L: Mom, what is this?
K: It's gum.
L: Why did you buy it?
K: Because it's delicious.
L: No, why did you buy it?
K: Because I like gum.
L: No, why, Mom?
K: Because it tastes like fruit in my mouth when I chew it.
L: But WHY?
K: Because, well...because they make it so it tastes like that.
L: BUT WHY DID YOU BUY IT?
K: Because I can.
L: Oh. When are you going to eat it?
K: After you go to sleep.
L: Oh.
Well, it could be those funny hats the boys are wearing. Or the crackers. Or the actual printed program you need to keep up with dinner. This Saturday, we attended our first Passover Seder, hosted by the Weitzes.
A seder is really two meals: 1) a symbolic meal of small dishes that represent Jewish history, along with prayers and stories and 2) a big old lavish Jewish feast of salty, fluffy matzoh ball soup and brisket that tasted as good as dessert (both prepared by Megan, a gifted shiksa chef), and a sweet noodle pudding that Lauren says is a side dish, but also tastes like dessert. I guess where there is no leavening, you have license to eat dessert as dinner. Oh, and then there was dessert. It was obscene (in a good way). Just writing about it makes me glad I am wearing elastic-waist pants.
Speaking of leavening, the highlight of Lu's evening was a seder gift from Andy and Megan: "Arnie the Doughnut."
It was a perfect time. We came, we ate, we drank, we learned. Some of us were not entirely crazy about matzah:-724184.jpeg)
Photo credit goes to Lauren, who was named the Super Jew among us. For an Ashkenazic perspective, visit her blog and see more photos.
Today we took Lu to the Children's School, the fancy new Montessori school where we had, um, assumed she was accepted for July. But today we brought her to the school, and some nice lady named Mrs. Geiger chatted with her briefly before leading her BY THE HAND AWAY FROM US. And SHE WENT. To the classroom, where she talked with the kids and did some Montessori work and spelled (and signed) her name and counted and...shared "a lot of information." Mrs. Geiger brought Lu back from the interview and told us she was impressed. As she recounted the events of the 15 minutes Lucy was out of our possession, she remarked again that Lu had "a lot of information to share."
I am only a little scared of the information she may have shared. I am assuming Mrs. Geiger meant that she was very verbal, that she just generally had a lot to say. Not that she shared specific "information," such as:
• I only take baths every other night.
• My mom says words I don't understand. Like "shit" and some other ones.
• I have not eaten any fruits or vegetables since Thursday.
• I just tooted. Can you smell it? Gross.
Anyway, I got a super good vibe from the teacher, the place, Lu. I just hope we weren't exposed.
You can't make this stuff up. I mean really.
Lu: Dad who is Easter?
Dad: Well, Easter isn't a person, it's a holiday—kind of like Christmas.
Lu: Maybe Santa Clause can bring Easter a present.
Dad: Well... Easter is not a person.
Lu: Maybe Santa Clause and Easter can be friends!!
Dad: Maybe so.
Although I know I should not be encouraging this, I am willing to bet even Gloria Steinem paints her toenails.
At the T3 Kentucky Derby party last Sunday, Lu came up to Jenn Currie and the first thing she said was "I like your toenail polish," completely overlooking Jenn's lovely hat and outfit (not to mention her intelligence and character). It's sandal season, people — Lu is paying attention.
Last night on "Lazytown" (truly the most insipid show I have ever seen), one of the characters was talking about dinosaurs being extinct. Lu turns to me and says, "Mom, dinosaurs stink. So they better wash their ticktocks."
I convinced her to eat (some) of her Thai satay noodles by telling her it was peanut butter spaghetti. This accomplishment made me feel smarter than anything else I did yesterday, including a client meeting, headline writing and creative directing.
I was in a yoga class this Sunday, the precious 2.5 hour ritual that only exists because of the generosity of Jason (his golf game is suffering, but you should see my crow-to-headstand transition). My teacher (my guru, Zoe) had us do a series of asanas designed to open the upper spine and loosen "the tightness behind the heart."
She might have meant my rhomboids, my lattisimus dorsi, a more open crescent moon pose. But I kept thinking about the tightness behind my heart. The clenched place that makes me short with Lu, mad at the people at the post office and generally annoyed with you just for taking up space. This fist of a heart is ready to set you straight, mister! And I'm happy to give you the finger!
The tightness behind my heart is both literal and figurative. I wish I could come to that conclusion more poetically. At least I've been stretching a lot.
Lu, for better or worse, can dial into the frequency of my heart. "Mom, when I stay in my bed at night, it makes you very, very happy." Making her mother happy is something she will be worrying about for years to come, and I hope I don't make that any harder for her. Yet the thought of her asleep in her bed makes my heart unfurl a little. I should see how long I can hold this pose.
Since the combined disruption of her birthday weekend and daylight savings time, we haven't recovered our fragile bedtime schedule. Lately, we have an hour of shrewd stalling, during which she:
• Gives up a whole day of saved poop in one diaper/potty hybrid blowout that involves elaborate clean-up and praise. We are held hostage by her crap. Someone call Freud.
• Throws fits and melodramas around which creature/book/parent/lighting scheme will be part of bedtime process. It's like hotel staff dealing with J-Lo. Someone call her manager.
• Is disarmingly sweet, wanting a smooch from Dad or "Mama, you forgot to tickle my arm. I miss you." There's no one to call. We're suckered.
The other night, I was in our bedroom with the door open and I could hear the faint strains of singing and activity coming from her room, then finally the loud clapping of plastic on plastic. I walked into the hall to find her dancing, singing (in a whisper), and wearing EVERY ITEM OF DRESS-UP CLOTHING SHE OWNS, including high-heeled plastic mules on her feet AND HANDS. I watched her for two seconds, then she saw me. And began solemnly, silently — quickly — taking off the satin cape, sequined beanie hat/tube top, plastic shoes, and tutu. She crawled into bed and sucked her thumb and said, "Good night, Mom. I'm done now."
While reading "Click Clack Moo," she touches my forehead and says, "Mom, you feel kind of warm. After we read our books, I should get my doctor kit and check you out. Does that sound like a good idea?" Um, sure, Lu, you're probably as reliable as the Internet, which is how I normally diagnose myself.
