Nuts

plenty of nuts around here

Don't you hate it when you post something on Craigslist, for instance the bunk bed that you just bought on Craigslist but that you no longer want because your kids cried when they saw it and want to keep their old one that you don't like, and then arrange for someone to come look at it late at night when you're home alone with your three kids because your husband is in Israel and then tell your friend to call every five minutes in case the buyer is really a psychopath and then answer the doorbell anyway even though you're terrified and sweating a lot having just locked all the doors and windows even though it's like 85 degrees in the house and it turns out to be a six foot three adorably doughy young man from Singapore who magically fits the entire thing into his Mazda 5 and by the time he leaves you're wired from all the adrenalin and the glass of coke you had from the two liter bottle in the fridge leftover from your dance party (don't you just love the way cold coke claws down your throat in the best possible way) so you watch the first five episodes of 30 Rock since you remembered that your friend loaded like seven seasons on your computer when you visited him in August and then you go to bed after midnight knowing full well your baby will be waking you in one hour and then two more hours?

You and me both.

From where I'm sitting

I see a little boy whose love of trains is second only to his love of electrical wires. He asks to take a train every day after preschool. But his sister needs her nap. Foiled! So if she wakes up at a reasonable time and all are in good spirits and we can still catch the 5:11 southbound or the 5:18 northbound trains, then I indulge this particular obsession. I love trains too. I wish this one could take us to Holland or Thailand or Spain, but San Jose will do. And just in time to catch the 5:31 train back home for dinner.

Gray Morning

Yesterday morning I was in the shower and my son came in to tell me that he decided to wear grey socks today. GRAY SOCKS PEOPLE! GRAY FREAKING SOCKS! At first I thought I had misunderstood. How can this be? You don't wear gray socks. That's against everything you stand for. You stand for blue socks! Who are you? Where's my real son? He went on to say, all of my blue socks are dirty so I'll just wear the gray ones. His nonchalance was startling.

You won't believe me (you probably will) when I tell you that those gray socks have been rolled up for a YEAR in his socks box. I don't remember exactly when it happened but at some point he made it clear to me that under no circumstances would he ever wear anything but blue socks. And not just any blue socks. They had to be the kind from Old Navy with the letters and size on the bottom. I fought it for a while because at the time we only had two pair of those. And I thought I am not going to indulge this completely irrational behavior. But after the fifth morning in a row when I wanted to kill him I thought, this is not an important battle. I went to Old Navy and bought six more pairs. And in future weeks and months when he'd run out of blue socks, I'd just dig a pair of stinky ones out of the hamper because I don't give a rat's ass. They can smell like moldy cheese, in fact sometimes they do, but if he wants them, so be it. I've become very zen about the whole socks thing.

Which is why I was completely shocked, ALARMED, if you will, about his decision to go with the gray ones—gray ones that are identical to the blue ones, aside from the color. He's just growing up I guess. But just to be sure he wasn't growing up too quickly I asked him this morning when he came into our bed if he was too old for morning snuggles. He replied no, as if to say, mommy you have clearly lost your mind. As though I had suggested to his younger self that he wear gray socks.

Birthday surprise

We celebrated my son's birthday last Sunday at a local park. For the weeks leading up to it I was going back and forth about how to plan this thing. I'm just not a good party planner. My birthdays always suck. Although I did plan a kickass New Year's party at my brother-in-law's house in Israel. We partied like it was 1999. In fact it was 1999. Uch, I'm old.

My husband and I decided we'd just do something simple at the park and invite a few of his friends from school and a few family friends. Then my husband spoke to our friends who were having their daughter's fourth birthday party the day before in Berkeley. And they were having everyone from her preschool, baking homemade pizza, planning all kinds of games and MAKING a pinata. George Jesus. How I am going to compete with all that. People. Take it down a notch. You're making the average mothers look really bad here.

So then my head started to spin a bit. Not unlike a bashed-in, homemade pinata. What the hell can we do to spruce up this party? I wasn't super excited about the thought of leading a bunch of four year olds in games. And yet we had reached the point where we couldn't just invite folks to play at a park and call it a party. The kids needed some structure. But I never thought of my son as a kid who likes to participate in games. Since he never does.

So I came up with one game - the going to work race. My son's favorite activity when he gets home from school is to put on my shoes, get his purse with his keys and go to work. He works in San Francisco he recently told me. I figured I'd bring twelve pairs of shoes and twelve purses or bags and line them and make the kids walk across the lawn "going to work". I also ordered a cake from my brother's neighbor in the shape of a Motorola flip phone with happy birthday written in the screen. Then I decided I'd pimp out my husband and make him do gymnastics tricks for the kids and maybe teach them a few tumbles. The only wild card was my son. Who knew if he'd participate at all. Or if he'd want any attention on him. He had the power to completely sabotage any and all plans. So we stuck with our two random party games and hoped for the best.

The day finally arrived and I channeled the spirit of Barney. As my son's friends started to arrive he greeted each one with a sprint in their direction and a bear hug. Who is this child? Pleasantly surprised would be an understatement. Once there was a critical mass I called all of the kids to do follow the leader and I marched them around the lawn doing overhead claps and giant steps and shark claps and monkey jumps. Then my brilliant mom came up with the hokey pokey. My son actually knew the words and sang the whole thing. Then we did the "work" race which was a hit. And after we went to a little hill and my husband showed the kids how to tumble down. Then he walked on his hands and did some cartwheels. The guest were sufficiently impressed. That completed the entertainment portion of the party and then it was time for lunch. So we sat around on blankets and ate pizza. Then we put Shalev in a little chair and sang happy birthday to him and lifted him four times and one for good luck as is the Israeli tradition. Then he saw his cake and just about died. MOTOROLA CAKE! I know, we're weird.

All in all I have to say it was a surprisingly great birthday. No tantrums. No whining. And no one threw up. The three criteria by which every party should be measured. I give it a ten.

Vantage advantage

The other day I was trying to take a picture with my phone, in fact it was the first time I’ve ever tried to take a picture with my phone, and a message popped up on the screen that the memory was full. Huh? Upon further investigation I found that there were already dozens of pictures in the phone. I scrolled through and saw pictures of my three-year-old’s feet dangling from his car seat, and the back of the passenger side head rest and a blurry one of me checking my email at home, and one of his kitty. I realized that he had covertly taken them all—including a self-portrait shot from his outstretched arm.

I had to laugh. It was like watching a slideshow of his world. We’ve been letting him use our digital camera (I know, you'd think we'd learn our lesson with the cell phone) which gives him unending pleasure. And the results have been surprisingly artistic. A lot of interesting angles and shots of loved ones from the waist down. A lot of shots of the sky, close-ups of the ground, his sister, his prized possessions, his own feet, the back of my head while I drive the car. You get the idea.

I made a little book of these pictures. For your perusal:

Click here to view this photo book.

My Darling Motorola

We went to our friend's son's third birthday party on Saturday and it was really lovely. Just a bunch of friends and their kids running around eating cake and chatting. At one point I was sitting on the sofa with my friend and another girlfriend of ours who also has a three year old and is pregnant with number two. As we were chatting their two sons started fighting about who got to play with Thomas, or was it Percy? One of those stupid trains. The boys were in tears and the friend who's pregnant told me, you see? I told her not to start up with those trains because they just become obsessed! It consumes their every thought. Trains and more trains! And Thomas and Percy and Clarabelle and this one and that one! Uch! Shut-up already with the trains! Then the mother of the birthday boy said, I know, but he loves them. I just bought him one video and now he lives and breathes these ridiculous trains!

Now thank god, Thomas is one thing that my kid is NOT obsessed with so I don't have to suffer through those inane storybooks and videos. I mean who writes this stuff? Winnie the Pooh kicks Thomas' ass any day of the week as far as I'm concerned. Meanwhile, as I'm thinking this to myself I hear my son, who's sitting next to us on the couch, singing "Motorola" over and over to the tune of "My Darling Clementine."

Try it with me:
Motorola Motorola
Motorola Motorola
Motorola Motorola
Motorola Motorola

Ladies, at least your kids are obsessed with something that befits a three year old. I mean, kids grow out of Thomas with time while I have at least a decade of listening to the Motorola song before my kid may actually have his own phone. Thomas isn't looking half bad after all.

The IKEA Incident

Yesterday was a beautiful day but instead of spending it with my husband and my daughter on a hike with our friends, I decided we needed to buy my son a twin mattress, a comforter and some sheets. And we needed to do this at IKEA on the busiest day of the week. He'd been sleeping on the floor in either his room or our room for the past six months and I just wanted him in his room. His toddler bed was too small and he didn't like sleeping in it anyway and since his sister is now sleeping through the night I just decided it was time. We talked about it and he was excited about his new mattress so we set out on what would turn out to be the worst day ever or at least since last Thursday when we flew home from Israel (a story for another time).

We arrived in good spirits. I found the comforter I wanted, he picked out the comforter cover and sheets, all we had to do was go upstairs to look at the bed, find out where to get it in the warehouse, buy it, and drive home.

Next to the stairs going up I ask my son if he wants to take the stairs or the elevator. Big mistake for we soon spiraled into an epic session of toddler remorse. He picked the elevator. So I get a cart to put our things in, put him in the cart and we take the elevator. We are not out of the elevator more than a minute when he starts to whine that he wanted to take the stairs. I have a "no re-do" policy now having suffered through months of toddler remorse tantrums so I try to redirect his desires. I spy a stuffed turtle. Do you want to hold tiny tim while we're in the store and then we'll take the stairs on the way down? He scoffs at the turtle idea. I point out the slide in the kids section, he forgets his troubles and goes to the slide. Tantrum averted.

After two slides we find his bed and he starts whimpering about wanting tiny tim. So we go back and get him, I take the stuff out of the cart so that we can take the stairs as promised, we get to the bottom and I put the stuff in a new cart. This is when the drawbridge comes down on the MOAT (Mother Of All Tantrums).

Him: I want the cart from upstairs
Me: Sweetie, we're not going upstairs to get our cart. All of these carts are the same.
Him: I want my cart from upstairs.
Me: But you said you wanted to take the stairs so we had to leave that cart upstairs. We'll just take another cart.
Him (sobbing): I want to go upstairs to get the cart!!!!!!!!!!
Me: Son, if you can't stop crying we are going to leave the store.
Him (shrieking): I want to go upstairs!!!!!!!!!!

So I pick him up and he's kicking and sobbing and shrieking so I have to hold him sideways with both hands like a ramming post and walk out of the store while he's screaming I want to buy my mattress. No mattress for you muchacho.

By this point I am livid because we have just wasted two hours, we have no mattress, my son is basically having a seizure over a shopping cart. So I throw him in the car and slam the door and get in on my side and turn on the car as if I'm about to drive even though his seat belt isn't on and he starts to FREAK OUT. I'm not safe! I'm not safe! which of course I know but I want him to feel extra bad for making me hate him. So I put the car back in park again and put on his seat belt and then I go into my quiet voice. I am not buying your mattress. I am never taking you to any store. You do not know how to behave. We are going home.

He's still begging for his mattress and in my head I'm thinking I really don't want to have to spend any more time at IKEA. I've already wasted one day of my weekend. So we drive to an empty part of the parking lot and stop and I wait until he stops crying. And finally we're at a point where we can talk about what all went down in the store. He promises to behave so I lay out exactly what our plan is when we go back in the store including an explanation of shopping carts and how they are ALL THE SAME (FUCKING) THING. He understands. By now it's lunchtime so the return visit also includes a stop at the cafeteria for some Swedish meatballs with lingonberry sauce (I love that stuff) and some macaroni and cheese for the kid. All is well again. We buy our items and he falls asleep in the cart. A wave of peace washes over IKEA.

But the IKEA incident doesn't end at IKEA. More later on inaugural night with the new mattress.

The Stove Pipe

One of my son's favorite books is a story, based on the three little pigs, called The Three Little Javelinas. It's a terrific book. I would know since I've read it about 900 times. My husband's brother and his family live on a Navajo reservation in northeastern Arizona and bought this for my son since it kind of has a southwestern/multicultural twist. Plus the illustrations are awesome. Anyway he loves this book.

Toward the end, the coyote (not the big bad wolf in this telling) can't blow down the adobe house that the sister javelina built (as a third child and only girl I closely identify with her ingenuity and forward thinking) so he climbs up on the roof, makes himself really skinny and tries to slide down the stove pipe. And so beings my cognitive journey into the mind of a three year old...

On this particular page of the book, the coyote is standing on one foot in a prowl posture with a big sinister and toothy grin. I noticed that every time we would read this book my son would roll onto his stomach and look away. Then one day my son ask to wear his "skinny" red shirt.

Me: What?
Him: With the skinny!
Me: With the what?
Him (pulling down the shirt): With the skinny alligator.

He shows me his red shirt with an alligator on it and the alligator is showing all of his teeth so my son says Mommy, he's doing the skinny! with kind of a nervous, yet enthusiastic giggle. And now I get it. Sort of.

For weeks he continued to ask for this book but then roll away when the skinny coyote page appeared. Then he started asking me to turn the page back so he didn't have to see the "skinny". Okay. Then we went on a hike near our house and he saw a water drainage pipe and he pointed and shouted It's the stove pipe! And then he showed all his teeth and said he was the skinny which sent him into hysterics.

And since then every time we pass by something that's tall and cylindrical or even just cylindrical, he points out the stove pipe. In the airport on the way to Israel we saw about 57 stove pipes - lots of exposed architecture in airports. Yes, sweety, there's another stove pipe. Imagine that.

Then it gets even more interesting. We get to my in laws and there's a picture of his aunt Jenny (my mother-in-law's sister) in the office and she's got this big toothy grin and my son asked if we could turn the picture around because aunt Jenny was acting like a skinny coyote. What I wouldn't give to spend some time in his little brain...

But our journey came to a climax later that week when something blew up at the potash factory where my father-in-law used to be a project manager. They asked him to come down and figure out what to do so he went with my husband and my son for some generational male bonding time. This place is literally a gazillion stove pipes all welded together. I only heard the story second hand but apparently my son was in total shock when he went in there and saw these giant furnaces and pipes and lord knows what else is in that factory.

Me: Where did you go?
Him: To Saba's work.
Me: Where does Saba work?
Him: In a stove pipe!
Me: You went to Saba's factory?
Him: No, his stove pipe where he burns the skinny coyote.

So I give a big smile and he says, you're being skinny mommy. And I say, thank you. Who doesn't like to be called skinny? Even if, in his world, it means sly and toothy.

Serial Cereal

Our kitchen cabinet looks like the set of Seinfeld. We have like six different boxes of cereal at any given time. And my son has a name for each one. And all I can say is kudos to General Mills for coming up with the brand name Cheerios because it's actually the way my son pronounces the word "Cereal". So now everything is some version of Cheerios. Way to create brand loyalty early. Here's the roster:

Yellow cheerios - Joe's O's from Trader joes
Mommy's cheerios - Fiber O's (yes, I need fiber)
Bue cheerios - frosted shredded wheat in a blue package from Trader Joes
Monkey - Gorrilla Crunch
Mighty Bites - Mighty Bites
This one - Kashi Crunch

And I'm not sure how I allowed this to happen, but every single morning my son wants every single cereal. And like a schmuck I pour a little of everything into a bowl for him. And he notices if I skimp out on any one of the six different cereals. I don't feel too bad because these aren't like fruity pebbles or cocoa crispies. I mean the kid likes fiber cereal. But I'm getting tired of this another in a series of ridiculous routines that we have indulged. Like when he insisted on turning off all of the lights in the house before he went to bed. That lasted about a year. Or how he insists to click the safety belt buckle on his car seat. Pity the grandparent who doesn't remember this little rule. FBT*. Well not anymore. He's slowly growing out of tantrums. Instead you'll get a lecture.

They tell you that kids need routines and it's true. My kid for sure does not like surprises and he thrives in a predictable environment. But try telling him that it's summer and he really doesn't need to wear socks to sleep or long pajamas or be tucked-in with a heavy fleece blanket. He'll be sweating his head off and still insist on the "tuck-in".

I pick my battles. This week it's cereal.
Next visit to the grocery store we're skipping the "cheerio" aisle.

* Full-blown tantrum

It's 103

I have a feeling that all toddlers suffer from a mild case of obsessive compulsive disorder. I think it's how they learn. My son asks me at least a hundred times a day if I have my cell phone. And my keys. And my wallet. And is my wallet in my bag. And did I call grandma. And is my phone charging. Over and over and over in a relentless pursuit of affirmation. On the one hand I know he's learning about the art of conversation. He hears us say this kind of stuff all the time. He's mimicking. But on the other hand sometimes I feel like I'm raising Rainman.

And it's not just the repetitive questions. He becomes inexplicably attached to the strangest objects. It's usually the stuff that I use all the time - like my phone, my wallet etc. The other night though he woke up nearly in tears because he wanted to sleep with my Crocs. (?!) This was at 4am. He was calling "I want to wear your Crocs" and wandering around his room half asleep. I brought him back to his bed and he promptly returned to sleep. An hour later he wanted the crocs again so I brought them and he slept with my shoes. I mean, that's weird right?

The crocs was just a one night thing thankfully. The item that seems to have captured his imagination for the longest duration is his ear thermometer. I started using it on him when he was about a year and a half because, frankly, no one is a fan of the rectal thermometer. The ear one is so easy. And he loved it. He liked to check his own temperature, check mine, check his stuffed cat, check Micky Mouse. Then he wanted to carry it around the house and put it in and take it out of its case a trillion times. He wanted to sleep with it. And bring it in the car and to the supermarket. I indulged this behavior for the short while that he was sick but then when he went back to daycare I told him that I had to bring the thermometer back to his doctor since we didn't need it any more. He was not happy about that but little boys should be playing with cars and dolls and play dough, not ear thermometers. He asked about it for the next week and cried a little at the thought of his beloved thermometer. More recently I had to pull it out again to check his temp. It was 103. He spent the next two hours checking his own temperature and reminding me that it was 103. Which it no longer was, but try telling him that. "It's 103" again and again and again.

Now when he sees the thermometer he reminds me that we have to give it back to the doctor. I don't have to hide it anymore which is nice. He's growing up. His magic number remains 103. He got a little soo close to the oven the other day and then quickly backed away.

Him: It's hot.
Me: Yes, you have to be careful sweety.
Him: Is it hot mommy?
Me: Yes, it's very hot in the oven.
Him: Is it 103?

Yes it is.

I need my phone for work

We thought it was cute when my son was eleven months old and started to hold things up to his ears and say "hello?". First it was the remote control and we laughed. Then a banana. My wallet. His shoe. Then he went for the real deal. And we made the biggest mistake of our lives - we laughed. And so began an 18 month spiral into behavior verging on obsession with cell phones and all things electronic. We joked that he would be an engineer like his dad and his granddad, but we feared he was turning into a sociopath. That kid who never makes eye contact, only plays video games and is secretly hacking into the CIA's information system.

I admit there are some areas of parenting where I am totally consistent and we get great results. My kid sleeps like a polar bear. Heavy and easily. I made sure of that. But unfortunately I was never really consistent with the cell phone thing and so for more than a year our son had tantrum after tantrum wanting to use our phones. It then grew to encompass my mom's cell phone, my wallet, my mom's wallet, my husband's laptop, my mom's handbag, my keys and my iPod. He was relentless. We forbade him to use the cell phone so he would get around that by just "bringing" me the phone. He would actually derive joy from holding the phone - as if the phone was actually a part of me and this was how he could be closer to me. Or from spying it in my pocket. Or seeing it on the charger. We would tell him that the phone was only for work. But then he would ask to call grandma, which I could never resist, so he would get to use it. And then he'd get all quiet, pre-tantrum mopey when he'd have to give it back to me.

We tried giving him toy phones, some of which are super cool and look like phones and have all kinds of buttons and noises. No thank you, says he. We tried giving him my mom's old phone which actually still worked but just didn't have service. At first he was thrilled but then when we wouldn't let him take it to the park, he started foregoing jaunts to the park. And his general mood was worsening as he spent more and more time obsessing about his phone. So we took that one away too. And the tantrums continued. Until yesterday.

Now he's a little older - 2 and 9 months - and he's able to spend more time in pretend play. Yesterday was a major turning point. He spent about two hours after preschool playing with the handbag I gave him (not the one I actually use), an old wallet (not my current wallet), an old cell phone, plastic teething keys, a broken camera and his sunglasses. He put all of these things in his bag, "called" grandma, told her he's on his way to work, opened the front door and then "locked" it, walked down the walkway, turned around, opened the front door, announced he just went to the store and that he bought chocolate raisins, cheerios and broccoli. Then he called grandma to tell her. Then he "charged" his phone. Then called grandma to tell her that he's charging his phone. "Hi Grandma. I'm charging my phone. Yes...no....no...okay. No, Aba can't touch my phone. Yes. I'm going to the store. I need my phone for work....okay. Bye Grandma". He did ten or eleven variations on this drama for literally the entire evening. It was awesome. He was actually playing. And likely breaking my phone charger, but he was playing.