Five

April 24, 2012

He is five years old today.

So it has been five years since I nominated the epidural as The Eighth Wonder of the World.  Five years since I held that baby for the first time and became a mom.

And now he’s so clearly not a baby.  He is a little boy (or a big boy, as he reminds me).

His curiosity is boundless.  Which car is faster?  Which whale is bigger?  Which dinosaur is older?  Can we count to infinity?  Well, can we try?  {If anyone has a good response for that last question, hit me up. Otherwise, you can find me here in the family room, attempting to count into the hundred quadrillions.}

He has his father’s astute attention to detail and love of how things work.  He has my goofiness.  And my love of chocolate.

He is stubborn — so stubborn (hi, DNA karma) — and a distinct creature of habit, yet is also sweet and sensitive.

His train obsession has slowly tapered off.  He’s not quite ready for us to move the engines and tracks out of the house yet, but he now equally loves animals, dinosaurs, all modes of transportation — and, of course, pirates.  It’s nice to spread the love beyond the toy railway gig, because, frankly, I think some of those engines in the Thomas the Train franchise are kind of assholes.  And don’t get me started on Sir Topham Hatt.  Just don’t.

So this year, the birthday request was all about pirates.  And I made the catastrophic mistake of letting him see some of the unachievable cake designs I was browsing online one day.  Because he can’t fathom that carving a cake into a boat is not really in my wheelhouse.  Or that the thought of going into a craft store nearly gives me hives.

But it’s my self-imposed Annual Baking Challenge to make my kids a decent birthday cake.  Probably because I don’t feel I’ve punished myself enough over the course of the year for any and all sins of my past.

So there was a practice cake first.  I could tell you that this is all in the name of striving for perfection, but really — it’s just designed as a way for P and I to shamelessly eat cake.

“We don’t have room for the practice cake in the fridge and all the party food.  I guess there’s only one thing to do…”

We have clear roles in the cake quest.  I am in charge of design — which means ripping off the great ideas of others on Pinterest.  And because P is an engineer, I always enlist his help in the structural integrity component of the cake.  Here’s the thing:  When you ask for someone’s help, you kind of have to let them do it their way.  And when you ask an engineer to build a cake and make sure it stands, he may or may not bring tape measures and protractors to carve that practice cake into a proper boat.  But it stood like a champion.  It might have even sailed — but we were too busy eating it to find out.

The real cake was unveiled on Saturday when we had our extended family over to celebrate.  Its structure was a little more questionable than that of the practice cake, so I was forced to bind it together with toxic amounts of frosting.  It was basically a glucose overdose on a cake tray.

But it looked good!

The pirate captain approved.  Complete with his imaginary eye patch.

Come. On.  Can you believe I made that cake?  {FYI, the only acceptable response to this question is “Holy shit!  I can’t believe you made that cake! I don’t even know you anymore.”}  I mean, if you see my former self somewhere, can you show her the cake?  Because I’m pretty sure she will pass out.

{And I must credit the real cake designer — I lifted her fine invention from here.}

More importantly, can you believe I’m writing about this?  About how desperately I wanted to bake a fun cake? Again, tell the Girl I Used To Be that I said hi.

But it’s not really about the cake.  It’s about this guy.

I have big dreams for him.  Not necessarily about his career path or his level of success.  But about him always asking all those questions he likes to ask.  Always wanting to know more.  Always looking for what’s around the corner.  And always enjoying the ride.

He has had some bumps in the road over the last year, but now I can see him beginning to grow into his own skin.  I can see his confidence building, his patience slowly expanding.  I can see that it’s all starting to come together for him.

And I know — the way that a mother can know more than anyone else — that five is going to be great year for him.

Happy Birthday to my sweet boy.  I couldn’t possibly love you more.

 

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Swarmed

April 20, 2012

I’m not a nature girl.

I mean, I like nature.  From a distance.  It’s pretty.  But I’m not a camper.  And, late at night, I’ve always been more comforted by the sounds of the city streets over the sounds of crickets outside.

Bugs, in particular, are not my thing. I know they’re not most people’s thing (except for you budding entomologists out there) — but they are really not my thing.  Bees scare the hell out of me.  Correction:  One bee scares me.  I’m that person who, against all advice, does the spastic, desperate arm flapping and yelling when a bee is nearby.  You know, *that* person.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when P realized we have a bees’ nest inside a giant tree in our backyard.  It’s a big ass tree — probably 80-100 feet high.  It’s old and imposing and provides lots of shade.  And, there, on the side, about 30 feet up, is a clear entry point where the bees fly in and out of their deluxe accommodations.

Since the nest is conveniently located right over the kids’ swing set, we called the pest control folks to see if they could treat it.  It was going to require ladders and hoses and stuff.  By “stuff,” I mean cash.

When they came to treat it, we hit a roadblock.  They are honeybees, which are endangered.  You’re not supposed to kill them.  So I had two choices:

1) Leave it alone.  Honeybees are, after all, docile in nature, I was told.

2) Find a honeybee specialist or beekeeper to scale the giant tree and extract the hive.

I’m sorry, but I wasn’t going to leave it alone.  I’ll take Curtain #2, for the win, Chuck.

As with anything on the Internet, you quickly discover the passion that some people have for subjects you never spent a moment thinking about.  Like beekeeping.  I found a local guy online and contacted him — I’ll call him The Bee Dude.  He’d be over the next morning to have a look at the tree.

Great!  Progress.

And then.

Then.

About two hours after I called The Bee Dude, I was in my kitchen.  It was a sunny afternoon so I thought it was odd that, out the window, I seemed to be seeing something like rain.  Brown rain.  Raining dirt?  It took me a few seconds to realize…

OH. MY. HOLY. GOD.

BEES.  COUNTLESS BEES SWARMING MY YARD.  EVERYWHERE.

I did not have the wherewithal at that moment to take a photo (which confirms my suspicion that I will also never be the gal videotaping an oncoming twister because I’ll be too busy peeing my pants and screaming).  But in my hours of post-apocalyptic online research, I learned that I had witnessed a swarm of a honeybee colony.  And I also found this picture, which looks exactly like what I saw.

{Photo source: Wikipedia}

It lasted only five minutes but it was one of the freakiest things I’d ever seen.

Well, until my neighbor called me an hour later, her voice kind of shaky.  I figured she was calling because she had seen the swarm too.

Nope.

“Hey, uh, you know that tree [this is a different tree from the original large one I mentioned] in between our driveways?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh, can you, uh, take a look out your window and tell me if you see what I’m — “

“OH MY GOD.  OH MY GOD.  OH MY GOD.  THOSE ARE — “

“Bees!  Everywhere!  What the hell is that?”

She had managed to take a photo from inside her car.  It was this.

Maybe you guys have seen something like this before.  Maybe you’re all “Hey, it’s a hive on the move.  No biggie.”  If you are one of those people, please forgive my histrionics.  Because when I tell you I went batshit crazy at that point, I’m kind of understating it.

I still can barely look at the photo.  My friend described it as Biblical, which I think about sums it up.

Is it just me whose skin is crawling from this?  It can’t be just me, right?  It was like a horror movie.  Do you remember Candyman?  Uggghhhh.

So while I was trying to distract my mind that night from the mental image of the End of Days swarm outside my house, I read up on this whole phenomenon.  In a nutshell, when the colony gets too crowded, about half of the bees leave with the queen (this is when they swarm) and find a temporary place to land for a few days.  During this time, they all gather around the queen to protect her, while they send out scout bees to find a new location for their colony.  They leave a virgin queen behind in the old nest so she can take over.

Holy shit, it’s just like high school, isn’t it?

Anyway.  We survived until morning without my nightmares of bees boring through the walls of  my house coming to bear.  And The Bee Dude showed up early the next day, as promised.

I hadn’t told him about the swarm development since we last spoke.  He saw it and was like a kid in a candy store.  Or in a honeycomb, I guess.

He insisted we cut the Shock and Awe/End of Days conversation short so he could put on his swarming gear.  Because, in his words, “Every minute we spend not collecting this swarm is a minute the scout bees could locate a new home for the colony.  Possibly in a nook of your house.”

Oh.  Carry on, then.  I’ll just wait inside.

{Why didn’t we build a panic room as part of our basement renovation?  Why?}

And then a live episode of National Geographic unfolded in my backyard.  The Bee Dude was in full gear and managed to get all of the bees into his trusty box within a half an hour or so.  The key is to make sure you get the queen — to ensure that all the others follow.

See?  Just like high school.

My photos are not great because there was a window screen in.  And, as much as I like all of you, I sure as hell was not going outside to snap some higher quality pictures for your benefit.  You understand.

So The Bee Dude removed all 30,000 of the bees protecting their queen.

Yes.  30,000.  That’s what he said.

And that’s when I thought about the tidbit I read the night before that only half of the bees leave the original colony in a swarm.  Which means…there are still…

OH MY GOD.  There are still 30,000 bees in the original giant tree?

At that point, The Bee Dude, who clearly loves nature more than most, looked me in the eye and recommended that I have the giant tree taken down.  ASAP.  Because a colony that size has certainly hollowed out and compromised the structural integrity of the huge branch that hovers over my house.  Oh, and the virgin queen is laying 2,000 new eggs a day.

Seriously?  She is not messing around.

So now I’m in what I can only describe as a Nature Clusterfuck, which involves various tree removal companies and the pest control people.  The tree guys won’t touch the tree with 30,000 live bees inside (OK, fair point).  And the pest control guys won’t exterminate because of the endangered species issue.  Even though I did my good deed for Beekind and saved 30,000 of them this week.  They went to a very nice home in a neighboring town.  I was even promised jars of honey this fall.

We’re at an impasse.  Just waiting for the virgin queen to ascend to power and the after swarms and a Candyman sequel in my yard.

I’m so not a nature girl.

 

 

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Spring Break: Are We Done Yet?

April 15, 2012

 

APRIL 15, 2012

TO:  Education Administrators of New Jersey

RE: Spring Break Coordination

_________________________________________________

To Whom it May Concern:

It is with my last shred of sanity barely intact that I sit down to write you this letter, on the 16th and final night of the 2012 Spring Break.

I wonder if I could have a moment of your time to ask one simple question: Why can’t you all coordinate with each other and have Spring Break the same week?  Because some of us who have children in more than one school were faced with an odd, and seemingly avoidable, predicament of two different weeks off.

Why would this be?

In my specific situation, I dealt with two schools.  In the same town.  With two different weeks off.  So the last time I had both kids in school was on March 30.  I looked visibly younger then.

I’m not sure if you have children of your own, or if you’re familiar with the personality transformation that occurs when young kids are taken from their structure and routine over an extended period of time.  Perhaps not.

Furthermore, I’m not sure if  you’re familiar with the personality transformation that occurs when the mothers of these children are stripped of the kids’ structure and routine over an extended period of time.  But I can tell you that last Friday (aka Day 13), I went to Starbucks and saw throngs of fellow moms with at least one child in tow.  Said moms were clearly all at the end of their ropes and each was drinking a triple-something-something coffee the size of her own skull while allowing the kids to eat the cake of their choice for breakfast.  And I sat right down to join them.

Because we had given up at that point.  We had collectively overdosed on playdates, crafts, road trips and even disguising meager attempts at spring cleaning as “family projects.”  We were done.

Which leaves me with my original question and what we can do to fix it.

Was it merely a lack of communication?  If so, I’d be happy to facilitate a meeting regarding next year’s school calendar.  I’ll even have it at my house.  You can all come over and I’ll cook for you.  And then I’ll lock you inside until you all swear to never do this to me again.

We can use this guiding principle going into the meeting:  HOW ABOUT YOU ALL FOLLOW THE PUBLIC SCHOOL CALENDAR?

Just a suggestion.

If this wasn’t a lack of communication, then I’m left to believe that you were trying to kill me.  In that case, well played. You almost won.

 

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Out of the Office

April 10, 2012

This week marks a year since I left my full-time job — my career, really — to make a big change and stay at home with my kids.

Some days, it’s hard to believe it has been that long. Others, it feels like a decade since I’ve walked into the place that was my office, or since I’ve worn shoes with any real structure.  Leaving work was a leap I was scared to make — but I also knew the time was right to give it a try.  Nothing is forever, I told myself {unless you use our General Contractor for your home renovation — then, forget I said that}.

And life has totally changed since that day last year.  I’m in a different world.  One with yoga pants and playdates and navigating the mom social circles.  One without conference calls and stressful deadlines.  One where, as I type this, a crock pot is fired up and our fridge is stocked with groceries — neither of which ever happened when I was working full-time.  Not with 2.5 hours of daily commuting, semi-regular conference calls with Asia at 10pm and the ever-flashing red light on my Blackberry competing with my kids for my attention.

But one that comes with other stress — the stress that comes with full-time parenting sometimes. And one that comes without a paycheck.

There are indeed days — many days — when I want to pull my hair out.  Like today — also known as Day 10 of The Endless Spring Break (because it’s helpful when your kids’ schools close for break over two separate weeks).  Is it seriously only Tuesday?

Anyway.  It took me a while to get my footing in this new world — to find my friends, hit my stride and regain confidence in myself as a parent.

But I did the right thing, for me.  For this family.  For this time in our lives.  I’m not saying it’s right for everyone.

And recently, I started doing some freelance work, which is really the Holy Grail of Working in many respects.  It keeps that non-chicken-nugget part of my brain intact and allows me to string together complete sentences that don’t involve the Nick Jr. programming line-up.  But I can wear my pajamas.

To show you I haven’t completely lost my professional edge, I’ve assembled a brief presentation about this first year away from my working life.  I think this will give you a more in-depth view of how this transition has worked out for me.

Hey, Power Point has gone out and gotten itself some pretty new templates in the last year.

You probably don’t need an agenda slide.  You’re all smart people and, let’s face it, this isn’t rocket science I’m presenting here.  But old habits die way hard.

The first time I’ve ever used “duh” in a presentation.  I think I’ve been missing a real opportunity here. It has punch, no?

Oh, office politics — you are exhausting.  But luckily my experience here has served me well in navigating the playground social ladder.

I mean, we could go on and on with the Boardroom Bingo, right?  If you’ve ever sat in a meeting with maddening corporate speak, you know what I mean.

OK, so that’s six things.  Maybe my math skills haven’t survived the past year particularly well. Plus, I say them on a repeat loop all day, every day.

By “photos emailed by the nanny,” I mean feeble, out-of-focus and head-cut-off attempts my nanny made to take a photo with her flip phone.

Translation:  All the time.  I have one child in each ear as I type this.

I am very proud of the economic growth I’ve spurred in town since I am now home full-time.  It’s important to contribute.

Freelancing?  Yes.  Part-time?  Sure.  But full-time, commuting to the city work?  I mean, I can’t predict the future.  But my feelings are in the fairly strong to downright adamant camp towards “No, but thanks” on this one.

* * *

Oh crap — I have no concluding slide.  Sorry.  I’m clearly slipping.  But I assumed you were all so riveted by my pie chart wizardry that you wouldn’t notice.

This was fun — maybe I’ll do all of my blog posts in Power Point going forward.

Or Excel.

Or by conference call.

Wearing nice shoes with heels.

And a pretty suit.

Oh wait, does that mean I have to be showered?  Never mind — I like this gig better.

 

 

 

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Pod Living

April 9, 2012

Look what we had delivered last week.

The last time I saw this storage pod was back in November 2010 — as we prepared to shred the basement beyond the limits of a tolerable home renovation period. {“Whatever happened to that basement reno that you wouldn’t shut up about,” you ask?  The big reveal is coming soon.}

Anyway, the storage pod — it’s baaaack.  And it was a little like a game show:  Guess What’s in the Pod!  Or Fordeville:  The Early Years.  OK, maybe more like Hoarders: Storage Pod Edition.

Well, I’m knee-deep in sorting through its contents.  And — lucky you! — you’ll get to see some of the gems that I am not too ashamed to share.  Soon.  Because, when you grow up in New Jersey in the 80s…well, let’s just say that the photos and artifacts are highly entertaining. At my expense, of course.

But in the meantime, some deep thoughts.  Namely, it struck me that the storage pod is a viable alternative for a first apartment.  Yes, really.

If you recall, a few months back, I was on a similar tear.  I shared my total resentment of observations about the Pottery Barn Kids Cottage Loft Bed being both larger and nicer than my first Manhattan apartment.  It’s obvious that the PBK execs followed my every word, latched onto my ideas, and immediately called an Emergency Bed Sales Strategy Meeting to keep the trend going.  Because in the last PBK edition, I noticed that the urban male dweller was not to be overlooked.  Behold, fine hipster twenty somethings with low income and steep city rental tabs:  The PBK Eli Fort Bed.

{Image: Pottery Barn Kids Catalog}

 

Now you don’t have to do the Walk of Shame from  your hipster girlfriend’s PBK Cottage Loft Bed.  You’re welcome.

“This magical retreat for your child evokes the spirit and appeal of an outdoor tree fort. The twin-sized bed sits above an open play area to double the space in the room. It’s built of rustic-finished wood, with open windows for a lookout and a sturdy ladder for access.”

Ah, yes, like its cousin the Cottage Loft Bed, this is also better appointed and larger than my first actual Manhattan residence.  Move thee to thy nearest young nephew’s house.  Stat.

Or…

Get yourself a storage pod.  And move in.

Just hear me out.  Especially if you’re in the Marketing department of 1-800-PACK-RAT.  Get your Emergency Bed Sales Strategy Sales Team in place.  Because I have a whole new revenue stream for you:  The Urban Residential Pod.

Here’s the interior of our storage pod.  It is essentially the same size as my studio apartment in Manhattan, circa 2002.  Truly.  How interesting (aka sad) that both seem to fit the same amount of furniture.  Sadder still, they both seem to have the same view of a wall and minuscule exposure to natural light.

But here’s the rub.

  • The pod is stored in a climate controlled facility.  Whereas in the Manhattan starter apartment, you are opening your windows during a blizzard to bring the temperature down to a breezy 81 degrees.  And then, come summertime, you are taking your life in your hands trying to precariously mount an ancient AC unit in a crumbling old window frame, while hanging from your waist four stories over a busy city street.
  • The pod and my apartment seem to have had a similar neutral color palate. 
  • The pod might have been cleaner.  And more updated.
  • And, the pod is cheaper.  Way cheaper.  We were paying around $90/month for the pod.  And my apartment?  Well, in the year 2000, I was SUPER LUCKY  to have found this rent-stabilized place for a total steal of around $1300/month.

Now, there are some drawbacks with the pod.  Top of mind, of course, there is the issue of some basic utilities.  Don’t panic — I’m not referring to WiFi — because you can totally pick up the storage office signal from  your pod.  I meant the other utilities.  Like plumbing.  And possibly electricity.  But I’m totally confident that PBK will soon have a pint-sized yet high-end solution for you.  Unless the newly established Urban Residential Pod sales team at 1-800-PACK-RAT beats them to market with a utilities upgrade package.  It’s going to be a fierce race to the hipster consumer’s wallet.

Then there’s the socialization aspect.  I mean, it’s probably hard to bring a date home with you to the pod.  As clean and well decorated as you may keep your pod, it’s probably going to be, at a minimum, a little awkward.  The truth is that any woman is going to get a very Silence of the Lambs vibe from this situation.  It’s also tough to keep one eye on the clock all the time while out with friends, making sure you don’t get home after the storage facility closes for the night.

So there’s that.

But these are smallish trade-offs for a clean, secure, spacious and totally affordable urban living space.

Or maybe I’ve just gone completely delirious in my attempt to sort through all of these boxes.

 

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The Easter Candy Consumption Pyramid

April 6, 2012

 

Easter always feels like a hallmark of Springtime to me — even after an unusually warm March around here this year.  Although, now that I think about it, it is kind of ironic to welcome the warmer weather with this holiday — as we consume baskets full of candy that won’t allow us to comfortably fit into our summer clothing.

Easter, for many folks who are far better souls than I am, also means the end of Lent.  This year, I went as far as giving up sacrifices, which I think went pretty well.  Certainly I was more pleasant than in my past Lenten efforts to give up things like cursing, chocolate, coffee and wine.  I’ll let your imagination take it from here.

The Easter preparations are pretty much done around here in Fordeville.  Earlier this week, my youngest sister made her annual Dye Eggs With Auntie visit.  This is also known as Auntie and I Drink One Glass of Wine for Every Egg The Kids Crack.

We all had a great time.

 

 

And then there was my son’s class Easter party.  My friend Jen and I signed up to do this party back in September.  I figured it would be the usual — cupcakes, a goodie bag and a little project.

By “little project,” I did not foresee us dyeing eggs with 17 pre-schoolers.

But Jen pulled the “I’m Jewish and never get to dye eggs” card.  She felt it was her only chance.  Something about if I was really her friend, I would  not deny her this experience.

Because we like to keep the parties all about the kids.

But Jen did promise to make the cupcakes for the class party.  And when I texted her to ask what kind she was making, I got this.

It’s a good thing I am fluent in Baked Goods.  Obviously, she was making vanilla Funfetti cupcakes with vanilla frosting and colored Funfetti sprinkles.  Duh.

Anyway, the party went really well.  I don’t have any pictures to post because my hands were sort of full.  But if Jen ever talks me into this again, remind me to bring my hip flask.  And to steal hers as a back-up.

And now that all the prep is finished, it’s time to think about this weekend’s candy consumption.  People have fiercely loyal opinions about their Easter Candy preferences, and I’m no exception.

Here’s my quick and dirty Easter Candy Consumption Pyramid.

 

 

Yeah, I’m a dark chocolate purist.  I don’t see the point in contaminating the goodness of the cocoa bean in its perfect form.  Just give me the dark chocolate bunny — solid ears and hollow body, please — and I will be happy. {This tracks closely with my Hershey’s Variety Pack rankings:  1) Special Dark 2) Krackel 3) Milk Chocolate and 4) Mr. Goodbar.}

Before you go all Occupy Fordeville on me for my Easter candy opinions, let me also just say that I think white chocolate has no place in the Easter Candy aisle.  And though I respect any cult candy following, I remain confused by Peeps and Cadbury Eggs.  They kind of scare me.

But, look.  We can all agree to disagree.  Candy is a personal choice.

And, if you like white chocolate and Peeps and Cadbury Eggs, this works out well — because you are one less person fighting with me over stealing the dark chocolate from my kids’ Easter baskets when they are sleeping.

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Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink, Holidays 6 Comments