James and the Giant What?

My son has been showing more interest in longer story books. At three months shy of four, I wasn’t sure if he had the attention span for a chapter book, but I felt it worth a trip to the library.

I have fond bedtime memories of “James and the Giant Peach”, although my Mother must have omitted some of Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker’s dialogue.  I certainly have no recollection of threatened brutal beatings, wishes for a broken neck or a possible night alone in a dark well.  Nor do I recall James being referred to as an “ass” by Mr. Old-Green-Grasshopper.

So, following her lead, the other evening we dove into our “G” version of the juicy tale, while his little sister sat on the floor, dismantling a box of Superhero band-aids.

Speeding through it, my son soaked up the story like a sponge, his imagination making up for sparse illustrations.  He became so hooked that at a live theatre showing of “Super Why” (last Tuesday’s special Mommy-Son date),  he requested I read a few chapters during intermission. When the flashing lights and thunderous music returned with the vigor of a rock concert , it’s quite possible my son threw a small tantrum over stowing the book before finding out just what happened to the green crystals in the white paper bag after James’ unfortunate stumble over a tree root.

Later that evening, I marveled at his retention, making a mental note to begin his Harvard college savings fund.  Every couple of chapters, I checked for comprehension by asking questions.

“Where are James’ parents?”

“They got eaten by a giant rhinoceros!”

“Who are Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker?”

“His aunts”

“Are they nice?”

“No!”

“What did Miss Spider make everyone?”

“She spun them beds to sleep in”

He even foreshadowed the ghastly squashing of the Aunts by the giant rolling fruit, which most certainly shows early signs of sociopathy an advanced cognitive ability  for problem solving.

Hmmm. Perhaps a double major at both MIT and Harvard, I thought proudly before proceeding on to chapter 17.

Using all of my top-notch conservatory drama training, I had both kids on the edge of the bed, staring wide-eyed as James and his buggy friends were violently jostled around their dwelling as it crashed through town, off a cliff and into the sea.

“Mommy, stop! Wait. Who is jostled?”

“James and the insects”

“Why?  Why are they jostled?”

“Because they are inside the peach.”

“Who is inside the peach?”

“James and the insects”

“Why are they inside a peach?”

…..oh, dear.

LAX to JFK

I am currently 30,000 feet in the air, heading home to my family after one long and luxurious week on the west coast.

My jaunt began in Northern California and ended in my old Los Angeles stomping ground where this blog was conceived, along with my children and all the turmoil a 30 something’s crisis can muster.

The trip was for work, although I hardly think singing musical theatre tunes in the middle of glorious wine country could be qualified as such. None the less, I do have my paycheck tucked in my purse, safely stowed in the overhead compartment above me because items do tend to shift during flight.

Santa Rosa, just outside of San Francisco, is breathtaking, along with most everywhere else in Northern California, and my time there was scrumptious. I got to meet naptimewriting and her spouse for the first time after a year of cyber-bonding through writing, and all of us chatted over cocktails and snacks in the hotel wine bar after the performance. We could have talked for hours, but some of us had to get home to put babies to bed. Some. Myself not included. That was strange and amazing, wrapped inside a tortilla of guilt.

I spent the next day meandering through wine country with another dear friend, wondering whose life I quantum leapt into. It was surreal and odd with a devilish splash of Sauvignon Blanc and a side of Brie. Ok. Enough with the food and beverage references. Clearly I’m hungry and they don’t serve food on flights anymore. (I was given a blanket which I haven’t seen in years and I wonder how many got laid off for that cuddly perk)

Once all of my friends had left, I had an evening alone in the hotel before heading off for the second leg of my trip. It’s ironic how much we ache for this alone time, compiling mental lists of all we could accomplish if we had it, but find ourselves rather lost when blessed with silence. Mommy brains must undergo some scientific process of evolution, rendering them useless outside the midst of madness, mess and chaos.

I got nothing completed that evening, other than ingesting entirely too much food off the hotel restaurant menu while emailing a friend about how much I missed my babies.

It occurred to me at that moment that a week is an extremely long block of time. Four days might be the max for mommy-child, bi-coastal distance…just from my experience. But Los Angeles awaited, and the children were in the amazing and quite capable hands of Mr. Mom.

I landed at LAX and immediately felt like I was home. My time there would be brief so I told very few that I was coming. There were girlfriends on my list that had priority. Three of them, all of whom helped me through the insanity of being a new Mom, witnessing first-hand what I now recognize as postpartum anxiety, became pregnant before our move back east and would deliver just after we left.

“Thanks for all the help in supporting me through these couple of years and loving me in spite of all my batshit crazy, guys! Good luck! Peace out!”

How kind of me.

But these cherubs were calling, and had to be met and held by yours truly, If even for a brief moment. I was amazed and a bit humbled by how easy these ladies made it look. One was kind enough to say she learned from me, but I am quite certain I never exhibited such grace and ease with motherhood during my time in LA. A tornado, frantically spinning through the town with no clear path or direction, wreaking havoc on all who meet it, is the only picture that comes to mind.

That said, the juxtaposition during this trip was surreal. I visited all of the special hideaways that brought me peace during emotional and confusing times. I made my way to what we have named “Kennedy’s beach” and had a brief moment with our first-born. But, oddly I didn’t feel any closer to her than I do on a daily basis. It became clear yesterday, that that place was for us, to give us something symbolic to think of and visit. But our actual physical presence there isn’t necessary for her closeness.

I hiked the hike that pulled me, on a daily basis through every step of healing from her loss, trying to conceive again, and finally to a place where hope throughout my pregnancy with Zachary was allowed. If I had left a grain of sand for every agonizing thought and emotion processed on Fryman Canyon, it would be veritable trail of quicksand.

These sacred places, along with every nook and cranny surrounding them, right down to our neighborhood grocery store, brought flashes of specific moments all having to do with these emotionally dense and soul-shaping years.

As I now have some sort of direction, with a new career that invigorates and gives me purpose (I know I haven’t yet told you anything about that. See blogger’s note at the bottom) I feel like I’m visiting these places with a new set of eyes. Everything seems slower. More deliberate.

A long exhale.

So, while a week is too long, and I miss my family like the dickens, this trip was priceless in every way.

And necessary.

California will always have a substantial slice of my heart, but now it’s time to go home. My babies are waiting at JFK.

Blogger’s Note:
I will share more about the job, but it didn’t fit in this post. However, I feel it’s annoying to be so cryptic. Especially if I am going to drop off the face of the blog world for months at a time. (Which it seems I may do)

The short version:
I have been offered a performing arts teaching position at a remarkable charter school in Newark. As the top charter school in the country, it is overhauling the face of urban education. Stay tuned for more details, but I am so honored to have been chosen to be a part of this school that is literally changing lives daily…for good.

#couldn’tresist

Flu Etiquette Poll

Sickness seems to be rampant this year, at least in these here parts.  So, I thought a little poll-taking would be fun, just to see how much we all care about our fellow-man. It’s quick, it’s easy, and there’s no judgement.  Unless I disagree with your answer.

Here we go.  A couple of hypotheticals.

Strictly Hypothetical.

1.) You are on vacation.  Four days into your sunshine and bliss, you come down with the flu.  Surely caught from another Germy Influenzite within the stuffy confines of the aircraft on your way to aforementioned sunny and blissful destination.   The night before your scheduled departure to Coldville (your home-town), the thought of getting two children up at 5 a.m. to get them on a plane as you, yourself struggle to stop the room from being a simulated Gravitron ride feels impossible.  But, personal nausea aside, you are most certainly not germ-free and are quite possibly a walking flu missile.  Do you:

A.) Pay the $1200 in change fees to spare your fellow passengers (but continue to infect your in-laws with whom you are staying).

B.) Suffer through the torture, and get everyone home to their own beds and say a prayer for all those innocents flying North along with your toxicity.

C.) Find another solution that will make me feel stupid that I did not think of it myself.

 

2.) Once home, your spouse must work, leaving you to care for two small children in your pathetic sickly state.  Do you:

A.) Call a babysitter to come help, risking her health

B.) Beg a family member to come help, also risking their health

C.) Suffer through it and  actually sob to your three-year old and two-year old, begging them to go easy on you as they stare, utterly confused.

 

The Beach -Take 2

One of the first posts I wrote for this blog in September of 2011 was called “The Beach”

Have a quick read and you’ll understand why I have omitted our sandy coasts from the list of possible family outing locations. But these past 17 months have done wonders to heal the emotional trauma created on that fateful day, and I agreed to return this afternoon.

I now must announce that due to the two extra set of hands profound growth and maturation of my now three and two year old, from steadfast and strict parenting techniques that began from that day forward, resulting in consistent, dutiful adherence to my rules, astute listening skills, desire and need to please their guardians and therefore quickly follow our every direction, I can officially claim that my love and appreciation for the rolling tides and tranquil magic of the ocean, Pacific or Atlantic, has been restored

See for yourself.

Please feel free to contact me for expert parenting advice.

(Or…just bring a couple of extra adults along with you when you decide to take small children to the beach.)

Fact Check – all statements are true and correct, except for those insinuating I have any idea what the hell I am doing.

Holy Hell. What is happening to my sweet baby boy?

I called my sister and Mother last night in hysterics. One has raised five children, the other is raising six, and both are educators with masters degrees in child development and early education. Naturally, I felt that they should be the first to hear the news that I feel that my son needs a psychiatrist and may be headed toward a future as a psychopath.

OK. So that statement is ludicrous and far from any realm of possibility, but I do feel that we are at a pivotal stage in which our proper handlings of his recent behaviors are monumental in his understanding of what it means to make a loving and positive impact on society as a human being.

Zachary is pushing three and a half and spends one half of the day completely out of control. He seems to have two personas. The one that wakes up in the morning, happy, calm and perfectly lovely – “Mommy, I love you.” “Can I help you with that? I would really like to help today, Mommy” “Isabelle, would you like me to hold your hand?” This child walks with a steady gait and exhibits manners that would earn us a “Parents of the Year” certificate.

Then there is the other, who rips through his clothing and transforms our perfect child into the Incredible Hulk. This horrifying transformation is somewhat predictable, and while we do see glimpses of his green eyes throughout the day, he mostly lies dormant until around 4 pm. He tears through the house singing like a 70-year-old chain smoker in a way that causes polyps to grow on my vocal chords just by listening, tackles his sister to the ground in the name of “play”, grabs toys, barrels into us with a force that has knocked the wind out of us on several occasions, (or, has left my poor husband doubled over in the kitchen for at least ten minutes trying to ease the excruciating pain with happy thoughts that perhaps he is now infertile), and throws us all into a black hole while trying to get out the door to run errands. Dressing him is like trying to shimmy a unitard onto a baby donkey, and reasoning with him is like begging an intoxicated person to stop slurring his speech and bumping into walls.

During these bouts of complete and utterly painful chaos, there is absolutely nothing that works but waiting it out. We have tried time-outs, taking toys away, going into a dark room, away from stimuli and holding him, and deep breathing (the last one is for us). I have even gone as far as to lock Isabelle and I in her room as a way of removing ourselves from this behavior (because I can’t in good conscience lock him in his own room). While that does seem to be the only consequence that actually seems to bother him, it still doesn’t exorcise the demon. He falls asleep exhausted at 8:30, after umpteen “Zachary, you are too smart and wonderful, and have too much to offer the world for us to allow this behavior” talks (all of which go right over his head, of course. He’s three for heaven’s sake), and wakes up in the morning, fresh and lovely again as if his alter ego didn’t have his mother up all night crying the evening prior.

The obvious issue here seems to be that there is a food allergy of sorts. But anyone who has tried to pinpoint a food allergy causing something short of anaphylaxis, knows that this can be a wild goose chase of frustration and confusion. But, we will continue to look into this theory. The other is that he is extremely over-tired. Try as I may to get him to nap, he refuses. If we are in the car at 4:30 or 5:00, he is out within 30 seconds. But, napping this late and going to bed at 10:00 p.m. is not an option. We are strict about bedtimes and covet the post-8:30 hours that are OURS. We are not forfeiting those.

So, while I do encourage thoughts from all of you on this, I also encourage you to read this article that my blessed sister sent to my inbox at 1:00 a.m. This is comfort to anyone in the midst of the “half-years”, or anyone experiencing PTSD from living through them years ago.

http://planningwithkids.com/2009/11/17/characteristics-of-three-and-a-half-year-old-behavior/

This article describes my son to a tee, and gave me much comfort this morning as I read it and thought perhaps he is not going to become a mass murderer after all.

How many months until age four?

*Fact Check- All statements are true and correct….Unfortunately

One Hilarious Christmas Wish

 

 

 

 

 

 

All my brother asked for this Christmas was for me to record “Baby It’s Cold Outside” with him. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here it is…Utter hilarious, joyous, genious.

http://www.kennethrozek.com/Christmas/babyitscoldemilynick.mp3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hope you all had a blessed and beautiful Christmas, in from the cold!

Love,

The Motherfog Family

Christmas Past, Christmas Present, Christmas Future…

We decorated our Christmas tree last night. The sweetness of the ritual actually matched with the expectations of such highly anticipated events.

Every year, it seems that we suffocate these precious moments with whimsical visions of what they should be, and quite often they don’t measure up to the glorious recollections of decades past.

Each December, as the holidays have rolled around, there has most often been a distraction or at times, a heaviness, drawing me to an agitated distance from the moment.  Decorating trees, for example has felt like a chore,  either because of a busy schedule or just an absence of good old holiday spirit.

“Let’s just put it up fast and keep the ornaments to a minimum so we’ll have less to put away. We’ll do this right next year”

Why is that?  Lets go back.

2006- My Dad Passed away in April of that year.  The first holiday without a dear loved one sucks no matter how much spiked eggnog you drink or how zany-fun your family members are.

2006

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2007 -Exactly one year prior, we had moved to Los Angeles with Wicked.   Doing a show on Christmas Eve is not a terrible way to spend the holiday, but you can’t bring your family on stage with you…especially if they live on the opposite coast.  But, I was about 12 weeks pregnant, so that was exciting, and we were only contracted to stay in LA for another six months.  After that, it was back to our families in the East!

2007

 

 

 

*Spoiler Alert – We stayed in Los Angeles for five years.

 

 

2008- we were supposed to be enjoying our new baby girl who would have been 5 months old. Instead, we were in the thick of fertility treatments. Thanks to dear friends who became family, we were able to distract for brief moments with some Hanukkah  joy.  We became honorary Jews for the five years we were in LA and we miss it and them dearly.

2008

 

 

 

 

 

*Spoiler Alert - We found out on January 2nd that aforementioned  fertility treatments were a success!

 

 

2009- Zachary Nicholas was born! A very special Christmas indeed. But, there was something bittersweet about having our first Christmas with our new baby, 3000 miles away from our families.  But, I must repeat, an amazing, blessed year.  One of the best of my lifetime.

2009

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2010 – Decorating the tree with a 16-month-old in a cast, (broken leg number one) while 33 weeks pregnant with and eager fetus causing contractions two minutes apart for hours and days on end is slightly less than fun, just in case you were wondering.

Don’t let the smile fool you. I have formal acting training

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Said contractions sent us to the hospital for preterm labor to ring in the New Year with apple juice in the maternal fetal care unit.

New Year’s Eve – 2011

 

 

*spoiler alert-Isabelle Anne hung on for three more weeks and was born at 36 weeks, a perfect and healthy 6 lbs, 1 oz. The other best year of my life.

 

2011- we threw up an artificial pre-lit tree and let it shine ornament-less in a sea of empty boxes while we packed for our cross-country move from LA to NJ, scheduled for December 26th.

2011

 

 

 

*Spoiler Alert – The trip across the country was a complete debacle.  More on that here.

 

 

2012 – No move is planned…for at least for another year.  And, employment is on the horizon. Not just any employment. Employment that excites (and terrifies) me beyond anything I have ever imagined. Huge life change.

More on that later. Back to last night’s long-awaited tree decorating evening of utter, priceless, memory making, delicious, please freeze this moment in time, perfection.

2012

 

 

 

 

 

 

Need I say more?