Florida Bound

We're leaving for Florida in about 9 days. Mike has a conference in Disney, so we are going to leave the kids with my parents and have 3 glorious nights to ourselves and then spend the following week with my folks. It's beyond fabulous.

Mike and I love being with my mom and dad. They are so considerate, generous and funny. I really want to live with them forever, but everytime I mention it they tell me to buzz off because they have a life. My kids have already put in their requests for special things that I refuse to buy them at home. Max has requested chips in every size and shape, and a pig's worth of bacon. Ben can't be pressured into a decision, so they will take him to the supermarket so he can shop for his own goodies. I don't mind all the junk food and spoiling, after all that's what grandparents are for. The only problem is that Max has no self control. On our last visit he consumed so much garbage (thanks to my Jewish mother who kept thinking he looked skinny) that he vomited the night before we left, and then again in the itty-bitty bathroom sink on the flight home. My mom promised to try to restrain herself to only allowing him small amounts of crap at a time. I'm keeping some extra barf bags in my purse, just in case. After all, this is the same woman that fed my brother so much as a baby that he weighed 30 pounds by the age of 1. Luckily, I had a faster metabolism then him.

On the other hand, my dad (aka a fitter Jack LaLanne) is in charge of recreation. He plays board games (Max cheats regularly) and in our absence, handles all outdoor activities. This is no easy task since my angels can never agree on anything. Unlike me, he has the patience of a saint and somehow handles them masterfully.

As I listen to my precious babies arguing and screaming at each other in the next room, I find myself flapping my arms trying to get to Florida faster. 3 nights at a gorgeous hotel in Florida without them and then a week with my parents. I honestly don't know which I look forward to more.

Mike's Sick

I wasn't going to post today because I'm lacking material, but I received a comment from my one and only unrelated, dedicated reader (the "Fuz") who noticed I haven't been posting as much. It was so sweet that I figured, I'd try to eke out some kind of story. Forgive me if it sucks.

The fact that Mike is sick with a nasty cold wouldn't be noteworthy for most New Yorker's in the winter. Everyone get's sick this time of year. I've had about 4 colds so far, which I blame on my children and their snot and germ-infested friends. However, my husband prides himself on the fact that he rarely gets sick and brags constantly about it. He even has some ridiculous, voodoo rituals he does daily to avoid sickness. They include, taking 4000 milligrams (!) of vitamin C at night before bed and drinking a cup of that salty, fake chicken broth stuff every evening. Admittedly, he has been successful at warding off the common cold all winter...until now. I actually can't contain my delight. Apparently, this was evident to Mike because when he mentioned he was getting sick, he asked me not to look so happy. Afterall, it's hard living with a superhuman enigma. Even when he's had stomach upset, he seems to cure it by eating jalapenos, for God's sake!

Unfortunately, my happy dance will undoubtedly be ending soon. In the past, when Mike gets sick, it only lasts for a maximum of 2 days. Even the common cold virus can't sustain life in his body for more than that.

A Girl and Her Ax

Not that anyone noticed, but I've taken a break from my blog for about a week. I was running out of stories and patently refuse to write anything lackluster. The other day, my father reminded me of a period in my childhood that I apparently blocked from my memory that is blog-worthy. I was 8 years old (or younger) and was the only little, Jewish girl in upper- class Westchester that had her very own ax.

You see, my father was (and is) a fitness freak and all around outdoorsman. He insisted on having wood-burning stoves in our Westchester home and our vacation home in the Adirondacks. Appalled by the mere suggestion of purchasing firewood, he would seek out and chop his own. Insisting that I be a part of his lumberjacking, he got me my own ax so I could help. I don't recall doing much of the actual chopping, though. Instead, I was relegated to mindless and incessant stacking of seemingly endless piles of wood. I would cringe anytime we would pass a fallen tree because I knew my dad would pull over, take his trusty ax and chain saw out of the car (really he would) and drag me with him to help do his best Paul Bunyon imitation. I never knew of any other suburban girls who were subject to this torture, let alone owned their own axes. Just me.

In retrospect, none of this seems very odd anymore. After all, my dad also owned and regularly used a machete and we didn't live in the jungle. Why shouldn't his daughter have her own ax?

Disclaimer: If this post is (God forbid) lackluster, don't blame the author. My shrink insists I work through my childhood traumas by expressing them anyway I can. Why not blog? :-)

Ellen Reproduced!

My friend Ellen, had her second child yesterday at 6:15 am. It's a girl, Jolie Anne. It's a relief to finally know. She's one of those people that don't like to find out the sex of the child beforehand because she wants to be surprised. Personally, I think she does it just to screw with her friend's and family.

Ellen went into labor at 3:30 in the morning. She thought it was the garlic from dinner bothering her. Remembering she was pregnant, she decided she was having contractions that were 2 minutes apart and called the doctor. He told her not to rush and he would see her soon. She took this literally. She showered, applied makeup, packed up her things, and took her older child to her sister's house. She got to the hospital at 5:30 am (8 centimeters dilated) and gave birth a mere 45 minutes later. I guess she figured even if she was crowning, she couldn't give birth until she was completely organized and looked positively stunning.

To help out, I am taking her 18 month old daughter to a "Mommy and Me" class this morning. I thought it would be fun, because she's an extremely charming and brilliant girl. I also have an appointment with my gynecologist. After all, I'm quite sure I'll want my tubes tied by then.

Sparkly

Having children is wonderful. It can also be a tremendous grind. The same thing day after day. Get them dressed, washed, teeth brushed, fed and ready for school. Homework when they get home, and then playtime and TV. I'm not complaining, but the sameness can start to wear thin at times.

Case in point - Max cannot sit in a chair. Whether he's eating or doing homework, his heinie never quite touches it. This makes for a gigantic mess whenever food is involved. No amount of kindly corrections, yelling, threats or nasty looks seem to get his butt to touch a seat. This morning was no different. He had whole wheat cinnamon toast for breakfast. I make it with a little butter, sugar and cinnamon. When he was finished, he came over to me and said, "Look how sparkly I am!" He was covered in crumbs. I was less than thrilled and became angry as I was dusting the sugar and cinnamon off of his arms, face, forehead, neck and shirt. It was in places that food of any kind does not belong. His plate had very few crumbs because they had been spread over the entire table instead. I freaked out, and we both stormed off upset with each other. Another parenting coup for me.

As a parent, you have days when you feel like the worst ever and days when you think you should be named parent of the year. I'm getting the feeling that I may not be winning any awards today. The grind is definitely grating on me.

The School Nurse

My kid's spend a lot of time at the school nurse's office. They're never sick, they just like going to visit. When I first heard of her popularity, I thought maybe she was super-model stunning. Then I saw her and clearly there was something else drawing them to her office.

In kindergarten, Max went to the nurse everyday. Why the teacher let him do this is beyond me. I kept wondering, what is it about the school nurse that makes him want to see her so much? Finally, it hit me. The nurse gave out crackers and pretzels! Max takes the fact that his name rhymes with snacks very seriously, so he couldn't let this opportunity pass him by. Thank God, in first and second grade the teachers don't let him out of the classroom that easily.

Ben, on the other hand, still goes to the nurse at least once a week. He has good reason, though. He's a hypochondriac just like me. He has legitimate concerns. His skin is itchy, his leg hurts, his elbow is sore, or he has a back ache. The other day the nurse called me. I answered, by saying "Oy vay!" She went on to say that Ben had been in her office twice because his ear was bothering him. He had no fever and his throat did not appear red. I could have told her that, since Ben was fine when I had seen him only 2 hours earlier. He got on the phone, and I compassionately offered to stick a screwdriver in his ear to make sure there was no blockage. The next thing I knew he was on his way back to class and the nurse was surprised at his quick recovery. I should really teach a parenting course!

Ben and Max each have their own agendas for visiting their friendly school nurse. Max knows he's healthy but can't keep away from snacks, while Ben is sure he's always sick and wants a professional's opinion. I have no doubt that they will both end up the same way. Needing a professional head-shrinker's opinion.

Harmless Obsessions

Last summer, my husband came down with a bad case of pool-envy. One of our friends has a lovely pool, and we always imagined how fabulous it would be to have one of our own. Most of our friends bought boats last year, but that's not our style. Lounging by a pool pretending to watch our kids swim is much more conducive to our sense of selves.

The problem is we really can't afford a pool right now. Our children are sucking the money right our of our pockets, and whatever is left I use to buy shoes and handbags. In an act of desperation (and insanity), Mike made an outline of a pool using about 5 bricks in our backyard. Sometimes he would stand on our deck and stare, teary-eyed at his pool (aka bricks). I would watch him as he carefully mowed around the bricks. Delusionally, he would show his friends where his pool would go if he could ever afford to build it. If he had handed them shovels perhaps we would have had one by now.

Now that it's winter, Mike has switched his obsession to a 52 inch, widescreen TV. He goes to Best Buy once a week and stares at his chosen one, longingly. It's really so pathetic. All the salesmen know him. Yesterday, during his weekly visit, he was overjoyed to see that his TV of choice went down $400 in price. Super! It just needs to drop $3000 more and Mikey can bring home his monster television. Until then, he can always stare at his bricks for his viewing pleasure.

Flatulence

God knows, flatulence is an unavoidable part of life. There are certain ways to handle this condition that vary upon the company you're with at the time. If you're with your spouse, by all means let it rip. He married you for better or worse, you know. If you're with your friends sitting at lunch, hold it in while sitting or excuse yourself and go to the bathroom. If you are at a party and can't hold it in, fart inconspicuously and keep walking, letting the fumes disperse behind you. If none of these are possible, stand next to your husband so it looks like he did it. After all, no one would think a woman could cause that offensive odor.

It's all about forethought and utilizing the appropriate escape plan. Unfortunately, an associate of my husband's showed no couth whatsoever during a flatulent situation. Case in point - 2 associates were in my husband's office discussing whatever financial planners discuss. One of the men excused himself to go to the bathroom. Once gone, my husband and the other associate realized that the stench in the office was making their eyes water and paint peel off the walls. The other man was quick to state that he was not responsible for the foul stench and abruptly left. It was so incredibly smelly, that Mike stuck a post-it note covered with magic marker under his nose to mask the stink, in a futile attempt to continue to work. Disgusted, he finally had to evacuate the room for 10 minutes to allow it to air out. In the mean time, he yelled at the man he believed was responsible and told him to fart in his own office from now on, preferably with the door closed.

Once confronted, the man still didn't own up to it. Doesn't he realize that the big tip off was his quick exit to the bathroom? I guess he was never schooled in the final rule of flatulence. When all else fails, proudly own up to your gas and apologize, otherwise someone might write a blog about you.

Loud-Talking vs.Yelling

When Ben and Max were about 4 years old, I decided to have an important talk with them. They were beginning to complain that I yelled at them a lot, so it was time to set the record straight. I explained that I was really a loud-talker, not a yeller.

You see, when you're a parent it's often necessary to repeat yourself an infinite amount of times before a child hears you, let alone responds to you. Personally, I tend to get louder and louder with each repetition. This doesn't mean I'm angry, I just have a deep desire to be acknowledged, as do most living things. It's a perfect example of loud-talking. Other times, I'm just trying to make a point. In that case, I might amplify my tone until everyone appears to get it (usually when their ears start bleeding). This is loud-talking, of course. On the other hand, yelling is a tool I implement when the boys are wrecking my home, arguing with me, or behaving in any number of inappropriate ways. Yelling and threatening generally go hand and hand, unlike loud-talking which requires very few threats. Honestly, I think the differences are crystal clear.

By the end of our discussion, Ben and Max really seemed to understand that I wasn't a yeller as they had thought, but rather a kindly, loud-talker. On many occasions since then, I have heard them say to each other, "Stop loud-talking at me!" Evidence of yet another parenting feather in my cap. Luckily, a close friend of mine is a therapist. I intend to ask her to do pro-bono sessions with my kids when they're older to correct all the damage I've done.

Dog Training

I always had Labrador Retrievers as pets when I was growing up. When I was in second grade, we got a new puppy named Angel. My mother had no experience training dogs, but she still fearlessly took it upon herself to train and discipline our dog. Her philosophy was the same as most Jewish mom's - fill it full of treats and cookies and you can teach it just about anything.

One day, we were watching "Candid Camera". In the episode, an innocent secretary was typing in an office. Every time the bell would "ding" on the typewriter a dog would run in, pull out the paper and throw it in the garbage. I thought it was a riot! My mother was unimpressed and assured me she could teach Angel to do the same trick. The next thing I knew, she had me typing and bell dinging. At each ding, she would put the dogs face and mouth to the paper and give it a biscuit. Sure enough, in under an hour that dog could have been a stand-in for the one on "Candid Camera". We had a good laugh and forgot all about it. Several months later, my brother was home from college and had started to type a paper for school. Much to his surprise, Angel ran into his room upon hearing the dinging typewriter, ripped the paper out and ran away. He thought it was a fluke and tried it again with the same result. He couldn't believe mom had actually taught a dog this trick, and promptly typed all his papers with the door shut.

In addition to performing tricks, my mother made sure Angel had chores of her own. It was her job to deliver any stray, dirty clothing to the door of the laundry room, where it could easily be accumulated by my mom. If the cat was scratching on our furniture, it was up to the dog to bark at her until she stopped. Angel was also trained to act ferocious anytime she heard the word "scat". A normally tame and sweet animal, would suddenly turn into Cujo at the mere utterance of this word. I mostly used it on the cat because she had a really bad attitude.

My mother grimaces whenever she is around my sweet, but relatively ill-mannered dog. She wishes I had trained Kasey to be as well behaved as my kids. I think I did a great job. She only barks at me when I'm on the phone and can't give her my undivided attention. Who can blame my poor baby?

Cups

Max and Ben have been taking Karate for 2 years. Part of their class time is often spent sparring with other kids. Their Sensi has told us we have to buy them athletic cups to protect their privates during this time. We have spent the last 2 years procrastinating, since there really hasn't been that much to protect. Our friend Nathan, ingeniously offered to make a jock strap for his son out of an eggshell and rubberbands, but even that would have been too big for our kids.

Finally, last week Mike caved in and had them wear cups to karate for the first time. Ben came in dressed in his karate gear and proceeded to punch his groin area repeatedly. He proudly exclaimed that he couldn't feel a thing! I was horrified and begged him to stop, but he was having too much fun. He went on to say, that he was excited to ask Sensi if she noticed anything different about him during today's class. Max, on the otherhand, was extremely uncomfortable and wondered how he was going to do his kicks.

Poor Max. He came home from class painfully chafed and begging never to wear it again. I think it may have needed to be better positioned. I suggested that he punch himself in his privates several times because it seemed to work for Ben. He was unamused, and gave me the same blank stare that I am used to getting from strangers whenever I open my mouth.

Poop-Flinging

We love our house except for the view of the slovenly woman who lives on the hill behind us. When we first moved in 15 years ago, there was an old fence that hid her home. Early on, after a bad winter, the fence fell down and was never replaced. It has been the bain of our existence ever since.

Much to our chagrin, the woman's husband actually dropped dead of a heart attack while rebuilding part of the fence (not our part). In a moment of compassion, Mike had offered to split the cost of the fence with her, but she said it wasn't a priority. He then suggested she blame it on the 4 winter storms we had, but she said it was against her religion to lie (huh?). After all of this, she had the nerve to complain that some of our lawn clippings were landing in a remote corner of her yard (by accident at that time, I assure you). Mike's response was "build a fence". Since then, the gloves have come off. She has ridiculous statues that border our property, that have "mysteriously" tipped over during the summer months. Mike has blasted horrendous, profanity-ridden rap music (borrowed from a friend) outside while prancing in his underwear when he saw her entertaining company. However, our friends all time favorite story is referred to as "poop-flinging". While cleaning our backyard of dog poop before a party, Mike used old barbeque tongs to fling it up the hill into our neighbor's yard. The funny thing is, she never even noticed because her yard is such a disaster.

I realize all of this sounds a little mean. But we really tried to work with her so all parties would be satisfied. If she's so religious, shouldn't she love thy neighbor or something? Besides, dog poop makes great fertilizer, from what I understand. Or, she could simply build a fence.

Meat

My husband's always been a carnivore. His penchant for meat has only intensified with the "carbs-suck" craze. In fact, about 3 years ago my darling lost over 50 pounds in 6 weeks by eating nothing but sashimi, chicken wings and meat. He has even managed to keep his svelte figure all these years, even after incorporating carbs into his meals to help prevent hemorrhoids and constipation. He's an enigma, really.

As I've mentioned in other posts, (which no one reads anyway) Mike's an amazing cook. For a summer barbeque last year, Mike smoked a whole pork butt on our grill for 8 hours. He delighted in the preparation. He even called his carnivorous friend, Nathan, saying that he was rubbing his butt and thinking about him. Nathan was strangely excited, until he realized Mike was talking about seasoning his pork butt with a spice rub. The pork was outrageous and even made Nathan get over his disappointment. (Hee hee! I love blogs)

Every year, on the occasions that I need to buy a present for my husband, I experience major brain-drain. He really doesn't want anything, and buying him shirts, ties and kitchen gadgets was getting old. In a moment of sheer brilliance, I decided to buy him meat. Not just any meat, however. Special meat. After much research, I ordered a 5 pound, smoked brisket from Texas along with a 2 pound rack of smoked ribs. Mike practically cried when he got his gift, while I did a happy-dance in triumph.

I wonder what kind of meat I can give him next year? Perhaps meat-gifting every year might get a little old. I mean how many times can I say, "I love you" with beef and pork products?