Taking Care of Blizzness

(That's Blog Business)

First, two new blogs added to my blogroll:
Apartmentality, by my friend Shira. She knows about color and materials and, you know, design-y stuff. And she's an interior designer! Here in Israel! She has taste! Call her!

Also, an aliyah blog by Loyal Reader Eliana, Oys and Joys. Clever name, no? (I'm talking about the blog name, to clarify. Eliana is a great name also. Though I don't know that I would describe it as "clever." But maybe. Eliana herself is very clever. Okay! Let's move on, shall we?) You can become her Loyal Reader too! Except I've trademarked "Loyal Reader." (No, I haven't). So you'd have to be a "Devoted Follower" or something. And don't worry about jealou-blogosy, like you'd be cheating on this blog if you went ahead and read that one. Loyal Readers (or Devoted Followers) have room in their hearts for everyone's aliyah traumas! Anyway, our blogs are really good friends and even go out together for coffee and wonder why the cups are so freakin' small.

In other business:
In this crazy big-yet-so-small world, we recently had the opportunity to meet two Loyal Readers, who were previously unbeknownst to us. They made their way to us through the blog, and we got to meet them! In person! The best part was that when you talk face to face, you don't to type in random strings of letters and numbers before each exchange.
Anyway, one Loyal Reader-turned-friend is none other than the aforementioned Eliana. We had started emailing before they made aliyah and we recently got to meet the entire Oy family! And we liked them!

The other is Craig; a mutual friend of ours suggested ABA as good reading for those considering aliyah. And then - this is the crazy part, so I hope you are sitting - he said this very blog helped inspire him to make aliyah!

Naturally, the first question we asked him, once we stopped choking on our food, was, "Are you sure you're reading the right blog?" He assured us that he was, and even pointed to the specific post that served as the inspiration: the one about my stolen purse. (Or maybe it was this one.) In his words(ish), "If you can survive a stolen purse with humor, then you can probably survive anything aliyah throws at you. So let's go!"

So. There you go. In addition to constantly helping us all become the best parents we can be, ABA also helped bring one whole family to Israel! Nefesh B'Nefesh, I'm waiting for your phone call.

Friday Confessions: Now Updated with the Thing that I Forgot!

1. Sometimes I sweep up small toys and throw them out because I lack the energy to call the toy's owner over and make him/her pick it up.

2. I can't get rid of our landline because when I can't find my cell phone, I use the landline to call it.

3. When Donny is away on business, though mostly we miss him, there are also things we (read: I) look forward to: Making only one dinner, using his bed as my dumping grounds and having the toilet seat remain down.

4. Speaking of beds, a confession: I don't make mine. I firmly believe in the old saying, "Why maketh your bed in the morning, when you shall just lieth in it at night?" I have made some strides in this area in that I try not to become frustrated with Ariella when she makes hers. (I mean, it cuts into precious morning minutes! But I do not say, "Omigod, Ariella, stop making your bed!" See? Strides.)

5. The thing I was thinking of last night that was so funny and now for the life of me can't remember goes here.

5. When banks, etc. call on our American line, I get a secret thrill out of saying, "No, I'm not interested in your credit card because I live abroad." It sounds so ... cosmopolitan and exotic. Like I live a glamorous life of sipping lattes, examining fine works of art and leisurely strolling down boulevards instead of removing decaying apples from backpacks and being ignored by my children. Although, the latte part is the same. So there's that.

If you have a Friday Confession to share, please feel free.

In Which I Disrobe

Don't worry, it's for a good cause. Well, not for a "good cause," exactly. It's not like I disrobed for charity. (Is that a thing?) More like, I had a good reason for it. Okay, not like a really solid, can't-argue-with-that reason, it was more like ... well, you'll see what it was like.

Should I just get on with it already?

At the beginning of this story, I was robed. I had gotten dressed all by myself. (And--poofahs for me--I did not have to be cajoled or threatened. No one had to hold my skirt while I stepped in or make sure my shirt was on the right way or find my shoes. Although I will admit that I am not past the occasional missing-shoes freak out. "Where are my shoes?" I might run around screaming in the morning. "Has anyone seen my shoes????")

But this morning I was very independent. I walked out of my room, fully clothed. Nadav saw me while he was sucking the toothpaste off his toothbrush brushing his teeth. He looked alarmed. "Toh-reed (take it off)!" he demanded. I thought he was mad that I was wearing long sleeves today. The back-and-forth weather has been difficult for those change-resistant among us. Today, for example, was supposed to be cooler than previous days, so I had put Nadav in a long-sleeve shirt; he insisted I replace it with a short-sleeve one, because he's switched to short, and that's that. He expressed these thoughts eloquently by tugging on the end of the sleeve and grunting, "Hnnnnh!"

However, it was not my choice of clothes that upset him. It was that I got dressed without him present. You see, Nadav and I are like two girls in junior high. We go everywhere together, including the bathroom. (Don't worry, Nadav always shuts the bathroom door behind him; you know, to give us some privacy.) So he's used to coming along with me while I get dressed in the morning. I usually say to him: "Nadav, Mommy's going to get dressed, want to come?" (Do not think I say this because I am lonely. It is Mommy-speak for "If I leave you alone for two seconds, unattended, you will either cry, find the paint or break a glass. So let's go!")

Nadav is unaware of my ulterior motives. To him, "getting dressed" is just another one of our "together" activities. When he saw that I had the audacity to put on clothes without him, he felt shocked and betrayed. He grabbed my hand and dragged me to my room. He waited patiently. I took off the shirt and put it back on. Ahhhh ... I was rewarded with a big smile. The world was right again. In fact, you probably felt it, around 7:30 this morning, Israel time: A feeling of the world just clicking back into place. We proceeded with our day.

Tomorrow: Nadav finds things in the bathroom drawers. Discussions ensue.

Warning: Old Age Ahead!

Actual thing that happened to me yesterday:

Sat down to write an email to Yaakov's teacher. Mid-composition, remembered that I don't actually need to write this email (because I was going to see her later in the day and could just ask her in person). Got up. Ate Snickers. Returned to computer. Thought, "Hmmm. Why did I never write that email?" Halfway through email, remembered:
1. I am going to see her later in the day and can just ask her in person.
2. I already had this conversation with myself.

Also: I've been turning off the oven mid-cookies. The timer dings, I take out a batch, turn off the oven, and slide in a new batch. When I return 10 minutes later, I am surprised that the cookies are taking soooo long to bake. I concoct a bizarre theory regarding oven temps and cookie batter. I turn the timer on for another few minutes. Only when the timer dings again, and the oven is practically cold to the touch, do I realize what I've done.

And this happened to me twice. Within two weeks. The second time it happened, you could reasonably have expected that when I encountered the strangely uncooked cookies, I would have remembered that a similar phenomenon happened recently, and that phenomenon was due to my twitbrain deciding it was time to turn off the oven. However, if you expected that, then I am disappointed in you. Don't you know me better than that already??

So the mind is not what it used to be, is what I'm saying.

At least I remember both my kids' names.

Parent-Time

So we always complain that kids don't come with handbooks on how to raise them. But equally helpful would be a handbook for kids, from us. In it, we would explain important concepts. Like time.

Here's an example: Two minutes. Two minutes can actually be much more or less than 120 seconds. You see, kids, it depends what we are doing, and if it is something we want to do or not.

So, "We can play War for another two minutes," might actually mean "One more turn each and we're done here, kiddo." Real-time: 2 minutes. Parent-time: 30 seconds.

Whereas, "Get into bed and I'll check on you in two minutes," well, that might not happen till tomorrow. Real-time: 2 minutes. Parent-time: 12 hours.

Sometimes we completely lie about time. Like when we are timing you to do something you don't want to do. "Can you clean up these toys before I get to 20?" Here's a hint: Yes, you can. Because we will stretch out counting to 20 for as long as it takes. See, we just want the toys cleaned up. And we want you to feel successful in your endeavors. So we will make sure you beat the clock. (Note: This is not a sustainable lie. In 7-10 years from now, we will not be able to say, "Let's see if you can study for that really hard chemistry exam before I get to 15!")

Parent-time also comes in handy for peeing.

 "Let's see if you can pee before I get to 10!" we might say, because for some reason, children, you don't want to pee, ever; it is something you must be bribed and cajoled to do. Us parents don't understand it. And the older we get, the less we understand this whole not-wanting-to-use-the-bathroom thing. Probably because for you, peeing is taking precious time away from other, nobler pursuits, such as zooming little cars under the sofa and building a Mega-Zord. For us, peeing means disappearing into the bathroom for a few minutes alone. So you little people dread pee, while we grownups anticipate it, look forward to it, sometimes even invent pee needs just to sit in a quiet room.

What was I saying?

Oh yes. So when we count to 10, we may count ve-e-e-ery slo-o-o-o-o-owly. Because once again, the goal is the peeing, not the rapidity. It doesn't matter to us if it takes you nine seconds or 11 seconds. It just matters that you pee before it ends up on our couch.

The same is true when we time you for races, because the goal is you running and tiring yourself out. Here's how it works:

Scene: Two mommies at a playground, chatting, while you kids are running around, having a good time, entertaining yourselves bless you. Suddenly, you decide that Mommy has to be involved in your next activity. You run up to Mommy. You see she is in the middle of a conversation:

Mommies: Did you see [that thing] on Facebook? .... So and so is pregnant again ... Can you believe what my husband ... [redacted]. (Ed. note: Don't worry, dear, that doesn't apply to you. You are my knight in shining armor!)

You do not care about this conversation. Because YOU need Mommy RIGHT NOW.

You [interruping]: Mommy, Mommy! Time me how long it takes for me to run around the playground!

We are into this idea! And we even come up with a better one!

Mommy: Ooh! Even better - run around TWO TIMES!
You: Yeah!!!!
Mommy: One, two ... [you start running]

Mommies resume conversation.

Mommies: So this morning, all the kids ended up in my bed ...

You come zooming by

Mommies: One definitely kneed me in the stomach ... SEVEN! EIGHT! ... So did you figure out what you're doing with the kids for the summer? ... FIFTEEN! SIXTEEN! ... Yeah, I also have to go to Rami Levi later. Somehow the food I bought is all gone ... NINETEEN! Wow! You did it in less than 20 seconds! Amazing! See if you can go down the slide 10 times in a row! I'll time you! ... And then, he took the permanent marker - how he found the permanent one, I have no idea ... TWENTY-THREE!

So that's how the book would work. Although, now that I'm thinking about it, maybe we shouldn't be giving away the parenting equivalent of state secrets. We want to keep these timely (Ha! Ha!) tricks to ourselves.Never mind kids, go back to what you were doing. I'll be there in a minute.

A Little Phlogging

(Phlog = photo blog. No Loyal Readers were harmed during the production of this blog.)

Here are some things we've been up to in the past month. Think of it like ramblings, but with pictures!

Exhibit A

I have now done 3 things for Pesach:
1. Bought oven cleaner
2. Took picture of oven cleaner
3. Blogged about taking picture of oven cleaner

Exhibit Bet

Nadav writes his own "petek ma'aseh tov." You know, the little "mitzvah notes," as we used to call them. He loves bringing a petek into gan; I've tried explaining that you need to do a ma'aseh tov first in order for me to write about it. So this past Saturday night, he saw a lone notepaper on the floor. He ran to it, shouting "Petek sheli!" Then turned it over to find it was empty. Huh, he thought, seems like Mommy is really falling down on the job. No problem; he just wrote it himself.

Exhibit 3

The POCs live! This is (one of the many, many) reasons why when people show up unexpectedly, I want to cry. (Another reason: Underwear on the floor. Another reason: Mt. Laundry. Another reason: Bags of groceries in the middle of the room. I could go on. But I think I've created a vivid enough image for you.)

Exhibit IV

Here is a random picture of my skirt that I took by accident. Yes, that is my grey-leggings-covered knee. Don't tell my old principal.

Exhibit Five

Sigh. Tzitzit. And boys. Who thought this was a good combination???? This picture doesn't do it justice, but let assure you, the tzitzit are gross. Washing them is a pain. (Both of which also apply to boys.) If girls got the tzitzit, we would take good  care of them. They'd come in pretty rainbow colors and we'd braid the fringes. And then we'd collect Tzitzit Charms and trade them with each other during recess. Instead, we bequeath tzitzit upon our sons and just decide we're not going to ask where that stain came from. (Disclaimer: Before you go all PC on me and tell me about your neat boys and messy girls, let me assure you that I am perfectly aware of my generalization/stereotyping. And I am okay with it.)

And finally ...

Every once in a while, this happens: The Power Rangers take care of vigil for me. (Though not often enough; you'd think, what with their Mega-Zords, they could manage to find a way to put a little 2.5 year old to sleep. Let this be a lesson, kids: Mommy is the Ultimate Power Ranger.)

Step-by-Step Guide to Bringing Pictures Into Gan

Sometimes, your child needs to bring in pictures of the family to gan or school. Here's a handy how-to guide:

1. Read notice taped to gan door that says, “We would love pictures of your family for Family Day!” 

(Family Day, aka Yom HaMishpacha, is a holiday we made up cuz we gots nothin' on the calendar between Tu B'Shvat and Purim, and we need something to teach about since we've already covered winter, water, trees and citrus fruits.)

This is the easy part. This occurred on Sunday. “No problem,” I think breezily as I carry Nadav out of gan, ("Up on Meema!") “I’ll just go home and print a few pictures for him to bring tomorrow.” I mean, it’s so easy nowadays, no sifting through old picture albums and sending in actual prints that you know will never make it home dry and in one piece, and there will forever be a sad blank space in the album next to a caption that says, “Little Joey riding his new tricycle!” and if Joey is your oldest, no problem, you have entire albums, nay, storage rooms, dedicated to “Pictures of Joey on his tricycle.” But if poor Joey is your youngest, woe unto you, because not only do you have no other pictures of Joey on the bike, that picture was in fact the only evidence that he existed between “Our new baby!” and “Joey puts on tefilin!” 

In any case, the Read the Notice stage generally lasts 3 days. 

2. Read notice at gan and remember it when you get home.

This occurred on Tuesday. Yay! I think. I am definitely doing this picture thing today. I even sit down at the computer and open up Picasa. No problem. Mother of the Year, here I come. The trophy shelf is filling up.

But then, Something happens. It could be a fight, dinner, tantrum, the realization I haven’t seen Nadav in a few minutes, a homework question. (“Mommy, do you know [answer to some really obscure question in Shoftim, a book I have not cracked open since I donned my Bais Yaakov 3-piece uniform]?” Um, not off the top of my head, I can help you find it. [Look of intense disappointment that I do not have Tanach and its many commentators sitting on the top of my brain, waiting for Ariella to come pick at it. The top of my brain is reserved for "There are 3 children" and "I'm hungry." So I, too, must look inside the sefer, like a mere mortal.]

So this Something pushes the picture thing right out of my head. In fact, when I sit back down at the computer, lo these many hours later, I haven’t the faintest idea why Picasa is open. I close it and check Facebook.

3. Print the pictures!

This occured on Wednesday. Finally! I sit down while the kids are watching TV and choose those pictures, and I print the hell out of them. Oh yeah! I’ve got Nadav + siblings, Nadav + parents, Nadav +Zaidy, Nadav +Saba, Nadav + family. I am rocking Family Day!

4. Bring the pictures to gan.

The most difficult stage. Has not happened yet. I inevitably take a long detour into Leave Pictures Next to The Computer stage. During this detour, you must enter Guiltville. And there is no trophy shelf in Guiltville. You see, as I'm leaving gan, after drop off, I see the note AGAIN. I wring my hands and say, “Oh, I even printed them and then left them at home!” The gan mommy’s equivalent of the homework-eating dog. 

The supersweet and warm ganenet says, “Oh no problem! Just bring them tomorrow! The kids love looking at the pictures of Ima and Abba!” which, to a non-mother, means, “No problem! Just bring them tomorrow!" but to a mom residing in Guiltville, what she really said was, “Nadav is so sad! He’s the only one without pictures! He sits in the corner crying, while all the well-loved children clutch pictures of their wonderful families that their attentive and caring mommies brought in! Please bring the pictures before you traumatize him for life!"

At this point, I am so guilt-ridden that I actually consider for a moment running back home and getting those damn pictures, but then I say to myself, buck up, it’s only like the 36,637^th time you’ve screwed up and traumatized him for life. 

So I don't return home, because anyway, I have so many things to do today, like blogging about this incident. 

Tomorrow is Friday; I am hoping to complete stage #4 and undo whatever trauma has occurred, so he has a clean slate for the next time I screw up. 

(If you could all text me in 5-minute increments tomorrow, starting at 7:00, reminding me to bring the pictures, I'd much appreciate it. Thanks.)