Full of Baby

Um... okay

2012-02-16T09:33:00.003-05:00

Me: I'm probably not going to see you tonight because I have to do something at work and you'll probably be asleep by the time I get back.

Ziv: Davi, I know what we can do. I'll draw you a picture of Mommy, and then we can attach it to a stick, and you can rub it against your head!

We were at a restaurant, and Nadav was pushing his straw in and out of his cup and annoying the heck out of B.

B: Stop that!

N: When I'm a grown-up, I'm going to be Shai's daddy, and when he's three and he does this with his straw, I'm going to let him!

So there.

Finally, I'm not sure what triggered this next rant, but B came home and promptly went to type it, and now I'm using his computer so it's right here in front of me:

Ziv: I don't even believe in God. I mean people say he talks to them, but what, is he just in the air or something? Plus, I don't think he could have a baby without a wife, and how could his baby die and then get alive again? Plus, he's not REAL!

D [inappropriately, when B relays this to her]: OMG!

B: I can't post this. It'll break my parents' heart.

To which I say, don't worry MNFolks. Ziv and Nadav are still very much undecided about all matters religious, and if you catch them on the right day, not only do they believe in God, but they also believe in Jesus and plan to grow up Christian...

Valentine's Day, part 1

2012-02-15T14:18:00.003-05:00

I am going through a phase (?) where I am so in love with the baby. The reasons for this are probably obvious: he can't talk; he's always happy to see me; he has this way of looking at me (or anybody) sideways flirtatiously while clutching his hands and bringing them to his mouth in a coquettish gesture. Soon enough, he'll be three and yelling, "Mom! I need to be wiped!" in his "You are my servant!" voice. And then he'll be five and crying about how he doesn't have enough time to play after school, and how he wishes his brothers would die. Or, if he's in a better mood, he'll say, "They're just shoes. What's the big deal, Mom? Are you really going to fight over this, you DF?"

*

Yesterday was Ziv's first Valentine's Day. I picked him up from school and he was all like, "And we drank grape juice! And ate junky things!" So we're driving away when we see this mom and this other kid flagging us down. They had Ziv's little bag of valentines and other goodies (i.e. pencil, fruit gummies) "Did Ziv take my kid's candy?" the mom asked. "This was the only bag that was there." She was holding her boy's empty V-day bag in her hand.

So I was like, "Let's see if we have doubles in here." I started looking, and there were some doubles, so I started dividing them, and Ziv started freaking out. Finally the mother gave me a kind of cold look and was like, "Thanks anyway," and she and her son didn't take anything and headed back to the aftercare room to take one more look for the candy. This made me feel bad--was I supposed to also give her the candy? Or just a random handful?

"Z!" I said. "I can't believe you wouldn't share!" Because that's the kind of mom I am and I was already having a bad day. "He doesn't have anything. Would it have killed you to give him your doubles?"

Z: What? I didn't know.
D: But I told you.
Z: Oh, in that case...

So he got out of the car and ran after the boy and gave him his whole entire bag of goodies. And I was like, "Don't you just want to share?" and Z, who is no doubt scarred for life from my guilt-tripping him, was like, "I don't need it."

Then the boy found his candy, and he gave Ziv back all of his, and we finally went home. And still, I feel like the mom had been expecting a different response from me--but what? And how much damage am I actually doing to these kids?

Four-month checkup / World's best parents

2012-02-10T20:22:00.002-05:00

This morning was Shai's four-month checkup. It was scheduled for 10:20, so I took him to daycare, then sat in the lobby and graded, then went to pick him up. I found him moaning, half asleep on the floor under one of those baby gyms.

D: Boy, he's loud.
S's teacher: Yeah. He's just fighting off sleep.

So I take him over to see our new doctor, and of course, even though she only started working at 9 a.m., she was already running 20 minutes late, and so at some unknown time, the medical assistant showed us into the room, measured S and was like, "He's awfully warm."

D: He is?
MA: 102.8.

The doctor comes in, and meanwhile the baby kind of half rouses himself and lies there, awake and listless and moaning. She was like, "Is he usually like this?" And then, when I tried to nurse him and he just kind of lay there, she was like, "This isn't him." Cue a dose of Tylenol and a blood draw (three tries on the foot before they gave up and did a finger). Some enormous amount of time later, she was like, "Does his soft spot feel too firm to you?" and then started talking about the ER. "I don't want to scare you," she said, "but infants can turn like that." So naturally, I was like, "Okay then! ER it is!"

Doctor: If only he'd smile or something, I'd feel better about this.

And then, as if Shai heard her, he opened his eyes and gave her a charming grin. The Tylenol had apparently finally kicked in, and after looking around for a bit, Shai was like, "Where's lunch?" and thus our four-month appointment ended on a happy, it's-just-a-double-ear-infection note. So three hours after we got there, the doctor finally released us and we went home. Pretty good outcome, don't you think? Although B and I keep wondering how we missed it that S was feeling so sick...

Turns out, though, that this moaning thing must be a new phase. When the Tylenol is working, he's like, UHHHHHHH!! UHHHHHHHHH! And now, when his fever is beginning to spike again, he's more like, UUhhhhhhhh? Uhhh uhhhhhhh?

B: Yeah, I'd be fine with this phase ending at any minute.

I agree.

More on this, more on that

2012-01-31T14:11:00.005-05:00

The night after the argument in the previous post, my mom called: "I feel bad about our conversation." So we had a conversation about our inability to have conversations, which came to the following standstill:

D: I've been depressed--I've had (moderate, moderate) postpartum depression for all three babies--and I've told you so, and you don't seem to be all that interested.
D's mom: Oh, I didn't realize it was postpartum depression. (Pause) Which meds are you on?
D: But Mom, what do you know about the meds? It's like after the one time I talked to you about taking them, your response was, "So that's why you're so fat." Don't you see how that might make me not want to tell you things?
D's mom: No. I don't see.
D: You don't?
D's mom: Not at all. At least it's better than saying that I'm sorry, which is what everyone says and nobody actually means.

So there you have it. As hard as I try, I can't see how "So that's why you're so fat" can be taken as a demonstration of tenderness, while my mom, obviously, sees it as exactly just that.

D's mom: This makes me think that we'll never be able to talk to each other.

I'm writing about this here because I don't know how much of our inability to communicate is really about cultural differences as opposed to some kind of fundamental mother-daughter incompatibility. Maybe in Israel, responding with, "So that's why you're so fat," is completely acceptable? I'd ask an Israeli, except that I've cut off ties with everyone as is appropriate in a situation where apparently you can't communicate productively. Unless that Israeli happens to be your mom.

Which reminds me that although Ziv's love for his fiancee (and hers for him) seems be waning now that they don't see each other anymore, I'm doubly bummed because my intense love for the fiancee's mom was dealt a blow when I heard they might be moving to warmer climes. And she was the one example of an Israeli mom that I loved, loved, loved. Because we schmBrowns never do anything half-assed. Except parent.

*

I drove in for a 45-minute meeting today. So that's 2 hours and $15 in gas well spent. It's also the fourth 0r fifth night in a row, I think, where we haven't been able to sleep through the night, and I think it's starting to take its toll.

*

Example of toll: Z has no school today, and suddenly, yesterday, I realized that we never got confirmation that I'd signed him up for a program at the J, because God forbid I take care of him myself. We tried to contact the program's coordinator from about 2 p.m. on, to no avail, until she finally called us back at 8:30 this morning to tell us that it was okay to bring him in. In between, I had dream after dream in which I tried and failed to dial the J's number in order to find out Z's status. I have this dream about not being able to dial / punch in the correct number something like once a week. Last night it was so bad that I woke up pretty much on the verge of tears and I'm still feeling all weepy.

*

I've told B many times that one of my biggest anxieties is about having to sit down and do homework with resistant children who cry and yell and make me do their homework for them. Then, last night, after sitting with Ziv and having him yell at me because I was forcing him, you know, to try and sound words out as instructed to by his teacher, I was like, "Holy crap. It's happening already." In my defense, I had taken over from B, who was reduced to making little "I'm going to strangle him" gestures behind Z's back before saying, "Maybe we're done for today," a declaration that inexplicably made Ziv burst into sobs. I don't understand how a kid who can spend hours repositioning the Perler beads he knocked over (or, worse, that I knocked over) gets so frustrated that reading takes practice. He is literally afraid to look at the words on the page because he's so dreading being wrong.

*

As for Shai, is there anything sweeter than a baby who can smile and coo but doesn't know how to talk derisively or roll his eyes at you?

*

And then we have N, whose pre-bedtime "getting comfortable" ritual now includes standing up and smoothing down his pajamas, making sure his sleeves haven't ridden up, locating the diaper he uses as a handkerchief and his blankie sheet, reminding me that he doesn't want the red blanket, only the blue one, checking to make sure the garbage can is within reach, and then finally, at long last, lying down only to jump up three minutes later because he needs to use the bathroom, an ordeal because he's also decided he loves footie pajamas best of all. We also had a conversation about how we're going to stop playing our "Calling Dr. SchmWeinblatt" game and change it to "Calling Dr. schmKim."

N: No. But I don't like Dr. schmKim.

Like he even knows who she is. And still, I'm using every cycle that is not spent on trying to figure out how to use a cell phone on imagining Dr. schmWeinblatt engaged in behaviors best engaged in behind closed curtains. Which, perhaps, is why, 3 seconds after getting the last part of our blinds delivery, I was on the phone to the installer. By Thursday night, it's entirely possible that we will once again be able to wander around in various states of, um, disclosure without worrying that my childhood therapist next door is thinking about how his life used to be so much better before we moved in and eschewed all semblance of privacy. Or something.

Blink blink

2012-01-26T11:36:00.004-05:00

This morning, my mom had a doctor's appointment and I was supposed to be on standby in case she needed a ride home. She ended up calling while I was taking a potty break, because now that I have kids, that's what I do, and so I saw her message three minutes later when I diligently checked the phone. "Everything's fine," the message said. "I'm at home. I'll be home for another hour." I sat down and continued working. Then, just now, she called again. "Where were you?" she demanded. "Why didn't you call me back? Your dad says that you can't be trusted."

This follows on my dad telling me yesterday that Z is too hyperactive, which he. is. not. Children who are too hyperactive don't beg for extra time to work on their Perler bead creations or listen patiently while their father expounds on evolution for 45 minutes instead of giving them a bath. "He's not hyperactive," I told my own father wussily and let the subject drop at that, then felt pissed off the rest of the evening.

But this was why, when my mom called me untrustworthy, I was like, "That's not fair."

Mom: Don't make a big deal about this. You were being untrustworthy in this instance. I agree with your father. You should have called.
Me: But I'm working.
Mom: Then stop working for a minute and call me to say that you're happy everything went fine. Why didn't you call?
Me [thinking]: Because this is what happens when I call, and it happens frequently enough that it makes me fear our conversations.
Me [saying]: If you want me to call, you need to say that explicitly.
Mom: Stop making a big deal out of this. You should have called.

Whatever. But now I'm all distracted and not working, so I may as well have called, so ha ha on me.

Except for that, our pediatrician pled no schmContest. In an article in the paper today, it said that they found objectionable material, because apparently the thought of typing child schmPorn is too much for me, on his home computer, and there was good reason to believe that he was the one who put it there. I can't stop thinking about this either.

But last night, when the boyz were going at it yet again, I distracted them by asking them to draw how they felt. In the true way of hyperactive children, they spent so much time and care with this that they forgot to fight. Then we made a list of house rules, which include no hitting, no pretend hitting, and no yelling in anger. This morning, I'm pretty sure Z already broke one of them and B broke the other. I'll let you guess who broke which rule.

And have I told you we have the pink eye at our place? One of Shai's teachers has it too. Now the rest of us (by which I mean me) are walking around all paranoid, staring suspiciously at all the boyz' eyes and wondering if my own eyes always feel this dry and itchy, you know, when I'm not tearing up in rage. Which I'm not. Instead, I'm blogging. And now, I must return home to pump because pumping at the bagel place is more than even I am willing to do. Plus, our place is a sty and B is sleep deprived and he has a cold. Plus, I dreamed last night that he preferred spending time with my parents to spending time with me because I'm too demanding. Which obviously, I am.

The kind of weekend we're having

2012-01-22T17:46:00.002-05:00

B (to folks in phone): Argh! I'm gonna kill them!
MnMa: Why? What's...
B: I'm gonna kill them and bury the bodies! No! I'll leave them out for the squirrels.
Z: You'd get in big trouble if you did that.

But how big of trouble? That's the pertinent question.

Wait, wait, don't tell me

2012-01-20T00:01:00.003-05:00

Today, we drove to Detroit with a bunch of other white people to go see a taping of our favorite NPR show (except, you know, for This American Life, which we can't listen to because of Z). And on the drive there, in the thirty or so minutes we spent inching along in hopes of getting parking, we had the following conversation:

B: Okay, this is kind of gross.
D: Okay.
B: So I was sitting in my cubicle when I... uh... noticed this hair in my nose. So I plucked it out and it was super long and gray. And, you know, it was so long that I really wanted to show it to someone.
D: You should have put it in an envelope and brought it home.
B: Well, I put it under my keyboard so I can look at it later.

He took this last part back immediately: "Kidding! Just kidding!" But still, I get tears in my eyes every time I think of it. Because is there anything funnier than nose hairs??

A post with actual pictures

2012-01-19T15:14:00.002-05:00

Our new method of bathing the baby is handing him to Ziv to hold onto while we soap the folds of his neck.

Ziv likes it and shows no sign of wanting to drown the baby, which is something my father fears. (No, not true. His fear is that Ziv will accidentally drown the baby.)

I'm also including a picture of the boyz in a rare moment of filial harmony.

But don't be deceived--it's still Tantrum Central over here. This morning's tantrum was triggered by the fact that Ziv disapproved of the sheets I put on his bed. I'll spare you the details.

Anyway, in an effort to implement the many skills I've supposedly gleaned from Siblings without SchmRivalry, the other night I sat the boyz down and had them list their complaints. Ziv, of course, had many. Nadav, on the other hand, said, "I just want to be with him all the time because he's my brother and I love him." Ziv wasn't moved by this confession the way the book said he would be, and I had to resist my urge to be like "Show your brother some effing love, already!" Stupid book. Then, at Nadav's suggestion, they drew pictures of themselves, and at my suggestion (that is, the book's), they drew how they felt. This pretty much derailed the rest of the discussion because Ziv was too busy asking how to spell "Angry" and "at."

You can take a look at Z's angry self-portrait and his "I angry at Nadav" statement. Meanwhile, N drew himself sitting down.

Then he flipped the page and drew himself on stilts. None of this, you might be surprised to learn, actually helped because, you know, I ultimately put the wrong sheets on Z's bed, a fact he discovered two full nights after my so-called mistake. But whatever. I will say, though, that the whole Siblings without Rivalry method is much more difficult and time consuming than the regular "yell at them and put them in time out" approach we prefer. Because, my friends, it's just a frigging sheet, and it does so match, so put on your damn clothes and go have some breakfast already. Grr.

Back to Work

2012-01-18T13:04:00.002-05:00

Today is my first day teaching. Despite various dreams about forgetting to write a syllabus, I did have one to hand out. Now I have to get over my anxiety that my students are longing for the substitute they had when I went on leave and wishing me back into labor.

I'm not sure why it's become so difficult to keep the blog updated. In part, it's the mood swings. In part, it's my rigorous TV-watching schedule. In part, it's that I'm googling our poor pediatrician who, at least according to newspaper reports, seems more and more likely to be guilty of schmPeeping (ugh! ugh!). And, in part, it's that I spend every free moment folding laundry and/or feeling bad about my dwindling milk supply.

And then there are the tantrums. Ziv has apparently been working on his stamina, because these days he can tantrum a full hour at a time. These tantrums often begin with statements about how much he hates N, how N is a bully, how he wishes N wasn't part of the family, how N hit him, how N's drawings are ugly and shouldn't be displayed next to his, how N won't leave him alone. Then they escalate into loud sobs that Z claims he can't control, that he can't help, that he can't stop.

Meanwhile, N walks around and scribbled on the wall and on our bed, claiming that he can't help his straying hands either.

And so that leaves Shai, who is smiling and laughing these days, and bringing his hands to his mouth so he can suck on his fingers. Sometimes he looks concerned if the tantrums get too intense, but mostly he's more interested in the state of his diaper.

So, as the French would say, "Le sigh."

N gets babysitting

2012-01-13T20:15:00.003-05:00

As relayed to me by B five minutes ago [which means I no longer remember the details, but darn it, at least I blog. Occasionally.]

N: Why did Sarah [the babysitter] come last week?
B: So Mommy and me could go out.
N: What did you do?
B: We talked and we went to a restaurant.
N: What restaurant? Can I go there?
B: Well, it's more of a grown-up restaurant.
N: When I'm a grownup, I'm going to find it.
B: When you're a grownup, you can go there.
N: When I'm a grownup, SeattleBro and me are going to get a babysitter and go there.

And so N apparently is still planning to move in with SeattleBro and function as his cousins' mother.

Can't fight this feelin'

2012-01-04T14:20:00.004-05:00

Today is S's second day at daycare. Yesterday apparently went well, if you don't interpret this--

-- as punishment for being abandoned.

Need a closer look at it? Well, here.

Yes, that is spit-up that somehow got under B's glasses. He also got some on the back of his head. It was bad enough that he had to jump in the shower and leave me alone with the three grumps.

Anyway, I'm depressed. Every little thing feels like an unbearable insult. How else do I explain the fact that I'm not pumping enough milk already, and that the one time I did get decent output, I knocked the bottle over and spilled half of it?

So not just depressed, but guilty too. Even the baby doesn't respect me.

Just kidding. Sticking out his tongue is how S completes his smiles.

What every father wants to hear

2011-12-27T00:05:00.001-05:00

Tonight, N revealed that his plans for the future include me!

N: When I get big, you'll come to live with me forever, and I'll go to the store and buy snacks.

What more could a man ask for?

Raising a psychopath

2011-12-14T09:16:00.001-05:00

At the schJCC, they have a strategy of getting parents off without tears or carrying on that consists of the child pushing the parent out of the door. Starting a couple years ago with Z, I've taken this to the next level and do a whole launch-myself-out-the-door-and-slide-on-my-back-in-the-hallway routine. Z even used to get all his friends to "help," so sometimes there'd be ten or so kids taking a run at me at pretty much exactly crotch level.

Today, Z was explaining to N that he used to have his friends help push me, and would N think that would be fun? And they went through a whole big thing about how they'd push so hard I'd do a flip in the air and end up on the roof, and then they'd come to get me in a cherry picker, but they'd flip the bucket upside down, and I'd end up in a dumpster with a dragon, etc. etc.

Their collective fantasies about causing me great bodily harm are getting more and more elaborate. Should I worry?

Anyway, after dropping Z off, N was recapping.

N: ...and then you'd go in the dumpster! And there is a dragon! And you try to run away, but you can't!
B: I can't?
N: No, it catches you and then it eats your eyeballs, and then it does fire on you!
B: Wow, I'd have to run away from the fire!
N: But then I'd have my fire, and I'd use it with a match, and then you'd have fire all over your body!
B: Ouch!
N: And then I'd take my gun and shoot you and you'd be dead!
B: Dead?? Why do I have to die?
N: To stop the screaming.

Time to get a lock for the bedroom door.

Phrenology and bad parenting

2011-12-14T08:17:00.002-05:00

Yesterday we took the boyz to get a haircut. "How's it look, Mom?" asked the barber about N, even though I'm not the barber's mother. I looked and asked him to taper it a bit more around the ears. The barber took a closer look, then said, "Come feel. That's his head."

How does this equate to bad parenting, you ask? Because N has a crooked head, and sometimes when I look at him too closely, I think his face is a little crooked too. This is because we weren't good about him not getting a flat spot when he was a baby, and then we didn't insist on getting him one of those funky head-rounding helmets. We're just lazy like that, as you know. But now it's him who is going to pay the consequences--God knows what kind of havoc puberty is going to wreak on his skull. Which I guess all goes back to our hope that he'll be tall so that, at the very least, no one will be able to look down on him and see that his head is actually shaped like a triangle.

Roll over, rover

2011-12-13T22:40:00.003-05:00

Well, perhaps it wasn't purposeful, but yesterday, I turned away from Shai, and when I turned back, he had rolled over from back to front and was getting all frustrated because he was lying on his arm. Today, after much drooling and complaining, he rolled from front to back. Of course, he did this when he was two days old ("He's not supposed to do that," noted the pediatrician (Sigh. Poor him.)).

Yesterday Ziv screamed for a good half hour or more because N got the big box of Chicken McNuggets (because we care about our kids' health) and he got the small one. Mind you, B had transferred most of the nuggets to Z's box, so it wasn't like we were starving him. Anyway, scream scream, complain complain, cry cry, can't breathe can't breathe, can't stop can't stop, etc. etc. And then, he finally calms down enough to ingest a nugget or two, the calories do their magic, and voila, he doesn't even finish his own pile.

D: So after all that crying and whining, you didn't even finish them?
Z: All that crying and whining was for nothing.

To which we say, "ARGH." Tomorrow, schmBrowns from all over (by which I mean Seattle, UK, and Montreal (my uncle)) descend upon Ann Arbor for my dad's 70th. None of us have any idea what to get him. Advice? Quick quick advice? Also, the thought of Ziv having one of his screaming tantrums in front of SeattleBro and UKCousin makes me blanche preemptively. We plan to never venture forth without snacks, but still, wish us luck.

Complain, complain

2011-12-10T19:47:00.004-05:00

Here is a list of things that went wrong today:

1) Baby woke up in middle of night (yes, yes, I know-- big deal)... except that...
2) Z woke up at 6 a.m., complained of stomach pains, and proceeded to throw up.
3) When daylight finally broke, we noticed wet spots all over our ceilings, which we later determined is probably condensation from the cold air near the windows. My family is plagued by wet spots in houses, by the way.
4) My parents came over to help install the blinds and I snapped at my dad.
5) It took us more than an hour to try and figure out which blinds went where, and even so, we only have good guesses about maybe half of them, at most...
6) and meanwhile B snapped at me because he doesn't think it's important that we have matching blinds inside the same room, and blinds are so expensive...
7) and meanwhile I snapped at the kids because sheesh, all those endless demands...
8) and all this turned out not to matter because now that our windows are up to code, the blinds are too short anyway.
9) So all that snapping was for nothing.
10) Is it possible that my new meds are making me impatient and highly irritable?
11) On the way back from Bagel, N started weeping and claiming he couldn't walk because his penis hurt. This was the third or fourth time this complaint has come up over the past couple of days (he said he hurt it in the famed Monkey Room), but it was only now that we decided to call the pediatrician's answering service...
12) where the on-call nurse was like, "Take him in, you DF." (The last part was implied.)
13) Turns out he has balanitis, which is no big deal (the doctor took all of three seconds to diagnose it, according to B) except that the application of antibiotics involves major discomfort and more weeping.,
14) Because of the trip to the doctor, N missed his nap.
15) Because of Z, I missed mine.
16) Everyone except Shai and B were wrecks during supper...
17) and during bedtime...
18) and now Shai is a wreck too...
19) and there's nothing good on TV...
20) and I finally read my novel draft and it's bad...
21) and B and I have discovered the games channel on our TV and haven't spoken to each other since because we're too busy playing JT's Blocks...
22) which is why we should have never gotten cable.
23) And we still have tomorrow to get through. It's wrong to dread the weekends.
24) Which reminds me: yesterday B and I were supposed to have lunch, and he forgot.
25) Then, when I went for an eyebrow wax so that I don't scare UKCousin when she arrives for a visit next week, the waxer woman was like, "My niece sleeps while her children are awake. Sure, they're five, but it's not okay. She needs to spend more time with them."
26) See 23.

On the bright side, yesterday Nadav was pretending a stick was a gun and he was shooting B with it. (Why? From where did this gun obsession come from? Did you see in the news that an 8 and 10 year old robbed their classmates using a toy gun?)
N: It's a gun. Tssssssss.
B: Oh, what does your gun shoot?
N: It shoots people, you DF. (Last part was implied, of course).

27) Nadav has been beating up on Ziv fairly regularly all week. Today it was a double-pack of Kleenex and a pinch to the neck. He left marks.
28) Sigh.

Night Four

2011-12-06T21:49:00.006-05:00

Friday morning, Nadav announced for the millionth that he was giving up his pacifier. We doubted him, but then he requested a box. I gave him the box that MNSis's birthday gift came in, but it was hard to open and close, so B gave him a different, smaller box. Then N decided that he also needed boxes for his sheet and the two Elmos. We gave him fancy gift bags instead. And lo and behold, a miracle!

We were like, "N, you don't have to give up Little Elmo, Big Elmo, and your sheet. All we want you to give up is the pacifier." But he insisted.

And it's been four full days, days that have involved quite a bit of crying, which in the past sent him running for all his stuff for consolation, and still, he's been resolute. If he makes it to seven days, we're getting him a Cookie Monster, although why he needs a Cookie Monster now that he's giving up the Two Elmos is beyond me. And tonight, when I went into his room, he was like, "It's much easier for me to drink my water now that I don't have my stuff."

Well, as whoever it was sang, whatever gets you through the night... But still, if this works, could there have been a better resolution??

Bathing

2011-12-06T21:35:00.004-05:00

As I said in the previous post, we never blog about anything on time. In case you're wondering what Shai looked like when he was one month old, well, he looked pretty much the same.

Say it with me: Oooh.

Anyway, with S being such a prodigious spitter-upper and us having two other children who will not leave us alone, we quickly came to regret giving away our baby bathtub, which we didn't really use with the other boys, preferring instead to allow them to wallow in their own filth. (No, not really. B would take them into the shower with him.)

Initially, we tried to be resourceful. Our first attempt at bathing involved the bathroom sink, but the faucet got in our way. Next, we tried to use one of our many clear plastic bins.

Yeah, that's about how well that worked. There's a reason bathtubs don't have hard corners. So I caved and purchased a secondhand bathtub.

Oh, come on. It's awesome.

Or mostly awesome. It's hard to scrub him in there at times. And so, when feasible, we opt for solution #4, which involves cramming as many schmDuebers into the shower together as possible

(N was in there too, but you do the math of N's height relative to B, and you'll understand why those photos are not suitable for work.)

Two months

2011-12-06T21:27:00.003-05:00

Well, the baby is two months old. Actually, two months and three days. That's because we can't seem to do anything on time.

He has developed into quite the spit-up artiste, and so we've been reluctant to give him tummy time. Still, we did cram in anticipation of his two-month physical.

And after all that, the nurse practitioner didn't even put him on his belly. Even more shocking: his stats. He's 11 lbs. 4.2 oz, and 23 inches. That's--wait for it--37th percentile for weight (up from 24th (!!!)) and 50th percentile for height. We are not used to producing such tiny offspring. At least he's finally passed both Z and N's birth weight.

Halloween Redux

2011-12-01T23:47:00.000-05:00

[I guess since I didn't ever post about Halloween at the time, this would be just 'dux', though.]

We'll start, as befits a post by me, with a diversion: My mother just complained that there have been no pictures of the baby in a Long Time. So, here you are!

Aren't they all just adorable when you can't hear them?

Halloween this year turned out to be the most stressful holiday of 2011 so far (but, really, Christmas will top it, people. Let's not be silly). We'd originally hoped to recycle last year's robot costumes, but at some point the boyz decided they wanted to be rockets. By which I mean, Z decided he wanted to be a rocket, and N immediately got Rocket Fever and wanted that, too.

"No problem," we though. "Don't you remember how kick-ass those robots were? And we have cardboard boxes up the ying-yang since we just moved and feel we can cut them up because we're never going to move again, until we're retired or some damn thing, thank god, because I hate moving, it's so expensive, and we've got all those goddamn boxes in the garage next to the leftover wood from when they put in the windows, Jesus, I could have built a freakin' palace out of crystal for what it cost to get them installed, and I don't know why we have to keep the goddamn bikes in there too, when there's a perfectly good goddamn shed...

Sorry. Got distracted.

But that should give you a hint of how the Making of the Rocket Costumes went, because what we forgot to take into account was that last year we had (a) two kids, (b) lots of sleep, and (c) no baby. The astute among you might be thinking, "Wait, that's just the same thing three times!" but it sure feels like it deserves three mentions, because the baby was three weeks old and awake with me every night from midnight to 2:00 am and I was, perhaps, a bit cranky.

D started with cardboard boxes to make the body of the rocket, but then I started thinking. I started thinking about cardboard cylindrical concrete forms, and how nice and rocket-shaped they are, and how they would be an excellent first use of the jigsaw my dad just bought me, and how fun it would be to make a rocket of out it, except maybe the nosecone, I'm not sure how to do that, and the fins might get in the way, but really, I'd get to use the jigsaw and actually be handy and cut thing into smaller things with a power tool run by actual electricity.

"I'm just gonna go get some concrete forms and make it out of that," I told D. We'll paint it up with some spray paint. It'll be fun and easy. The kids can help."

Fun. And Easy. You know. Like surgery. On yourself.

Things started...well, late, but OK. I got the tube, cut it in half (but, hmmm, that cardboard doesn't leave as nice an edge as I anticipated, but oh well, onward anyway) and started to paint them white.

Yeah, well, the paint didn't really so much cover up the lettering. As I had said it would, and D and said it would not. Score one for D. So, more trips to the store, more paint, more rain so the paint wouldn't dry, etc.

Things weren't going well. And there was so little time to work with.

It was at this point that D metaphorically ripped out my chest hair and put a little pink diaper on me, with the seemingly-innocent question, "Why don't we just go to Target and buy costumes?"

Because. Because I promised the kids I would build them rocket costumes, and even though one of my primary parenting methods is "promise them whatever the hell they want to shut them up, they'll forget about it in 45mn anyway", I was determined to make the costumes, with my manly toolbox and my manly pressurized paint and my oh-so-manly power tools that run, did I mention it already, on ACTUAL ELECTRICITY.

No, I don't understand it, either, looking back. But boy, was I determined/pissy/overwrought/melodramatic at the time.

So, I stayed up late, got home from work early, went on several trips to the hobby store to get an xacto knife and stickers, downloaded the NASA logo to try to make a stencil, etc.

No, the blinds still aren't hung, why do you ask? I've been busy.

The first deadline was Z's Kindergarten Halloween Parade, and I only got one done before having to run it over there in the middle of the day. I had mixed feelings about it, but he sure was happy with it.

You can see that structural costumes were in short supply. This makes sense, as the rocket had a couple minor design issues related to ....well, to doing anything except standing upright and still.

But, really, it turned out ok, if you ignore how crooked things are, the lack of fins, the incredibly ugly cuts to make the windows, and the way my attempt to paint on the NASA logo left a halo of black paint everywhere.

Z, it turns out, had a backup of sorts.

By the time work ended, I knew enough from Z's costume to knock out the rest of Nadav's in short order.

Trick-or-treating went pretty well, give or take the boys not being able to touch their hands together to put candy in their bags (see above re: design flaws) and Z refusing to say "Thank you" or "Happy Halloween" or anything that might be considered polite and take away from a neighborhood reputation as a budding sociopath.

Lessons learned: 1. don't over-promise. 2. Let it go, already, and 3. Bigger arm holes.

And how about one more look at the baby?

More this and that, some potentially inappropriate

2011-11-30T21:30:00.006-05:00

The following conversation took place at Thanksgiving, which we spent at our friends' S and P's house. S and P are women, and when S invited us, I was like, "You might be sorry when we show up with Mr. Grumpy and his brother Mr. Grumpy."

S: That's okay. It'll remind P why we decided not to have kids.

During dinner, I relayed this info to P, at which point Z piped up helpfully, "You know, S, if you and P want to have a baby, my dad can help you get one started." He then pointed out that S and P would have to decide which one of them would get pregnant, unless... they both did.

As you might imagine, B turned bright red. Everyone else (S, P, me) laughed and made inappropriate jokes about the turkey baster already being primed.

Z (delightedly, which is S's word as she had to remind me of the exchange): I made everybody laugh!

*

I was just sitting here trying to come up with Christmas gift suggestions--I'm looking at you, MNMa-- when I realized that while I have like ten suggestions for Ziv, I have nothing for Nadav. This is because N's prime entertainment these days is more cerebral, I guess, and generally takes on one of the following forms:

1) He is a bad guy, or else he's a big bad wolf. Or else he's a big bad pig. Sometimes this involves hiding under his sheet. At times it involved discussion of how he's going to dress up as a bad guy for Halloween and scare people.

2) He makes plans for when he's a grownup. These include building a rocket ship, which will need a steering wheel so that he'll be able to fly it; owning forty cars, some of which will be stored in the rocket ship; moving to Seattle to help SeattleBro raise the SeattleCousins; buying things ("Can you come with me because I don't know how money works?"); buying nine convertibles, some of which we'll be allowed to drive.

3) He does whatever Ziv happens to be doing.

4) He ruins whatever Ziv happens to be doing.

5) He talks about how he's going to shoot various people who won't do what he tells them. Sometimes, he shoots them with a water gun.

Sample conversation:

N: What if a monster truck ran over a car?
B: That would be terrible.
N: What would happen?
B: The driver would get arrested.
N: I could catch him.
B: Oh yeah? What would you do with him?
N: I would give to the police and then they would shoot him with their guns.

(Says B: So he's outsourcing.)

6) Using the MagnaDoodle. He likes making letters on it, or else pretending to make letters, or else drawing abstract stick-figure big bad wolves on stilts with super long arms, or else scribbling something and asking us what it says.

See what I mean about the gifts? It's much easier to shop for someone obsessed with Perler beads. On second thought, the obvious gift here is a gun, or perhaps several. It's important to encourage sociopathic behavior in children.

*

S spends the hours between 7 and 11 in the evening alternating between nursing, taking five-minute naps, and demanding to be held. B has to do the holding because I apparently smell too much like milk. No. That's not true. B has to do the holding because I don't want to do it. Whatever. Regardless, this means that B is held hostage by the television because it's hard to do much with a baby nestled in the crook of your arm. I am too, of course, because (a) I like television; (b) we are doing like three loads of laundry a day and someone needs to fold it. But sometimes, there's just nothing on if all you have is super-basic cable, which means that we end up watching the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. So, without further ado, here is B's favorite angel:

That's Miranda schmKerr. Sadly, she happens to be dating Orlando schmBloom, so I'm thinking B doesn't have much of a chance. This is, incidentally, exactly the kind of thing that B likes to hear, especially with a baby nestled in the crook of his arm.

*

And that reminds me that lately, when N goes to bed and I sit with him, he expertly guides my hand so that I can stroke his head with such firmness that I can't help but feel a little concerned for future girlfriends.

*

When there really is nothing on TV, B plays Angry Birds. He loves him the Angry Birds.

*

When will this baby fall asleep??

This and that

2011-11-29T22:51:00.002-05:00

I was grading exams today, and learned that students at my college that take a certain course have no "futuristic relativity." I think the writer was going for "the course is not relevant to their futures." This was, however, better than learning that Jerry schmSandusky worked as a defensive coriander, which is no doubt better than offensive coriander, especially when it comes to soup. Or is it too soon to make jokes?

It is too soon, I suspect, because today we found out this. Initially, when I saw the link, I was like, "Well, at least it's not our schmPediatrician," but then, upon clicking through, it was. And he wasn't just the boys' doctor, mind you, but back in the day he was mine and my brother's as well. Initially, I was like, "No way." In fact, I'm still like, "No way," but both B and my father say that it's most likely true. Regardless, we were called about rescheduling our two-month appointment for Shai for Monday, and all I can think about is how the doctor is going to move past this, which of course is a sign that I still don't believe the accusations are true. I just keep picturing him so completely alone and devastated. You'll note I felt no such compunction for the DUI-ed schmMohel. This is because I'm amused by strangers' wrongdoings, apparently, as long as they don't involve minors, I guess...

Newsflash

2011-11-16T11:39:00.003-05:00

Shai smiled this morning, thanks to the Duke of York and his ten thousand men. That clocks him in at 6 weeks and 2 days.

For the grandparents

2011-11-15T14:33:00.002-05:00

A whopping 5 minutes of da boyz being entertaining.

For the rest of you, a brief rundown:

1) Could N be cuter in his camouflage undies?
2) Shai's gift to the boyz was Big Elmo for N (b/c he was jealous of Ziv's Big Elmo) and Big Bird for Z, so he can still have the biggest stuffed animal. Ziv pretty much is over his gift, but N drags the two Elmos everywhere he can, along with his pacifier and his sheet, and he panics of one of the four (most likely the pacifier) is missing. It's cumbersome, to say the least. Big Elmo is, in turn, a big brother and a mother. N is, in turn, a Big Bad Wolf and a Big Bad Pig.
3) We also got N a strap for his guitar. Could he be cuter with his guitar?
4) Note how Z is completely invested in being in charge.
5) Note the love for the word "Eyeball." It is N's new favorite insult.

There you go. Now, if you're not a grandparent, you need not watch the video.

In other news:

1) Jen, it's Shy, not Shay.
2) MSUspar10 I was thinking Adin pronounced Ah-Dean, not Aiden. But given your response, I see now that it wouldn't have been a good choice, even if I do like it as a name...
3) I am still not done with the grading left over from the first part of the semester. This is why there's been hardly any blogging. At this rate, I'll be grading until the semester ends. Somehow, I'm convinced this is my fault. Other things that are my fault: B's fatigue; Z's obnoxiousness; S's big nose; N's undying love for the Elmos because he can't get any parental attention.

Grammar

2011-11-06T14:56:00.001-05:00

Overheard today, as the boyz were racing up the stairs.

Z: I winned!
N: Not winned. No. It's "won."
Z: I won!
N: No, I'm going to won!

Very quick update from Bill

2011-11-04T13:45:00.002-04:00

Mucus Plug.

I forgot

2011-11-04T13:31:00.002-04:00

On the morning I went into labor, Z lay next to me. "I'm just trying to figure out," he told me, "which leg he's going to come out of."

Birth story

2011-11-03T09:41:00.004-04:00

Having gone through this whole birth thing a couple of times, we expected the following:
1) Baby would be late.
2) Baby would be huge--I was aiming for 10 lbs.
3) I would go into labor in the middle night, and the first sign would be the loss of the--avert your eyes, sensitive readers!--mucus plug. There. It's the last time you'll have to read about mucus plugs on this blog.
4) We'd go into the hospital, I'd get an epidural, B would nap while I scratched myself raw b/c that's an epidural side effect, and then, at some point, the midwife would decide I wasn't progressing quickly enough and break my water, labor would speed up, I'd do a poor job of pushing and begin to despair, and still, somehow, voila: a baby.

Instead, four weeks ago on Monday, eight days before our due date, we woke up at the regular time, which I think was around 6:15, and just as I was hobbling back to bed from the bathroom and dreading the drive and the many student conferences I had lined up, my water broke all on its own. This was not like on TV, when a lovely actress looks down and says, "My water broke," and then you cut to her having contractions in the car and screaming, "I hate you!" at her husband. Basically, I was like "Eww!" and then, "Is that muconium?" or however it's spelled. The plan was that we'd go to the hospital to see if my water really had broken after B took the kids to school, and then maybe we'd while the day away waiting for contractions to begin.

D: I think Bucketface is going to come today.
Z: For real?? Really????
D to B: Maybe we should pack a bag.

By 7:30, though, the thought of B leaving me alone in the house proved to be a bit much, so we called in the parental cavalry to take the kids to daycare and B threw baby clothes in the washing machine. Meanwhile, I gave up on showering--what's the point, if you're not a beautiful actress?--and began to worry about my lack of resilience, which seems to just be part and parcel of labor for me.

So we went in and were thrilled to discover that the midwife who had come on duty in the interim was the one we'd been seeing for the entire pregnancy. We were less thrilled when she was like, "Uh. Only one centimeter." By this time, I was definitely contracting, and although they weren't very long, they were powerful, and there wasn't much time in between them. "Maybe you can wait for your epidural until 10:30?" she suggested. "We like women to be at 3 centimeters before the drugs. Maybe some morphine?"

We were in our extra-large luxury hospital room by 9:30, and I was like, "I can't wait until 10:30," and doing the whole contracting and feeling sorry for myself thing. But it didn't matter that I couldn't wait because it was time to go on a Quest for Veins, an adventure that involved two separate nurses and then someone from the IV Team and took pretty much the entire hour. I will tell you this: contractions work well to distract you from someone poking needles repeatedly into your collapsing veins. I bore it well: "Can't you just start the epidural and find the vein later?" Nurse: "Uh, no."

Anyway, it was 11:30 or so before the epidural was in, and God knows how long before it actually kicked in. At one point, it seemed unclear that the epidural was going to work, and I swear I felt the baby slide down into my pelvis or wherever it is that he needed to slide, and I began to worry that I wouldn't be able to make it through a drug-free birth because holy crap. Even the midwife looked concerned. But whatever, soon enough I was pleasantly numb, and B and I watched some episodes of people fixing up their houses on HGTV.

I was at 3 cm when they gave me an epidural. A couple hours later, the midwife was like, "Can I check you again?" and reported that I no longer had a cervix. "We can push if you want to," she said.

D: I'm scared of pushing. Can we give it half an hour?
Midwife: Okay.
D: I'm really awful at pushing.
Midwife: Um. Okay.

But then she looked at the monitor and was like, "It's time. Baby's struggling a bit." So she called in the troops, and I tentatively thought about pushing. Apparently I did more than think about it, because by the time she lifted up the sheet she was like, "Oh. There's his head." And he slid right out and was whisked away to be suctioned.

A few days later, I called with a question and the midwife who talked to me read the notes about the birth. "It says here," she said, "that the birth was completely unremarkable." And it really was. In fact, if anything, it was a bit anticlimactic in that the midwife could have just as easily handed us a baby rather than pulled one out of me.

So anyway, that part was over, and the baby was being suctioned and cleaned, and B and I were waiting patiently for a cry or something, but there wasn't any. Instead, the doctors continued hovering over him. "He's breathing fine, but he's got really high tone," they told us finally, or maybe that wasn't the term. What it meant is that his muscles were clenched super tight and he wouldn't relax his arms or legs. They waited and waited, and the baby didn't cry, and he didn't relax, and finally they decided to see if he'd nurse. He did, and so they all began using terms like "Cautiously optimistic," and "Most likely okay." But no one was like, "You have a 100% healthy baby," which was what we wanted to hear.

But again, whatever. It resolved itself, except not before our pediatrician, hearing that someone named Brown had a baby who was hypertonic, ordered that his poop be screened for illegal drugs. Later, he called to advise me about N's asthma. "Okay?" he said when he was finished with his instructions.

"Okay," I said. "See you tomorrow."

That was when he put it together and was like, "Oh, that was you?" The next morning he was like, "Teaching hospitals. They always freak out about nothing. This baby is fine, just a little intense." And he was like, "If I'd known it was you, I wouldn't have ordered the drug screen, but I was like, 'Who do I know who has that last name?'" He put the baby on his stomach and the baby rolled over. "Huh," he said. "He's not supposed to do that yet. He's just intense." He blamed this on the Brown side of the family. This is, I think, the challenge of having the same pediatrician who looked after you look after your kids. "You're not really forty," he said when he looked at the medical records. "Boy, you make me feel old."

Presumably, we passed the drug test.

So anyway, that's how we had the baby. But today, when I dropped N off at daycare, I saw that there is a kid there who is named Adin. Would that have been a better name?

A few more things about the birth: 1) We were there on a slow day, a day full of nursing students who took five minutes to take your temperature, and another seven minutes to get your blood pressure. 2) We watched a lot of HGTV, which was running a show about twin brothers who will sell you a fixer upper and then fix it for you. 3) The baby didn't cry until after we got home.

Hmm.... I think that's everything, although Shai can still roll over some of the time. He's talented that way, even if he is a runt. Oh, and nurses told us he was handsome despite his vicious newborn acne, which I guess dooms N to be our ugly baby, and confirms Z's opinion that Shai is way cuter. And even if he's not, he does have the schmShaikovitch mouth that runs through my father's family... Now if we can just keep his head from going flat.

One month old

2011-11-03T09:39:00.003-04:00

The babe is one month old, and all we have to show for it are maybe three blog entries. It's tough being last...

Z really really loves his brother

2011-11-03T09:35:00.002-04:00

The other morning, I was lying with Shai in bed, and Ziv joined us. "He's so cute," he said. "He's the cutest baby ever." And: "He's cuter than Nadav."

A tale of two brothers

2011-10-29T00:01:00.003-04:00

On day 2, it was already apparent where each boy's interest lay. N was fascinated by the hospital bed.

Meanwhile, Z endured wearing a face mask to protect the baby from his cold.

Once the babe was home, N continued to fastidiously ignore him. Z, on the other hand, tried to woo him with music.

This probably explains why he's so tired.

As for N, after we promised him $5 and extra chocolate, he agreed to momentarily pose with Shai.

Well, it's not like Shai's going to remember that N ignored him, right?

We have a baby

2011-10-06T22:15:00.002-04:00

Today we took the baby to the pediatrician. The nursing assistant who called his name pronounced it as if it rhymes with hay. Then the nurse practitioner did the same thing. And so we enter this new phase of parenthood with the score of D: 1, B: 0, because I said right from the start that "ai" is pronounced "ay," not "aye."

Shai was born at 1:46 p.m. Oct 3. He weighed 7 lb 7.2 oz. He's 20 inches long.

D: Is he a runt?
Pediatrician: No.

At this point, B elbowed me, because our pediatrician is a short little man. "I can't believe you asked him that!" B said after the pediatrician had left. But today, when we saw a nurse practitioner, B was like, "So, we're not used to having such a small baby," and she was like, "That is not a small baby. That's a normal baby."

So here we are, embarking onto normal parenthood of three.

More perspective

2011-09-22T09:36:00.002-04:00

Z's classroom at school is next door to a classroom with older kids. I'm guessing first and second graders, but who the heck knows. If they're bigger than Ziv, then they're a mystery to me. Anyway, it's the kind of setup where each classroom has a door that goes outside.

Yesterday, when I dropped him off, there was a girl standing outside the other classroom, clinging to her mother and weeping. This morning, I saw the same girl sprinting across the playground, screaming, "Mom! Mom!" in desperation. A 60-ish looking woman that Z told me was the librarian was running after her, looking downright miserable. By the time that Z and I made it from the parking lot to his classroom, she was back, the librarian and her mother in tow, tears streaming down her face. Later, after Ziv had refused to hug me goodbye because he preferred the class's praying mantis over my loving arms (which, incidentally, brings back childhood trauma for me since the praying mantis my mom made me take to school for show and tell when I was kid ended up getting caught in my hair), I left only to discover that the girl was making another break for it. This time, three adults were trying to run her down, including a pregnant woman, and the mother was no longer in sight. The librarian, who was still one of the chasers, was hobbling as if she were going to collapse. In the end, the principal and some man she was talking to caught the girl and hauled her back to her classroom. Hauled is a strong word, but they were each holding one arm while the girl screamed, "I'm scared to death! I can't breathe!"

Anyway, poor girl. And poor mom. And poor librarian.

Perspective

2011-09-19T14:00:00.002-04:00

I had six conferences scheduled for today, and only one person actually showed up.

D: I just want to stay home. If I could just have one day at home, I could catch up.
B: You can't play hooky like that.

But I ask you, why not? It's schmCreative schmWriting, not brain surgery...

*

We are still depressed. Can you tell? But on N's birthday, we went to a restaurant (schmMediterrano) where he pointed at one of the decorations and said, "Look! A bad man with wings!" Turns out he was looking at a gargoyle statue. A few days before that, he told B's parents, "I wish I could squish myself in the phone and come visit you." B's parents say that they heard something entirely different, but surely I understand Toddler-eze better, at least N-specific Toddler-eze.

*

And we're at 37 weeks, I think. Actually 36 weeks and 6 days. I am pretty much teaching up to 39 weeks and 3 days. Like I said, it's not brain surgery. So go ahead, place your wagers: 1) Will Bucketface, for once, come early or on time? Will he have hair or is all this heartburn just for my own pleasure? Will B and I kick these blues before he comes? And am I evil for having a baby who is going to be going to withdrawal symptoms for the first couple of weeks because I need meds to handle motherhood? And now I'm off to teach in a building where the elevator is out of commission, which wouldn't be a big deal if I could stop feeling that Bucketface is on the verge of falling out, or at least, you know, poking an arm out my cervix.

But really, this post is to say that we will get back to blogging. We will. With pictures, and videos, and everything. Really.

As of tomorrow...

2011-09-11T23:53:00.003-04:00

... we will have not blogged through three birthdays. Plus, I'll be forty.

Anyway, N and Z both got stomp rockets for their birthdays. I am looking forward to receiving my own set. B, for his part, has a remote control helicopter that he's diligently been hiding from the kids. And unpacking is at a standstill, as it has been ever since I've gone back to teaching.

Plus, it's September 11. I've gone ten years without seeing actual video footage of anything having to do with that day since I didn't have access to a TV back then. My father, though, was staying near the Pentagon and apparently spent quite a bit of time watching much footage after he heard the crash, and he, for one, was very bitter this morning, complaining about how not one world leader out there has an ounce of vision, and how people really only need three things--education, health care, and roads--and that's exactly what everyone keeps cutting. "I'm not an optimist," he told me emphatically. I conveyed this to B, who gasped in what I'm inappropriately going to refer to as Shock and Awe. B considers himself an optimist, but this is because he isn't downwardly mobile, a fact he attributes, you know, to education and to my marrying poorly. The flip side, of course, is that he supposedly married well, if you discount the depression and my refusal to have anything to do with meal planning or cooking. So yes, this is why we've both been so down that neither of us can be bothered to blog...

Also not blogged about: Z's first week in kindergarten. And N's first week in boxer briefs (as opposed to brief briefs).

A survey of my comp students: not one of them has had to share a room with a sibling, and nearly half have never had to share a bathroom. Also, I've already developed an antagonistic relationship with my Arch Nemesis, a student whom I'll call Archie in future posts which will include exchanges such as the following:

Archie: complain complain complain--
D: --well, if you'd read the assigned reading, you'd--
Archie: -- I'm still talking. Don't interrupt me.
Rest of class: [horrified gasp]

I did what I do best this days: moved on. Then I came home, picked up Z from school, and he spent the next half hour yelling at me. So, as you can see, I'm getting a lot of practice turning the other cheek when, really, I should be--I don't know--trying to parent? Trying to teach? Trying to stay awake during my commute? Hmmm.... so many ways to fill the time...

My newest performance art

2011-08-31T23:15:00.003-04:00

I call it Shirtless Man with Green-Frosting Soul-Patch.

The green soul-patch in question is the product of a Baskin-Robbin's clown cone. The shirtlessness is simply The Way Things are Meant to Be.

Excuses

2011-08-31T12:05:00.003-04:00

This may have been our longest interval without blogging, and the main excuse I can come up with is that we've both been a little down, as in (1) we will never be unpacked; (2) owning a home is expensive; (3) too many work deadlines; (4) sometimes we don't like our kids very much; (5) we are bad, bad parents for sometimes not liking our kids; (6) given our level of irritation with the kids and with each other, why on Earth did we decide to have a third? Is throwing sleep deprivation into the mix really going to help anyone? But while I wait for the website I need to come back up, here are some brief updates:

1) N is now a preschooler. He started in the Giraffe room on Monday, and since then he's been going on little crying jags for reasons such as "there's a bubble in the cheese on my pizza" which we really suspect are not about pizza at all. He also sneezed during his last haircut, so he is now virtually bald, which would be fine, except there's a mole on his scalp that I've been obsessing about because, my God, it's the size of Wyoming, if Wyoming were the size of a pencil eraser.

2) Ziv has the week off b/c school doesn't start until next week for him. He has also been going on crying jags for reasons such as "five minutes ago, you pinched my finger" and "I don't want to let N look at the hole in my sock because IT'S NOT FAIR AND HE NEVER LETS ME LOOK AT THE HOLES IN HIS SOCKS!!!" Unlike N's crying jags, Z's can last quite a long time and involve much screaming.

We had this fantasy of sending Z to aftercare at the J so he can still see some of his old cronies (read: we can still run into some of the parents we wish were our friends), and so that B could pick both kids up from the same location instead of from opposite ends of town. In our defense, the brochure for the J's aftercare was like, "Free transportation from Z's school!" Turns out "free transportation" means "transferring between two buses" and "over an hour in transit to go what must be a total of four miles, if that." Now tell me, are we wrong in being like, "Are you serious??" Would you put your just-turned-five-year-old on two buses just so he can hang out with some Jews?

B, incidentally, doesn't believe that friendships you make when you're four have any chance of lasting.

Okay, the website I need is back, and so I'm off. Because in addition to Z turning five, not being unpacked, etc., I'm also back at school for all of seven weeks. And already, I'm having arguments with students about what it means to write a schmSummary. Really, why take a class if you think you already know the material? File that under reason 7, I guess.

32W0D

2011-08-16T18:42:00.006-04:00

We're still unpacking, which is enough of a downer that really, what's the point of posting? But still, we're alive. And yesterday we had our last ultrasound. We begged the technician for a 3-D glimpse, only to discover that Bucketface was sporting a look of mild dissatisfaction. Maybe it's because his foot is in his eye.

Next: a creepy picture of him opening his mouth.

He is 4 lbs. 6 oz. or so according to the computer's calculations. Eight weeks to go.

We put the dys and ctional in fun!

2011-08-06T23:36:00.005-04:00

Here we are, finishing up our 54th day on the west coast. Our flight is at 11:30 tomorrow morning, which will likely take place sometime in September, at which point I won't be allowed to travel because of Bucketface's imminent due date.

Last night I dreamt I started using cocaine, and that all my teeth fell out as a result. I was afraid to allow my parents to take me to the dentist, because I was sure he would blow my cocaine-addicted cover.

My dad [in real life]: Cocaine? Who do you even know that uses cocaine?

Me: Nobody.

My dad: How about marijuana?

This, by the way, is how he managed to keep me off sex and drugs until marriage and childbirth (N's) respectively.

Which reminds me that at the victorian hotel in Port Townsend, Ziv was under strict instructions not to open the drawers in all the antique dressers.

Z: Daddy, I know what's in that bottom drawer. A book.

B: Did you look in that drawer after I told you not to?

Z: No! No! I used my super vision.

He thought it would work, I guess.

He also had a phone conversation with MNMa the other day. To hear Z tell it, we are having nothing but good times on this vacation. It was kind of a wake up call, a reminder that really, our own rages aside, at least he and N are having some fun. "And then we saw a giant octopus! And went on a ferry!" We also found what has to be one of the two best playgrounds B or I have ever seen. I'm giving Eberwhite in AA a share of the glory here, despite the wasps' nests. Older and Younger cousin, however, think that the playground we fell in love with here is boring and only good for accidents. This is because they are schmBrowns.

Anyway, some lessons:

1) Just because your brother texts you, don't assume he actually reads your texts with anything resembling promptness.

2) Family vacations should be held on neutral ground. Barring that, they shouldn't go a full eight days.

3) You can't expect boys who are nearly 3, 5, 8, and 10 to get along. In fact, my dad says our only hope is if Younger decides to get along with Z when he's a bit older, but he (my dad) says this will never happen if the boys don't see each other more often.

4) You can amend that last one to "see each other more often and stop playing XBox long enough to actually interact." The truth is, we've had to counter this by allowing Z to play video games on our computer because, damn it, he wants to be just like them, and this was the closest we could get to that.

5) Next time, rent a car for each branch of the family.

6) Don't go on family vacations once you're past the first trimester. And if you do go, be sure to go properly medicated.

I think that's everything, except for a quick note that Z, for his part, has been quite observant about the failings of this vacation. For example, why drive 6 hours (round trip) and spend two nights in a child-unfriendly hotel to see octogenarian family friends for maybe 3 hours? And why send Older and Younger to a birthday party while you and your girlfriend go for a leisurely bike ride for four hours on the last day of a visit, meanwhile stranding your parents at their hotel for five hours? Okay, Z didn't point out the latter half of this issue, just the first half, but he did wonder why the master bath has wall to wall carpeting, so surely this counts for something.

Anyway, if you have any vibes to send our way, let them be for an easy transition back to a cocaine-free Ann Arbor life. And for the patience to not explode the next time someone makes a joke about how much Older and Younger hate being around your children.

Not in our home, not in my brother's home

2011-08-04T01:35:00.000-04:00

[B typing]

First off, I want to assuage our readers (I'm looking at you, Dad) who think that, perhaps, I've completely gone off the deep end and will at any moment start turning large and green and make vague threats to Mr. McGee. The truth is that The Brink is a relatively wide berth and only my toes are teetering over the edge. OK, maybe up to the balls of my feet. But you get the idea.

Not to say it hasn't been a challenging thirty-eight days since we landed in Seattle. Wait? What? It's only been four days? There's something weird going on here, time-wise, since it's also the case that D looked at the clock nine times in a row on the trip today and it remained 4:20 for what seemed like three hours. There's a joke to be made about how of *course* it's always 4:20, but most of my readers wouldn't get it and, let's be honest, it'd sound weird coming from me, anyway.

* * *

[Quick interlude: Z on insults]

Z: Dad, you're poopy!

B: Z, we don't talk like that.

Z: You're a bad guy! You're a kuummanannana! You're JAZZ HANDS!

To be honest, I think I'd rather be a "poopy."

* * *

Yesterday was a trip to the Aquarium in downtown Seattle, which I admit to having been a bit worried about. The trip started out on a sour note when D's mom complained that we had to try to work everything around N's nap.

D (only in her head): Well, yeah, because we've been goddamn babysitting for four hours every morning while my brother disappears to go exercise or take his bike in for repairs or go to the dentist!

D (out loud): Yeah.

The Aquarium, I'm happy to say, went far beyond my expectations in terms of holding the kids' interest, and my kids went far beyond enjoying the Aquarium than I'd thought they were capable of. N absolutely loved the jellyfish (who wouldn't?) and everyone got a charge out of the big octopus. Later there was body-painting and touch-a-sea-creature and Z with a truly interminable set of questions to the poor researcher who was trying to talk about shrimp and how she was gonna try to change the water, but the piping wasn't working.

So...the kids both loved the fish and other underwater-creatures. They both stayed awake and happy the whole time we were there, and then fell asleep immediately in the car while I missed turn after turn trying to get home, which The Lady (nee the GPS unit) all took in stride and eventually got us turned around and home. Not a bad trip at all.

* * *

[D starts typing]

B made a list of topics that we need to remember to blog about. Of course, there's always poop.

Z: Wouldn't it be funny if there was a superhero called Pee Man, but he couldn't pee but only poop?

I had to admit that yes, it would be funny, at which point Z, sufficiently reassured, launched into a Pee Man theme song that has since been lost to posterity.

Then, of course, there's all the rage, all of it suppressed, kind of, because we're schmBrowns and don't believe in direct confrontations unless several weeks have passed after the fact. But yes, I do have to tell you about our morning routine on this vacation:

5:50 a.m.: One or both boys wake up. B and I play chicken about who is going to go downstairs with them. Usually I win and get to stay in bed because, you know, the pregnancy card, but on days like yesterday, B won by exhibiting enough rage in those first 60 seconds with Nadav that I had to separate them.

By this point, the two jetlagged cousins are awake and mostly intent on avoiding Ziv. They do this by either playing XBox, by which I mean that the older boy plays XBox while the younger boy sits beside him. Apparently Older has trained Younger to not even consider asking for a turn, and yesterday he was very frustrated that, you know, Ziv didn't understand the way things work and insisted on holding a controller and--gasp--pushing buttons and basically ruining everything. Anyway, so we spend much of the morning trying to keep the boys separated from each other. N is fine with this, but Ziv minds because he came on this vacation fully prepared to worship the cousins, etc. etc. etc.

If my brother is awake, he's reading the paper. If he isn't, then he emerges around 7:30 and asks if it's okay if he goes on his 25 mile + bike ride, or to work out, or whatever, and we always say yes because, after all, his boys are self-sufficient and ours are not.

8:00 a.m. Shift change unless we're feeling too much pity for the one of us who is asleep, in which case we allow the sleeper to continue sleeping while we combat increasing rage, some of it directed against each other, and some of it directed against my brother, who has essentially abandoned us to watch all four boys for a good 4-5 hours every damn morning since we've been here.

9:00 a.m. Whichever one of us is awake wakes up the one who is sleeping. Showering commences.

9:30 a.m. My parents arrive. My mom cooks everyone a second breakfast. My brother returns from whatever exercising he's been doing, unless he doesn't return until later.

10:30 a.m. We begin to discuss the day's plans, of which I'm apparently in charge. Why??? I am also in charge of seating arrangements around dining tables and of finding every single damn thing that goes missing, although this last responsibility is true even in Ann Arbor, and drives me nuts even when I'm not cutting back on meds because I'm out of refills and in the wrong state for getting more.

11:00 a.m. Frantic packing begins for whatever the day's plan is. Today, it was my dad's turn to feel rage because we headed out for a playground at 11:30 a.m. instead of to Port Townsend, where we are now in, you know, a Victorian Hotel full of antiques but without a swimming pool, which is exactly where you want your antsy children to be. "D," my father said, "you're going to head to the playground now??" His rage didn't wear off for quite a while after that, but I was only able to guess at its extent because it was so silent.

Okay, so note that by the time the touristy, family part of the day begins, we've already been up five hours watching four kids.

D: Is that fighting?

D's brother, tapping at his cell: I don't think so.

He obviously doesn't understand about games of chicken, because then it's me who has to go upstairs and find N all hysterical because he's holding something that resembles an electric screwdriver that is spinning round and round and he doesn't know how to turn it off.

But whatever. At least since we've been here at PT, we saw a bunch of seagulls attacking a bald eagle that was clutching something in its claws. AND we saw a man and a woman get on a motorcycle and ride away. And we've seen more seagull poop than we ever have before, and B almost got hit by some. The reason we're here though is to see some family friends who have many many animals, but that's not until tomorrow afternoon.

Z [enraged]: What?? We did all this work to get here and we're not even going to see them until tomorrow???

I wasn't able to respond to this because, you know, it was news to me as well.

D: So why are we here two nights?

D's father: I don't know. Your brother thought it would be better this way.

See, we're also all about the communication. Will it ever stop being 4:20? And if so, when??

***

[B resumes, presumably to sing my praises]

Wow, that D. She's....praiseworthy.

* * *

One of the many awesome things about having an almost-five-year-old is that he is both (a) able to articulate his feelings, and (b) willing to do so with us. "Dad," he said yesterday, "I'm just so excited about all the boats. I think they're beautiful. I'm really glad we get to see them."

Of course, it's not all ships and roses. Today there were many discussions with him about his cousins, and how it was NOT NICE for the younger one to not want to play with me even after I asked him and asked him and asked him, and of course that makes me sad, and I wish we could always all just play together, except N, although maybe sometimes with N, and I'm going to go now and stand outside the room where the cousins are playing something they don't want me there for and cock my head toward the closed door and just silently listen so I can pretend I'm included and look like the saddest, most tear-inducing thing on the entire planet.

This, I admit, is the thing that generates much of my rage and sadness and anxiety about being a parent. There are apparently things in my past that make situation above -- The Kid Who's Trying Too Hard -- the most awful thing in the universe. Every time Z gets rejected by his cousins (and believe me, they've gotten good at it over the past couple days) and he starts tearing up it just make me want to cry and break things.

Instead, I usually drink some Dr. Pepper.

This is the sort of interaction that I assume goes on all the time at daycare/camp (with Z, I'm sure, playing both rejector and rejectee at various times), but I'm not around to see it then. Live, in person, in a setting that feels at least a little bit like Enemy Territory, well, it breaks my freakin' heart, and I'm having a lot of trouble dealing with it.

The good news is that our planned outings have all gone really well so far, with all the kids getting along (better than I expected, anyway) and Z and N both being honestly interested in everything around them.

N, in particular, has been incredibly joyful this week, when he's not exhausted and/or trying to pick-up/turn/twist/grab/move/eat anything he can get his hands on. He's been hiding his belly, he's been breaking bad guys into TINY TINY TINY BITS, he's been playing "the game where I bound the ball and then throw it and you try to get it and I try to get it and you grab me and tickle me," and all three of us have been wresting and having a good time. Not that I haven't been going a bit crazy, but parts of it have been awesome.

***

[D's turn] It's 10:20, and if we don't get to sleep right now, well, 5:50 will be here before we know it. And also, where's my frigging praise? And also, trust B to end on a positive note. So there.

What if I press this button?

2011-08-02T11:04:00.003-04:00

This is our third day here. It's 8 a.m., and B is asleep, my brother is at the dentist (other mornings he's gone on a 25 mile bike ride), and I'm typing away while the four boys are supposedly playing XBox down in the basement. I'm not sure what this actually means when it comes to N or Z.

B woke up in a rage, as he is wont to do, because Nadav doesn't understand that parents don't want to wake up before 6 a.m., regardless of what time zone they're in. And right now I hear N asking over and over, "What happens if I push this button? Can I press this button? Can I press this button? Can I press this button? What happens if I push this button? I'ma press this button. I want to press that button!" It's that attitude that apparently caused him a bit of trauma on the airplane, when he pressed the flush button against B's advice and nearly got sucked in.

Argh. Duty calls. Apparently, the button is the XBox's power button...

Not in our new house...

2011-08-01T00:00:00.002-04:00

... we're in Seattle now, or a famous Seattle suburb that is home to the Evil Corporation for which my brother works.

Z: Is that your iPod?

SeattleBro: It's my phone.

Z: Your iPod has a phone?

SeattleBro: It's not an iPod!

It isn't, and it has a really nice version of Boggle on it which he plays with his girlfriend nonstop. While you're talking to him.

B's been in a rage on and off since we've been here, although now he's just tired. "I'm going to make the best of this," he told me last night, "but we're never coming here again." MNFolks, I have never, ever said this about you. As for me, I'm Braxton-Hicksting a bit, and longing for one of those ice cream drumsticks that all of the kids got for dessert while we adults ate the more civilized watermelon. Z ate both, suddenly returning to life from his near comatose state during dinner which required that I fork food directly into his mouth.

If you're wondering, B was in a rage for the majority of our last All-schmBrown Getaway, which was like three years ago. This time it's because of a bunch of small reasons that are kind of adding up:

1) Kids away in Europe (although they got back this afternoon, much to Z's delight).

2) No milk in house upon our arrival.

3) Da boys are sleeping on the floor. It's carpeted.

4) My brother doesn't believe in using the A/C in the summer. I have a vague recollection that it may be broken.

5) Only minimal small talk this morning while B herded the children and my brother sat and read the paper and drank coffee.

I think there's more, but I'm not remembering them. Now, though, the house is stocked with milk and Dr. Pepper, and we're due to meet said girlfriend, the Boggle genius, tomorrow evening. B has been boning up by playing internet Boggle, which he finds sorely lacking.

And so, basically, time is crawling. Even though the boys were mostly good, the flight here took damned near forever, and so has this day. The hard part--and perhaps the true reason for B's rage--is that the house back in AA is such a disaster area, and the kids are so wound up. "It's just so confusing," Z told us, "moving to the new house and then coming here." Four-year-olds and their insights, I guess. He is also outraged that my brother's car has the kid safety locks activated. How will he fling the door open while we're driving now?

D's dad: I knew a boy who opened the door while his parents were driving, and he fell out of the car.

Z: Really?? Who????

D's dad: My cousin.

Me: Which one?

Turns out the cousin survived the fall well enough, if you factor in the fact that he's alive and doing well in the D.C. area. So there you go: a cautionary tale for the ages. I wanted to ask about injuries, but I didn't want to in front of Ziv.

Meanwhile, my poor mother is cooking for all nine of us. Apparently I can tolerate watching her cook for six without lifting a finger to help, but nine somehow has crossed a line.

D's dad: Take your mother with you when you go to the playground.

It's only this past week that I've realized that my dad just volunteers my mom for a variety of quality-time activities she has no interest in but won't admit that she doesn't. For example, he volunteered her to come help us pack, but it turned out that he was the one who wanted to come help. Thus, it was my dad who accompanied me and da boyz to the playground (which is technically walking distance but up such a steep hill that we drove), and also my dad who has helped us on and off all week with the move while my mom cooked dinner for the six of us and put up with Evil Ziv while I ran various errands. Apparently going from a full-day camp where you get to swim for two-three hours a day to a safety camp where you basically sit on your ass for three hours a day, after which your pregnant mother picks you up and expects you to entertain yourself by flirting with the movers, does not a Happy Boy make. Yesterday, while we were traveling, he was suddenly Number One Son, mainly--I suspect--because he actually had stuff to do and to think about. Even today, he's been a dream compared to how he's behaved the past week.

Ziv did accompany me to my pedicure, though, which explains the hideous snot-colored glitter on my toes. He also flirted vigorously with one of the flight attendants. Fortunately, it wanst the one who was forced to pump in the airplane lavatory. Blech.

Other reasons B is in a rage:

1) He lives in terror of da boys breaking some of their cousins's toys or, say, a lamp.

2) He lives in terror of them making too much noise.

In contrast, my father's main fear seems to be that the boys will fall off the playground equipment. After the seventh time that Z bumped his head on the way down a slide, my dad couldn't contain himself:

D's dad: You know you're supposed to learn from your mistakes.

I relayed this to B, who was like, "Did you point out to him that he's the owner of a crappy Accord Hybrid that gets piss poor mileage because he worried that he would hit his head on the way into any of the other cars on the market?" That's right. My parents have an Accord Hybrid that, on the freeway, is lucky to get 35. In the city, it's in the low 20s. And they only use Shell gas, which B finds odd.

Okay, B is asleep next to me, and I'm dozing off as well, so that's it for your west-coast update. Tomorrow, we hope to get our act together enough to go to the zoo. Who doesn't like a zoo, right? Right??

Still in our new house

2011-07-28T21:52:00.002-04:00

There was a spectacular thunderstorm last night, the kind with those ear-splitting thunderclaps that you can tell are coming because of the Warning Rumble, and even so, they still surprise you. B spent part of the night in da boys' room, where he also kept returning N to his bed because it now is up against a wall on the opposite side than N is used to, and so he keeps rolling out. We woke up in the morning stunned and grumpy, and then I had to shower in front of a street-facing, uncovered window. That's right. The place to be during morning wake-up is parked across the street from our house, if you like overweight pregnant women with a slight case of anemia, I guess.

N is terrified of this house. If I want to leave his room at bedtime, I have to show him exactly where I'm going to be. Earlier, he told me he was afraid to go upstairs to get his sheet and his pacifier, and I was like, "You can do it." He did it, eventually, under much duress. Then, later, he couldn't remember where the garage was.

As for Ziv, he wavers between exhaustion and hyperactivity, and OMG, the yelling. What is driving me most nuts is the selective volunteering--he wants to help, but only if he can help in very specific ways. For example, he was happy spackling (?) nail holes at the old house, but was offended when I asked him to carry two clocks into the kitchen. He was happy to pack up a suitcase of linens and cried bitterly when my father pulled down the fairy lights by himself. Most frustrating, although unrelated, is his refusal to tell us anything going on at schmSafetyTown or at camp. The little bit he does tell me, against his will, he forbids me from telling B, although I do anyway. Today, for example, they had to crawl out of a "fire safety house" full of fake smoke. "Don't talk about it," Z said. "It freaked me out." It was what he said last night about the rain. And tomorrow, I apparently have to sit through a presentation about gun control and dogs, although they are probably treated as separate issues. MNPa, though, you ought to know that Z plans to find your gun and bullets on our next visit even though this plan hardly meets with my approval. He would also like to go bear hunting with you. A boy's gotta dream.
He also apparently has to wear himself out running the stairs at the new house because schmSafety Town + Pregnant, Pissy Mom do not make for much exercise, which perhaps explains why he claimed carrying a six-pack of Corona from God knows when was too much for a boy his size. He's losing muscle mass already, I guess.

Less than two days until Seattle. Would it be wise to take Z along on a pedicure? I have grooming standards, you know, most of which I only apply right before travel...

In our new house

2011-07-27T21:40:00.003-04:00

This will be our first night in the new house. Z is asleep, but N keeps being like, "Is this the new house or the old house?" And then, "I want to go to the old house," and "If I was a grownup, I could stay in the old house by myself."

Plus, we opened the windows and the smell of dog is back with a vengeance.

Plus, we have much unpacking to do and no time to do it in. And we have conversations like this one:

D: Can you wipe down the towel rack before you hang up the towels?
B: Well, I already hung up my towel on them, so they're wiped.
D: [Grr... now the towel is full of paint dust.] Mostly wiped.
B: [Grr... Too anal] Okay.

So despite watching HGTV during our brief getaway and knowing that couples are supposed to make jokes about divorce during home renovation and moving projects, we're still in Two Ships Sailing By in the Night mode, as I have taken on most of the parenting and B has taken on most of the heaving ho and the repairing of nail holes. I don't know how the nail holes are going, but the parenting side has been a doozy.

Z: If you say that again, I'll yell at you or make you have a long serious talk.

Yes. That's what he told me in front of my mother. Then there's much of "Ugh... You're not being nice!" and "Ugh... Stop it!" and that still just him yelling at me. Again, in front of my parents. My dad recently told me that our whole system of discipline is ineffective.

D: If you do that again, you'll get a time out.
Z: I don't care.

Or

D: Put down the scissors. Put them down! Put them down! Put them down!
N [tries to tear open nail scissors away from me, oblivious to all the shouting]: F U, Mommy.

Anyway, we've been more cheerful, B especially because he is filled with the Seattle Dread.

B: Just checked and the laundry isn't even a little dry.

I guess we're in that moving doldrums phase, which I hope will end once we get back from Seattle and Ziv goes back to camp full time so I can actually get some unpacking and rearranging done and B, you know, can actually get back to working.

Anyway, do you have encouraging words for us? We could use them. Something along the lines of "In two weeks, you're going to look back and this and be like, 'No window treatments? Short in the bathroom? Pissy children? Pissy spouse? Ha! That sure sucked, but now it's over and we're more in love and happier than ever despite all those studies that link marital dissatisfaction to children, etc. etc. Those studies are shit.'"

Homeowner Lesson #43

2011-07-22T22:19:00.003-04:00

Today, I went over to the new house, and the painter was like, "What do you want to do with all these blinds?"

D: Put them back?
Painter: Can't. You can't do that without the moldings.

That's right. In anticipation of doing massive window replacement 4-6 weeks from now, we were like, "Take it all off." What will my next door neighbor, the childhood shrink, think of all of us parading around naked?

Painter: Maybe you can hang a sheet from the window.

Meanwhile, the painting is a good three days behind because of the heat and humidity. And because I changed my mind about the color that was supposed to go in the boys' room, which, instead of being a cheery yellow, turned out to be all "I'm so depressed" yellow. Which is maybe another Homeowner Lesson: yellow isn't always cheerful.

D: Please, please, dear painter, give us some advice.
Painter: Mum's the word.

Then later:

Painter: You didn't rent a U-Haul just to bring over artwork, did you?
D [thinking]: Well, we were going to bring over other stuff too, but this house is full of wet paint. And blinds.

And later:

Painter: When are the movers coming again?

And yet later:

B: Damn it, my shorts are ruined. When did I lean in wet paint?? And why isn't the A/C working upstairs?

We went away for a couple of days this week, and while we were gone, it was too hot to go to the beach, so we watched a lot of HGTV. This is how I know that renovation angst is normal. At least normal enough that there's actually a reality show about a newlywed couple (good-looking wannabe actors) who are renovating their first home and, you know, getting used to being married. It takes place in Canada, where apparently all HGTV programs are filmed. What this means is that when the flight attendant who is married to the electrician is like, "Our budget is $680K," I don't know how horrified to be.

Meanwhile:

D: Prepare yourself. I packed some of the stuff in your room.
Z: You packed our toys?????
D: Calm down. No.

What I did do was dispose of approximately 95% of his art. I'm hoping he won't notice this. He isn't tall enough to look in the recycling bin, so I may be able to get away with this wanton destruction. I also disposed of 700 bottles of Robitussin that had expired.

Finally, dear parents of kids who attend the schmJ, what do you think this secret investigation is about?? We asked a teacher today, and she was like, "All the teachers are still here." On the other hand, B says that if the problem has to do with infrastructure, they wouldn't able to reassure us that all the children are safe, as they have done. If I can get my mind away from stories like the ones on Criminal Minds, I'm left with (a) money mismanagement; (b) racism or some other kind of discrimination (see (a)); (c) meth lab in basement (which goes back to the whole danger issue). I thought of one more possibility, but I can't remember it right now, mainly because the part of my mind that isn't obsessed with (a) moving; (b) house painting; or (c) secret allegations against the schmJ, is preoccupied by worrying that B is going to stay up too late tonight, and that we are about to embark on a very miserable weekend.

Which reminds me: in a week we are scheduled to go to see SeattleBro, a trip we planned many moons ago and which is supposed to last a frigging 9 days or something like that to maximize Cousin Contact Time. Since then, we've been informed of two facts:
(a) The cousins will be out of the country and will only return the day after we arrive.
(b) The second weekend we're there, the cousins will go to a birthday party of one of their friends.

There are complicated circumstances here arising from shared custody, etc., that can't be helped without generating a lot of rancor, but still. Plus, somehow it is the birthday party that is completely demoralizing me--I was just told about it this morning, and not by SeattleBro. We are feeling very unimportant, I guess, and also dreading having to deal with two sets of boys with jet lags. And B, for his part, is like, "So. Many. Vacation. Days. Gone."

On the bright side: we won't need curtains for that week...

A teaser post

2011-07-22T08:28:00.003-04:00

D keeps saying she wants the kids to be drummers.

Z is not going to be a drummer.

Proof coming soon...

Gender and explosives

2011-07-17T11:28:00.002-04:00

So, last night D and I were getting ready to fall asleep when I decided she absolutely had to watch the tail end of an episode of Mythbusters I'd streamed the night before that involved a "sawdust gun" that combined air pressure, sawdust, and a flare to get a giant fireball. "But at the end," I told her, "they swapped out the sawdust for non-dairy creamer!"

D: Why?
B: Because it's cool!
D: No, I mean, why non-dairy creamer. That stuff burns???

I was flabbergasted. She doesn't know that? But then I remembered that I have the advantage of having spent an entire year of my life as a sixteen-year-old boy, and maybe that's the difference.

So, dear readers, I ask you this: Poll the adults in your household, and report (by gender) which of you knew from childhood (not Mythbusters) that non-dairy creamer is incredibly flammable, and how many are learning about it now.

Thanks to my friend, The Internet, here's the clip in question:

Where are my grapes?

2011-07-16T15:18:00.003-04:00

I am playing the pregnant-woman card and staying inside while B and da boyz are using the kiddie pool outside and doing manly things like washing out the grill and the trashcan in 88-degree heat.

B: Why am I cleaning out the trashcan? We're moving in two weeks.

Bah. Our sucka status, blah blah, that's why.

Meanwhile, back at the new house, Mennonite Beard is supposedly finishing up although he just called to let us know one of the toilets is cracked. B met him for the first time this morning and was like, "Eh. Not a fan." And just now, when MB called, he was like, "Really not a fan."

Just so you don't think that this is his masculinity being threatened or something, in contrast, this morning B also met a landscaper guy and was like, "I'd have his babies." So another lesson we've learned since buying the house: landscaper guys are much more personable than contractors. And really, this man was lovely, the loveliest of the three landscapers I've talked with this week. He had a charming bushy mustache and charming beer gut and 44 raving reviews on Angie's List. We were like, "Don't leave us. Move in. You're so much nicer than Mennonite Beard and his colleagues!" but alas, he took measurements and left, chucking jovially much like a younger, landscaping Santa.

B reports that the boyz are now outside hunting for worms. Ziv is using a wheelbarrow full of water, and N is using a spray bottle. Two nights ago, my parents were here watching them while we talked to the painter, and when we came home, I inevitably ended up giving N a timeout. By which I mean that I gave Elmo a timeout, a ploy that is becoming less and less effective. Seconds later, I overheard the following exchange:

B: Nadav, does Elmo need a timeout?
N [triumphantly]: Elmo's already in timeout!

So, once again, F-U Daddy! Ha!

Work Begins

2011-07-14T10:29:00.002-04:00

The Mennonite Beard contractor is over at the new house, demolishing walls supposedly. "Was this a foreclosure?" he asked this morning, when I went over there to let him in. I got a little defensive, but social awkwardness seems to be part and parcel of my interactions with contractors. B said he could see a complete change in demeanor on the part of Mumbling contractor when I showed up. He couldn't even say hello to me. So Mennonite Beard it is.

Z has a new crush at camp. Before, I thought he was irrevocably in love with his counselor Rachel, but apparently he's over that because four-year-olds are fickle. Instead, when I went to pick him up, he got off the bus and parked himself on the ground, exhausted. "Just give me a minute," he said in the voice of those about to pass on to a better worlds. "I'm tired." I stood around shuffling my feet, saying things like, "If you're so tired, then let's go," when suddenly Ziv jumped bolt upright and ran over to flirt with a counselor who had just disembarked. Later, I found out that her name is Hannah and that she runs the group of first and second graders. And don't tell me love isn't powerful: just the very sight of her enabled Z to recover enough energy to get in the car and go home.

Then, the next day at drop off, same thing. There he was, holding my hand, acting all clingy, and then she showed up, prompting him to let go and send a series of dazzling smiles in her direction. But sometimes smiles are not enough. "Push her!" Z instructed the boy in his group who has trouble with impulse control. "Push her!" The boy resisted, thank goodness, but not before I could see how tempted he was. Do I need to worry about this mob boss instinct that Z is revealing? Do almost-five-year-olds really send other kids--vulnerable ones, at that--to do their dirty work?

Meanwhile, N is really into the word "poop." "I'm calling myself poop!" he'll tell us. He also determines the relationship between the various pieces (which he refers to as "chunks") of his own poop, classifying them into mamas, daddies, and babies, but I digress.

D: Don't call yourself poop. It isn't nice.
N: I'm calling Elmo poop!
D: Don't do that either.
N: But he likes me to call him poop!

He also came home and reported that his teacher wore "a thing like yours under her shirt that covered her nipples, except it was yellow." This was when I taught him the word "bra," which up until then I wasn't convinced he needed to know.

And that's the update, I guess. Oh, except I ran into this woman I knew in high school. She didn't like me then, I'm pretty sure, and my sense is that with one up-and-down appraisal she decided to continue right on with her indifference. Since then, I've been back in high school (which I barely remember, so this is quite the challenge), thinking, "But why? Why? Why can't I get in with the Good Jewish Girls?" and answering, "Because you aren't pretty or athletic or Jewish enough." I know you're thinking to yourself, "Jewish girls? Pretty? We aren't talking Scandinavians here," But as a case in point, let me remind you of that one Miss America that was Jewish, and also of the supermodels Israel occasionally exports, some of whom go on to date the likes of (gasp) Leo DeCaprio and (double-gasp) David Schwimmer. And, of course, B's girlfriend, Natalie Portman.

Back online

2011-07-12T08:41:00.002-04:00

And to celebrate, a picture of filial harmony.

This particular pose was Z's idea. He and N spent the morning actively pursuing cuteness, then calling us over to photograph them.

A bit about the carnival, a bit of catching up

2011-07-08T14:04:00.005-04:00

Still no internet at home. You'd think this would bring B and me closer, but instead we take turns playing Bejeweled on my iPod until one of us (me) falls asleep, then wakes up later to discover that B is still playing Bejeweled at midnight. At any rate, for your Friday, here are some photos of past events.

*

We would be remiss not to include a picture or two of L's birthday cake, which we have featured here every year, I believe. This year, the theme was Cars. Even though L is only 5, he insisted on the double-loop track in the interest of realism.

So what you see here is a chocolate figure eight on top of a vanilla cake. Z's favorite part was the chocolate covered pretzels on the side of the track. My favorite part was, you know, the cake itself. And the fact that we got to go to a party where all was required of me was minor supervision and the occasional trip to the potty.

The party was on Day 6 of B's absence, which also featured a trip to the doctor with N, and my parents stepping up remarkably to watch whichever boy wasn't currently being prodded or fed birthday cake, and also to get an estimate for the movers who were supposed to come at the same time that N and I were at the doctor, hearing that it's only a virus once again, and that no, for the love of God, the doctor isn't going to put a stick down N's throat. (Health update: we are both better, but the cold lingers on...)

B returned that afternoon, and the kids were mean to him pretty much for the rest of the weekend, and have continued to be mean to him ever since. Let's see what the child psychologist next door makes of that.

*

On the Fourth of July, we made our annual pilgrimage to our town's pathetic parade.

It was even more pathetic than past years because the 1-800-Got-Junk trucks opted not to participate, apparently. Still, there was much loot to be had, including inflatable balls and a pen that looks like a syringe that B has forced me to hide from the kids.

The highlight was running into the boys' barber, who was dressed up as a clown.

N wanted nothing to do with him, even after he took off his sunglasses, but Z manned up.

After a nap, we went to a barbecue that featured many bathing-suit-less children in a pool, followed by same children running around in various clothing combinations, including half-donned princess gear and tutus. Sadly, we have no pictures of that part because B was remiss with his duties.

The hosts had a cat, which freaked N out to no end. I am, however, happy to report that he's sufficiently overcome his tiny-ant phobia to squash one whenever he sees one.

*

Then, yesterday, we went to the Jaycees' fair (not fare! No!), where we spent way too much money. Who says happiness can't be bought?

Plus, there was hand-holding as Z took his job as eldest seriously.

B later reported that when he went to take a picture of the kids in one of the rides, Sylvie was all smiling and waving until Ziv sternly told her to hold on to the safety bar. That put an end to that.

The highlight, as in past years, was the giant slide.

My friends, that's $15 of joy you're seeing there. I think it comes out to $1/second of ride. We are suckers, as evidenced by the fact that our garage doesn't really hold two cars.

One lowlight included the German fun house, which wouldn't allow Z in because he wasn't wearing closed-toed shoes. The only person who seemed to enjoy it was N, and poor Marc got stuck toting S around.

And, if you're going, here are two rides to skip. The first is the train, which went around the same minuscule track 400 times, until even N, the youngest, was glazed over with boredom.

The kid swings weren't a big hit either.

Oh, and the magic submarine ride was out of commission because somebody vomited in it. We watched the depressed, non-English-speaking carnie guy, who looked like he wasn't being paid nearly enough to deal with vomit, try repeatedly to rinse it out using buckets of water. "At least he gets a bucket," said one of B's colleagues, whom we ran into on couple of occasions. I tell you, working at a carnival like this is the epitome of the American dream, and also an illustration of how immigrants are stealing away all the good jobs. But who wants to think about politics and race while at a carnival? It's a frigging carnival, and I've digressed.

*

Today is Friday. So far, we've gotten one estimate, this one from the Silent Contractor. Despite his silence, the final figure was enough to make our hair stand on end in horror. On the bright side, we now have electricity.

Also, I am overdue to thank msuspar10 for his tip about that servicemagic website. So 1) Thanks for the tip. 2) I think you need to live somewhere big for it to be useful, but I tried it. I did.

Also, should I invest in binoculars to spy on Child Psychologist Neighbor?

Finally, the big news on the parenting listserv I subscribe to is that a famous mommy blogger is moving to town (schmPost-Moxie). She is moving with her ex-husband. I tell you, I will know I've made it if B and I ever get divorced and I have enough cachet (sp?) to make him move along with me and da boyz as I relocate to greener pastures. The only other person I've heard of who has done this is writer Jane schmSmiley, who has enough luster to not only force her ex to move, but to get her employers to hire him as well.

In which my past catches up with me

2011-07-07T10:07:00.003-04:00

We still have no internet as far as I know, and all our neighbors are smart enough to lock up their own wireless networks, so no luck there.

On Tuesday, we had our walk through and our closing. Our walk through was in the dark because there was a miscommunication with the electric company. We were cool about it, especially after we discovered that the owners were leaving their washing machine and dryer behind after all. "No big deal," we said. "So we won't have power until Friday. So what?"

"That was the easiest closing ever!" said our Realtor. And it was. We signed and signed and drank flat pop. At least mine was flat. An example of an ugly closing: one where the sellers removed a flagpole, and the buyer freaked out because apparently flag poles are worth $100.

Then, yesterday, I met with three contractors, one painter, and an architect friend in our very hot, electricity-less house. I also learned Lesson One of Home Ownership: contractors do not give you estimates on the spot, but architect friends are awesome.

Lesson Two: If you have no power, your refrigerator will leak all over the wood floor in your kitchen.

Lesson Three: One of the contractors will make you feel bad bad bad about your purchase by pointing out that just about everything inside was done on the cheap.

Lesson Four: Same contractor will walk through the house grunting in such a way that you just know he's thinking you're an idiot.

Still, this contractor talked at an audible volume and wore a friendly Mennonite-looking beard. Contractor #2 said three words. Contractor #3 mumbled, "I'm going to have to come back on Saturday, but have you considered these many downsides to your tearing-down-the-wall fantasy?"

But, I tell you, I would've dealt just fine with all of this were it not for the following two developments:

1) Our lovely mudroom that we were so excited about means that we can barely actually fit a car in the garage. We tried it, and we have half an inch to spare, and even that seems like just luck and will require the passenger-side riders to pretty much leap over the car whenever they want to enter or exit it. And we own relatively small cars. We feel like idiots even though our Realtor assures us that nobody ever measures a garage to make sure a car will fit.

2) Our new next-door neighbor came to introduce himself. "Hi," he said. "I'm X Y." And I was like, "Oh, God," because back in seventh grade I landed myself in therapy--because hey, why not?--and guess who my therapist was? That's right. Him. And all he ever did was sit there, legs crossed, one hand propping up his face, and smiling neutrally in a way that made me feel like the Biggest Whiner Ever, which maybe I am. Contractor #1 was right there, so I was like, "Oh, you know me," and then I paused meaningfully because I don't know if it's good for contractors to know about your extensive history of depression and/or faking depression. "Oh," said X Y. "Of course."

So okay, on the one hand, bygones, water under the bridge, etc. On the other, our neighbor is a child psychologist who will no doubt hear us yelling at our kids, or else hear the kids crying in unison over who gets to press the toaster on/off switch (this morning's drama), or else hear them freaking out about God-knows-what. No wonder half the windows in the house are caulked shut.

This, my friends, is why you shouldn't still be living in the same small town where you grew up. You know, the same town where friends of your mom harass you into signing up for publications you don't want, etc. etc. etc. Maybe that's Lesson Five.

Cut off from the rest of civilization

2011-07-06T09:35:00.000-04:00

...by which I mean that our home internet has been down since Saturday night. Hence the lack of blog posts and other electronic communications.

The short version of recent events: we own a house!

The long version: we own a house! and our goddamn internet is down!

More when we've got better connectivity and/or remember to have a USB keydrive at hand so I can take stuff to work and post it from here.

Day 5: the video

2011-07-02T08:39:00.001-04:00

Day 5 without B

2011-07-01T20:40:00.003-04:00

Last night involved two interruptions, one of which involved stripping Z's bed. Then, in the morning, N crawled in with me and felt suspiciously warm if perky. His temperature was 101.6, which didn't stop him and Z from throwing alternating tantrums about the following:
1) Z didn't get to press the toaster on switch first.
2) I accidentally flushed the toilet when N wanted to. Or maybe that was this afternoon's tantrum.

There was also fighting all the way to the J, and as I listened, I felt increasing despair about my own cold and my own exhaustion. By 11 a.m., I was fantasizing about asking my mom if I could come over to nap, but I didn't. In the end, N went over there to nap, and I drove out to camp to watch Z's group, which was supposed to perform a song and dance today. I will upload this fabulous video later.

At first, Z and his group-mates couldn't have looked more exhausted.

Then they ate some challah and drank some grape juice.

This brief infusion of sugar enabled Z to resume his flirting with his counselor of choice, whom he can't frigging keep his hands off. Bye-bye, fiancee.

There was also some wrestling of another counselor, who was like, "Now what did I tell you about jumping on people's backs? Ziv? Ziv? Ziv!" It made me proud. Although you'll note that he's not the instigator in this puppy pile.

I did get one picture of Z and the daughter of the one who works with B, who is the most photogenic person I've ever seen. My photo does her no justice, but it's thanks to other pictures of I've seen of her that I now know what Tyra Banks means when she talks about the camera loving a person, or whatever.

Happily (or sadly, depending on your POV), F prefers spending her time building robots and mummifying chickens to being admired. Go figure. But could Z be looking any more lecherous here?

And finally, right before I took him away from all this, he demonstrated his ability to climb a tree.

Back at my parents', there was more fighting. Some of it was about whether I was allowed to wake up N, who was still aslepep, and some of it was about who was going to go first when I took them to get a haircut (last clients of the day--surely N's germs will die out before tomorrow's first clients) and who would get to choose a lollipop first (my secret plan to keep them calm), and who flushed, and why did Z kick N's milk out of his hands, wah wah wah, and God, they were so tired, and they didn't want to go home, and they didn't want to go to Safta's, and wah wah wah some more.

But they behaved wonderfully at the haircut itself, although Z overruled my request that he keep some hair on top. "I want it as short as Mommy will let me," he told the barber. My dad was there, and so I was like, "Okay. As long as it isn't shorter than my dad's, I'll live with it." My dad found this funny, but maybe he was just relieved that he wasn't stuck playing Go Fish 70 times in a row. Ultimately though, Ziv regretted his choice when the barber was like, "Now make sure to wear a hat when you go outside," but by then it was too late.

Then it was back to my parents', where they (the boyz) freaked out some more. I did manage, in one of those strokes of genius that come to you on occasion, to give them a preemptive bath. Then, during supper, I tried not to burst out in tears and beg my parents to take over, which means that my dad volunteers my mother to come over and help me put the boys to bed while she gets very very silent and impassive, which I interpret as an attempt to hide her inward cringing. Or maybe--most likely--I'm projecting, because I'm cringing about the 10 or so hours I still have alone with them tomorrow.

So, to sum up: I have a cold; I'm frigging tired; I have to wait for Ziv's sheets to go in the dryer on the chance that he has another accident tonight, which I think is fairly good given his level of exhaustion. Although perhaps the washing machine has stopped by now??

Also on Day 4 without B

2011-06-30T23:04:00.002-04:00

Today, when Sylvie came over, Nadav wanted to know where her daddy was, and we told him that he was still at work.

N: I don't have a daddy.

Yes. How quickly they forget. Here's the rest of the exchange:

D: Of course you do.
N: But I don't know where he is.
D: He's in California.
N: He misses me.

Day 4 without B

2011-06-30T20:27:00.002-04:00

Today's plan:

1) Take kids to daycare and camp.
2) Write
3) Beg Sylvie and family to come over.

1) I nearly failed at #1, or so I thought as I zoomed to the J at 50 mph, hoping no little Jewish children leaped out in front of me. The boyz, though, were very proud of themselves. While I was showering, Z helped N use the potty so that when I came out, I was met by Z doing a happy dance and informing me that N was ready for some wiping, and did I know that when N said he needed to poop, Z drove the wagon he was carting N around in right to the bathroom? Yay.

2) I failed at #2, using my time at the bagel place to alternately nap and play Bejeweled. Then I came home and napped some more.

3) I succeeded in getting Sylvie over here, although for the first half hour or so Z was doing his best impression of the living dead, which consisted of alternately lying on the couch, a glazed look in his eyes and an IV full of milk draining into his mouth, and weeping heartily because I'd allowed N and S to fill up the kiddie pool when he was the one who wanted to use the hose, and how could they be so unfair to him?

While he wept, N and S busied themselves washing Sylvie's parents' car with... um... a combination of chalk and water. Here is the car after they were done with it.

After a while, Z recovered his humanity on two conditions:
A) he wasn't going to wear any clothes
B) he was going to empty some of the water in the pool and refill it.

This proved not to be all that interesting, which is how all three kids ended up riding the loader.

After that, we went to get dinner, and now the boys are in bed, which really, technically, leaves us with two more mornings and one more night. And a scheduled haircut tomorrow at 4:30.

B: Why would you do that?
D: I don't know.

I will go armed with snacks, and with my father there for backup. And, perhaps, a deck of "Go Fish," if I can find it. My life, I tell you, is full of thrill and adventure.

Days 2-3 without B

2011-06-29T11:55:00.010-04:00

I approached Day 2 without B with a plan:
1) Beg a friend to come over.
2) Go kite flying.

It was a gusty day, so the kite flying wasn't a big success. Mostly it was Ziv running back and forth on the soccer field adjacent to our playground.

Nadav was far less enthusiastic about the whole endeavor. Because he's two.

Finally, Z made lift off, only to remember that he was having a bathroom emergency. If you squint, you can see that he's on the bottom left side of the photo. Kite is on top right side.

It was during this interlude that the boys discovered that I had purchased a replacement sprinkler and begged me to allow them to play in it.

"Okay," I said. "Run through it." Instead, the boys devised a game that proceeded as follows:

1) Cover up the sprinkler with the kiddie pool

2) Repeat.

They thought this was hilarious. Not as hilarious, though, as covering the sprinkler up with a bucket.

Or forgoing the sprinkler entirely in favor of a nozzle.

While Z experimented with various non-sanctioned uses of the hose and the pool, N invented a kind of basketball involving part of a bird feeder.

It was only when I was like, "Okay, let's go inside," that the boys remembered the proper use of a kiddie pool.

Yes, it's true. Z lost his suit. But whatever. Our backyard is relatively private if you ignore the playground next door.

Anyway, I'm also including one final photo just because I like it.

I finally managed to herd them to the bath, and then said friend came over and took over the entertaining portion of the evening, thank heavens. All went relatively well until it was time to get ready for bed, which apparently is also Yelling Time at our house. Plus, N begged to sleep in underwear for once, and I relented because, you know, self esteem, blah blah. Then I spent the rest of the time I was awake praying that if he does wet the bed, it won't be too unmanageable. My prayers were answered, by the way. He wet the bed but didn't come to tell me about it (or, actually, to lie in my bed reeking of urine and denying he'd had an accident while I was like, "Come on. Let's go clean you off") until 6:15 or so. Just as I finally managed to shove him into the shower for a rinse, Z emerged reporting that he too had had an accident. Unlike N, he wasn't devastated by this, though, and you know, neither was I, because at least it was morning.

That said, I've done a lot of laundry today, which happens to be day 3. It's also a day without pictures because all we did was go to my parents' house. The kids behaved better than on Monday, except for N's insistence that my mom's haircut didn't look good. Sadly, I agreed, but I believe I've written about her hair here before, and her endless Battle of the Curl, which I think is a tactical error.

Today Z went to a nature center where, two counselors told me during pickup with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, he insisted on finding out what kind of injury had landed each rescued animal into a lifetime of captivity. (I didn't know how to end that sentence.) "So many questions!" they marveled. They said the nature center guide had been amused and pleased by his interest and told him he asked good questions. He was most captivated by a beaver who had chewed on something in some man's back yard, and the man had set his dog on him and then shot him. Now the beaver can't see all that well, Z reports, and still has two bullets in his head, but the rescuers are afraid that taking them out would do more damage. My hope is that he won't dream about this. As for me, I dreamed B left me, or was about to leave me, and we were either at IU or in Israel. Who can even tell, given that both start with "I"?

And yes, tonight's bedtime also involved yelling. I can't seem to help it.

And now: more laundry. Garbage. America's Next Top Model. And I've got both boys in pull-ups.

Things you do when you're away from your wife...

2011-06-28T00:23:00.000-04:00

...if you're me.

Look at pictures of the kids and wonder why your wife is beating the younger one. "Fell off his bike." Like anyone is gonna believe that.
Write lots of computer code that may or may not be totally relevant to the conference but will give you good cred with the seventeen or so nerds that will care at all about your code.
Drink too much white wine. Which, I know, makes me a middle-aged woman, but I'm pretty sure the girly drinks and moobs put me in that category anyway.
Get excited about watching The Daily Show in ....crap, 2.5 more hours??
Wonder if your plan to stay awake so as to facilitate operating at peak efficiency on West Coast time is really all that good of an idea.
Miss your wife.
Miss your kids, although maybe not quite as much after reading the blog.
Feel bad about missing wife more than kids.
Bemoan the time difference because it makes it hard to talk to wife and kids
Forget all about family as I realize that stupid-ass hotel cable doesn't have Comedy Central
Watch 30 seconds of Star Wars: Episode I before wanting to scratch my eyes out
Think about trolling local strip looking for a place to buy 2L bottles of pop.
Stretch list out past "lucky thirteen"
Write wife heartfelt anniversary card and debate whether to send it in the mail.

Day 1 without a male role model

2011-06-27T20:50:00.002-04:00

As you might recall, I sent N to school today looking bruised and beaten.

He was returned to me in worse condition.

I mean, check out the blood.

One of his classmates apparently bonked him with a Frisbee mere moments before I came to pick him up. I bet the parents at drop off will buy that one, right?

Drove past the new house again this evening. No moving truck. Large couch is still visible through window.

As for Z and N, they were charmers at my parents'. Charmers. I was very, very proud (by which I mean mortified as I watched Z shout, "Dammit!" when he lost at Go Fish).

Things you do when your husband is gone...

2011-06-27T14:16:00.003-04:00

... if you're me.

0) Suffer from insomnia and then, when you do sleep, dream that you're in Israel, in labor, a situation that you apparently find so unacceptable that you try to figure out a way to get on a plane so that you can give birth in the air, aided by disapproving flight attendants who remind you that you shouldn't fly after 32 weeks, instead of in the hospital.
1) Throw away all the old food in the fridge. B disapproves of doing this unless it's the day before garbage day, at which point he usually forgets.
2) Throw away expired yogurt.
3) Buy frozen French toast for the kids' breakfast.
4) Think about doing laundry.
5) Yell at kids who are slamming doors and scaring each other while you are in the shower.
6) Allow kids to watch videos in the morning even though they've been mostly ignoring your yelling.
7) Yell at kids some more because they won't put on their shoes.
8) Take kids to daycare, where you are steadfastly ignored by other adults because they think you belted N and don't believe the whole "fell of a bike" story. Either that or they're mad at you for not RSVP-ing to birthday parties more promptly.
9) Get tired of kids not listening to you and carry N inside even though he wanted to watch the bus to camp depart. Avoid looking at other parents whom you pass, mainly because you know they're like, "She beats him, and then she drags him to his classroom. Poor, poor N."
10) Leave N wailing, "I'll start listening! I'll start listening!" in his classroom.
11) Feel bad.
12) Notice that many kids have withdrawn from camp, including Z's fiancee. Either that, or many families are on vacation.
13) Feel guilty.
14) Cringe when your mom calls to tell you that she's in a bad mood, the details of which you don't really want to press for because half the time, it turns out you're the problem. Stop looking forward to taking the kids over there tonight.
15) Try to work up the courage to call contractors.
16) Drive by new house and note that there's a moving truck outside (!!!)
17) Eat some oatmeal cookies you secretly bought.
18) Blog.

7 years, 1 day

2011-06-26T21:34:00.004-04:00

This morning, the kids woke up at 6:30 a.m. or so and played (!!) on their own (!!!) for an hour and a half while B and I stayed in bed (!!!!). Now we just have to teach them to make their own breakfasts.

What's more, Z seemed to have miraculously recovered from his cold.

After our weekly sojourn to get bagels, we took da boyz canoeing.

At first, Z was very unsettled by the sensation of the canoe rocking, but then again, who can blame him? I was terrified of turning around and somehow making the whole thing tip. Even so, Z eventually got used to it and spent the rest of our outing paddling in not very helpful ways while B tried (not very successfully) to reason with him about proper paddling technique.

As for me, I supplied N with goldfish and hoped that no one would have to pee. All that, without turning around once.

Eventually, we saw some non-duck, non-goose wildlife.

For example, we harassed a blue heron repeatedly because blue herons are awesome.

We also learned that there are a bunch of birds nesting under the Huron Parkway bridge. Like hundreds.

Then we came home and the boyz napped properly, as evidenced by the fact that ten minutes ago, Z was still awake, and his cold was back with a vengeance, which necessitated a conversation about the importance of washing your hands after you pee but before you stick your finger up your nose.

B left for the airport around 5:30, only ten minutes after watching N fall off his bike. "Well," he said. "See you later." (I'm just kidding. He also fetched the boy some ibuprofen.)

I'm not sure how one falls off one's bike and hits one's cheek, but whatever. I still dutifully coached N as follows:

D: What are you going to say tomorrow at school when your teachers as you what happened?
N: I don't know.
D: That you fell off your bike, right?

He's also been periodically freaked out about who is going to take care of him while B and I run off to get married. "That happened a long time ago," I've told him repeatedly, but still. Earlier, when I started their bath, Z said, "Bye!" cheerfully as he headed to the bathroom, and N was all like, "Where are you going????"

For his part, Z is sad about B's departure but plans to buy some kind of elaborate chunk of chocolate to put in a very large cookie that he and B are going to make upon B's return. I tuned out most of the explanation. Still, when I asked him what he wanted to do to cheer up after B departed, he was like, "Go to the store!" We didn't, though, b/c N was in a fragile bruise-induced emotional state. Z also called B at the airport to give him strict instructions to call when there were only four people ahead of him in line to board, and also to call once they're up in the air. As far as I can tell, B complied with the first set of instructions, but I don't know for sure because when Z handed the phone to N, he hit N's bruise again, and so there was much crying.

So, on the whole, I'd say today was better than yesterday despite the injury. And no one needed to pee while we were on the canoe! (What would you do if your kid needed to pee in a canoe? Once, I went canoeing with an ex who just stood right up and peed overboard--which was completely unnecessary, I think, and also typically Israeli, and also part of what made him into an ex--but B says that he doubts the boys would (a) keep their balance, and (b) actually get the pee outside the canoe. He said he would've lowered them into the water. As for me, I just kept my gaze forward as to avoid, you know, the tipping.)

Anniversary

2011-06-26T21:03:00.004-04:00

Yesterday was B and my 7th wedding anniversary. I don't know if this means we're about to begin the seven-year itch or if we just came off of it. I would appreciate your insight on the matter, as long as your insight is that it only gets better from here.

We began the celebration with complementary bouts of insomnia. B was up until 2 a.m., and I was up after that. Then Ziv woke up with a severe cold / case of camp-induced exhaustion which made me wonder whether we should be following in his fiancee's parents' footsteps and pulling him out. Then there was some yelling at the kids. Then we went to see a luminarium, which is basically a giant inflated space that is here courtesy of our local summer festival. This involved waiting in line for a good hour and a half, but that part went okay: there was construction nearby, with actual, you know, working construction trucks, and there was also a large field for rolling around. We were low on batteries, so we have no pictures of any of this.

We did, however, manage to get some shots of the luminarium itself before our camera completely died.

It was deathly hot inside, at least if you're carrying around a fetus who, this week, is the same size as N's beloved Elmo doll. Despite the heat, though, there were dancers who spent some of the time we watched them dancing, and some time we watched them adjusting their dancing clothes.

This isn't a good picture of their dancing, but Z and N did a pretty fair approximation of what it was like the rest of the time.

We watched the dancers from the recommended prone position.

Then we spent the rest of the time looking for the air conditioning ducts.

Mmm.... air conditioning.

All in all, I'd say it was okay. If standing in line had been awful, my rating of the luminarium would have been Not Worth It. As it was, it fell under the category of art where you aren't sure whether, once you've seen pictures, you actually need to go see it yourself. You know, like The Mona Lisa. Or that urinal.

After we were done, we went to Mr. Greek's, which was a hit with the kids and also with us, given that we hadn't had breakfast yet and it was 2 p.m. Then we forced the kids to take a nap. Then we woke them up and they were so grumpy that the promise of Dairy Queen only barely got them out of bed. Then we went to a playground, then back home, then supper and back to bed. I can't remember if there was a temper tantrum involved during this portion of the day. I do know that B spent the majority of the evening doing what we euphemistically like to refer to as "somatizing," which is what he does before just about every trip, while I folded laundry and watched Mythbusters on Netflix and wished that B really wasn't leaving the next day.

So, on the whole, I'd rate the anniversary day itself as "Eh," even though I got a foot massage and a hand massage, because I'm special like that. And even though I learned that you can't shoot a cowboy hat off a cowboy or run on water like a ninja. But whatever. The real celebration is yet to come, when we supposedly abandon our new house and our children for Lake Michigan...

Which reminds me

2011-06-23T15:10:00.002-04:00

B made me watch this video of Obama soothing a baby.

Really, could he (Obama) be any more perfect? I sighed moonily, as I'm guessing did every third person who watched this video, and then, in Pregnant Woman fashion, proceeded to have the following conversation:

D: Could he be any dreamier?
B: No.
D: But I'm not smart enough for him.
B: No, you're not.

To which I say: !!!!!

I mean, I'm know I'm not smart enough for Obama, and I certainly don't have the toned arms required for the job, but surely it isn't B's husbandly duty to bring me back to my not-very-smart impostor-based I-suck reality. Not on the same week as our anniversary. The same week I gave him a frigging bike and took his son to Chuck E. Cheese, the same week that he plans to go to California while I stay back here and do laundry. Right??

Except for that, all I have to add is that Obama better not be cheating on his wife.

24W2D

2011-06-23T14:40:00.002-04:00

The difference between this pregnancy and the other two, other than the fact that I haven't given up caffeine, is--as you know--the meds. On the plus side, I'm only losing half days now instead of entire days. On the minus side, I'm still losing half days. On the plus side, I'm still keeping up with the laundry. On the minus side, I've become incapable of answering emails. On the plus side, I've found pants that hide my ankles. On the minus side, I'm terrified of being home with the kids all next week, even though being home with them just means getting them ready for daycare and camp, then bringing them home, grumpy and tired, at 4 p.m. On the extra minus side, what kind of mom can't bear to have her kids come home at 4 instead of the usual 5:45?? This leads to conversations such as the following:

D: I just feel like there's nothing to look forward to.
B: Uh... what?

And really, here are the things to look forward to:
1) Bucketface. As if, you know, he were real.
2) Moving. Ugh. I can't look forward to this. It fills me with terror.
3) Our anniversary, which is this Saturday, a day before B leaves. We're celebrating it supposedly tonight in order to not traumatize the kids with too much babysitting.
4) Recovering my ankles.
5) Going on a brief vacation with B in July, but I can't look forward to this, because we're going to be moving and I'm 90% sure we're going to end up canceling this so we can pack.
6) Alleged daily foot massages until Bucketface makes his alleged appearance.
7) A baby that, I swear to God, is going to actually arrive on time or earlier if I have any say in the matter, but not while I'm in my college's town so that I don't have to drive myself back to Ann Arbor whilst in labor or end up giving birth on the side of the highway, right next to my missing hubcaps. Although hubcaps are expensive, so maybe this would be a good thing.
8) A baby that will be born suffering withdrawal from said meds...
9) ... and then will need to be circumcised despite Z's strenuous objections and horror...
10) ...and then--it's hard not to get gruesome here, although we did find the missing knife outside on our porch, right where we left it last Sunday night to make it easier for intruders to cut their way in through our screens.
11) More laundry.
12) Packing.

All this is to say that at least today, I'm feeling a little low and and extremely skeptical about my parenting abilities and the wisdom of introducing a third child to Grumpy and his brother, Mr. Grumpy, and their parents, Grumpy Sr. and Grumpina who are, at best, modeling a medicated, mole-ridden, grumpy pop-dependent future full of mosquitoes and other biting insects for their children. Sometimes I wonder if having one of those extremely nauseated and heart-burny pregnancies, perhaps with a dose of bed rest, would be better than all this weepy depression, but then, who would do the laundry?

Brothers 4 Eva

2011-06-21T22:23:00.003-04:00

Here are a couple of pictures from May of the boyz being brotherly.

Here is some more recent brotherly love, this time in the bathtub. Whatever. They're two and four, and nobody's, you know, accidentally killing the other.

Earlier today, we also snapped this pic:

Soon after, N got up and was like, "I don't want to snuggle with Ziv anymore." Ziv: "Aww, shucks!" But again, he resisted wielding the missing knife.

Anyway, here is B's real Father's Day gift, about which he'd blog if, you know, if he ever blogged. Let me also report that the foot massages have dropped off again now that MNMa isn't here to witness them.

But the real news is that Z started camp this week. There was an open house last week, and because we thought it would rain, we came unprepared. We weren't the only ones, and so soon many of the children present stripped down to their underwear and got in the water anyway.

I'm including the pics so that you can picture the camp's setting as idyllic, although this morning Z informed us that there are zebra muscles in the lake, although not real zebra muscles. And yes, I know he meant mussels, but he didn't know that, so I stand by my original spelling.

The first morning of real camp, Z was nervous, and for a while he and N lay on the couch sharing a mutual imagined stomachache. By the time we drove up to the J, though, Z was over his anxiety, although he did ask me to stand and wave until the bus to the lake departed. I'm happy to report that although there are 22 kids in Z's group, not one of them cried upon departure. Then, at 4:00, the bus pulled back into the J's parking lot, and Z disembarked looking a bit stunned. Here are the facts we managed to extract from him:

1) They sang silly songs on the bus.
2) They did art, but he doesn't know what crafts are.
3) They had swimming lessons and free swim, and he put his head underwater twice!! even though he didn't want to. Kim of schmGym with schmKim fame held his hands as he did so.
4) He likes one of his counselors better than the other, although he didn't say why.
5) They had animal crackers for snack.

He managed to hold it together until 7 p.m., when we told him that he was going to be taking a shower rather than a bath. Then he cried at this injustice for what seemed like eternity. Then he fell asleep. Today was an improvement in that he put his head underwater "like, twenty times" and also, he didn't cry, probably because we managed to completely exhaust him by taking him to the pool after camp. Don't worry. I fortified him for this additional excursion by allowing him to drink three sippy cups full of milk. Other kids suck their thumbs: Z loves his sippies. For his part, N spent the entire hour we were at the pool jumping into my arms and doing a little happy dance on the ladder on his way back out of the water.

Anyway, during pickup, Z's fiancee's mom told me that he was super sweet to her (the fiancee) this morning. She apparently started crying when it was time to leave, and he watched over her with a tender expression on his face and let her get on the bus first. I tell you, when he's not, you know, contemplating fratricide or infanticide, he's apparently a very sweet boy, the same boy who once said that he wished all the other kids at Jungle Java (RIP, sigh) were only two years old so he could help them through the climber.

Partied out

2011-06-20T10:41:00.004-04:00

I attended two parties this weekend. The first was a 50s-style cocktail party co-hosted by a pair of loyal blog readers. B wore a tie, but there was no Velveeta or aluminum foil or canned veggies involved, and so I have to question the authenticity of the whole endeavor. Also, we were the least good looking people at the entire party, and this was even though my ankles were discernible at the time and B, as I've already noted, was wearing a tie. Still, a good time was had by all, especially by B who had four cocktails and no children cursing him out under their breath or at the top of their lungs. Plus, I learned that back when he was in the Zebra room, Z had killed all the inhabitants of the aquarium by dumping in an entire vial of fish food into the water while his teachers had their backs turned; by the next morning, the fish had pretty much gorged themselves to death. Admittedly, this story of animal abuse is not as bad as the one about the kid who shook the Zebra class hamster to death in its plastic ball, but that was earlier this year, well after our time, so--as with all things--it's someone else's tragedy. Also, apparently the very next year following Z's fish massacre, some other kid dumped all the fish food into the aquarium again and killed another entire batch of fish, so apparently is just a risk the fish take on when they're forced to room with a bunch of two-year-olds.

The second party was for a classmate of N's, and it was held at Chuck E. Cheese's. Although B had told me that the parties he's attended for N's friends had an All-Jeggings Dress Code, that we were clearly the oldest parents in the room, and that all the Lamb moms are skinny and beautiful, the parents who showed up yesterday were clearly on the losing of end of a coin toss with their partners. What is it about Chuck E. Cheese's that fills me and B with such dread? For the first hour or so, I wasn't sure--the place was kind of empty; the party's hosts supplied us with more tokens than we could have possibly used; N gravitated to the air hockey table, where he referred to the goal as "the garbage" and then shrieked with delight whenever the puck went in--but then Chuck E. came out for a meet and greet, and I was like, "Oh, that's why." Is he a mouse or a rat? He looks ratlike to me, and while N shook his hand like a star-struck two-year-old, I was able to control my urge to fawn and gawk and instead felt sorry both for the guy inside the Chuck E. costume and his little booster, a woman who was paid to fawn and gawk over Chuck in hopes that doing so would encourage the kids to recognize him as the celebrity he is rather than hide under the tables. But what killed me was that in the years since I last saw Chuck E., he's begun to shill products like, for example, Tropicana OJ: "Now that was a good breakfast." Plus: So. Many. TV. Screens. Plus: there was an animatronic version of Chuck E. there too that sang every 30 minutes, accompanies by puppet pals. Regardless, B says the best Father's Day gift I could've given him was taking N to that party and allowing him to stay home with Ziv.

Speaking of other people's tragedies, my father has been warning me repeatedly about the following:
A) N is a handful.
B) If he doesn't calm down by the time Bucketface arrives, I will be screwed.
C) I will have to watch Z and N like a hawk once Bucketface arrives so that they don't injure him.
D) He's not kidding. Did he tell me about the five-year-old who accidentally killed his baby sibling just last week?

I'm purposely not providing details on this last one, but sheesh. If you think I don't get nauseated imagining it every time my brain grinds to a halt, you'd be wrong. That and the terrible story about the accident at the chiropractor's in MN which also involved a baby, and of which I'm also sparing you the details.

If you've been reading the blog all along, you might recall that my parents were convinced that the cat would somehow kill Z in his infancy, and then later than Z would somehow kill N. I'd say something snarky here, except for my fear that doing so would guarantee that tomorrow Z is going to go after N with a knife or something. We are, incidentally, missing one of our kitchen knives, so this fear is not unfounded...

St. Joseph (Catch-up Post)

2011-06-17T10:49:00.006-04:00

On the way home from MN, we stopped at St. Joseph, where I convinced B to get a parking permit for the beach which will only pay off if we actually go back there four more times this summer. Last night, I dreamed that B told me, "Darn it, we can go on vacation and have a good time even if the kids are with us." Prescient? Or foolish?

Anyway, it was a cool day, and initially we thought that da boyz would content themselves playing on the play structure.

As you can see, Z has recently developed a very charming smile for photographs.

I don't have a good picture of N to show you, sadly.

After a while, it was time to go test the water. In service of this goal, the boys stripped down to their respective undergarments.

You can probably tell where this is going. After all, why stop with toe dipping?

The water was freezing, but as you can hopefully see, the boys were both happy, even N.

Even after he fell in.

Even after his diaper absorbed half the water in the lake.

See?

Even under these tough, subzero conditions, he was able to smile and say, "Cheese."

Then it was time to get out of the water, and N's mood turned sour. He was so cold that he cried and cried and cried, only pausing to ask accusingly, "Why did we stop here??"

Because, you little twerp, you had a really good time for all but five minutes. That's why.

(This reminds me of a conversation between B and N the other night, after N requested that B sing him Sandra Boynton's Barnyard Dance, which B did gamely even though he didn't know the tune.

B: What did you think? Did you like it?
N: No. Daddy, don't do that again. Next time, just talk about it.
B: Okay.
N: I didn't like that singing. Don't sing it again.
B: Okay.
N: I didn't like that singing at all.
B: Okay! I hear you!

Then, after B left the room, N was like, "I didn't like it when Daddy sang it. Next time he start to sing it, I'm going to tell him to stop."

Later, in the privacy of our room, B was like, "Ungrateful little f-er. Why doesn't he just read it himself next time? Oh, that's right. Because he can't f-ing read!" Then he was like, "Swearing is fun!"

So there you have it, folks. Swearing really is fun.)

Mowing (Catch-up Post)

2011-06-17T10:47:00.003-04:00

This was, as you might imagine, another (loud) highlight of our trip to MN.

Don't worry. MNPa didn't engage the blades. No grass was harmed during the taking of these photos.

A Separate, More Complainy Post

2011-06-16T15:02:00.002-04:00

See, I'm trying not to taint the bridging ceremony, and yet I have more to say. MNFolks, feel free to skip this entry.

1) At home, Z has been an emotional wreck, which I attribute to his (my?) anxiety that he's leaving his real parents (the caregivers at the J) and going out into the cold, harsh world where he will only have us to rely on. But maybe I'm just projecting.

2) My brother and his sons attended the Stanley Cup Finals in Vancouver (not jealous), which were followed by riots the likes of which haven't been seen in Vancouver since the last time they lost Game Seven. Would you be concerned or would you assume that my parents would already know if he and the kids had been teargassed by the Mounties and would have informed me?

3) At the bridging ceremony, a woman forced us to sign up for the schmWashteneaw schmJewish schmNews against our will. "Just do it," she told us, hovering uncomfortably close and shoving a pen in our faces. "Do it. Do it. Do it." I find myself unreasonably angry about this two days later. Yes, it's a free publication, but darn it, we just put it straight in recycling. Why the frig do we need to sign up for it? And why didn't she let us get away with a "We'll just do it later, after we move?" which everyone knows is the polite way of saying, "We don't want the frigging thing, okay?" I've been drafting an imaginary email to her which I can't send because she's a friend of my mom's. Still, add this to the list of things I'm unreasonably pissed about.

4) Then, later, the woman's husband was like, "I didn't know you were pregnant. When are you due?" Then he eyed my stomach apprehensively and was like, "Woah." Because I'm just that huge.

5) Another two things not to say to pregnant women, especially if they happen to be, you know, your own flesh and blood:
A) "You don't have to finish eating that."
B) "So, how much weight have you gained?"
C) "I guess I'll look at those ultrasound pictures if you make me."
Whoops. That was three things. Also, why not tell people I'm pregnant? Doesn't this fall under things parents should be proud of and should relay at least to those folks who attended your wedding because they're practically family?

6) While in MN, Z watched hockey with MNPa, so when we came back, I asked him if he wanted to watch some hockey with my dad. He said he did want to, although his allegiance remained firmly with Boston, because that's who MNPa wanted to win. The next day, my mom reported that it was all very heartwarming: Z sitting on my dad's lap and asking questions like, "Is this a commercial or is this the game?" while my dad patted him and answered to the best of your ability. Then, after we picked Z up, my mom was like, "So, did you enjoy it?" and my dad was like, "He knows nothing about hockey." In his defense, I got a fuller report when I saw him the next day which was more along the lines of "That kid doesn't know how to watch TV," a critique delivered with amusement, not dismay.

7) I have one more chapter to write before I have a complete draft, and I'm terrified. See how this item is buried right past where most of you have stopped reading?

Bridged

2011-06-16T14:33:00.004-04:00

Tuesday was Z's bridging ceremony at the J. Here is a picture of said bridge + Very Zealous Photographing Parent.

Here is Z and his BFF awaiting bridging. Sadly, though, Z and BFF have grown apart in recent months, it seems. B blames it on the vast difference in size between them. I'm sad, though. They've been at the J together since they were approximately 4 months old. If their relationship can't make it, what hope do Z and his fiancee have?

Anyway, each child was asked to step on the bridge and announce what he or she liked best about preschool. Z said he enjoyed the trip to Israel most. His answer wasn't as sensitive as that of the girl who said, "My friends." Perhaps this is another reason for the rift between Z and his BFF. Regardless, I was proud about the state of his pants.

(Incidentally, while we were waiting for the ceremony to begin, I overheard the mom of the said sensitive girl say something like, "Okay, I have to go change her clothes." I panicked. Were we supposed to dress up the kids for the occasion? I quickly tracked down and asked Z's BFF's mom, who was like, "Well, I did put him in a slightly nicer T-shirt today. " I breathed a sigh of relief, having done the same. Still, B commented that the bridging ceremony reminded him of campus and just about every high school dance except prom in that all the girls were dressed to the nines while all the boys were dressed like slobs. Only we had the extra special touch of the riding up shorts, which, if you've ever been overweight, you perhaps recognize as the bane of people everywhere whose thighs touch. Z's thighs don't touch (yet), but I guess the burden of genetics is too overwhelming here. But I digress.)

Also, we made the acquaintance of our future in-laws. I think this next picture pretty much says all you need to know about Z's fiancee.

A) She's wearing a dress.
B) He loves her more than she loves him.
C) She has a nice mom who then went on to suggest we set up some play dates.

After everyone had bridged, there was dancing. Ziv participated reluctantly at first.

But then he ditched his fiancee to dance with a blond. Figures.

They danced to the music of Gemini, at which point B did the math and was like, "OMFG, five more years of Gemini. Why must we have a third kid? I should have never agreed to it."

Outside, there was a bouncer.

N didn't like it. No idea why.

Then there was pizza.

The next day there was a picnic, during which I tried to capture a frigging image of Z and his fiancee for posterity. I failed.

I did get a picture of Z eating his lunch, though.

And a picture of him looking like the little thug he is.

There were dazzling acrobatics, of course, which I was ordered to watch.

As well as unsanctioned use of playground equipment.

Then there was a class picture.

Yep, good position, dude.

And then everyone headed back to the bus.

You'll note that Z isn't holding hands here with his BFF or his fiancee. What is this world coming to??

Fishing (Catch-up Post)

2011-06-14T14:16:00.008-04:00

A highlight of the trip was that MNPa took da boyz and one of the MNCousins fishing. ( The other MNCousin was in school.) This was, incidentally, my first time fishing, and I'm glad to say that I touched neither worm nor fish.

Which isn't to say that there weren't any worms, of course. They just needed a bit of encouragement in the form of a hose and water torture.

At any rate, in this particular lake, which MNPa scoped in advance, the fish were pretty much jumping out of the water.

N immediately panicked and retreated to the safety of the walking path. Z, on the other hand, took to fishing with a glee unbecoming a boy who only a few weeks ago was horrified to learn that people eat baby lambs.

And he continued catching fish at the rate of about one every ten seconds for the rest of the outing.

MNPa took pity on N, and tried to woo him back into the world of fishing via a kid's fishing pole that actually belongs to the MNCousins.

MNCousin didn't mind. Here he is with B and with his super sun hat. Note the guy in blue in the background. He joined in after noticing, you know, that the water was thick with fish.

Anyway, N still was freaked out by the fish, so MNPa tried a different approach. "Come touch the fish," he told N. "It won't hurt you."

For the uninformed among you, that is apparently a sunfish. It is apparently good for nothing except for feeding bass, which are the kind of fish you'd take home for dinner or to mount on your wall, and for amusing little children. Oh, and all sunfish pictured in this post were thrown back into the lake, I'm presuming much to their fishy relief.

After a while, N remembered that "fish are actually very nice," and deigned to actually touch one.

Then he said he wanted to go home, and which point I took him to a nearby play structure, thereby pretty much ruling out any possibility of having to touch fish or worms myself, or of watching anyone accidentally get hooked. This ultimately didn't happen, although MNCousin did get injured by a fish's fin or something, and N ended up skinning his knee under fishing-unrelated circumstances. As for Z, he's waiting eagerly for the winter, when MNPa will take him ice fishing, an activity which, according to Z, involves removing huge swaths of ice from the lake...

On an unrelated note, shouldn't this final photo be B's new Facebook image?

The Long Drive (Catch-up Post)

2011-06-14T13:57:00.003-04:00

As you know, we drove to and from Minnesota this past week. For an adult, this drive takes approximately 12 hours. With children, it's more like 14. If you insist on stopping at St. Joseph for a view of the lake, it stretches out to 16, but whatever.

We armed ourselves for the trip with a DVD player and DVDs recommended by the good users of Amazon and--more importantly--by the MNCousins. Our first selection was Cars, which seemed to be going over well until we noticed that Z had taken off his earphones. "I'm waiting for Lightning McQueen to stop being in trouble," he informed us. We were like, "Good luck with that." Then we switched over to the Imagination Movers, which had Z absorbed and giggling.

N watched too, but solemnly. His sense of humor is more sophisticated, perhaps.

As for B, he was ecstatic because, except for the occasional giggle, the car was silent and he could listen to his favorite show, Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me.

Like any good parents, we have yet to preview any of the DVDs we provided. Kids crying out in their sleep? Not our problem. We sleep soundly.

The truth is, the boys were mostly great, and that was even though they only watched a couple of hours of DVDs on each day, if that. The rest of the time, N spaced out and Z colored, or else they both kicked our seats. There was also much marveling over boats on trailers and convertibles.

As we were driving through Wisconsin, we were like, "Look! Hills! Isn't this pretty?" Da boyz were like, "Hills? Huh? Where?"

B: In the fall, the trees are even prettier because the leaves turn lots of different colors.
N: Like colorful fruit leather!

For those of you who aren't sure what he means by this (clever, if troubling) simile, I'm providing an illustration of said fruit leather's pretty colors:

That's right. It's like our very own edible fall. But again, whatever. We got through the drive, and now we know it can be done. Woo-hoo!

In the dark

2011-06-03T20:55:00.002-04:00

This post is coming to you from Madison, WI, where we are lying in a darkened hotel room, praying da boyz settle down and fall asleep so we can turn on the TV or something. The trip from AA took us something like eight hours (we are on the way to MN). At some point, N misplaced his pacifier, and so, by the final hour, because desperate times call for desperate measures, he made do with his thumb. I guess that's problem solving for you.

Why, Holiday Inn Express, why not two bedside lamps? Why only the centrally located one?? Meanwhile, I'm steadfastly ignoring da boyz' giggles while B lies rigid beside me, wondering when it would be appropriate to begin yelling.

Out of courtesy to the hotel, we brought a waterproof pad to tuck under the sheets. It also gave me an excuse to check for bedbugs, which B thinks is ridiculous, somehow having missed all the stories about how they're EPIDEMIC or something like that, at least in New York which is only a few states away. Still, I'm having much itchy paranoia now. Other than that, I'm too tired to articulate any thoughts except this: for Mother's Day, B promised me a foot rub a day until I deliver Bucketface. Footrub, where are ye??

Attack of the pop-culture contractions

2011-06-01T22:41:00.000-04:00

It has been commented to me, both in person and via My Friend, The Internet, that while it's ok for a Manly Man to carry a bag (as I often do), as soon as you put your wallet in it you have a "murse" -- a "male purse" -- and have to check your Y-chromosome at the door.

I did, in fact, throw my wallet in there the other day, so this exchange with N shouldn't have surprised me.

N: (looking at my chest) You have hair!
B: Yep
N: How come?
B: Men have hair on their chests
N: (grabbing at my "pectorals") And you have two of these like Mommy!

That's right. My two-year-old told me I have moobs.

Don't mind me. I'll be sobbing silently in the corner, with just an occasional quiet gasp to let you know that I'm still here.

His concern for my feelings shows through in other ways, too.

N: Daddy, why you say "Goddammit?"
B: Well, N, because you threw water on me during bath and I got angry.
N: Heh heh heh
B: No, N, it was not funny.
N: Yes it was! I laughed at you!
B: No, N, it's not funny when...
N: (pinching his own chest) NIPPLE!!!!!

Married without children

2011-05-23T22:26:00.001-04:00

As of yet, anyway.

Z has announced that he's picked out his future wife.

Z: Mommy?
B: Daddy, Z. I'm Daddy.
Z: Me and H are going to get married.
B: Yeah? H from the Giraffe room?
Z: Yeah. Not until we're 13 or 14, though.
B: OK. Does...er...does H know that she's marrying you?
Z: Oh, yeah. She was going to marry her brother, but then I told her that there are laws that say that you can't marry, like, your brother, or your mommy, or anything like that? 'Cause it's bad for the babies and the...the babies? So she's gonna marry me.

Go ahead. Ask me. Ask me how Z knows about inbreeding. And I'll say, "Ask D. She talked to him about it." D has....problems...filtering her conversations with Z sometimes.

It turns out that Z has already made a garment of some sort out of a big piece of paper. It's about two feet square, with a big hole in the middle ("for when I get older and my head gets really big"), decorated to the nines.

Luckily, we'll see him often.

Z: Daddy? Guess what?
B: What?
Z: When I get married to H, I'm going to come live with you every weekend.
B: That'll be great, Z! Is H going to come live with us, too?
Z: Oh. Um? Maybe. Probably she'll go live with her parents.

H, if you're reading, you're always welcome here.

* * *

Meanwhile, Z and N are getting ... closer.

Z (at the bagel shop): Daddy! Daddy! Guess what? N AND I JUST TOUCHED TONGUES!!!
B (glancing at all the other parents): Ummm....I'm not sure how to respond to that, Z.
N: TONGUES! HAHAHAHA! TONGUES!

Unfair

2011-05-19T10:27:00.002-04:00

This morning, N lay down in his room and told me he wasn't going to daycare. I walked away for a few moments, during which time B got in the car and headed out. "Bye!" shouted Z at the retreating Matrix, and I shouted, "Bye!" too. Next thing you know, I hear a huge wail coming out of N's room, followed by hysterical sobs and, "No! No!" That's right. He thought I'd left him by himself at home. I felt horrible. "Look," I told him. "I don't even have my shoes on. No way was I going to leave you here alone." He stopped crying after a couple of minutes. "Okay," I said. "Let's go."

N: No. I'm going to stay home by myself.

So, based on that, I'm guessing he recovered. Of course, I still feel bad, although some of that might be due to Z spending a portion of yesterday evening grilling me on funeral plans in the event of my demise before worrying that the MNFolks wouldn't know about it and somehow miss it. This led to exchanges such as the following:

D: Don't worry. If we die, the MNFolks will know about it and come get you.
Z: [with tears in his eyes] But then I won't live in the same place as Saba and Safta.
D: Well, we're not going to die. [resists curling up into a ball so as to avoid the notice of the Evil Eye] [also resists saying, "At least not at the same time."]
Z: But what if MNBro doesn't know where the funeral is?

Etc. etc.

Then he cried for a while for some stupid reason, which I assumed was actually that he didn't like thinking about us dying. That said, MNBro and MNSil, you should be aware that I told him that he could live with you even when he was a grownup. This is his other concern, the expectation that one day he'll be expected to move out. Although at that time, he does plan to buy a convertible.

In general, Z has been a Diva Extraordinaire lately, bursting into tears at the slightest provocation and telling us exactly how unfair we are. Last night, he went so far as to send N into our bedroom as a messenger.

N [coming to a halt at the foot of the bed, looking straight at me]: You're not fair!
D: Did Ziv tell you to tell me that?
N: Yes!

For his part, N is still enthralled by the whole peeing standing up thing, although he saves his more substantial potty use for daycare. After the first time he pooped successfully, he got to have lunch with Lisa, one of the administrators. This is due to a misunderstanding too dull to explain here, but which somehow gave N the impression that boys who poop in the potty get to have lunch with Lisa. "I've never been a Potty Incentive before!" Lisa told me this morning during drop off, feigning excitement. Then she said, "You and B must be so exhausted, having to answer all those questions. Or does Ziv not let N ask any questions?"

"They just ask them at the same time," I told her. "We answer whichever one is louder."

"They were very good questions," Lisa continued. "But I was like, 'Okay, but eat something already.'"

Your guess is as good as mine as to whether Lisa will reprise her role as Potty Incentive for other children. As for N, his next goal is pooping three times in the potty, at which point he'll get to have lunch with... wait for it... Ziv.

Achievements

2011-05-16T12:49:00.005-04:00

We may not have been blogging much, but that doesn't mean that we haven't been taking pictures of the kids. Actually, it does mean just that, but whatever.

At any rate, some achievements around our place, some recent and some not so recent:

1) Ziv has decided he likes B after all.

2) The boyz have discovered that markers can double as face paint.

2a) B agreed. At least until we discovered that even washable markers don't necessarily wash off.

3) For Mother's Day we went to the Toledo Zoo.

N gasped in wonder when he saw the seals. Z was like, "What else is there to see around here?" The answer, of course, was polar bears.

Unlike the bear we saw last year, who seemed to be doing those OCD laps, the bear this year was busy playing with his buddy, Polar Bear #2 (not pictured). The Royal Wedding had nothing on these for sheer entertainment value.

Z: What else is there to see around here?
A: Giant bee made out of plastic

N is deathly afraid of bees, afraid enough that he doesn't want to watch cartoons about them.

4) Z decided that it is his job to contribute to the reproductive success of dandelions.

5) N has learned to ride a bike without training wheels (!!!!) as long as you help him get started.

N isn't as impressed by this achievement as we are. He is more excited by this final achievement:

5) You can pee into the potty standing up!

This means that when we've put him on the phone to report to various grandparents that he rode his bike without training wheels, he's used this opportunity to declare, "I peed in the potty!"

Today, in fact, he even agreed to wear underwear after establishing that it's okay to fart in them. So perhaps he won't be going to college in diapers after all...

Maybe God exists after all

2011-05-13T15:38:00.002-04:00

At preschool they've been on their annual trip to Israel, which includes a pretend flight with a real in-flight episode of Sesame Street. Yesterday, Z's class went to Jerusalem and visited a Wailing Wall made of cardboard boxes. As is the custom, they wrote notes to God and tucked them between the "bricks."

Z: And you know what I wrote on my note?
D: What?
Z: I love you, God. Do you think that made God feel good?

This soon led to questions such as, "Do you believe in God?" which B handled with aplomb. "Well, I believe in God," Z told us earnestly, and then went on to deride a classmate who had written, "I love you, Dad," on her own note. So, as you can see, he's mastering the fundamentals of Zealotry 101. It's not so much that I'm invested in what, exactly, Ziv believes--his belief in a Shoe Fairy that steals shoes that aren't properly put away is steadfast and unyielding--but the thought of Ziv sharing his beliefs or lack of them with other children makes me squirm uncomfortably. I don't want him to be the kid who is like, "Suckas! Your parents are the real Santa!" but I also don't want him to be the kid who is like, "Why does Santa hate Jews?" Which reminds me that around Easter, he announced his plan to believe in whatever the MNFolks believe so that he can get his hands on some of that Easter candy.

Meanwhile, N is convinced that great harm will befall him if he goes running around in T-shirts and shorts. This morning he cried and cried when I forbade him to wear a long-sleeved shirt even though we did back off on the shorts and let him wear pants. In my defense, it's like 82 outside, and apparently N also likes to run around wearing a bike helmet, so he's got to ventilate somehow.

Also, his teacher reports that yesterday he was sitting on the potty (something he refuses to do at home), and suddenly she heard him saying to another boy: "Take off your pants and your underwear, and then you can sit on my lap and we can go potty together."

Which reminds me that the other night I was telling Z, "I can't go potty for you," and he was like, "Wouldn't it be great if you had a hole in your back?" You can imagine the rest of the scenario. And you can also imagine my answer: No. That wouldn't be great at all.

Mostly done

2011-05-12T15:17:00.000-04:00

Except for one student who has taken an incomplete, I am done. And you know what that means: the possibility of more regular bloggy updates.

Today, for example, I spent the day the making the following appointments:
- Dentist, because my tooth hurts.
- Waxing lady, because, darn it, I'm spoiled. The truth is, I don't think I'll be able to wear shorts this summer because of the state of my ankles, which is pretty much as follows: Nonexistent. That's right. I'm only 18 weeks in, and my ankles are already AWOL. My goal: somehow hide this fact from my mother.
- Doctor, because I've had a bruise on my hand for six weeks and counting.

This will bring the number of trips to the doctor for this week (if we count the waxing lady as, you know, something akin to a psychologist) to five, because N was sick on Monday, and just for the heck of it, on Tuesday, I had some kind of Hormonal Moment that landed us in triage so we could verify that Bucketface wasn't planning on emerging quite yet. This Hormonal Moment involved much crying and an urgent phone call from my parents:

My dad: Do you think you could maybe leave D, go home and bring Nadav's sheet over? He's hysterical. You didn't leave us any car seats, so we can't go do this ourselves.
B: Uh. Well, given that the midwife i about to come see us, yes. Yes, it would be too much trouble.

Okay, maybe B didn't say that, but he thought that, because, you know, there was a big poster on the wall where it said that I was experiencing a sign of preterm labor (menstrual cramps, if you must know, like seven hours straight of them), thus validating the crying even though, logically, I knew that I wasn't.

The Obvious Solution, which is that my dad stay with the boyz while my mom goes to our house to get N's sheet was Not to Be Spoken, and so we only spoke of it to each other.

Anyway, Bucketface still had a heartbeat, cervix was still closed, cramps were still unexplained, but hey, he was alive and the cervix was still closed, and so, my friends, I'll deal with the mystery. I also have concluded the following: Until I start actually feeling Bucketface moving, which, damn it, should have happened last week, I can't go longer than four weeks between visits to the Midwife. It's too nerve wracking.

D: It's like I'm not even pregnant, I'm just fat and tired.
Actual Non-waxing Psychologist: Oh? Maybe you better come back in a few weeks so we can make sure you actually CARE ABOUT THIS BABY before he's born.

Meanwhile, the midwife who was like, "I'm reassured," was also like, "Third pregnancies are notorious for being uncomfortable. If you thought your joints hurt last time..."

As for me, I know the real problem is that I preemptively bought some car seats that will enable us to put all three boyz (if Bucketface actually survives) in the back seat of our little Civic. They were on clearance. My superstition only goes so far when faced with a 30% discount. Cue the Vengeful Cramping.

Since school ended, most mornings I spend 20 minutes or so each morning pretending to smear ear wax on Ziv, much to his delight. This does wonders for Z's mood, at least in the a.m., and makes me feel guilty for the two semesters of neglect I just inflicted on him.

Z: It didn't even hurt when you spanked me!
D: I wasn't trying to hurt you.
Z: You weren't?

Yes. That's right. I wasn't.

Z: Daddy, did you help put the baby inside Mommy?
B: I did.
Z: What did you do?
D: Oh look! There's a grackle out by the bird feeder!
B: Oh look! A cement mixer!

Okay, I'm exaggerating. B says he has an explanation all ready, but I plan to to eavedrop from the safety of another room, so I don't have to deal with exchanges such as the following:

Z: But everybody knows that God is pretend.

And, even better:

B: We better call Grandma b/c it's Mother's Day.
Z: But she doesn't even celebrate Mother's Day. She's Christian.

Meanwhile, N has more practical concerns:

N: Is the doctor going to put a stick in my mouth?
D: For the love of God [an expression I don't use but conveys that fact that this is the 400th time he's asked this], no!

Of course, the last time I told Nadav no, he ended up getting swabbed for strep anyway, but that was a fluke. Surely a two-year-old can understand that. But whatever. The other news is that he's probably going to get an official asthma diagnosis in a couple of weeks.

D: Do you think our house is too clean?
B [surveys crushed Cheerios on carpet]: Yeah, I don't think so.

So from whence all this asthma? I'll tell you. It's b/c we got rid of the cat.

Anyway, the last bit of info for today is that while we were in Triage One awaiting the Midwife, we could see the names and info of every other woman who was there at the same time b/c the nurse forgot to log out of the system. This is how I can tell you that I was the oldest woman there. I can also tell you that one woman was doing VBAC and another was getting C-Section, and several women were fully effaced but only at 5 or 6 cm.

Which also reminds me that when I called the dentist to make the appointment, I was told that my account had been suspended because I owed them a bunch of money.

D: I do?
Receptionist: You haven't been here since 2003.

She sounded very disapproving, by the way.

D: Can you make sure you're looking at the right person?

Turns out she was looking at another woman with the same last name and the same birthday AND her first name was schmDenita. Now you tell me: what are the odds?

A few random exchanges

2011-05-10T09:12:00.000-04:00

Not a real post -- just a few funny conversations.

B: Z, you need to eat the crust of the bread
Z: Awwwwwwwww!!!!!
B: Z, you can't eat junky toast [note: butter, cinnamon, and sugar] if you tear off the crust and throw half the bread away.
[two minutes pass]
Z: Daddy? My crust fell on the floor accidentally. It's been there for, like, ten minutes.
B: You can still eat it, Z.
Z: Awwwwwwwwww!!!!!

* * *

Also this morning:

N (out of nowhere): Oh, crap!
B (from next room): What's wrong N?
N: I forgot that you're a Bad Guy!

Don't bite me.

2011-05-05T10:32:00.003-04:00

Today, in an act of parental irresponsibility, we've lefts the kids with a sitter so that I can, you know, grade. Instead, I'm propping up my eyelids using a combination of colorful grading pens and Diet Coke. Let me tell you: pregnancy and Lexapro apparently do not mix. At the same time, last night I dreamed that B and I had decided to separate before, you know, becoming truly entangled with the upcoming house purchase (because kids, my friends, are much less of a commitment than buying a house which would then need to be sold so we could split the proceeds, and B could move back to St. Paul, and I'd be left alone raising Mr. Cranky, his brother Mr. Literal, and Bucketface, who probably wouldn't survive the shock anyway). So basically, yes, really shouldn't be giving up the Lexapro.

In my waking hours, I'm grading and serving on a committee that has so much stuff to do that even though classes are over, this is the first day this week I haven't had to go into work. The schmProvost took us out to lunch to thank us for our diligence, or whatever, but everyone who ordered before me ordered the half sandwich and the soup, so I did too, because the waitress was like, "A full sandwich is big." But you know I wanted to the full sandwich. I did. Which is why I already look seven-months pregnant. But whatever. My point is that during this lunch I learned that one of my colleagues has an almost-6-year-old who has been taking piano lessons.

D: Already?
Colleague: Well, the teacher told us that if he can read, he's ready to start. So he started shortly after he turned 5.
D [thinking]: Darn it. Z can't read and he's almost 5.

What Z can do is yell at us: "Not another word!" he'll scream. "I'm never talking to Daddy again!" Or, "You never let me do anything!" Or his favorite: "That's not fair giving a guy a shot down there!" which the nostalgic among you will recall is a line in Schoolhouse Rock's "Interjections" song.

Meanwhile, N is a super literal phase. Yesterday, my father was holding onto N's upper arm while N tried to pedal his bike (pedaling is hard, y'all), and N was like, "Saba is holding me so I won't fall and break my shoulder. If I break my shoulder, I will need a sling." He was not convinced by my reassurance that it's difficult to fall off a bike with training wheels even when no one is holding you. "I won't go in the mud," he reassured me, "because bikes can't swim." Other pronouncements: "Cars can't swim." "I don't like bees because they bite me," "I don't like chipmunks because they bite me," "I'm going to climb down by myself. I'll be very careful," and "I'm sticking my fingers in the outlet!"

Babysitter: Do you ever meet any friends at the playground?
N: No. We meet neighbors.

The sitter we have today is new.

N: What color is her car?
D: I don't know.
N: I think it's going to be red, because Sally's car is red and Josefina's car is red and Susan's car is red! Do ducks have teeth? Will they bite me?

Some entertainment for your Friday, what's left of it

2011-04-29T23:15:00.000-04:00

Sale pending

2011-04-23T22:25:00.003-04:00

Well, today we signed the last piece of paperwork, and I believe that's pretty much it for the house between now and closing, which will be July 5. I've been walking around the neighborhood worrying that all the lawns are sopping with water and that the freeway is too loud, and as for B, he's retired to bed with anxiety. Typical house buying angst?? Tell us yes!

*

It's Passover, and the only thing the boys like to eat reliably is Bamba, which are like Cheetos but peanut flavored--and fortified with vitamins!--and technically only legal for Sepharadic Jews, which we're not. Anyway, I've used our Sepharadic Jew exception to eat a bunch of Fritos, so whatever. They keep me awake on the drive. My larger point, though, is that the boys are walking around constantly cranky because they ARE STARVING to death. TO DEATH! Oh, and constipated too. Unless, of course, they're begging for Bamba.

My less large point is that we've been eating a lot at my parents', because my mom has more patience for cooking without flour than B or I do. Or for cooking at all. So the other day, Z is like, "What is that?"

D: Lamb.
B: Mmm.... Lamb...
Z [in horror]: Lamb? That's lamb?? Is it a baby???

So there, he finally made the connection as to where his food comes from. We have yet to touch upon salami.

*

Nadav is in full Terrible Two mode. We're thinking maybe one of you is willing to take him--Johanna?--for a few months. But yesterday we went to the doctor, and N was like, "You have no hair!"

Doctor: That's right. It fell off my head and got stuck to my face.

Obviously, he's bearded. But now N is all paranoid about his own hair doing the same despite the doctor's assurances that this only happens to grown ups.

He is also paranoid about dogs: "I don't like dogs woofing in my house." When we walk by them, he worries they're going to eat them. He's also worried that chipmunks are going to eat him as well. When we went to visit the house while the inspector was there, he insisted that I carry him until he could ascertain the inspector wasn't going to eat him either. "Did he climb down the ladder safely?" he wanted to know. And on his little report from school, we were told that after one of his classmates put a cowboy hat on one of the teachers (all of whom are women), and said, "You a cowboy!" N corrected him as follows: "No. She's a cowperson." So there you go.

*

And speaking of constipation, today the boys amused themselves for a good ten minutes by pretending Blaine, Barbie's temporary rebound while she was broken up with Ken, was pooping on me. You knew he was pooping because the boys would have him bend over, aim his butt at me, and then one of them would say, "Poop!" Nadav, especially, thought this was funny and added in some grunts. So really, that potty humor, is there anyone who doesn't find it funny?

And how about Z's wish that next time I need to pee, a pipe would magically surface in whatever room we're in and my pants would magically roll down, and then I wouldn't have to stop what ever it is I'm doing, which--in this scenario--is hugging him and Nadav? Maybe I'm not remembering the part about the pants right, but I'm sure about the pipe.

Z: Wouldn't that be great, Mommy?
D: Uh.
N: Poop!

BucketFace

2011-04-16T22:19:00.001-04:00

The kids have taken to calling me terrible, terrible names when we wrestle (or as N likes to call it, "play wrestling"). "Bad Guy" is in heavy rotation, as is "Haman" and "Mini-Man." So it shouldn't have been a surprise to see them come up with these gems.

For those of you who have better things to do than watch a three and a half minute movie, the high points are:

We're having another baby(!!???!!)
(a boy)
in October
and Z wants to call him BucketFace. Or maybe "Ry."

Z was (and is) very excited, although his reaction to the fact that it's not the baby sister he requested repeatedly was a big chagrinned.

At this point, Z starting running and jumping around like a maniac. And we all know how that's going to end, don't we?

He recovered, give or take a big ol' red mark around his eye. I'd like to tell you that it pains me to watch this and I can't stand to see him injure himself like that, but if I'm honest I'll have to tell you that I've watched this a bunch of times and it stays funny. Go ahead and do so yourself -- I can wait.

Meanwhile, BucketFace has passed his first round of tests without so much as breaking a sweat, which is especially impressive given that, based on sleeping next to her each night, it must be sweltering inside D's belly.

* * *

But wait, you may be asking: what's going on with the house hunt?

Well, things have taken a dramatic turn:

We've put in an offer on a house. And it's been accepted. And the inspection is Tuesday, and then don't-look-Ethel! I think we're on our way to home-ownership.

This is it here. It's big and expensive (oh, lordy, how it's expensive) and backs up right to the school which we're probably not going to attend anyway but has a playground and there's a great kitchen and...well, it's the biggest decision we're likely to ever make, and as you might expect it scares the living shit out of me. One of the downsides of being pretty good at math is that I can easily calculate how many years of income we're paying for the house.

I plan to ease our financial stress by cutting back on luxuries like deodorant and pants.

Somehow buying a house scares me even more so than having another kid, which I don't understand, but there you have it. I'm so mysterious I'm beyond my own ken.

* * *

So. D got tenure, and pregnant, and probably a house, the latter two of which she's graciously agreed to share with me. It's been a big Spring, I gotta tell you. I'm ready for things to settle down for a while, unless the excitement comes from a lottery ticket or a surprise appointment by the Vatican.

Parents of the Year

2011-04-04T22:04:00.002-04:00

If you're a loyal reader, then you know that I have a constant case of TMI when it comes to the kids. Case in point: Z was asking me about the words to "Jimmy Crack Corn," and I ended up telling him all about slavery and the Civil War. In my defense, I've been thinking for a while that it's important that we help him frame race relations rather than leaving him to do it on his own, but surely, surely, I could've left it with "'master' means 'boss'" for the time being. I suck. Ziv, on the other hand, immediately wanted to know what happened if the slaves happened to have a baby who looked white.

Anyway, he's been sick, and today, to air him out, I took him to my mother's, where he wrote a very charming letter to his SeattleCousins that we must photograph before we actually send, and which I'm sure will fail to impress them with all its "I love you"s. He was doing better, but his refusal to eat was getting on my nerves (and on his, if all the whining is any indication), so I pulled out brute-force tactics and took him to Mr. Greek's for lunch, because even the ill can't resist chocolate-chip pancakes. We picked up B on the way, and then circled for a while looking for parking. So we're getting out of a car, and we notice a man in full regalia holding bagpipes.

B: Wedding?

Then we saw the hearse. And the man started playing. And I was like, "Oh, it's a funeral. Let's go." But B saw a learning opportunity here, and he explained to Ziv all about funerals while Ziv stood watching the pall-bearers wheel the coffin out and load it into the hearse. It was a very nice coffin, I admit, but it wasn't nearly as fun to watch the teary people who followed it, small children in tow, and that's when we finally we tore ourselves away from the spectacle, telling Ziv that they were very sad and needed privacy.

Fast-forward several hours to approximately 20 minutes ago. Z comes out of his room. "I was thinking a really sad thought," he told me. "I thought Safta died and there was a ceremony, and you took me, and you died, and I was still a kid and I didn't know where to go." Then he started weeping. It was startling enough that N hopped out of bed and was like, "Is Ziv going to daycare?" And then, when I told him Z was just sad, N hovered right next to him, waiting to hug him because that's what you do for sad people. "Can Nadav hug you?" I asked the sobbing Z. He shook his head no, and so N tried to settle for a kiss. Meanwhile, I was, of course, holding Ziv and saying, "This will never happen. There will never be a time we don't take care of you. Blah blah." Eventually he calmed down, acquiesced to N's hug, and allowed B to sit with him even though he refused to tell him what all the fuss is about.

This is not Z's first moment of panic about being left to fend for himself. He's experienced similar anxieties about having to fly to MN after both B and I die and not knowing how to find MNPa and MNMa. And I can't help feeling that every time I promise him that this will never happen, I'm pretty much guaranteeing that both B and I will die in terrible ways, perhaps taking everyone except Z and N along with us. Ugh.

So anyway, today's lesson: slavery is okay for four-year-olds if they're white; funerals not so much.

You've been warned.

2011-04-03T19:16:00.002-04:00

We went to Red Robin earlier today, after which the kids hotfooted it out of the restaurant, helium balloons in hand, while the greeters impassively held the doors open for them.

B [calling after them]: Okay, fine! Go ahead and play in the parking lot! Just make sure to get out of the way if you see any cars coming!
Ziv [earnestly]: Which parking lot?

To their credit, the greeters laughed. Still, lesson learned: four is too early for sarcasm.

Beware the giant salami!

2011-04-02T20:48:00.004-04:00

I've spent the last month or so pretty much asleep whenever possible. Grading? Kids? They can wait. And then today, I phoned in a refill for my meds, which, perhaps not coincidentally, I also started at a new dosage a month ago, which is when I noticed the warning label on the container... you think?

Meanwhile, Ziv is sick, as sick as he's been in a long time: fever, coughing, periods of just lying around while waiting for the Tylenol to kick in. This didn't stop us from dragging him to see three houses yesterday morning because--you know--we're going to find a house if it kills us. Unless, of course, the house contains potentially carcinogenic insulation. All three houses were a bust. After the first one, Z spent most of the time sitting on various strangers' sofas and playing on my iPod, then declaring, "I want to buy that house! Why can't we buy that house?"

"Okay," I told B finally, discouraged. "Let's buy Super Practical If a Bit Expensive House that is two houses down from where one of my oldest and dearest friends grew up." Said house is a colonial with tons of space, updated kitchen, and newer roof. It's also a bit above our sweet spot for pricing.

B: Are you sure?
D: Yes. I mean, it's Super Practical If a Bit Expensive!

Twenty minutes later, we had all the papers signed; twenty minutes after that, the qualms began. The qualms are not rational, sadly, and go something as follows:

- Everyone else in this neighborhood seems to be a cardiologist or some kind of self-made businessperson. With dogs. And lawn services. There are not our people.
- It's one of those houses that only has windows on two sides.
- You can hear the freeway pretty well, even better than you can hear it from our rental.
- The owners were taking the fabulous $3K play structure out back with them.
- It's a neighborhood in which people live a block from a playground and still have $3K play structures.

Whatever. I panicked. And since this was my fault, I was the one tasked with calling the Realtor and asking if it was too late to back out. I left a message, but B was the one who picked up the phone when she called us back.

B: She says maybe we should work with a different Realtor.
D: Really??
B: Just kidding.

Ha ha.

Okay, but really, I'm beginning to lose hope.

*

There's a new baby at daycare whose name is Nadav. This is a source of endless fascination for our Nadav, who apparently feels tremendous kinship toward this baby. Apparently, he asks to go visit baby N all the time.

N: When I grow up, I drive a car. And when baby Nadav grow up, he drive a car too!

On an unrelated note, yesterday at dinner he asked us whether, if we moved, he'd be coming along.

*

A bit about charitable giving:

Ziv: I think we should give some money to Japan because they had a giant salami that killed a lot of people.

He was rewarded for his generosity by me, my mother, and my dad pretty much weeping with laughter while he yelled at us to stop making fun of him.

*

There was a dinner on Thursday night to celebrate the conferring of schmTenure. It was at the president's house, which is far enough beyond campus that I can't imagine any students walking all the way out there to picket or swim in the pool (I think there's a pool). Every time some small talk started flowing, it was curtailed by the president presenting one of the newly schmTenured folks with what seemed like a scripted question: "So, X, I understand your research is about Y. Why don't you tell us about it during the salad course?" The last twenty minutes were devoted to a long description of upcoming renovations to the schmLibrary. "I want people to walk in there and say, 'Wow!'" It was hard not to think bitter little thoughts about nonexistent raises and people having been schmFired just last year, except that I think I may have developed a little crush on the schmProvost that has nothing to do with either her politics or leadership abilities, which I haven't really witnessed directly, or anything else practical for that matter, except that she seems smart and is the kind of person who sands her own floors, and like the good daughter of my father, all I want is to be loved by people who are much smarter than I am.

Meanwhile, back at home, the babysitter texted us, Ziv was deigning to have some supper despite claiming to be severely exhausted, too exhausted to bathe, or brush teeth, although perhaps he could manage some dessert.

B: He really can be a drama queen sometimes.
Babysitter: Ha ha.

Not three hours later, he came into our room crying and burning up. Which shows us what's what, I guess.

As for me, I later dreamed that I was being quizzed by various colleagues to make sure I wasn't faking my degree. I flunked, of course.

Day after blues

2011-03-25T12:46:00.002-04:00

Initially, the main thing I felt about the house was relieved. Then I talked to my mom, who was like, "No house is perfect," and now I'm feeling anxious.

Mom: You might by a house that needs an entirely new kitchen, and that's $20K right there.

But a new kitchen isn't a potential carcinogen, is it? Plus, do you ever really need an entirely new kitchen, as opposed to some new appliances? Oh, why, why can't we be the handy sort who are like, "Cabinets? No problem!" Instead, we're the sort who go to IKEA and wonder (at least I do) if we could ever get shelving to line up so exactly as they do in their little displays.

This morning, both boyz woke up in a foul mood. N didn't want to take off his pajamas, and when B took away Elmo, the only punishment that actually seems to matter to N, and N started crying, Ziv decided to join in the merriment. "I wish no one would yell in this house ever again!" he said.

"Me too," I agreed with him.

But a minute later, he was the one yelling. "Put on my shirt! Right now!" When I told him that I don't obey commands like that one, he started weeping. "PUT ON MY SHIRT!" What would the Supernanny say?

Soon enough, they were both sitting at their little IKEA table where they eat breakfast (did you know that dried oatmeal can remove finish?) and wailing because I wouldn't read to them. In my defense, I had to go to work. "I know!" I said. "Let's listen to some Sound of Music!" Because is there no one who can resist Maria von Trapp? Well, it turns out, Ziv can, but even he can't resist Mary Poppins. Music. Savage beast. Blah blah.

But still, if you were betting people, will we find a house? And does these two things going wrong on the same day mean more bad news is around the corner? And if so, what is that bad news going to be??

We didn't make a mistake, right? And Z will still like regular kindergarten, won't he? Because I have to admit that once the one who worked with B revealed that her daughter--who you may or may not know once mummified a chicken just because she was curious about the process--goes to the Open School, I'm even sadder that we didn't get in. Blah.

Poof

2011-03-25T00:08:00.000-04:00

It could be! It might be! It's...no, foul ball.

It was a very important day with our phone today, and not just because I finally told the IU people to stop calling us when I was trying to put my kids to bed and please put me on your do not call list.

The big news is that the phone rang and our realtor told us that the estimate to remove the vermiculite was "at least $15K." The guy who was out there found some of it in the basement fireplace and reported that the way the ductwork was set up in the attic should have "never been installed that way" with that kind of insulation up there. So, between that and the need to replace the sewer we got priced out and have in turn bowed out of the negotiations.

It's disappointing, but we're both feeling a bit of relief. Things felt like they got out of control pretty quickly there, and while we're certainly not happy about being back at square one, it's better than getting into a house and finding out it needs $25k of work before we feel as if we can safely live there. The people I really feel bad for are the current owners ---they're a family construction business, and bought the house to flip it, and suddenly they're stuck with a house that has these issues. I'm sure they'll find a buyer that doesn't care about the insulation, but in the meantime they've been paying taxes and (I assume) a second mortgage.

So...that's the breaks. We're looking for a house. Stay tuned.

The other phone call is one that didn't happen. We put Z's name in the lottery to get into the local alternative-education grade school (project-based, constructivist learning philosophy, mixed-age classrooms, yadda yadda yadda). The winners were notified today. We were not notified.

Besides being, you know, my first educational choice for my child, getting into that school would have meant that we didn't care what grade school any potential new house was zoned to. As it is, we need to take school quality into consideration as we start looking again. Not too hard in Ann Arbor, as most of the schools are excellent, but it would have taken a big chunk off the cost of any potential purchase.

* * *

Z has become, apparently, quite the Connect-4 shark. This makes me ridiculously proud in that I prided myself on being super-awesome at Connect-4 when I was in probably 4th grade or so. The teachers tell me that he essentially never loses; one of them plays with him just so he can lose ever now and then, and he's taken to letting his opponents take two turns in a row on occasion to keep things interesting. I watched a few games and discovered his secret: most of the 4 year olds see vertical or horizontal runs. Z can see both. I also discovered quickly that the diagonals are like the 6th dimension to him -- he knows they exist, but has no idea how to perceive them.

Yeah. I'm gonna buy a game and play with him. I'm super excited about it.

* * *

N has been narrating his life a lot lately, the same way Z did at this age, but with more imagination. The other day they were calling me Haman (the bad guy from the Purim story) and laughing like crazy, and suddenly N stopped and started rubbing my head and arms. "I'm putting on your costume," he said.

He also gave us this gem:

N: I want to ride in a school bus!

B: OK, N, we'll figure out how to make that happen.

N: WITH MY SHOES!!!

* * *

Wish us luck, folks. It's starting to look like we could use some.

Feeling a little down

2011-03-20T23:53:00.002-04:00

This afternoon, we finally heard back from the sellers who were like, "The sewer's working fine. We will word our letter carefully so that we don't concede whether or not it's orangeburg tile even as we make it clear that we're not doing anything for you. We expect to hear back from you by March 21 if you plan to go forward." March 21, as you might note, is in approximately six minutes. Yes, it lasts for a full 24 hours, but...

Also, we'd been celebrating preemptively this year thinking of how wonderful it'll be not to pay child care for Z next year, only to discover that we were wrong about this, the kindergarten only lasts half a day, that the day to sign up for that second half a day is tomorrow, which we can't do because we don't know where we'll be, and that even that second half day won't get us to the end of the workday, so on top of that we'll have to pay another $17.50 a day for aftercare.

B: If we have a third child, we're going to pay more for them to go to daycare than you get for working, especially counting gas.

Whatever. We're nowhere near destitution--we'll just have to start drinking wine from a box and give up massages or something because that's how upper-middle-class we are--but doesn't replacing the sewer have a different ring to it when it costs the same as a year of daycare you didn't actually think you were going to have to pay, not including summer camp, which costs more than daycare, it turns out?? That's it. Z is getting a paper route.

Also, I dreamed that Agent quit the business. I will never write again.

It's now two minutes into March 21. Bleh. We asked for an extension, of course, but between that and kindergarten woes, well, I'm now feeling nervous about the doctor's appointment I have tomorrow, which is routine, etc., except between the junky lungs, the sewer, and Z telling me how he hates all grownups, I'm like, "You know the physical won't go well either." I'm guessing they'll find some kind of exotic parasite. With sharp, pointy teeth. That streams nonstop renditions of "Head, shoulders, knees, and toes" directly to my brain when it isn't forcing me to read "Batman vs. the Joker" over and over again. Oh wait, that's no parasite... it's that junky-lung-ed boy who, every time I change his diaper, announced, "You a bad guy! You Haman!" because child care might be expensive, but it's effective nonetheless. Happy Purim!

Quickie update

2011-03-20T21:35:00.001-04:00

It isn't pneumonia, it's just "junky lungs," so we've been hitting the albuterol, that old favorite, hard, but otherwise continuing as usual.

As for the house... Ugh. Send good vibes. Or wishes for those winning lottery numbers...

Stalled

2011-03-18T14:14:00.002-04:00

I know you've been refreshing madly, wondering to yourself, "Okay, are they homeowners?" and "Suckers!" The answer is... "Maybe," and "Yes, indeed!" The truth is, we're just sitting around twiddling our thumbs and waiting to hear back while the sellers, I think, are debating whether or not we have a bad sewer line. Really, it's been 9 days. That's long enough, in case you're wondering, to develop anxiety dreams about the house (me) and to schedule more showings (B) because, you know, if we're going to have to pay an extra $20K or so to replace the pipes and get rid of possible asbestos, then we can also just spend an extra $20K on a better house.

In the meantime, both Z and N have taken turns being sick. Z was sick Saturday and Sunday, and then N took over on Tuesday and is still going strong. B also reports that when he went to watch the Purim parade earlier today at the J, Z seemed to be operating at less than 100%. N and I missed the parade because we were at the doctor's office for more than two hours, during which N had two breathing treatments. Yes, you know where this is going: chest x-ray, during which N freaked out as would any two-year-old who had just had to sit in a doctor's office for two hours only to be sent to a radiologist who was unreasonably insisting he take off his shirt. Anyway, now we're waiting for results. I guess I could ask my friend Google what it means if he does have viral pneumonia, but you know Google--it likes sensational headlines involving dead babies, tfu tfu, knock knock, etc. As for me, I'm thinking, "Well, that's what I get for thinking that I always get pretty much everything I want." And have I told you that my college is doing terrible as far as next year's enrollment goes? As in down something like 40% compared to last year at this time? But whatever. I get what I want, remember?

I spent Monday night in Connecticut, in a motel with cable, where I discovered the fabulous show "First Time Home Buyers." "This fridge doesn't have an ice maker!" complained one first-timer. "That's a deal breaker!" I'll admit passing a judgment or two here, but still, fascinating! How can we get on that show?! And who are these people who can afford house payments of $3100 / month? Yes, yes. I know. Couples without kids. Which reminds that you can buy the toddler in your life a t-shirt that reads, "I'm the reason we can't have nice things."

Inspected

2011-03-09T19:46:00.002-05:00

Today we witnessed an interminable inspection of the house. It was conducted by a bald man who liked to make jokes about his hair and to refer to me as the Queen of the House. He called the basement the Man Cave. B, who had had a doctor's appointment in the morning, sat through the whole thing on an empty stomach, and only began to complain about hunger when we were going into hour 3. "I get stupid around 10:30 when I don't eat," he told the inspector. Then, later, when the inspector tried to accommodate that stupidity, B was like, "I get stupid, but not stupid enough to... try day trading."

Inspector: Ho ho! You're so funny! Sometimes some inspections are just fun! You should try stand-up!

It reads like sarcasm, but all of this was delivered sincerely, right before a bunch of jokes about B being my sugar daddy.

I tell you all this, b/c then, during dinner, Nadav was flapping his arms urgently while he waited for B to open his squeezable yogurt thingie. This is after four terrible, horrible days where we had no yogurt in the house and he pretty much thought he was going to starve to death.

B: Look, he's got the shakes.
D: I guess if he's going to have a substance abuse problem, we can't really complain about yogurt.
B: Yeah. At least yogurt's... [wait for it]... cultured.

So there you go.

*

The house passed inspection-- (Realtor: I've never heard him speak so highly of a house!)-- but not before the looming specter of asbestos (or, as our Realtor calls it, abestos) was brought up and then summarily dismissed as highly unlikely. It's a long, boring explanation about how even if it's there, it's such a low amount that the EPA doesn't even count it, and B assures me that he is convinced by it, but all I can see is Z and N in a cancer ward somewhere down the line and me shaking my fists and wailing, "Why? Why??" So I'm typing this with a big knot in my stomach, and this despite the fact that my kids are practically made out of plastic by this point because I'm too cheap to do the whole glass and wood thing. Or even organic grapes.

Also, if you're going to be paranoid, we think the inspector is deeply religious--he almost joined the Israeli army, he told us, even though he did nothing to trigger either of our Jew-dars. So what if it's his nefarious plot to get rid of non-Israeli Jews by poisoning them and their half-breed offspring slowly with outdated attic insulation??

All of these anxieties, of course, are senseless, especially compared with the fact that our sewer line is probably just waiting to fail-- "a time bomb," the inspector called it, although the plumber himself was more circumspect and downright antisocial, although he did display some butt crack + a bit of butt acne. "I think it's Orangeburg," he said, "but I'll let you know tomorrow." And so we wait.

*

Ziv is continuing to make plans for a hypothetical baby. He wants us to go ahead and have one already so he can play with it and hold it, but he announced that he refuses to room with it because babies cry at night and he doesn't want to be woken up.

Yesterday, he wanted a day off, so we passed the morning playing Hi Ho Cherry-O and other games of chance, all of which I lost, and baking chocolate chip muffins.

(Interruption: Ziv just came out of his room, where he's supposed to be falling asleep.

B: What's up, Z?
Z: What do satellites do?
)

Then I took him to lunch and to preschool so he could do his enrichment classes. Later, after said classes were over, I went back to get him so we could go for a walk with my parents, at which point he cried and cried because he didn't want N to go along. Then, at my parents', he was angry b/c he couldn't take a ball on our walk. He consoled himself by pushing N's stroller all the way to the library where B works, which was fine, except that I wouldn't let him take the stroller on the wheelchair ramp because even I have the occasional standard of safety.

Z: THAT'S NOT FAIR! I HATE YOU! YOU'RE THE WORST MOMMY IN THE WORLD.

My parents were shocked. Shocked. Or maybe embarrassed, because Ziv was yelling this loudly enough that passersby could hear him. As for me, I was like, "Whatever," except for feeling embarrassed that my parents were embarrassed. Ah. The circle of life. Insert your own pithy insight here.

*

There aren't nearly enough stories about N on this blog. So one more. About 9 days ago, given that it's March 9, I was--ahem--going potty, and my pay stub, ironically enough, fell in and I didn't notice it there until it was already getting sucked down the drain. "Oh," I said, "stop! Stop!" This was enough to get N crying hysterically. "I don't like it!" he said. And even now, 9 days later, he's like, "Why paper go down the potty?"

And when we read, he likes to ask the same questions over and over at the same spot.

B: Now, Nadav, I 'm going to turn the page, and there's going to be a picture of a man there. And that man is Police Lieutenant Gordon [of Batman fame].
[B flips page]
N: Who that man?

B: Now, Nadav, Ziv is going to check us in on the computer and you're going to see a picture of me.
[Z enters code on computer]
N: Daddy, is that you?

D: Sheriff chased McQueen, and McQueen got scared.
N: Sometimes I get scared when Zivy chases me.

Every single time. Although perhaps this is our fault for reading him such high-brow lit.

N: Mommy, take off your glasses. I want to look at your moles.
D: You want to see moles? Look at my arms.
N: [impressed] Oh!

Although a couple of minutes later I figured out that by "moles," he actually meant "pupils."

See? This is pretty much why there aren't more N stories on the blog...

CTS

2011-03-05T15:03:00.003-05:00

We're having a bad day with the boys today, which of course leads to exchanges such as this one:

D: Ziv, stop teasing your brother!
Z: I can't. It's Saturday, and that's what I like to do on Saturdays.

And this one:

B [on phone to friends]: Save us from our kids!

In other news, I'm happy to report that the listing status of the house we're supposedly buying has been changed from "Active" to "CTS," a term which took me, I swear, hours of online research to figure out means "continuing to show." You can go on a virtual tour, but please only say good things, nothing along the lines of, "You fools! There's no room for a proper table!" or my mom's favorites, "You won't be able to put a toilet down in the basement," and "Where will you store all your stuff?" or B's favorite, "It's so. much. money," followed by the dry heaves. Or maybe I exaggerate a little. Regardless, now I am spending my newly developed bouts of insomnia wondering how we can disguise the fact that our kids have too many toys. These, my friends, are the problems of the upper-crust bourgeois. No wonder we're such a cheerful bunch.

Also, in case you're interested, included in the price of the house are the towels in the bathrooms. They coordinate.

D: We don't really need towels.
Realtor: Are you sure??
D: Fine. Leave them.

Of course, they were going to throw in bedding as well, most of which isn't to our taste, but...

D: We'll take the sheets!
B: We don't need any more sheets!

He always spoils my fun.

You should also know that before it was flipped, this house housed four Michigan football players, all of whom went on to make it to the NFL (and to trash the house something horrible). If that's not a history to be proud of, I don't know what is...

Faux pas

2011-03-03T20:37:00.003-05:00

Spring break is upon us, which means, you know, back to the blog. At least once midterm grades are turned in. In the meantime, we are maybe one day away from having an offer accepted on a house, unless writing it right here has just jinxed it. But whatever. What I need to tell you is this:

Yesterday, we went to talk to the seller about putting some flooring in one of the rooms. Since we weren't sure what this involved, we dragged my parents along.

D: I hope that's okay. My mom has an eye for this stuff.
Seller [to my dad]: What is she saying? That you don't have an eye?
D's dad: Well...

D'oh! So not the thing to say to a man who is blind in one eye. Awkward.

Which reminds me that today we went out to eat, at which point Z touched me assessingly and was like, "Mommy, if you didn't have big those and a big belly, and you didn't have long hair, would people still know you're a woman?" Then he asked me to look around the restaurant to see if I could identify any people who didn't seem to clearly be men or women. That was pretty much the end of the teachable moment, since we were in a Coney Island, which pretty much means that we were surrounded by balding men and elderly women wearing much hair product and bangs.

One upsmanship

2011-02-25T16:04:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I found myself in a discussion with a woman going through postpartum depression.

Her: I tried to get my husband and my baby to leave the house so I could chop off all my hair.
Me: I convinced my husband to kill the cat.

Then we discussed other methods of self-destruction. Currently, our mutual favorite is overeating.

B: Maybe we could try eating less ice cream.
D: What??
D [thinking]: Like I'm going to let you take away the one thing that makes me happy. Are you crazy?? Time to invest in a secret fridge!

Of course, I'm exaggerating. Many things make me happy. Here is a list:
1) Hearing N pretend to grunt when trying to move something heavy and / or his bowels. "Unnngh!"
2) Listening to Z talk about using his strongest muscles. Also hearing him say "oosually."
3) Being done with student conferences for today (today's tally: 5 shows, 3 no-shows, although two actually told me about their no-shows in advance).
4) Z and N telling B, "You Haman, Daddy!"

Okay, that's just four things, but it's only b/c I am done with conferences, and surely, I have better things to do with my time than come up with this kind of list. Like, you know, drive home. Through Baskin Robbins.

Three-minute post

2011-02-21T16:37:00.003-05:00

I am sitting in my office stewing because outside my window, there's what looks suspiciously like a storm, and inside my office there's a notable absence of students, one of whom was supposed to come at 4, and one of whom was supposed to come at 4:30. 4:30-guy has already not shown up for conferences twice, at least. Whatevah. Am I justified in not agreeing to meet with him for the rest of the semester? Why, of course not. So not so whatevah.

On the bright side, my backpack's all packed.

One minute left. I'm trying to think of something to tell you about the kids.
1) N has learned to selectively not hear us. It is driving us crazy.
2) As is true in any zero-sum game, this has actually served to make Ziv more pliant and charming. For example, yesterday, before we went out to look at yet another house, he asked B to walk through all the rooms in our own house (the rental) with him holding hands.
3) Damn it, I want that house where they won't negotiate with us. Why won't they give us that house???? Why?????
4) B does not want that house. He is ticked off at the builders, who were like, "The reason we're not countering is b/c we're going to throw in the fern towels that were in the bathroom."
5) House hunting is quickly stopping being fun.

Okay, it's 4:42. Now I'm off to risk life and limb getting home. And about my two stander-uppers, I have just one thing to say: bastards.

You're never too young

2011-02-16T22:07:00.003-05:00

The other day, I tried to get the very speech-impeded N to say "peanuts" when talking about "peanuts." Because what I kept hearing was "penis." N immediately caught on to the distinction, and we spent the next half hour saying, "Peanuts!" "No, penis!" over and over to each other while N laughed hysterically.

Then, maybe it was this morning, but who can remember, Ziv invented a creature (or perhaps he was wishing this upon himself--again, who can remember?) with fifteen butts and something like seven penises that squirt pee everywhere. Then, under special circumstances, the seven would become one big penis.

B: Hmm... I think there's some Japanese anime guy on the phone.

Anyway, so there you go. You are never too young for the penis jokes. Either that, or I have some kids who are extraordinarily advanced at something other than nose-picking.

Oh, which reminds me that today in class we were looking at an ad in which there's a guy who is holding a towel strategically in front of himself, and next to him is a huge penis-shaped cactus.

Student: Is that a cactus? I wish I had one of those.

Then, later, we looked at an ad featuring a diamond, and I said, "As you can see, she's wearing this huge vitamin." Now what would Freud say about that?

Just in case there's a sibling

2011-02-15T22:35:00.000-05:00

Z has been on a crusade to get a baby. He's not certain he'll still want it when it becomes, you know, not a baby ("I think I'm ok with it growing up"), but he's latched onto the idea of naming one.

So he just paraded out of his room with insight:

Z: I have a name.
B: What?
Z: I have a name for a baby
B: OK.
Z: Josie Rose schmZiv John schmDueber
B: Is that for a boy or a girl or either.
Z: Either!