I'll Get Back at You ... One Day.

Things I fantasize about doing to my children when they are grown men:

Come to Ezra's house at 6 a.m. on Sunday morning, wake him up, stick an iPad in his face and ask what the password is.

Drive to Maxon's house every evening and, on ten minute intervals, ring the doorbell and ask if I can hang out and read while he watches T.V. with his girlfriend.

Go through their folded laundry piles and make a huge mess looking for a pair of socks.

The Bedtime Shema

When my boys were small, we received a book called Thank You God! A Jewish Child's Book of Prayers from PJ Library. I took one look at it and saw its future – wedged, unread and forgotten, against the side of the bookshelf, its skinny spine hidden by the hulking Lego Star Wars Complete Visual Dictionary.

But, instead of immediately putting it into the "give away" pile, I opened it.

A Shabbat Ritual

In 2007, my husband went on a business trip where he heard a speaker discuss what it meant to his family to keep the Sabbath. Inspired by the concept of using Shabbat to strengthen the family, he made a proposition:

"I think we should start keeping Shabbat."

Pause.

Oh, Lord no.

"Honey? What do you think? I want us to start keeping Shabbat."

Test Driving Overnight Camp

This past weekend, my son's 4th grade Hebrew school class went on an overnight retreat at Camp Harlam, the Reform Jewish sleepover camp. It was Maxon's first time at an overnight camp and I was curious to see if he might like to spend part of his summer there. 

Dressed to Protest the Cold

Ezra, my 7-year-old, would rather swim a lake of fire than wear a sweatshirt. It may be November, but he is dressing like it is August and he will not be swayed. The calendar means nothing to him. It's 50 degrees and windy and he's heading out the door in a short-sleeved soccer jersey, shorts and his Nike Elite socks pulled up all the way. 

Mom vs. the So-and-Sos

"This is the worst night ever!" shouted 9-year-old Maxon, stomping back up the stairs to his room with his farbisseneh face. "It's so unfair!"

The worst night ever. So unfair. Hmm. What could be so horrid? Is a video game not downloading? Glow-in-the-dark stickers not glowing? Can't find a Lego piece? Did the DVR not record an episode of The Amazing World of Gumball?

I Give Yiddish Lessons

How amazing is Yiddish? How sandpapery, how satisfying to spit out, how absolutely beautifully descriptive. Because sometimes a face is more than just snotty. Or an outfit is more than just unkempt. Or a room is more than just messy. There is no English word that compares to farbisseneh. Or shlumperdik. Or chazzerei. Yiddish puts exclamation points all over English words that just aren't strong enough for the situation at hand.

I use a considerable amount of Yiddish in my parenting vocabulary. Because my kids aren't just crazy, they are vildechayas. My older son Maxon isn't just fidgety. He constantly has shpilkes. And I don't just want them to give me a break. I need a little rachmones.

The Neverending Food Drama

Oh, moms with children who eat everything, how I envy you. How sweet it must be to cook without your child staring at a meatball as if it were a live hand grenade. How relaxing to go to someone’s house for dinner and not worry about how your child will react to what they serve. What a pleasure to sit down in a restaurant and not scan the menu for french fries and chicken fingers. I couldn't even take my oldest son to Percy Street BBQ without him wincing with anxiety, crying over the menu, looking pleadingly skyward and banging his head on the table. All he would eat were the slices of white bread that came with the meal. 

Mastering the Challah

When my 9-year-old son was enrolled in BZBI preschool years ago, we could sign up to receive a challah every week. Those were tasty challahs.

But when he changed schools, I had to get my weekly challah elsewhere. You know what I found out? Not a lot of good challah around these parts. I couldn't find a challah that had the perfect balance of egg, dough and sweetness. 

A Rant about Ranting

So, I have a confession.

I am an overtalker.  

When I get angry at my two sons, I don’t just lecture them. I filibuster. I make my point, then make it again. And oh, have you heard me make my point in this other creative manner? No? Well. Here I go then. Several minutes in, I can actually see them mute-button me with their eyes. But that doesn’t stop me, Filibustering McGee. I will shout until my words solidify like cement in their brains, my sage advice ringing in their ears for all eternity, forever protecting them against future poor decisions involving crystal meth.

How Poshmark is a Jewish Thing

Since I discovered Poshmark in July, I have had my phone attached to my face. For those who don't know about Poshmark, it's an app for the iPhone and iPad where you create a “closet” filled with items from your actual closet that you want to sell. You upload pictures, write a description, set a price, bargain and see who buys.

I am basically running a consignment store from my iPhone.

The Daily Mess

Every day it’s the same: The same archipelago of crumpled clothing. The same sodden towels in terrycloth dunes on the floor. The same crime scene splatter of Playmobil figurines and race cars. The same tacky blue swishes of Kids Crest on the white vanity. The same pee on the toilet seat. When I use my sons’ bathroom, I actually squat like I’m in a Starbuck's. 

An Open Letter to Sukkot

I just want to start by saying that I have nothing against you personally. In fact, I think you are a fantastic holiday and I believe it would be quite something to have a sukkah on my back patio. I don't think I have it in me to erect the sides because I can't even build the IKEA Hemnes Mirror Cabinet, but I read that I could use my existing patio walls, which would save some time. I just run out and pick up a surplus of leafy green overgrowth and palm fronds, wherever someone buys these types of things, and then somehow figure out how to arrange the fronds from one end of my patio to the other without sagging