Dairy Queen

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 . . . !!!!!

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

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

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

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

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)

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.

Rude Patrons

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

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!)

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)

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.

Bedtime

Until I became a mother about three-and-a-half years ago, my experience with children was rather limited. I'm the youngest of three children. I saw my younger cousins somewhat infrequently. My babysitting days were erratic and short-lived. One summer, I was a day-camp counselor for three-year-olds. The toileting, the in-and-out-of-bathing-suits, the feed-me . . . It was enough to convince me that I'd rather be an arts and crafts counselor, which I did for the next three summers at sleepaway camp.

Let's just say that when Ann was born, RaggedyDad (also the youngest growing up) and I were, for the most part, baffled by her. She cried. All night long. I was so delirious with exhaustion, and so worried about keeping my parents up all night (we were there for two weeks following the birth). I started and finished novels night after night, holding and feeding Ann intermittently, wondering what this new, bizarre life of mine as a mom would ultimately turn out to be.

Thankfully, babies have no clue at the outset just how terrifying and confusing those beginning weeks can be for their parents. Ann stuck around, as did her parents, and we figured a lot of things out. About nursing, about sleeping, about crying (both of us!), and just about being together. In the midst of her colicky phase, my pediatrician turned to me and said, "Ann's getting through this. But how are YOU doing?" That was all it took to get me to start crying right in his office! RaggedyDad had just made a quick visit to Belgium for his sister's wedding, and it was all Mommy, all the time. I'll never forget Ann's one-year checkup, when, with no condescension whatsoever, the same doctor said, "She's come a long way, and so have you - great job, Mom." I was totally vindicated from my previously blubbering self, and brimming with pride.

Lots of other sleep-related adjustments followed, and Ann was not much of a sleeper through them all. Weaning. Giving up naps. Becoming a big sister to Andy. Moving out of the crib and into a bed. Toilet training. Nighttime training. I think that kids really teach us a great deal. Ann taught me not to be afraid of my kids, and once Andy came along, I think I had mostly internalized it. Of course, Andy teaches me every day that each child is different! But our basic principles for how things operate in our household stay mostly the same, and I no longer worry if I have the "right" to maintain decorum.

Now that bedtime involves the two of them, and not a toddler and a newborn, it's a flurry of cleanup, supper, bathtime, pajamas, stories, goodnight phone calls to RaggedyDad and my mother, toothbrushing (I'll have to post a picture of Andy brushing his teeth one of these days - it's his big thrill of the day!), Shema/HaMalach HaGoel, "I love you and I like you"s, and then . . . quiet. By 6-6:30 p.m., I'm over on the other side of the apartment, catching up on the mail, IMing with a friend, and just resting. I listen for Ann's whispers to quiet, and for the soft snoring in stereo to start, before the rest of my night begins. We've come a long way, babies!