Proud Moment in Hobo Parenting

Last Friday at the park I sat chatting with friends as Bea ran around playing. Periodically I glanced up and made sure I knew where she was. Imagine my pride when I see her walk over to a tree, pull up her dress, take off her undies, squat, pee, stand up, take off her shoe and drain the urine out of it, put it back on along with her undies and run off again.

I know some of the mommies were horrified at my daughter's vagabond behavior. But I could not have more delighted. So she smelled like a nursing home. So what. I had some quality time with my friends as my 3 year old solved her own problems. Isn't that what life is all about?

March Madness

While it's always a little crazy at our house, this month was absolutely manic. Not sure why. Here's a montage of some of our Hobo-Hijinx.

Spending the day running errands with the girls and ALL of us wore our bunny ears the entire time. Kept forgetting and wondered why I got weird looks from people.

Bea decided to wear my Indian wig and goes all Blue Steel with the raised shoulder.
Noelle visits and everyday is a crazy playdate filled with bubbles and Barbies and tattletaling and "I'm-so-excited-I-just-peed-my-pants-even-though-I've-been-potty-trained-for-months!!"

We turned Mini-school into Noelle's third birthday. Too busy making up silly games to bake an actual cake.

Freeze dancing to "It's Raining Men." The girls wear fairy skirts and the boys knight capes courtesy of Rachel who can sew in her sleep.

Millie remembered that ages ago I speculated that Minky would turn one around this time of year and kept insisting we have a full on first birthday for her gerbil. Lucky for me, Lisa S. dropped off a bag of party supplies for our annual Cinco de Mayo party (all are invited) that happened to be rodent sized. So when 8 members of Dave's family arrived last week threw an impromptu Gerbil Fiesta. Ole.

Bea and Uncle Doug help fill the tiny pinata with sunflower seeds. We gave them toothpicks as sticks, which they enjoyed more than the popcorn. Go figure.

Sarah gnaws a hole in the burro. Rhino poops on a party blanket. Casey tries to escape. A good rodent time was had by all. Not pictured is the party we had two days later for Eloise's 3rd. We had pizza, games, a pinata, cake and ice cream, all in less than an hour.

Our dear niece Lizard is a huge Red Sox fan so we got tickets to tour Fenway Park as a surprise. Part of the surprise was also that Dave had accidentally said there were 8 of us, instead of 14, but whose counting?! There were almost 2 less of us as Millie kept having to go to the bathroom and in Boston, public restrooms are a rarity so she and I raced to a beer hall down the street and barely made the tour. I was ready to kill her until it occurred to me that she probably has a bladder infection and can't help it. We spent the rest of the day at Urgent Care and then buying gallons of cranberry juice. Poor thing.

Millie, Jonah, Flat Stanley, Maddie & Lizard at Fenway. Georgia was too busy listening to every single word the tour guide said to stop and be in a picture. I'm sure she spent the last two days regaling her friends with tidbits about the original color of the green monster and why the #42 is in blue when all the other retired numbers are in red.

I am now counting down the days to Spring Break when I can spend a good chunk of my day reading or sleeping or drinking Slurpees. My mother-in-law called to ask if we could celebrate Jonah's birthday while we're there. Inwardly I cringed but I know myself. Give me a couple weeks and I'll be stuffing another pinata and trying to find a good theme for the celebration.

Jingle Bells Batman Smells

This morning as Dave was getting the girls out the door to school, I heard a loud groan and then Georgia's unmistakable "mmmoo" sound that she makes when she is trying to stifle her sobs. I raced down to see what was going on, and Dave motioned for me to go with Millie to get her coat on while he talked to Georgie.

Millie was in tears at this point. "Georgia's crying and she won't tell me why!" she almost shouted her betrayal. These two are 22 months apart and function as a pair, Laverne and Shirley, Ernie and Bert, Frodo and Sam, Thelma and Louise. I snuck back into the dining room and asked Dave what was up. Apparently Georgia went into the garage hunting for a scooter and came upon the giant cardboard box that contained the dollhouse they got for Christmas. From Santa.

My 9 year old looked me in the eyes and whispered in horror, "I know the truth. There is no Santa." This is the little girl that spent the better part of Christmas Eve writing a letter to Santa, asking thoughtful questions about his middle name, when his birthday was, and what were the reindeers' favorite treats. I hugged her fiercely and told her that Santa is part of the spirit of Christmas and that it's okay to choose to believe. Dave said there's magic on both sides of it: that now she could be part of the fun of helping with stockings. It felt so rushed, trying to assuage this loss of childhood.

It happened for Jonah much earlier. He was 6 or 7 and it was spring time and I had bought some plastic eggs. He stopped on the stairs and said, "There's no way a giant rabbit goes around taking baskets of candy to kids... And if the Easter Bunny isn't real, there's no way there's a tooth fairy... Oh no. Santa..." I just stood there watching these wonderful mythic icons of childhood fall like dominoes as he processed the logic of it all. For the next year whenever he said the name Santa, he'd make air quotes with his fingers. Jonah needed no comfort, just threatening. "If you tell your sisters, or even talk about this with ANY kid under the age of 12, you'll never get a single thing from 'Santa' again!" And Jonah has enjoyed the shift in role. He loves to help pick out trinkets for Easter Baskets and hide eggs. He seemed relieved in a way. He's logical, like Dave. Needs things to make sense. Be tangible.

But Georgia...ouch. She clearly needs some yuletide talk therapy that could not happen at 8:17 this morning. I watched her dry her eyes as they raced to the bus, Millie still puzzled and hurt at her other half's refusal to share her pain. During the day I imagined the dominoes falling in Georgia's mind. Santa gone. Mmmoo. Tooth Fairy? Mmmoo. The Giggling Leprechauns? Mmmoo (she even believes in the mythic holiday creatures our Irish neighbors dream up).

She had a friend over after school and then violin, homework, etc. We never had a second alone to talk. But at 9pm she snuck out of her room to find me. "Mom, Millie wants to know why I was crying this morning. I can't tell her. I can't. What do I say?" Our friend Rachel is visiting, and we just looked at each other. I had no idea what to tell her. She doesn't want to erase the sugarplums that dance in Millie's head. But this is her SISTER. Her BFF. She has to tell her something. So I handed Georgia a lie to give to her sister. "Tell her you were thinking about Emma, [Georgia's gerbil that died last month] that made you cry, but you don't want to talk about it." "But..." she stammered, knowing this was false. "It does make you cry when you talk about Emma. Just tell her." How do you explain that honesty is not always the best policy?

I kissed her off to bed and wanted to cry a little myself. I should have made time to have a private talk with her. I should have had a better response this morning. Dave and I have a pretty good standardized spiel for the sex talk, but not for Santa. I hate seeing them lose their faith in the magical, mystical aspects of childhood. I want my kids to believe in stuff, stuff that can't be seen or touched or proven but stuff that gives them hope and faith in things bigger and better than us. Because I want to. Sometimes I respond like Natalie Wood in Miracle on 34th Street when it comes to the metaphysical: "I believe. I believe. It's silly, but I believe." Faith is fragile.

When I go upstairs to check on the kids before I go to bed, I know what I'll find. Jonah will be sprawled across his bed and if too much light leaks in as I open the door, he'll grumble until I restore the dark. Bea will be in her room, closet light on, waiting another hour or so to sneak into my bed, hoping Dave is too zonked to notice. And I'll bet that tonite Georgia will have left her bed to sleep with Millie, legs and arms entwined so that I can never separate one girl's limbs from another, just like the gerbil sisters sleeping in a furry pile in their cage. I'm sure of it. But I'm not sure what's going to be harder for Georgia, knowing St. Nick's secret, or having to keep it from her other half.

Mean Mommies Take Manhattan: Part 1

Some girlfriends and I went to NYC this last weekend to celebrate 3 of our birthdays (I turned 30/11!). We had so many adventures it's hard to know where to start so I'm just going to hop to my favorite one and get to the rest at some future point in time (perhaps the 12th of never?).

We decided to be tourists and get tickets for one of those hop on and off double decker tour buses that schlep you around the city. On one particular leg of the journey (Empire State Building to Canal Street) we had a very informed guide whom I'll call Mr. White. Mr. White was 50ish with silver hair and everybody on the bus loved him--except me and 5 Indians tourists. When we got on the bus Mr. White didn't even ask us if we had tickets. He saw me fishing for mine and waved a hand as if to say, "That's okay, if you know where the stop is, then you must belong." I can't say why he bugged me other than I felt like he expected our full attention, like it was a scholarly lecture. If I had to cough I thought he might stop talking and give me that "yes missie, we're waiting for you!" look. I'm happy to hear about Daniel Burnham designing the flatiron building but if I want to chat with Denise about dinner plans, then I shouldn't have to do it stealth, should I?

And the nail in the coffin came when an Indian family got on board and sat down. Mr. White said to the man, "Do you have tickets?" "Yes," replied Mr. Brown. "Where are they?" said Mr. White. Pulling them out of his pocket, Mr. Brown held up the tickets, "Here they are" and goes to put them back. Not so fast. Mr. White, who has not asked to see a single person's ticket while we were on board motions for Mr. Brown to come back to him, "I'll need to see your ticket." The poor man was turning red and I was too--it was clearly a race thing. 5 white ladies get on and no tickets needed. But people of color? That's another story... I shook my head as Mr. Brown walked back to his seat.

Meanwhile, across the aisle and 3 rows back Lisa is eating up every word this guy says while simultaneously trying not to hurl. The woman behind her, bless her soul, was vomiting uncontrollably into a bag, leaning forward towards Lisa with every retch so that she could feel the vibrations. Just as Linda T. is a sympathetic cryer, and wells up every time someone so much as sniffles, Lisa is a sympathetic barfer as are her 6 kids. Not fun. At one stop, a man comes on to sell water and when he leaves, Mr. White escorts him down the steps (everyone is up top) and has to get off to let him pass. Next thing we know the doors are closed and we are off, leaving our guide in his dust. Now some of us think the driver got confused, and honestly thought Mr. White was on board. But others of us (me and the Browns) were thinking, I'll bet the driver has been itching to ditch Mr. White Supremacy.

Sande elbows Lisa and says, "Grab the mike!" Without hesitation, as if she's spent her whole life talking to crowds of people in high decibels, Lisa jumps into the tour guide seat, turns on the microphone and starts banging on the metal stairwell: "Hey driver!! You left the tour guide. You've gotta stop!" The driver slows down, Mr. White, out of breath and clearly pissed, comes within inches of the door...and the driver hits the gas and takes off again. I hate to admit it, but a thrill ran thru me. The entire bus jumped to their feet to see what would happen next.

At this point Lisa the Mom kicks in: "Mr. Bus Driver, our guide is not on board. He is chasing the bus and needs to be let on. Pull over right now. I am not joking." The bus keeps going, Mr White keeps running. Lisa smacks the side of the metal stair rail and demands that the driver stop the bus this instant. If the bus hadn't start to slow down, I swear she was going to go, "ONE. TWO. Don't make me say THREE...." While we waited for our guide to rejoin us, Lisa sat back and relaxed, having successfully negotiated with the errant bus driver, and made some observations about the architecture of the buildings around us, tossing off a joke or two, all the while chatting into the microphone like a pro.

After ripping the driver a new one, Mr. White gets back up top looking like his heart was going to stop after chasing us for about 3 blocks. As he reaches for the mike, Mr. Brown stands up, walks towards him and says, totally deadpan, "Do you have a ticket?" Mr. White sort of "ha has" and grabs the mike but Brown isn't done with him. "Where is your ticket?" Mr White pulls his I.D. badge out from his coat and Mr Brown steps forward: "I'm gonna need to see that." White's jaw dropped, but he held it out, and Brown said, "Oh okay, you're fine." He turned around to see me grinning from ear to ear and then gave me a giant high five before returning to his hysterically laughing family.

As much as some of us enjoyed Mr. White, we decided to get off at Canal Street to pee and shop. We do have 22 kids between the 5 of us, so our bladders aren't what they used to be (except for "camel bladder" who Kelly suffered thru endless bathroom breaks and suggested that maybe if we didn't all drink so much Diet Coke we could go two blocks without doing the potty dance). Lisa put a tip in the jar as we left, though I think she should have charged for the show.

One day of parking in the theatre district: $26
One ticket to the Empire State Building: $15
One 24 hour pass on the City Sights bus: $39
Watching your girlfriend hijack a doubledecker: priceless.

[one of these things is not like the other--no wonder our bladders were bursting]

[One of the many McD's we visited on our trip--steer clear of Burger King, skanky restrooms]

[Our new friend Rupert, one of the fun sights we saw, along with Angela "Murder She Wrote" Landsbury]

The Good the Sad and the Furry

The Good: my birthday was this weekend and I had two nights of good food and good games.("Wise and Otherwise" is a crack up--sort of Balderdash with obscure proverbs that you have to finish, such as, "An old Japanese saying goes, 'By poking the bush....' "and the real ending is something about snakes. For real.) I also got some fun gifts. Here is a sampling:

The Sad: Georgia's gerbil Emma died Saturday morning. After chores, Zsa went to check on Emma and noticed she was barely breathing. Dave and I had resusitated the gerbils once before when they were sick, but sweet little thing died in my hands as I did rodent CPR (stroking her chest fur). Poor Georgia came unglued, then Millie, and Bea, not wanting to be left out, made herself cry too. "Emma was the firstest gerbil we ever had!" Wahhhhh! "Emma is a dead Emma!" Wahhhhh. When she had no more tears for Emma, Bea started contemplating other things that made her sad: "We have no more crackers and will have to go the the store to get some!" Wahhhhhhh. [here is Zsa with Emma last month]

The Furry: Gerbils are social creatures and the books say they need a companion to thrive, but introducing a new one is tricky. So we headed to our local Petco and talked to the lady who suggested we get two new young sisters, so that even if Minky rejects them they'll still have each other. Jonah picked out the one that looked like a miniature squirrell.

Georgia got one that looks like a chipmunk with a star on its forehead. She said to me, "When I can trick my mind into not thinking about Emma, I don't feel so sad." She named hers Sarah, and Jonah named his Casey in honor of the FBI handlers on "Chuck," mine and Joe's new favorite TV show.

Here is Millie with the survivor Minky. [Please check out Millie's front tooth that sticks STRAIGHT out and refuses to fall out. We've taken pliers to it and wiggled it to death and Thursday night I got out 3 kinds of thread and the damn root busted the thread. ] We were warned that the "old" gerbil will often reject the new ones and to introduce them slowly, having different cages, etc. Sweet Minky was delighted at her new playmates and got anxious when we took them out of her cage. So while there was no fighting amongst gerbils there was contention with the kids over how to lodge them and in whose room.

That afternoon the Snow girls came over to attend Emma's funeral. The weather was warm enough that I could dig a hole in the patch of ground next to big rocks where I have ground cover roses growing. Her coffin was a heart shaped pink box from the dollar section of Target and her shrowd was a pink napkin Parry gave me that Emma liked to shred. We all got teary. Georgia bawled.

When the 3 gerbils were still having a lovefest that evening, Dave took Bea and Millie back to Petco to even out the numbers. We purchased the last gerbil sister for Bea so there's a pairs in Joe's room, and a pair in Georgia & Millie. Bea is so excited that she has a gerbil and she can't stop talking about it: "I have a gerbil stister her name is Rhino she is orangey and soft but hers claws are scratchy like my mom's nails so I don't wanna hold Rhino my new gerby. She's orange." She here's a picture of Rhino and since Bea's too scared to hold her I'm adding one of Bea doing gymnastics. This is her version of a backbend which she calls a "bangaroo."

Thanks for sharing my happies and my sads.

Peloponnesian Food Fight

Dave has a good friend who I also really like--except for when he throws dinner parties and then I call him the Food Nazi and I await in panic for my food assignment. Let's be clear, I have the palate of a 3rd grader and think of all lettuce that isn't iceberg or Romaine as "lawn clippings." If I have to I can eat anything--I slurped down sea slug in China and no one but Dave knew I was having an internal freak out. The truth is I am embarrassed by my unsophisticated palate but what's a girl to do when raw tomatoes make her gag?

The first time we went to the Chef's house, Dave told me we were assigned "Fruit--no, wait, I think he wants pears." I brought a lovely fruit salad with pears and raspberries. WRONG! The Chef had intended them to be served with fancy cheese and did NOT hide his displeasure at my food faux pas.

A couple years later we were again invited. This time the Chef sent an email and our assignment simply said "Starch." I wanted to die. It's deceptively simple. I knew I'd get laughed at if I brought any kind of potato or pasta. In desperation I called Becca and said, "Becca One Kenobi, you are my only hope." Even though she had company in town, she volunteered to be my "ghost chef" and made an amazing rice that everyone oohed and ahhhed over. In fact, it was a little too good and several people asked for detailed instructions on how to make it. The Chef must have known I'd faked it because he really grilled me: What KIND of rice had a I used? Were the peas fresh? And was it cinnamon or cardamom that was in there....I fumbled my way thru it, like when people ask Grandma Jean how she makes her jam and she starts rambling on about sugar and berries and meanwhile Dave is whispering, "Take a jar of Smuckers. Remove label with steam from tea kettle..."

So this year when Dave said we'd be going to the Chef's I insta-freaked and wondered what on earth I'd have to bring this time. But I was NOT prepared for the food assignments. I guess the Chef has learned that he has to be more specific in doling out assignments lest the pear fiasco of 2003 repeat itself. Here they are (I have changed the names):

"After much consideration, the menu committee has decided we will have beef stew for dinner on Saturday. Herewith the assignments:

· Anderson--hors d’oeuvres

· Sundahl--vegetable side dish: (“stew” will be Provencal in character so something quite green and full of flavor could be ideal)

· Barker--starch: (papperdelle [wide noodles] would be ideal; couscous would be fine…even rice, to appease “rice aficionados” who’ve lived in China)

· Metropolis--salad: (consistent with the new regime, we’re looking for diversity; it can be Mediterranean heritage but not from the Peloponnesus)

· bread and cheese: just part of the deal

· the Chef--dessert: (something small but very chocolate, I suspect) Let’s gather about 6:30 pm. Please bring some of your beverage of choice. "

In case you skimmed, please go back and reread the salad one. WHAT on earth is a Peloponnesian salad?! I sent the email off to Becca and called her to discuss my "green and full of flavor options" (and what does that have to do with Provencal stew?!). Poor thing was stumped when I ruled out asparagus (yucky and bitter), brussel sprouts (asparagus balls), and artichokes (big pokey asparagus). If I bring it, I have to be able to eat it. Her first suggestion was broccoli which I actually like, but unless we cooked it at the Chef's how to you keep it from being flaccid by the time you serve it? Sensing my growing angst, Dave asked the Chef which green and flavorful veggie HE recommended. He, like Becca, said broccoli but added that of course we'd have to steam it at his place.

Good. Broccoli. But I suspected regular old Star Market broccoli would not do. On Saturday I went to Wilson Farm where foodies get orgasms just looking at the produce. I walked up to someone in a green apron and said, "I need you to help me find the snootiest, most stuck up, fancy pants, hoity toity broccoli that you sell." Without batting an eye he shows me two contenders, broccoli raab and broccolini. He was pushing the raab which he said had a wonderfully bitter taste (the only bitter I like is in my chocolate chips), but also praised the broccolini which seems like what you'd get if a broccoli floret and an asparagus spear hooked up and had children. He assured me it had a mild taste so I bought $12 worth and hoped for the best.

The party was lovely. The Provencal stew was yummy (beef cooked in tangy sauce). The Chef was fun and gracious. Except when the poor Barkers brought boxed noodles. The Chef was not pleased and made a few comments. I contemplated coming to their defense, making some Peloponessus crack but in the end I just shut my trap and thanked Wilson Farm that this time I was not the target of his culinary wrath. I lie to myself and say that if we are ever assigned hors d'oeuvre, I'll bring a can of Hormel and brick of Velveeta and make my famous white trash chip dip. I won't. But I'd love to see the Chef's face if I did.

Gorgeous George Turns 9

Last week Georgia turned 9 and I wanted to toss out there some of my favorite Georgia pictures and stories. Though Georgia's officially a US citizen, her true nationality is "Is-fraili." Not only does she suffer from migraines, she is also the most susceptible to any bugs going around. She woke up Sunday with a fever and at 10 am she jumped up from the couch saying, "I'm gonna barf!" but never made it past the kitchen. I threw the trash can under her as she puked her guts out. Bea was sitting at the counter eating cereal watching all this and when Georgia finished, Bea clapped her hands and said, "Do it again! Do it again!" That said, she's a model patient and I've had the time of my life lounging around with her watching fun movies. Today I showed her "Little Women" and we both cried when Beth died.
Here's "Zsa" with her favorite Uncle Mio.

When she was this age I'd ride around on my bike with her in the attached seat and she'd kick my behind and shout: "Faster! Faster!" She would also beg me for every purse she saw when we'd be out and tell me she hated me when I wouldn't buy them for her.

Georgia was the BEST baby: a great nurser, slept like Rip Van Winkle, easy going. My other 3 are dogs: always in my face, slobbering on me, needing constant attention and affection. Georgia is a cat. Very independent. She chooses when she'll curl into your lap and pur. We have to be mindful of how self sufficient lest she be lost in the shuffle. At 5 she made lunch for herself and 3 friends while I was doing laundry. I came upstairs and they each had a toasted cheese tortilla and a cup of milk. Here she is in front of our Beech Street house eating chysthanthemums.

She loves to collect things and put those things in other things (in a box in a bag in a box in a bag). Of course she adores snails because they come with their own little container. And that smile? My sister Angela's.

Georgia right before her first birthday between ear infections.

Millie's arrival brought out the bossy in Georgia. How thrilling to have someone to (literally) push around. When she screams "Mill-Lay!" in anger, it is pure profanity. She may pretend otherwise but Georgia is Millie's biggest fan. Becca S. has tons of funny stories about Georgia. My favorite is when Ellie did something that upset Georgia (probably read a book or something while George was still wrestling with the alphabet). Whatever it was, Ellie had NOT done it maliciously but Georgia knew just how to hurt a girl. She looked at the bunkbed and asked Ellie where she slept. Pause. "The bottom." "Well," Georgia replied, "I'm starting a top bunk bed club and fraidy cats like you can't be in it!" I have to say I like her fiestiness because it doesn't cross to cattiness and she is one loyal little buddy.

Whoever said girls were made of sugar and spice never met Georgia. She is made of snails and dead birds like the one she has here and kept for a while then wrote all sorts of stories about her "pet bird" Joey, whose carcass she carted around for days... She and her buddies currently play "Chipmunk Hotel" at recess. I've never asked too many questions because I'm afraid carrion may be involved.

One of these things is not like the other... What I love love love about my Georgia is she does not follow the pack. Here we have Pullen & Parry Princesses and what does Zsa do? Put herself in a burka. Miss Taliban 2007?

She eats snow. But won't eat ice cream. Her favorite foods are mac & cheese, brownies, carrots, apples and Cheezits. Without a weekly dose of McNuggets, she'd be a vegetarian.
For ages Jake & Aidan were her two best friends. One day while upstairs on the couch with Aidan, the two were waiting for Jake to arrive for playgroup. But when the door sounded, Georgia turned to Aidan and hissed, "Quick hide!!! It's my husband!" Dave loved that story and told it to everyone he worked with. To this day I'm sure they all think I must have been stepping out on Dave.

I love my Dodgie, my Zsa, Georgie One Kenobi, Zsazerbyjani, Gurj, Georgia Burnham Rose!!!