RaggedyMom

Pesach Chocolate Chip Bars

2009-04-14T08:21:00.002-04:00

Yields 2 9x13 trays. You'll need it. Freezable.

1 1/2 cups brown sugar
1 1/2 cups sugar
6 eggs
1 1/2 cups oil
4 1/2 tsps. vanilla sugar
4 1/2 tsps. baking powder
1 1/2 cups potato starch, sifted in
7 oz. ground nuts
1 cup chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350. Beat sugars and eggs. Add remaining ingredients. Pour into two 9x13 trays. Bake ~ 45 minutes. When cool, cut each tray into 24 bars.

Note - I used 3/4 cup potato starch and 3/4 cup cake meal. The results were very chewy and moist, so if you eat gebroks, try it this way.

Redefining Breakfast

2008-12-09T12:09:00.005-05:00

Part of our new early-to-the-bus routine for Ann involves squeezing in enough time for her to eat before she leaves the house at 7:10 or so in the morning. Having a new time goal in mind this year (last year, gan started at 9) prompted me to do something about the nagging breakfast issue in my family.

For a while, we'd been eating almost exclusively cold cereal and milk for breakfast. Cold cereal is great, and it is a big time-saver. But I wanted to give breakfast an overhaul because I felt like we should be eating something more substantial and more filling, and because unfortunately, we were in a sugar cereal rut.

I really had very few food rules growing up, and so, when buying food for my own home, if I found good deals on the cereals I liked and was used to, that's what I bought and served. Cocoa Puffs, Reese's Puffs, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch are some of my favorites.

But I really started to feel uncomfortable with how much sugar the kids were consuming during their first waking hours. I began phasing out the sweet cereals and replacing them with Cheerios, corn flakes (not Frosted Flakes, albeit a delicious option), and Rice Krispies. Pathmark makes a store brand of all of these that bears an O-U, so it depends on whether there are sales and coupons to use, but the store brand is usually the better buy.

RaggedyDad's favorite cereal is Honey Bunches of Oats with Almonds, so we keep a boxes few of those around. It's sort of a semi-junky-semi-healthy option. Keeping it around doesn't pose a problem.

For most mornings, though, I started serving hot cereal, which is usually more nutritious and hopefully more filling than what had been the status quo. We have oatmeal usually, but sometimes farina (I know, I know, it's the Wonder bread of hot cereals . . . ) and I serve a bowl to everyone, alongside a plate of toppings.

We call it the "toppings bar" because we're just that crazy. While the hot cereal is cooking, I'll prepare any combination of almonds, dried cherries, raisins, shelled sunflower seeds, chopped dried apricots, and the like on a plate. I used to offer chocolate chips in the beginning of this transition, but I have mostly phased those out unless someone is very insistent. While the dried fruit is sweet, it is fruit, and it's used much more sparsely in the bowls than sugar is in sugar cereal.

Once a week or so we'll have toast or sandwich-maker-sandwiches, or eggs. My father eats a pretty standard Israeli-type breakfast of toast, cottage cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, etc., and I'll serve that once in a while, too.

I'm just glad that breakfast is planned out and is more of a sound meal than it was before! The one challenge I had was cleaning out the oatmeal pot, but I found a solution for it that I'll blog about in the near future.

Taking it to a New Level

2008-12-01T09:13:00.002-05:00

It's interesting how our threshold for things changes with time and circumstances. There are things that I encounter nowadays as a mother that would have made me totally afraid, squeamish, shy, or nervous years ago. When the heat is on, somehow you find the strength.

My threshold for cleanliness has also adjusted over the years. I grew up in a household with an extremely neat and organized mother. I've mentioned before that the entire dusting-windex-declutter-etc. routine are typically finished before 6:30 a.m. for my mother. Vacuuming and mopping are daily routines. Dust is afraid to settle on the furniture; it knows that it doesn't stand a chance.

My cleaning personality is by far more relaxed, and yet, with time, I notice that things I hardly noticed before now demand my attention. A little dust and some clutter typically don't get to me. Real dirtiness does, and I never allowed it to get to that point. Plus, more kids simply means more Cheerios in the carpet, ickiness in the bathroom, etc. But it also means that there are a few extra hands to quickly pick up toys from the rug when the vacuum rolls out (2 or 3 times a week around here, not every day!)

A sink left with dishes overnight has never been something I can tolerate, but now I need to finish off by wiping up around and inside the sink. I'm semi-embarassed to admit that for the first 2 years or so that RaggedyDad and I were married, I never made the beds (!) unless company was coming. Now there are several beds to make, and it's one of those tasks that's always done by 8 a.m.

These things became important to me at some point, and I'm not sure why. I do like a neater home, and it's what I'm used to from my own childhood. But RaggedyDad is wary of attempts to get closer to the "obsessive cleaning" mode I grew up with. Not to worry, RD. Our place still has a VERY lived-in feel. Nobody's thinking they stepped into a museum here, unless they were looking for a children's museum-anthropology of the family museum-hybrid.

I do think that my kids will enjoy growing up in a home where they feel a collective responsibility with regards to cleaning up, and also feel calmer knowing that things are being taken care of and not left to hefker-status. That orderliness comes from a neat, clean home, good meals, a gentle routine, security, and love.

Now, excuse me, I see some stubborn fingerprints on a cabinet door.

Mommy, I Don't Feel Good

2008-11-17T09:48:00.007-05:00

When it comes to sick days for the kids, I tend to err on the side of compassion. My mother was much the same way. If we weren't really all that sick, but she could see that we just needed the day, and it wasn't abused more than a small handful of times over the year, she was fine about us kids staying home from school. My father's policy was more along the lines of, 'If you have no fever, you're going to school.' High school was tough enough that even if I was sick enough to stay home, I often tried to insist that I be allowed to go anyway, lest I miss something important.

RaggedyDad actually (successfully!) performed the thermometer-to-the-lightbulb trick as a kid to get out of going to school in Russia (Soviet schools? Who wouldn't?!), and certainly at this age, Ann and Andy are not missing much if they stay home from nursery and Pre-1A (Kindergarten to the uninitiated. More on these silly grade-level name differences another time).

So yesterday, when we discovered that Ann and Andy have ear infections, Andy also has strep, and everyone's got a cold, it became clear that we were going to get another Sunday on Monday. As in, another day to be home. This comes closely on the tails of Little Rag being deemed a possible 'strep carrier'.

[Pediatrician: He's got strep for the third time in a row.

RaggedyMom: What? Why? What does this mean?

P: Well, I'd venture to guess that he never actually had strep to begin with.

RM: Doctor, is this some kind of phantom-strep conspiracy-theory? Have you and I been watching the same prime time tv shows?

P: Here's the number of a good ENT I know.

RM: And you may ask yourself, "How did I get here?"]

Aside from the whole kvetchy-sick part, it is rather nice to be together.

Here's a roster of some of our sick day events:

*"Lunch for breakfast" - macaroni and cheese at 8:30 a.m.? Sure, kids!

*"Wine and cheese tasting" - er, choices of pomegranate juice or Kedem grape juice in 'fancy' plastic shot glass cups, American and 'Gorilla Cheese' (Andy's pronunciation of mozzarella) on party toothpicks

*Camping with blankets - because that is a given on at-home days

* Freestyle project-athon - Cutting up old magazie collages, pom-pom gluing, sticker applying, googly eyes, early-birthday-card-for-RaggedyDad production, etcetera

* 'Helping' Mommy to refold clothes in drawers and resort toys in bins, or ensuring that Mommy will have to do this job all over again

* Play-Doh or fingerpainting, depending on how much of a glutton for punishment I feel like being.

*Sick day cuddles

*PBS hour . . . or two.

*"Breakfast for dinner" - Pancakes, anyone? Yes, The Apple, I know we just had them yesterday -- but we're siiiiiiick . . .

We won't be doing laundry, as our machine is having "issues" and Our Man of Maytag, Jerry (referred to by Andy simply as "Jelly") is not available until tomorrow afternoon. Luckily, we were all caught up before it stopped working.

We also don't need to devote any time to paper decluttering, as I mostly did all that yesterday, nor will we be evaluating and saying goodbye to old school and camp projects, because we successfully purged all but the most special last week.

Whew! The only caveat to today is not making sick days so much fun that they never want to go back to school. Ah, well. They're only this little once. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to go find the mini-marshmallows for some hot chocolate.

Math

2008-11-14T10:18:00.003-05:00

The number of people you run into on Main Street is directly proportional to how bad you look on any given day.

Bonus points if you did not manage to match your clothes, or if you happen to see friends of your parents or an old high school teacher. Super bonus points if you see an administrator at your kids' current schools, or if the baby is wearing only one sock and has a crusty nose.

Produce Shopping

2008-11-10T10:29:00.006-05:00

Although my food's probably still too salty, one thing I have tried to do over the years is to make as much food as possible from basic ingredients. What this means is, in practical terms, is frequent trips to the fruit and vegetable store. I usually do a large-ish produce shop once a week. Sometimes I have to fill in later that week, and sometimes I can even skip a week if things aren't busy around here.

In our neighborhood, there are a few independent fruit stores, as well as kosher supermarkets and chain supermarkets that carry produce. In general, I try to shop for produce in the independents, because I like the prices and freshness there, and I do sort of like that 'earthy' fruit store feel. That earthiness is precisely the reason that some people choose not to shop in these places. To me, it's not grungy as much as it's close to the source of where all of these things actually grow.

There's one giant fruit superstore a few minutes away. People generally find it disgusting. I don't mind it much, and used to shop there from time to time. The kids like the lobster tank, and the prices and variety there are very good. They carry more interesting, ethnically-diverse produce than anyone in town. The sanitary level does leave a good deal to be desired. I once found a clementine crate full of kittens in the first shopping cart I wheeled out. Yikes. Also, the grocery prices there are not very good, so it definitely necessitates a trip to another store.

The chain supermarkets display clean, shiny produce, but the prices are high, and it doesn't seem like the turnover rate is all that good. The apples look so waxy-perfect - to me, that's not what I expect from fruit and veg.

The kosher supermarkets are also good for veg and fruit in a pinch, like when you're shopping for Shabbos, and only need a couple of produce items. In general, the prices (aside from occasional hit-or-miss store specials) are rather high there, too.

One of the independent stores carries very nice produce. A bonus is that it's one of the many stores on Main Street where I get to practice my Hebrew (and invariably get asked by someone if I'm French). Another bonus is nostalgia - it's named after a town that neighbors the town where I was born. This store is very popular in the neighborhood - I know quite a few people who "only go there." It is on the small side, and I'd say that it's one of those places where people seem to hate me for having a stroller.

Never one to conform, I've lately been loving a Bukharian-owned fruit store a few blocks further south. It gives me a chance to practice my other erstwhile language - Russian (just kidding - I totally don't have the nerve to speak Russian in public yet!)

It seems like their prices are the best around, and groceries there are a decent buy. I'm talking about a bunch of asparagus for 99 cents - where I see the same quantity in other places for 2.99/lb or more! (Although it's not always available) I used to buy the giant 10 lb. bag of onions for 2.99, but I find that there are always a few in there that aren't going to hold on for more than a couple of days. When I know there's a Yom Tov coming up, or that I'm making onion soup, I'll still buy the big onion bag, and sort it out right away.

The staples are always around, and for the rest, I try to go in there with the attitude that I'll see what looks good, and devise the veg portion of my menu around it. Beets and cabbage? Okay, we'll have borscht. Butternut squash looks nice and is 59 cents a pound? Sounds like a good side dish or soup.

Do you prioritize prices or a more pleasant shopping experience in your produce (or any) shopping? I enjoy shopping in pleasant places, so I promise not to judge you if it's the latter. For groceries, I've mostly given up on the places that are a few cents cheaper on some items, but treat customers disrespectfully and are difficult to shop in.

The part about produce shopping that is a big drag (even with a car) is the shlepping. I hate wasting weekend time in overcrowded food stores, so I shop almost exclusively with Little Rag (and sometimes Andy), and just get the stuff home without RaggedyDad. The system I use has been described here before. I love my fruit store - now if only they delivered!

Hoping I Can

2008-11-08T21:13:00.002-05:00

I work as a reading teacher, and these dayts, I tutor for a few hours a week. Ostensibly, I ought to be able to diagnose a child's reading difficulties, come up with a plan for remediation, and carry it out. I've been trained to do these things, and I enjoy my work.

But, like all people, I worry about my effectiveness. I'm sometimes plagued with the thought of, "I hope I can actually make headway with this child." Not because I perceive the student as ineducable (haven't met one of those yet). Not because I don't have confidence in what I need to do (although sometimes I doubt myself, as do we all). But mostly because sometimes, I know that you can do everything you are supposed to do 'by the book' and it still may or may not happen.

Sometimes there are underlying issues that you aren't aware of, be they emotional, neurological, or otherwise, that will stand in the way of the effectiveness of the work. Sometimes the rapport between a student and a teacher doesn't create the most conducive learning environment. Sometimes a student's retention is weak, and the headway you make during one session is lost the next.

I currently work with two great kids. One's father is a marine. The other's father wears a long beard and peyos. The boys are almost the same age. Their issues differ, and their lives differ even more. But in each case, before and after leaving their homes, early on a Sunday morning, late on a Sunday night, after Shabbos, or on weekday evenings when my own mother tells my kids that Mommy will be home shortly to get bathtime and bedtime underway, my silent thought is the same, "I hope I can help this child."

Hold It

2008-11-07T08:38:00.004-05:00

I know that I need to eat healthier. These years, it's really about setting a good example for the kids.

For some reason, lots of people have had the (mistaken) impression that I am a supremely healthy eater. I've had people assume that I'm a health nut, or a vegetarian, countless times. I'm really not sure why. Maybe because I'm so pale, they assume that I'm anemic due to a lack of iron from not eating meat. Or maybe that's a real stretch, and I just give off a healthy food vibe.

The truth of the matter is, I'm not the healthiest of eaters. I do love fruit, but vegetables usually require me just convince myself that I like them. I like to bake because I like what it yields: namely, baked goods. My classic response to a supper made by my mother that I didn't like was to go and toast a Lender's bagel with melted cheese. (Sorry, mom! I realize now how insulting and rude that was!)

One of my other vices is SALT. I like things salty. I tend to have a heavy hand when it comes to salting the potato kigel (very healthy, I know), or mac and cheese (classic supper for me when I wasn't cooking for the kids), or eggs. How can you enjoy sunny-side-up eggs without some salt?

On Wednesday evening, RaggedyDad and I went to Ann's Parent Orientation at school and the director of the preschool division was talking about an article that came out in the NY Times last week. It seems that all these higher salt foods have let to a rise in kidney stones in children! Kids, who almost never had something like kidney stones are suddenly developing them with much higher frequency.

I've tried a salt substitute, but I found it rather disgusting. So I'd rather just cut back on the salt. It's not good for any of us, and certainly not for RaggedyDad as we get, er, older. I'll just have to try to eliminate it a bit at a time from the things where it doesn't really matter much. As it is, I serve very few processed foods, so it's really just ME adding the salt myself (not sure if that makes it better or worse!).

It'll be a little less tasty, but hopefully, it'll be well worth it.

Coming Back - Low Key

2008-11-06T09:32:00.002-05:00

I'd like to blog more often. Really, I would. I can't even say that I don't have time to blog, because some very busy people I know are active bloggers. I do have chunks of time now and then when I, ahem, must sit still with Little Rag, and that's often my computer time.

So the time is there, but then there's the emotional part to contend with. Nothing major, but just this overall feeling that if I am going to Put Up a Blog Post, it has to be a Grand Event with Something Meaningful to say. So thoughts of what to post about quickly get shooed away:

"People have already posted extensively about that topic."

"That's not important enough to warrant a blog posting."

"What will [insert particular imagined reader] think about THAT?! Forget it."

"It will take way too much time and effort to make that sound as eloquent as I'd like."

And so on. So the quest for perfection/pleasing people/impressing people with some witty observation about life actually becomes a major Blog-Kill.

Clearly, we are all flawed and simple in our own way. With the intent of writing something special, I usually wind up writing (or finishing drafts of), well, nothing.

So I'd like to post on a more frequent basis. And I think I will. But I'll be doing less self-editing, and less self-evaluating. Sometimes it'll be silly, or lame, or my ideas may be deemed insignificant or even wrong by some of you. But I think that at nearly 30, I'm starting to grow up enough to realize that that's really . . . okay.

So hi again!

People Are Alike All Over

2008-09-15T12:19:00.007-04:00

Although we've been home for a couple of weeks now from our trip, it's still very much on my mind. I wouldn't call myself the most well-traveled person around, but I've definitely been to a number of places around the globe. There is one common occurrence just about everywhere I go, and that's the subject of this post.

As I've mentioned, on this trip to Belgium, we rented a car which gave us the opportunity to ~~escape~~ go places we wouldn't have the ability to get to otherwise. One place we visited was the caves of Han-sur-Lesse, a huge cave system by the River Lesse in the French-speaking part of the country.

The French-speaking area of Belgium, or Wallonia, has its own distinct building style and overall look, different from Flanders, or the Flemish part (both photos below are of Wallonia).

Walking through the caves is done with the help of guides, and the lines lead you to guides given in either French or Flemish (Dutch). RaggedyDad knows both, but preferred Flemish. In order for me to understand the tour, though, he tried to find out whether an English tour would be starting anytime soon.

We walked up to the head of the line and stood off to the side to wait, and that's when I heard it. "Eldar! Tered mehagader! Achshav U'Miad!" (Eldar! Get down from the fence! Immediately!) Yes, indeed. We had stumbled upon a large contingent of Israeli visitors to Han-sur-Lesse. On a Hebrew tour, of course. And they were more than glad to have us piggy-back along on their tour. So we got to listen to descriptions of stalagmites and stalagtites in Hebrew, interspersed with some Flemish courtesy of a neighboring group, and exchanged some small talk with Israelis along the way.

I smiled to myself for a while about the Israeli tour. It's probably because I just notice the familiar more, but I seem to find Israelis wherever I go. For this trip, Han-sur-Lesse seemed to be our Israeli interaction locale.

Until we got to the airport back in Cologne, that is. Once quick glance at my passport (place of birth: Tel Aviv) and the security check-in person assigned to our family gave me a once-over. The first words out of her mouth? "Efshar lehamshich itach b'ivrit?"

Belgium to the Fifth Power

2008-09-04T14:01:00.008-04:00

This was my fifth time visiting Belgium. Here's a compendium:

Visit 1 (2001): We were engaged and I hadn't yet met anyone in RaggedyDad's family but his mother.

Complicating factor: Being not-yet-married, we were staying in different places. Cell phones were not as ubiquitous as they are now, so we spent a lot of time looking for each other at corners and checking our watches.

Nice factor: RaggedyDad's family drove us around to see some very interesting, off-the-beaten-path parts of the country. It was very fascinating and very new.

Visit 2(2002): We were married for a little under a year.

Complicating factor: None!

Nice factor: No kids yet meant lots of freedom and very little luggage. We took a side-trip to Paris for a day.

Visit 3(2004): We went with Ann when she was a year old.

Complicating factor: Longish flight with a baby; more luggage than we were used to; baby Ann nearly fed ham-and-cheese baby food by well-meaning relatives

Nice factor: Ann and her cousin, five months older than she is, getting to know each other

Visit 4(2006): Ann was 3, Andy was nearly 1.

Complicating factor: Hottest weather in Belgium in all the times I've been there. Nobody has air conditioning. Nobody has screens on their windows. Mosquito bites galore. In the news, Bush has just refused to sign Kyoto accord, so everyone seems to be blaming me for the heat!

Nice factor: RaggedyDad's sister moved into a house between this visit and the previous one, and her yard is enormous by our standards. Kids have a blast outdoors on grass, play equipment, and in kiddie pool.

Visit 5 (2008) Ann is 5, Andy is nearly 3, Little Rag is 1

Complicating factor: Ann is 5, Andy is nearly 3, Little Rag is 1. Complicated enough, no? The five of us share a bedroom for 2 weeks. The airports we are traveling to and from are kind of far.

Nice factor: The look on RaggedyDad's grandparents' faces as they saw the three kids, especially the baby, who looks just like RaggedyDad. Having a car for the first time while there gave us a much greater degree of freedom (as much as we can really achieve) and a sense of family exclusivity.

Next up . . . Tour the caves of Han-sur-Lesse with the Raggedies and a contingent of surprise guests!

How to Make Jetlag Work for You!

2008-09-03T19:37:00.003-04:00

Belgium is 6 hours ahead of New York. While we were away, we stayed with RaggedyDad's sister and her family in their home. They've got 2 daughters, aged 5 and nearly 2.

Summer schedule in their household means that bedtime is on the late side. Here, I usually get everyone to sleep between 6:30 and 7 p.m., though Little Rag wakes up at least twice over the course of the night. Bedtime in Belgium, between the sun going down late and the kids being busy with extended family, ran more about 9:30 or 10 p.m. The kids woke up later, too.

Rather than make some kind of doomed-to-fail attempt to recreate their home schedule, we only encouraged the kids in their gleeful staying up late and the sometimes inevitable later morning sleeping that followed.

This all meant that when we came home, it was just a couple of days of making the effort for them to stay awake until 5:30 or 6 p.m., since that was just a couple of hours 'later' for them in Belgian time. The gist of it all is that we're back for 3 days and are doing fairly well with their sleep.

The one caveat is that by 5 a.m. or so, everyone's up. But when I consider that from the perspective of the mature adult I pretend to be on some days, I realize that this is actually beneficial. Ann's got a much earlier morning from now on due to the BGST ("Big-Girl-School" Transition), so early mornings will be busy and productive around here. Wish us luck! Yawn!!

Behind Door #1 . . .

2008-08-28T17:44:00.002-04:00

To quote Bob Barker,

"It's a NEW CAR!!!"

Or, at least, that's what it looks like every time I see one of these vehicles I've never, ever heard of here on the roads of Belgium. A bizarre, new car. RaggedyDad and I have spent much time discussing the aspects that make a car appealing or not, to consumers in various countries.

Care to drive away in a Nissan Qashqai???

Maybe We'll Drive to Belgium Next Time?

2008-08-27T10:31:00.009-04:00

I'm not a natural-born driver. When I first learned to drive, I was 18 and hyper-nervous. My mother doesn't drive, and somewhere along the way, I received LOTS of messages that denigrated women's driving skills. But I vowed not to grow up to be as limited as she is, not to live only where the buses go, not to put my kids in the position of finding rides for me to parent-teacher conferences.

So drive I did. But it didn't come easy. I had one formal teacher and several informal 'teachers'. My nerves were so tense about and while driving that I couldn't catch my breath. I actually went to see a pulmonary specialist who said that my breathing was fine, and to RELAX.

I'm glad to say that ten years later, I'm doing fine as a driver, and even do a not-so-terrible job parking the van despite admittedly terrible spatial intelligence, and it hasn't stopped me from carpooling, and the like. But driving in a foreign country? That is another story altogether.

This is my fifth time visiting my in-laws overseas. But it's our first time renting a car here. In previous years, we've used the "nothing-if-not-efficient" European train system. But at this point, it would be very difficult to get around without a car here.

We're staying at the home of RaggedyDad's sister, who lives in a bit of a more remote part of town. Think cows, horses, and sheep, a freight train humming nearby, hanging laundry out to dry outside (watch out for that fickle Belgian weather! It may rain at ANY moment! Lots more about that in another post), a chicken that keeps escaping from the neighbor's coop (I have personally grabbed the chicken kaparos-style and escorted her home several times!).

So this time, we have a car. Neither of us being knowledgeable in the ways of the stick shift (Ever notice how people in Europe take a certain pride in doing things the hard way?!), our car choices were limited. Cars here are small, oddly shaped, and have bizarre names (I should start jotting those down - that would be a post by itself!).

We managed to squeeze three carseats and our luggage into a low-level Mercedes. Sounds crazy! But it was oddly an affordable option! A van would have been a fortune to rent, and to drive - gas here is very costly. Also, the car is very basic. I'd say the only luxury touch is the gear-shift which has that turkey-neck-like bagginess to it.

Driving here is different. The signs look like that card game we used to play in Israel with the different road signs - they don't make sense to me, and they look fake. (Updated: I just spoke to my brother in Israel, who remembered that the game is called Taki. He's wrong - it is actually called RACE. He then went on to convince me that he's currently in a Taki league. And then to laugh at me when I believed the story. Some things NEVER change.)

Luckily, RaggedyDad actually knows what (almost) all of the road signs mean. There are usually two lanes, and it is assur to stay in the left lane. You must politely pass that truck (they're never in the left) and then get back into the right lane. It's possible that these are also laws in America, but I learned to drive in New York, where people with manners are our tourist friends who are blond and wear fanny-packs.

One more thing about drivers here is that they like to tail gate! There's nothing I hate worse than a tail gate. Maybe they're just doing it to us because our car's plates are German (still can't get over that whole thing). The coolest car here seems to be the Citroen, if only for the double-dots over the "E".

Despite all of the insanity, I'm glad we rented a car this time. The train trip alone back and forth for Shabbos (frum people and kosher anything are about an hour away) would have cost quite a bit at this point, a far cry from the days when it was just the two of us and we were young enough to buy a student-rate ticket. Not to mention getting to and from the train station (cars this small mean it's just about impossible for anyone to give us a ride) and the airport, or the center of town, etc.

And the car gave us the freedom to go to some different, cool places this time around - more about those next time . . .

Raggedies Abroad!

2008-08-20T12:06:00.003-04:00

Groetjes van Belgie!!

Since Sunday, we've been overseas visiting RaggedyDad's family.

Here are some early highlights:

Pre-Shabbos, as a means to be social, and also, conveniently avoid cooking and leftovers prior to our trip, we had a great time at the BeyondBT Shabbaton. All of the organizers were so gracious!

Poor RaggedyDad thought I was serious when he asked me what I'd be speaking about, and I said I'd just retell my husband's "story" as a ba'al teshuva. He looked like he was about to faint. Thankfully, I did have other things to talk about. His story is one of the best I've heard though. Maybe he'll tell you some day.

Meeting a bunch of bloggers and various others turned out to be a lot of fun, even for the Mister. Special thanks go to Princess D'Tiara for staying with us, attempting to help me stay sane pre-trip, and coming along for the ride to the airport with us so she could take our van home and do who-knows-what with it!

The flight was long, made all the longer by the inevitable delays in getting the plane off the ground (close to 2 hours). I do hate flying. But we had individual TVs that each had their own on-demand choices of music, movies, television shows, games, etc. Pretty fancy stuff. I assure you, this was economy class.

Being the conscientious daughter-in-law that I am, I used my time wisely to try to learn some more Russian via the Berlitz game they had. I can now order a cab, ask if a store takes credit cards, and name some of the days of the week. Of course, being that we're not in a Russian-speaking country right now, the usefulness of this is rather limited.

Our plane (a 757) had two rows of 3 seats each. Somehow, for the bulk of the flight, I wound up in the middle of a row with Andy to my right, Ann to my left, and Little Rag on my lap. Where was RaggedyDad, you ask? Across the aisle! Alone! With an empty seat next to him!!!! I'm still not sure how that happened, and it is totally not representative of his usual helpfulness level. A momentary lapse of reason.

When the food came, it was super hot, and seemed to be not simply double-wrapped, but wrapped in a dozen or more layers of shrink-wrap, foil, various sticky tape sections, and more plastic wrap. The food was decent, but the amount of garbage outnumbered the actual edible parts about 50:1.

After deliberating, we booked a flight that landed in Germany, for various logistic and economic reasons. I grossly underestimated just how much I would, for lack of a better term, FREAK OUT about being in Germany. I know that people have very mixed opinions about this, and some other members of my family have already been through Germany for work or stopovers, or what have you. In the time it took to go through passport control, luggage pickup, renting the car, and driving out of the country, my kids saw me in way too many emotional-breakdown-type moments.

We barely fit into the car, and I mean barely. If we're back here again, we do have to both learn to drive a stick shift, because it will allow us to rent something bigger and not pay as much of a fortune. Since we had to go automatic and didn't want to break the bank, we had to go with a smaller car. But it is a relief not to have to shlep all of us and our stuff on buses and trains. I've been there, and it ain't pretty.

This is getting long, and it's time for me to go get supper ready, so I'm off and will continue later.

So Big!

2008-08-15T10:45:00.003-04:00

Congrats to baby Little Rag on his first birthday this past Tuesday. Not so little anymore, are we? Although, wait, does that make him just . . . Rag? Hmmm, maybe not.

Two days later, Little Rag took his first steps toward my mother! She and I both saw him do it, which was nice.

And being the good sport that he is, he didn't even mind sharing the birthday limelight with Andy, who could not be convinced that it wasn't also his birthday on Tuesday. Despite the fact that his actual birthday is in October. This comes just a couple of weeks after Ann's birthday, which was, um, also Andy's birthday. Yep. Every family has one of these kids.

Next up - - The Raggedys take to the friendly skies for a Big Trip!

Raggedy-ism #2

2008-08-13T10:38:00.000-04:00

Lionosaur (lī-no-sɔr)

An undetermined, vicious roaring creature, commonly imitated by nearly-three-year-old boys on a regular basis.

Usage: "I'm getting you! I'm the big lionosaur! RRRRRRooooooaaaaarrrrrrr!!"

Holding On

2008-08-06T22:25:00.006-04:00

I've had people tell me that I'm crazy, but I try to make a habit of saving each of my kids' doodles, drawings, and school 'projects' until I have a chance to ask them if they're ready to part with it. Believe me, space is at a premium in our apartment, so I don't intend to keep their stuff forever.

Every so often, we review everything and determine whether it is still something special to keep or if we are ready to say goodbye to it. In this age of digital photos, we also take some time to photograph some of the ones we want to remember. Thankfully, my kids are yielding enough to be able to handle this ritual rather well.

In general, I tend not to be overly kid-centric about everything. That is, our kids' interests sort of flow out of our own. They are busy going about my day along with me (or maybe just too young to want to differentiate themselves all that much). Although we focus on their needs a great deal, I wouldn't say we're the type of family where the kids run the show. But this is one of the areas where I put their desire to hold on to their stuff ahead of my own desire to toss it.

Why?

I think that it goes back to my own childhood. I've written before about how my mother is neat in the extreme. Museum-level-house neat. Nevertheless, she did allow us free reign over our stuff. Piles of papers lay stacked on a chair or dresser until I had a chance to sort them out. I had shelves and cabinets filled with shoe boxes of treasures and scraps of things from school, from friends, from around.

I realize that it is impossible to save every piece of art or every little memory for my kids. But to throw it out behind their backs would feel like a betrayal. I know of people who routinely purge their children's collections or even sell or give away toys that are still being played with in the name of organizing.

To me, home to a child is where they can feel sure of the fact that what is theirs will be there for them when they wake up and when they come home. Those little treasures do mean a lot to them at this age, and if those can disappear with no prior warning, then the sense of control and order they feel is made all that much more precarious.

Morning Person

2008-08-05T07:46:00.003-04:00

When I was dating RaggedyDad, there were some mornings when he asked me to call him and wake him up. He was in college at the time, and apparently, he and his roommate had such difficulty in the mornings that they set up a computer program called "Wake Me Up" that would set off an extremely loud alarm. Loud enough for security to come and bang on their door. "Wake Me Up" had woken the rest of the floor, but not RaggedyDad and his roommate.

This was incomprehensible to me. And it worried me. Was this an indication that he'd be unable to wake up for a job? For kids? Be irresponsible in general? Be undisciplined in other areas of his life?

In our home, my parents woke up Very Early. They are morning people to the extreme. I've mentioned before that my mother's extensive daily cleaning routine is usually finished at around 5:30 or 6 a.m. My dad is out of the house very early as well. I really can't remember waking up in the morning and finding my parents groggily ambling about in pajamas (like RaggedyDad and I do).

Thankfully, RaggedyDad's shtick was more or less a college thing. His alarm clock is extremely loud and annoying, and it may go off an extra time or two before he actually responds to it, but we have learned to live with it or even tune it out somewhat. He makes it out of the house early and calmly.

While we don't enjoy early morning life the way my parents do, we've come to terms with it. And I do finally agree with my mother about how much more productive it is to be busy in the early morning (although I guess Ezzie will probably comment that that depends on the individual or something).

Pre-kids, I taught 25 miles from home and had to be there by 8:30. But since Ann was born five years ago, I haven't had a pre-9 a.m. destination besides helping everyone at the breakfast table. I've had part-time jobs and she's been in preschool, but nothing started very early or was all that far away.

Next year, Ann's school day will start at 8:15. The bus will come considerably earlier than that. And of course, I'll need to get the boys ready so that I can bring them along to the bus stop.

A friend suggested I leave the younger kids at home with RaggedyDad while I venture out to the bus stop with Ann. "He's gone by then," I told her. My former late-riser, while not quite a Morning Person himself, sure does a good job of acting like one these days.

Raggedy-ism #1

2008-08-03T10:34:00.005-04:00

Garbagnik (gar-BAZH-nik)

One who finishes leftover food that is probably best thrown in the trash. In particular, an adult who finishes the children's leftovers.

Usage: RaggedyDad, stop being such a garbagnik with that soggy bowl of Ann's Cheerios! There can't be more than ten of them in there!

The Power of Punctuation, or Queens, Represent!

2008-07-31T14:01:00.004-04:00

While perusing the news, I came across a story that simultaneously surprised, delighted, and embarrassed me.

I've lived in Queens for 24 years. And I've always known what an undervalued asset Queens is to New York, to America, to all of humanity, even!

Queens and her integral airports! Her majestic Unisphere! Her endearing Archie-Bunker-style houses! Her confusing street names! My lovely borough of Queens! Finally, the recognition we deserve, albeit in the strangest of ways.

Not to mention, if I am able to get in on this bizarre scheme, tuition bills will be a joke!

And then I looked at the link more closely.

Queens Underwear Sells for Thousands

No. Wait. There's an apostrophe there, isn't there?

Queen's Underwear Sells for Thousands

Oh. Right. Not us.

Goodbye, July

2008-07-30T20:38:00.005-04:00

The summer always seems to end before it begins. Summertime in my mind lasts for about ten weeks, firmly between the end of the school year and the start of a new one. Go into the stores now, and school supplies already line the shelves! Talk about a drag for kids!

This year's summer Sundays are more constrained than usual, due mostly to the fact that (this year) the period of Jewish mourning known as the Three Weeks both begins and ends on a Sunday.Two of the Sundays are Fast Days, and a third is during the even more serious Nine Days. And our upcoming trip starts on a Sunday and ends two Sundays later (more on that in an upcoming post), so there go another three Sundays.

Oh, and those nice still warm Sundays in September? RaggedyDad will be in school all day for two of them, and one of them is the day before Erev Rosh Hashana.

Now that the kids are out of camp, I'm trying to do some summer things with them on my own, since I know our Sundays with RaggedyDad are so limited. Until I was five, on just about every day that the weather allowed it, my mother and I took the bus from Givatayim to the beach in Tel Aviv. So although I am a Very Pale Person, I also feel very much at home at the beach.

Beach air is great (unless someone's smoking near you - yuck), and the Coppertone smells exactly the same as it did when I was eight years old and on a bus to day camp.

Yesterday, we went to the beach in Far Rockaway. Going alone to the beach with three small children, while fun at times, well, I can't really recommend it to anyone sane.

Thankfully, everyone listened, and stayed close, and the baby barely ate any sand, and we sat within spitting distance of lifeguards. But as anyone who has been to the beach, or especially taken kids, it's not the beach time itself that is the challenge. It's the sandy, messy, disastrous clean-up. Despite it all, we had a great, great time. And -- there is no sleep like the sleep after time spent at the beach.

Although the summer is not quite waning yet, when July ends, it reminds me of the poem that ends Alice and Through the Looking Glass:

. . . Echoes fade and memories die
Autumn frosts have slain July
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes
Children yet, the tale to hear
Eager eye and willing ear,

Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden gleam --
Life, what is it but a dream?

No Complaints

2008-07-25T11:17:00.006-04:00

There is nothing like a routine visit to the children's hospital with one of your kids for a totally no-big-deal, planned follow-up, to bring up feelings of gratitude and a little philosophizing. A visit where thankfully, what you'd been following is fine, and resolved, and all you take home is your child and some films. Baruch ata Hashem elokeinu melech haolam, hatov vehameitiv!

I had a discussion with a friend the other day about the idea that we shouldn't try to minimize the challenges of another person. We do this a lot as moms, sometimes without even realizing it.

My kids are nearly 5, nearly 3, and nearly 1. We're firmly in diaper-tantrum-toileting-sleepless-crumbs-holdme-helpme territory and will probably be there for a while. I know what my challenges are, but I also (hopefully) am able to keep the complaints to a minimum and sense the immense blessings of this stage. Talking to a relative or friend with school-aged kids or teens or kids of an age range that runs the gamut, can sometimes lead to a laundry list of "just-you-waits" and "so-glad-that's-overs".

What does it mean when we compare challenges? When we're vying for the title of Biggest Sufferer? I read recently that the allure of complaining is that if we demonstrate just how difficult our life's challenges are, we come across as all that much more heroic for overcoming them.

I think that there's a great deal of truth to this explanation. Kvetching to one another is not sinful, but there's a hidden motive that can lurk: If I've just described the myriad of difficult scenarios I face, the mere fact that I'm standing upright in front of you makes me some kind of Superwoman, right?

Well, momentarily, maybe. But in the long run, I think that we're drawn to those with buoyant spirits and with a grateful perspective on life. Those who are cheerful and insist not that "it was nothing" but that they were happy to do it.

The gist of it for me (and this is a major work in progress) is to minimize my own complaints while at the same time, hearing and being empathetic towards the complaints of others, without minimizing or judging. It's a tall order. It's our life's work.

What do you think?

You Mean You Want Supper, Too?

2008-07-23T16:31:00.003-04:00

Tonight's theoretical supper is:

Leftover carrot soup
Smoked mackerel from the Russian fruit store/grocery
Corn on the cob
Green salad
Bread

And maybe, if I manage to whip the cream, berries and cream.

Wednesday is when the pressure is on to get the Shabbos cooking started. It's hard to believe that, in the middle of that, they want supper on Wednesday and Thursday night, too!

The summer teaching job I took means that I get home with Andy and Little Rag at a little after 1 p.m. and have more limited time to contemplate supper, including buying what's needed (hopefully not, if I've prepared well and/or can get by on what's already in the house), preparing it, making lunch for the next day, etc. I'd say that the time frame is sufficient for getting it done, but that it is definitely an adjustment in terms of the time I previously needed to get the same things done.

Life is about to change around here. In the fall, Ann will be in school from 8:15 to 3:45. The current closest bus stop is a ten-minute walk for me, walking fast. We'll see how Ann handles it, along with me shlepping the little boys along at around 7:30 in the morning or so. In the cold, or the heat, or the rain, or the icy slush puddles that linger. Or we could just drive there, taking around 15 minutes each way. Yikes! She's just turning five on Shabbos! Are we ready for this?!

The days of her going to gan that starts at 9 just a few blocks away are about to be a distant memory. Which means we'll all have to be awake and productive at a far more earlier hour.

Combine that with the fact that we have less than 4 weeks until we go away, and I'm going to get an earful from RaggedyDad's family if he doesn't drop a few pounds before then. The trouble is, he's only got about 10 lbs. to shed, but his face gets round right away. So he looks like he's got more than that to lose. I'm the opposite - even if I'm at the end of a pregnancy, my face pretty much looks the same.

Mothers who work outside the home a full day - I have no idea how you have time to do what you have to do! Mothers with more than 3 kids, and multiple homeworks/school meetings/etc. - ditto! We seem to be on the precipice of some intense Raggedy times.

Counting Sheep

2008-07-22T15:18:00.005-04:00

The Raggedy kids are known to be poor sleepers but good eaters. It seems you can't have both.

Ann was a baby who simply did not like to sleep. For a while, it seemed like she never slept at all. There were novels that I started and finished in one long night while I stayed awake nursing her and taking care of her.

For the first two years of her life, I taught on Sundays and also two afternoons a week (big thanks again go to my mother who rearranged her part-time schedule around mine) RaggedyDad's hours back then were better and he wasn't in school. And baby Ann did not sleep.

Before becoming RaggedyMom, I didn't have much experience with babies or children, so I thought this was a cruel joke no one had told me about. We were the first ones in our neighborhood chevrah with a baby. Some of them were expecting soon, and I wondered, "Should I tell them how insane this is?"

During Ann's babyhood, there was a period of time when RaggedyDad would come home at around 8 p.m. and we'd do a 10-minute version of "hi-how-was-your-day?" and then I'd go to sleep. My shift of sleep was 8 p.m. to 1 a.m. and RaggedyDad would sleep from 1 a.m. to 6 a.m. Then it was time to be awake and start a new day all over again. If either of us got the baby to sleep during our 'awake shift', that was a bonus. Life continued this way for a while. As difficult and cranky a newborn Ann was, she turned out to be extremely sweet and good-natured.

Andy was the only baby to take a pacifier. He slept a lot better than Ann did, and all those extra hours of sleep helped him prepare for his current role as the lively, hungry two-and-a-half-year-old creature he has become. Part Curious George, part Animal from the Muppets, Andy adds a lot of, um, fun to our lives.

Little Rag is his own unique brand of Raggedy. But his sleep habits definitely fall along the lines of another Ann. He thinks that the big kids are cute to look in on when they're sleeping and he enjoys having another supper time with RaggedyDad. He's very close to being a year old (!) and sleeps more poorly than some 2 month olds I know of. Sigh.

We still check on the big kids several times a night. Watching them sleeping is one of the few quiet enjoyments out there. Ann's gangly arms and legs inevitably sprout their way out of the covers. Andy's pajamas twist, or he is halfway off of his little toddler bed. As for Little Rag, when he's actually asleep, he is firmly in tush-in-the-air territory.

I do try to tell them how much they'll want to sleep when they get to be teenagers. But for now, they don't quite seem to believe me.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2008-07-21T19:47:00.003-04:00

I've missed blogging. I really have. There were so many false starts in my mind, so many things I wanted to say, that just sort of fizzled as they were consumed by the great time sucking forces that invaded for good.

For the past three weeks, Ann, who is turning 5 on Shabbos, and Andy, who is turning 3 in October, have been going to day camp. They're going for the first 'half' of the summer, after which they'll be home for three weeks, and then we'll be away for two weeks visiting RaggedyDad's family.

In my fuzzy, early childhood memories, Hachofesh Hagadol was spent taking the bus from Givatayim to the beach in Tel Aviv, or tagging along as my brothers waged war against the ants in the yard of our apartment building, looking at picture books, and yes, being bored sometimes. I'm attempting to recreate that sense of vast downtime for my kids for the remainder of the summer.

In my imaginary universe, I have a little backyard with a little spot for a plastic pool and some grass. In reality, New York summers are oppressively muggy and hot after 10 a.m., the streets reek of garbage juice, and we live in an upstairs apartment with no balcony or yard space. Hence, camp.

I'm glad that they have been enjoying seeing one another at camp. I'm glad that Andy seems to be doing fine for his four daily hours without me. I'm glad that Ann is, as always, unfazed when she recognizes practically no other kids ("Guess what, Mommy?! Even more kids to be friends with!!")

In the meantime, I've dusted off my grad school textbooks (Okay, it wasn't that long ago. Not that much dust) and I have been teaching reading one-on-one for ten hours a week while my mother watches Little Rag. Whew!

Add that to the usual array of laundry, my quest to serve less processed food to the family (we are really into soups lately), a nearly-one-year-old who still sleeps like a newborn, RaggedyDad bogged down with work and school, extended family drama (for a change), and getting ready for The Trip, and you have a rather raggedy mom.

But I am trying to start writing here again to clear my head and reconnect with my blogging friends. I have been reading (and sometimes commenting) over at most of your places. Thanks for coming back.

No Right to Complain

2008-04-07T11:38:00.002-04:00

Making Pesach is difficult. I know this, yet I do not speak from experience. You see, RaggedyDad and I are lucky enough to spend Pesach with my parents, and we simply close up our chametz-sold apartment for the week. They live about a ten-minute car ride from here, so it doesn't get much more convenient.

This will be our seventh Pesach since we're married, and it will be the seventh time that we've packed up and moved in with my folks. That's right, I have 3 kids, and I have yet to make Pesach. I'm ready for the jeers, the stones you want to throw at me, and the nasty looks. I know, I know, I'm a big baby and a spoiled brat for getting off so easy.

Around this time of year, I feel like I just want to hide for the few weeks before Pesach as other friends and family members kick it into high gear with their cleaning and Pesach preparations. During Pesach itself, we aren't around, and then there's a week or so after we return and everyone's getting their lives and homes back to normal.

Some of the remarks I hear are stated bluntly, and some are more veiled. But the subtext is clear, and it is a tense time for me and relationships with people whose resentment is palpable. "I'M SORRY!" I almost want to shout. I really am. I wish I could just make the work disappear, and give everyone the chance to focus on Simchat Yom Tov and not just on the labor-intensive, nitty gritty of Pesach preparation.

Granted, the things I will be dealing with greatly pale by comparison. Among them, packing up the five of us for the week, cramming us and our stuff into the 1 1/2 rooms we'll be alotted in a totally un-child-proof environment, wanting to help but being incessantly in the way, keeping everyone quiet and well-behaved in a home that's not ours, the stairs that I am unaccustomed to at this point, repacking, the laundry-thon at home, disrupted daily schedules that may or may not ever get back to normal, and of course, everyone, um, hating me.

I know that those things are really minor in comparison, and believe me, I do not complain to the Pesach-makers. I don't dare. There's not much to talk about during these couple of weeks, when we ask each other what's doing, and the discrepancies between what we're each busy with are so pronounced. I tend to sort of avoid people because I can hear their internal dialogue regarding my combination of luck and chutzpah, and I'm sure of it because of the occasional comments that slip out, intentional or not.

While I haven't yet paid my Pesach dues, my husband certainly has. His family lives overseas and is totally assimilated, so obviously, Yom Tov with the in-laws is not a consideration, nor is having their help in any way at other times, but right now, understandably, what everyone's thinking of is Pesach. Before we were married, he spent several years working hard at Pesach hotels for the week of Yom Tov. He doesn't quite understand the social tension this time of year. But I assure him that it is a real issue, and one that only gets more pronounced as we find ourselves outgrowing the newly-married-young-couple category. Most of our friends have made at least some portion of Pesach themselves.

I did suggest to my mom that we come back to our own apartment after the sedarim this year while I went over the list of what my mother would like me to buy for Yom Tov in my neighborhood where some stores carry certain items at better prices. At this point, Sukkos and Pesach are just about the only times we go to them.

Us never having made Pesach, and not having a Sukkah (or a place to construct one) also precludes my brother and sister-in-law from inviting my parents to their house for these two holidays, and believe me, I hear about it on that end too. We cause trouble in lots of ways. "But where would the Raggedys be for Yom Tov?" More guilt. More cringing. More shame. For this Pesach, my mother assured me that they do really want us to come, so I'm trying to shirk off the extreme discomfort I feel.

I think that it comes down to this. Everyone has their challenges, and their breaks in life. Some people really do seem to have it harder due to different circumstances. The various arenas - physical, emotional, financial, and in terms of the different kinds help people do or don't get from their spouses/parents/in-laws/children, etc. differ for us all in terms of what we have to deal with or where we 'get off easy'. It is impossible to know what another person's "pekaleh" really consists of, because even if you truly knew, you wouldn't know it from their perspective. Making Pesach is one of those challenges that is more public and more obvious. Which is why, since I'm not doing it, I'll be keeping a low profile between now and May.

Two Pesach Recipes

2008-04-06T13:54:00.001-04:00

Even though I'm not making Pesach, I still have Pesach-compatible recipes to share.

The first is for what's called Lacy Potato Kugel, and it comes from the original Kosher Palette cookbook, which has since spawned many babies. I credit my good friend Shoshana with turning me on to this recipe that I otherwise probably never would have tried. I make it year-round, and we like it a lot.

Lacy Potato Kugel (Kosher Palette, page 262)

6 large potatoes, peeled
2 onions (1 medium, 1 large)
4 large eggs, lightly beaten
5 Tbsp. oil
2 tsp. salt
Pepper
1/4 cup potato starch
1 cup boiling water
1/4 cup oil

Preheat oven to 500 degrees F.

Grate potatoes and onions, [I drain the grated potato mixture in a collander] and place together in a large bowl.

Stir in eggs, 5 Tbsp. oil, salt, and pepper. Sprinkle starch on top.

Pour boiling water over starch, and stir thoroughly.

Pour 1/4 cup oil into 9x13 inch baking pan, and place in oven for 1 minute or until hot (Do not burn).

Carefully pour potato mixture into pan.

Bake 20 minutes at 500 degrees, reduce heat to 400 degrees, and bake 40 minutes or until deep golden brown.

The next recipe is one that I've made for the same friend. She can't eat gluten, so this is an easy cake to make when she's at a meal.

PASSOVER BROWNIES IV

Yield: 9 Servings

Source: Torah Prep High School for Girls Pesach booklet.

3 Eggs

1 c Sugar

1/2 c Oil

2 tb Cocoa

1/2 c Potato starch

1 c Nuts, chopped

Beat eggs and sugar until light and fluffy. Gradually add oil. Then add rest of ingredients. Bake at 350 degrees F. for half an hour in a 9-inch square pan.

Babula's Russian Borscht (Meatless Version)

2008-03-05T15:16:00.003-05:00

Ingredients:

1 small cabbage
2 medium-sized beets
3 carrots
1 can white beans
1 can tomato paste (small cans)
1 onion, diced
1 potato, peeled and diced
2 beef flavor soup cubes
salt
pepper
paprika
water
oil
Sour cream if desired

Directions:

Well in advance, and wearing clothes you hate, scrub and boil beets (skin on) until soft, approx 2-3 hours (!). Peel and shred beets, shred carrots, and shred cabbage (use a food processor if you have one for all of this shredding)

Heat a small amount of oil in a heavy soup pot. Sautee together the carrots, diced onion, and diced potato, until soft.

Add approximately 3 liters of water, bring to a boil. Add soup cubes and can of beans, allow to boil again.

Add 1/2 can of tomato paste, mix well, bring back to a boil

Add cabbage, boil until cabbage feels soft

Add paprika, black pepper, and salt to taste.

Add beets, allow to boil about 5 more minutes.

Taste borscht and adjust seasonings as desired.

Serve hot, top with sour cream.

Tastes even better after a couple of days.

Globbing for Tzedakah

2008-03-04T11:03:00.003-05:00

Making friends as an adult can be really difficult. About a year ago, I met someone who it seems like I've been friends with since I was a kid. She's dangerously funny, and our birthdays are 4 days apart. And we share snacks. Those sound like all of the guidelines I used for friendship circa third grade.

She's running a tzedakah project that she describes very clearly on her own glob, so if you haven't yet read about it, you ought to read it in her own words.

For my part, I wanted to get a little poetic and write two successive haiku that incorporate the letters G-L-O-B. I had to take my liberties a bit because haiku is traditionally done in 3 lines, with a 5-7-5 syllable sequence.
My apologies to my poetic friend E, and also to Princess D.

GLOB-Ku

Goal of one hundred
Little fragments form the whole
Offered Bountifully

Giving it away
Lets us hold on to ourselves
Only a Bit more

Music and Lyrics

2008-02-21T10:17:00.005-05:00

My parents were born three days shy of five years apart from one another. They both celebrated birthdays this past week. That's right - I was raised by two Aquariuses, and somehow survived.

Now five years is not an unheard of gap , but because of my parents' upbringings, they are essentially from two different generations. The primary musical influences on my father in Israel were Elvis and doo-wop artists, whereas my mother's vast record collection spanned the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Jefferson Airplane, and mournful Laura Nyro. It was my father's music that we rolled our eyes to, and my mother's that we idolized.

As the youngest of three kids, I listened almost exclusively to the music everyone else at home was listening to. The first cassette I ever saved up for and bought (I bet you remember yours too) was The Zombies Greatest Hits, because I wanted to have my own copy of Time of the Season. I was eleven, and it was 1990. Needless to say, most of my friends at school didn't relate to this side of me AT ALL.

My oldest brother is seven years older than I am, and was able to drive me to the uncool places I liked to go (like the library on Friday afternoon) while my non-driving mother could not. But there was a caveat. I had to sing the opening lyrics to Led Zeppelin's Immigrant Song, or some equally embarrassing selection of his, before he would turn on the ignition. I was probably around 9, but I could "Aaaaaaahhhhh ahh!" with the best of them.

Those music-linked memories are now becoming those of my own kids. My mother singing Joni Mitchell while she dusted. My now-Breslov brother practicing the same Pink Floyd riff until I burst in yelling, "I THINK you GOT it!" Trying hard, as the youngest, to learn to sing along correctly and keep up on car trips.

When I vacuum, the lyrics to Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone tend to come to mind - "He's not selling any alibis . . As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes" - How many songs can you think of that have the word "vacuum" in them?

[I remember how strange it was back then was when other kids my age, as late teens, 'discovered' classic rock and got into it. All of a sudden, what I'd been pumped with my entire life was considered cool, and all the years of wondering what exactly they loved so much about Debbie Gibson seemed to dissolve into memory.]

I preface with all of this background because what I'm thinking about lately is what my kids are listening to. As the bigger ones get, well, bigger, they become undoubtedly more aware of everything. Conversations I have with RaggedyDad are interjected with Ann's (and sometimes even Andy's!) opinions. And I realize that the music I listen to has to be considered too. I still remember being six years old, hearing about a Madonna song called Like a Virgin and asking my mother, "What does THAT mean?" I think she somehow managed to change the subject.

To be clear, I'm not listening to music with awful, overly suggestive, or violent lyrics, and I don't ascribe to the school of thought that a "rock" sound has something inherently wrong or unholy about it. But there are moments where it's quiet in the car besides the song, and Ann will ask me, "What does THAT mean?" and I second-guess myself.

I struggle with this partly because kiddie music (and we have plenty of it) can get really annoying, and also because I grew up in a household with a continual non-kiddie soundtrack and I don't feel it had a negative influence on me aside from a lot of brain space devoted to a lot of lyrics. For now, I'll continue to listen to the same music I've been into by default since I was a kid, but I can see that as my children get older, things will continue to evolve in this department.

Zen and the Art of Mother-in-Law Maintenance

2008-01-24T14:57:00.000-05:00

I've been away for a while. And by away, I don't mean on a sunny island. I mean away in the recesses of my mind, and in the depths of my apartment. I'm briefly coming up for air, but it may be some time before I'm around again on a regular basis.

RaggedyDad's mother is staying with us. For three weeks. She hasn't seen me or the kids in a year and a half. Last summer, I wasn't able to travel, so RaggedyDad went to visit his family alone for a week. She hadn't met baby Little Rag yet, and remembered big buster Andy as not much older than Little Rag is now.

What's been interesting is that people's reaction when I tell them about this visit are very much colored by where they are coming from. It ranges from "I can't believe that you are dealing with that!" to "Of course, where else would she stay? That's what families do."

I sense that my parents, in their own way, feel sorry for what they perceive as a significant imposition on us. While not tycoons themselves, they have the means not to have to stay in my brother's apartment in Jerusalem when visiting him, his wife, and their now 6 kids under 8 years old (Mazel tov!)

But all families differ. In MIL's case, we are the ones who undertake a great deal of help, though it doesn't really come easy to us. Admittedly, it was a bit of an adjustment for me, as I'm not accustomed this approach from growing up, and had the fortune of having parents who, if needed, could help their children. But I'd have been a fool to have let modest means stand in the way of marrying RaggedyDad.

The language and culture barrier are an issue with MIL, and without them, we'd likely get along even better than we already do. She's an intelligent, fun-loving, adventurous person. And helpful, and nice, and well-intentioned.

In that typical European way, though, she tends to be very direct and straightforward about a lot of things. Like asking me how many children I plan to have, and when exactly I plan on having the next one. Or letting me know that the sweater I'm wearing looks very nice, but would cease to, if I were to gain any weight. Or stating that people in the town where she lives are very adamant about order and cleanliness, and if they saw our place, it would not fit their standards.

Whew, I'm realizing that venting is GOOD!

The odd part is, those above statements sound a lot worse than they are intended. They are liberally sprinkled with self-deprecation and, though it doesn't always take the sting out, stated utterly non-judgmentally, but merely as facts. If you know any Europeans, that's just how they are. (Israelis do this too, though in somewhat of a different manner). They'll tell you that one of your kids is not as cute another one. They'll tell you that they don't care for the coffee you just served them. They tell it like it is, and then come back and say that we Americans are not known for our manners!

I'm coming to some understandings in the midst of all of this. No, this is not my favorite time, but it is very infrequent. Yes, sharing one small bathroom is a challenge, and someone will always be in it. Yes, I'm buying enough bread to feed the Russian army and then finding that amazingly, it is all gone 3 days later. I am talking loaves and loaves here. And meat. And cheese. And herring, which the kids have now learned to like to eat at breakfast time, but there are worse things.

Okay, venting is REALLY good.

The truth is that I have a whole lot to be extremely grateful to MIL for. Because not only did she raise the most kind, unassuming, helpful, and friendly husband I could have hoped for, she also made tremendous sacrifices for him and his sister.

She left the Soviet Union as a widow with two children under dangerous circumstances, and thereby left behind her extended family/entire support system, relative financial security, and the hopes of ever feeling comfortable anywhere else to a native-like degree. She endured tremendous hardship that could fill a book, and took it very much in stride. Although far-removed from religion, she was supportive and encouraging when my husband became interested in exploring his faith at age 15, and eventually moved to America, only to meet . . . me.

I'm taking things one day at a time, and having a few deep-breath moments. And all in all, I'm trying to see things from a perspective of appreciation, and inject a little bit of . . zen.

Infiltration

2008-01-05T20:52:00.000-05:00

Fudge tried explaining where the bus depot was located. In typical Queens baffle-osity, there were two sets of numbers that were nowhere near each other in sequence.

"Does this sound right?" Fudge inquired. "It's in the 120's and the 20's in College Point."

I called upon my mental map skills "Hmmmm, yep. I used to teach in that school district, and the district office is around there. I'd probably exit the Van Wyck at Linden Place."

"Linden Place! That's right! That's what Google Maps (or was it YouTube?) told me to do! My grandmother said it's not such a great area."

"That depends on what you mean by 'not such a great area'. Is it dangerous? No. Is it industrial, deserted at times, and a little creepy? Maybe. Especially compared to the 170's. Let's DO IT!"

Poor Fudge was more mortified than anything at this point. No doubt she'd not been expecting this setback. The loss of her belongings. The perilous notion that her stuff may be gone forever. Hope that it was all out there, somewhere. Helplessness to retrieve her things independently.

Now back to me. Growing up, my mother didn't drive, and my father worked long hours six days a week. Going somewhere by car was almost always impossible unless it was a ride with a friend, or occasionally, a cab. Parent-teacher conferences didn't leave me panicked about what my mother would hear about my performance at school. They left me panicked about finding a classmate's parents to give my mother a ride. Synchronizing those time slots can be tricky!

In other words, I tend to be sensitive to the plight of the car-less, or temporarily car-less.

There are many things that can be done so simply and quickly with a car. Nowadays, my parents live a ten-minute car ride away from me. They live near shopping and major bus routes. Walking distance is simply not a convenience for my mother, it is a must. And yet, when I try to give her rides or pick her up, she often doesn't want to "inconvenience me" or "take me out of my way". She doesn't always realize that in a car, nothing is that big a deal.

Back to the Infiltration. The distances in question were quite small. Fudge is great company. I was curious to see how this would all play out. City agencies can be mindnumbingly inefficient and annoying. Plus, it was time for a minor diaper restocking, which would be practically around the corner from the bus depot. In short, it couldn't have been simpler or more logical for us to help set this thing in motion.

RaggedyDad was driving, which meant I would have to ride shotgun in order to quickly translate all of the street signs from Russian to English. We loaded up the kids in the RaggedyMobile, and hit the road. I started singing "On the Road Again" as I am wont to do when we set out somewhere.

Fudge was waiting on the micro-porch (I love the houses in Queens!) with a handicapped red suitcase. We loaded it into the trunk, and Fugde hopped into the back of the van. Regrettably, Everyone's Favorite Grandma was unavailable for comment at this point. Embarassingly, I came thisclose to trying to buckle Fudge in. Car seat-fastening habits die hard.

RaggedyDad had a quick detour in mind. "This is not far from Dunkin Donuts."

RaggedyMom: "Nyet!"

RaggedyDad: "Da!"

RaggedyMom: "Nyet!"

RaggedyDad: "Da!"

RaggedyMom: "Chorosho . . . Hey Fudge, do you want caw-fee?"

Fudge: "What?"

RaggedyMom: "Sorry, let me translate. Do you want cah-fee?"

Fudge: "Oh! No, thanks."

We made a brief stop for RaggedyDad to infiltrate the drive-through Dunkin' Donuts and get himself some coffee, and turned that car around. We were ready. I clapped a few times to help charge the atmosphere . . . also just because I like to clap.

Before you could say "Great Gatsby Skyline of Manhattan view from the Long Island Expressway" we were there! Straight through the Valley of Ashes itself. There were even signs pointing out where the depot was located!

After a brief interrogation by a rookie security officer, Fudge and I were given hi-tech paper clip-on identification badges. (If only we hadn't had to return those at the end!)Spelling our odd names for the security officer was almost comical. But I had no intention of Fudge dealing with what could be simple or Not, so we spelled away. I've been to these kinds of offices before, and I wanted Fudge to have a combination of New Yorker, Israeli, and redhead by her side. Let's just say that if someone tells me "No" all I hear is "Try harder!" In the spirit of my grandfather, of blessed memory, I was ready to turn over some tables if necessary, to be, well, understood.

We made it into the building and a kindly bus-driver type directed us to the lost and found: "Yeah, yous guys go straight up there, I ain't sure if anyone's at the desk, but somebody oughtta know."

After leaving the elevator, were treated to a view of no less than 500 million New York City buses lined up in a vast parking lot. Within a couple of "what now" moments, a sweet woman walked towards us, and Fudge and I looked at one another. We were both thinking the same thing: Is something jangling in that woman's hand?

And then, "My phone! My keys! My ID! Thank you!" (You've got to love those out-of-town manners!) For my part, I wanted to hug the cheery, plump bus depot lady. In that moment, Fudge's New York years were stamped with a permanent silver lining.

In the brief blur of exuberance that followed, we got back in the van, and Fudge was no doubt buoyant, relieved.

Afterward, we made a quick run into a Van Wyck Service Road Toys R Us for diapers, which Fudge realized she had been to way back when. Her distract-the-kids-from-toys-we're-not-buying skills proved invaluable, clearly sharpened by years of this kind of guerrila training.

Too quickly, it was time to laugh, reminisce, and shed a few happy tears. Fudge was ready for the subway. We had made it into the core of the New York City Waco Bus Compound, and had made it out alive! The last adventure of 2007 was a glorious success!

Fudge can wrap this up, and maybe we'll get some input from the midwestern contingent . . .

The War at Home

2008-01-03T22:41:00.000-05:00

See Part One

And Part Two

Most of the time, the daily routines of young motherhood are fairly repetitive. There are sippy cups to fill, diapers to change, meals to cook and clean up after, squabbles to dissolve. Now and again, things happen to shake it up. The family's Papa has finals at night school. The Mommy takes a side job tutoring. Something major breaks, or gets lost. Things are worried over, and after deliberation and action, things get back to normal.

I tend to get excited by things related to Queens. When RaggedyDad refers to The Midtown Tunnel, I automatically jump in, "That's the QUEENS-Midtown Tunnel!" When you grow up in one of the outer boroughs, so much of the action is in Manhattan, and so much time and effort expended to get to "where it's at". Rarely is Queens "where it's at" unless what you're interested in is the Mets, the Unisphere, or confusing sequencing of avenues and roads.

So when I heard that there was a local situation (finally, Facebook is useful for more than finding out what my old camp friends do for a living, or having virtual pancakes thrown at my head), I felt energized, hyped even. A friend. A lost phone and set of keys. A beaurocratic situation. Isolation. Transportation issues. Espionage. Treason. And it was all IN QUEENS!

Gevalt!

Never mind that if I lost my cell phone (I actually did recently, and it was kind of liberating) my first instinct would be to feel relieved that nobody could bother me for a little while, and to go take a nap. Not everyone shares my misanthropic bent. Young Fudge was distraught. She was marooned. She was staying about 10 minutes from here. Plus, in some convoluted way, we are marginally possibly related.

Fudge was concerned that potential helpers would be deterred by their desire to for a "New Year's sleep-in" but, in fact, the young Raggedy children pay no mind to things like weekends and vacation days, and, like most small children, are very much awake at a very early hour. Particularly Little Rag, who doesn't really bother to do that much sleeping during the night altogether.

Phone calls were made, plans were discussed, and all parties went to bed with a tentative hope for a quick resolution.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Foolish Progress

2007-12-19T18:38:00.000-05:00

I've blogged about construction outside our home in the past. Over the last week, another interesting project has been underway. Namely, the bus stop, along with others along major routes, have undergone renovation.

Now, instead of a glass with black sides with light shining down from within, we've got sleek glass with sleek grey metal sides, and soft white lights glowing on the sides. Come to think of it, the light is not all that soft, and glows rather brightly into the windows of those of us who don't have black-out shades. And it's possible that they've switched from glass to heavy-duty plastic, since people would periodically vandalize the glass.

While the new bus stops look nicer by virtue of being new, to me, this is a clear case of "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". Why waste time and money getting rid of something that served its designated purpose just fine? I wonder if they've been doing this throughout all of the boroughs?

One improvement has been that there's now a bench that seats three slim people within the bus shelter, though something like this could have been put up without dismantling the entire old bus stop.

Then again, it's possible that as someone born under the sign of Cancer, it's just my strong sense of nostalgia and love of the familiar that's causing me to dis the nice, shiny, new bus stops. Betcha didn't have me pegged for an astrology person. My mother practically read me Linda Goodman's Sun Signs as bedtime stories, so some of it stuck. Poor RaggedyDad really hates it when I start talking about astrology.

It got me thinking about what we prioritize in our relationships, in our religious growth, and in our improvement of our lives and our surroundings. Sometimes I'll hear of something that's being "worked on" and I wonder to myself, "That's what they're doing? That's what they're worried about?" I guess in truth, we all have our order for progress, our hierarchy for improvement. I tend to relate more to improvements that are internal rather than external, but I really can't purport to know what another person needs to get busy with first, or whether what seems external has a significant impact internally.

When riding the bus of judgement, it's good to get off at the next possible stop.

Soup, and other mind-altering substances

2007-11-29T19:29:00.000-05:00

When you're feeling a bit down, few things help more than a fresh pot of soup. I've had a butternut squash out on the counter for a couple of weeks, and today I decided that since it clearly is not going to look cute and decorative forever (as evidenced by a couple of brown spots on the peel), it was time to figure out what to do with it.

On the spur of the moment, I decided to make a soup out of it. The first recipe I found was for Cream of Any Vegetable Soup from the original Kosher Palette Cookbook that my sister-in-law gave me when I got married. Of course, since then, these cookbooks have become somewhat of an empire, with a new one every year or so, and increasingly long and obscure lists of ingredients. But what would life be without the occasional, elusive search for Panko bread crumbs, crimini mushrooms, or Chilean sea bass? I enjoy the variety, but I really do reach for that old standby, Spice and Spirit a.k.a. The Big Purple Cookbook, about 93% of the time.

I must say, butternut squash is absurdly difficult to peel with a knife, unless I was doing something totally wrong. But this recipe was relatively straightforward, and didn't take too long. I followed the instructions carefully for the roux, an interesting mixture of flour-margarine (I made it pareve). This recipe totally had a funky, Food-Network-vibe to it.

There should be a cooking show about cooking with small kids. "Yes, Andy, you can smell this next ingredient, too, but take my word for it, flour doesn't have much of a smell." "Ann, you can't pick those pieces up from the cutting board to put into the pot until the knife isn't moving!" "I have to go see why Little Rag is crying. Please stop touching the garbage!'

Anyway, I didn't know what to expect from this soup because whenever I'm at a wedding (though I think it's been a couple of years) and they ask if I want "cream of whatever" soup or another option, I ask for the other option. The stars aligned properly, and the soup came out well. It was exactly what I needed. It was similar to a carrot soup I've made, but smoother and milder. Since it's pureed, I sat the kids down with straws in their bowls, and they got to work.

This was one of those days when I had a bit of a sniffle, and was a little bummed out (maybe I'll post about that soon), and what really brought a smile to my face was one thought: "Soup's on!"

More Vintage Sheets - Animals of the Seventies

2007-11-21T14:29:00.000-05:00

Back in the 1970's, animals came in many interesting patterns and colors. Nowadays, wildlife is still thrilling in its variety, but unfortunately, many of these particular species are extinct. Times have changed, and sadly, Paisley Zebra, Floral Camel, Plaid Giraffe, and several others, have vanished with the years. Their images stay with us, however, immortalized in this bedding. This pair is on Ann's bed currently. It's also pictured in my 35-year-old brother's baby album. How did my mom keep this stuff so well?

Open Door Policy

2007-11-14T18:07:00.000-05:00

My carpooling buddy, who lives two doors away from me on a little path of apartments, is, among other things, a genuine sweetheart. She's got a very distinct way of framing things in a positive, constructive tone, with her own two boys as well as with my kids.

Her apartment's front door is situated immediately behind the stairway leading from the sidewalk up to our own door. Thus, this isn't a carpool where I need to drive anywhere. In essence, I cannot get to and from the car without passing her place. It's been a great arrangement for this year and last, but there is one caveat.

The Raggedy kids, though they can be shy in certain settings, are generally quite friendly. As in, they make themselves right at home in lots of places. As in, they try to barge in on my neighbor whenever she opens the door to let her son in. And as she is so sweet, she'll graciously invite us all in for what turns into an improptu playdate.

Andy loves it there, because it's boy-land, with a fire-truck bed and testosterone-toys. Ann loves it because she and my neighbor's son are in different classes this year, and they don't get much chance to play together anymore.

There are a number of times when I've been able to quash the playdate idea before it got started, and a few occasions when I've allowed the kids to stay for a couple of minutes before rustling them up and getting them back home.

But yesterday proved to be a real challenge. A few minutes turned into a half hour (we moms got to talking about the elementary school dilemmas we're imminently facing), which turned into nearly an hour.

At that point, Little Rag was hungry and crying, and there was not much hope of getting to make the dinner I had wanted to quickly prepare while the big kids played. Ann and Andy tag-teamed to give me a really hard time about getting out of there, and my neighbor's son kept bringing out more enticing toys, which had them totally hooked.

After an agonizing 15 minute battle involving my neighbor holding my wailing baby, and me basically wrestling Ann and Andy into putting their shoes and coats back on, we finally did the walk of shame back to our apartment. Whereupon I told Ann that I'd made a decision:

I asked my neighbor to open her door while I would bring out her son alone, and then to let him in and close her door. Only afterward would I bring my own kids out and lead us all home. She understood where I was coming from, and agreed to it, with the added stipulation that we should still see each other and set up occasional playdates in advance.

She's expecting another baby in late spring, and hasn't been feeling too great herself, so I can imagine that she's not always up for the intrusion. And it's been disproportionate in that we live upstairs and further down the path, so somehow it never winds up being here.

Would anyone have handled this any differently?

Vintage Sheets

2007-11-12T08:25:00.000-05:00

While we're on the topic of sleep, I wanted to get to something that I've been interested in posting for a while. Ann started sleeping in a bed when we stayed with my parents for Pesach the year she was nearly 3. When we came home after that week, RaggedyDad and my father brought over the bed that was mine since we came to America from Israel when I was 5.

Ann's bed is my old bed, and what better to complete the look than having my mother give us a big shopping bag full of the bedsheets used by my older brothers and me when we were kids. Realize that my mother is the type to keep things in impeccable condition.

I tend to be a sentimental, nostalgic person, and I really like the idea that the old kiddie sheets are now in our home. However, this notion can be taken to the extreme. I know someone who actually found the old potty seat (bleached down I presume) that she used, and uses it for her kids. For me, however, the intermingling of sentiment and excrement is where I draw the line. Take a picture of the old thing if you need to, and then toss it, please.

Back to more pleasant things, like bedsheets. Aside from some fading from being washed a million times, the sheets are in great condition. And I get a kick out of watching Ann (and Andy now that he uses some of the pillowcases) fall asleep while watching and thinking about the same colorful sheets I remember from being a kid.

Can anyone identify all of the vintage Disney characters on these sheets?

Yes Sir, That's My Baby

2007-11-08T19:48:00.000-05:00

Because some battles just aren't worth fighting.

Bechorah Soup

2007-11-06T20:50:00.000-05:00

Back when I first got married, I knew how to cook just about . . . nothing. Enter my very patient husband, who, thanks to his upbringing in Russia, was accustomed to occasional bouts of hunger.(Okay, that was a terrible joke.)

One of the first recipes I tried out in my new life as a Mrs. came from a magazine my mother gave me when she was finished with it. It was probably Family Circle or Parade or something like that. Coincidentally, the week I tried out the recipe corresponded with the weekly Torah portion of Toldot, which includes the well-known story of Esav selling his bechorah, or birthright, to Yaakov for a bowl of red lentil soup.

The recipe is called Pot Luck Soup, but in the Raggedy household, it is known as Bechorah Soup. It's a good, hearty soup pefect for this time of year when the chillier weather is upon us (please stop laughing, Fudge and Ezzie. In my opinion, it is colder these days). Make sure to have plenty of challah or bread for dipping purposes. Doubling it works fine. My own notes are in brackets:

Pot Luck Soup

2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 Tbsp. butter [margarine or just a bit more olive oil]
1 medium-sized onion, chopped
2 ribs of celery, cut into 1/4 inch dice
1 carrot, peeled and cut into 1/4 inch dice
1/8 tsp. ground cloves [I don't like cloves in food so I leave them out]
1 can (35 oz.) Italian plum tomatoes
3 to 4 cups canned broth (chicken or vegetable) [or dissolve bouillon cube in water]
1/3 cup dried lentils, green or brown
1/4 cup dry red wine [I use the inexpensive cooking wine]
Salt and black pepper to taste
1/4 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley [I leave it out if I don't have it]

1. Place oil and butter in a heavy pot over low heat. Add the onion, celery, and carrot; cook, stirring, until the vegetables are wilted, about 15 minutes. Add the garlic and cloves during the last 3 minutes.

2. Puree the tomatoes with their juices in a blender and add to the pot [I think this is an unnecessary step. Just use the pureed tomatoes to begin with. Or mush them up as you cook.] Add the broth and lentils and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium; simmer, uncovered, 20 minutes.

3. Add the wine, season to taste with salt and pepper, then simmer gently for 20 minutes more. Stir in the parsley and serve.

Here's hoping the only thing our children fight about is who gets the last bowl of this soup.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery

2007-10-31T11:24:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure if it's because Andy just misses Ann when she's away at preschool most of the day, but one of his favorite things to do sometimes is to wear things that are hers. Some days, it's shoes (although they both loooove wearing my shoes). Today it was this pair of pajamas that run a bit big even on her.

This is one of those times when I'm not sure what to do. On the one hand, she may get upset to find that he's been wearing (and now, napping in) her pajamas. "Those are very special to me!" is a line I'd typically hear from her in a case like this.

On the other hand, they share many things, and there are two pairs of warm fleecy pajamas that were bought for him, that they have both been wearing lately. If she's wearing his, she's got to be willing to have him wear hers. We're not very territorial as a family, but it's also important that we respect one another's belongings.

I'm hoping he doesn't extend his love of the pink and flowery beyond pajamas and into clothing worn outside, because that's a battle of wills I wasn't eager to have. Oh well. At least he's dressed today.

Steady Growth

2007-10-23T09:39:00.000-04:00

Miraculously, a styrofoam cup plant that Ann brought home last year from preschool has been thriving on our kitchen windowsill. Ordinarily, the school plant and the carnival goldfish are more vulnerable than the California condor. Nestled between the "egg-checking glass" and another plant, at home among the flour, sugar, and our kitschy Belgian kitchen chicken, Ann's plant has been growing up and over the frame, straining leftward toward the sun.

When I was pregnant with Andy, I remember someone telling me that the first time you change your bigger baby after bringing home a newborn, the older sibling suddenly seems huge. "Look at those giant legs! And you can talk! Why am I still changing your diapers!?" But in actuality, the bigger baby is still quite little, thought it's easy to forget with those tiny, chicken-y newborn legs in your house again. I do remember how big my scrawny Ann suddenly seemed that day during Sukkos when Andy came home.

This week we celebrated Andy's second birthday. He's coming into his own, and holding fast to his reputation as the Raggedy who probably adds the most fun and excitement to our brood. Although Andy's our resident displaced baby since the arrival of Little Rag, he really does feel like he's still also the baby. It was just about a year ago that I started this blog with a picture of him in the laundry basket. (Happy Blogiversary to me!)

Ann, on the other hand, has suddenly struck me as such an independent girl. I'm realizing daily that there are so many ways in which she doesn't need me anymore. Getting dressed, washing up, and keeping busy (usually) are, for the most part, within her domain. Watching the way she plays, and the way she teaches Andy to play, makes me realize that she's gotten very mature in just the last couple of months.

Yesterday at the little playground they built behind our apartment, two big boys came along after we'd been there a while. One of them was passing by Andy on the way up to the slide, and said something like, "This slide isn't for a baby!" I just watched from the sidelines for a minute. Although Ann is usually reserved with strangers, she stood up tall and said, "He just had his birthday on Sunday, and now he's two years old [showing two fingers]. He's actually a very big boy now. Come with me, Andy."

It has made me kind of wistful that she doesn't need me the way Andy still does. For the most part, she knows what she's doing and isn't going to take the same crazy risks. She certainly doesn't need me the way Little Rag does, desperately clinging to my neck for dear life, still totally bewildered by this world.

They're growing up every day, but the truth is, I'm the one who still needs them.

The Wild-Eyed Madwoman is Me

2007-10-09T12:21:00.000-04:00

Somewhere along the way, I let the reigns slip, and there seems to be little chance of getting them back.

Have you ever done errands with a bunch of little kids running amok? The littlest one is helplessly screaming. Again. The oldest one is whining about a coloring book she needs, and also, she has to use the bathroom. It's a 'mergency'. The middlest one is knocking into glass bottles in stores and screaming "Me too money! My turn money!" when you pull out a quarter to feed the meter. And finding the most embarassing things ever to yank off shelves at the pharmacy (use your imagination). And anytime there's a playground in his field of vision, running, running, at breakneck speed to the PWAAAAAYYY GWOOOUUUNNDD!!.

Thank you to all of the kind people who held doors open for me on Main Street this week. Also, though less helpful, thanks to those of you who gave me long, pitying glances. Making eye contact with others can be unexpectedly gratifying.

My lists of errands didn't seem that crazy on paper. Carpool. Bank. Post office. Pharmacy. Pediatrician (little did I know, I'd wait there for 2 hours!). In actuality it was like some kind of absurd triathlon.

Oh, and also, Mondays are apparently pants-switching and sweatband-wearing days for Ann and Andy. (They look like they are here to pump . . you up!)

Thankfully, every day brings with it its own hour of salvation. Naptime. I'd better keep on sleeping when I can. I'll need all the strength I can get.

Inside Out

2007-10-08T19:45:00.000-04:00

Over the past week and a half, although it's been a bustling time with holidays, cooking, and a preschooler on "vacation" from school, it's also been a time of personal reflection for me.

I once read about something called Impostor Syndrome in which people feel as though the world views them one way, while in truth, they are somebody quite different (and usually worse). While this is a real psychological disorder, I think that on a lesser scale, some of us really do put on minor guises that can be deceptive.

One of our Yom Tov guests remarked that I'm very calm with my kids, and it got me thinking that I know that that's not the case, but that it may seem to be so, to others, some of the time.

Being a calm, upbeat person is not my nature. In fact, the expected redheaded temperament is much more like it. Plus, worry is my middle name. In short, the way I see it, I'm a crabby, easy-to-anger, anxious person, even as I realize that people would be surprised to learn that.

It's an ongoing effort to be more of the person I want to be, and to be "on" for my kids in the way that I know I need to be. It's also a struggle to retain the genuine side of myself that I see as more interesting because it's a little more biting and edgy, Being better can sometimes get confused with being sweet and bland, like a stale, cheerful cookie. The trick is to still be me, but a version of myself that doesn't make me feel guilty and uncomfortable in retrospect.

We were lucky to be able to share a meal over Rosh Hashana with a family that I consider positive and inspiring, though not in a saccharine way. In some neutral context, the wife mentioned that she'd recently seen a refrigerator magnet at someone's house that said "The very thing you're complaining about is what someone else is praying for right now." (That's paraphrased.)

It took me some time to really try to internalize how true this is for me. Whatever irks me - a mess in my house, RaggedyDad not helping "the right way," a child showing chutzpah - while irritating, I'm lucky to have each and every one. And even though I'm human and I can complain, I'd be crazy to only complain, and not quietly (humbly) realize the truth of that saying on the magnet.

That thought, and the fact that these years are forming the basis of my children's experiences and memories, is what hopefully propels me when I'm feeling like being more of who I want to be, and trying to cut down on the hatefulness, negativity, and resentment. And to be able to mentally agree when someone compliments the real me.

Life Baffles Me

2007-09-24T12:17:00.000-04:00

Washing instructions tag on Andy's reversible winter hat:

Machine wash cold. Gentle cycle. Separately or with like colors. Inside out.

What? What's inside out on a reversible hat? The side that I like the least on the outside? Is this a riddle?

(Cross-posted to Our Clothes Speak)

Coming soon, a post and some pictures about The Raggedys' second annual apple picking trip. Last year's trip was right around when I first started blogging.

Postcards from the Edge

2007-09-18T19:24:00.000-04:00

An ongoing series

Postcard #1

From: RaggedyMom

To: Litte Rag

Hey there, little baby. You know I love you. But why is it that you sleep so well in Mommy's bed and so poorly . . . everywhere else? Learn to talk ASAP so you can let me know.

Love,
Mommy

Postcard #2
From: RaggedyMom

To: Anonymous Neighbor

It's great seeing you from time to time. What's less than great is when you say, "Everytime I see you with Little Rag, he's crying!" I'm still figuring out what to respond to you, other than the odd smile I gave you, which hopefully implied, "I don't speak English."

Sincerely,

Ani Mitzta'eret, Lo Hevanti Otach*

*I'm sorry, I didn't understand you

Postcard #3

From: RaggedyMom

To: Tom the Mailman

We chatted the other day, and that was lovely. Who ever said that people don't know their mail carriers by name in a city like this? And thank you for almost never mixing up our mail with the downstairs neighbor's. However, when it comes to your weather prediction skills, you are totally off, dude.

Remember your sweater next time,

RaggedyMom

Postcard #4

From: RaggedyMom

To: Fruit Store Man

You're my hero of the day today. Thank you for saving me today when Ann's lunch was left behind at home. A roll and the piece of fruit that you washed somewhere in "the back of the store" (hmm . . ) were great stand-ins.

Trying hard to be less of a flake,

RaggedyMom

Postcard #5
From: RaggedyMom

To: RaggedyAndy

Is there a book of crazy ideas written by little boys, for little boys? The one that tells you to do things such as, but not limited to:

-Throwing your sweatpants into the bathtub

-Cramming used tissues behind the dresser for Mommy to find (or not find)

-Riding the vacuum cleaner like an enchanted broomstick (you're too young for Harry Potter, kid)

I know Mommy's been kind of boring tied up with the baby lately, but these shenanigans aren't quite the excitement I was looking for.

Get off of there right now,

Mommy

Life's Blessings

2007-09-11T19:06:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I'll be saying one of the last brachos (blessings) for the Jewish year of 5767:

"Baruch ata . . . hamotzi fish sticks min ha-freezer"**

Wishing everyone (including me) luck with the last hectic preparations, hoping that the kids won't be too traumatized from a couple of really lame suppers, and most of all, a wonderful, sweet year to come.

**("Blessed are you, Hashem, who brings forth fish sticks from the freezer" - no, this is not an actual blessing, but a play on words of a real one.)

The "Stuff"

2007-09-04T19:10:00.000-04:00

I worried at some point in the last few months that for Ann and Andy, this would go down as "The Summer Mommy had Little Rag," or "My Mommy had a Baby This Summer, and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt."

That's probably what made me determined to overcompensate and make sure that the kids had a lot of fun this summer. Today we tried to grab one of the last couple of days before the start of preschool and headed to a shady playground nearby (across from the post office for any of the locals).

Although I had brought along a good deal of "stuff," Andy paid no mind, and launched himself right into the sprinklers with gusto. Clothes, sandals, hat, and all. Nevermind that I had brought along a bag full of watershoes and bathing suits.

I usually dress the kids in the water-gear for the ride to the playground, but since Labor Day was yesterday, I wasn't sure if the sprinklers would still be on (technically that is their 'off' date) and I didn't want to set anyone up for a letdown.

Fortunately, after a little over an hour of splashing, sliding, falling, and keeping the baby's kvetching to a minimum, I did some surreptitiuos clothing changing and we were able to head over to get some frozen yogurt on the next corner.

Let's go!

2007-09-03T19:37:00.000-04:00

I will probably never be able to get out of the house in a timely manner ever again.

Or maybe it just feels that way for now.

Somewhere in the last three weeks of new baby euphoria, I realized that it's a good thing the end of August is an unscheduled blur, because that's exactly what I needed at first. RaggedyDad leaves for work, and the rest of us are able to take the day as it comes. Pajamas for everyone until 2 p.m.? Sure! Cereal and milk for lunch(again)? No problem!

Now that Ann is about to begin another school year, though, I'm looking forward to getting into some kind of routine. In the spirit of that typical early September idealistic optimism, I've been resurrecting some of my notebooks and lists. I'm dusting off (or starting) plans for school lunches, weeknight suppers, Shabbos meals, general grocery lists, and household tasks, some of which had gathered dust long before giving way to four months of throwing up, two good months, and nearly three months of bedrest.

For now, getting ready to leave the house with three little ones in tow has been humblingly chaotic. Ann is pretty self-sufficient in terms of getting dressed and ready, with a few road-bumps along the way. Andy is equal parts helper and destroyer, and tends to get his finally-dressed self full of something like food, water, milk, soap, or worse. Little Rag is three weeks old, and anyone who's been the parent of a three-week-old knows what that means.

And then there's the part where we're actually out the door - with all of the "stuff", of course - Heaven forbid we forget any of the "stuff" - none of which we actually wind up using, but all of which we would surely need if any of it were left behind. Once upon a time I had it pretty together, and I know I will again, but for now I still seem to be at that point where my flustered demeanor gets me some knowing smirks and pitying stares from people on the street.

I tend to be a stickler for leaving the house without a mess lying around, so the kids are on toy-clean-up patrol while I hit the morning dishes. By then, there are more diapers to change, a fit of hysteria over my having chosen "the wrong shoes," crayon has somehow decorated the table surface, Ann and Andy are "sooooo thirsty" and, of course, Little Rag is crying. Again.

I do have to stop answering the telephone, because invariably, the caller will ask, pointedly, "Is everything okay over there? Are you managing?"

To which I like to say, "What?? I can't hear you. Is that on my end or on yours? I guess I'll call you back later, then. Bye!"

Late Summer Daze . .

2007-08-28T18:59:00.000-04:00

We've been getting adjusted to life with our Little Rag. Mazel tov to Little Frumhouse on the Prairie for winning our pseudo-naming contest! LFP, be on the lookout for your prize. You'll know it by the (unused, outgrown) diapers I'll be using as bubble wrap.

The past couple of weeks have been sort of a whirlwind tour of parental emotions: elation, worry, relief. RaggedyDad and I have looked over at each other countless times, thinking the same thing: being a parent is really intense sometimes. Whew.

Little Rag was whisked away to the NICU shortly after he was born with a condition called TTN. Thankfully, HE'S FINE (RaggedyDad suggested that I make that totally clear in the beginning), and got to go home after three days, but it was a hell of a scare for us. This was our third baby born at the same hospital, but the NICU is not a place I had been to before, aside from visiting my nephew who was born a preemie a few years ago (and is now a major bruiser, famous for his penchant for peeing into open washing machines).

Let me just say regarding the nurses who work in the NICU - if society were just, these are the people who would be earning tens of millions of dollars, not professional athletes and movie stars. Because they really deserve it.

I remember Ann and Andy as newborns snuggled up next to my hospital bed in their cozy isolettes. With Little Rag, I had to walk about 10 minutes down confusing sets of hallways and heavy doors (a few hours postpartum), "scrub in," and try to find his little face under various beeping contraptions. I couldn't nurse him for the first couple of days and he was fed by IV. There was a night I spent camped out in the NICU "family room" chairs (and using public hospital bathrooms) after I was discharged but before Little Rag got to go home. As I said, he got better quickly, and we've thankfully gotten back on track with feeding and the like, though the ordeal did naturally delay the bris by a couple of days.

Now that that's over with, Little Rag has been somewhat jaundiced, leading to more hospital visits, blood drawn repeatedly from his scrawny arm with a rubber tourniquet (!) wrapped around it, and more stress. As a public service announcement to phlebotomists in training - if you aren't sure whether you're capable of drawing blood from a newborn's arm, please DON'T try to.

Most of the people we dealt with were terrific. Some were less so. The main issue I had was when the 'medical people' forgot that I was a parent, and not a fellow medical person, and were a little callous in their explanations. Eg: "Don't worry, TTN is not as bad as [that other thing], where we'd have to make an incision in his chest." What?!

Or when some very young student-type doctors who clearly don't have kids of their own yet asked how I was coping when Little Rag was in full hooked-up mode. My response - "I know he's where he has to be, but it's taking a lot of restraint for me not to grab him and run out of here as fast as I can." If I'd said that to the nurses (likely most of them are moms), they'd probably have understood what I meant and jokingly offered to drive the getaway car. But the Doogie Howser crowd actually took me literally, got a little alarmed, wrote stuff down in notepads, and asked me to please, please let them know the next time I felt that urge. Tough crowd.

Or the doctor at the Urgicenter who flippantly guesstimated at the baby's bilirubin count and said he was fairly certain that the baby would be re-admitted to the hospital for 'possibly a few days'. Yep. Some of you definitely fell asleep during the mandatory sensitivity training.

I'll update soon about my first solo outing with all three kids, and other things I've been doing (Preview - I've been saying "Don't kick the baby, Andy!" a LOT.)

Just know that I'm still around, if a little worse for the wear, and getting back to reading and commenting over at a some of your blogs.

Names, Pseudonyms

2007-08-19T17:18:00.000-04:00

Things here are in that delicious post-baby's arrival upheaval and nowhere near settling down.

In the meantime, we're preparing for the upcoming bris, and as RaggedyDad and I get ready to name our son, I'm also trying to come up with a blog name for him.

Needless to say (or is it?) our kids are not really named Ann and Andy. Rather, they do have names that sound somewhat similar to one another, and it goes with the whole Raggedy theme. Those names are more or less how this blog name was born.

Now that we've got a third Raggedy in the picture, I'm trying to think of how to refer to him on the blog. I'm not familiar with the extensive lore of Raggedy Ann and Andy and whether there are any another character names.

We're open to suggestions.

Raggedy Update

2007-08-14T06:31:00.000-04:00

Mazel tov!

The Stats:

Baby boy Raggedy
Born Sunday, August 12 at 1:15 p.m.
6 lbs., 11 oz., 19 inches long

Everyone's doing well!

YAAAAWWWWNNNNN . . . I'll talk to all of you later . . . much later.

Make Mine Skim

2007-08-06T15:30:00.000-04:00

Since I became Ann's mother four years ago, a significant part of my life is spent doing a lot more TALKING than I ever did before. I was never the biggest blabbermouth. Except for those moments of redheaded temper, I am usually able to weigh my words fairly carefully.

As someone who majored in linguistics in college, this would seem to be a dream come true, since witnessing my own children's language development is the best real-life playing field I could ever have imagined for seeing the applications of my studies. In reality, though, not always.

With Ann and Andy, there are chunks of time when I hear so much chattering going on that I sometimes feel like challenging them to a silence contest (anyone else remember those?). And then I'm taken aback to realize that a good deal of the talking is coming from ME! Constantly describing, encouraging, suggesting, explaining, answering, reading, narrating all fall within my job description.

One of the major features of our home is that there are always many books available to the kids. I've written before that RaggedyDad and I share the rude trait of often reading at the table. The kids aren't quite up to that, but they do feel very comfortable pulling out a book, doing their thing with it, or asking for it to be read. Lots of my books are the ones I kept in my classroom when I taught English as a second language. The library was also a major part of my life growing up, and I take the kids there fairly often.

On days when I feel like all I've done is talk, I sometimes try to make my read-alouds more of a skimming, or a "let's describe what we see on each page," or, lately, "Why don't you read this to me, Ann?" It is amazing to hear the very close narration after months of her hearing the same story. With Ann, skimming a book is not covert. With Andy, there is a little guilt, since he doesn't always realize it's happening.

There are times when I feel like I'm on autopilot with the things I say to my kids. I've explained the same thing so many times! I've read that story about 43 times this morning! It's tempting to tune out a little bit of myself, and of them. When I feel like that's happening, I know I have to focus on consciously responding and talking in the moment. Do I always? That's another story.

As Ann gets older, I find that she's become far more of a mental challenge than a physical one, and it spurs me to really think about what we're saying to each other. And although a lot of Andy time is spent keeping him safe and helping to direct his actions, he does mimic all that I say, from content to tone to cadence. Which means being more aware with him, too. There's nothing more eye-opening than seeing our negative traits, including negative speaking style, reflected back to us in our kids. It's pretty humbling.

Another story, kids? I'd love to, but how about if we make this one skim?

Lots and Lots of Shots

2007-07-30T14:24:00.000-04:00

This morning, Ann was subjected to that other birthday rite of passage, the annual physical. I was warned by the receptionists when I made this appointment that the four-year-old visit would be rough in terms of shots and blood drawn.

I tried to play up the exciting parts of a well-visit to Ann early this morning: "Dr. L. has known you since you were born! I remember when he held you on your belly suspended over the palm of his hand to see you holding yourself up! Now that you're bigger, you can talk to him yourself and answer his questions about how nicely you're growing up!"

Ann knew there were shots coming, and sure enough, after the hearing test, vision test, blood pressure, weighing (still a skinny beanpole! 32 lbs. at 4 years, Ezzie!), etc., it was time for drawing blood from her fingertip (will the squeezing never stop?!), a forearm PPD (heading back to check it on Wednesday), a tetanus shot (aaack!), booster shots (I think it was 3 boosters and they combined 2 of them into one shot). Yikes! For her part, Ann was a real trooper, stoic at times and quietly whimpering a few times. I don't think I'd be able to take it as well myself.

I'm glad I was able to be there for her, and I'm glad it's over with!!

On an unrelated note, Happy 100th Post to me!

Crumb Coat

2007-07-29T11:18:00.000-04:00

Later today we're having a small family barbeque in my parents' backyard for Ann's birthday. I'm glad that despite having attended a few more party-ish parties, this is what Ann has been most excited about related to her birthday every year. I do realize that as she grows up, she may change her mind . . .

With a 50% chance of scattered thunderstorms for this afternoon, we may have to bring everything indoors in a hurry at some point. I hear some thunder rolling, so chances are, we'll be indoors! We've got the paper goods, we've got the meat, and I even had a few of those infamous party favors left over from Ann's camp party (how many parties are we having here?!) to give out to the cousins who'll be there.

The only thing left to do is to finish decorating Ann's cake. For now, I put on the crumb coat, which is a thin layer of frosting that apparently should help the chocolate cake crumbs not show through as much in the final layer. I'm not a cake professional by any stretch of the imagination, but I think we'll wind up putting together something cute. I got the idea for a CandyLand-board type cake from a parenting magazine, and decided to try and adapt it for this party.

Although there'll be an excessive amount of sugary, nauseating candy (on top of a frosted cake!), I don't imagine too much of the candy will actually be eaten. Ann tends to lick a couple of pieces and then sort of hide them in a napkin. On the other hand, Andy may just have a field day with this cake! I'd better tell my brother and sister-in-law to bring along some toothbrushes for their kids!

The semi-finished product (minus the writing in the top-left corner and some lollipops in the middle of the left edge that will make it too tall to transport):

Conference Call

2007-07-23T20:47:00.000-04:00

Conversations that involve a combination of medical and halachic issues usually sound like some version of this:

Doctor: "Look, RaggedyMom, I'm not your posek, but . . . "

Rabbi: "Listen, RaggedyMom, I'm not a doctor, but . . . "

I'd say that the two of you kind (other) men in my life need to just get together and talk it all out!

Imagined conference call (sounds a lot like planning a date):

Doctor: Hey Rabbi, what do YOU want to do?

Rabbi: Dunno, Doc. What do YOU want to do?

Okay, guys. Give me a call when you're done.

In other news, I had to run a brief errand today before bringing Ann to camp. The rain was at its prime out-of-control phase right then. Mistakenly, I parked not out on the street, but in a back parking lot. The lot had basically turned into a giant cess pool of slimy, deep puddles full of garbage and who knows what else. By the time I realized this, though, Ann and I were immersed and surrounded by the puddles.

Poor Ann got totally soaked. At one point, I thought I lost her in one of the puddles! I wish the store had had the consideration to post a sign at the parking lot entrance that it was open only to deliveries. Of course, we went straight back home afterward for clothing changes before heading to camp. What a dripping disaster! As for me, I got drenched too, diving in to rescue her. There'll be no leaving the house for me and the kids tomorrow, though. Video, anyone?

I'm wishing everyone to whom it applies an easy, meaningful fast tomorrow. Hopefully, this will be the last year we fast on this date.

Competition Blues

2007-07-19T19:15:00.001-04:00

A week from today will be Ann's fourth birthday. (Same as yours, Ezzie). On the day of her birthday, I'll be going to her day camp with the standard school/camp party implements as dictated by the school.

The school asks for either a bought cake or bought cupcakes, and a half-gallon of juice. They provide plates and cups. Elsewhere on the memo, clearly stated, are the words "We do not permit the distribution of any party bags or favors. Each birthday child may present the class with a gift of a small book or tape if you wish."

Ann and I went to choose a CD of children's music ($5.99) and wrapped it for the occasion. I've got juice in the house, and we'll get the cupcakes next week. The usual cupcake choice has been mini-cupcakes that come 18 to a package, with alternating rows of rainbow sprinkles and chocolate sprinkles on top. They are small and don't cost much.

I was quite surprised when Ann came home from camp today with a substantial "goody bag." It was the first birthday party this summer, and I'm really ticked off that by flouting school policy, this child's mom has upped the ante. A party hat, a few little chachke toys, a sheet of stickers, some crayons, and, my personal least favorite, a giant lollipop, all came home with Ann today. Grrr.

Ann is not a demanding child (though I can already see that Andy's got a whole different temperament). And until now, we've celebrated her birthday by making a small barbeque in my parents' backyard for us, my parents, and my brother who lives locally with his family. (11 people, mostly cousins, in total at this point) I either bake the cake or buy one.

When we go to Toys R Us for diapers, or Amazing Savings for foil tins, and don't buy anything else in the face of toys and chachkes galore, I almost never hear any protests or requests from Ann. But of course, after camp today, Ann told me that she was excited to give out "surprises" to her friends next week too.

I know how kids are at four years old, and if I stick stuanchly to my original plan, Ann will certainly hear from some of the other kids about why she didn't give anything out for her birthday when "Child A" did last week. She's not a fighter, but it will hurt her. And why should she always be the one to be the understanding "big girl" that I'm often asking her to be? I don't think it is fair or realistic to expect a child Ann's age to have the grace and fortitude to calmly reply, "Well, I did give a CD to the class, and besides, we aren't supposed to give out goody bags."

I can think of a couple of other bloggers who are likely to disagree with me, or at least strongly share in my frustration, but I think that at this point, my hands are tied and I need to come up with some modicum of party favor. Perhaps something actually useful or appreciated, like an inexpensive little book or coloring book (I'm open to ideas). It won't be because I wanted to.

I had no issue with the goody bags when Ann was invited to a birthday party held outside of school. I felt that it was unneccesary in that child's case for the parents to go all out at a dance studio, but it was not subject to school policy, and fortunately, it was the only party as far as I know.

Tonight, (before I lost my nerve!), I called the head counselor in Ann's group, who was also her ganenet/teacher the previous year, and expressed my surprise and disappointment that this had occurred altogether, and a week before Ann's own party to boot. She agreed with me, although I understand that from her perspective, having this other mom simply show up with a birthday boy with 20 prepared yet unnanounced bags really barred her from creating an ugly scene and prohibiting her from distributing them. She understood where I was coming from, sympathized, and understands why I'll be showing up with something for Ann to give out (albeit small). Thanks, teach.

Sigh. The whole thing irks me, though.

Brat-Proof?

2007-07-16T08:08:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, on the spur of the moment, RaggedyDad and I decided to take the kids to the beach. Since I am a Very Pale Person, even more exacerbated by the fact that I am mostly relegated to my couch for the next few weeks, I broke out the SPF 50 and we all got ready.

In truth, since I'm not very good at being spontaneous, I really would have preferred to have our bags ready and sandwiches sitting in the fridge from the night before. But for yesterday's outing, we hadn't had much of a prior plan, so there was an early morning flurry of activity trying to figure out what we needed to bring along.

To me, the logistics of the beach are very complicated with small children. More extra clothes, more mess, and more damage control (of course, not wanting to turn the RaggedyVan into its own private beach). Let's estimate our 'plastic bags of stuff' count at about 6. The cleanup proceedings for leaving the beach are lengthy and gritty. As always, I took home the award for Most Dressed Person at the Beach.

It was certainly a far cry from the daily routine my mother and I had until I was 5, hopping on the bus and going to the beach in Tel Aviv for the brief morning hours when my brothers were at school. I don't think we ever brought much more stuff along than a pail, shovel, and busfare. The choko-banana ice cream pops sold by beach-walking vendors was more than enough provisions.

Thankfully, a few simple toys were more than sufficient. Due to their ages and temperaments, it really was enough for Ann and Andy to just be somewhere special, without necessarily doing anything in particular. Splashing with their Papa, coming back to my outpost for a bite of sandwich, and digging until they could reach the water provided more than enough fun for a couple of hours. And I got to see the progress the kids have made since last summer. Instead of treating the sand like lunch, Andy used it more sparingly, perhaps as more of a condiment.

As we were leaving, a family was setting up a few feet away. Three adult women and four kids (aged maybe 4-11?)between them, they were probably well suited for a show like this. Cursing, smoking, rudeness, and carrying on were the order of the day. The language of the oldest two boys was yikes-inducing, as was the extreme chutzpah with which they spoke to the parents. And of course, there was the hard plastic ball they chose to bat around with force right near us until a few choice glares we sent their way put a stop to it. During our short overlap time, one boy in this family in particular did not stop carrying on, kicking sand in anger, complaining, insulting his mother, and whining about nothing to do and nobody to play with.

My concern is this: How do parents make sure that their kids don't morph into these types of creatures as the years go by? I know it's a matter of chinuch, but what,if any, are the specifics that successful parents can identify in the quest to avoid these results? I realize that my kids are very small, which makes them satisfied with the basics. There is definitely a culture of respect, of appreciation, and of not having every little thing that RaggedyDad and I try to cultivate at hom. But at some point, our children will grow into their own identities, and we just have to hope that they stay more beauty than beast.

What do some of you, parents or not, think is the key to brat-proofing?

Raggedy Road

2007-07-09T16:28:00.000-04:00

For about the past month, the Raggedys have been enjoying the sounds of a metro-New York summer. Including, but not limited to: jackhammers, drills that bore holes through bricks, roof overhauling tools and materials, and the like.

The large apartment complex where we live has been actively trying to justify the high maintenance fee we pay, and it has translated into major work projects throughout the summer. While I'm not opposed to the eventual beautification of the grounds, the arduous work being done in the meantime feels endless!

Giant tarps, mesh enclosures, precarious hanging ladders, and men in the windows for much of the day - it gets a little intense! At times, the noise has been mind-numbing. Often, I'm scared to watch what these guys are doing and I'm busy cringing and hoping that none of them get seriously hurt.

On the bright side, Ann and Andy have been very entertained and fascinated by everything giong on around them. Ann is at camp for a good deal of the day, but Andy has been more or less homebound with me for weeks. It has been a sort of blessing in disguise to have these guys out here for him to watch with awe. Especially cute is when some of them respond to his excited shouts of "Man-worker! Hi mans! Hi worker!" etc.

Today's project was one of the more invasive ones. In front of our apartment is a concrete path that leads to all of the apartments on this stretch of the block. The path is being repaved in sections, and for the time being, there is no paving over much of our area. It was pretty tricky navigating getting in and out of the house with the kids, Andy loving the newfound pile of dirt and Ann insisting on avoiding the dirt while staying on the narrow strip of grass near it. Of course, as Mommy, I get the honor of walking on the rockiest or messiest part while holding the 'stuff' and frantically trying to keep everyone from tripping and maintain hand-holding at all times. While whistling Dixie.

When the workers pack up for the day come nightfall, and the kids finally stop talking from their beds and conk out, I'm pretty sure I'll head to bed myself.

Happily Ever After

2007-07-02T14:11:00.000-04:00

It's official. RaggedyDad is a wuss-Papa. I know this because of the box of cereal sitting on top of our refrigerator right now.

A week before yesterday, my husband traveled to visit his family in Belgium. Originally, we were all going to go together, as we often do in the summer, but that trip will have to be saved for another lifetime. I mean, year. Have I mentioned what a pleasure it is to travel with small children and babies?

When it became clear that we weren't all going to Belgium, the question remained whether any of us would go. As in, just RaggedyDad. We'd briefly contemplated sending Ann along with him, but ultimately, the timing was wrong for me to have her go, and we felt that she's a little bit young (very almost 4) for that sort of thing.

After exhaustive deliberations, we came to the conclusion that since there were extenuating family circumstances in Belgium, and this was an important trip for RaggedyDad, he would go alone for a week. Sunday to Sunday. He even managed to work remotely from his mother's apartment in Belgium on Monday, thereby saving a vacation day.

As for me, let's just say that I hope not to be in my situation without him again for a long time. Or ever. I hope I was enough of a good sport about it, but I am just . . me. Most of the time, between school, work, and saving the world, RaggedyDad is not home at all during the kids' waking hours, except for about 20-30 minutes in the morning. And I do have parents, friends, and neighbors closeby. But let me reiterate that this was not a picnic. Unless you like picnics that are scary and lonely.

In any case, RaggedyDad gallantly did a major supermarket/fruitstore shop shortly after landing and arriving at home. Andy was sleeping, and Ann, ever the 'Papa's girl' went along with him on the outing. I usually bank on a few exchanges, ommisions, and extra items coming home when RaggedyDad does the shopping. I'd be a fool to complain about these, and he knows which things on the shopping list are really urgent and non-negotiable.

But one item that came home made me smile and took me back to my own days of tagging along on grocery trips, and the ensuing begging and bargaining that little kids are so good at. A box of cereal called Disney Princess Fairytale Flakes. Seriously. They're actually like Frosted Flakes, but dusted with . . pink. Also, less tasty than Tony the Tiger. "She said that she's my princess, and I'm her prince," he explained sheepishly. Did she now? Sigh.

Welcome home, RaggedyDad the Valiant.

Eight Things Meme

2007-06-27T21:29:00.000-04:00

I'm going to go a bit counterculture here and neglect to paste in the rules of the meme. I don't feel like these rules are so crucial to understanding what this is all about, and I'm not always that big on thinking that the rules always have to apply!

1. I often drink water (cold NYC tap is the best) with a few drops of lemon juice concentrate added in. Or sometimes seltzer with the same add-in. Ann has the habit of referring to this as "melon water" and can't get the word "lemon" straight. I'm so used to hearing it that I now refer to it as melon water myself. Speaking of, RaggedyDad, can you make me some melon water with ice and a straw?

2. I like to bake, and baking means eggs. I use a specific glass for cracking the eggs into for checking blood spots, and I still mentally think "No red!" whenever the egg is clean (almost always). Since Ann and Andy are usually on the step-ladder next to me, I taught them to check from on top and from underneath the glass and to call out "No red!" too. Andy's egg announcement sounds more like "Aaah-Re!"

3. For several years after moving here from Israel at age 5, I hardly used my Hebrew (aside from being able to coast through Hebrew language tasks at school) but luckily I got it back for the most part when I was ready to get into it again. These days I push myself to use it whenever I can (with Ann's teachers, in half of the stores around here, etc.), glaring errors and all.

4. Usually, at some point on my birthday, I cry. Not because of getting older, since I still feel like I'm about 16. I guess it's probably out of nostalgia and the sadness of time passing. As a kid, I was often away at camp on my birthday, and it just felt very empty being away from home on my birthday.

5. My aunt is a nurse-midwife and delivered me. And I spent my first day in the world in an incubator because I was small.

6. Even though I cook a good deal these days, I have a mental block when it comes to potatoes. When it comes the differences in cooking and peeling approaches to mashed potatoes vs. potatoes for potato salad, etc., I have to quickly consult with the man of the house.

7. I don't know how to ride a bike. Awful, I know. My brothers were teaching me and got impatient. If I remember correctly, they took the training wheels off too soon and then got bored and went to go play Pole Position or something (I can still hear that droning sound in my memory!). Hence, I still can't ride a bike. RaggedyDad, who rode his own bike for miles to and from school, tried to teach me last summer in Belgium, but his sister's bike was a poor fit and I was pretty hopeless in my apprehension.

8. My mother has two sisters and one brother. Her sisters both have only sons. So I'm my grandmother's only granddaughter through one of her own daughters. Being that I'm my mother's only daughter, Ann is (so far) the only continuation of the "chain of women" phenomenon in our family.

I think that most people I'd tag have either done this already or been tagged. If anyone who hasn't been tagged yet wants to do this meme, consider yourself tagged!

p.s. triLcat, the Polarity Meme is my next one, although I may do a somewhat abridged version!

Ending My Tenure

2007-06-21T10:28:00.000-04:00

For the past year, I've been one of the class mothers in Ann's preschool class. And now I'm glad I'm not.

Don't get me wrong - everything went pretty smoothly over the year. But as with all such roles, there were a few, ahem, issues that irked me.

Now, this was not that complex a job, as it basically entailed:

*Collecting money for the teachers' gifts at Chanukah

*Collecting money for the teachers' gifts at the end of the year

*Calling parents about school cancellations due to inclement weather or other unforseen events

Initially, the head teacher also suggested running a little program where instead of sending lunches on Monday, each parent would send about $1 or $1.50 and she'd buy bread, spreads, vegetables, etc. and the kids would make their own sandwiches. Since the preschool director was not a fan of this idea, the teacher left it up to the class mothers to poll the other parents and see if the majority would be interested. The response was a little lukewarm, so the idea was shelved.

I would have gone along with the sandwich idea, but I can certainly understand that in families where the preschool child is not the oldest, school lunches are made assembly-line-style and there's no major purpose served in being spared the making of that one lunch for the little one. Even in our smaller household, I typically make RaggedyDad 3 sandwiches for his long work-and-schoolday, and making one more for Ann is no big deal.

This year, we had no snow days at school. None. So basically, I was just a banker twice a year. Actually, my job was made even easier because there were 18 kids in the class and the teacher requested 3 class mothers, so my part of the class list amounted to just my family and 5 other families.

Of the three class mothers, one lives in an outlying neighborhood, works half-days, and sends her daughter to preschool by bus. The other is more of a queen-bee type who had filled the class-mom role once or twice before. And then there was me.

When it came to the biannual teacher gifts, we came to the consensus that rather than take the pooled cash and buy something for the teachers, we would present them with a nice card and The Cash. Having been a teacher myself (and received my fair share of Korean Jesus statuettes, etc), and having a mother who is a preschool assistant, I firmly believe that while less "personal", cash is most appreciated by teachers. Particularly in Ann's assistant teacher's case, where I'm aware that personal finances are tight, a gift card to a particular store would also not be ideal.

However, two issues came up at Chanukah time that irked me. First, since both the Chanukah performance and the graduation took place on Fridays, I thought it would be appropriate to present each teacher with a small bouqet of flowers, with a small amount of money taken from the amount collected. When RaggedyDad brings home flowers, he typically spends very, very little on them, so it can be done.

Queen Bee Mom nixed the flowers idea, and for no reason other than the fact that she felt that particularly the assistant could use every dollar. I hear her point, but the amount collected was sizable. I believe that even when someone could really use the money, if, say, a small, small fraction of it gets taken out, they're just as likely as anyone to appreciate a little pick-me-up like flowers. But I didn't push the point, and acquiesced. And it's possible that those few dollars would indeed mean a lot.

What bothered me more was that Queen Bee Mom insisted on presenting the teachers with the money in the same denominations in which it was collected. Which meant some larger bills, but also a Lot of small bills. I asked her if she thought we might go to the bank to change the money for larger, though not impractical denominations, which would be a little more presentable.

She decided against it because a)going to the bank would be a tirchah (imposition) on the class moms and b)[My blood is still boiling over this one] the assistant might have a hard time with larger bills "at the types of stores where might shop".

I probably bit my tongue hard enough to bring up blood. I saw that there was no headway with this mom, but how rude can you get? It's not as though the assistant teacher buys her groceries from vending machines! There really aren't that many stores nowadays that give you a hard time over a $20 or even a $50 bill.

I just can't stand it when, in the name of thinking they're doing what's best for someone, people get so self-righteous as to govern how and what is done for someone else. Queen Bee Mom would have you think this was a huge favor she was doing for the assistant. Grr.

Suffice it to say that when I was in charge of assembling the cards and cash at the end of the year, I skipped the flowers but made sure that there were kavodik (respectful) denominations of money in those cards. And Ann and I baked two little chocolate cakes for the teachers as well.

What are your thoughts?

Life, Catalogued

2007-06-19T20:55:00.000-04:00

If you're like me, you feel an occasional niggling guilt over not having your family photographs arranged in a way that allows you to enjoy them most.

We got a digital camera in July of 2003, when Ann was born, and since then, have printed very few pictures. We used to upload them to photo printing websites, get the prints by mail, and give them out to family. Since RaggedyDad's family lives overseas, it's often more practical for them to view the pictures in emails and let us know if there are any (very occasional) shots they want to have in physical form.

My parents, on the other hand, are able to see the pictures via email (and I'm so proud of them for figuring that out!) but really want a few real photos for frames, albums, etc. Now and then I hear, "I don't think I have one picture of Andy!" and he's nearly 20 months old. Guilt!

Tonight I've been organizing the pictures on the computer by month and year, since they're automatically stored by date. But this is just a tiny drop in the bucket of what I ultimately would like to do:

1. Upload photos to some kind of sharing site (I'm open to suggestions) that my parents can use to order prints. Some of them even allow users in different countries to order prints locally, which would be ideal for RaggedyDad's mom in Belgium, and grandparents in Israel (who don't use email but have a neighbor who'll help them order shots).

2. Print some of our nicer shots over the past couple of years and get some nice albums going on. Or at least photo boxes. It's hard to share photos with Shabbos guests when they're all on the computer! This also connects with the guilt about not doing anything nice/memorable with some of our vacation memorabilia, other than stashing it in a Ziploc bag for that trip.

3. Backing up the photos onto RaggedyDad's external hard drive and/or a CD. Actually, since I don't really know what this entails, I'll leave this to him.

4. Scanning old photos. RaggedyDad's sister did this with their old family photos dating back to the 1920's (!) and did a very nice, organized job. Complete with backup CDs in different locations. For those of us who have those occasional fire nightmares, I think this would help me sleep that much better at night. Not to mention how nice it is for us all to have copies of those photos.

5. Understanding how to lift movie clips and create real, normal home movies (DVDs nowadays I guess) from those funny little cassettes that our video camera uses. I'd really like to have some movies that make sense and that we can watch properly.

So there you have it. My guilt list regarding family photos and movies. I don't think anything on this list is all that complicated, though I have to learn it, and it is time-consuming. If a little bit gets done after hours on a regular basis, though, it's feasible.

For now, my task focus is finishing up the sewing of name tags on Ann's camp clothing. But I'll bet I'm not the only one feeling photo guilt!

Genre Study

2007-06-14T20:03:00.000-04:00

Most people who know me know that I am a big reader. Growing up, my father always read the Israeli paper, but not books. My mother has phases of reading - sometimes voraciously, sometimes more emphasis is put on other recreational activities like needlepoint. I don't recall my brothers being the biggest readers. But for me, reading was like breathing.

I've mentioned about my childhood that as a non-driver, my mother would walk to do the grocery shopping, and would often leave me alone in the library for an hour or so while going in and out of stores(different times, folks). By the time she returned, weighed down with supermarket bags, I had a tall stack of books ready to take home. Of course, since it was a 20 minute, semi-uphill trek, some of them had to be whittled down.

Once my oldest brother was driving, on Friday afternoons, he would be forced to take me on a quick library trip. Of course, he wouldn't start the ignition until he made me sing parts of a good three or four Led Zeppelin songs. I guess it was funny having his kid sister sing the opening part of "Immigrant Song". That song still makes me want to . . go to the library :)

One area of contention was the fact that I always wanted to read during mealtimes. It's not that our family conversations weren't scintillating(ish). But I was usually in the middle of a book. When I went to Belgium to meet RaggedyDad's family, one of few similarities we shared was reading at the table! Finally! It wasn't rude anymore if everyone was doing it!

These days I tend to read light novels or parenting-related books. Sometimes non-fiction, sometimes Jewish books. RaggedyDad, however, almost always reads the same thing: Russian sci-fi or fantasy novels. I laugh when I see these books because there is the inevitable sorcerer/three-headed-creature/dwarf-colony etc. on the cover. These books look so strange. And being that the text is in Russian letters (somehow connoting a sense of weird mysteriousness) they're even freakier-looking to me. Let's just say that from a very early age, if I asked my kids to bring me my book, they'd never mistakenly think that one of these colorful Russian oddities belonged to me.

This past Sunday, we were in Brooklyn for an early bris. On the way home, we made the cursory couple-of-times-a-year visit to Brighton Beach to stock up on RaggedyDad's reading material.

I don't really emphasize what someone is reading, provided that they are reading. Or maybe that's a quote from when I went to grad school to become a "Reading Specialist" - not that I claim to be a big specialist! But reading in general gives you a greater sense of vocabulary, grammar, and spelling, not to mention the creative benefits. Best of all, it's QUIET! Leftover children's books that I kept in my classroom as a teacher line many of our bookshelves, and to me, there's nothing greater than watching the kids feel comfortable to sit, explore, and read. Or, of course, reading to them.

But maybe they'll go easy on me and not get too much into Russian sci-fi.

Nice Kids Finish Last?

2007-06-11T18:56:00.000-04:00

One of my more painful challenges as Ann progresses through the preschool years is seeing her navigate the murky social waters. It's tough to let go and worry about how she manages when I'm not there to help direct her environment and experiences.

I know that these years are fraught with ups and downs. One day two kids are best friends. The next day one of them doesn't want to be friends anymore. The next day they're friends, but another child has stepped in too, forming a tricky triangle. It doesn't seem like these patterns change much with time, but rather, become slightly more sophisticated versions of the same thing.

Like many kids, Ann thinks very deeply about what she sees and experiences. She's shy yet friendly, and a total chatterbox at home. She narrates a good deal of her inner thoughts when she feels comfortable. Her observations are often punctuated with a resounding, " . . . and that's how it goes!"

Over the past year at preschool, Ann has sporadically mentioned either hearing or sometimes being the brunt a few of the usual kiddie barbs. When Boy Y called her a baby at the start of the year, she matter-of-factly told me, "But he's wrong. I'm not a baby. My brother's still a baby, but I'm big!" Today Girl S told Ann that her picture was 'not beautiful' which had Ann a little down in the dumps. Thankfully these incidents haven't happened often. Ann's not an unpopular kid, but she's no queen bee either.

Ann is the product of two non-queen-bee types who are also sensitive. Chances are, there'll be a good share of hurts over the years. My report cards always said things along the lines of "good student but overly sensitive." And RaggedyDad asked to be changed from one first grade class to another because the teacher was too harsh with some of the other kids and it was too upsetting to him.

It's difficult to see Ann face the usual peer-meanness, because, though she certainly has her other faults, she's not the kind of child who tries to knowingly insult or hurt the feelings of another kid.

Though much of this is just typical preschool phase stuff, sadly, what happens a lot is that the rude kids turn into rude grown-ups who often do get their way. Maybe they're less liked for it, but they don't seem to mind, and in the shorter version of the long run, they even come out on top.

And while I'd rather be the mom of the nice kid, I'd rather her not be relegated to finishing last.

Erev Shabbos Entertainment

2007-06-08T13:42:00.000-04:00

Finally, the concrete, rusty-nail, ancient "playground of doom" behind our area of the apartment complex where we live has been replaced!

We've been watching the various stages of tearing down and rebuilding over the last week, and it has been really fascinating. Sometimes, progress was amazing, and sometimes it just looked like a bunch of workers in the hot sun all scratching their heads, simultaneously baffled.

They seem to be nearly done, with just a padded floor to lay out and a few more finishing touches. All the local kids can't wait to get in there. I'm glad because the equipment seems age-appropriate for my kids, with more closed-in sides and easier access to the slides than some of the other play-structures within close walking distance.

I never bothered taking any before shots of the eyesore monstrosity, but here's where "our playground" is holding now:

Meal-Jacked!

2007-06-05T13:08:00.000-04:00

Is it just me, or does having kids around mean that there are very rarely times when I get to eat without one or two extra little mouths hovering about, vying for a bite?

Accompanying these attempts to hijack my meals are cute phrases like, "Me too! Me too!" although Andy usually prefers to call out, "Iwannin!" (I want it) and Ann has taken to coming up close to me and trying to flatter her way onto my plate ("Mommy, I really love you, Mommy. I like you. Can I have some please . . ?").

I like to eat in peace, and while I realize that, for the most part, those days are over, it sometimes seems as though I only get to taste every fourth or fifth bite! I guess it would be different if early on I had been very adamant about "Mommy's Food," but it seems this is not the most territorial of households.

Thankfully my kids are good eaters, with nice appetites, healthy-ish tastes, and the willingness to try new foods. But I think there's still no greater way to make a food appealing to them than to start eating it myself. Anything from a bowl of cereal to a real meal to a glass of water lends itself to frequent meal-jacking.

When Ann was just starting to eat regular food, I could get away with continuing to cook for just me and RaggedyDad, and taking off a bit of food to give to her. Now that she's a bigger and hungrier kid, she actually needs to be counted in the shopping and cooking equation!

But Andy puts us all to shame. Eating is his forte, and he tries to eat each meal several times by meal-jacking every other member of the family. I remember when my brothers were teenagers and food would literally disappear before it had more than a few minutes to get comfortable in its spot in the fridge. The day Andy's big-boy appetite really kicks into high gear is going to be a momentous (and pricey!) one around here.

Another hidden un-benefit of all this meal-jacking is that it's also a great way to ensure that when one of us is sick, we all get sick very quickly. Just another way we like to spread the love around.

Considering that the RaggedyKids' bedtime runs rather early, I do often have the option of waiting until they're asleep to eat. But I kind of like to eat together with them and then get everything cleaned up together.

I just have to be prepared to be meal-jacked. Yet again.

Naming Pressures

2007-05-30T19:30:00.000-04:00

It's a busy week for extended family simchas.

Tonight, my cousin is making a modest bar mitzvah party for her son, the oldest of 8. This is the first great-grandchild's bar mitzvah for my grandmother, and it comes just after the first yahrtzeit for my grandfather, ob"m. I won't be there, but RaggedyDad is on his way to the party now. I know it will be pretty moving and emotional for my grandmother.

On Shabbos, the bar mitzvah boy will read from the Torah in his community. However, my grandmother will be in another neighborhood, at the bris of the first baby boy born since my grandfather's passing. The baby was born to another cousin (different family) and his wife, the newest member to join the family. I hope the new mother realizes what's riding on this bris!

The level of emotionality surrounding the reaction to the illness and subsequent loss of my grandfather is hard to describe. To say that it has been a genuine heartbreak for every single member of this large extended family is an understatement.

It is a very strong assumption on the part of some of the elder family members that the name given will be my grandfather's. And I would say that there's a good 98% chance that that'll be the case. But when I talk to my grandmother and it's clear that this is a done deal in her mind, inwardly I cringe at the thought of the very remote possibility that another name will be given. Stranger things have happened.

It's rough sometimes, as young parents, feeling that very intense implicit (or explicit sometimes!) pressure to give a particular name. Or to choose between names that both sides feel ought to be given. Or to find that you just don't like the name you feel like you're "supposed" to give.

I can be objective and say that although I hope to have the merit to use it for one of my own kids someday, my grandfather's name is not on any top 10 or maybe even top 50 list of popular Jewish baby names. And the nickname options it provides are extremely limited. With our kids, we were fortunate to be able to go our own route in combining naming for people and ensuring that we actually liked and wanted to use those names / combinations of names. There was also not the same degree of emotional pressure at the times when our kids were born.

Sigh. I really do wish the new parents nachas from the newborn and the confidence and intuition to make the best of this first of many of their own parental choices.

Not too Raggy

2007-05-27T20:19:00.000-04:00

It's the end of an era.

The Raggedys are in the midst of preparing to say a fond farewell to our only family car to date, and the car I myself have been driving a few years longer than that.

Our loyal '95 Corolla, affectionately called "Ninety-five" or "Jimmy" for what you have to do to get the driver's side door to open, is ready to be retired to my father. Together, they'll enjoy great gas mileage, a smooth(ish) ride, and if there's ever a famine, there's a Snicker's bar somewhere in the glove, and some splattered stains on the ceiling (!) upholstery from a Coke can that exploded years ago. Those can probably be licked off in desperation.

Today, RaggedyDad shlepped with Ann and her heavy shleppy carseat by subway to Brooklyn in order to bring home The Van. This is the van we've deliberated over for so long as to almost take all the fun out of it. We test drove several vans. We consulted with some experts in the field - a guy from my parent's shul who finds "deals," the very van-astute Mrs. Balabusta, and of course, the Psychic Friends Network.

Actually, Ann and her Papa had quite a big adventure today, van notwithstanding. They took the bus and the subway, which was very new and exciting, to his office near Rockefeller Center. After hanging out "at work" for a little while, it was back on the train to the car dealer in Brooklyn. Afterward, they drove the van home, where thankfully, only one of them (the right one) fell asleep in the shlepped carseat.

As for me, I'm getting adjusted to the new wheels. Sentimental spirit that I am, I'm already a little nostalgic for our former little road-hugging black car. And now I have to learn to drive (and park!!) all over again! So far I've just been assuming that the car is about 5 times bigger than what I'm used to. But, as my eloquent brother said, "If every Shaindy out there can handle driving a van, so can you!"

Dairy Queen

2007-05-21T20:00:00.000-04:00

Growing up, I was not a big fan of fleishig (meat) meals. But we had meaty dinners almost every night. My father is just not a lasagna and salad kind of guy. Trying to pull a weekly "pizza night" would have been a sort of unappreciated joke at our home.

But I always wanted dairy. Very rarely would I actually like or not make a fuss over the dinner my mother prepared. More often, I would beg or insist on making myself a dinner of a Lenders bagel with cheese, melted on it in the toaster. Having come to the point of running my own household, I've since apologized many times over to my own mother!

In any case, I really look forward to Shavuos. Or Shavuot. Or Shvi'is as RaggedyDad learned to say it when he was becoming frum in Antwerp. Gaaaah! Too many names! (And that's aside from some of the other descriptive names for the holiday.) "Burning out" (or in this case, self-cleaning) the oven for that yearly switch to a milchig cooking bonanza is one of my most anticipated activities.

Dairy cooking is tricky because I feel like it somehow requires a lot more refrigerator space, though I'm not sure why. I'm not a last-minute person by virtue of the fact that I don't have the strength or time-frame to do things alone, quietly, late at night, and all at once. So I typically do a few things each day.

A kink in my agenda this year came when my downstairs neighbors called to say that their refrigerator and freezer blew out some kind of crucial fuse, and could they transport everything (!) to ours? Luckily they were able to eventually move non-essentials to another neighbor's fridge in an empty apartment across the street, and gradually start keeping fewer things at our place. But for a couple of days we've been so crammed that I couldn't find (or store!) a thing!

RaggedyDad finds it funny when I take photos of things I've cooked. It's not that I sit there and look back on them lovingly. But it is nice to have some remnant of my hard work besides the crumbs! And it's kind of exciting for my two short assistants to look at the photos of their own hard work/major Mommy interfering and mishaps.

This year, the RaggedyClan and their guests can anticipate:

Blintz Souffle:

Eggplant Parmesan (or as Ann calls it - Parmesano Reggiano):

Scalloped Potatoes:

Raspberry Swirl Cheesecake (recipe available and so worth it):

Crumb Cake:

Of course, no holiday cooking is complete without that classic staple of "what to make for dinner the night before" - Spaghetti! This is the second box - the first uncooked box was scattered by Andy all over the then-sticky kitchen floor. Another fun activity for Mommy!

Tomorrow's cooking list consists of flounder, French onion soup, and possibly pasta (although - do we need it? Not sure). Hopefully nobody will be running for the toaster to make any alternate meals (though I'd deserve it)!

Turning Into My . . . !!!!!

2007-05-15T19:21:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I sunk to a new low. I realized mid-supper that my food choices were designed around the goal of eliminating clutter from our home by eating remainders of nearly empty containers. You see, tomorrow is recycling pickup, and I want this stuff gone. When Ann's teachers ask for empty bottles and containers, I faithfully and gladly send in all of my empty junk.

The coop where we live has garbage pickup every morning (!) but recycling only weekly, and between our own kids and the two-year-old twins downstairs, that little blue can really fills up to overflowing. Which is not pleasant during the warm, muggy New York weather.

Nearly empty large seltzer bottle - gone. Barely there chocolate spread container - gone (with the help of some bread). Smidge of milk left in the bottle - gone. Peanut butter lingering in the corners and crevices of the Jif jar - sayonara. A few dozen last Cheerios amid a bag of mostly dusty bits - ciao. Not the most well-rounded of meals, but hey, I did also finish some tomatoes that were on their way out. Tonight I was a bit of a human trash bin, and I'm not proud.

RaggedyDad, if you're reading this, I can already hear you saying, "Please don't get overly obsessed by cleaning." Don't worry. There's no danger of that. But we know that I do get into my cleaning spurts. Don't fight it - enjoy it!

I've mentioned before that I grew up in a very neat and orderly environment. I really don't ever remember a mess at home, clutter (besides chachkes - RaggedyDad subtly informed me early on after seeing my parents' home that he wanted minimal chachkes around!), or piles of random things looking for their proper place.

I'm not that kind of homemaker. My kids will have a different backdrop for their memories. Things are neat over here, but in a much more relaxed sort of way. Unlike my mother, I don't dust every morning at the literal crack of dawn, Windex the phone after someone hangs it up, or wash the floors constantly. If there's some disarray, but I can't or don't get to it, I don't mind leaving it overnight. However, I have noticed that I'm taking after her tendency of picking lint off of the carpet. Yikes!

To be fair, as the youngest child in my family, I don't have very clear memories of the cleanliness status during the years when we were all little. My mother has told me that she wasn't as much of a neatnik when we were all younger. It would have been a constant, fruitless effort.

Luckily, my mother's also not the critical type and I generally hear very positive impressions of our home from her. I do have to say that having grown up in a spotless home, I'd rather err on the side of being overly neat. There's something great about always knowing where things are, having a sense of order prevail, and being ready for that unexpected ring of the doorbell at any time! Hopefully, I've also almost managed to reform RaggedyDad's inner slob-man.

There's a little chachke plaque somewhere at my parents' house that says, "Mirror, mirror on the wall. I am my mother after all" that I thought was mildly disturbing. I don't really want to be that much like anybody. As for my mother, I don't look like her at all, but we do have a lot of similar tendencies. Overall I wouldn't mind taking after my mother. Just without the crack of dawn part.

Now excuse me while I go find some more stuff to toss.

Life's a Beach

2007-05-14T14:28:00.000-04:00

For the most part, I'm not a big enjoyer of The Beach. This should not be surprising to those who know me nowadays, considering that I am a Very Pale Person. As in, SPF 50+ reapplied constantly. To me, a large, spread-out location with no shade in sight and grainy bits to get into all the food is more of a punishment than a recreation activity.

BUT, in my heart, there is something very nostalgic for me about being at the beach. Until I was five years old, we lived in Israel. Nearly every single day during those years, once my father left for work and my older brothers were off to school, my mother and I would take the bus from our apartment in Givatayim to the beach in Tel Aviv. Sunblocked and hatted, the beach was my daily activity. We would spend the morning there and then hurry home, stopping for a Capri Sun-type drink on the way and getting back before the end of my brothers' short, Israeli school day.

Thankfully, my mother was quite vigilant about my skin even in those years, though I definitely sported a more golden, outdoorsy appearance. I should try to find and scan some pictures from those years. My hair hadn't turned red yet at that age - instead I had two long, blond braids, usually wrapped around my head in a bit of a Scandinavian style. Not a very common look in Israel (this is before the majority of the Russian influx!), and almost hard to believe, considering my own kids and their, shall we say, minimal hair.

Although going to the beach these days is much less fun than it was during those carefree years, I guess that in some ways at my core I am a bit of a beach person. I am also a beach kill-joy, uttering phrases like "Sun Damage!" as extended family and friends show an interest in tanning. And on the rare occasions I'm actually at a beach, I do always feel very, very, very dressed. And definitely not four years old anymore. Sigh.

Until I find some way to reconcile my varied selves regarding the beach, there is a great deal of pleasure in taking the kids to the beach, like I did with my mother and aunt a couple of times last summer.

And when the weather is warming up but not quite there yet, there's always a day at RaggedyBeach. Ann had the terrific idea today that we should dress up for the beach at home. I was thankfully exempt from participating except for as a coordinator. But the little Raggedys got into bathing suits, swim shoes, sun hats, and spread themselves out onto blankets. There was a round of beach tennis and a snack. And no sand in the car.

Work and Play

2007-05-10T20:03:00.000-04:00

RaggedyDad finished his finals on Monday, but starts "Summer" classes on Sunday! Yikes! Haven't these people ever heard of Mother's Day?! Plus it was "month-end" for him at work (although it seems like it's always month-end).

We also got some advance cooking and baking done in the house, both for us and for a family we're friends with who just brought home baby #5. It's great living in such a community. I remember what a huge help those weeknight suppers were after Andy was born!

As I wrote in the comments on A Mother in Israel's recent post about kids helping out, Ann and Andy are usually in the thick of everything that goes on over here. The kitchen stepstool is big enough to accomodate them both for now, and they're little enough to be genuinely excited by tasks like checking eggs, pouring sugar, and mixing batter (gently please!)

I try as much as possible to leave no or very few errands for Sunday, since RD is almost never around for the kids' bedtime during the week. We all get about 45 minutes every morning together, since Ann and Andy are early risers, but it's not much. I really dislike the idea of Sunday being devoted to running in and out of stores and other boring tasks.

Instead, we really try to make Sunday about going out and enjoying nature together whenever possible and weather-permitting. Outdoor photos of the kids are the best, and most parklike settings are free, or very reasonably priced.

Sunday was the English calendar date of our engagement, which took place at another nearby park. We came across a pet fair at the same park, complete with cute, cheesy fair activities.

As long as we're getting a good balance of work and play in at the Raggedys, we stay happy . . !

Pesach Sheini

2007-05-02T21:28:00.000-04:00

Six years ago, Pesach Sheini fell out on Sunday, May 6. Until that point, the relatively obscure holiday really held no associations for me, and I'm pretty sure I barely knew what it was. But that year, it became a very special date, and has remained so since. On Pesach Sheini, six years ago, RaggedyDad and I got engaged.

Pesach Sheni (“the Second Pesach”) is celebrated on the 14th of Iyar, a month after the eve of Pesach. The Torah (Bamidbar 9:6-11) relates that in the first year after the Exodus, when the Jewish people were preparing to bring the Pesach sacrifice:

There were [certain] men who were impure because [they had come in contact with a] human corpse and they could not bring the Pesach offering on that day. They came before Moshe... and said, “We are unclean... [but] why should we be held back from bringing the offering of G‑d in its time?...”

And Moshe said to them, “Stand and hear what G‑d will command concerning you.”

G‑d said..., “If any man be impure... or on a distant way [on the day of the Pesach offering]..., he shall sacrifice the Pesach offering to G‑d, in the second month, on the fourteenth day at dusk....”

Anyone who did not bring a Pesach offering, whether because of impurity or even because he had willfully transgressed G‑d’s will, was thus given the opportunity to compensate for his shortcoming by bringing an offering on Pesach Sheni. (Talmud, Pesachim 93a)

via Chabad.org)

One thing I'll never forget about that day (besides RaggedyDad's proposal) is how my grandfather, of blessed memory, spoke briefly back at my parents' house that night. I can still hear his voice resonating with strength, yet cracking slightly with the emotion he was prone to during such occasions, especially in those years: (paraphrased)

"Those Yidden who were late in the game for various reasons were despondent. 'Me too!' they cried to Moshe. I want to have a part in this, too! [RaggedyDad] likewise insisted, 'Me too!' and sought inclusion into a Torah lifestyle through significant challenge."

He connected RaggedyDad's and my relationship, RaggedyDad's own personal story as a Russian ba'al teshuvah, and the observance of Pesach Sheini in a way that was so poignant and moving.

Happy Engagemaversary, RaggedyDad. Thanks for asking me :)

Recipe by Request

2007-05-01T18:37:00.000-04:00

An anonymous reader recently commented on my post The Great Debate where I discussed the merits of the sweet, pie-shaped matzah brei that I grew up eating.

My father happens to be great in the kitchen, but the combined realities that he works six long days a week, and that my mother is a person who is obsessively neat, clean, and panicked about the mess others cooking in her kitchen would make, the extent to which he actually cooks is limited.

Central to just about every memory from my father's childhood is FOOD. When recollecting something about his parents, his childhood, his past - the conversation always relates back to food. His parents were both concentration camp survivors, and shortly after he was born, they moved from Norway to the very young state of Israel. (Norway was a stop on the way, not a place of origin for anyone in my family)

Those early years meant a lot of physical challenges to survive and make ends meet, often followed by my grandfather (the one from Jaworzno, PT) struggling to acquire or arrange something and likely having to march into one office or another and 'turn over a table.' But of course, afterward, there was always something simple, yet incredible to eat at home. Even in the ma'abara (transit camp), or the one-bedroom apartment with a combination bathroom/kitchen, or later from the gigantic cast-iron, wood-burning oven that came on their 'lift' from Norway.

My father's method for making matzah brei is his own father's method. Over the years, I've tried to learn it as closely as I can. However, it really is one of those things that I have seen done so many times, and still find confusing at some points. Kind of like when my father was trying to teach me how to drive to Brooklyn via the Interboro (Jackie Robinson) versus the Belt Parkway. I had to see it done a couple dozen times before it sunk in.

Readers will see that this matzah brei recipe definitely leads to a fair share of splashing and dripping messes. It seems involved, but is quite simple once you've done it once or twice. Like driving to Brooklyn on the Interboro.

Although this is not a cookbook recipe, my father and I pieced the approximate recipe together as follows:

Use a 10-inch frying pan,. Recipe serves approximately 4 hungry people.

In a bowl, beat 4-5 eggs, and add around a cup of milk (enough to make the eggs more watery than sticky).

In another bowl, place an equal amount of cold water.

Using machine matzahs, break up each matzah approximately into thirds and then each third in half (six approximate squares).

Heat up the dry frying pan. Add oil to hot pan, enough to coat it well, and rotate the pan to coat the sides well, keeping flame to low-medium.

One by one, place each piece of matzah into the water. It is important that you allow the matzah to get lightly softened in the water, but not soaked.

Then dip the wet matzah into the egg mixture.

Layer the pieces in frying pan, going around the pan and gradually building up to the top of the pan in a circular pattern.

While you work, continually take the pan by the handle and jostle the pan vigorously to ensure that the matzah brei is not sticking. This is crucial. If the brei sticks, it will fall apart. If it is getting stuck in spots, scrape the bottom of the matzah brei with a fork and shake the brei loose, keeping it in one solid piece.

Once the pan is full, and you've built the pieces up to the top, cover the frying pan, and bring up the heat a little. Let the matzah brei cook a couple of minutes longer in the steam of the covered pan. Pick up lid and shake matzah brei loose. Cover the pan again and steam cook a little longer, checking to see that it is getting crisp and brown on the bottom.

Place a plate over the pan and turn the matzah brei out onto the plate. The crisp brown bottom should now be on top.

Place more oil into the frying pan and heat the oil on low-medium.

Slide the brei back into the pan, letting it brown on the other side, continuing to shake it loose periodically. Once the second side is brown, turn the matzah brei out onto a plate again. Let it cool for a couple of minutes, and then slice into 4 quarters that are pie-shaped. Toppings are as desired, but we serve it with sugar and/or raspberry jam both on the side, for dipping the cut pieces.

Raggedy Nights (rated G)

2007-04-30T19:56:00.000-04:00

I want to wish congrats to the JIB finalists, and to say that some of the "best post" nominations are going to give me a sizable amount of backreading to do.

But that shouldn't be a problem, as my nights are seeming pretty quiet, since RaggedyDad is currently embroiled in both finals at school and "month-end" at work. Somehow, month-end is a crazy time that goes a few days into the new calendar month. Don't ask me. If I knew why this was the case, I'd probably also have a clearer sense of what "exotic derivatives" are.

Note from RaggedyDad: My job is absolutely not as sexy as it sounds.

In the meantime, I find that the kids' supper/bathtime/bedtime and the accompanying activities actually go quite a bit more easily when it's just me. When RaggedyDad is around for bedtime on the weekends, there's more fussing, kvetching, and silliness. Even though I'm not really the type, with me somehow it's quieter, smoother, less monkey business.

Ann usually has one or two of her "kids" (dolls) to accompany her to bed. Tonight she got a third in there - a doll we got her for her first birthday, aptly called "Dolly."

Andy looked over from his crib tent (I still can't believe this contraption - but he's actually liking it quite a bit), and saw Dolly with Ann, and called out, "Baby! Baby!" which could only refer to our other lifelike-looking doll, called "Baby," who is also Andy's occasional girlfriend. So Baby joined Andy, along with his other nighttime buddy, a soft pink dolly called "Baby Ashira," named by Ann and often referred to as one of her "kids."

It's important to note here that Ann has several "kids" who she lives with in her "apartment in Florida" (Orieyenta, do me a favor and check on her once in a while?).

As you can see, Andy is a prototypical 'boy after a girl', very happy and comfortable with Ann's stuff, similar to my own childhood as the youngest and only girl, but in the reverse - handed-down, red-markered G.I. Joes alongside my own Barbies.

As long as it doesn't get crowded, I don't have too many qualms about what my kids take into bed. Whatever gets us through those Raggedy nights!

B is for BeHatzlacha (Good Luck)

2007-04-29T22:00:00.000-04:00

***Update***
Although RaggedyMom didn't make it into the top two to qualify, it was an honor just to be nominated :) Thanks for the votes, guys, and I know we all got a look at some interesting blogs out there. Thank you to the organizers!

Here at RaggedyMom, things are usually fairly low-key and understated. I do what I do, and I think that for those who visit, read, and comment, we have a good time together.

I'm not a former grade-school macher, student body president, or team captain. Except for a brief, spoofed stint as "Communist Party Leader" of my high school, which as I've mentioned before, is a convoluted story for another day. Also, I think I acted as captain of the school trivia bowl team when the regular captain was sick. Otherwise, I've been a mostly 'behind the music' kinda gal.

But I was nominated for a JIB Award this year in the Best New Blog category, and I'm still blushing! Go Group B! And it's full of some other blogs I hadn't seen before, which makes for some interesting reading.

Until now, the only thing I associated with the term "Group B" was the test that the obstetrician does for Group B Strep a few weeks before a woman's due date. Now, it will forever be immortalized as my brief moment in the sun.

Tzniut Meme

2007-04-25T20:56:00.000-04:00

A Mother in Israel recently started a great set of questions for discussion among the she-bloggers. I'm going to try to address them in this post.

1. For married women, do you dress by the same standards as you did when you got married?

We've been married for 5 and a half years. I think that my standards for dress have remained pretty much the same during that time. However, I do think that in the last couple of years, I have come to a place of greater comfort with my own standards, rather than feel like I am falling short of others' standards, or worrying that I ought to be pushing myself to adopt stricter standards. I think this has more to do with becoming more confident in my decisions as I get older than it does with spirituality.

2. Also for married women, do you and your husband conflict about this issue?

RaggedyDad is pretty easygoing about these issues, and I get the sense that if I wanted to make changes in one direction or another, he'd likely be fine with it. I do get (negative) input from him if what I wear looks like an overly dowdy attempt to cover, cover, cover. But, I try not to take fashion advice overly seriously from a man who wears socks with sandals.

3. Have your standards changed from when you were growing up, and why?

Yes. I wore pants and short sleeves (though not sleeveless - not sure why) until some point during college. Covering my hair is not something I really thought I'd ever consider. As I started to take on more in terms of observance, I waited until I really felt ready to tackle my dress. When I felt more comfortable in skirts, and later, with covered elbows, than not, I was ready. But without any immediate, absolute decision or public proclamation.

4. Do you often feel uncomfortable when you are in the company of a group keeping higher or lower standards than you?

Being around those with looser standards in tzniut is usually totally comfortable for me. Many of my family members, and some friends, hold to looser standards, and I wouldn't say that this is a concern for me (or my kids as they get older - that's just another challenge of comprehensive chinuch).

If I'm not looking particularly put-together or am in a large crowd of women dressed in looser standards of tzniut, I do sometimes feel a little self-conscious. I'm not focused on being the most fashion-forward, and I think that it's sometimes easier to look 'cute' in pants for a casual look than a casual skirt-outfit. Or, rather, harder to look frumpy in the pants.

If I'm surrounded by many women holding to stricter standards of tzniut, I'm also a little uncomfortable, more so than among those with looser standards. If I know I'm going to be in such a situation, I often won't wear something "borderline" and will try to conform for that occasion. In that regard, I like that my neighborhood and chevra is rather mixed in this regard.

5. If you have ever suddenly changed your standard of dress, did people treat you differently or make approving/disapproving remarks?

I haven't made many sudden changes, though covering my hair was an obvious exception - before my wedding and after! - but that was anticipated. It's interesting, I have one sister-in-law, "S," who covers every strand of hair, and holds to a very strict, chassidish interpretation in all aspects of tznius. I have another sister-in-law, "L," who wears pants, sleeveless, and uncovered hair.

A family acquaintance once approached my mother in a pizza shop (I was there with my daughter, and I was in earshot) and said, "What did you do wrong with [RaggedyMom] and what about "S"?? The only one who turned out normal [vis a vis dressing style] was "L"!" Ouch. But I have gotten some positive feedback from a more right-wing member of the family.

6. How accepting is your community of women who "deviate" from the generally accepted mode of dress?

It's difficult to speak for an entire community. In my experience, within the more traditional bounds of Orthodoxy and tznius, this community (KGH) is a diverse and open one. It has moved more to the right a significant amount over the last couple of decades. But there are really all kinds of people here, and I think they all fit in.

There are women who are sheiteled and very dressed up (though not that many). There are women who are sheiteled and more 'heimish'. There are women who totally cover or partially cover their hair with all range of hat, tichel, bandana, or snood. Or not at all. I see pants with covered hair on occasion, and quite a few skirts with uncovered hair. Lots of Israelis live here, and they run the gamut vis a vis tzniut. I see bare toes, socks, stockings, thick stockings.

I'm glad that I don't feel self-conscious about my clothes, both in terms of tzniut and style, living here and going out to grocery shop or pick up Ann from preschool.

7. If you have a daughter, has tzniut become an issue yet?

Ann is turning 4 this summer. As of now, I don't have an immediate plan as to when she'll wear just skirts. In some ways, since my own decision about this was so pressure-free and up to me, it feels awkward to think of setting this guideline for her. However, I realize that her upbringing is quite different from my own.

Some moms have told me not to shop too heavily for pants in advance at this point, since the girls themselves sometimes say they don't want to wear pants if that's the way most of their friends are dressing. We'll see. I do find that girls' clothes (and even shoes!) these days are sometimes way too sexy or suggestive for our very young girls, and that bothers me. Even if I were not religiously observant, I would not feel comfortable with tight, very short, or revealing clothes for Ann.

Reading the responses of others, and posting my own, has been thought provoking. Thanks, Mother in Israel!

I forgot about tagging - SWFM, Baleboosteh, TorontoPearl, and Orieyenta - I'd be interested to hear your thoughts if you'd like! Sort of a cross-world geographical weigh-in.

What Do You Call Them?

2007-04-23T12:32:00.000-04:00

Secretly, I married RaggedyDad because he planned to have his kids call him "Papa" which I thought was so cute.

Okay, not really. But I do think often about what children call their parents. I grew up calling my mother "Mommy" or later, as a teenager, just "Ma!" We're back to "Mommy" now. She's not really the type to be called "Mom" and although my Israeli father refers to her as "Ima" when speaking to us kids, we never really called her that.

With my father, there was no question he'd be "Abba". Anyone who has heard his gravelly voice and blend of teddy bear/intimidating has probably wanted to call him "Abba" themselves. When we moved to America, I had a brief phase where I wanted to call him "Daddy" but it just felt too silly with him and didn't stick at all.

I think most of my friends growing up lived in "Mom and Dad" households.

RaggedyDad is Russian, and it was clear that his own kids would call him "Papa." Once Ann started referring to him as Papa, I do remember some emotion on his part. His own "Papa" died when RaggedyDad was just six. After so many years without a Papa, it came with mixed feelings to actually be the Papa.

While speaking to Ann and Andy, RaggedyDad often refers to me as "Mama" and sometimes they call me "Mama", but not usually. When Ann was smaller and wanted to get the attention of both parents, she cleverly decided to call us "MaPa." I hear her and Andy use the MaPa term once in a while.

Since this is what they've always heard, my kids view the term "Papa" as the original, basic meaning for "father." Ann tells me that other kids call their Papas other names, like Abba, Daddy, or Tatty. But, she tells me, it all means "Papa". When we did a round-robin playgroup and sang "The Wheels on the Bus," we had six kids and four terms for father. So our circle time lyric was a rushed combination - "The Abbas/Daddies/Tatties/Papas on the bus say 'I love you!'" Whew! Funnily, all the mothers were called "Mommy."

Readers: What do you/did you call your parents? Did you feel like it was the norm or something unusual? Did it change as you grew up? What do your kids call you/do you plan to have your kids call you?

Lastly, I want to express how sorry I am for the loss that my very dear sister-in-law "L" has just sustained of her own "Dad", nearly 20 years after losing her Mom.

Meet Curious Andy

2007-04-19T20:20:00.000-04:00

If my son is a monkey, I guess that makes me the mom with the yellow hat.

While I related in my last post that I love living in an apartment because of the flatness and lack of climbing, apparently, Andy apparently doesn't take after me in this regard - ANDY CLIMBED OUT OF HIS CRIB TONIGHT!

We had a relatively busy day. Rather than go to pick up some Shabbos provisions with Andy after dropping off Ann and my neighbor's son at preschool, I decided to take both Ann and Andy with my before school, and come straight home after dropoff. Andy's been waking up quite early since we have been eliminating the pacifier from his life, and an early nap was definitely in order.

The morning went according to plan. The supermarket was blessedly quiet at 8:20 a.m. (though it's even better on the mornings when I go alone at 7 and RaggedyDad is still home). The kids were happy and helpful in the store, and my neighbor helped me in with my bags while I got her son in the car. I even got to say a quick hello to another blogger on the street, and then I got the kids to preschool very punctually.

Andy's nap came and went, things got busy at home, and when Ann was home, we baked two batches of corn muffins. After a messy supper of leftover meatballs and spaghetti, even I was ready to sleep! After a quick bath and storytime, the kids were ready for bed.

I put them down and got to work on some more Shabbos cooking. The chicken cutlet blobs needed to be butterflied in the ridiculously thin way I like, breaded, and fried (I know that nobody's supposed to fry food anymore, but this is one thing that just doesn't work baked for me).

For a short while Ann and Andy were cracking each other up, giggling about something together from their respective bed and crib. After listening to it for 15 minutes or so, I came back to get them to settle down again.

After I left, Andy was crying, and somewhere in his pacifier-free frustration, he managed to climb out and fall onto the (thankfully carpeted) floor. I realized this because his cries were getting closer and closer until my crying baby in a crib suddenly appeared before me, shocked himself at what he'd done!

As I held him and comforted him, I asked Ann if she saw how he'd done it. "He was trying to do it, and then he did!" is what she told me, eyes open innocent and wide.

I put a calmer Andy back in the crib, but he proceeded to quickly lift one leg and then his torso right back over the corner! I realized that a quick fix was needed for tonight, and fished out a pacifier.

Andy is turning 18 months old on Shabbos, which I consider way too young for a bed. I don't think he's mature enough to grasp staying in there all night, though he knows the concept of getting in and out of Ann's bed.

For now, we're going to try out a friend's contraption - the crib tent. No more am I the smug mom of a calm kid! We'll see how it goes.

Jolly Rancher

2007-04-17T18:56:00.000-04:00

I've said it before, and it bears repeating: I love living on one floor. One of the things that I really enjoy about our apartment is that although there are quite a few steps until I get in, once I'm home, there is no more shlepping up and down.

When I spend a couple of days in a place where there are stairs (okay, my parents' house is probably the only frequent example) I get so winded going up and down within the home. Yes, getting into our apartment involves a set of 8-9 steps leading to a path, another 7-8 stairs leading to our front door, and then about 13-14 steps leading upstairs. But once that gate is closed, that's it. Bedrooms, bathroom, living/dining rooms, kitchen, washing machine, dryer - it's all there on ONE level. And I love it.

Until I was five, we lived in Israel, on a first-floor apartment in Givatayim. Since then, we lived in houses in Queens - but being that by then, I, the youngest, was old enough to shlep my own self and stuff up and down, it was more feasible. Not as easy for my mom I'm sure, with the laundry area being two steep flights away from where the clothing drawers are. I'm wary of the shlep-mania involved in having babies/young kids while living with internal steps (Mountains of laundry! Infant car seats! Etc.!)

I suppose I'd get used to it the way I'm accustomed to the mountain climb involved in getting groceries into the apartment and getting a double stroller up and down the narrow, steep stair jungle. Somehow I'm in shape enough to accomplish those tasks fairly often. Now that Andy's climbing the steps with help, it does take a literal load off.

As long as there's enough space (and what a subjective concept that is!) I don't believe that there's anything detrimental to kids about growing up in an apartment. In other countries where my husband and I have lived (Russia, Belgium, Israel), apartments are almost always the standard for families through the years. I don't really believe that kids suffer for it or grow up feeling boxed in.

For as long as I can, I prefer to keep it flat. Happy ranching!

Linguistics and the Art of Acceptance

2007-04-12T20:24:00.000-04:00

This year's Pesach sedarim were on the larger side for us. Since one of my brothers, his wife, and their kids made aliyah 2 years ago, and the other brother with his wife and kids live near her sisters, it is usually just the four Raggedys at my parents' house. Going to Belgium for Yom Tov is not on the agenda, since RaggedyDad's family there is quite secular/assimilated. And since my parents live rather locally, we're there by default on Sukkos (no outdoor space for a sukkah) and Pesach. We've had all of the other holidays at home at this point, sometimes with my parents here, sometimes with friends, or alone.

This year, my oldest brother (who lives in the U.S.) came with his family for the first days of Yom Tov. For the first seder, my parents also hosted my mother's sister, and my father's brother's family from Israel. Specifically, my aunt and her 3 teenaged/20's kids - my uncle had to stay in Israel for work.

We moved here from Israel over 20 years ago, and it has been a long time since we've had a seder together with that side of the family. Having a seder with non-religious yet marginally traditional cousins who you feel close to yet have very little shared upbringing experiences with is an interesting way to get reacquainted! We had a nice time, and it was great to actually have them meet RaggedyDad and my kids.

They stayed almost until the end, since they were catching a flight to Orlando early the next morning.

The next night, a whole discussion got started (not by me!) about how "Israelis don't pronounce Hebrew words carefully or properly" which drove me a little crazy from a linguistic point of view, plus I just disagree with this take on things. But then again, the slang and alternate grammatical usage my students used in public school didn't bother me, beyond wanting the kids to also be comfortable with standard English for life outside the barrio. When I majored in linguistics, the philosophy was descriptive rather than proscriptive - describing and analyzing the way people DO speak rather than how they 'ought to.'

I tried (probably in vain) to convince everyone that if Israelis (including my father) are altering some obscure vowel construction to fit most closely with a Hebrew word they already recognize, it's not "wrong" as much as it's the nature of language used by native speakers of that language. Since to them, there is no prayer concept of every sound being relevant and exact, they are using the language as we all use our native languages. To communicate the meaning effectively. And in that regard, they are accurate and successful. If the word is "veyeKUDASH" and they recognize it as close to "veyeKADESH" and pronounce it that way, to me this is not only totally understandable, it is alright.

Sigh. What are your thoughts?

The Season of Our Redemption

2007-04-11T19:32:00.000-04:00

I'm going to put my helmet on because I'm sure to be pelted with stones by acknowledging that I am not in post-Pesach collapse mode simply because we are lucky enough to spend all eight days of the holiday at my parents' house. That being said, it is so nice to be back home in my own bed. With almost all of the immense amounts of laundry done and put away. Surrounded by our own stuff. And not by stuff that is decorative, sharp, breakable and dangerous.

There is nothing like spending time away from the 933 square feet of this apartment to make me long for it. We hear occasional well-meant comments from extended family members who "would love to see us in a bigger space," but I have no immediate desire to move. The kids share a room, so there's still an empty third bedroom here, and I'm just not feeling the pinch.

My wish list is 1) An extra half-bathroom to up the number of toilets from one; 2) A driveway or other adjacent parking spot; 3) Backyard space big enough for a couple of kids to let off some steam and maybe splash around in a plastic pool in the summer.

What I find with a house with stairs is that the kids always want to be downstairs when I'm up, and upstairs when I'm down. The wrought-ironness of the banister at my folks' house means that if I lived there, I would find some way of putting up a gate, but for occasional use, it's not a simple 'whip up a simple, pressure-mounted gate and worry no more!' situation. So there's a lot of monitoring, chasing, rescuing, and cringing. I think Andy heard the words "Oh no!" more than he heard the word "matzah". Sorry, Andy. You won't be 17 months old forever.

We had a really nice time with my parents. But it really was priceless to see the kids delight in being reintroduced to their surroundings. Redeemed. Post-Pesach.

Have a Raggedy Pesach!

2007-04-02T11:01:00.000-04:00

I want to wish the readers of RaggedyMom a wonderful and happy Pesach! I'm sure there will be lots for us to share with one another after the chag.

Enjoy it!

The Best Things In Life Are $3.99

2007-03-26T19:01:00.000-04:00

This is just not a simple time of the year! It seems like things that ought to be easy, uncomplicated tasks take on a certain frantic urgency during the Spring-feverish, pre-Pesach whirlwind. Like buying diapers. For ages, like SephardiLady, I was extremely well-stocked in the diaper department. And I still was, but I had to buy some this week anyway. I'll explain:

When Andy was a baby, I bought a box of diapers for him labeled size 1-2. Apparently, this is some kind of pseudo-size that's bigger than a 1 but not a full 2. However, the diapers were mislabeled inside, and all of the individual diapers themselves were labeled 1. After calling the company, they told me that they were not sure if the diapers I had were size 1's or size 1-2's or a hybrid diaper, or what. "Is there some kind of experiment going on here?" I wondered, possibly out loud to the sales rep.

The end of the matter is that they graciously sent me some coupons for significant amounts of savings on diapers, and I held on to these coupons, using other ones that expired earlier, until finally, the 31st of this month brings with it the expiration of these coupons.

We went to a large diaper-selling store to get the diapers yesterday, but it was earlier than the large store opens (Sundays!), so we went to an even larger store a bit further down the road that sells everything on Earth ever, including diapers.

Getting two big boxes of diapers for free was very cool. But it was also exciting (if a little frightening) to see rows and rows of summer clothing for kids. Sometimes I wish that the stores here were more like the stores in Europe. One store that sells only one thing. Boulangerie. Patisserie. Diaper store. (Maybe something like this?) Instead, you walk in for free diapers and wind up buying many, many other things.

In general, I consider myself a frugal and disciplined shopper. $3.99 for kids' clothes, however, did catch my eye (although this was not a special sale, and these are probably not the most durable clothes ever made), and so I chose some summer clothes for the RaggedyKids. Can't have them looking too raggedy come the warm weather!

There were some tough decisions to make about sizing, since Ann, who's turning 4 this summer, has a body that most resembles a piece of spaghetti and Andy, who's almost one-and-a-half, has a body that more closely resembles a shell macaroni. For those who truly care, we went with the size 24 months for Andy and the size 4T (5 was just too shlumpy and loose) for Ann. Although, in a laundry pinch, I bet they could wear each other's clothes!

All in all, there are a few returns and exchanges to make, but I feel like the summer clothes we picked are tasteful, appropriate, and tucked away into already Pesach-cleaned drawers. And a lot cuter than diapers.

Obstacles

2007-03-22T16:50:00.000-04:00

Now that Andy is old enough to be a playmate for Ann, his biggest thrill is when she gets home from preschool and they can spend the afternoon playing together (with some strategic intervention by Mommy, of course).

Having kids old enough to play together can often lead to having kids old enough to fight over toys, but overall, they enjoy one another's company. Ann usually comes up with some kind of plan or idea for what the game is, and Andy provides a hapless combination of joining in and totally missing her point.

Lately, we've been in the midst of a super-family-cleanup. The poundage of "stuff" we've gotten rid of makes me feel lighter and calmer, but it also makes me not want to buy anything ever again! Apartments can get cluttered easily, so I'm hoping we can continue to stay ahead of the game and focus on using what we have.

Today's activity involved Ann setting up an obstacle course and trying to teach Andy to follow her through it (I've said it before: Who needs a puppy?). There were some falls followed by kisses, some moments of lying down on the various parts, some points where the corn-popper-vacuum needed to be brought out (though I am not sure why).

But overall, the idea of obstacles didn't frustrate, annoy, or worry the kids. It was thrilling and funny to them to face the challenge of something in their way. Another lesson learned courtesy of the RaggedyKids.

Titchazki

2007-03-21T18:53:00.000-04:00

"Titchazki" - literally - strengthen yourself (female).

On a Friday evening in July of 2003, I was getting in the car with Raggedy-not-quite-yet-a-Dad. It was nearly time for Ann to be born, though I wasn't sure whether this was really "it" in terms of going to the hospital. I'd been in various degrees of labor for pretty much the entire last month of the pregnancy, a phenomenon that repeated itself (only much earlier) the next time around with Andy.

A brief telephone discussion with the obstetrician confirmed that it was showtime, and that there ought to be no further delay. Since I'm not a fan of giving figures and details in a public forum, let's just say that once we arrived at the hospital, it was definitely time.

We left for the hospital from my parents' home. They didn't join us because of the oncoming Shabbos, and waited at home for any news, which came a couple of hours later. As we were leaving, I looked into my mother's eyes with what must have been a quiet panic, which I assume based on the fierceness of the hug she gave me, and the last phrase she said to me as my mother before I became a mother.

"Titchazki." Strengthen yourself. And in moments of desperation, fear, or panic that I encounter today, it is still the phrase that I think to myself.

In the past couple of days, my sister-in-law received some shocking and devastating health news regarding her father. Titchazki.

My grandmother is grappling with the loneliness of having just observed my grandfather's first yahrtzeit, with the oncoming holidays that at this time last year had us all so shell-shocked in the midst of a fresh loss begins again. Titchazki.

I was referred to an account of an eloquent, optimistic woman facing some major and overwhelming news in her life with mixed feelings. Titchazki.

There is much strength that we have to offer each other, and even more strength that somehow comes from within ourselves when it seems the least likely that we'll be able to.

I'm not much of a dvar torah blogger, but I do think that this strength relates well to the persistent, continual sense of renewal brought on both by the start of Spring and by the holiday of Pesach, also called The Time of our Redemption.

To all of us: Titchazku.

The Great Debate

2007-03-19T13:20:00.000-04:00

The topic of this debate is something that still surprises me. You see, before I married RaggedyDad, it didn't occur to me that there was any other way to eat French toast besides sweet. That occasional Sunday morning treat when the challah quantity was too plentiful, draining on a paper-toweled plate, makes me think of nothing else but raspberry jam or maple syrup to go with it.

RaggedyDad, however, sees French toast and thinks - dare I type this - ketchup! Ugh! Ketchup! On French toast! I shudder nauseously just thinking about this. But so be it. Forget about adding cinnamon or some vanilla extract to the egg coating for him. Sweet things are for dessert and not for the meal, he tells me. Stop being so uptight, I say!

Yesterday morning, while RaggedyDad was at shul, I made some French toast, and lo and behold, Ann asked for ketchup to go with hers! "Like Papa," she smiled, innocently. "No problem," I said. But inside, a small part of me felt defeated.

You see, this phenomenon is not exclusive to French toast. In a couple of weeks, at my parents' Pesach table, we will likely sit to a lunch meal of matzah brei. Matzah brei is one of those foods that's so entrenched in my family experience that to have RaggedyDad violate it with anything other than sugar and/or raspberry jelly is devastating. But I know it will be ketchup he asks for at the table. (At least it's that Pesach ketchup that always tastes so sweet!)

My father grew up non-religious in Israel, a child of Holocaust survivors, both ob"m - a Hungarian mother and a Polish father. Which meant that my grandmother's raison d'etre was cooking the best food on earth, but also that she had adapted her cooking to accomodate my grandfather's Polish need to add a little sugar to any and every dish. It can't hurt, right?

When my father first spent Pesach with my mother's family, Boro Park Jews whose oldest daughter (my mom) had rebelled, it was, needless to say, a significant clash of cultures. It helped a lot that a distant relative on my mother's side knew my paternal grandfather and his family from Jaworzna in Poland. It also helped that my father knew how to make the best matzah brei (only on the last day for them) that they'd ever had. Layered and baked in a frying pan like a large pie, and then cut into triangular slices like pizza. And topped with sugar or jam.

Over 36 years later, my father is still making our matzah brei, until 120. Of course, there are the inevitable arguments from my mother about the tremendous mess he's making. And the oil splatters, crumbs, and tendency of us all to eat a little too much of it. And in the midst of it all, I'll be the mom hoping my daughter chooses the sugar instead of her Papa's ketchup to go with it. For old time's sake.

Forgive Me

2007-03-13T17:43:00.000-04:00

Do the JIBs have a sappiest post ever award? Because if so, I'm going to nominate this post. It's very sappy. But it is also very true.

Ann has had a little red bowl for most of the time she's been eating real food. In the classic style of the unique personalities of my kids, Andy destroyed in mere moments what Ann kept in great condition for years.

Unfortunately, while Ann was at preschool today, Andy was eating some dry Cheerios put of the red bowl. Between my own fixation on Cheerios lately, and his, I can't keep enough of them around, even pre-Pesach.

Andy dropped the bowl, and the nature of the piece that cracked off and the resulting sharpness meant that the only option was to throw away the red bowl.

Knowing that Ann is a pensive kid who does well when things are explained to her, I saved the bowl and the shard for a post-preschool discussion. With one significant deviation from the truth.

Ann has seen quite a few of her things get ruined by Andy. Torn book pages and demolished projects are something I do my best to prevent, but sometimes they're among the inevitable little brother nuisances. I decided to cover for Andy this time.

Instead of telling Ann that Andy broke the bowl (by accident) I sat her down, showed her the two pieces it had become, and explained that while I was washing the dishes, it slipped from my hands and broke. And that I'm so sorry, but we're going to have to thank it for being a great bowl, and say goodbye to it.

Ann had some questions about when and how it had happened, but overall, she was very calm about it, and less emotional than I'd worried she would be. I asked Ann if she forgave me for what had happened to her little red bowl, and she told me, after a moment, that she did. No tears, just a little confusion, and a glimpse into that world that exists here when she's not home.

But the essential nugget from this whole exchange came a couple of minutes afterward.

Ann looked at me with those eyes that probably take up at least half her face and said, "Do you forgive ME, Mommy?"

"Forgive you for what?"

"For when I sometimes break YOUR things or don't do the right thing."

Wow. Are you really three-and-a-half?

Because Ann is little, she asked her question with an honest, innocent seriousness. Not the bargaining, rude, self-righteousness I can probably expect in about ten years.

"Yes, Ann. I do forgive you. And I'm sorry that I get upset about the things you do sometimes."

We talked for a minute about how things like bowls and books and toys and papers are nice, but they aren't the most important part of our life, because they are just things. And that the main thing that we care about is each other.

By now most of my readers are either smiling tenderly or throwing up. Hopefully it's the former. For the latter group: How is Ann going to recognize those sappy but true cliches in life if she's never heard them before?

Stand-In

2007-03-08T21:54:00.000-05:00

In my previous post, I described how disgruntled I'm becoming with grocery shopping these days.

Andy, on the other hand, loves grocery shopping. He loves outings of all kinds, which I like too. The cold weather and the cough/cold combos that Andy and I are both working through have been hampering our long outings, but . . .

I've decided that at 16 and a half months, Andy needs to start pulling his weight around here. And he's heavy!

Today, Andy did some last-minute grocery shopping for me. I tried to make things easier for him by illustrating the shopping list and pointing him in the direction of the store.

He wasn't gone very long, and got almost everything right. Also, he didn't bring back any more tea or other unneeded items, which makes him a better shopper than RaggedyDad!

Thank You For Not Shopping Here

2007-03-06T19:39:00.000-05:00

Of late, I've begun to feel that one of the supermarkets I frequent simply does not really want mine, or anyone else's business.

This actually goes back a long while, back to the days of trudging out to the stores on foot with my mom all the way down the hill and across the neighborhood, and then back again, only with heavy bags. The closed circuit televisions and the unfortunate treatment of store employees by the management never sat well with us, but as non-drivers, choices were not abundant, at least back then.

Several months ago, I saw a handwritten sign advertising a particular salami-type thing on sale. When it failed to ring up with the sale price, I gently informed the (semi-management) cashier that this was an item on sale for x amount. I was told, "No, it isn't." I walked over to the sale sign and carefully peeled it from the shelf, bringing it to the cashier. "Yes," I said, "It is."

After examining the sign, she informed me that the sale price referred only to the item in the one-pound size. Whereas the item I was holding clearly contained not one pound, but, in fact, 16 ounces. So there. (This is a totally true account). After doing my best not to sound conceited as I enlightened her on some basic mathematics, one manager came over and said, "This sale sign must be very old. Maybe it was under another sign." No, it wasn't!

By now I was fed up. "Fine," I said, "I don't want the item."

"No, no, we'll give it to you this time," I was told.

"This is not a personal favor. Your merchandise is not being advertised clearly," was all I said, and I finished making my purchase and left. I can't even remember if I got the salami in the end or not.

A friend saw a sign at this store's fish department stating "Fish prices subject to change according to customers' attitude." Which could be a little cute if it had a smiley face on it or was actually part of an otherwise pleasant shopping experience. Neither was the case.

The other week, I was at this store again, on a day of icy rain and bitter cold. There was little parking to be had, and whatever I bought would have to be shlepped on flimsy stroller handles back to the car while helping Ann navigate the sidewalk.

At checkout time, the (truly deranged) man who bags groceries on a line I hope to never stand on again was bagging some heavy things in single bags. Considering the walk that awaited me, I said, "Please double the bags."

"No, no. Very strong bags." (What?! Did he say no?)

"Sir, I need to walk with my kids. Please double the bags."

"My boss said one bag. Strong bags."

There was a line behind me. I am not a fighter by nature, but this was simply ridiculous. I did not need to contend with spilled groceries and a stroller carrying Andy that would surely tip back with the weight of the bags if I needed to retrieve fallen items, while keeping three-year-old Ann safe on the street.

"Fine," I said loudly. "I'll double the bags myself. It's a shame that other people are waiting, but I can work here too. This seems like a great way for the store to save money." (I can't believe I actually said that. Get ready to be mortified as you grow up, RaggedyKids.) I cannot think of one other supermarket ever where a request to double bags by someone with kids would be outright refused.

At this point, the deranged bagger procured some flimsier bags that he was willing to double for me. "No, thank you," I said. I had just four bags in total! and bagged my things quickly, and left in a huff.

Of course, the new barrier to prevent shopping cart theft (?) did little to help smooth my exit from the store. We'll see if the decent prices tempt me back despite all the cons.

Purim Rundown

2007-03-05T19:10:00.000-05:00

Princess Ann's costume - $17

Swashbuckling Andy showing his Piratitude - Arrrgh! - $11

All the NY cousins looking out the window together - priceless.

Pre-Purim at the Raggedys

2007-03-01T19:51:00.000-05:00

It's been a busy week here at the Raggedys, getting ready for the hectic, sticky fun that is Purim. Above are some of Ann's Purim projects from school.

Aside from trying to kick my cold-cough-etc., I've been cooking ahead for the Purim Seudah, finishing up Mishloach Manot, and hemming Ann's costume.

Also, I've been having fun laughing about how much RaggedyDad seems to like that weird Ford The Edge(uh) commercial.

Here are some photos from this week:
Our cakes for Mishloach Manot (the other nearly 20 are crammed into the freezer -these are for Ann's teachers and some other people at her school). These are giong out along with a mini grape juice bottle.

Some shots of our early morning hamentasch-baking adventure before Ann went to preschool

And finally, some meat-filled borekas for the seudah appetizer. Yum! And yawn! Good night!

Empathy

2007-02-26T21:10:00.000-05:00

One of the things I know needs work among my midot (aside from that famous redhead temper, of course) is my ability to really, truly empathize with others.

I will admit that this is a real fault. Some of the things I hear about people grappling with, in the news or in my social sphere, just make me think "I don't get it! Snap out of it!" Despite this, I can usually be (hopefully) a good parent, a good friend, a good listener. Internally, though, I don't always empathize enough with struggles that differ from my own.

There was even a point where I got interested in reading non-fiction works about or by people who struggle with things like mental illness or challenging types of upbringings that differed vastly from anything I'd ever experienced, attempting to gain some insight into subjects that baffle me.

When Ann has a cough, and the line is blurred between the involuntary coughing and the "Mommy, look at me, I'm sick" excessive coughing, I sometimes tell her to try and stop the coughing, to count to ten before the next cough, to get a drink and think about something else. And, of course, to grin and bear it when it comes to that awful cough medicine.

Well, now I'm the one who's coughing. And my suggestions to Ann are seeming pretty lame as I struggle with that back-of-throat tickle or the chest-tingling urge to cough. Let me just say that there's nothing like a spoonful of empathy to make that humble pie go down!

Staples

2007-02-22T13:14:00.000-05:00

No, this is not a post about the office supply superstore.

I want to talk about the food inventory situation at the Raggedy home. Namely, one of my friends (please update your blog!) was making a batch of meatballs, and realized, mid-mix, that she has no eggs in the house. No Eggs! I was laughing with her that "no eggs" pretty much never happens here because eggs are one of the panic-inducing staples that I'm terrified of not having in the house.

Sometimes I think that if all the supermarkets blew up, I want to at least have flour, sugar, eggs, milk, bread - the basics - so I can make some pancakes and hide until the supermarket bombers are found.

I get a little hoard-y about some foods. Having less than a full dozen eggs is called running low on eggs over here. And we're not the biggest egg-eaters. But we need to . . . have them.

Optional expansions from the staple foods listed above are the big block of American cheese, oil, basic spices, apple juice (apologies to my pediatrician - I water it down about 80%!), canned tomato sauce, canned beans, a couple of frozen chicken packages, cereal, potatoes, onions. And of course, RaggedyDad's endless and varied teas. But running low on these things doesn't make me as nervous as the top list.

I guess based on family history it doesn't take a genius to figure out the food hoarding, though you'd think the Holocaust mentality would wear off after a generation or two. It was also reinforced by my mother not driving, which meant that she was very careful to be well-stocked foodwise. And winter weather takes the food-stocking panic to a new extreme entirely. As does the idea of small children who are hungry and crying and don't want to eat freezer-burned soup or canned mandarin oranges (no, this didn't really happen - but nightmares of it have!)

So why does someone like me who has a car and lives about 5 minutes (12 minutes on foot!) from every kosher food product known to woman get so crazy about stocking staples? I don't know, but I'll always have an egg for you to borrow!

***Sunday Night Insanity Update! As I type this, we experienced a change in Purim seuda plans here at the Raggedys! My sister-in-law who was to be hosting the Purim seuda this year has informed me that her oven is kaput. And she and my brother are away until Thursday. And the babysitter who's with their kids is not going to be able to deal with the serviceman/repair situation, so . . .

We're hosting (cooking!) the Purim seuda here. And there may be several inches of snow today and tomorrow (please stop rolling your eyes, Ezzie and PT). And the kids seem to have colds, hopefully nothing more. And RaggedyDad has a very busy week ahead at work and in school.

Hectic schedule + sick kids + bad weather + last-minute (to me) big family gathering = RaggedyDad just shlepped out with my list after already having visited most of the stores for a more innocuous grocery fill-in.

Additional Caveat: Parking is tricky around this stretch of apartments, and there are definitely places you do not want your car getting stuck when it snows (hey, we drive a '95 Corolla, remember?). Since we're already 'parked well', moving the car now would be bad.

So RaggedyDad's busing this one. Yep. The bus. Potatoes. Onions. Eggs (I'm down to my last 30 and I have to bake 15 more mini-cakes for Shalach Manos). Chickens. And More. We'll see how many of those 2 dozen eggs I asked for actually make it here whole!

I'm off to start cooking for the freezer.

Rude Patrons

2007-02-20T11:13:00.000-05:00

After reading the recent great post at Orthonomics about tipping for religious services, I'm going to post about an arena where tipping is more traditionally expected. Restaurants.

Now, it has been quite some time since we've been to a restaurant, and even longer than that since we've been to one with our kids. RaggedyDad and I probably eat out an average of about 3 to 4 times a year, though there's no shortage of kosher places in the NY metro area.

I'm also not a big fan of taking small children (ours are 3.5 and almost 1.5 years old) out to restaurants. It's usually not fun for the parents, the kids themselves, and the kidless patrons, who usually don't need any more fuel for the kid-hating fire that burns within :)

But, yesterday we were urged to join in on a last-minute family celebration. My brother and sister-in-law (with 3 young-ish kids of their own) wanted very much to take my parents out to celebrate their birthdays. My parents' birthdays fell out last week, and are within three days of one another. How I managed to survive being brought up with two Aquariuses as parents really baffles the mind, but I digress.

My parents are also going away for about 2 weeks in a couple of days, and this was an opportunity for us all to see them. The restaurant was very nearby. And the reservation was not particularly late. So off we went.

Overall, it was a lot of fun. We had a great time, and it was more or less a family-oriented place (hey, this is Queens, not Manhattan!) so there were no issues as far as having the kids there. Six adults and five relatively calm kids. It was fine.

But one thing really irked me, and still does. At a table next to us sat a middle-aged couple who just had this angry, farbissiner (bitter) look on their faces the whole time. If a comment about our (quiet) kids had been made, it would have come from them, and I sort of braced myself for the possibility.

Instead, the husband of this couple chose to trounce on the waitress. You see, the owners and staff of this restaurant are Israeli. The couple in question were not. The husband apparently asked for black coffee with (for?) dessert, and the waitress misunderstood. She came back saying it was not something they serve, and suggested espresso, capuccino, or whatever instead. It seems like in her mind, she translated to 'cafe shachor' which might be something else in Israel.

Whatever the mixup was, the man obviously thought it was ridiculous that he couldn't just get a cup of black coffee, and made a fuss about it. He explained what he wanted in a haughty way, and the waitress apologetically said, "I'm sorry, I don't think I understood what you were asking for."

At that point, the man coolly replied, "Well, understand this. You're in this country now."

The waitress took it like a pro, and left to get the man his coffee. But I was so appalled by what he said, having heard the whole exchange directly to my right (crowded place).

This type of rudeness to a service person is so low and base because he knew full well that he could get away with it. She was not about to risk her job and answer back over something so trivial. But it was so condescending, so nasty, and so upsetting to me. I knew that if I didn't say something to the waitress it would bother me later on. I've worked in food service, and gotten my fair share of nasty remarks. But a kind word from someone who sees it your way can help.

Soon afterward, as we were leaving, I discreetly approached the waitress to tell her, derech agav (by the way), that I thought it was totally rude and wrong the way that the man had spoken to her. She kind of shrugged it off, and made light of the incident (I realized she was thicker-skinned than I am!), but still gave me an appreciative smile.

Let's hope I don't come across Mr. and Mrs. Rude again around here anytime soon. Ugh!

All Better

2007-02-15T11:22:00.000-05:00

When the kids had the vomiting stomach virus last week, and I was covered in grime, puke, and more laundry than I had ever seen, I thought it couldn't get much worse.

Actually, it can. What's worse than the kids being that sick is Mommy being that sick. Yep, I got it. Tuesday night and all day Wednesday was the craziest, all-out sick-fest ever. I felt so weak and awful that I needed a mental pep-talk to muster up the strength for every single aspect of every menial task. But the kids still needed a mommy!

The house looked kind of like those awful news stories where the kids have had to fend for themselves for days. The remains of the ideas that a three-and-a-half year old and a 15-month old have about what they need to find to eat, play with, and wear were scattered all over the house. Disastrous.

I was too scared that RaggedyDad would get it too to have him spend the day at home with me. The moment he left for work, I tried to paste on a reassuring smile, but I think the best I did was look wan and panicked.

I'm blessed with helpful parents nearby-ish and great neighbors who took Ann to and from preschool during the miserable weather. And when I woke up this morning, RaggedyDad (who left the house at 7:30 a.m. and got home at 10 p.m.) had not only shoveled out the car, he also cleared the path of the tornado in the apartment and it really, truly looked like a livable space again.

There is nothing like feeling better after a bout like that of being sick. This morning, after drinking a lot (more) Powerade and water, I disinfected the bathroom like a madwoman, as well as some other surfaces for good measure, and ran a load of wash on hot. Mommy's back, kids!

Label Me (Sell-Out!)

2007-02-12T13:05:00.000-05:00

In my adolescence, I thought that any reliance on labels was a conformist plot of the masses. Questions that started with "What kind of . . . " often led me to launch into a rant about how labels belong on cans, not people.

And then I grew up. A little. To some degree, I still feel like labeling has a real dark side when it becomes a means to classify and limit the total of a person. But I think that many mature people are able to make some use of labels in order to better understand and organize the world and the extreme amount of information with which we are perpetually assaulted.

Recently, I started noticing that some of my regular blog reads started using those little optional label tags at the end of each post. For a while, I felt like these things were kind of silly, and didn't see the real point in reading someone's post and then seeing a bunch of Cliff-Notesy catch phrases hanging off at the end. Disjointed and odd. It seemed like a great way to take blogging too seriously - does this stuff really need to be archived like something at a university library?

But as I thought about it, and after a couple of times trying to find a post about a particular something, I realized that the little labels are not that foolish after all. If someone's been blogging for a while, and I'm interested in other posts of hers about . . . a holiday . . . finances . . . childrearing . . . driving . . . anything, the labels are actually quite useful.

Arranging posts by topic can help my own writing in showing me whether there are topics I haven't looked back on in a while . . . topics I write about so often it's probably a drag . . . or some interesting subject I started exploring and abandoned.

So I went back the other day and played around with the template a bit, and then went back and labeled all of my posts. Now, since there were only 54 of them, and they are somewhat unified in subject matter, it was not that difficult. The blogger cult has also made it pretty easy by automatically suggesting existing labels while you're typing based on the first letter or two. Lazy labels.

We'll see how the labeling thing turns out, and whether it continues to spread. And I guess I'm not that cool, edgy, and different after all!

Kol Imma (Voice of a Mother)

2007-02-07T21:14:00.000-05:00

With all the talk about Kol Isha out there, I thought I'd post a personal take on (my own)singing.
Before we listened to lots of lame kiddie music, RaggedyMom had lots and lots of my own albums that I loved, and still do. There is no better way to make kugel night more fun than pulling out some old music and belting out those lyrics that are deep-frozen into your brain.

After finding that there was nothing (surprise!) on the radio, I pulled out some old cassettes. My choice for the potato kugel (potato kIgel, according to RaggedyDad) was The Zombies Greatest Hits. This was actually the first tape I ever bought, at 11 years old. I listened to it every day, repeatedly for years, and to my credit, I know exactly how many seconds to pause at the end of one song before I take a breath to start the next song right on cue.

The Zombies were a popular yet somewhat obscure group, and are probably best known for the song "Time of the Season." (Also, "She's Not There", "Tell Her No") I had heard "Time of the Season" on a record of my mother's and wanted something I could listen to on my walkman. Singing along to it all these years later, I would say that the lyrics on some of the tape, and that song in particular, are waaay too sexy for an eleven-year-old!

I wonder if anyone is familiar with the Zombies' sound and has also heard the California band Smash Mouth ("Walkin' on the Sun"). Ever since I heard them, I thought they sounded like a reincarnation of the Zombies (maybe it's the sound of their keyboard).

Mid-session cleanup and carrot kigel time was devoted to another favorite, The Jayhawks (now defunct). Coming out of Minnesota, they are the quintessential folk rock/alt-country band. Their early albums are particularly heartfelt, and the harmonies are golden.

Years back, I went to a record store in Manhattan where the Jayhawks were performing to promote an album. I found myself pretty close to the front, and after the show, when Gary Louris was signing my CD, he said, "I saw you in the audience. Wow, you were singing along to every word!" Well, friends, that moment has been relived so many times in my mind it's embarassing. To say it has been one of the highlights of my otherwise "singing while cooking" career is an understatement.

I grew up hearing my mother singing Laura Nyro and Joni Mitchell around the house as she dusted and cooked. The grocer we frequented when I was in my stroller days used to call me Maria Callas for my tendency to break into song. Ann and Andy hear a lot of spontaneous singing, and I hear them break into song a lot too, particularly Ann, who loves to belt out original lyrics about her thoughts and her day.

One of the more difficult things for me when we have long-term male non-related company (RaggedyDad's stepfather, for example) is being unable to sing around the house. But most of the time, my kids enjoy Kol Imma quite often. Singing to and with my children is one of our most cherished pastimes, whether or not anyone ever hears it.