The Joy of Chalk

So I bought some sidewalk chalk. Images of happy children, entertaining themselves for hours, creating original, whimsical works of art, danced in my head.

Problem #1: We have no sidewalk.

The children stared at the box of chalk, their initial excitement at Something New having worn off. "Where can we use this?" they legitimately wanted to know.

Well, Daddy's parking spot is generally empty during daylight hours. However, like Yosef's pit, the parking spot may be empty of car, but it is full of dirt and dead bugs (the little black ones.) So I vetoed that idea, images of children squatting in dirt and bugs dancing somewhat less enthusiastically in my head.

Okay, so Mommy could park her car on the street, and the children could color in her spot. But Mommy's spot is not covered. With the weather lately reminiscent of an oven turned on, full blast, in Hell, Mommy vetoed that idea as well, not wanting her children to get heatstroke. Honestly, she is too tired and hot to take anyone to Terem.

So that left the mirpeset. Although the mirpeset is tiled, and thus not the ideal surface for chalk, they actually did a fairly good job creating original, whimsical works of art on Friday afternoon.

Problem #2: Creating original, whimsical works of art grows old quickly.

Yesterday, the children and a friend discovered that you don't only have to color with chalk. If you bang the chalk really hard on the mirpeset, it breaks and creates chalk dust! Then, you can scoop up the dust and rub it all over your arms and legs! In fact, this dust is so precious that the children gathered it into a container to save for another day.

Problem #3: Nadav will find the container on a day I'm wearing a black skirt, dump out the chalk dust and annoint himself with it.

When I pick him up to take him to Ariella's gymnastics show at school, he will rub his legs--really grinding those shoes--into my skirt, making it look like I'm the one who rolled around in chalk dust, and I will grab the nearest damp dishtowel (so recently used to wipe yogurt and snot off Nadav's face) in a wild, pathetic, and okay, failed, attempt to make myself look somewhat presentable. Then I will wonder--not for the first time--why, in fact, do I own any articles of clothing that aren't dust-colored??

Ramblings: It's Been a While

1. No matter how often I sweep the boys' room (and, okay, I admit, it's not that often), it's always...crunchy. It seems a thin layer of grit has taken hold and refuses to leave. ("Hell no! We will be here forever, mocking your poor housekeeping skills and making you fear to tred without slippers!" is what their placards say.)  Most of it is Pocket Sand. (If you thought Shoe Sand was bad, it's nothing compared to accidentally turning a pair of shorts upside down.) And the rest of it? #doireallywanttoknow?

2. Surprise! We did not make a big "friends party" for the kids' birthdays this year. They are exhausting and expensive (parties; but, you know, also kids) and we did them last year. But Ariella's friends, an intrepid group known for taking matters into their own hands, called me up last week. "We want to make a surprise party for Ariella." How nice! I said. However, "We want to make a party for Ariella" really means "We want you to make a party for Ariella. And invite us." And all I need to do is:
Send out the email invitation.
Buy the food.
Host the party.
Set up.
Clean up.
Buy haftaot, because what is a party without cheap cheapies?

The girls are "planning the activity," which it seems involves some sort of game asking Ariella what her favorite color is. In the event this scintillating activity doesn't use up more than 30 seconds, I added "Buy art supplies" to my list.

Really, it's very sweet that her friends are doing this. And although I considered telling them "No!" I didn't want the Sourpuss Party Pooper Mom Award to mess up the wall with all of my other parenting awards. So we are sallying forth. It'll be Monday at 5:00. (Don't tell Ariella.)

3. A fashion dilemma: Today, Nadav came to me with a red striped t-shirt and a gray striped polo shirt for his outfit. I know what you are thinking, "Why are stripes the only design they can put on a boy's shirt????"

So I put on the first shirt. Nadav handed me the second shirt. I took off the first shirt and put on the second shirt. Nadav handed me the first shirt. I took off the second shirt and put back on the first shirt. Eventually, he conceded to wear only one of the shirts and a pair of shorts. And so he learned a fundamental fashion lesson: Pants are necessary.

Quality Family Time, With Other People's Family

We apologize for the long absence. We got slowed down last week by right transient synovitis. It's a real thing. Look it up. Thank God, the synoviter in question (Nadav) was back to his usual bouncy self after two days.

So Friday evening, post-candlelighting, kids are having playdates with friends in the building, aka their Downstairs Dopplegangers. Everything is going along swimmingly. Boys are running around making shooty noises, girls making chatty noises, etc. etc. Dinner time comes, and no one wants the playdate to end. So we decide to split the kids - we took the boys, downstairs got the girls.

Now, in theory, in principle, ideally, I am opposed to sending a child away for Shabbat dinner. Because in my mind, family dinners look like this:

We talk about our week, the parsha, what the kids are learning in school and gan.
We bond.
There is quality time.
We reconnect as a family. There is gentle banter, discussion, give and take, laughter.

Everyone compliments the chicken.

(So what if it's the same chicken I made last Shabbat. And the one before that. It's just as delicious every single week.)

In reality, family dinners look like this:

"S/He started it!"

Or, if they are getting along, they get their crazy on, running around the dining room table shouting random words:

"Jaaa-koooooo-zeeee! Jakoozee jakoozee jakoozee! Jaaa-kooooo-zeeeeee!"

And the floor is covered in rice.

Not that we can't have a successful family dinner. But on Friday night, I realized it's okay, even nice, to shake things up once in a while. Everyone enjoyed their dinner with  their adoptive-family-for-the-evening.

The next day, we went back to our regularly scheduled families. And we did talk about what happened in school and gan and had in-depth discussions about Harry Potter (which I am reading to Ariella now. Wingardium leviosa!) And, yes, there was craziness and button-pushing and rice all over the floor.

But everyone did compliment the chicken.

Hair Tape

Yes. Yes, I am using those two words together, on purpose, as in a thing you would want. Like "denim skirt" or "chocolate ice cream." Hair tape.

Yesterday, Nadav (I know! Shocking that a blog post entitled "Hair Tape" is about Nadav) found the forbidden tape. I try to keep dangerous or messy objects away from him, like: tape, scissors, glue, markers, keys, peach slices (he likes to squeeze them over his legs), cheese sticks (he eats the first one like a normal person; the second one becomes a sword or is squeezed into a warm, mushy, nauseating mess), yogurt (just use your imagination), writing implements, packages of diapers, the Tupperware drawer, foil pans, puzzles, toys and clothes.

But Ariella had been using the tape and it is now Out in the open. So Nadav tries to rip off a piece; I decide, wisely I think, that instead of waiting until he slices open a finger, I should just give him a small piece.

A short while later, I notice it is in his hair. Better take that off; it's gonna hurt him. I remove it. He screams - but not because I pulled out some of his overlong hair. Because he wanted the tape there. On his hair. So I...put it back.

We carry on with our evening, going to pick up Yaakov from a playdate. "Is that tape in his hair?" asks the mom, reaching out to remove it. "Yes," I quickly reply, moving Nadav out of reach. "Leave it, he likes it there." Luckily, this mom has her own two-year-old, who is currently refusing diapers but doesn't want to go on the toilet (too scary) or the potty (too pretty), so she understands where we're coming from.

Next we head out to pick up Ariella. (I had 2/3 out on playdates last night. So I gave Nadav a nice, simple dinner of cheese sticks and yogurt (see above.))

We enter the house. "Yes, there is tape in his hair, don't take it out, it's there on purpose." Again, very understanding mom, who had to deal with two almost-nine-year-olds (one of whom, I confess, was mine) deciding to use fish tank water for a water fight.

We finally get home and begin the bedtime nightmare routine. I'm settling down to vigil with Nadav, after extinguishing the double-whammy temper tantrum of "Why can't I have a sleepover?" and "Why can't I watch a movie?" and reading Goodnight Moon five hijillion times. (Honestly, it might not have been that many; I lost count after four hijillion).

Suddenly, Nadav lets out a blood-curdling scream and grabs his head. What? What happened? Did he bang it? Is he bleeding? Is there a monster in his bed?

Then I realize - the Hair Tape is missing.

"Do you...want tape on your hair?" I ask him. Indeed, I strung those words together as a sentence.

He nods, looking up at me with big teary eyes.

I go out, get another piece of tape and hand it to him. He places it on his head and contentedly begins to suck his fingers. Eventually, he falls asleep (before waking up in the middle of the night for his Journey to the Ends of Mommy's Bed, where he spends the remains of my sleeping time kicking me in the stomach or sticking his fuzzy hair up my nose. But that is for another time).

I guess it's true what they* say. If your have your hair tape, you have everything.

*Nadav

And A Happy Basket to You

Shavuot. The time of the harvest, of receiving the Torah, of scrambling to find a tene and zer perachim for your children to wear to gan. (A beloved - by ganenot, at least - and time-honored tradition; the tene, aka basket, represents the bikkurim brought on Shavuot and the zer perachim, aka flower wreath, the flowers that decorated Har Sinai).

In the Rose household, a snapshot of how the (not-so-mighty) have fallen (even further):

The older children, lo these many moons ago, going to gan with a tene and zer:

Ariella, with zer bought from actual flower shop!

Yaakov, with authentic tene!

And this year, poor Nadav, sent to gan with a sand toy and a lei.

(I would like to point out that I kept that darn red basket, pictured above, for a year, knowing I would need one this year. Sure enough, right before Shavuot, it snuck away, probably with Yaakov's kippot and the package of tissues I could swear was right here two seconds ago. They're hiding somewhere, snickering, and will show themselves only they've been replaced/are no longer needed.)

Wishing you all a happy Shavuot.

Tweets From a Vigil

So, I don't tweet. I'm one of those dunderheads - oh wait, in Twitter we have to "tw" everything. So I'm a twunderhead - that has an account and hasn't figured out quite what to do with it. In the olden days, I would have sat there for months with flint and a piece of steel, contemplating them, eventually leaving them off to the side and lumbering out of the cave to go feast on some cold raw rabbit. #cavemendontkeepkosher

Also, on Twitter you need to have a following. And who wants to have to gather another following??? I have Facebook friends, and I have you guys. #whatmorecouldagirlwant

But I like the idea of Twitter. And I think hashtagging things is hilarious. So I've decided to present you with my would-be tweets. The ones I would have sent last night, from the Vigil, if I weren't such a twit. (Ha!)
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I am patiently vigiling. Unfortunately, vigilee is in living room playing with package of toilet paper. #atleastoneofusishere

Why can't Yaakov be the vigilee? HE'S already asleep! #ohwell #cuzthatwouldbetooeasy

Sometimes, when I have to hold hands with Nadav during vigil, it means I need to play Solitaire one-handed. #sacrifice #amotherslove

Request for water. Naturally, must be any cup except the one that's ALREADY IN HERE. #themindofatwoyearold #bedtimeneeds #scenesfromavigil

Can I leave? Well, fingers out of mouth, safe to go outh. Yes, I use my own poem as a mnemonic device. #wannamakesomethingofit

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I'm twotally twocking this Twitter thing.

Access: Denied!

As you may recall, last year I successfully passed the pool quiz and was deemed fit to shell out a lot of money for a pool membership at the new Modiin pool. It was a big success; in fact, it worked out swimmingly, you might say. So I was determined to get a manui (membership) again this year.

For the last month, I've been obsessively checking the pool's website, calling the number, and even making unexpected visits to the pool, hoping to find out when they would open registration. The memberships run out quickly, so I wanted to be first in line. Determined, remember?

Finally, the blessed day arrived. It was last Sunday; I remember it well. I was notified via my Modiin app and my Facebook news feed that registration was opened! I sped over, my tires making little screechy noises. I sat down, gave them my information (name, number, family members), and they said they would call me in a day or two. I remember from last year that they didn't let you fork over the money right away, so I figured it was the same deal.

And I left, satisfied. I saw with mine own two eyes that they wrote my name down on the sheet. I patiently awaited my phone call. Of course, we all know that "I'll call you back," means I won't call you back, (except for the people who want me to sign up for something or switch banks; they always call back). I therefore wasn't surprised that a week had gone by and - whaddya know - no phone call.

So I grabbed the pool by the diving board and marched into the office this past Sunday. "Just want to check that I'm still getting my membership," I said, ever so breezily. "I signed up last Sunday but never got a phone call."

The Official Pool Lady smiles ever so sweetly and says, "I'm [ed. note: not] very sorry, but if you didn't get a phone call, you didn't get a manui."

Jaw dropping is commencing, but I am sure this is a mistake. After all, I saw my name get written in official blue ink. I was one of the first names on the sheet.

I attempted breezy again. "Yes, but I was here last week, I signed up, I was one of the first ones."

"Yes, I'm [not] sorry, but a lot of people signed up. Coming first had no effect on whether you got a membership."

"But I had one last year! That should count for something!"

"On the contrary. The administration decided to give priority to families who did not get a membership lasat year."

[Stupid socialists!]

"So, coming early didn't help, and having a manui last year only hurt my case?"

[Beaming, since I've finally cottoned on.] "Yes, exactly!"

"So how was the decision made, then?"

"Many families signed up. The administration took all the names and made [random, nonsensical and quite frankly dumb] decisions as to who would receive a manui and who would not."

[Pause. All traces of breezy are gone.]

"You can still buy a kartisiya," she adds, ever so helpfully.

I stalk out, forcefully. This is my revenge. I will not walk out nicely, oh no. I will stalk! Forcefully!

So here's the thing. The advantage of not having a manui to the Modiin pool is that we are free to play the field this summer. We can have a fling with the Maccabim pool, or a one-day stand with the pool in Kfar Daniel. We are free agents.

But here's the disadvantage. The thing I loved about having a manui--besides feeling so super-cool when I used our electronic manui hoojits to enter the pool--is that we could go whenever we wanted, and--this is important--stay however long or short we wanted. Sometimes, the amount of time we spent eating dinner and showering was equal to or greater than the time spent in the pool. But who cared? We had a manui!

This year, I'll have to count our punch-card clicks carefully. A la Elaine of Seinfeld, I'll have to decide if this day is "click-worthy." Are we really going to stay long enough to get the most swim for our click? Hey kids! Get back in the pool! You have not been in there a click's worth of time yet!

It reminds me of the famous zoo story. (Feel free to stop reading if you've heard this before.) DADZ took us kids to some run-down zoo. Not the kind that's all, "Conservation! Research! Saving animals! We do research and save animals! Yay ecosystems!" but more, "We have animals! They are in a cage! Gawk at them!"

But it didn't matter how lame the zoo was. And it was very, I can assure you. DADZ insisted that we stay until 4:30, because then we would have paid some amount of money per minute, and at that point, he calculated, the trip would have achieved worth-it-ness. (Could you guess that DADZ is an accountant?) So we hung around, picking at the grass, until DADZ announced we could finally leave.

I fear that this summer, I, too, may inflict worth-it-ness upon my children.

But here's the real question: Does our first summer of manui ruin us forevermore? Next year, are we back in the running for a manui because we didn't get one this year? Or are Donny and I going to be shuffling up to the registration desk 50 years from now, only to be denied yet again?