An Acorn Dreaming

Peep dioramas: a 2013 chapter in the Peep Wars

Posted on March 30, 2013 | 2 Comments

I have a long-standing hatred of Peeps and an almost as long-standing record for calculated Peep destruction. I like to squish Peeps. I admit it. My mother-in-law, Pat, is my Peep nemesis. She is the protector of the all things Peeps. You can read about our two decade Peep war here.

This year Pat harnessed the creative powers of my children to create Peeps masterpieces. It is her most brilliant move in the history of the Peep Wars. As a mother, I can’t destroy something created by my children, even if it is a thing made of Peeps.

Pat helped my kids make Peep dioramas. The Washington Post has a Peep Diorama contest every year. We always look at the entries in the paper and laugh about them on Easter weekend. Well, this year, with help from their grandmother, both kids created their own Peep diorama, and, while they weren’t entered in the Washington Post contest, if they had been, they would have been contenders.

Ace’s Diorama: 1920s Gangster Art Thieves

The exterior scene: Two gangsters load the stolen artworks into the getaway truck. The paintings are my favorite part of Ace’s diorama.

“Making fedoras for Peeps is really hard,” Ace told me.

The interior scene: Lots of toothpick caused carnage. On the second floor, a policeman (see the hat) is questioning a victim. Apparently, the toothpick skewer is just a flesh wound.

Tink’s Diorama: An Irish Dance Show

Can’t you hear the hammering of the hardshoes?

It even has working stage lighting.

I think my favorite part of Tink’s diorama is the hair. She put curly wigs on Peeps. It’s fabulous.

She also included a director in the wings on stage left,

and an Assistant Director in the wings on stage right.

I am so impressed by both of their creations. The concepts, the attention to detail – I’m really blown away.

And, as a parent, I have to support my children, right? Perhaps Peeps speak to my children. Perhaps Peeps are their medium.

For a moment, I thought about practicing Peeps acceptance. Then my mother-in-law handed me a package of left-over pink bunny Peeps.

And I threw them on the floor and gleefully stomped on them.

Some of us are creators and some of us are destroyers. What can I say?

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Posted in Ace, Family, Fun! WOOHOO!, Kids, Tink

Tagged Easter, Family, Fun! WOOHOO!, holidays, Kids, Peeps

You Can’t Wear a Tail to School: Another entry in “Things They Don’t Cover in the Parenting Manuals”

Posted on March 22, 2013 | Leave a comment

Sometimes you create rules for your kids without thinking about them much because those rules don’t appear to require much thought.

Those are always the rules that cause problems.

For example, if your 8th-grader tells you, “All the kids at school are wearing tails now” and then waits expectantly, it’s pretty obvious he is planning to wear a tail (as in fox, bunny, raccoon, not as in tux) to school tomorrow and he’s feeling you out about it.

When you look at him with a perplexed expression on your face, he continues, “It’s a punk-goth-metal thing.”

When you furrow your brow even more because you’re trying to recall anyone wearing animal tails in your own high school punk years and coming up with nothing, he continues, “It’s a Hot Topic thing. They sell them at Hot Topic.”

Then you ask, trying to keep the patent disbelief out of your voice, “All the kids at school are wearing tails? Who? Tell me the names of the kids at school who wear tails.”

When he gives you 6 names, you don’t think about the next thing you say very much. It seems like a no-brainer. Well, you think about the fact that this is one of those sentences you never thought you’d say in your life. In fact, this might be at the top of the list, but you don’t spend much time weighing the judgement you are about to make.

“I don’t care if the other kids are wearing tails to school; you are not wearing a tail to school.”

This seems like an obvious answer to you because, well, we’re talking about wearing an animal tail to 8th grade. It’s like waving a red flag to a bull – or a pack of hormonal, socially immature bulls. 8th graders are not known for kindness, tolerance or acceptance. They see difference as weakness, and they see weakness as an opportunity to bully.

My son has been bullied relentlessly and horrifically throughout middle school. In 7th grade, it became intolerable and we had to change schools. The new school has been much better, but not perfect. Just a month ago, my son was despondent because the bullying was starting again. He was being called names. Someone spit on his locker. A kid dumped him out of a chair in a class. Another kid chased him into a classroom and pushed him into the wall with a table. We dealt with it. The school handled it very well, and things have been quiet again.

And now he wants to wear a tail to school?

IT Guy agreed with me. No tail. Even though we both dressed outside the norm in our high school years (all black, severe hair cuts, DMs for me; Billy Idol-esque clothes, spikey punker hair for him) it just seemed obvious that wearing a tail to 8th grade was asking for trouble and our son has had more than his fair share of trouble in the last two years.

Thus it was decreed, “No Tails At School.”

This morning, our son, Ace, left the house for school dressed with his usual flair, but no tail in sight.

I had posted a status update on Facebook last night about having to tell my son that he couldn’t wear a tail to school. Right after school let out, I got a comment on that status from a friend who drives the Friday carpool, “And, yet, here he is in my car with a tail!”

He had snuck it out of the house and worn it anyway!

(Why did he have a tail to begin with? They sell them at the Renaissance Festival and many years ago, when he was much younger, maybe 5, he asked for and we bought him a raccoon tail as a souvenir. He unearthed it from some corner of his room when this animal tail “craze” hit at school, apparently.)

I met the carpool car in front of my house, just because I wanted to watch Ace try and get out of the car without letting me see the tail. He tried to keep his back to me as he climbed out, but here’s the thing about wearing a big, fluffy tail. It’s hard to hide.

He looked so ridiculous that I was half laughing and half angry. I mean, he completely defied his parents. He was told clearly that he was not to wear the tail to school and he snuck it out of the house to wear it anyway. I was angry about that.

But he was standing there in a raccoon tail. It’s ridiculous. How can you not laugh? Do other parents have to deal with this stuff?

I’m not even really committed to the No Tail stance. Like I said; I didn’t give it a lot of thought. Saying “You can’t wear an animal tail to school” seemed pretty straight forward, but the truth is that I don’t really care what he wears, as long as it’s not obscene or offensive. Ace used to wear a costume to school every day in preschool, but no one bullies you in preschool, even if you’re dressed like a Power Ranger or a tiger.

8th grade isn’t preschool. I do care if he gets bullied again. I don’t want him to stop being himself, but I wish he would show some sense of self-preservation.

Was I wrong to tell him he couldn’t wear the tail? It’s not against school policies. It’s not even really against our family’s policies. Suddenly, I was in the position of having to punish him for wearing a raccoon tail to school . . . which seems like an utterly ridiculous thing to punish someone for. It’s not like I thought through all of this when telling him he couldn’t wear a tail to school.

Why isn’t parenting ever simple?

I ended up taking away his video game and television time for the day as a punishment for defying his parents and sneaking around.

I also told him that I would confiscate the tail if he wore it to school again. After finally thoroughly thinking it through, I still contend it’s a bad idea.

Then I took pictures of his outfit because I’m going to need them when I tell this story to Ace’s future spouse one day, “Have I told you the story about the time he wore a raccoon tail to school in 8th grade? Let me get the pictures.”

It’s never boring around here. I can say that much.

PS – Ace can’t figure out how I knew about the tail, and I’m not telling him. (Thank you, Facebook.) He keeps asking, “How did you know? How?!” I have him convinced that I SEE ALL. I am sure that’s going to come in handy.

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Posted in Ace, Parenting, School

Tagged Ace, costumes, Parenting, School

Irish Ninjas! (Tink’s 10th birthday party)

Posted on March 17, 2013 | 2 Comments

IT Guy and I have many flaws as parents. We aren’t always consistent. We forget things. Sometimes we yell. Our kids never have matching socks.

But one place we excel is in throwing together creative, last-minute birthday parties for our children.

We’ve done knights and Harry Potter and Angry Birds (among many other) themes in the past.

This year, for her 10th birthday, Tink wanted Irish Ninjas.

Huh?

Tink is a St. Patrick’s Day baby. She considers St. Patrick’s Day to be her own personal holiday. She also considers Ireland her own personal country (although I don’t think the Irish are aware of this.) Therefore, all birthdays must usually include some acknowledgement of St. Patrick’s Day. She wanted ninjas, but it couldn’t just be ninjas. It had to be Irish ninjas.

I am struggling with finding my footing as a full-time working mother. I know it’s a cliché, but, damn, maintaining a balance between full-time work and parenting is a serious challenge. This stuff is no joke. Most days I do okay, but add something like a birthday party into the mix? The party was planned for Saturday at 2pm. On Friday, when I picked Tink up from school at 3:30pm, I had no supplies and a hasty, incomplete plan for the party that was happening in less than 24 hours. I still didn’t even know what an Irish Ninja was!

“Mom, it’s a ninja. Who is Irish,” said Tink.

That’s not enough! I need more! I need a backstory! I need a history! I need their motivation! I can’t work like this!

We ended up going with ninja-esque activities with everyone dressed in green. It’s all I had.

Ace had no difficult interpreting the theme. The child was born to do cos-play.

We started with Irish Ninja names. The internet helpfully provided a way to create a ninja name using the letters of your first name. We combined that with a Find Your Leprechaun name meme and Voila! Irish Ninja names like KiKaKu Sprinkles McTavern.

Then IT Guy used his Christmas Ninja skills to teach the girls how to make Irish Ninja masks out of green t-shirts.

Then we moved on to making Irish Ninja throwing stars out of green and black duct tape. (Thank God for YouTube tutorials.)

Then we told a group of 10-year-old girls they would be allowed to throw their stars at Ace and IT Guy. This plan was met with resounding cheers. It seems there is nothing quite as fun as throwing things at boys.

IT Guy and Ace were really good sports about it.

I really love this man.

We moved inside for some pizza – you know, the food of choice for all Irish Ninjas – and a futile attempt to teach everyone the Cup Song. (I said this was how all Irish Ninjas learned their quick hand reflexes.)

Things got really loud, so we went down to the basement where I made up a game of Jig Freeze. I put on jig music. The ninjas jigged around until I turned the music off and then they had to immediately freeze in their best ninja pose. This quickly devolved into dancing to LMFAO and a lot of cheerleading type pyramids, a few failed attempts at the Worm and even a handstand or two. It was really loud. LOUD, LOUD, LOUD. Apparently Irish Ninjas aren’t quite as stealthy as their Japanese counterparts.

Finally, we had Irish Ninja Cake. Grandma came through again with another beautiful cake. Weird themes are no match for Grandma. (All the girls wanted to know if I was going to set the cake on fire again like I did last year. Children don’t forget anything.)

And then everyone went home and the Ninja Masters collapsed on the couch, where they will stay until next year when they will be called upon to create a Pirate Carnivale party or a CeLo Green Gambler party.

You never can tell what’s next around here,

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Irish Ninjas - If you see the jig, it's too late

Irish Ninjas – Once you see the jig, it’s too late.

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Posted in IT Guy, Kids, Parenting, Tink

Tagged Birthday, Tink

Sad pizza. Happy pizza: Tink’s all-encompassing empathy

Posted on January 30, 2013 | Leave a comment

Tink is overflowing with empathy. She feels for everything . . . even pizza.

Tonight we were making individual pizzas for dinner. I found a weird, little, piece of pepperoni that was shaped like a teardrop. You can’t waste a weird, little, teardrop of pepperoni, so I was inspired to make a pepperoni, sad face on Ace’s pizza.

Tink was making her own pizza next to me. When she saw the sad face, this conversation happened.

Tink: “Mommy, turn that frown over. It looks too sad.”

Me: “But I found this teardropped shaped pepperoni. It has to be a sad face, so I can use the tear. It’s a sad pizza because your brother is going to eat it.”

Tink (wide-eyed and completely serious): “That’s too sad. It’s making me feel sad for the pizza. Turn that frown over.”

Me: “No. It’s a pizza.”

Tink: “Everything has life. I believe that, you know.”

Me: “Not pizza. Pizza has no life.”

Tink: “Even pizza. Everything. And nothing should be sad.”

Tink’s cold, heartless mother aka Me: “It’s a pizza.”

I turned away for half a second to get some more toppings for the next pizza, and Tink darted in, her hands a blur as she changed the pepperoni frown to a smile. And then she snatched up the teardrop pepperoni and ate it.

Tink (triumphant): “There. Now it’s a happy pizza, and you can’ t change it, and I don’t have to feel sad for it anymore.”

I guess she didn’t feel sad for the teardrop pepperoni. Maybe even Tink’s all-encompassing empathy has limits, after all.

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Posted in Tink

Tagged Tink, Tink's lessons

The Curse of the Office Desk (or how I finally got a full-time faculty position)

Posted on January 21, 2013 | 12 Comments

I have so much to tell you. So much has changed in the last two weeks that it’s hard to know where to start, but I guess I should start with the desk. It’s a cursed desk. Whenever you have a cursed desk, you should probably start there.

This was an impressive desk. It was a huge corner desk with a massive table top extending in a nine foot sweep along two walls. The desk was made of steel I-beams held together with massive bolts. It looked like a bridge span with a table balanced on top. Several people could easily stand on top of it with no fear of collapse. Moving it was almost impossible. You had to disassemble it and then it took multiple people to move the support beams. This monstrous desk occupied the majority of the space in the small home office I shared with IT Guy. If our home was ever vaporized, I knew the only thing left would be that desk. It was indestructible.

And IT Guy was convinced that it was cursed.

The desk came into our lives years ago when we owned and ran our own television production company. IT Guy bought it from an architect friend who had an entire warehouse full of these desks. The company for which they were built had gone under, and the architect was stuck with them. Within a year of purchasing the desk, our television production company went under. We lost two big contracts and couldn’t recover. The company was no more. But we still had the desk, so IT Guy lugged it to our home office and set it up. It sat here, hulking in the corner, for 6 years.

During those 6 years, we struggled financially IT Guy was hired and miserable multiple times until he finally found his current position where he is happy. Despite his good job now, we’ve still struggled because of debt left over from the company folding, as well as large health care bills due to substandard health insurance policies. When Tink started kindergarten, I started looking for work because we needed to make more money. I’ve gone down some wrong paths. I’ve hit some dead ends. Then I went back to teaching college English, and for the past three years, I’ve been trying to get a full-time faculty position. I’ve interviewed three times, and I’ve never made it. It seemed like we were irredeemably stuck.

Late one night last summer, IT Guy turned to me and said, “I want to get rid of the desk. I think it’s cursed.”

He meant it, too. He’s a surprisingly superstitious guy.

“Think about it,” he said. “We’ve been struggling financially since we got that damn thing. Our company went under. The company those desks were made for went under. Even the architect’s company is no more. We’ve had all these struggles with health care. We can’t catch a financial break. You can’t get a job. I think that desk is cursed. I want it out of here.”

While I wasn’t ready to agree that the desk was cursed, I certainly wasn’t going to argue about getting rid of that damn desk. I hated the thing because it was so huge and unwieldy. I also just hated our office in general. It was a cramped, messy, Frankenstein of a room. Most days I worked at the kitchen table instead of the office because I couldn’t think in all the clutter. I was happy to make some changes, and if IT Guy needed to think the furniture was cursed to make that happen, then so be it.

On January 5, armed with a stack of Ikea gift cards, we ventured forth to the land of Borgsjo and Sveios to purchase new, sleek, lightweight Galant desks that could be easily assembled with an allen wrench.

Then, upon returning home with our new Swedish furniture, IT Guy took a series of large tools and disassembled the Desk, and between the two of us, we managed to drag the entire thing, steel I-beams and all, out of the house. We stacked the pieces of the cursed desk in an untidy pile against the fence, and then we turned our back on it and walked away.

The next day we allen-wrenched until our allen wrenches were sore. The day after that, Monday, IT Guy had to go to work, but I continued to allen wrench until our office finally looked like this.

My new home office space. Such a vast improvement over my old desk.

This is my half of the office anyway.

That night, after IT Guy returned home and set up the internet, we sat happily computing next to each other at our sleek, matching, Galant desks. I decided to check my college email, which I almost never do over break. I don’t know why I decided to check it.

In my inbox? A message from the dean at my college asking if I could come in the next day. More specifically, the message specified that a full-time faculty member had retired and she (the dean) would like to speak to me as soon as possible.

48 hours after the removal of the desk from our house, I got a job offer.

I am now, officially, a full-time Assistant Professor of English. My salary is almost twice what I have ever made before. I have full benefits, including a great health plan, vision, dental and retirement. I have sick leave and personal leave. I have my own office on campus. I have never, ever had any of these things.

All of the financial problems my family has struggled with for years are gone. Poof. Just like that. We’re going to make it. I still can’t believe this is real.

And while I know that I got this job through a tremendous amount of hard work and perseverance, I can’t help but wonder about that jumble of steel and wood in my backyard.

Maybe IT Guy was right about the curse.

—-

Why has it taken me two weeks to write about this incredible, life-changing event? It’s taken me this long to finally believe that it’s happening. I spent several days waiting for someone to call and say, “Whoops! All a mistake. Just kidding!” But now I’ve been to orientation and signed a contract and been assigned an office. I’m still having trouble wrapping my head around all of this, but I feel confident enough that it’s real to post about it. I got the job. I finally got the job. Happy doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel.

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Posted in Gratitude, IT Guy, Life, Stuff I do to make money, teaching, things that make me happy

Tagged curses, IT Guy, jobs, teaching

Ringing in the New Year: Taking stock of 2012

Posted on January 3, 2013 | 8 Comments

I have a tiny, silver bell with which to ring in the New Year. It was a gift from my father-in-law. I have been wearing it on a silver chain around my neck, and whenever I move, the bell rings with such clarity and brightness I am sure it’s calling fairies.

A few days before the turn of the year, I started doing what we all do – reflecting. I thought about the year gone past. It felt like a bad year, again. It felt like nothing had changed. When I considered New Year’s resolutions for 2013, it was the same list as 2012 and 2011 and 2010.

Lose weight. (I am heavier now than I was this time last year.)
Get a full-time teaching job. (I tried, but I couldn’t make it happen, despite my best efforts.)
Fix our finances. (See “Get a full-time teaching job.”)

I haven’t made any progress towards fixing any of those things, therefore 2012 was a bad year.

I also spent a large part of 2012 depressed. I started the year with the knee surgery that laid me up for me for months and didn’t even fix my knee completely. It also cost so much that we’re still paying it off. (This would be the opposite of Fixing the Finances. Also, Get Decent Health Insurance should be on the list, but I guess it goes with Get a Full-Time Job.) I couldn’t kickbox or exercise much at all, which equals depression and crazy amounts of free-floating anxiety.

Then I didn’t get my dream job. I was close. I came in 3rd. But 3rd doesn’t come with a good salary and health benefits. 3rd comes with a return to a low paying job with no job security or health benefits. Oh, and more depression.

I was depressed, for good reason, for much of 2012, therefore 2012 was a bad year. At the end of 2012, I was fatter, still underemployed and struggling to make ends meet, therefore 2012 was a bad year.

But then I started going back through my blog posts for the year. My blog is my external memory. I blog because I don’t want to forget my life. As I started scrolling through old posts, I realized something. Maybe the problem isn’t necessarily with me. Maybe the problem is with the list.

It’s not that lose weight, get a job, and achieve financial security are not good goals. They are. I need to find a way to make them happen, but they aren’t the only possible achievements . . .

At the beginning of the year, Ace was stuck in a horrible middle school where he was being bullied mercilessly and the administration was incapable of stopping it. In April, we argued for a school transfer and we got it. We moved Ace to a new middle school for the end of 7th grade and 8th grade. Ace is not longer bullied at school. He has friends. He has a girlfriend.

2012 is the year we got Ace into a better school where he is happy and safe. Therefore, it was a good year.

I quit dancing in 2012. This was sad because of how much dancing has meant to me and how hard I worked to become a TCRG (Irish Dance Teacher.) But I needed to stop. I needed to stop two years ago, and I just couldn’t do it. I agonized over the decision for years. YEARS. But once I finally made the decision this past summer, I knew it was the right one. If you can’t do something without being in a lot of pain, you shouldn’t do it. It seems obvious now, but it didn’t for the longest time. In 2012, I made the hard decision to take care of myself, therefore it was a good year.

Finally, while the knee surgery and never-ending recovery goes firmly in the BAD column, I eventually got beyond it. In December 2012, I finally earned my first degree black belt in Muay Thai – something I have been working towards for 5 years.

That makes 2012 an unquestionably good year.

Perhaps my feelings of failure, my frustration at not having accomplished my goals, are a result of the list I’m choosing to look at. If I change the list,

Get Ace into a new school
Move on
Recover and finish what you started

2012 feels much less like a failure of a year. It’s all a matter of perspective.

Instead of making another list for 2013, I’m ringing my tiny bell. I will smile whenever I hear its crisp chime. I will try to celebrate what I have. I will try to be open for what may come.

Maybe it will be fairies.

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Posted in Reflections

Tagged new year's, New Year's resolution, Reflections

Merry Goofball Christmas

Posted on December 27, 2012 | 4 Comments

My mom regularly remarks on my photographing of Plushie the Uterus, as if it is odd.

Now, while I can see where it might be odd to most people, it shouldn’t be to her. After all, this is a woman who greets her family on Christmas Eve with a bowl of fake mustaches,

and a plan for this year’s family Christmas Eve photo.

I think this is pretty similar to a plush uterus in a stocking.

The silliness is clearly hereditary.

Honestly, it’s one of my favorite things about my family. We act like fools a lot.

We play a lot,

And we laugh a lot.

(This particular laughter might have been helped by a few glasses of wine)

A Christmas full of mustaches, plush organs and goofball family, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Wishing you all a year of goofiness and laughter.

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Posted in Family, Uterus Adventures

Tagged Christmas, Family, holidays, Plushie the Uterus, Uterus Adventures

Jujitsu, an elf, a uterus and Christmas cookies: the epic saga that was yesterday

Posted on December 23, 2012 | 1 Comment

Yesterday was a busy day. Therefore, I am writing this post using handy section headings (because I can’t figure out how to organize all this stuff. Hooray for section headings!)

PART 1 – Jujitsu

Ace received his first white stripe in jujitsu. Stripes and belts in jujitsu take significantly longer than in Muay Thai or Tae Kwon Do. Ace started jujitsu 2 years ago, and he is just now receiving his first stripe towards his next belt. It’s all based on mastery of the techniques, not a combination of mastery and time put in like the other martial arts forms at our school. And jujitsu is hard. It’s all about muscle control and weight shifts. It doesn’t look like much more than people rolling around on the floor, so it’s not showy, but it requires incredible body control and stamina.

Ace loves it.

I need to brush up on how the advancement works, but I think he might manage to get to his next belt sometime before he’s 40.

Part the Second: Bob the Elf

In between my Muay Thai class yesterday morning and Ace’s jujitsu class, we decided to walk over the nearest Starbucks, which is in a Safeway grocery store, to get a chai.

I was dressed like this because I am a sexy beast.

I go out in public like this after kickboxing more often than I should probably admit. And, yes, my legs were freezing.

While I got my chai at the Safeway, Ace made a new friend.

Internet, meet Bob the Elf.

Bob was 50% off, so we decided to purchase him as a present for my mother. Yes, Bob stands up on his own. He also has no eyes. It’s a bit disturbing, but he’s still cute.

By the time we got back to the martial arts school, Ace and Bob were BFFs. He began posing Bob around the school and asking me to take pictures.

Bob the Elf will guard your bag

Hey, what does an eyeless elf have to do to get some service?

Bob the Elf was here

Elf Swagger

(I don’t know where Ace gets this desire to take funny pictures of inanimate objects thing. Maybe from his dad . . . )

It quickly became apparent that Ace was not going to let me give Bob the Elf to Grandma, so then this happened.

Oh, dear. If you leave an elf alone, he multiplies. #bobtheelf

And then there were two

Part the Third: Over the river and through the woods . . .

It was more like over the Beltway and through the soul-crushing traffic – so less picturesque than the song – but we did eventually make it to Grandma’s house to bake Christmas cookies.

Grandma’s house was beautifully decorated for the holiday, which made it the perfect place for

THE RETURN OF PLUSHIE THE UTERUS

She’s back!

People have been asking me about Plushie in the past few weeks. I haven’t abandoned her. It was just that between the hospitalization of my friend, the three week plague in my house, the crushing work load of the end of the semester and then the recent news events, I haven’t been feeling the lightness of spirit that is necessary for composing ridiculous pictures of a plush uterus. I’ve been missing her, though, and with the rapid approach of Christmas, it was time for her come back.

Plus, she just had to meet the elves.

Two elves and a uterus walk into The North Pole …..

Part Four: And then we baked cookies. (How’s that for a rough transition?)

I don’t particularly enjoy cooking, but baking? I love to bake. I think it’s because I love all the wonderful smells – vanilla, cinnamon, cardemom, chocolate. The smells are heavenly, and the mixing and measuring feels meditative.

It’s a tradition in my family to make a variety of cookies to serve as dessert with Christmas Eve dinner, as well as to give to friends and neighbors.

My grandmother would make gallettes, pizelles, date & nut cookies, and pita piata. She would pack the cookies into tins and ship them around the country to her daughters and grandchildren. Christmas was always ushered in by the arrival of the big round tin from my grandmother filled with layers of cookies packed carefully in waxed paper.

While the pizelles and pita piata made sense as traditional cookies in my Italian family, the gallettes do not. As I kid, I assumed they were another traditional Italian cookie, but they’re not. As an adult, I discovered that they’re French. The gallette is the most central cookie in my family’s Christmas tradition. It was served on Christmas Eve with the dinner of pasta and fish. My grandmother made hundreds and hundreds of them every year, supplying not just her Christmas Eve dinner, but those of all her daughters as well. How did a French cookie become the centerpiece of our Italian Christmas Eve? I have asked my mother and my aunts, but they don’t know. It just is. It always has been.

Gallettes are extremely labor intensive. The dough has to be mixed the day before and refrigerated overnight. Then you cook them, two at a time, on a hot iron over the stove burner. You have to time it precisely – 30 seconds on one side and then flip for 30 seconds on the other. The iron is heavy and it takes hours to get through the entire bowl of batter. My grandmother taught me to make them, but I don’t do it every year because it’s such a giant pain in the ass. But this year, my mom wanted to make them, so each armed with a gallette iron, we got to flipping.

The first hour was a disaster. The batter was sticking to the irons. We had the wrong type of oil. The irons weren’t hot enough; then they were too hot. At one point, I sprinkled some water drops on a hot iron and managed to launch a fireball into the air. It was not going well.

By hour two, though, we finally got it all together, and standing shoulder to shoulder at the stove, my mom and I managed to turn out several hundred gallettes. We tried to chat, but every time we did, we lost track of the time and left the cookies on the iron for a few too many seconds and burnt them. We had to use stopwatches (Yes! Stopwatches!) to make sure we turned the irons at exactly the right time. We ended up having to stand in silence with all of our attention focused on the cookies. I thought about the hundreds and hundreds of gallettes my grandmother used to make. I don’t know how she did it. She must have stood at her stove flipping the iron for WEEKS before Christmas.

“I feel good about making the gallettes this year,” my mom said at some point. “I don’t feel good making them, but I feel good ABOUT making them. ”

I felt good about making them as soon as we were done making them.

My mom and I made the gallettes, just like my grandmother taught us. And it was a giant pain in the ass. Remind me of that next year, please. #tradition #pia #xmas #cookies

This is the result of 3 hours of work (and that doesn’t count the mixing of the batter the night before.) I plan to make gallettes again in 2020.

You make gallettes with these old HEAVY irons and you can only make 2 at a time. It makes you a little a punchy after awhile. #xmascookies #tradition

Stand back! We have gallette irons!

PART FOUR: I went home and fell over.

I love Christmas, but it’s exhausting.

Merry Christmas Eve Eve.

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Posted in Ace, Family, Fun! WOOHOO!, general stupidity, Kids, Life, Reflections, Silly stuff, The place I put random stuff, things that make me happy, Uterus Adventures

Tagged bob the elf, Christmas, holidays, Jujitsu, Kids, martial arts, Plushie the Uterus, randomness, tradition, Uterus Adventures

It’s official. My father hates me: The singing rabbi edition

Posted on December 19, 2012 | 2 Comments

Today we received a Christmas box from my father, and in it was another example of how my father hates me.

My dad has made a habit of filling my house with bizarre singing creatures under the guise of entertaining the children. (It’s obvious the real purpose is to torture me.) We have the harmonica playing turkey, and the rabbit whose ears flip up and down while he sings some song about his need to hop. Last Christmas, my dad sent a flamingo in a Santa Hat and tux singing about how he’s going to make it in the North Pole.

I’m not sure which specific teenage transgression he is punishing me for, but it must have been a bad one given the consequences.

Today, when the kids and I got home, a box was waiting for us, and inside the box was….

a tiny Rabbi who sings Hava Nagila.

Apparently, Tink asked Grandpa for a rapping squirrel and this was as close as he could get?

I don’t know. I guess it’s good that we are inclusive in this home. Santa Hat flamingos and singing Rabbis. Whatever. Bring us your animatronic, oddly costumed characters with their annoying earworms! (Or take pity on me and don’t.)

Here is a Voice style sing off between the Rabbi and the Flamingo. Tink offers her apt judgement at the end.

I swear, Dad, whatever I did back when I was a kid, I’m sorry! I was young! I was stupid! I had no idea how many times one kid could listen to a rabbi sing Hava Nagila!

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Posted in Family, Silly stuff, The place I put random stuff, Tink

Tagged I don't have a category for singing animals (or rabbis)

Telling my daughter about Newtown

Posted on December 16, 2012 | 5 Comments

My house has been utterly devoid of media since Friday afternoon when news of the Newtown, Connecticut shooting broke. After my last class on Friday at 2pm, I walked to my car feeling happy and relieved because it was the end of the semester. Then I started up the car and NPR with it, and I heard what had happened at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut. I sat in my running car in the college faculty parking lot and sobbed.

Then I started worrying about Tink.

How could I tell her about this? How could I not tell her about this?

Tink’s anxiety has become a significant problem in the last year. She has trouble spending the night away from home. She has trouble sleeping. The list of things that frighten her has expanded from tornadoes to include elevators, fire, airplanes . . . it’s a long list. She’s getting help from a therapist now, and it’s making a difference, but it’s a slow process.

When Aurora happened, I didn’t tell her about it. I shielded her from the news coverage. When she finally heard the story months later from someone at school, she refused to go to the movie theater because she was afraid. It took every trick of distraction that I could muster to get her to walk through the theater doors again.

On Friday, I worried about what would happen when she heard about Newtown – an atrocity committed in a school so like her own. I worried that she wouldn’t go back to school on Monday.

I wanted to keep the news from her completely. How can you tell a 9-year-old that someone shot children in an elementary school? I am angry at everything – that man; his mother and her gun collection; the NRA; our inability to treat mental health problems; the health insurance industry that makes it so difficult to get help for mental health problems; our stupid, stupid gun culture; our violence saturated media – all of it. I shouldn’t have to tell my 9-year-old that there is such unfathomable horror in the world.

There shouldn’t be such unfathomable horror in the world.

When we got home Friday afternoon, I raced into the house ahead of my kids and switched off the radio in the kitchen and then the radio in my bedroom. NPR is usually a constant presence in my house. We don’t watch much television, but the radio is always on. Or it was until Friday.

I needed time to figure out what to say and how to say it. I knew if I didn’t tell her first, she would hear about it at school on Monday. I read everything I could find about how to talk about this kind of atrocity with children. I didn’t sleep easily Friday night.

Finally, on Saturday afternoon, IT Guy and I sat down with Tink. I told her something had happened in the news that we needed to tell her. I told her a man had gone into a school in Connecticut, which is far away from here, and shot some adults and children and killed them. I told her that the police had come immediately, and the man was now dead. I told her all the other children and adults in the building were safe. I told her that she was safe. I explained to her all the things her school does and that we do to keep her safe.

And she was okay. She said she didn’t have any questions and she didn’t feel unsafe. Then she went off to play at a friend’s house. She didn’t mention it again.

I feel like we handled it well, but I’m worried about tomorrow. Tomorrow is school. Our house remains a media free zone because there is so much I didn’t tell her. But school?

I didn’t tell her it was an elementary school. I didn’t give her any details about the children who were killed. I didn’t tell her the shooter forced his way into the building, despite the locked doors. I didn’t tell her that teachers died protecting their students.

I didn’t tell her that this was a school like her school and kids like her friends and teachers like her teachers.

But I’m worried that another kid at school might tell her all of that tomorrow.

My house has been a media free zone all weekend because there are things kids don’t need to know. But I am also aware not all parents believe this. I am sure there are other students at my daughter’s school whose parents did not shield them from the news. I am sure there are kids who know every last, horrific detail, and I am afraid they will have no hesitation to talk about all of it at school tomorrow.

If they do, I know my daughter will call me sobbing and asking me to pick her up. I know one of the few places she feels safe right now will be taken from her.

But I can’t keep her home either. I have no reason for it. Pulling her out of her routine for no reason is not going to help her anxiety. Plus, I have to work tomorrow and so does IT Guy . . . and we have to work the day after that and the day after that. If I keep her home tomorrow, she’ll have to go on Tuesday . . . or Wednesday . . .

When you’re a kid, you think your parents have answers. You think they know what to do.

But I don’t. I don’t know what to do. All I have is endless sorrow for the parents who lost their children on Friday, endless fury for the person who took those children’s lives, and endless fear because I am powerless to protect my own children from such violence and horror.

—–

I told Ace about what happened on Friday after Tink went to play with a friend. I outlined the basic events for him in slightly more detail than I gave to Tink, but still didn’t get too specific. He is older than Tink and not prone to anxiety, but if I can spare him the images that I can’t get out of my head, then I will. He seems to be okay, but I’m shielding him, too. I wish someone was shielding me.

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Posted in Anxiety, Fear and Panic, oh my, Parenting

Tagged There is no category for this

An Acorn Dreaming

Peep dioramas: a 2013 chapter in the Peep Wars

You Can’t Wear a Tail to School: Another entry in “Things They Don’t Cover in the Parenting Manuals”

Irish Ninjas! (Tink’s 10th birthday party)

Sad pizza. Happy pizza: Tink’s all-encompassing empathy

The Curse of the Office Desk (or how I finally got a full-time faculty position)

Ringing in the New Year: Taking stock of 2012

Merry Goofball Christmas

Jujitsu, an elf, a uterus and Christmas cookies: the epic saga that was yesterday

It’s official. My father hates me: The singing rabbi edition

Telling my daughter about Newtown

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