Raggedy Nights (rated G)

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)

***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

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?

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

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!

Linguistics and the Art of Acceptance

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

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!

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

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

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.

The Great Debate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.