Self-Made Mom

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.

When I enrolled my son in a gymnastics class last month, I got a few giggles and sidelong glances.  Don’t think I didn’t ask myself the same thing, “isn’t gymnastics just for girls?” But two of my SAHM acquaintances signed up for the class as well (with their daughters), and in the hopes of making some new real friends I decided to join them.

My friends and family were mixed on my decision.  Some thought the gym studio was better left to leotards and leggings.  Others scoffed at my question and said, “of course boys take gymnastics.” In my head I knew boys take gymnastics too, but part of me just couldn’t get past the thought of my son setting forth to do his floor routine in a singlet. Wouldn’t he freeze to death?

Please cover up during all the winter months.

It’s funny, my son and his peers seem to be entering a phase of their young lives where boys start to do “boy” stuff and girls start to do “girl” stuff.  I knew this moment would creep up on me eventually, but I made a conscious decision when my son was born to try to steer clear of activities that were biased towards one sex or the other.  And so far, it hasn’t been an issue - we all know classes at this age are based on how smart the mother thinks her child is the age of your child .

However, now that my son and his friends are hitting the twos, I’m beginning to see the lines being drawn more clearly. The girls are signing up for dance, the boys are leaning towards activities like soccer.  Hell, in our soccer class alone the boy/ girl ratio is something like 152/ 2.

But what do you do when you have a boy who would rather sit on the sidelines of his gymnastics class and eat a bagel than walk on the balance beam? Or one you know would enjoy that dance class that all the girls are enrolling in? I’d like to say that I could let go of the stereotypes and let him rip in a session of ballet.  (I think he’d look darling in those black jazz shoes.)  But part of me knows that when it comes down to it I will probably err in the direction of what the “boys” are doing. At least until he can tell me he’d rather pirouette than run cross-courts.

Congratulations to Julie, who’s  having her third child, a boy, very soon! In preparation for her big day, some of her friends are hosting a virtual shower to celebrate the new arrival.  And they have asked us on the blogosphere who have little boys to give her some advice on what it’s like to rear a kid of the XY kind.

I could see why, after having 2 girls, it might be scary to have a boy.  But if I were Julie, I would think of it as hitting the genetic lottery.  To ease her fears, though, I’ve compiled this list of things I’ve learned in the last two years about raising a boy:

1. Whatever the experts tell you, pee-pee teepees don’t work. You’re better off telling your daughters you got them pretend birthday hats for their dolls instead.
2. You will never have to worry about what clothes your boy wears because you really only have 2 choices: camouflage or pirate.
3. You can wipe backwards AND forwards.
4. While wiping backwards and forwards, your son will likely laugh should you touch his penis by accident in the process. Yes, it’s totally creepy.
5. If you’re ever feeling blue about having a boy, you can just grow his hair long and pretend he’s a girl.  I mean, all the celebrities are doing it.

 

6. When your husband says he needs a little ”guy time” you can just tell him to play with the baby.
7. A year from now you will likely know the difference between a steam shovel, front bucket loader and bulldozer.  And construction sites will be the “hot” place to hang out.
8. When little boys get sweaty they emit a scent that smells like a combination of wet dirt, worms and feet. It sounds gross, but I swear after awhile you’ll get used to it and probably even like it.
9. You’ll love telling your friends your son is a “mama’s boy.” The phrase “mama’s girl” just doesn’t have the same cache.
10.  Your walls will never look the same again, but I swear one day the stain “pee” will be Pantone’s color of the year.

Congratulations!

While at the bookstore, to my husband: “Please keep junior occupied so I can find a copy of ‘Everyone Poops.’”

While in the kitchen cleaning up dinner, husband to me: “If you want, I’ll watch ‘Cashmere Mafia‘ with you in bed tonight.”

And they say marriage loses its excitement once you have kids.

1) One part child who’s had a runny nose for two weeks straight

2) One part cranky husband who’s ill as well but still working too much

3) Two parts stressful yet exciting week (more on that soon I swear)

Just writing this list makes my head ache more. Off to bed now.  At least I have some company in my pink eye misery.  I mean, really, who gets pink eye anymore!?

I don’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions.  But if I did, this is what I would resolve to do in 2008:

Ensure my nanny doesn’t take her vacation after I’m already back from mine.  This would guarantee that my valuable Saturday night caloric intake, which is usually spent on a restaurant with at least a quarter of a star, would be better utilized than this:

No, I’m not above “this.”

And would make certain I would avoid this:

My kid didn’t even get ketchup on his clothes.

But seeing him grit a Happy Meal was kinda worth it. I mean, worth the stain on my sweater. Not the absence of having a babysitter.

Just be glad your mom didn’t make any resolutions in 2006.

Happy New Year.

For me, there was nothing worse than my middle school years.  The years where I was as tall as I am now (5′8″), skinny as I am now (not publishing weight here), but with worse skin and less friends, I choose to banish the middle school to the recesses of my brain with camp memories (I hated camp) and the bar mitzvah circuit. Let’s be clear. I never want to have to wear black puffy-sleeved off-the-shoulder dresses again.

So now I can cross ever moving to a retirement community in Florida off my list.  It’s like reliving the tween years all over again.  Except the people look a little different. I used to think being a new mom was the ”new” middle school. Over a long weekend at a fancy club in Boca I was proven wrong.  I learned quickly that old people can gossip just as well as us youngsters.  Among other things.  A typical lunchtime conversation uncovered many facts about the people in the room.

“See him over there? He says his daughter got pregnant with twins at 50 - without in vitro!”

“See her? Her husband is never sober!”

“See them? They sent around a nasty email about me to everyone in the club.”

Old people really know how to dish.  But more than that, it was amazing to me - this “club” I was privy to - the cliques, the outfits, the in-fighting, the caste system of housing.  (”Ooooh, yooou live in the condos over there near the road?”) I didn’t know that as people age they start resembling their teenage grandkids more than they ought to. 

And the hair and the clothes! I think I saw more hairspray in Florida than I ever did on a parquet wood dance floor in a banquet hall.  Not to mention the black puffy-sleeved off-the-shoulder dresses I saw in action. Even the makeup was a throw back to the eighties. As my step mother-in-law said:

They just can’t see anymore how much makeup they are actually putting on.

My in-laws sure had some good one-liners.

What set the community apart from middle school, however was the food.  The gobs and gobs and gobs of food.  No one ate (this well) in middle school.  Even a former Slim-Fast addict, now a chubby 80-year-old with serious bling could not avoid the chocolate sundae fountain that was on display.

It was like this. Only bigger.

I would be wrong to say that old people just sit around their communities eating and gossiping.  They also go to the movies.  In style. I am now a major movie theater snob.  After sitting on a veritable “couch” watching Juno (fabulous!), only the ”Premier Level” will do.  It does help when you attend the movie at 1:50 pm.  Oh wait, we were in Florida. It was half full at that time.

It pays to get old, I guess, because you can afford the “Premier” seats.

Now that I’m back in the cold of Chicago, though, I realized that Florida really grew on me.  I’m starting to miss the palm trees, the swimming pool, the bad driving and especially the chocolate.  Having a fondue fountain in my kitchen doesn’t exactly have the same appeal as it does in a fancy club dining room.

Santa looks like he threw up in your office lobby…

‘Tis the season to be tacky.

Your coworkers bring flat irons to work so they can do their hair…

On the fourth night of Christmas my true love gave to me a flat iron instead of a Japanese perm.

And leave clumps of makeup on the counter after primping themselves…

Squint and you’ll see lots of bronzing powder.

You know you’re a mom faking it at the office holiday party when…

You eat leftover goldfish out of a snack trap on the way to the shindig…

Goldfish.  It’s the perfect prelude to a glass of Pinot.

And leave 30 minutes later to put your son to bed…

You thought I’d really take a photo of that sacred moment?

Happy Holidays.  And if you were the one to get sloppy drunk with your coworkers and have a hangover tomorrow I’m jealous.

1. Once someone says: “I’m a working mom of a young son and I’m having a hard-time balancing my current PART-TIME job” it’s fairly certain that she’s not looking to switch careers.
2. Talking really close means I have a better view of the 20 layers of mascara you’re wearing.
3. Telling someone who works in PR that you got laid off twice in the PR industry is not going to improve your chances of recruiting me.
4. While complimenting my new fabulous coat was a great pick-up line (and the coat IS fabulous), wondering who makes it and how much it costs is probably not a good second and third line.
5. If you’re going to use a Starbucks in the city’s third largest building to search for your clientele, you’d probably want to wait to approach your “tired looking mom” candidate AFTER she’s gotten her coffee.

Separated at birth?

The real string cheese incident.

Really, it’s not so appetizing when your toddler screams “cheeeeesse” every time you go to the bathroom.