Taking it to a New Level

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

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.

The Power of Punctuation, or Queens, Represent!

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.

More Vintage Sheets - Animals of the Seventies

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

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?

Life, Catalogued

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!

Turning Into My . . . !!!!!

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.

Meet Curious Andy

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

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!

The Season of Our Redemption

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.

Obstacles

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

"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.

Shlepper's Paradise

Lately it seems like my days involve shlepping and more shlepping. The problem lies mainly in the fact that we live in a second-floor apartment with about 14 steps to get down to the front door, another 8 steep steps to get to a path of other apartments, and a final set of 10 steps to get down to street level. The final set of 10 steps can be bypassed by walking to the end of the path which leads into a ramp. Once on street level, the car can be anywhere from 'right there' to a block or more away across a major street.

Major street = buses, ambulances, fire trucks, delivery trucks, bikes, steady car traffic on a regular basis. Ugghhh. Why do I live on this street again?! Most sane people like Ezzie and other friends of ours probably use this street only for giving directions to their homes, or waiting for the bus.

RaggedyAndy is extremely heavy to carry to the car these days. RaggedyAnn fortunately walks nicely and stays close to me during this trek, but is certainly given to bouts of refusing to carry her own school bag and/or whining about staying outside to run and play for a few more minutes. Plus the other boy we take in a mini-carpool has a funny habit of sometimes just standing still and not . . . progressing . . . in our walk . . . to the car. With my bag . . . and baby . . . steadily slipping . . . from my hands.

Once at the car, our doors are manual of course, so there is the manic flustering of trying to get the key to open the door, getting these kids into their carseats, strapping everyone in, unfolding my side mirror (remember: busy street), reassuring the child who does not get to choose the music that yes, next time it will be their turn (isn't all the kiddie music exactly the same, kids?!), and getting to our destination. Whew.

When making short errand-stops, I used to just carry Andy around, but his squirmy desire to try to walk, try to grab anything and everything, and generally forage for food wherever we go, has made me realize that the $16.99 umbrella stroller is going to be a must, even for just making a quick bank deposit, or to pick up a bottle of milk. The idea of carrying him, the milk, getting money for it from my own backpack (I can't do the one-shoulder diaper bag anymore - too unwieldy) and fielding that perfect-timing phone call from RaggedyDad asking for someone's phone number or what's for dinner - well, it's just enough to make me want to go home, put my feet up, and eat some bon-bons. Since that's all I do anyway (see last post - I'm still apparently not over it, guys!)

Since RaggedyDad works long hours and goes to school part-time, I try to leave no grocery shopping for the weekends in order to maximize "family time." As in, I don't want to spend most of Sunday navigating through supermarkets and other stores. Only problem is, getting the groceries home is a major ordeal. Let me just disclaimer this rant right away and say that I kind of enjoy the whole "iron-woman-how-am-I-going-to-do-this-what-was-I-thinking-buying-flour-and-sugar-and-juice-and-milk-and-potatoes-and-EGGS?!" aspect of it, and that the challenge of it thrills me. Somewhat. That being said, it is a serious, serious pain getting all of this food, and my kid(s) into the house.

Of late (including today), the system has been as follows:

(Note: This is when RaggedyAnn is at preschool from 9 am to 2 pm)
Park the car in front of my front door
Take out groceries and lock doors (Andy in car)
Run up the hill with groceries, in shifts, while looking down at Andy in car
Bring groceries from top of hill up set of 8 steps to front door
Run down to car and take out Andy
Bring Andy inside and secure him (highchair, crib, pack-n-play)
Run down and bring up groceries in shifts

Sometimes there is a (double)stroller thrown into the mix, which would add the step of running back down to bring in the stroller. Just this post is making me tired! (bon-bons anyone?)

Yes, some of the supermarkets here deliver. To date, I have never availed myself of this service because

My preferred supermarket, where the prices are the best for what I buy doesn't deliver.
My next favorite option delivers, but for $5, and IMHO their items are already about 20% more expensive than everywhere else.
My least favorite neighborhood store delivers only after 1 pm and only on $60 or more, which I don't often have, since I am kind of a "filling in here-and-there" style shopper, and afternoons get hectic here anyway.
My favorite (cheapest) non-Jewish supermarket does not deliver. Or maybe they do, for $10 or something crazy.

So many people - RaggedyDad, friends, my mother, my grandmother - have told me I'm crazy for not doing the $5 delivery. Try as I might, I just can't seem to fahgin (agree that I deserve) myself that luxury. I always think, I'll do it one of these days. But just not today. I can push myself one more time.

Until then, I remain, the hunchback of Queens. And if you see me running up and down the hill, trying not to crack an egg, just smile and wave.

Subtle Hint

RaggedyAnn: So, Mommy, maybe while I'm at school, and Andy's sleeping . . . you could . . . you know . . . like . . . clean the house?

Did I Ask Too Much? Subterranean Disappointed Blues

I try to be reliable. And when other people are unreliable, it makes me grumpy. Such as when the exterminator (famous last words: preventitive, I swear!) is supposed to show up, and doesn't. After countless calls on my part to make sure that he's coming, that I'm on the co-op's list, that he has my address, etc. After making arrangements for someone else to pick up Ann from preschool (if you miss these guys when they do show up, you don't stand a chance). And the contractor who is supposed to finally look at the ledge in our apartment (see anniversary photo on 1 November) also can't make it. Sue me. I want my kids to live in an apartment that is waterbug-free and doesn't present a major falling hazard. Grrrrr . . . If you don't want to turn RaggedyMom into CrabbedyMom, by all means, JUST SHOW UP!!!

Rules and Regulations

Last week, we received a copy of the sacred "House Rules" of our apartment complex. The topics covered span the logical (I know, not to everyone), the silly, the annoying, the absurd . . . but most of them are good rules. This is a long manual of about 10 pages, and it is full of a lot of lawyer-ish lingo that immediately translates into "blah, blah, blah" in my head.

In truth, I am great at following the rules. Although I may fancy myself an unconventional non-comformist, and was actually Communist Party leader of my high school (a story for another day), the Raggedys are a pretty boring clan. My family and I live in calm and quiet (save for those 4 a.m. feedings) and generally keep to ourselves. Loud parties and property damage are just not our thing.

Here's a sampling of our house rules. Some of them make this place sound like a prison or a mental institution. Some of them make me very curious as to the real-life situation that occurred in violation of these principles in order to inspire their inclusion into the house rules:

• No ball playing of any kind, or other sporting activity on the grounds.



• No tree climbing or playing in trees. Lawns and trees shall not be abused.



• Windows should only be covered with blinds, shades, curtains, or other products designed for window coverings. At no time should inappropriate items, such as bedspreads, sheets, or shower curtains be used as window coverings.



• Toilets shall not be used for any purpose other than those for which they were constructed, no shall any rubbish, diapers . . . or other article be thrown into the toilets.



• No group tour or exhibition of any Apartment or its contents shall be conducted . . .



• Vehicles may not be washed on the Property.



• Commercial Breeding of Pets in apartments or the Property is prohibited.
  . . . [F]eeding of animals that are not pets (including squirrels, birds or strays) in apartments or common areas [is prohibited].



• At the end of the summer season, barbeques should be covered with a green or black covering . . .



• Except in the event of a health and safety emergency no individual may enter or exit any apartment through the windows.

What are some of your opinions? What do you think of these rules? What I really want to know, though, is: What are some of the stranger rules you have been subject to, in an apartment, a neighborhood, a city, or in any situation?

Pragmantis

Today, on arriving home with Ann and Andy from Ann's preschool, we had a visitor outside our door. Although my knowledge of wildlife is usually limited to squirrels and pidgeons, I believe I can identify this as a praying mantis. It's big! See both photos for the perspective on just how large this creature is! We live very close to a very large park in Queens, and I'm not sure if that's the reason, but we get some very interesting visiting wildlife right outside our home. There are lizards of all sizes that hang out on the stairs leading to our front door, and occasionally get in the house. I'll post those stories someday.

As for the praying mantis (someone correct me if that's not what this is!), this is the second or third time I've seen it. Aren't these supposed to be endangered or something? With all of the leaves and branches around, these are very easy to miss. Ann thought it was a spider (if only!) and Andy just wanted to get inside and eat. RaggedyDad, that suave foreign gentleman, thinks that this insect is called a "pragmantis" and this is a language error that has fossilized for him, meaning he can't seem to get rid of the mistake.

Ann calling the pragmantis a spider reminds me of the time we were trying to catch a mouse that was in the crawl space/attic above the apartment. There were traps all over the place. Needless to say, when we had Shabbos company, we did not inform them of the situation and had put the traps away in advance. When the husband mentioned in passing that he was very afraid of spiders, RaggedyDad and I looked at each other both thinking the same thing - "If only you knew, buddy . . . !"

Since I am afraid that the praying mantis will lunge, fly, or creep me out in some way, I didn't move it away. I tried clapping loudly near it, and knocking the stroller into the side of the doorpost a few inches away from it, but the thing didn't budge. No will to live, that's what I say. So instead, I just got the kids inside, got Ann to the toilet ASAP since she was doing 'the dance,' and locked the door, which thankfully seals airtight on the bottom. Goodbye, pragmantis.

Harvest Time

Originally uploaded by momraggedy.

Ann and I were very ambitious this summer. We planted vegetables in the communal backyard space of our apartment complex. A neighbor of ours who moved away had used the space for gardening, and another neighbor and I decided to plant some veg there this season. She was mainly interested in planting Swiss chard for some kind of dumpling recipe. I wanted Ann to see the process of planting, tending to, and harvesting our own vegetables, on as much of a scale as possible in this semi-urban area. Amateur gardening was a great chance to talk about science, the Creator, healthy eating, and to get our hands dirty and just be outside, which I love. Poor Andy kept trying to eat the grass and had to be relegated to a stroller during most of our gardening sessions.

When I taught English as a second language, back before Ann and Andy came along, one of my more language proficient students told me that he knew how to make an apple. He must have been around five or six years old. I asked him to explain (humor me, kid). He said, "First you take apple sauce (I can still hear his raspy, lispy voice - so sweet). Then you make it like a ball. Then you wrap red paper all around it." Wow. "Erik," I had said at the time, "What about apple trees? Have you ever seen one?" Let's just say I didn't want Ann thinking the same thing in a couple of years.

We planted green and red peppers, which all turned out to be green. Those grew nicely, but we tended to pick them before they got very big since squirrels around here are very aggresive and vicious. Must be a NY thing ;)
We planted zucchini, which grew into the biggest, leafiest thing ever. And really spiky - who knew? We got quite a few beautiful zucchinis which I use in soup and sometimes just as raw matchsticks dipped in dressing.

And then, the tomatoes. Although we staked the plants (don't ask me, I'm a city girl - my swiss chard buddy and my dad were very helpful with the staking) I don't think they got enough sun exposure, and many, many of them stayed green for weeks. Now that it's getting chilly, it was time for my buddy and I to harvest it all and cut our losses. I am trying to figure out what to do with the green tomatoes (frying?) since they aren't getting any redder sitting in this bowl. In the meantime, I just like how they look.

Good neighbors

102_0096
Originally uploaded by momraggedy.

I locked myself out today. Yikes! This is a recurring nightmare of mine, and today it came true. I was on my way to walk with Andy to pick Ann up from preschool and I closed the door behind me with that annoying automatic locking button pushed in on the doorknob. Yep. Luckily our neighbor downstairs has a copy of the key, and after some confusion and paging my neighbor at her job, her babysitter located the key. The only trouble is, Andy is so heavy, and holding him for that long (not just today but on a regular basis) has given me a major crick in my hip. If you see someone limping around with the above pictured set of keys on a string around my neck, just say "Hi, RaggedyMom, how are you enjoying your exersaucer? Are the kids over their colds yet? Watch out for that doorknob!"

Laundry Party

As my favorite writing professor once told me, skip the intro stuff - (as in "I'm starting this blog to blahblahblah . . .") and just jump in with both feet. Give the reader credit for being able to catch on.

So let's begin. My kids, "Raggedy Ann" (3) and "Andy" (just turned 1) are sick. Not doctor sick, but sniffly, congested, sneezing and snoring sick. Which makes a tired RaggedyMom (me), and enough laundry to fill a cruise ship. I'm not sure why having bad colds has produced this much laundry. Let's just say it's a good thing I gave up the dishwasher space in my little kitchen for a washing machine, and found a way to stick a dryer in one of the bedrooms, because otherwise I'd be really, really overwhelmed right now.

On the bright side, Ann cheered me up when she asked where we got a CD of gratingly annoying yet mesmerizing Barney music and I told her I thought it was from Babies R Us. Ann said, "Maybe you mean CDs R Us, Mommy." Gotta love her.