Celestial forces have aligned two weekends ago and now

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HOME ALONE AND IT’S AMAZING!!!

The stars have aligned. (And two weeks ago the sun, the moon and the earth aligned.) The girls are at Grandma’s and Captain is at the office. I came home last night in a festive mood. I burst in the house singing,

“Happy weekend!!!”

Captain looked at me and said,

“I still have work tomorrow.”

Right. Happy weekend to ME! And let me drive you to the commuter rail.

This morning I returned to my house and skipped from the door to the coffee maker and skipped into the living room, then skipped back to the kitchen.

I now have the time/space/brain power to tell you about the solar eclipse that you are sick of hearing about.

A year ago Grandma told us she would be taking us to Vermont for the total solar eclipse.

I heard “taking us on a trip.” YAY! I let the total solar eclipse part go in one ear and out the other. Those words didn’t deter me, but also didn’t spark any interest either. Solar what? Eh. I love Vermont. See you there!

In December we were gifted solar eclipse gear. Oh right, the reason we’re going to Vermont in April.

Then the week before, a national fervor was kicking up. I was swept into the enthusiasm, although still not sure what it was all about.

The PBS Nova episode on the eclipse was fascinating, but the awe these people spoke of was hard to imagine.

I packed our eclipse shirts. RB said,

“I’m so excited to go to Grandma’s beach house!”

“Grandma is taking us to Vermont.”

“I’m so excited to go skiing!”

“We’re not going skiing. We’re going to see the total solar eclipse.”

“Oh. Is there a pool?”

“Yes.”

“YAY!

Feeling somewhat concerned about the projected crowds in Vermont, I slipped our bullet-proof shield into our backpack and reminded Captain that if we can’t run, we lie on top of our children.

Check with me for more great, can’t-wait-to-get-this-vacation-started conversations.

Burlington, Vermont was so fun! The solar eclipse people were an amazing cross section of our population: all ages, abilities, colors, sizes, but somehow united in a sort of celestial geekiness.

Never mind the eclipse, the people watching was top notch. I was on a bench between my kiddos and no one cared to move for half-an-hour. We would’ve stayed there longer if someone hadn’t said “Pizza!”

We had a fair amount of discussion about where on Lake Champlain we should watch the eclipse. We needed to get there hours ahead. As soon as we’re talking hours, I’m thinking: ‘what are the kids DOING for HOURS? And is there a bathroom?’

So solar eclipse day it was playground or bust. Morning of, I slipped on a Smartwool top to go under my solar eclipse shirt. RB saw my long underwear and shouted,

“We’re going skiing!”

By 10am on solar-eclipse day we were at an awesome park and playground on Lake Champlain with seven porta potties. That sounds like plenty, but there was never not a line.

Have you ever wondered if your kids could be happy at a playground for SIX hours? Yes. Yes they can.

As we set up our chairs, RB jumped with excitement. She said,

“I can’t wait to see the meteors!”

At least she was finally talking about the solar system and not skiing or the beach.

BB was fascinated by the eclipse progression. RB was not. For the first half hour she refused to wear the glasses, but she finally relented and got into it.

Then TOTALITY. Darkness.

For over three minutes we had our glasses off and were able to look up at the eclipse with our bare eyes. We saw the sun’s corona. It’s only visible during a total solar eclipse. It brought tears to my eyes and not because my retinas were burning up.

Then at the end of totality, as the sun was reappearing, there was the flash and what they call the diamond ring.

It was unbelievably beautiful and awe inspiring in a way that I never expected.

The whole park, the best smorgasbord of people, erupted into cheers.

At dinner in Burlington that night I asked for everyone’s favorite part of the trip. BB declared,

“Playing at the playground all day!”

RB,

“Simming!”

And the adults?

Totality!

When RB returned to pre-school she was asked to speak in front of the class about her trip to Vermont.

After days of her talking about the beach, skiing and meteor showers, I was incredulous to hear that she recounted a solar eclipse.

Just like a day at the beach, but in a parka.
Celestial snacks
Bearded dragons want to see the eclipse too

April Fools!

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I stole Captain’s car.

You know I’m committed to this holiday when I set my alarm for 5:00am April 1st to achieve my dreams.

Several months ago some cars in our area were stolen from driveways. Captain, who had been meaning to install an outdoor camera security system, went all in.

Except, as with many projects, it’s not quite finished. The driveway camera is up and running. It’s recording and notifying Captain the minute anyone makes any movement in the driveway.

Daily notifications of children getting their bikes out of the garage are high priority.

Another camera is not plugged in yet. Something about running the wiring through the attic. If you want a timeline on when that’ll get done, it’s anyone’s guess, but if it’s still not done next year, then the world is my oyster.

With one camera out of service, I was able to sneak out of the house undetected.

At 5:00am I slipped on black sweatpants, black combat boots, Captain’s long black shirt OVER my fleece. I thought it made me look a little beefy, offset with my slender, black leather gloves. I sealed the deal with a black face sock.

I clutched Captain’s long black crowbar and headed out the surveillanceless exit. I made a bee line for the back of our property. I jumped a mile as every motion detector light went off. They terrified me, but not the deer Captain was hoping to deter.

I escaped out the back corner of the yard. I felt scary and was also concerned that if anyone saw me, I looked like real trouble.

I reentered our yard from the street, came down the driveway. I had rehearsed a charade in my head of what I would do. I got under the car in the back and banged my crowbar around on the ground.

The security camera records sound. As I lay on the ground under the car. I stared up at the spare tire and thought to myself,

“What would a car thief be doing here under the spare tire?” Proof I came up with this charade without googling: ‘how to steal a car.’

Although I did google: “tools to steal a car.” My trusted crowbar was not listed, but I decided that between the crowbar and the key fob, it would be a good combo.

I moved to the driver door and pretended to use my crowbar. I successfully “broke” in.

I tried to embody my best car-thief self, I resisted the ingrained habit of buckling. I’d like to say I peeled out of the driveway.

I did not. I sat there for awhile and wondered how long a car thief would wait for the windshield to defrost.

I decided not long. So because I couldn’t really see and it wasn’t my car with all its battle scars, I made a slow cautious exit, squeaking by our trash bins.

I was about to come to a full stop at the stop sign, but I saw our neighbor pulling out. I didn’t want to scare the bejeezus out of them with my black sock covered head, I turned and headed around the block.

I buckled. I don’t care how hardcore a car thief you are, who wants to listen to that beeping?

I parked down the street from our house and headed back inside.

It was such a relief to be back in my jammies, on the couch with my coffee. I’m really not cut out for car thievery.

I checked the driveway footage. There I was! Around 7am Captain headed for the shower, I glanced at his phone. The security notification was there! Movement in the driveway detected and recorded.

I paced the kitchen and tried not to act like I just stole a car.

Captain came out for breakfast, drank his coffee, perused his phone. NOTHING.

I walked BB part of the way to the bus stop. I saw her look down the street. At which point I thought she was going to shout and ask what Dad’s car was doing in the street. She didn’t.

That was a relief. Later I asked BB if she noticed Captain’s car. She said she thought it was her grandparents’ car. Which it was, but also all the more reason to ask about it. Seven-year-old brains are mysterious things.

I came back in the house and took the risk of yelling to Captain in the other room,

“Hey! Where did you put your car?”

He looked out the window and said,

“Nice try, April Fools.”

I have never been more crushed in my life. But I wasn’t convinced the jig was up.

I had been counting on Captain being oblivious to the date, but I’ve fooled him almost every year, so for once he was trying to be ready.

He started looking out all the windows of the house for his car. I asked,

“Did you check the driveway video footage?”

“No. Should I?”

“Well I don’t know anything about your car, so we should check it.”

He reviews the video, zooms in on the masked robber and screeches,

“WHO IS THAT?!?!?!”

I inspect myself. I note the time stamp,

“5:30am! I don’t know! You know I don’t get up until 6am.”

“I need to call the police. Should I call the police?”

“YES! Not 911, just the regular number.”

“The regular number?”

“Yeah, google it.”

His hands are shaking, he keeps muttering,

“Who was that?! I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this.”

As he’s about to press send on the call to the police, I pop out with the black mask on my face.

April Fools victory is sweet.

We can’t all be big sisters, but we can dream

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We tell our kids they can be anything. I’ve emphasized that they can be multiple things. But there are limitations. There are things they will never ever be no matter what and RB isn’t hearing it.

RB tells me,

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a big sister.”

“You ARE getting bigger everyday!”

Do I need to crush all her hopes and dreams right now? I’m just trying to get through the day over here.

She’s not oblivious to my evasive response. She doubles down,

“I’m going to be a big sister like BB. OK?”

BB tells me,

“First I’m going to be an olympic swimmer, then a prima ballerina, then an astrophysicist.”

Noted and I don’t feel the need to say anything. Meanwhile with RB, I’m tempted to tell her that no matter what she does, how hard she tries, how well she does in school that she will forever be a little sister. RB adds,

“When I’m the big sister, then I’ll have more toys than BB.”

Ahhh. We’ve hit the crux of it. A fight for resources.

There’s plenty of food, plenty of candy, an overabundance of everything. BUT ARE THE TOYS EQUAL???

BB tells me,

“Dad said when I’m a teenager I can change my room around. I’m going to need more space.”

Sensing an opportunity, I ask,

“Do you want to move the LOL doll house to RB’s room?”

“Yes!”

Within hours the LOL doll house joined Barbie’s dream house in RB’s room. I wasn’t waiting for BB to change her mind.

RB came home from school and her squeals of delight made me hopeful she’d forget her big sister career plan. RB informs me,

“I”m big enough now for the LOL house!”

“You are!”

“I’m getting to be a big sister.”

I don’t know what’s going on here, but as long as they stay outside, it works for me

When the kids are away, the adults will play

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Heaven!

I’ve arrived.

Nothing like waking up in my own home without my children, knowing they’re having the most wonderful time at their grandmother’s. They survived on donuts, Thai food, McDonald’s and ice cream. And no need to share toys because Grandma has two dollhouses.

Captain walked in the door and we were able to finish every conversation we started. I woke up at 6am out of habit, rolled over and didn’t make a peep until 7:30am. This was vital considering we were planning to stay up past 9pm.

The kids weekend away was out of the blue. Captain and I didn’t have anything planned and it didn’t occur to me until a friend asked,

“What are you going to do?”

What WAS I going to do?

It didn’t really matter. Whatever it was, it would be glorious. The highlight being sleeping late and waking up to peace.

A whole two days of peace.

No screaming over who goes down the stairs first. No screaming because their two hot chocolates aren’t completely even. No screaming because someone looked at someone.

If parental love is measured out in the number of marshmallows each child gets in their hot chocolate, then my kids are evaluating my love with as much precision as their counting skills allow. RB doesn’t stand a chance.

Days before our weekend of bliss I ask Captain,

“Should we go into Boston?”

The thirty minute drive from the burbs might as well be the trek of a lifetime.

Captain ponders this momentous idea,

“We could.”

And we do. We park in our old parking garage. It’s nostalgic in a way like:

‘It’s so nice we don’t have to park here anymore.’

We wander through the seaport where I used to wander with baby BB in her sling, but it looks nothing like it used to look. Shiny new buildings are EVERYWHERE.

Around 7pm we walk into a shiny new building for a game of mini-golf. All ages of people are playing. Captain starts with a hole in one and then not realizing it’s a digitalized game, moves my ball to try to help me, but that adds a shot to my score. I was doomed. But who cares about winning?

I do. I didn’t come all the way in from suburbia to hand this game over.

We have a bite to eat. All ages of people disappear and we’re left with twenty somethings. Captain gazes around at the couples. He says,

“They have no idea that in ten years they’ll be living in the suburbs.”

I glance at one young woman displaying a grimace of disdain as her date returns to her. I don’t have my money on them.

We head for mini-golf round two. Captain and I scan the crowd for anyone close to our age. Captain almost shouts,

“See that guy? Gray hair and glasses?”

Yes! And his wife is yawning. I’m with you girlfriend. I didn’t know that a 9pm mini-golf game would finish around 11pm. But it was worth it because I won the second round.

If my children have taught me anything, winning matters, especially when your immediate family is involved.

I was also surprised to feel content with being middle age. There’s peace in my life, even when the kids are home, that didn’t exist in my twenties. Or at least that’s the conclusion I came to after spending a mini-golf game listening to the bravado of “Soupie” and “Sheppie.”

Sheppie said to Soupie or maybe the other way around,

“My second cousin is hot. I mean it. I’m really attracted to her, but she’s getting married next month.”

These are the quality conversations I’ve been missing since I stopped bartending.

The weekend worked out so well for everyone that we put another one on the books for April. Captain and I will go out in Boston again, aiming for the 5pm-9pm window.

I don’t know what we’ll do, but I’m going to win. I mean have so much fun!

It is rich on my part to give Sheppie and Soupie a hard time when I’m walking around playing for Team BJ.

Sugarbush! I went a whole week without making a bush joke, Can’t say the same for Captain

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When Captain and I were whisking away on ski weekends with a bag thrown over our shoulders, I day dreamed about skiing with our future children.

Somehow I forgot to daydream about the impossibly overloaded luggage carts, overstuffed car, and children capable of putting everything on themselves when asked by their ski instructors, but capable of nothing when they see me.

I didn’t know that for ski trips each child would require two stuffies in addition to their lovie, plus RB’s huge music machine that is meant to attach to a crib, which we no longer need.

As our luggage cart obstructed the lobby, I took stock of the next two luggage carts. That family wasn’t traveling light either. They had a snoo bassinet and a full-size high chair.

We don’t need a high chair, so there’s room for extra stuffies.

This does include food for the week. Plus 3 ski jackets for me.
I own them, so if not now, then when?

This was a miracle year. It is the first year we all skied together the four of us. We rode the lift together and went down fun, blue-square trails. Not quite at the speed I would choose, but getting there.

The second best part after skiing was the outdoor hot tub/pool situation.

Skiing is how Captain and I met, and sitting in the hot tub together is a little bit of heaven. I sipped my beer and gazed at our children in the pool. I said to Captain,

“Can you believe this is how it started and now look at us?”

“Not an entirely unpredictable trajectory.”

Right.

I felt the same way after giving birth to BB. It was UNBELIEVABLE, yet millions of people have been giving birth for millions of years.

We’re just one of many couples falling in love in a hot tub and returning to it with the consequences.

My joy was splashed away the minute our children took to deep-sea swimming in the hot tub. There are age rules for hot tubs, but I don’t think that’s necessary. The only rule should be:

“Do you need goggles for the hot tub?”

“Yes?”

“YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED.”

And parents aren’t allowed in ski school. When I say it was amazing to ski together the four of us, it was amazing to ski together from 2pm-3pm.

And it was amazing to ski harder and faster with Captain the rest of the time.

I have perfected getting RB on the chairlift. It only took one time with her dangling down to make sure that didn’t happen again.

This is all thanks to wonderful instruction from ski school.

As I was putting BB to bed, she snuggled up to me and said,

“I’m lucky you’re my mama.”

After I was done melting, I asked,

“I’m lucky! What made you say that?”

“You’re not a mean ski instructor.”

“You had a mean ski instructor?!!”

“NO! The ski instructors are so nice. But some kids have to go from their really nice ski instructors to their mean, ski-instructor parents. I hear them yelling at their kids. And you just say, ‘Lead the way!'”

This is one of the very good reasons we pay for ski school. I can keep the mean, ski-instructor parent dormant inside me.

Of course the minute BB saw RB skiing, she didn’t attempt to hold her tongue. BB yelled,

“Turn RB! Lean forward. You have to stay forward!”

At which point RB told me,

“My tummy hurts, I need to go potty NOW.”

RB and I zipped down the mountain faster than BB would ever want to go. RB skied straight, leaned back, took full advantage of her wedge and we made it to the bathroom. We’ve got the skills we need.

Afterwards BB told me,

“At ski school they say: ‘No pee. No ski.'”

I have a new life motto.

Things are looking up! Or sideways

And nothing but the truth so help me

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One of the people I live with has a flexible relationship with the truth. RB will say whatever she wants to get what she wants. Add her darling smile, munchable cheeks, long lashes and I must continue to remind myself that she’s the most untrustworthy person in my life.

If I call her out, she’ll double down and get VERY angry. She can be an absolute lunatic. All she needs is a spray tan and she could run for president. Which is very triggering.

RB does not have stacks of confidential documents in her bathroom, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.

I often pick her up from school and one of her hands will be closed in a sweaty, clenched fist. I now know to ask,

“What’s in there?”

“Something I found.”

“You need to go put it back.”

“I found it.”

“Yes, and it belongs to your school.”

The first time this happened one of her teachers was so kind and said,

“Oh a rock, she can keep that!”

I knew she couldn’t. If that’s the route we took back in September she’d have brought home an entire play structure by now.

At one point, she started filling her backpack with toys from inside the classroom.

She seems to have a hoarding personality. She wants more food on her plate even though she’s not going to eat it. She wants all the animals from Noah’s Ark even though her friends want to play too. She wants our entire collection of popsicle sticks, even though she doesn’t know what she’s going to do with them and now I have no idea where they are.

BB got a magnetic marble run for Christmas. It came with 12 large marbles. There are now several missing. RB offered,

“They might be in my room.”

As if they magically rolled upstairs and she had nothing to do with it.

I was in her classroom the other day and I noticed I didn’t see the book we brought in for her birthday. RB tells me,

“I think someone put it behind the book shelf.”

Uh huh.

The other morning I took BB to the bus stop, when I came back in one of BB’s drawings had been ruined. I confronted RB about it. She said,

“You didn’t see me do it!”

The idea of a teenage RB terrifies me.

Another presidential quality of hers is that she is very happy to hold everyone else accountable for things she has no intention of applying to herself. She inspects the trash on a regular basis.

The other day she spotted a Reese’s peanut butter cup wrapper. She picked it out and waved it at me. For someone who’s so OCD about a drop of milk while she’s eating her cereal, it’s unfathomable that she continues to grab things out of the trash.

I have nothing to hide, except my favorite candies, I tell her,

“I ate a Reese’s.” And you didn’t see me do it.

RB looks forward to a bag of fruit snacks AFTER swim lessons. I haven’t eaten fruit snacks in 30 years, but somehow, now that they’re in my handbag, they’re hard to resist. I munch on them on the way TO swim. RB yells,

“How come I smell gummies?! ARE YOU EATING MY GUMMIES?!?!?!”

You are eating my gummies and not until after swim.

The first sign that she may be running for President was when she was two. Her grandmother took her to brush her teeth and asked her which toothbrush was hers. She pointed to it. Her teeth were brushed and off to bed she went.

Grandma then took BB in to brush her teeth. BB picked up the SAME toothbrush and brushed her own teeth. At which point Grandma realized she had been bamboozled and it was too late.

Don’t try to tell me RB didn’t know which toothbrush was hers. She KNOWS. She saw an opportunity to use her sister’s and she took it.

Also at two, RB’s grandma was helping her get her shoes on. She was asked to go get socks. She came back with a pair of her sister’s socks and had a whole spiel about how these are HER socks and she got them for HER birthday.

When we arrive at school, there’s a table with everyone’s name tag. The tags have a photo and their name. RB grabs hers easily. One day all the tags were turned upside down. It had their name only, no photo. RB was perplexed. She stared and stared.

Proof that what I thought was true: she doesn’t know her letters. Another presidential qualification?

She picked up a tag with a name the equivalent of Theodore. I said,

“Good try, but that’s not your name. Try again.”

Instead of going back to the table, she thrust the Theodore tag at me and hollered,

“IT IS MY NAME! It has two “Es”!”

So President Theodore she is.

Reality and the truth have never felt more subjective or imperiled. May there be mercy for our country and my home.

The self-declared fastest skier on the slopes. You don’t need me to fact check that for you

Happy New Year! Do you want to purchase the fart extension pack?

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Happy New Year!

BB asked me,

“Did you make any resolutions?”

“I did not.”

Although based on the YMCA parking lot last week, plenty of people did. They appear to use their membership one month per year.

I resolve many things at many different times and accomplish or don’t accomplish them on a regular basis throughout the year. No need to put so much pressure on poor January.

Years ago I resolved to never have an Alexa in my home. She is now in almost every room. And if you’re in a room without one, you’re close enough to yell for her and multiple Alexas will respond.

I thought I didn’t want her because she’d be listening to everything all the time. And maybe she is. But my phone has the same capabilities, so if all these contraptions want to listen to me as I make my kids’ poop talk, so be it.

Twenty-year-old Jessica did not know this about 41-year-old Jessica. I talk for MANY inanimate objects. So much so, that when they’re quiet, BB or RB will yell,

“Make the Frosted Mini-Wheats talk!”

In a moment of morning merriment, I made a bowl of cereal chat with 2-year-old BB. Now five years later no one will eat until I make the shredded wheat speak.

It has lost its spontaneity, but does not seem to have lost its entertainment value.

I don’t have a ton of different voices. Frosted Mini-Wheats, started out sounding like a Mafia boss, but now sounds very similar to Poop. Pee sounds very similar to Toothbrush. The houseplants vary and sound very similar to everyone else.

“OUCH! Please don’t rip my leaves off while you’re sitting on the toilet.”

Yes I could move the plant away from the bathroom, but that’s a great south facing window right there.

Why, you may be wondering, do I make all these things speak to my children? I do not have a good answer. As I cajoled a belligerent, backed up RB to spend a little extra time on the toilet, she refused. I was at my wits end, I said,

“Hi! I’m your poop! I want to go for a swim in the toilet.”

RB dropped her pants, hopped up on the toilet and said,

“Ok poopy, come on out, you can go for a swim!”

And she pooped.

The talking objects can accomplish in seconds, what my mom voice never will.

The other day RB yelled from the bathroom,

“I need someone to wipe me!”

“Ok!”

“It’s just one, she doesn’t have any friends or family.”

One lonely poop.

Yes, I make poop’s friends and family talk too. RB is in a rush to get off the toilet and the only thing worse than wiping her poopy butt, is wiping it multiple times a day because she won’t sit long enough to let the whole community out.

When we first got Alexa, I thought we turned off the voice purchasing abilities. We did not.

It didn’t take BB long to discover that she could ask Alexa to make fart noises and Alexa will politely accommodate her all afternoon.

After hours of this, Alexa asked,

“Would you like to buy the fart extension pack?”

BB shouts,

“YES!”

Fart extension pack purchased. I rushed to my Amazon account determined to fight this. I was charged $1.60 “to take farting to the next level.”

Fine, I thought. Not a huge expense, despite that the reviews “disagree on value, quality, and sound.”

Turns out the money is the least of it. It’s about how many hours/years of constant fart noises, songs, games my sanity can sustain.

RB has spent the last two years screaming,

“Aleska!!!”

Alexa does not respond to that, which makes RB FURIOUS. She continues to scream ALESKA ALESKA ALESKA, but that is a welcome change to one hundred farts in a row.

AI has won over my kids with potty humor on demand, but still can’t compete with my inanimate object voices.

Yesterday BB burst into the house from the bus singing a tongue twister. I exclaim,

“That’s a lot of alliteration!”

“How do YOU know about alliteration?”

Oh no! I have entered the Land of Parents Who Know Nothing. When in doubt, we’ll ask Alexa.

Very Merry EVERYTHING and Twerking Santa

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That’s a wrap on Hanukkah. RB is more confused than ever and still hoping for candy eggs.

After dinner she ran into the library, where all the Hanukkah presents used to be. It’s the room that has room for everything. Move over exercise bike, giant stuffed dreidel coming through.

RB shouted. She shouts everything. Someone said they have never met a louder 4-year-old. I’m not sure what to do with that information. RB runs back into the kitchen and yells at me,

“Hanukkah present time!!! WHERE ARE THE PRESENTS?”

“Hanukkah is over.”

“HANUKKAH IS OVER? NO MORE PRESENTS?!”

I almost wish I could say no. Instead I say,

“There will be more for Christmas.”

RB runs back into the library, runs back into the kitchen. Yells at me again,

“There are NO Christmas presents.”

“No. It’s not Christmas yet and the Christmas presents will be under the tree.”

As we sit down for dinner RB sighs,

“I love Passover.”

Right. Talk to me in four months.

Then the other day we were headed out for a Hanukkah party. RB jumps with joy,

“I’m so excited for my birthday!”

Which was in October.

RB heads off to her swim lesson with a present for her coach in hand. She tells me,

“I’m going to say ‘Happy Hanukkah!'”

“I don’t think she celebrates Hanukkah.”

“I should say ‘Happy Hanukkah’ because she hasn’t had it.”

Ok.

We have an impressive amount of Hanukkah clothing, thanks Target: Sparkly blue menorah dresses, sequin dreidel sweaters, menorah shoes, dinosaur star of David leggings and menorah underwear.

I try to stay out of the morning clothing selection, any input is ripe for conflict, but RB is relentless in her bugging for help.

“WHAT SHOULD I WEAR?!”

“How about a Hanukkah dress?”

“Ok.”

She comes down in a sparkly red sweater dress. It looks great. She asks,

“Is this a Hanukkah dress?”

“More of a Christmas dress.”

“IT’S A HANUKKAH DRESS!”

Ok! PLEASE STOP YELLING about EVERYTHING.

A day ago I was notified that a yankee swap for the kids was added to a Christmas party this Friday. I wrack my brain and my timeline. I have one brilliant idea. It will not arrive in time from Amazon.

I scour the internet. It’s available at ACE Hardware! It is not an item I would EVER think of going to ACE Hardware for. I order it ASAP for pickup.

I walk into the store. I wait in line surrounded by ACE Hardware clientele. One guy offers me his spot in line. Under normal circumstances I’d decline, but this is a crazy time of year and I’ll save 3 minutes wherever I can.

I approach the counter. The cashier stares at me,

“Hi, I’m picking up.”

He continues to stare.

“Jessica Curtis.”

Still staring.

“C-U-R-“

“What is it?”

“What?”

“What are you picking up?”

I have picked up many things at many stores and I can’t remember a single time when I’ve been asked to declare in front of everyone what I bought. I tell the Hardware associate,

“Twerking Santa.”

I walk out the door to the tune of some Christmas song and Santa vibrating his tuchus.

All of this just to get him home, put him on the counter and realize his twerking is not good.

I intend on exchanging him, but the reason ACE Hardware has a supply of twerking Santas this late in the season is because none of them actually twerk. Their butts just vibrate.

I update Captain, planning to come home and see if there are any books related to poop or farts or the bathroom in any way.

Out of character for Captain, he has become invested in this. When I’m almost home, he calls me back,

“Go to Home Depot! They have a sloth!”

Sloths are the IT animal in our house right now.

“A twerking sloth?!”

“I don’t think so.”

It is not a twerking sloth, but it does have a Santa hat on and dances to MC Hammer. It is now on my dresser awaiting its fate at the yankee swap.

Bottom line is it’s a celebrating time of year and the more holidays the better. If anyone celebrates Kwanzaa, I’m all ears.

My understated take on Hanukkah, a minor Jewish holiday
Dances faster than one would expect for a sloth

Happy Hanukkah!!! Jury is out on this one…

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When we moved to the burbs 6.5 years ago, the only Hanukkah decor I had was our actual menorah. We now own eight menorahs. Some are homemade and potentially flammable.

I added a bin of decor per year. There are seven bins. I will not be needing an additional bin this year, but it wasn’t a buy-nothing season either, despite Hanukkah being moments after Thanksgiving.

As you may know from previous posts, I adore Home Goods’ ability to have the most random, how-did-I-live-without-these, Hanukkah items. I walked in last week just to check and walked out with the most bejeweled, bedazzled, menorah wall-hanging I’ve ever seen.

Considering how sparkly and shiny everyone and everything is right now, this menorah is on trend. And if someone knows where to buy a faux-fur menorah, I’m sure I can find a spot for it.

The kids are ready. RB keeps shouting,

“I’m so excited for Hanukkah and candy eggs!”

“Candy eggs?!”

“Yeah. That bunny holiday!”

Hmmm.

RB has her priorities: candy.

The other day RB peered into her pumpkin bucket in despair. A few starbursts were scattered at the bottom. Then RB got a glimpse of BB’s halloween bucket still brimming with candy.

RB howls,

“It’s NOT FAIR!”

On October 31st, both buckets were equally full.

Every time RB sat down with her bucket, she made it her mission to unwrap and eat as many pieces of candy as possible. She eats candy in a way that’s very consistent with her personality: quick, efficient, and on to the next thing.

Every time BB sat down with her bucket, she picked up the same ring pop from the time before, sucked on it, day dreamed, sucked on it, day dreamed. Then she put her half-gone ring pop back in the wrapper to continue with another day.

She made zero progress consuming her candy bucket. This is very consistent with BB’s personality: no rush, no… rush…, really she has zero sense of urgency. Her candy bucket might still be around by the time we get to candy eggs.

This blog post has been open on my computer all week. I was chugging along, on track to finish it this morning and start Hanukkah tonight, but then everything came to a screeching halt. Yesterday around 4pm RB vomitted everywhere. She continued to vomit all night. Then she woke up in the morning and declared herself all better.

I am NOT all better. I’m sleep deprived, although still healthy. The question is for how long. Can I and the remaining members of my family stay healthy for 8 nights? Seems unlikely considering how much vomit I came in contact with. But it’s not called a Hanukkah miracle for nothing.

In between vomits yesterday I threw a blanket on the floor and put RB on top. She started to scream. Considering she had been maintaining her silent misery, I had no idea why she was screaming all of sudden. I cry,

“What is it?!”

She points her finger at the edge of the blanket on the floor. Half the tassels are out and half are in. RB is clenching her whole body and screams,

“THAT!”

I flick the edge of the blanket back and forth so all the tassels are going the same way. RB relaxes and goes silent.

I would’ve thought that being on a vomit spree would put one’s OCD on hold, but it seems to be the opposite. Uneven blanket tassels are UNBEARABLE. Remind me to never buy anything with tassels again.

RB’s attention to detail was strong all week, even before she got sick. BB likes the Hanukkah decorations and accepts however I put it out. RB has specific opinions about how it should look.

I have one Hanukkah house, waiting for me to start a Hanukkah village. In front of the Hanukkah house I put a dreidel person and a menorah person. The other day RB added a toothbrush person.

I didn’t think of the toothbrush person as someone celebrating Hanukkah, but we need all the support we can get.

Bert and Ernie, our resident armchair experts

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And we’re off to the races. Halloween was successful. Candy is dwindling and space has been cleared for our gazillion Hanukkah decorations plus a Christmas tree.

BB doesn’t have a full week of school until after Thanksgiving. I’m not sure what that’s about.

I cleared space, but not as much space as one would think. Our Sesame Street stuffies are still hanging around.

Captain and I have a running Bert and Ernie joke. He’s Bert and I’m Ernie. That’s the high level explanation.

Six years ago, when we bought our house with its double-sided fire place, I dreamed of a library with two leather chairs.

I accomplished the library portion immediately. Due to necessity, the library became library/office/home gym. As soon as the exercise bike and weight lifting bench moved in, it was hard to imagine where two chairs would go. Also any extra money we have, I’m loathe to spend it on chairs when it could be used for travel.

So the library/office/gym remained full and chairless. There is an office chair and a stool I use for midday one on ones, usually to confirm I can leave a kid behind while I drive the other kid EVERYWHERE.

The first Christmas we were in our house, Crate and Barrel was selling Bert and Ernie pillows at a steep discount, final sale. I’m sure they were intended for a kid’s room. I gifted them to Captain and told him final sale before he had time to voice any misgivings.

I said,

“They’re for our future library chairs!”

“Ok.”

Then they went to live in the closet for the next five years.

A year ago I was at my dear friend’s New Hampshire condo. She mentioned they might be replacing a couple chairs with a couch. At the risk of being too bold, I said,

“If you ever don’t want them, we’d love them! But totally understand if you’re going to sell them.”

Last month they replaced them with a couch and asked if we’d still like them! YES YES YES!

Captain surveyed the home gym. I surveyed the bit of space in the corner, across from the fireplace.

Our amazing friends fit them in their car and drove them to us. Turns out the library/office/gym has room for books, a desk, an office chair, a stool, an exercise bike, a weight lifting bench, a rack of weights and TWO CHAIRS.

Captain and I regard the chairs. I raise my eyebrows at him and ask,

“Bert and Ernie?!?”

“Get them out of the closet! They’ve been in there long enough.”

So they have. They’re out, proud and enjoying the library/office/gym.

Yesterday I poked my head into the library/office/gym and asked Captain,

“Is it okay to pass along the Sesame Street stuffies?”

Captain looks at the picture of Bert and Ernie on his desk. He looks at the Bert and Ernie pillows on the chairs. He says,

“I do have this picture of Bert and Ernie and we do have those pillows.”

“Right. So maybe it’s time to pass along the stuffies?”

“How many Bert and Ernies do we have?”

“Two Ernies and one Bert.”

“Maybe we keep one Bert and Ernie and pass along the rest?”

“Ok…”

“I don’t need to keep Big Bird.”

All the Sesame Street stuffies are still in my living room. I was ready to part with them, but the idea of breaking up the pack has left me immobilized. Maybe we need a third library chair for the entire cast.

BB, circa 2017 🥺

WordPress offers AI assistance for editing and generating excerpts. Here are a few AI summaries of this post:

Our ever-evolving home doubles up as a Halloween candy storage, Hanukkah decorations showroom, Sesame Street museum, and a library-office-home gym, sans the comfy library chairs. After years of aspiring to own plush library seats, our pals gifted us their old ones, finally embodying the complete vision of our applaudable multi-purpose house. A long-stowed Bert and Ernie pillow pair now proudly grace the new chairs, undergoing hard negotiations regarding the fate of their Sesame Street comrades. Surprise, we might need an extra chair!

The multi-purpose space in a family home which doubles as a library, office, and gym finally gets the long-awaited addition of two chairs. The chairs, gifts from a friend, accommodate the previously closeted Bert and Ernie pillows. The Sesame Street stuffies face an uncertain future, but Bert and Ernie remain constants in the mix.

The narrator and their partner, affectionately referred to as Captain, have slowly been transforming their home-based library/office/gym into a more comfortable space, recently adding two chairs gifted by a friend. Alongside this transformation, a recurring Bert and Ernie theme has developed, supported by long-stored pillows and multiple stuffies. Looming above it all is the question of how many Bert and Ernie items should remain, leading to a humorous consideration of needing a third chair for all the Sesame Street characters.

In a nutshell, after Halloween and before the festive season kicked into gear, a family sorted their space. They transformed their library/office/home gym by adding two chairs they received from their friends. They revived a Bert and Ernie joke with some themed pillows. However, deciding on whether to keep or part with their cherished Sesame Street plushies has them stumped. Their solution? Perhaps another chair for the entire plushie cast!

And below is what AI thought about my writing. Sounds like I’m doing great work.

Everybody needs a Yeti Body. Not to be confused with the tumbler

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Wellness. I’m not sure when it became a widespread concept that everyone knows what it means, but BB has more breathing techniques and calm-down strategies than I do.

Wellness isn’t just a concept for her, it’s a class. There’s gym, music, art and wellness.

The closest I may have gotten to it as a kid was a health class, but breathing and mental health were not discussed.

A month ago I had to dismiss BB early for the dentist. She was upset,

“I don’t want to miss Wellness!”

“Why?”

“We’re learning about our Yeti Body.”

“Your Yeti Body?! What’s that?”

“I DON’T KNOW! That’s what we’re going to learn!”

Ah yes. Point taken, but considering the dentist is booked solid for months, Yeti Body will have to wait.

Last spring I stood chatting with a dear friend and her husband, who also have two daughters. The husband mentioned that maybe we should have a girls’ weekend at their condo in New Hampshire.

I’m all for traveling with kids and without Captain, but in this case I’m not sure why I’d leave him behind. I’d rather not be outnumbered.

I voice my hesitation,

“It wouldn’t be that fun taking care of the kids without Captain.”

My friend nods in agreement. Her husband shakes his head,

“No! The two of you, without the kids.”

“Oh! Without the kids?! Yes please!” I’m free all the weekends.

I spent 30 glorious hours away:

  • Two hour car ride without yelling or tossing anything to the backseat
  • Gorgeous hikes
  • Outdoor hot tub
  • Long delicious dinner out
  • A sleep in
  • Uninterrupted coffee
  • Yoga
  • Another relaxing two hour drive

And all with great company. I’d be happy to do any one of those things, so to do them all was luxurious. It felt like the definition of wellness, but I’ll run it by BB.

As we got out of the hot tub, I had a moment of concern. We had half an hour to shower and get ready for dinner, but then I realized the only person I had to get ready was me and I’m very cooperative.

When I got home and swept BB into a hug, she asked,

“Were you homesick?”

“Not at all!”

Later I ask BB,

“Did you ever find out what your Yeti Body is?”

“Yes. You get into your Yeti Body when you need to calm down. You smell your soup. You blow on your soup. You smell your soup. You blow on your soup.”

I grab my soup. This is a very effective breathing strategy.

The other day BB came home from school with a story to tell. I’m relaying it to you secondhand and I do not stand behind its accuracy. It should be noted that BB is having the best year yet; she adores her teacher and class.

BB tells me,

“Mrs. Soandso lost her temper today.”

“She did?”

“We were in line and everyone was shouting. She told us a few times to be quiet and no one was listening. Then she yelled ‘SHUTUP!'”

“She did?!?”

“So I turned to my friend L and whispered ‘Mrs. Soandso needs to get into her Yeti Body.'”

You did?!

I really hope BB was this quick with her smart-aleck joke. Her sense of humor makes my heart sing. Maybe with wellness.

We’re Kenough

RB is a BIG KID with a bit of a complex

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The only youngest child in our family is turning 4 next week!

Captain is an oldest sibling. I’m an oldest sibling. BB is the oldest. And RB is the youngest. We don’t understand her plight.

“RB what would you like for your birthday?”

“The same things as BB.”

“The same things as BB?”

“The same Barbies BB has. The same bag.”

BB got a new swim/beach bag for her birthday with an “H” on it. I ask RB,

“You want the same bag, but with an “E” on it?”

“No an “H.””

Right.

Everything that BB does, RB better be able to do too or else she is down in the dumps. RB hasn’t missed a trip to the bus stop yet, despite the disappointment of not boarding too.

RB is very happy to pick out her own clothes, say shorts and a shirt. She’ll be on her way and then boom, BB is in a dress. RB begins to wail,

“I NEED TO CHANGE. I NEED A DRESS TOO!”

Occasionally BB may take into account something about RB and ask for the same, but that usually only applies to candy.

RB, happy and sure of herself, then sees her sister: wearing, doing, being and nothing is right until she can duplicate everything.

When BB got in the pool for her swim-team tryout this summer, RB couldn’t have been madder. She glared at me,

“I’m NOT getting in the pool?!”

“No.”

“I want to race.”

“I know you do.”

Then when BB’s five minute tryout turned into an unanticipated hour practice, I thought RB’s head might explode or that she would jump into the pool anyway. She’s convinced turning 4 is going to solve all her problems.

I’ve got a cake problem. Just like RB couldn’t nail down a color for her coveted beach bag with an “H.” She also couldn’t seem to keep her cake story straight. After many changes, there was a solid two weeks of telling me,

“Chocolate Elsa cake with strawberries. No Anna.”

You’d think she’d identify with Anna.

Yesterday I ordered a chocolate Elsa cake. After school I told RB,

“I ordered your cake.”

“What is it?”

“Chocolate Elsa cake.”

“I don’t like chocolate.”

“What?!”

“It’s ok if you got it wrong mom.”

“I didn’t get it wrong!”

“I want white cake. It’s ok you got it wrong.”

But is it really ok?

I recruit Captain. He corners her in the living room,

“So what kind of cake did you want for your birthday?”

“Mom got it wrong, but that’s ok. I don’t like chocolate.”

I didn’t get it wrong! But I sure did call Market Basket and change it.

For Hanukkah last year BB asked for a watch. I took the path of least resistance and got one for RB too. It’s analog. I’m not even sure BB knows how to use it, never mind RB.

BB slipped hers on the other morning, an impromptu fashion choice. RB hasn’t paid hers any attention since she unwrapped it nine months ago. I haven’t seen anyone find something faster. RB swaggered to the bus stop, her upside down watch swinging on her arm.

And when I dropped her off at school, it was still on her arm. I may have turned it right side up, not that it matters.

When I picked her up that afternoon, I was surprised to see she was still wearing it. She told me,

“My friends asked me why I was wearing this.”

“Why are you wearing it?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed with the attitude of her big sister,

“So I know what time it is.”

Duh.

It’s almost birthday time. I did not buy her a bag with her sister’s name on it.

At school RB wrote her whole name, not just an “E,” for the very first time. I congratulated her. She beamed from ear to ear and told me,

“I wrote an “H” for BB too!”

To a sweet new year! May we make the most of our family time

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Shana Tova! Happy New Year! Captain lucked out that Rosh Hashanah fell on the weekend. Off to children’s services we went.

When it’s on a weekday, it’s work like usual for Captain. He’s saving his time off for when he really needs it, like hopefully in a few weeks to dress up as Shabbat Shark.

He is a very committed employee. A month ago when we got a tornado warning, he went into the basement with us. He watched us get settled with a movie and declared,

“I don’t have time for this.” And went back to work above ground.

I wasn’t sure how to feel. I didn’t want to be in the basement with a Disney movie either, but it would be a bummer to die. I thought about Captain: There’s his life insurance and hopefully some sort of recognition for dying in the line of duty for his IT job.

There was no tornado. Playtime resumed above ground and Captain probably wished for another imminent natural disaster.

Rosh Hashanah morning we walk into the sanctuary, I tell BB she can pick where we sit. She heads straight for the front center row.

I don’t go to synagogue for the people watching or the daydreaming, but I don’t mind a little bit of both. There’s none of that to be done from the front row.

RB declines to sit with us. She sees her Hebrew school teacher several rows back and makes a beeline for her. Smart kid.

BB starts to sag. She says she’s too tired to stand. She’s yawning. Then her head is on my lap. Captain has been casing the joint and whispers to me,

“We’re on the live feed.”

He points out several cameras trained on the front of the sanctuary. I get BB to sit up. RB has no inclination to sit with us ever again. Maybe I should move back to her.

I glance at BB. Half her finger has disappeared up her nose.

WHY did we sit in the front? I manage to recover her finger, only for it to disappear several more times.

The saving grace is that they didn’t hand out the plastic toy shofars that they have in the past. Imagine giving a room full of young families loud plastic horns and then somehow hoping the small children only blow them when they’re told it’s ok.

It was a lovely service and there’s a live feed to prove it. Next up? Yom Kippur on Monday. Captain’s work commitment exempts him from the front row. Middle aisle is my goal and RB can fend for herself.

Unrelated, but shows our commitment to house projects.

Back to school! I’m not crying, you’re crying. I’m really not crying

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And then there was quiet.

THANK GOODNESS.

I adore our summers at the beach. But I can’t say enough good things about being home alone.

This is my unicorn week: Kids at school and Captain at the office. It hasn’t happened since June. And it won’t happen again until October.

I’m soaking in the solo vibes. Vacuuming whenever wherever. Reading my blog out loud without anyone asking me what the heck I’m talking about. (Reading out loud is really the best way to edit.)

And having the run of the place without being scared to death every time I turn a corner and bump into Captain. You’d think by now I’d remember that he lives here too.

Which is what he says when I scream. He reminds me,

“I live here too.”

Maybe he’ll learn to stay at his desk.

BB is thrilled to be in second grade, in part or in whole because she gets her own locker. RB is happy to be in the same pre-school class as last year, but her friends all moved up to pre-k.

In theory this sounded fine to her. Last week she kept exclaiming,

“I’m in the same room, with my same teachers, but with new friends!”

“Yes!”

“I’m excited to see A!”

“A isn’t in your class anymore.”

“Oh.”

We walked into her classroom this morning and she went to put her lunchbox away. She declared,

“I put it next to A’s.”

Hmmm. Maybe it looks like A’s…

RB runs off to play and I chat with her teachers. On my way out, RB gives me a concerned look and mutters under her breath to me,

“These are baby kids.”

She’s not wrong.

Last year she was a baby kid. She was still two and one of the youngest. Now she’s almost four and one of the oldest. I reassure her about what a big kid she is.

That seems to do the trick. She had a wonderful day and was very chatty on the way home. She told me all about her new friends, including one still wearing a diaper. She doesn’t seem to be holding it against her.

Now RB is home and it’s still quiet. There’s no one for her to fight with and there’s no one to scare me. There’s a little bit of peace.

“Pink just looks so good on us”

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I bought Weird Barbie! She’s $50. I’m not sure if she’s for me or my kids.

For that price point she should probably be for me, but then she’ll stay perfectly weird and I’ll be missing the entire point of the movie.

BB missed the point of the movie, but that didn’t stop her from loving it! Her biggest complaint was that the ending was sad. I asked her why,

“I wish Barbie went back to live in her dreamhouse.”

Of course BB wishes that. BB has been the core demographic the dreamhouse was marketed for. So much so that BB thinks we need a second dreamhouse. I hope you can see my pained expression from where you are.

According to RB, the point of the movie was to maintain control of the giant popcorn bucket. She accomplished that.

There’s been so much talk about whether or not it’s appropriate for kids. I’m not sure which part of it is concerning. There are references to genitals. My kids know all about those.

As I stood in the ocean chatting with another mom, RB swam up and wanted to swim through my legs. She yelled loud enough for the whole beach to hear,

“Can I swim under your ‘GINA?!”

Then there’s the language. My kids have heard swears before and will hear them again. BB is on a school bus for 45 minutes everyday with kids as old as 10. Which is probably as good a source for new words as the Barbie movie.

So that leaves us with some of Barbie’s themes: feminism, patriarchy, machismo, existential crisis and death. Otherwise known as reality.

I heard some people with kids walked out in the middle and not for a potty break. Maybe they don’t like choreographed dance numbers?

It makes me feel like I’m missing something. I’ll just have to watch it again. Even Captain enjoyed it and he’s only been playing with Barbies for five years.

We’ve been listening to the soundtrack on repeat. All of us. I was at the Cape with the kids and Captain was home listening to it all by himself.

On his way to work he texted me the lyrics to “I’m Just Ken.” The Ken-ergy seems to be contagious and Captain IS very good at doing stuff.

BB’s favorite song from the movie is Billie Eilish’s “What Was I Made For?” It’s kinda angsty for a kid who thinks Barbie would be happy back in her dreamhouse.

And how anyone could be happy with a lifetime of pretending to drink coffee is beyond me.

My wardrobe already erred on the side of pink. It stands no chance now. The pink options are limitless! There are Barbie clothes, Barbie home decor and Barbie dreamhouse scented candles. What does that even smell like? Plastic?

But it does not appear to have influenced BB’s back-to-school fashion choices. She’s going with Doc Martens and wants to dye her hair black.

Only two weeks left to perfect my summer job: Beach. You know I’m good at it.

All mine

Sailing sailing over the ocean blue

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We sailed close to the wind, hit rough waters, turned a corner and stayed the course! It may be possible to write an entire post in nautical lingo without even scraping the barrel. But I’ll stem the tide.

It was an amazing trip! RB saved her blowout, make-me-want-to-look-for-a-ferry meltdown for the last day, a few hours sail from our car.

BB and I get seasick, but it hasn’t stopped either one of us yet. Last year BB sprayed the side of the boat blue when her frozen slushy resurfaced.

I came prepared with plenty of vomit bags and after the first two days I was worried I hadn’t packed enough.

With a storm headed our way, we left Newport and sailed straight past our original destination. We headed to the second night’s harbor, hoping for a good place to weather the storm.

BB and I took turns throwing up and RB took a massive four hour nap. The first sign that maybe it wasn’t a mistake to take her along.

We had a lovely dinner on land and went to sleep on the boat very happy. We woke up on our mooring rocking and rolling. The storm had arrived and rain was pouring down. I went up on deck, stood there with BB while we stayed somewhat dry, and threw up in our bags.

RB was in iPad heaven and never showed a single sign of being bothered by the motion.

The options for the day seemed to be: get on the launch boat in the pouring rain and get to land or stay on the boat and continue to vomit.

We got on land, got coffee and got a more peaceful mooring. Dinner was in a boat house. The kids were free to run laps. Captain was concerned about the anchors and other random sharp objects they might run into. I was concerned about having them at our dinner table.

The next day we set sail for Shelter Island and from there on in we had seven days of sun and smooth sailing. Every beautiful sunset, fun activity, good meal, made me very glad RB and I took our chances. And that my in-laws took a chance on us!

RB is now a restaurant going pro. At one point the server had barely introduced themselves and she was shouting,

“Lemonade!”

She might’ve just as well yelled “make it a double!”

At another we had just arrived at, I saw the server bend his head toward her, but I couldn’t hear what RB said. The server continued to welcome us to the restaurant. I asked him,

“What did she say to you?”

“She ordered buttered pasta.”

Perfect. Really the only thing different about each restaurant’s kids menu was the order of menu items: Hot dog, chicken fingers, pasta or maybe chicken fingers, pasta, hot dog.

At night I slept with RB in the V berth and Captain and BB took the center berth. It was very comfortable and snuggly, especially compared to the narrow bunk I had when I worked on a boat.

The boat is like one giant SNOO and RB and I fell asleep quickly. At home I sleep with no children and I don’t usually hear from either kid all night.

Several nights in on the boat RB woke up at 2am screaming,

“My blanket! Straighten my blanket!”

Normally I wouldn’t comply with a 3-year-old shouting orders at me, but bleary with sleep I’d do just about anything to make her stop. I smoothed the blanket.

3am. Screaming again about the blanket. I smoothed it.

4am. Screaming. Blanket. I took it away.

No blanket is worth this torture.

Captain got himself a 12-foot paddle board for his upcoming birthday and strapped it to the boat. The plan was to paddle around the harbors in the evening. As we pulled into Shelter Island, the sea was glassy, the views lovely and then we looked into the water. Jellyfish EVERYWHERE.

That was NOT going to be the spot of my first paddle boarding attempt.

Two days later, in Three Mile Harbor, Captain made it look easy. Then he took BB out on it too and made it look even easier. Then I tried it, thinking I was going to make a massive fool of myself. I wanted to do it away from an audience of my closest beach friends.

It was much easier than I thought! I didn’t add any kiddos to my board and I can’t imagine why I would do that.

RB said no at first, but soon changed her mind. She said,

“I want to do it! I’m getting to be 6 you know.”

She’s 3.5.

One morning our engine wouldn’t start. At work Captain has a report who often remarks,

“We’re dead in the water.”

As Captain and his dad worked on the engine, I lounged nearby sipping my ice coffee. I couldn’t help myself, but inform Captain,

“We’re dead in the water!”

Last stop was Block Island. That harbor is a scene. There’s a coffee boat. It’s like an ice cream truck but a boat, and for coffee, donuts and breakfast sandwiches. I regret not getting a picture. I was too busy drooling over my first hot coffee in days.

As we were going to bed we checked the weather: 50% chance of thunderstorms in a few hours. That would’ve been a great time to close the giant hatch over my and RB’s bed. I did not.

I thought to myself: ‘It’s hot, if I close it, it will be stuffy. I’ll leave it open and if/when I hear rain I’ll close it.’ I pulled the shade closed and passed out.

I awoke to the sound of a torrential downpour on the shade over my head. I couldn’t feel the deluge yet, but it was only a matter of time.

The only thing to do was open the shade, remove the screen and close the hatch over our bed. But that would also mean water pouring out EVERYWHERE.

I sat in bed paralyzed for what felt like an eternity. The water still accumulating in the shade. Captain dashed out of his bed, whipped the shade back, and water poured EVERYWHERE.

I started sobbing. Captain says, and I don’t really remember this, that I just kept saying,

“This is bad. This is bad. This is really bad.”

And it was. The waterfall hit RB mid snore and she came to screaming. Her hair was dripping. Her jammies were soaked. My pillow was soaked, our bedding was soaked, my blankety was damp.

Of all the things I thought to move to higher ground, Blankety was my priority. My child might’ve been a better choice.

Several years ago, while eating a nice COVID dinner outside with a dear friend, a thunder storm swept down upon us. She noted that I rushed the wine inside first, then came back for baby RB sitting outside in her highchair. If those chairs are going to be that high, they should be grounded.

So as I cried on the boat, envisioning no sleep for the rest of the night, a sopping wet RB curled up and resumed snoring.

I put down as many dry towels as I had. I put on dry jammies and set aside a dry shirt for RB. Then miraculously I also went back to sleep. RB woke up a few hours later, I changed her shirt and she went right back to sleep. We both slept straight through until 7am.

RB woke up, looked down at her random, dry shirt and said,

“What’s this? Why am I wearing this?”

It’s a long story.

LESSON LEARNED. If there’s even the most minuscule, chance of rain. I will NEVER leave a hatch open again. Or else I’ll choose a different bed.

Captain offered to switch beds with me. But sleeping with BB means accepting that at some point in the night her feet will be on my pillow and the risk of injury is high.

We finished the sailing trip off strong with a dinner out in matching shirts. I LOVE matching. RB adores matching BB. Other people have mixed feelings about it, so it felt extra special.

All was well until the final sail home. BB and my father-in-law were wearing another set of matching shirts and RB didn’t have one. That and no nap several days in a row was reason enough for RB to lose her mind. After an eternity of screaming, she demanded to be left alone and slept for the rest of the trip.

Now we know the ropes. Sign us up for next year!

Gone Sailing… if you hear from me soon, it’s bad news

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“Where are we going?” RB asks for the millionth time.

“CAPE COD!”

“I call it the Cape.”

Me too.

I’m forty one! And this is year four of spending the summer at the beach. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m getting good at it.

I can make lunches, pack snacks, drink coffee, coordinate swimsuits, apply sunscreen to small, wiggly bodies, one large cooperative body, all while texting, washing dishes, mitigating sibling fights, doling out popsicles, then walking the ten steps to the beach balancing a giant inflatable unicorn. All before 10am.

And all while maintaining my relaxed, beach persona. Or at least I’m hoping that’s what my hat and sunglasses are doing for me.

I bemoaned my last day of being forty. There was no sympathy for me. Everyone seemed to think: What’s the difference?

I agree, what’s the difference? I’m not sure, but I can’t wear my “40” tiara anymore. I can’t look over my shoulder at my thirties like it was just yesterday. I can look at the guy on the beach my friend gestured to as she said,

“He’s about your age right?”

Oh good grief. He was exactly my age. He had just turned 41 and was NOT a shining beacon of youth.

Over the winter we invested in an umbrella upgrade: the cool cabana. Good choice. A large portion of the beach appears to agree with us. Our friends got one too.

After many days of neither one of us even taking it out of the box. I couldn’t even remember what color I ordered. My friend asks,

“When are you going to try it out?”

“I’m waiting for a second adult.”

Refer to previous preparation list. By the time I get to the beach, the most effort I want to exert is opening my book.

We also ordered an inflatable paddle board. Jury is out on this. We’re hoping to try it next week when we go sailing with my in-laws.

BB has loved their boat since the minute she was born. She was doing overnight trips by the time she was two. BB and Captain have gone on several week-long sailing trips with my in-laws.

RB has done nothing to make me think she’s a good sailor.

Two years ago I looked at 1.5-year-old RB and said NO WAY to the week-long sail. Last year I looked at 2.5-year-old RB and said NO WAY, but then proceeded to feel like MAYBE we could have done it.

This year I looked at 3.5-year-old RB. HARD TO SAY. But I can’t let Captain and BB have all the fun without me!

A few weeks ago, we did a one-day sail with no overnight. Even RB’s iPad didn’t seem to stop her from pinging around the boat. My feelings swayed toward NO WAY. Everyone else seemed convinced it was worth a try.

Okay. As long as I’m not the only one to blame when we’re all ready to throw RB overboard.

Now I’m excited. I love adventures. If RB does make me regret taking her, no one will be able to tell. I’ll be wearing my hat and sunglasses, transforming my relaxed beach persona into my relaxed sailing persona.

Anchors aweigh!

Captain’s matching suit is coming next year.

Nothing like the sound of gurgling gushing water… IN YOUR HOUSE

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Happy summer! I made a mad dash to the Cape and I left my laptop behind. I left many other things behind: my bra, my hairdryer, not my children, but nothing left me more flummoxed than the laptop.

My plan was to have written a blog post already. Pen and paper crossed my mind, but I haven’t composed anything on paper longer than a thank-you note in 20 years.

I spent this week considering the pen and paper route and that’s as far as I got until I was reunited with my precious.

Last Saturday I made a solo trip down to open the Cape house. Anything with the word solo in it sounds lovely.

It did not turn out to be lovely, but I was still very grateful to be solo.

I went down to the basement to turn on the water. Something sounded funny. It’s at this point when it would’ve been a great idea to turn the water right back off.

I didn’t.

I took my time. I wandered around the backyard. I soaked in the ocean air. I enjoyed my coffee. I meandered back to the front door.

I may have taken more time from turning on the water to getting back in the house than ever before.

I opened the front door. I heard water gushing. It sounded like a bathtub was turned on. I panic sprinted to the other side of the house. Water was pouring out from under the laundry-room sink.

I dashed to the basement and turned the water off.

I spent the next hour mopping up water and regretting ever leaving the basement to frolic in the backyard like someone who has never dealt with a burst pipe.

I also spent the hour mopping and being so grateful I wasn’t also fielding a barrage of questions from my small children.

Although if said children had been here, I may or may not have gotten my butt inside a little faster.

Miraculously a plumber came within the hour. Water off to the sink. Water on to the rest of the house. I thanked him profusely and off he went.

I headed to the kitchen sink so excited to wash my hands for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. I turned on the faucet and water sprayed EVERYWHERE.

What is going on?! I looked at the faucet. It was corroded and there was a giant hole in it. That’s two sinks down.

We’re left with the bathroom sinks. That seems like enough water and sinks to start our beach summer, but not ideal.

The landlocked option is hanging around Captain, while he attempts to work from home. Also not ideal. We pack up (minus many items) and head to the Cape where everyone can scream as much as they want and we’ll only disturb people on vacation.

I get the kids in bed. RB is in her travel crib. She slept in it all weekend at my in-laws no complaints. She tells me,

“This is too small.”

It really is. I tell her,

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

I’m still considering it.

The weather has been hit or miss. Then along comes a bright, sunny, warm-enough-for-a-kid, beach day.

We’re down there for a minute and then I get the text: Plumber arriving in 15 minutes. I drag the kids and a very angry BB back to the house.

She’s desperate to go back to the beach. I explain,

“We need the plumber because we need to be able to use the sink.”

I’m in the process of putting RB down for a nap. She doesn’t nap everyday, but might as well if we’re home for the plumber.

BB is standing two feet away from the plumber who’s working hard to restore our way of life. She shouts,

“I WANT TO GO TO THE BEACH!”

“Go ahead!” Our friends have said she could stay with them, but BB wants me to hand-deliver her. “I can’t leave RB here and they know you’re coming.”

“Why can’t you come with me? The plumber can watch RB!”

The plumber’s hourly rate is $200. I do not want to know what it is if you add on childcare.

Back to the beach and I won’t take kitchen faucets for granted for awhile.

Nothing like a merdad with reading glasses.
One beach bum

What do you get when you combine mermaids, barbies, legos and one merdad? My living room

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I’ve been obsessed leading up to the live-action Little Mermaid. A week before the release, I bought movie tickets, mermaid dresses, nightgowns, shell purses, dolls and books.

It’s a magical upgrade to the original and the perfect first movie outing for mermaid obsessed RB.

RB is convinced the mermaids are real and BB is more believing than I would’ve thought. BB remarks,

“I just don’t understand how they got Flounder to talk.”

Somehow the talking crab and seagull are a given.

Reviewers said the movie was a cash grab by Disney pandering to Millennials’ nostalgia.

Sure and I’m SOLD. I loved The Little Mermaid and I love that I can share this new diverse version with my kiddos. I’d be wearing a mermaid dress too, if the youth XXL wasn’t so short.

Yes I bought the Target girl’s size 18 to match BB and RB. The waist was up around my armpits, so I just wore my favorite Mermom tank.

It’s a gorgeous movie and LONG. RB bounced from recliner to recliner. If I have my way, I’ll be watching Barbie in a reclining seat too. I’m as excited for Barbie as I was for The Little Mermaid.

We have no shortage of Barbie dolls, BUT there’s always room in my wardrobe for more pink.

People have asked me if I’m taking the kids to Barbie. It’s PG-13. I may live to regret it, but I’m planning on it!

I thought Ursula was going to be the end of us. Before seeing the movie, RB was terrified of her. She made me hide the 3-inch-tall Ursula doll. But then somehow the ginormous Ursula who filled the entire movie screen didn’t phase either kid. Maybe by the two hour mark they were in a candy-popcorn coma.

I asked RB about it. She said,

“The mermaids are real, but Ursula is pretend.”

And the 3-inch Ursula doll is somewhere in between?

BB, who I can count on to parse every random thing that comes out of my mouth, asks me,

“Why is childhood precious?”

“What?”

“You said childhood is precious. Why?”

“Well… you have a magical brain.”

“A magical brain?”

“Your brain makes your toys come alive, talk, act things out. I remember the day my brain stopped doing that: I had a Barbie in each hand and they couldn’t talk anymore.”

“They couldn’t talk anymore?! But Dad has a magical brain. He’s great at playing Barbies!”

“Dad IS great at playing Barbies.” Who knew?

It’s one of those intangible things I didn’t know about him until we were thrown into the child-rearing trenches. Captain knows his way around Barbie’s Dream House.

Days later BB yells for me. She wants her completed lego sets down from the top of her wardrobe. The last time she played with them they fell apart and her yelling, screaming and crying is why I put them back together and out of reach.

I ask,

“Are you sure?”

BB is in a panic and starting to hyperventilate,

“I need to play with them NOW before the people stop talking!”

“What?”

“You said they’re going to stop talking when I grow up!”

I have never retrieved a toy faster.

The legos are talking. Ursula is hiding in my closet. Barbie is waiting for me to remember how to play with her and I’m shopping for a Merdad shirt for Father’s Day.

Moral of the movie: Don’t let anyone share your popcorn no matter how large the bucket is.

But WHY???

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There’s been a lull in exciting questions. But not a lull in questions. RB has entered the Land of the Reflexive Why.

“What are we doing today?”

“Going to the grocery store.”

“Why?”

…

“Where’s BB?”

“School.”

“Why?”

…

“Where’s Dad?”

“At the office.”

“Why?”

Good question!

BB never went through a “why” phase. Instead she had two pandemic years of: “What do you mean?” It went like this:

“Time for breakfast.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m losing my mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I MEANT WHAT I SAID!”

And I’m not the only one who felt that way. I heard another 5-year-old tell her the exact same thing. It was validating.

The other day I was trying to get us all out of the house for some kid activity. The process is two steps forward, one step back.

RB bugs to go before it’s time. She has her shoes on, her bag over her shoulder and the baby doll of the day tucked under her arm. I can’t seem to round up BB. The momentum is lost. RB decides to put everything down and throw off her shoes.

BB asks what feels like the millionth question in the last fifteen minutes. I tell her,

“It’s hard for my brain to get us ready to go and answer all these questions. Please hold off unless it’s really important.”

BB hovers nearby. The quiet sounds like a ticking time bomb. She ponders the tiles.

“Why is there a crack in the floor?”

“Is that an important question?”

“Yes!”

I’m doomed.

I head for the car. RB starts crying,

“Where’s my baby? Where are my shoes?”

Several days later, with no sequitur, BB informs me,

“I really was wondering about that crack in the floor.”

“What were you wondering?”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has it always been there?”

“Ever since we moved in.”

Moral of the story: the only thing accomplished by trying to minimize questions is more questions.

Yesterday BB sat enjoying a ginormous rainbow swirl lollipop. It was the kind of lollipop that looks so beautiful that I want one despite not really wanting one.

RB asks,

“Can I have a lick?”

Two years ago, if RB had so much as looked at BB’s candy, BB would’ve been ready to throw it away. A year ago, RB’s light touch of a finger, never mind a bite, would make BB gag. A year ago BB would’ve rather licked a Disney World handrail, then risked getting a single one of her sister’s germs.

I watch in stupefied awe as BB extends her lollipop to RB. RB takes a big lick and BB puts the lollipop back in her own mouth. RB declares,

“BB is the best sister! Can we keep her?”

Best question yet!

And if you thought inane questions were for the youth…

Yesterday BB returned from a field trip with her sweatshirt tied around her waist. I had recommended leaving it behind so she wouldn’t lose it. She tells me,

“They told us to take our sweatshirts along.”

“And you didn’t lose it?”

“MOM! You can see my sweatshirt!”

So I can.

Matching tutus! Why? Why not?!