momtourage

Tiny Town

There is an amazing mini train village at The Living Desert in Indian Wells, CA. The kids watched the trains for ages, but I loved this model of the Wigwam Motel in Arizona. I stayed there once, a long time ago.

The Price is Right!

Nope! This isn't a holiday bargain hunting and gathering tale, it is a story of my son's ecstatic reaction to his gifts this year. S is almost 6 now and this year it really sunk in. Not only completely embracing the power of Santa, Advent Calendar making and counting, tree decorating and cookie making BUT Chanukah rituals as well. Dreidel playing, singing the blessings while lighting the menorah and gathering with friends at home for an abundance of latkes and cheer. 

But this is a modern household and the rituals above are only the foundation to what forms the holiday for an almost 6 year old…presents!

I can only liken S's reaction to some of his booty to an audience member who just got chosen to "Come on down" by Bob Barker to be a contestant on The Price Is RIght. Less hot-dogging—à la a football player after a touchdown—and more devotional shouts, radiant jumping and just "this" side of speaking-in-tongues, like someone moved by the spirit in a Southern Baptist church. However this first exhibition of hallelujah was aimed towards his Chanukah gift. I swear I saw tears in his eyes when he realized that he got the very Bionicle he was wanting.

Fast forward 3 days to Christmas morning. Sure, his parents and grandparents rocked his world in the gift-giving arena, but Santa is still magic in this house. There was that middle-America, holiday sweater wearing contestant again. "How did he know what to get me?!" "I guess I just wished for it hard enough." "This is the best Christmas ever!"

Yogic Segue.

In the weeks preceding the holidays, we saw S making mental and actual lists of what he wanted—for the two holidays we celebrate that's a lot of time spent on wanting. This, to say the least, gives my husband and me pause (read: freaks us out). How do we encourage balance? Sam sure expresses the essential quality of tapas (burning desire) and samtosa (the feeling of being content with what we have)... it's just the gratitude that should follow is sporadic and not inspired. Again he is not yet 6 so these might be lofty ideals for a child of his age. So we have been trying to use sportsmanship as a tool to support the quality of trust. As you play the game Trouble™ and Dad has bumped you, or you haven't popped a 6 and lagged behind…TRUST that the game isn't over until the last pop is popped. Trust that nothing is written in stone, enjoy the ride and just see what happens. As opposed to throwing the pegs, manipulating the rules in your favor or flat out giving-up hope. And then, whether you win or loose, but especially when you loose, you thank your opponent for a good game.

In yoga, Isvarapranidhana is the dedication of all our actions, performed either by intellect, speech or body, to the Divine. Without compromising tapas, we should accept the fact that we will not always get everything we want. Sometimes we get disappointed. Things do go wrong, this is the reason why samtosa is so important. But to enhance the knowledge that we have done our share, we need to add in the quality of wishing (desire mixed with contentment then…letting go). Forget it. Let it happen. Don’t worry, fret or doubt. Be at peace with your wish. Let the universe handle it. It is done. 

And this morning, just when you thought Dad had it in the bag with only one pop of a 1 to go, you popped a 6. Now you've lapped Dad! And with a magic pop of a 3, won! "I guess I just wished for it hard enough." Cue more possessed wails and prostration.

How to Not Spoil Your Child

He's sitting there in an ocean of wrapping paper.  Pouting.  He's opened the big car and the pirate ship and the play dough ice cream station.  "And what else?"  He's looking for more.  You give him the line you've always given him, "That's a lot of presents, honey.  Aren't we lucky to have so many things?"  You know for sure somewhere, probably within miles of where your three-year-old pouts, there are children who would be completely content with only one of these toys.  How did this happen?  Where is the re-wind button?

I'm sorry.  This won't actually be a very helpful post for those of you who are also watching your three-year-olds pout on Christmas morning.  I don't actually know how not to spoil him.  I was just hoping if you also read my post, I wouldn't feel so alone in my how-the-heck-did-this-happen-ness.

In my son's defense, he is not that spoiled.  He loves to share.  He is usually polite and rarely throws tantrums in public.  I just wish he'd appreciate what he has a bit more.

When I was little we received presents on two days: Christmas and our birthdays.  Perhaps if my father went away for a long trip, he'd bring us one when he got home.  If family friends visited from out of town, there might be a little something for us upon their arrival.

My son on the other hand, seems to get presents on a weekly, if not daily, basis.  And not from me, mind you.  Not from me.  It all started when his little brother was born.  Every present the baby received had a very thoughtful gift for Cakie in it as well.  It got to the point where when the doorbell rang my son would have a Pavlovian response "You have something for me?"  -- even if it was the exterminator at the door.  His own birthday came a month later.  More presents.

After a brief lull in the presents, the holiday season arrived.  We also celebrate Hanukah, mind you.  So this weekend we celebrated Hanukah with the extended family on Saturday.  Sunday, we celebrated with my brother.  Monday and Tuesday he came home from day care with gifts from his day care providers.  Wednesday he had a dry spot.  Today was Christmas.

So please tell me momtourage, oh my momtourage,  short of heading to the  hills and living off the grid how do I avoid this gift gluttony?  Tell me how to not spoil my child.

spoiled

It's this time of year when I'm hyper-aware of it. I'm contributing to my children's greed. I don't like it, yet I can't help myself. It's because I can, I guess. I can't suppress that desire to give them everything, but I also hate what they've become as a result: always expecting me to buy them treats and goodies and asking for them. Is there a support group for this?

The Last Day

Today was my last day of maternity leave.

I spent the early part of this week moping and dreading.

Today was all about plucking the best parts of being home with my baby and putting them all together to make a celebration of our time together, rather than some kind of funeral.

When Trucker went down for his first nap, I sat and did silly things on the computer. I didn't even attempt to clean the house or do anything productive.

When he woke up, we watched the snow falling.  Then we played with some toys on a blanket.  Then we had a tickle fest.  Then we watched the snow some more.

Later, we spent hours in a cafe with a friend and her baby.  It was the very same cafe and the very same friend with whom my honey used to spend much of her time during her maternity leave with our respective first babies.  And she happens to also be a teacher.  And she knew just what to say and just when to say it.

In the cafe I ate potato and ham soup.  Then I ate a cupcake.  Trucker tried to eat those things as well.  He did not succeed.

Trucker and I went home and as the snow started to turn to sleet and slush, I realized I needed to pick Cakie up from day care in time for him to make a snow angel.  He's been making snow angels in sand at the beach and on the rug at the library for quite some time.  Finally we had some real snow.  So I wedged poor Trucker back into his snow suit and went to fetch Cake.  I was worried on the way there that he'd be crying on the way home because the sleet was so cold and it was so windy.  He did not cry.  He was extremely excited to play with the "snow."  I call it snow but it was more like slush.  Walking home, we had a slushball fight.  Then I found what seemed to be a clean enough spot to make a slush angel.  He laid down and closed his eyes against the sleet that was coming down fairly heavily at that point and waved his wings.  When he got up, it didn't really look like an angel.  The most recognizable part was where his tushie pushed into the snow.  I called it a "snow tushie," but he didn't approve of my nickname.  Then we made the world's tiniest slushman on top of a brick fencepost and knocked him down and made him again several times. 

When we finally made it home, the whole family had a living room dance party.

It was a good day.

Maine Baked Beans

Yogamom sent an amazing fish stew recipe/holiday card. (I will definitely make it at some point - it reads very yummy.) And in this spirit of sharing recipes below is my family's tried and true Maine baked bean recipe. You would traditionally eat this every Saturday night.

I thought this was Great-Great Grandmother Edith Gates Stowell’s (of the dreaded Gates nose) baked beans recipe but actually it is the one from Great Aunt Isabel Russell, via my dad who may have changed things a bit. Here goes:

1 lb. Great Northern Beans. Cover overnight with water.
With about 1 inch of water over the beans, cook 2 hours at 350 degrees F.
Drain off excess water but save.
ADD:     1 tsp. dry mustard
    1 tsp. dry ginger
    1 lb. salt pork
    1 small onion
    ½ cup maple syrup
    1 cup molasses
    1 small orange, peeled – if you have it
    1 small apple, quartered
Add saved water if necessary to cover beans 1 inch.
Cook at:    
        300F 2 hrs
        250F 2 hrs
        Remove cover. Turn off heat. Leave in oven 1 hour.
(If you are in Maine and they are available, add red hot dogs in the last 250F hour.)

I have found it difficult to get both salt pork and haddock (fish chowder is another family favorite) in the city. Sensible substitutions (bacon, cod) are readily available though not optimal. I have concluded that Maine cooking is best done in Maine.  This is my best shot for Brooklyn.

Hurry, Hurry

I gave a knitting lesson this morning, accompanied Hank on an extended playdate, made a cheesecake and ran to the library to return books that someone has a hold on. And oh yeah, I still have to cook a nice dinner for incoming guests, finish knitting a hat by tomorrow, wrap some presents, type out a recipe, (My Great-Great Grandmother Edith Gates Stowell's baked beans), cook said beans for Sam's Holiday Feast tomorrow morning and do laundry. Guess I won't get to that all-important downstairs vaccuuming today after all.

In my spare time, I also managed to write some tips for parents who will/are collecting money for teachers' holiday gifts. If you are interested in reading them, click here.

And now to pick up the boys...

Good Neighbors

Did I ever mention that we totally lucked out in the neighbor department? And this is especially important in an urban area where we share outer walls with the neighbors on each side. I have asked my neighbors for everything from the run of the mill 'cup of sugar' to emergency childcare and even legal advice. They have come through every time. In turn, I try to help out as much as I possibly can.

Plus they are just fun, interesting people. I love to chat across in the back yard fence. And it just flows on from there. We have been known to join in on an impromptu dinner or even tango session due to these backyard interactions.

When we are in Maine in the summer, neighbors are among the things I miss the most. Sure, once in a while the friendly farmer from next door will pull his tractor over for an impromptu chat and there are blood relatives on the other side and across the street. But distances stretch and as a friend once put it, no one is actually in 'hollering distance.' It's lonely. Sometimes the night encroaches and I wonder what I am even doing back there.

At the holidays, I am increasingly mindful of the many things I have to be thankful for. Good neighbors and a loving family are right up there at the top of that list.

politics of parenting

I’m a HUGE fan of email. I prefer to send a text message instead of calling. I often wish my mom had email so that it was an option. But there are times when (I think) a phone call is better. Especially when one is the receiver of the message, and it’s not good news.

For example, I get lots of criticism in my job. It’s much easier to hear over the phone or in person than it is to see a laundry list of mistakes and requested revisions. Somehow it takes the sting out of it when the client delivers it verbally.

There were a couple of times when friends canceled playdates on me, and I wished they had called. No, these weren’t instances when someone was ill or they wanted to postpone. These were rejections.

“I’m sorry, but my son told me he did not want to play with your son, and because I’m encouraging him to use his words, I have to respect his wishes.” Even though my son never heard that, it hurt me. I appreciated my friend’s honesty, but maybe I wouldn’t have felt as bad if she had called instead. I mean, you wouldn’t break up with someone with an email, right?

Another time a friend had emailed to uinvite us because she worried that the mix of kids (there was another family involved) wouldn’t be a harmonious one. Again, my son never knew that he wouldn’t get an opportunity to see his pal, but I felt rejected. Maybe I’m sensitive, because these are occasions that happened over a year ago, but they left an impression on me.

A Short History of Monday

It is not known whether or not she set out to revisit the memories of her childhood on that blustery morning. We do know that she had spoken to her father on the phone earlier and they may have discussed the trajectory of the recent ice storm. (It had gone south of her childhood town.) We do know, however, that at 10AM sharp she found herself lingering in front of the Vermont Christmas tree stand near the Park Slope Food Coop. Something about the proprietor's face (his reddened cheeks) probably reminded her of the wind-burned faces of the loggers from her youth. She found herself having a brief conversation with the man and even spending $10 on pine cones. My father would have a heart attack if he knew I did that, she later wrote to a friend. At least they weren't all covered with pitch like the ones I tend to pick up. She later entered the coop and bought assorted groceries, of which no record remains.

Can you tell? I am still on a non-fiction reading kick and am finding myself thinking in historical terms. I was reminded of a humorous article I read in a grad history class. "Igor Stravinsky, The Selected Telephone Calls" by Ian Frazier.  I think that the point was to caution us about what we used to back up our arguments. It has remained a source of amusement to me ever since.

 

Mother-Baby Movie

Akilah and The Bee

Brokeback Mountain

Pirates of the Carribean –The Annoying One With the Dumb Ending

Knocked Up

Dreamgirls

Sex In the City

Rachel Getting Married

MILK

Yes.  I can count on my fingers the movies I’ve seen since Cake was born. Some, obviously, were seen when there was not much selection in movies to be had.

Crash. Mad Hot Ballroom.  Those were the two I saw right before my honey gave birth.  I like movies.  But when one lives several states away from the kids’ grandparents, and babysitting ends up costing $100 a night, movies are harder to come by.  (That said, I have seen more plays than usual in the past three years, the reasoning being that if we’re spending that much on the babysitter, we may as well shell out some more for the entertainment.)

I was secretly jealous of my honey, I may have mentioned before, during her seven months home with baby Cakie way back when.  One thing I envied was the time she could spend sitting in cafes with friends and little babies.  Another was that she could go to movies.  In New York, a few years back, it was all the rage for movie theatres to reserve one showing of a matinee, maybe once a week for babies and their caretakers to be welcomed and not have to feel like they are imposing on other movie-goers: the mother-baby movie.  Now that I’m home, I can’t find them anywhere on line.  Please help me out, quick (!) if you have any evidence to the contrary as close to Brooklyn as possible.

Since I have one whole freakin’ week of time at home with my baby left, I decided to throw caution to the wind and go to a movie I wanted to see regardless of the state of the welcome my little friend in the Ergo would receive.  I chose the movie I wanted to see most: MILK.  Hoping for an empty theatre, I was a bit bummed to see the theatre half-full.  Damn New Yorkers and their flexible schedules.  Artsy-fartsy freelancing matinee crashers!  I chose a seat near the door, way in the back.  There were people in front, behind, and to the left of me.  The people to my left were young.  Too young.  Rabblerousers.  I don’t know what movie they thought they were going to see, one about cows perhaps?  Every gay kiss, these teens felt the need to giggle. Loudly.  They were extremely annoying.  And yet… they made Trucker seem kind of quiet and unobtrusive.  So I didn’t even shush them.

I loved the movie– what I saw of it.  Yet, it was the kind of movie you want to be fully-engrossed in so you can cry really hard at the hard parts, etc.  That didn’t happen.  Especially for a long stretch in the middle during which Trucker would make I’m-about-to-cry noises, until I walked into the lobby.  Then he’d stop.  Then if I went back inside, he’d make the I’m-about-to-cry-take-me-back-to-that-pretty-lobby noises. Repeat.  Finally, I stood in the back for some time rocking him gently and watching the gays on the big screen.  He fell asleep.  And proceeded to snore. Loudly. But I didn’t care.  At least I could sit down and I didn’t have to go into the lobby and I wasn’t snickering loudly like the teens who should have been in school, dagnabit.  The movie ended and I cried, yadda yadda.  I couldn’t help but feel like a missed out on the movie anyway.  I walked up to a woman who had been sitting in the last row, right where I kept having to stand and sway with the baby.  I apologized for  any distraction I may have been.  She said it was no problem.

When I got outside and I was trying to put up my umbrella, the woman from the back walked up to me again and said, “You really should get a babysitter next time.  You’ll enjoy the movie a lot more.  Trust me.”  Perhaps she saw the look on my face I get when given unsolicited advice from strangers on the street.  She pointed to her pregnant belly (I hadn’t noticed before) and said, “I have an older son.  Really.” I paused.  She was right.  I would have totally enjoyed the movie more if I’d had a sitter.  Perhaps even $100 more.

Upon further thought, I realized that maybe the very best way to have fun while home with a baby is to have fun with the baby at home.

little lana

Nearly a decade ago, I turned 30. It was the day I had dreaded since I turned 26—the age that I perceived was over the middle mark, every year closer to that inevitable day. I decided give in and have a celebration. We were at restaurant, toasting another friend's anniversary when the bill came and we all chipped in. I thought, remember when we were little and we went to parties where we didn't have to pay? So I decided to throw myself a party, the kind my parents never gave me when I was little.

 

Thus, little lana was born. It was her party, at a preschool during off hours. We had cake and played games and I gave away prizes. It was fantastic fun, but as stressful for me as planning a wedding, so I vowed to go on a trip for the next big anniversary.

Now that the big day is approaching, I'm wondering if little lana should celebrate again. For her upcoming birthday, I created a shop of her items on cafepress.com.