Category Archives: Parenting

Birthday

For my birthday this year I got a new old house, a miserable cold from my daughter, and an extra year of life! My iPhone wished me a happy birthday and informed me that I just turned the age I thought and said I was all last year. Hooray for declining faculties working in your favor for a change!

I dragged myself home from work today and wasn’t sure I was feeling up to going out, but I’m glad we did! We went to Lampo Neapolitan Pizzeria for dinner, where the only sure way to get a seat is to show up at 5 pm. We may have disgraced ourselves just a tiny little bit by inhaling shocking quantities of the thin crust wood-fired pizzas…

Margherita D.O.C.
Funghi Pizza – Love the awesome pizza shears!

We had to try the desserts too, of course:

Budino – a magical concoction made of chocolate pudding with hazelnut brittle and olive oil.
Zeppole

We ended the evening back at home where I got to take some birthday pics with these kids, the very best, most priceless gifts I ever got:

 

Now and Then…

The last time we moved was a decade ago. Our daughter was born shortly after we moved, so we combined our new address announcement with our new baby announcement:

Oh, those sweet smiles on those darling little faces!

And now here we are, ten years later:

These bonus outtakes made me laugh out loud, very possibly because I am just a little bit evil. I believe I captured the precise moment when the kids no longer had to “pretend to be annoyed!”

 

We are ninjas.

On Friday I went to my book group. School’s starting this Wednesday for all of our kids, so a lot of the discussion centered more around this fact and less around Olive Kitteridge. As we chatted, I realized that all of my friends had already tackled and conquered their school shopping the weekend before. I could feel a piece of my soul shrivel up and die.

WHAT? Tax-free weekend was LAST week?! I gasped.

I listened with growing horror to their tales of endless checkout lines and empty shelves picked over by all of the GOOD parents in the world…those wise people who had realized it was tax-free weekend and hadn’t waited until the 11th hour to get their children ready for school.

Do you think it’s going to be a madhouse at Target tomorrow? I asked in a sad little voice.

My friends avoided looking me in the eye and gazed silently, pityingly into their laps.

It will, won’t it?

Ummm…you could maybe go at dinner time, one friend kindly suggested, It shouldn’t be as bad at dinner time. 

I already had dinner plans for Saturday. I was also expecting a former student of mine, now a Russian professor herself, to come at noon to go through my old books to see if there were any she would want. I had been planning to spend the entire rest of the day packing. (If things work out with the house, we’re supposed to start moving our stuff in on Friday).

I calculated that we had a small window of opportunity between 10 and 11:30 to go to Target to get the school shopping done. This might not seem like such a feat, but I knew it would be miraculous if I could manage to accomplish such a wondrous thing. Target is like some kind of weird black hole for me. By some sorcery, time stands still the moment I walk through those automatic doors. I immediately fall into a dazed and blissful stupor and for hour upon hour, I wander the aisles, mesmerized by the siren call of adorable, owl-shaped trash cans, irresistible hand towels, and of course: the glittery, melamine, dollar bin offerings.

Early Saturday morning I pored over the supply lists published on the school websites and wrote a list of the things each kid needed. I gathered the troops.

Listen, kids, I said, We’re going to Target to get your school supplies. I have to be back home by 12 today. We are going to be like ninjas. We’re going to be in and out of that store like a sleek band of ninja warriors. We’re going to be fast and efficient. IN. OUT. Got it? IN. OUT. 

I exasperated my daughter by repeating this mantra all the way to Target.

Why do you keep saying that, Mommy? YOU’RE the one who makes us spend hours in Target.

Little Miss Smartypants.

OK, fine. You’re right. I’m saying it mostly as a reminder to myself, ok?

We got to Target and the kids spilled out of the minivan and made a beeline straight to the school supply section.

OK, you know what you need to do. Go, go, go, go, go! 

They dispersed and came back to the cart repeatedly, their arms laden with folders, notebooks, pink erasers, pencils, flash drives…It took them all of ten minutes at the most.

OK, we’re done! they announced casually.

What?! You’re done?! I asked, reluctantly putting down an adorable notebook decorated with cunning little foxes. Really? Are you sure?…OK. Well, I guess we should head to the checkout then… 

As I started zigzagging up and down the aisles en route to the front of the store, my daughter hooked her arm in mine and steered me in a more direct route to the registers.

But can we just look at the…

She propelled me onward, whispering in my ear, “We’re ninjas. NINJAS! Remember, Mommy? Ninjas.”

But I do need –

At this point she held her hands up to my face like horse blinders, and said simply, Ninjas.

And that’s how my daughter helped me redeem my sorry self and break some kind of personal world record by getting out of Target in record time. Like a ninja.

Why not?

A few weeks ago, I made it my mission to get my parents down to Charlottesville for a visit. I had to be crafty. They’re not ones to travel just for the heck of it. I had to either come up with a reason why I desperately needed their help, or to lure them here on the pretext that their grandchildren wanted them to attend some major performance.

As it turned out, all last week my children were involved in putting together the musical “Jonah and the Whale” that was to be performed at church during the worship service on Sunday. BINGO!

My oldest son helped paint the whale. We shall not dwell on the fact that in the process, he left a permanent grey splotchy outline of the whale’s tail on the wall of the Sunday School classroom against which it had been propped. My second son helped create some of the other props and was one of the three “whalers,” who had to maneuver the great cardboard beast into the sanctuary and back out again. He was hidden behind it the whole time.

More promising was the fact that my daughter was performing in the play, would be visible, and had a speaking part.

After two weeks of tricky and heated negotiations that made the recent Iran nuclear deal look like a cakewalk, I finally managed to convince my parents to come. Not for the weeklong visit that I had optimistically proposed. That would be too long for my dad to be away from his beloved garden. Not even for the three days that would have allowed them to travel back with my husband and daughter, who happened to be going to Maryland on Monday and could have easily dropped them off in Arlington en route. No. The best I could wrangle out of the deal was for me to drive up on Friday after work and bring them down on Saturday. They wanted to leave on Sunday after the service so that my dad could fulfill a longstanding appointment he had on Monday. This would mean a five hour drive for me on Sunday, and ten hours of total driving time over the weekend, but I took the deal and felt lucky to have managed it on those terms.

“So, do you have a big part, T?” I hopefully, anxiously asked my daughter in the week leading up to the performance.

“I have one line,” she replied.

My heart sank a little.

“What’s the line?”

“Why. not.” she said, emphasizing each word with cruel banality.

“OK, listen, kid. Not to put too much pressure on you or anything, but Grandma and Grandpa are traveling 5 hours just to hear you say those two words. You better milk them for all their worth! Could you maybe fall to your knees as you say ‘Why not?!?!‘ Maybe you could shake your fists at the sky and squeeze out a few tears while you do it?”

She stared at me and remained maddeningly silent.

When I arrived at my parents’ house on Friday night, I felt compelled to confess to them that they were traveling all the way to Charlottesville to listen to my daughter say, “Why not?” They seemed to take this news in stride with their sphinx-like smiles, but I still felt uneasy.

We drove down on Saturday and met up with my husband and kids at Peter Chang’s China Grill for lunch. Peter Chang is the elusive, famous chef for whose cuisine dedicated foodies cross state lines to eat. He’s been written about in publications such as The New Yorker, The Washington Post, and Bon Appétit. Bubble pancakes were the answer. Bubble pancakes would make the trip to Charlottesville worth it!

You can’t get bubble pancakes in Arlington!

“Is this the same Peter Chang, who just opened up a new restaurant right near our house?” my mother asked.

Why, yes. Yes, it is.

The big day finally arrived. Everyone who participated in the play in some way had made a tie dye shirt to wear as their costume. My mother crowed with delight and clapped her hands as each of her grandchildren filed past her to be admired..

I went up to change into my own shirt.

“I don’t think I can wear my shirt. It’s so ugly, it’s embarrassing,” I said sheepishly.

“Yes, it is.” my mother replied.

I went up to change.

We went to church and settled ourselves in the pew.

The musical was beautifully executed. The singers performed the catchy numbers with enthusiasm and true musicality. The acting was heartfelt and genuine.

My daughter at long last delivered her line: “Why not?”

I turned to look at my mom and we both started shaking with laughter. She had to clap her hand over her mouth so as not to yelp out loud. Tears streamed from our eyes and we shook the pew with our silent laughter for a good five minutes.

If you were to ask me if those ten hours of driving were worth it for those five minutes of laughter, I’d answer: Absolutely…Why not?

I Am Deeply Embarrassing

My fifteen year old is participating in an all-day Chinese immersion program, which is being held at the university where I work. This means we get to commute in and back home together. Everything’s gone swimmingly these first couple of days on our commute into school/work in the trusty minivan. Our conversations have been filled with warmth, laughter, and mutual understanding. But as if by magic, the moment we step out of that enchanted vehicle, I suddenly metamorphose into the most embarrassing creature that ever crawled on the surface of this planet.

I swear I’ve tried to follow the rules. OBVIOUSLY, there is no physical contact. I mean, of course I have my faults, but at least I understand the basic rules of engagement. I walk a little distance away from my son, with my eyes focused straight ahead. It might be possible for strangers to see us and assume that we were not together. Despite our similar features and coloring, it might not even be entirely obvious to the casual observer that it was I, who spent 20 hours in labor bringing this boy into the world.

On Monday, there was a parents’ meeting scheduled for 8 am. It happened to be taking place in the auditorium that’s located on the floor right below my office. My boss walked in and noticed me and the other parents and students milling around. When he asked what was going on, I explained to him that the organizers hadn’t shown up for the information meeting that was supposed to have started fifteen minutes ago. I sincerely believed that I was uttering these words in a subdued, reasonable tone of voice. It appears, however, that in fact, I was shrieking loudly, raucously, and in an utterly mortifying fashion.

My son’s childhood drawing of me.

The entire time I was speaking with my director, my son stared at his iPod, thumbing away with furious intensity, all while muttering under his breath:

Stop. Mom. You don’t have to do this. You’re talking so loudly. Why are you doing this? 

This morning I told him that he could walk to class and make his way back to my office on his own in the future, but that I would drop him off and pick him up today, just to make sure he knew where to go.

He heaved an exasperated sigh and said, “You don’t have to walk me. I can go by myself. I know exactly where I’m going.”

“So, where are you going?” I asked.

“Your office is in Cabell,” he replied with brisk alacrity.

I had to break it to him. It’s what we repugnant monsters are programmed to do:

“You‘re going to Cabell. My office is in Minor.”

I walked the boy to class.

Weekend Snapshots 27

Saturday

A pit stop for ice cream sweetens the prospect of running boring errands all morning:

Kirt’s Homemade Ice Cream

While we were running around all over town, my husband finally got to do something he’s always wanted to. He spent the day volunteering for Habitat for Humanity, putting up drywall at this house:

I used to take my professor husband’s princely soft hands into my own calloused fishwife’s hands and jokingly hmph, “It’s clear you‘ve never done an honest’s day labor in your entire life.”

I guess I can’t do this anymore. Instead, the kids and I have been serenading him all weekend at the top of our lungs with: “BOB, THE BUILDER! CAN-HE-FIX-IT?! YES! HE CAN!!!”

I think he kind of likes it.

Sunday

In the morning I gave a presentation on “Adjusting to Life in the U.S.” for some new international students. I used this slide to illustrate culture shock:

In the afternoon, my family went to see a performance of Puccini’s tragic opera Madama Butterfly at the Paramount:

We did not experience tragic consequences in pursuit of this photograph:

As we drove back home I could hear Adventure Time playing on the DVD from the backseat, where the two youngest were sitting.

“Remember when you used to sing the Adventure Time song?” I asked my oldest son with fond nostalgia. I used to love it whenever he would sing the theme song with sweet and artless enthusiasm.

“Ugh. I did a lot of cringeworthy things back then,” my fifteen-year old replied ruefully.

“NO! I LOVED listening to you sing that song. I was so sad when you stopped,” I said.

“I’m going to tell you a sad truth about life,” my husband interjected, “Whatever you’re doing right now…in three years’ time – you’ll think is cringeworthy.”

I had to laugh, but I really hope that’s not true.

For now, I’m just going to enjoy the hymn of this lovely night: the thrum of crickets, the hum of the dishwasher, and the soft snoring of dogs at my feet.

Oh, lovely night! Stars unending! Never have I seen them so beautiful! Throbbing, sparkling, each star in heaven, like a fiery eye is flashing. Oh! how kindly are the heavens, Every star that shines afar is gazing on us, lighting our future for us…Ah! Lovely night! Thy perfect calm is breathing love near and far!

The Caterpillar

The kids are having the perfect, lazy summer. Every morning I leave for work, slightly envious of the day they’ll have, but so delighted for them to be experiencing the joy of unscheduled time. Most days they are at home with each other. They are reading, making music, dreaming, scheming, having sleepovers in each other’s rooms, hanging out with friends… 

In the spirit of laziness, here’s a post I wrote a couple Julys ago:

Last Friday morning I was in a big fat rush. It was going to be a busier day than usual at work. I woke up stressed out about all the documents I needed to crank out, the emails I had to answer, and the presentation I was going to give that still needed fine-tuning. The kids would be spending the day at our neighbor’s house, and I wanted to get them there early so I could get to work.

To my frustration, instead of letting me drive them there, the children begged to be allowed to walk. I didn’t have the heart to say no, but I warned them that they would need to hurry. I drove the short distance myself, passing them as they walked. I parked the car at our neighbor’s house and waited for them. While I stood there waiting, acorns turned into mighty oaks, mountains eroded into plains, and species evolved.

I was reminded of my son’s first tee-ball experience. During one of his games I was standing behind the fence right behind his two coaches. Whenever it was time for the two teams to switch sides, they would tuck their chaw into one cheek with their tongues so they could yell out, “HUSTLE, BOYS! COME ON! HUSTLE! HUSTLE! HUSTLE!” as they stood there with their arms crossed over their beer bellies. All the little four year olds would run across the field as fast as their little legs could carry them. My son would lope along at a gentle pace a few yards behind the pack. At one point, one of the coaches turned to the other with a look of disgust and spat, “That boy don’t know the meaning of hustle.”

As I waited by the car in front of our neighbor’s house I could see my children slowly ambling along the road and thought, “Come on kids, hustle, hustle, hustle!” As if in perverse response to my mental plea, I saw them slow down instead, and then drop to the ground to inspect something.

“Come here, Mom! You have to take a picture of this!” my son called to me.

For a second I thought about scolding them and reminding them that I was in a hurry. For some reason, (OK, probably because my son so adroitly played to my photo obsession), I grabbed my camera and walked back to where they were.


To be honest, I was kind of disappointed at first when I realized they were just looking at a caterpillar. But they were both so completely entranced that I crouched down to look at it myself. I could see their point. The translucent lime green skin! The perfectly segmented body! Those curious speckles!

The caterpillar was a cosmic gift. For a moment, the mere fact of its existence arrested time, that most precious commodity of all, and we were wonderstruck. Oh, to always have the open heart and reverent eyes of a child…to slow down enough to see the abundant miracles around us and to know instinctively that appreciation of these wonders must always take precedence over lesser concerns.

Poison Ivy

I couldn’t bring myself to post anything all last week, because on top of an extremely challenging and stressful week at work, I’ve been dealing with an incapacitating poison ivy rash. I must have rubbed up against some poison ivy by mistake when I foolishly ventured outdoors a few weeks ago. (When will I ever learn?! Indoor kitties should stay INDOORS). 

For more than two weeks now I have been dealing with a repulsive, oozing rash. Whenever I see people (and I see people ALL DAY LONG), I feel compelled to blurt out awkward things like, “Oh, hi, I swear I don’t have leprosy or Ebola…it’s just poison ivy. The pus isn’t contagious, but you probably don’t really want to shake my hand.”

Just poison ivy, but the itching! – the torturous, unrelenting itching that has brought me more than once to tears of despair! I can only describe the feeling as having insects crawling underneath my skin. I have become a bag lady, toting ice packs everywhere I go. Ice is the only thing that brings any kind of relief, and believe me, I’ve tried everything.

My mother was aghast when I turned up at her house last weekend, dripping from ugly patches all over my arms and legs. Unable to sleep for worry over her miserable daughter, my poor dear mama got up in the middle of the night to consult with everyone’s favorite primary care physician, Dr. Internet, who told her that chicken was the cure. I woke up to the smell of chicken soup. Even though I stopped eating meat years ago, I ate bowl after bowl of the soup, and maybe a dozen eggs that weekend. At this point, I would eat raw, pulverized worms if I thought it would help. Alas, the chicken cure has not had any discernible effect. What’s more, when I later googled “chicken” and “poison ivy” myself, I could find nothing. Could this all have been a ruse devised by my crafty mother to get me to eat meat again?

“Do you think it’s because Mom was searching on Korean websites?” I asked my husband.

“Of course,” he replied with an authoritative air, “She would have been looking on mudang.co.kr or something like that.”

Mudang means shaman in Korean.

If I thought insurance would pay for it, I’d ask to be put into an induced coma for a couple weeks. I’ve resorted to knocking myself out by trying sleeping pills for the first time in my life, with mixed results. I’ve engaged in fisticuffs with my husband, who tries to grab my desperately clawing hand to prevent me from tearing at my festering pustules.

Well. If you’re still reading, I’m astonished. Thank you for indulging me. I know there’s nothing more tedious than to hear someone complaining endlessly, so I will conclude this mournful lament with a solemn vow to never speak of such things ever again and a whimper: uuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggghhhhhwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!