Born Yesterday

Today is Louisa's third birthday. It's funny, having a three-year-old. Literally, funny.

The other day, as I was saying goodnight to the big girls, we recalled a few hysterical things that Louisa had said. For instance, that day watching me typing on the computer, she asked me in her absurdly cute three-year-old voice, "When I grow up, will you teach me how to work?"; and at bedtime, she told me a story about her Wu-wu (favorite stuffed puppy) eating candy and chocolate in the playground, and then she cackled and said "that's so silly!" Bella, Ruby and I were laughing out loud discussing their sister's one-liners. Bella said, "the amazing thing is that she said all of those things today!"

Loulou's hilariousness means that we laugh whenever she talks, which is always (she's a chatterbox, and full of questions), and she doesn't like that at all. She often cries when we laugh at something funny that she said. She looks really offended and says, "No laughing! I don't like laughing," which of course cracks us up. 

Josh recently said, "You know she won't talk like that for much longer." 

"I know," I replied.

It's one of those things about watching kids grow up: marking time, becoming aware of the fact that nothing ever stands still. I can look at Louisa and imagine her at Bella's age. I couldn't do that with Bella, but I can do it now. I know how fast it will go. And part of me looks forward to what's coming. To having a beer with my daughters, seeing real movies with them, traveling with them. What seems like the distant future will arrive before I know it.

One of Louisa's signatures is that she has a simplified view of time. Everything that happened in the past happened "yesterday" and everything that will happen in the future will be "tomorrow". Hence, the moment at a family dinner when she announced, to the hilarity of all: "I was born . . . yesterday."

Louisa's view of time is simplified, but in some ways, more accurate than not. The yesterdays quickly meld together, and the tomorrows creep up fast. It feels like yesterday that I held a newborn in my arms, that I carried her everywhere in the Moby wrap, that she was nursing and physically adhered to me for much of the day. And it feels like tomorrow she'll be going to kindergarden and sleep-away camp and preparing for her bat mitzvah.

Funny, that.

Hamantashen Helpers

Making hamantashen is exactly the wrong kind of baking for me. Anything involving cookie cutters and having to make things all look exactly the same: uh uh. I'm more of a bar cookies / mandelbroit kind of baker, if I'm baking at all.

But nonetheless every year, I do make one solitary attempt. It's really an obligation to eat these cookies on Purim, and store bought hamantashen taste, well, store bought. I usually just pick a random recipe from a cookbook or the internet or the ether and give it a go. Some attempts have failed tremendously. Once I could not roll out the dough for the life of me. It just wouldn't stick together. Another year every single hamanatash opened up while baking: they were smushed circles, not triangular at all.

Making hamantashen is more like crafting than cooking. And I'm no craft-er.

Luckily, I have kids. Ruby grabbed the recipe (which I found on Facebook, and printed out -- apparently my FB universe is obsessed with crafty cookies this time of year, as there was a new recipe posted almost daily.) She mixed the batter, rolled out the dough (a skill acquired at ceramics class, she informed me), and started passing me circles which together we filled and squeezed into shape. I was so free-handed during this process that I was actually able to record the events! (As Ruby was rolling her eyes and saying, "Are you going to put this on your blog?")

In under 30 minutes (on a school night!), we were putting the first batch into the oven. Please, please don't open while baking, I begged the Purim confections. Hey, sometimes begging works. 

Louisa was not happy about having to wait for the hamantashen to bake. She wanted them now!

My prayers (and Louisa's) were answered. There were so few "ugly" hamantashen, that it was hard to decide which ones to allow the kids to eat (because of course we had to save the nicest looking ones to bring to the friends who had invited us for Shabbat).

Feast your eyes on that. Okay, the shiksa baker would not be impressed, I know. But all I can say is, there are hardly any left here and it's not even Purim yet. Success.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Purim!

Springtime is For Writers

Yesterday, March made me feel like a new person, like anything was possible, even blogging again. It was sunny and reached 60 degrees in New York yesterday, and best of all, it was light out when I went to pick up Ruby and her friend from their after school class across town. The light and the warmth. How do we live without them all winter?

The short reason why I've not posted anything here since February is that I've been busy. (I mean, who hasn't?) I have limited writing time each day and I've been working on fiction projects: things that take more time than dashing off a blog post. These types of projects take a long time, requiring planning, thinking, editing, writing, more writing, and then changing.

Writing a blog post is to writing a novel (or a play, or even a good short story) like fixing a piece of toast is to making family dinners for a year.

VS

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I've never done anything that takes as much self-drive as working on long projects that may or may not ever be seen by anyone but my writing buddies. And I have nothing but admiration for people who write and produce all the time.

One of my writing partners just dashed off a draft of a novel since last summer. A really fun, entertaining, complete novel. My admiration for her is unbounded. Even if that novel never makes it to Amazon (which I hope and expect it will), she seriously rocks.

For me, it's more like fits and starts. I have handfuls of half-finished projects spinning around, and when the time is right I come back to something and can't put it away for a while. I wish I was better at finishing things.

It's been a surprise to me to see that my daughter has caught the writing bug. She takes a creative writing class that she loves, and can be found at odd moments typing away. The trouble now is that she wants to know what I'm writing, always. And I'm not about to show her. Yes, I know, terribly unfair. I find myself shielding my screen from her prying eyes. Maybe one day, long into the future...

Sending you writers, scribbling away somewhere because you must, sweet spring vibes.

Disney Digest

We survived. Four days of queuing, strategizing, fast-passing, running, waiting, laughing, eating frozen chocolate-covered bananas on sticks, getting insanely ill after a dastardly space flight simulator, and dinner reservations for 17 people (2 high chairs).

Bananas, I know.

By the second day, Louisa and I needed a different game plan. So we fast-passed the character rides and rode the steam train around the Magic Kingdom, with the old folks. Orly was kind enough to ride Dumbo with us, a second time. 

Best hour of the trip.

The reward for our dedication? Sunny weather in the 80s, and a weekend in South Beach. 

It's okay, we're back in freezing NYC, now.

Johnny Weir's Fabulous Olympics

Since I wrote my Olympics-fever post, I've been thinking about Tablet magazine's very righteous or, even, self-righteous declaration that in order to protest Russia's persecution of gays, they are boycotting the Olympics, and, in fact we should ALL boycott the Olympics: "By turning off our TVs, we’ll be sending an unmistakable message that we wish to have no part in the Kremlin’s glories."

Now, Tablet, "a daily online magazine of Jewish news, ideas, and culture," is not exactly Sports Illustrated. I wouldn't have expected them to cover the Olympics, nor would I go there to look for my Olympics coverage. So it's rather easy for them to refuse to cover an event that they didn't really have to cover, anyway. But, still, is their response the correct one? The New York Times, a consistent defender of gay rights, is covering the games in full tilt (I subscribe to their daily email Olympics updates...so as not. to. miss. a. thing.) Am I effectively high-fiving Putin by following these games? 

Consider the athletes. Think about the three American men who swept the slopestyle skiing in the event's first-ever appearance at the Olympics. Think about the women ski jumpers who after years of petitioning a sexist Olympic committee, were finally given their due, and a berth at the Olympics. Think about Matthew Mortensen, a luger from Long Island, who narrowly missed qualifying for the Olympics in 2010. Here's what he said on WNYC about making it this year: "I've been literally working towards a single goal for sixteen years. And to get that goal is such an incredible feeling." 

To boycott the Olympics because of Russia's unquestionably detestable human rights abuses is to punish these and other amazing athletes who have dedicated their lives to their pursuits. So we ignore them, and their accomplishments, to punish Russia? Somehow, I think Russia doesn't care. But I know the athletes do. 

Since I've been watching, and not boycotting, I've had the pleasure of witnessing what may be an even more effective form of protest. Johnny Weir, the former figure skater, has been rocking it as an NBC commentator for these games. Each time he appears on screen, he looks more fabulous. He has impeccable make-up, gigantic jewelry, and a beautiful television presence. He is the gay man that the Russians are so afraid of, and he is appearing in Sochi full-on "out." No rainbows, sure. No need. The rainbows are radiating from his jewels. 

Why would Johnny Weir even agree to go to Russia, knowing what we all do? One would assume he wanted to be on TV, and he's good at it. But maybe he also went because he wanted to boost up those athletes, gay and straight, who have worked so hard to be there, and weren't about to give up their dreams. Maybe he wanted to tell the world, and Russia, that gay people are an integral part of sports, just like they are integral part of all of our communities. Maybe he just wanted to say, "Hey, look! I'm not scared of you." 

Well, thank you, Johnny. You're teaching us as much about pride as you are about triple axel salchows. Tablet, you don't know what you're missing.

Olympics Fever

Hooray for the Olympics! We can't get enough. Every time it comes back, summer or winter, I always think, why does something this fun happen so infrequently?

We are not a sports-y family. I mean, in the spectator department. We watch the Super Bowl (or, some of us did) and the World Series, the Tour de France, and the occasional soccer or tennis match. We are an active bunch, though. Among us we swim and bike and practice yoga and do gymnastics and snowboard and ski. (I've even, lately, discovered a new and wondrous way to get fit: the exercise videos that come free with Amazon prime membership. Jillian Michaels, you kill me. Sorry about all the jumping, downstairs neighbors.)

Both the summer and the winter Olympics capture our attention, but as downhill enthusiasts, we especially enjoy the skiing. We love watching the skiers fling themselves down the hill, imagining ourselves, of course, in their place. We are full of terror and empathy when they go hurtling off course. And we have nothing but admiration for the incredible athletes who make it to the podium. You can have the best run in the world in practice (poor Bode) but if you don't come through when it counts, you're outta luck.

Bella as Team USA Olympic skier (and Ruby as a pig), Purim 2010

We also, of course, love the perennial winter favorite, figure skating. All that glitter obscuring so much grit and practice and fearlessness. And youth! Did you see the amazing and flawless 15-year-old Russian Julia Lipnitskaia? Barely old enough to remember the last winter Olympics, and now a dominating force. Really makes you appreciate what teenagers are capable of.

Ruby loves the luge and the bobsled. It's like an amusement park ride in the guise of a sport. Except it's a ride that none of us would even want to try.

Sure, the Olympics are full of weird nationalism and posturing, but ultimately, they are a grand stage to display the talents of a group of super-human athletes, who train tirelessly for years to be under the lights for a few minutes. It happens to also be fantastic family entertainment. We can't get enough.

Full Days, Leisure Time and Headcheese (Guest Post)

Very pleased to continue my series on moms and work today, in which I invite mothers to consider these questions: how do you manage to work and also care for your kids, both in a technical sense (how the time is divided up), and an emotional one? (Be a part of the series: send me your thoughts!)

Today I welcome guest blogger Deborah Churchill who discusses how much effort it takes--or should take--to do the work of a mother. Does reading the Little House books make you feel weary, or, as it does Deborah, quite lucky?

Full days, Leisure Time and Headcheese

I’ve been feeling that my days are pretty full. That is, until I read Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder (shameful: I’d never read it before, but I am British).

There’s a chapter in it about butchering the pig. It’s full on. The pig is slaughtered, scalded and scraped. The meat is butchered, salted and smoked. Then, just when you’d think that, really, they must have had enough of the pig-work and surely it’s time to catch up with a box-set (excuse the anachronism), Ma chops and boils all the last scraps making the (to my mind unspeakably unappetising) headcheese. It got me thinking.

On Mondays I get in at 8 and do a short day at the office. I’m contracted for a three days week but I’m lucky enough to be flexible with my hours. It means that on all but one day of the week I get to pick my kids up from school when they finish at 3.25. I leave almost no contingency for the journey time; it’s pre-rush hour. I almost always get away with it.

So anyway, Mondays, we execute a swift turnaround. Snacks, wees, goggles and head to the pool. It’s fun; a family swim followed by Felix’s lesson. Then it’s back home for kids’ tea, spellings, handwriting practice, put a load of washing on, put a load of dry washing away, make tomorrow’s packed lunches, unpack the dishwasher and chivvy and chide the children to clean teeth, wash faces and get ready for bed. All climb into my bed for cuddles and stories. (Side note: I thought Little House might be too advanced for my youngest. Imagine my gratification when halfway through the chapter on maple syrup he asked a technical question about sap extraction.)

You know what? By the time it hits 7: I’m finished. I call my partner and ask him to bring something home for dinner. I’m pretty relaxed about this. I’ve done enough for one day, right? 

I can’t help wondering what Ma Ingalls would think about my sudden collapse of effort. Of course our times and situations are very different. But you don’t have to go back far in my family to find a much tougher lifestyle. My grandmother (95, oldest of 10, with six children of her own) had a far more gruelling day than mine. Not only were all her household chores harder to do, the expectations were also different. She cooked three meals a day, every day, for at least 8 people for many years. It would tip me over the edge in less than a week.

I have no intention of signing up for the servitude endured by countless women. But, next Monday, I’m going to take a moment to remember that I’m living in a very privileged place and time. The idea of leisure time is so ingrained that I consider it my right. I’ll try to feel less hard done by and, who knows, I might even cook dinner. If I do, I’ll consider it the headcheese.

Deborah Churchill lives outside London in Kingston-upon-Thames and works part-time as the editor of a property magazine. She and her partner Allan have two children, Annabel, 7 and Felix, 5. She’s recently become interested in preserving food and made 10 jars of marmalade over the weekend. An interest that can only be reinforced by reading more Laura Ingalls Wilder.