! And now I made a small P! My feelings have two Ps!

and later:

N: My feelings have a U in them!

As was the case the last time we did this, by the time we were done, da boyz were so distracted that not only did they forget to fight, but they also forgot to actually eat supper. And they didn't start whining again until it was time to pick up toys.

Also, earlier today, apparently N announced to his teacher, "Today I'm going to call you Wanda." And he and all his friends spent the rest of the day calling her Wanda. Then this evening, we played a rollicking game of Wanda, where the rule was that I need to ask N a question, any question, and he answers it with Wanda. (E.g. "What are those two holes in that thing in the middle of your face?" followed by N freezing in horror--what holes? what thing?--until I point out his nose, then crying out, relieved, "Wanda!") Just now, though, he told B, "I only say Wanda during the day. At night I say the things that I say."

He is always wanting to know if words rhyme. "Ape and ate rhyme!" Or "Ate and eight!" "I can say headache or achehead! I can say tummy ache or... or... ache... or... uh..."

Everything's fine

The baby we brought back from the hospital is different than the one we had before. For example, he eats less, which we can explain away. But he also naps less, goes to bed later, and his cry is different. He doesn't just have an angry cry anymore--he's developed a sad cry as well, with tears and pleading looks and everything. B's theory is that he cries like that when he needs to cough by can't. Plus, he's hoarse. He sounds like he's been smoking.

That said, he sure seems glad to be home. He smiles and coos, especially when Ziv sings to him. As for me, I wake up several times a night thinking that I should go check on him, but then I never do, because hey, if he's not breathing, surely that can wait until morning. Tfu tfu tfu.

But those of you that have had hospital stays before--is it normal to have a case of the post-hospital-stay blues? Because if I have to hear Z lecture me one more time about the intricacies of the iPod game Doodle Jump, or if N injures himself yet again climbing into his car seat (I mean, really? How difficult can it be? And yet every time he ends up crying because he hurt his own leg or poked out his own eye, or "Mama, when you buckled my seat belt, you squeezed too hard!"), or if B looks at me askance again and we end up snapping at each other, I will bust out crying (if only I could). Ugh. So darned tired. Oof.

As if you needed more proof D is the better parent

My day so far:

• Yell at kids
• Take shower
• Yell at kids
• Yell at Z
• Fight with Z
• Yell at Z
• Imagine throwing Z into a wall
• Go to bagel
• Sleep

D's day so far:

• Sit with kids
• Argue with kids
• Calm kids after they get yelled at by Daddy
• Take Z to a separate room
• Send Daddy away so he can calm down
• Send Daddy, N, and the baby to bagel by themselves
• Sleep
• Get up, letting me sleep even longer
• Make banana bread with the boyz

I have to say, watching her make banana bread (Ummmmmmm.....banana bread) with Z and N is a stark reminder of how much better she is with them than I am. She's all calm and happy and encouraging and not worrying about exact measurements or exactly how or where the eggs get broken and making it fun for them. It's the cutest thing I've seen since....well, since I can remember, certainly. No wonder I love her.

On constitutional law

B's in bed and I'm sitting here listening to the baby coo in his room to see if he'll go asleep on his own or else start crying. I've got my money on the latter. We're not supposed to swaddle him because it's potentially constricting.

He's been in a great mood all afternoon, unlike Z, who has been vile, vile enough to say that he's going to kill Nadav, that I was the one being bad for not allowing him to go look for his lost challah that he left somewhere in the bowels of the J, and that the next time we went out he was going to walk away from us and hide so we wouldn't know where he was. ("And then what?" "I'd go home." "But you don't have a key." "If it's raining, I'll find a way to get inside.") Then, when we got home, he locked me out in the garage, which was okay because I have keys, but still. I sent him up to his quiet spot to calm down, and this sent him into such hysterics that I thought we'd need to use the inhaler to soothe the coughing. "Mama, stay with me," he wept. "Stay!" And given that I vividly recall just wanting my parents to do the very same thing when I was little to the point that I faked illnesses, I wasn't able to walk away. We hugged. He calmed down. Then we went downstairs and he was like, "You can't make me light the Shabbat candles." I tried to send him to his room, and he freaked out. "I wasn't even being mean!" he wailed. "Why did you give me a time out?" So we hugged again, and he was like, "But it's true! You can't make me do anything! It's... It's in the constitution."

Right before we left the hospital, Shai was sleeping in my arms, and his oxygen dipped a bit. I was waiting to see it go back up (you know, so I could feel reassured), but the nurse walked in and was like, "Let's wake him up." We did, and of course his oxygen went back up, but I don't feel reassured. There was no way that I could tell just by looking that his oxygen was dipping. B doesn't share any of these concerns because he believes in double-blind studies.

And now the boy is crying. I win!

We're home...

... and so frigging exhausted. But the baby is bathed and sleeping, and so is B, so all is well.

Boogers

Yesterday evening:

D (looking at baby): Oh my god, look at that booger!
B: NO. LEAVE IT ALONE!!!!
D: But it's soooooo tempting!
B: You don't think I've been staring at it?
D: But it looks so dry!
B: Yeah! Crusty. And kinda bloody, I think. But we should leave it alone.

And then last night, the nurse came in to suction him out. This consists of taking a narrow red tube about forty-three feet long and sticking it up his nose until it's clear that it's looped around his brain about six times. And then turning on the suction.

Nurse: It's a little hard to work with because he's got a really dry booger in the way.
B: I know! It's taken incredible will-power by both me and my wife to not go in there after it.
Nurse (looking dubious): How do you even get stuff out of a baby's nose? It's not like you can tell him to blow it.
B: Oh, their noses are a lot more flexible than you'd think.

C'mon, people. We can't be the only ones in the world that get a sick sense of accomplishment out of picking a baby's nose. Or....maybe we can be.

It's clear. Only a vasectomy can save this marriage.

Heading home

...at least at some point. It's not clear to me why it takes four hours to check someone out of the hospital, but the other kids are at their respective caregivers, so D and I are just hanging out and biding our time until we can go home and...well, clean, I guess, and do laundry, and try to get a handle on the work we've missed, and brace ourselves for the weekend. And I'm hoping there's sleep in there somewhere.

S had a good night last night numbers-wise, but he did a lot of coughing. I'm glad I was here so I could hear the noises coming out of him while watching his numbers remain good. It'll make it a lot easier tonight at home to just let him cough up all that stuff in his lungs and not get worried. Well, not get too worried.

Things I've learned in the hospital:

• The noises made by the machines when something goes wrong are completely out of proportion to how worrisome things actually are. At least as evidenced by how fast the nurses come running (i.e. at a languid saunter)
• Daytime television really is a vast wasteland. Oh my god. Luckily...
• ...the wireless at the hospital is about as good as what I have at home, so I've been able to screw around and watch streaming stuff and basically make my own fun.
• I really do like that bathroom tile.
• Hospital rooms are kept at the perfect temperature for absolutely no conceivable situation or mode of dress. 
• S has enormous hands. Two of our attending Medical Professionals have commented on it. He also got "so happy" and "such expressive eyes."

And, finally, a big shout-out to flexible jobs with lots of sick days available, kick-ass health insurance, a world-class hospital three miles from our house, and in-laws living in town. Nothing like a baby in the hospital to make you realize how easy you have it.