Self-Made Mom

Passover has been broken. In record time. With record carbohydrate overload bloating.

What did you all break with?

I typically only eat matzah once a year during Passover. Now that I’m keeping it for once, I know why. Following is a list of my matzah conundrums.  

1. You can’t eat Egg and Onion matzah on Passover, but no one (no one I’m friends with) cares if you slather the matzah with butter, salt and onion powder.  Hell, I could even crack an egg on it.
2. Manischewitz only makes Kosher for Passover apricots so that you won’t curse them for the havoc that their matzah wrecks on your stomach.
3. The whole wheat variety may help on the stomach issue, but it doesn’t solve the big taste challenge.
4. No matter how hard you scrub or how fancy your brush is, there is no end to cleaning a pan of matzah kugel.



When matzah was in my Pyrex pan,
Let my cookware go,

5. Surprisingly, a box of matzah left out all week opened on the counter (with one rainstorm!) does not go stale.
6. Surprisingly, I would eat fried matzah outside of Passover. Only with good-tasting matzah, of course.
7. It is not possible for me to eat matzah pizza 4 nights in a row.
8. It is possible for my husband to eat matzah pizza 4 nights in a row.
9. There are still people out there who treat matzah like a novelty. A two-year-old.
10.  There are things made of matzah meal that people eat, but that don’t sound remotely appealing: matzah granola, matzah bagels, matzah farfel, matzah hash.

And with that, only two more days of matzah eating before the big pizza and beer gorge-fest ensues.

Edited to add: for the best list on the web of what sippy cups/ bottles are completely BPA-free go to Z Recommends.

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I finally did it. I caved in and got rid of my plastic sippy cups.  I’d been avoiding the inevitable for quite some time now, trying to believe that all the ruckus around leaching and B.P.A was just hype.  But when the New York Times published the story last week that Canada is likely to label the chemical B.P.A. toxic I finally took note.  (Sorry folks, I still need an old school press outlet to print something before I really kick into high-gear neuroses.)

That meant throwing away perfectly-good but potentially harmful Nuby sippy cups (information received from company representative was timely, but ultimately too confusing to figure out which parts of the cup actually still have B.P.A. in them for neurotic Jewish mother) and replacing them with overpriced, very heavy and oh-by-the-way-they-don’t-tell-you-but-you-have-to-wash-them-by-hand stainless steel versions. 

I went with versions from SIGG and Foogo because I didn’t have to crane my eyes to read which number plastic was listed on the bottom to see if it was okay (is it 2? 6?) and because I like cartoony-looking airplanes.  I’m just like Herve Villechaize.

Da plane! Da plane!

Yes, it was more expensive, but so far it’s been worth it because my son seems to be handling the transition just fine.  Apparently, “leak-proof” works just the same with stainless as it does plastic. He can still use the straw to flick milk all over unsuspecting satin pillows or interior of clean car.  (Praise to the genius who figures out how to not collect milk at the end of a sippy cup straw.) Also, it would appear that milk tastes better out of stainless steel because I’ve already gone through a gallon since I instituted the B.P.A. ban (that was Monday).  Maybe there is something to this story?

Which brings me to my most sanctimomious moment ever when me and my lead-weight (oh wait, lead is poisonous too) diaper bag went for a playdate at my friend’s house.  Little did she know that I’d turned into the B.P.A. police overnight.  She offered my son a sippy cup of water.  I inspected the bottom of the cup. A 4!  G-d love Playtex! The plastic cups she served us? No number, so I ceased drinking.  She fed her young daughter her bottle. I chimed in without any solicitation:

Uhm, are you sure you still want to use Dr. Brown’s bottles?

Who am I to comment on the bottle feeding habits of another smart mom?  She told me that she wasn’t informed and needed someone else to help tell her what to do, but I’m far from an expert.  Even though I’ve rid my house of the “plastic devil,” I still have been known every know and then to accidentally microwave those little Gerber plastic bowls full of macaroni and cheese or leave the plastic on the string cheese enough so my son has ingested more of the Frigo guy than the actual mozzarella. 

Frigo man says, “don’t eat me, please!”

My information on the topic is unproven, untested.  But everybody’s talking about it and the experts say if you don’t do it you might have a kid with three boobs who runs around in circles all the time. I mean, my cousin, the doctor, the researcher, threw out all the plastic bottles for his three-month-old too.  But he also knows words like polyethelene.  All I know is what I read in the paper.  Which was enough for me to ditch the neon for the metal.

And boy does my back hurt as a result.

Tags: BPA-free, bottles, SIGG, Froogo, BPA

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I know I said no blogging because it is spring out, but I got carried away and inspired because the article I fretted about is slated to run this June! Maybe the working once in awhile isn’t so bad after all…

I’m thinking, eating, breathing matzah this week as I plan to keep Passover for the first time. Ever. So you all are going to keep it with me. I’m already so sick of that unleavened bread and it’s only day two. My stomach feels like a rock. Is Metamucil kosher for Passover?

Anyway, imagine what a cruel joke it was when I spooned out some chicken soup for my son tonight and in the dregs of the pot found these:

G-d love my 85-year-old grandfather who thinks it’s ok to put noodles in Passover matzah ball soup.

Thank goodness for the two-year-old who doesn’t care about Chametz. And thank goodness for loyal Jewish readers who will suffer through the next six (oy!) days with me.

After two days of slaving over a hot stove and oven, I made a nice Passover dinner that even my own Jewish mother was impressed by. (And conceded that my brisket tasted better than hers.)

Ah, my SAHM days are really paying off.  Cooking a meal like this that my family wolfed down in 15 minutes made missing that Disney thing kind of worth it.

If you care, my brisket is on the right.

Happy Passover!

Herein lies my latest dilemma: I finally get a writing assignment from a respectable local publication, I get knee deep into it, and realize that I still don’t like stress and deadlines.

It all sounds good the way the experts tell you to do it. “Stay in the mix!” “Keep your options open!” “Do a little something on the side when your kids nap!” But, the reality is, when my kid naps, I’d rather sit on the couch and watch the latest episode of “The Hills” instead.  My friend laughed when I told her this, but I told her I wasn’t kidding.

I’m torn. Just like that Natalie Imbruglia song but without the shitty boyfriend.

It’s hard to do the SAHM thing full-time when you’re Type A and know that deep down you’re not entirely satisfied making dinners and going to the park and playing with blocks until your hands get tired. It satisfies me 99 percent of the time, but when that one percent kicks in, I take on assignments.  But then I complain about spending my nights nose-dived into the computer.

I like having something to “do,” but I don’t like the act of doing it.  I absolutely don’t want to go back to work right now, but I also don’t want to leave tush imprints permanently indented into my couch.

I’m torn.

First, I hear that a 150 lb. cougar was shot dead no more than 3 blocks from my house. 

Then, I decided to go to the post office.  On tax day. With 4 large boxes, 20 thank you notes and a screaming toddler in a stroller.  And you ask, did anyone offer to hold open the door? Nope.  Chivalry is apparently dead at the post office AND the subway. However, a kind elderly lady behind me did oblige and help me kick my heavy load through 30 minutes of waiting in line. Thanks lady, I owe you a stamp or something.  Worse, though, was the realization after the fact that standing in front of me in line at the post office was one of my favorite authors. I knew it was her by her fabulous pearl necklace and Coach bag.  I almost said hello, but was stopped short by embarassment that my son had spent the last 10 minutes kicking her leg from his stroller. Hi, Jen.

To top it off, in 10 minutes I have to wake my son up from his nap so we can go to the doctor for his two-year-old check up, a.k.a. prick-your-finger-for-iron-test appointment from hell.

Hey, at least it’s sunny and 60 out.

Where has this week gone? Oh yeah, the weekend of the birthday party is upon me. Tactics to prepare for the onslaught of 22 two-year-olds and eight out-of-town family members include:

• The obligatory pre-birthday haircut. Kiddie salon inadequate for birthday hair styling.

Only a $25 haircut by mommy’s stylist will do for the birthday boy.

• The delivery of several mysterious pre-birthday packages from spoiling grandparents.

• The creation of hokey goodie bags. Parents of children attending the soiree: do not throw out valuable contents of bag for at least 48 hours to ensure you’ve experienced the beauty of Oriental Trading Company.

Even Do Do Dora thinks the goodie bags are low budget.

• The necessary running around for beverages, Goldfish, and random party accoutrement.

Because every child cannot live without a Hefty Zoo cup with lid. Score!

• The opening of VERY LOUD AND ANNOYING new toys in presence of spoiling grandparents.

Yes, it lights up and moves.

• The questioning of my sanity in creating this madness for a two-year-old.

Can somebody remind me about this post next year?

• Don’t look at me that way. In 5-10 years, you too, may find yourself dragging a screaming toddler up the escalator on the way to find velvet throw pillows to cover the puke stains on your couch.
• Trust me, a toddler throwing grapes on the floor is much better than smushing them in his hands.
• You most likely won’t ever hold your significant other’s hand while shopping for silverware again.
• I guarantee you’ll never unpack that Krups ice cream maker. It’s ok.  Four years later and I haven’t opened mine yet.

Still dusty after all these years.

• The love you have for each other will never equal the love you have for a brand-new set of non-stick Calphalon pans.

And while I was picking on unsuspecting couples at Crate and Barrel, here’s what was happening on the web:

• The Secret Lives of Soccer Moms goes postal: I realized that after I talked to Tracey and watched the premiere episode, I forgot to Tivo the series.  Which means I missed out on following all the crazy backlash the show is getting on the web.  Holy crap, people. Get a life. It’s a TV show. Geez.
•  Mickey’s going to be eating matzah one day: The Disney “blunder” is no more. Go Devra! Hope they like your charoset.
• Just what I want to read before going to bed at night: I don’t see the point of reading a fictional book about the life I’m leading. Sounds to me like another helping of the Mommy Wars hype with a different title.
• I started a new pet project. Click here to see the beginning of genius.
• ** Edited to add: Have you all seen this new site Alltop? I’ve read about it like 4 times today, so I had to write about it. It collects all the top blogs on the web according to different categories. It’s a great way to see all of your favorite sites’ top 5 posts in a few scrolls of the mouse. There is even a category for mom blogs, but you won’t see me there (yet?) so don’t forget to come back and visit here after you scroll away!

Tags: The Secret Life of Soccer Moms, The Ten-Year Nap, Meg Wolitzer, mommy wars, Disney, Alltop

If you’ve ever felt like being on Facebook is like being in junior high again, read this recent article by Mary Schmich of the Chicago Tribune. I hadn’t over-analyzed my own Facebook middle school experiences until I got to this part of her article, which said:

As a Facebook neophyte, instinct told me, you don’t want to add too many friends too fast; that would make you look promiscuous and insecure. On Facebook, as in life, you never, ever want to look needy.

Hmmm, that didn’t bode well for me. The night before I extended friend invites to at least 10 randoms who I hadn’t heard from or talked to in at least 10 years. I really want to get to that elusive “200″ friends number. I’m almost there, so who cares if I don’t know why I accepted someone’s friendship and have no idea who she is.  I have more friends that way.

According to Schmich, this is the ultimate Facebook-loser move:

I quickly deduced that there’s a fine line on Facebook between being the person who has 1,021 friends because she’s genuinely popular and the one who has 1,021 friends because she’s terrified you’ll think she’s not.

I always thought there was something creepy about the woman who found me randomly and kept e-mailing me to be her friend.  She didn’t even have a real photo in her profile.  Who needs an avatar when you can use your Facebook profile photo to show off how damn cute your kids are? Don’t lie, you do that too.

I’m full of Facebook follies. Seriously, people. The main reason I even signed up for the site is to show off how great my life is now to my old high school nemesis. Yeah, I was that big of a loser then and yeah, I’m that insecure. Un-friend me, okay?  No, but really, the only and I mean only reason I even click on one of my “friend’s” profiles is to see how they look now. Surprisingly, everyone I know actually looks damn good.  It is kinda hard to tell in a 100 x 50 pixel photo, but I’ll give ‘em a pass.

Some “friends” of mine actually use Facebook to communicate and catch up.  People: isn’t this what e-mail is for? After unsuccessfully trying to make a playdate with an actual real-life friend who I hadn’t seen in 6 months I started to wonder, “did she blow me off?” No, no.  She just decided to use Facebook to set up our plans.  Oh, how intuitive.  Yes, I know you get those e-mail updates from the site, but it’s really too much effort to log onto the site and read them in a timely manner.  Getting the gist? I am not sure I’ll ever use Facebook to make (or keep) friends.

For one, I just don’t get all those applications. It was enough that the site knew that I ordered those sneakers from Zappos. (Yes, I know they apologized for that, but it wasn’t enough to keep my husband from making me return them.) Groups? Yeah, they’re fun to be a part of, but other than putting it as a badge, what will I do with being a fan of the best Coney Island restaurant in Detroit other than sulk that I can’t go eat their chili fries on a daily basis?

I may be young in age, but I’m old at heart on the internet.  I know I write a blog, but I rarely post photos of myself and none of my family. (At least where you can see their faces).  I like engaging, but I also like to keep my distance.  Perhaps I’m missing the point of all this social networking and re-connecting, but I’m just not cut out for Twittering, microblogging, Flickring, whatevering.  In my online life, I like being in the know and having others know me, but I haven’t yet gotten to that point of bridging the two seamlessly. 

And until I can get over making playdates via something called “A Wall,” I probably never will. I guess I won’t be getting to that 200 number that quickly after all. 

What are you guys using Facebook for?