Ohhhhhhhh. Okay. Now I get it.

So, this being Jewish in a world of Christmas wasn't hard. At least not until this year. I've alluded to this before, but I was not raised Jewish. I chose this faith after a childhood of Shabbat dinners with friends, a young adulthood of reading and wondering, and a slightly-older but still young adulthood of study and reflection. And somewhere along the way I got lucky and met a wonderful Jewish man, and that worked out rather nicely. So I've been Jewish for six years or so, and the whole giving up Christmas thing? Not too bad. And even when Eli came along, it worked out just fine. Until, that is, this year. And now I get what all of my Jewish friends were talking about when they talked about feeling left out of the holidays.

It must be that when you're almost three, the world starts to want to know more about you - your hopes, your dreams, your visits with Santa. I can't tell you how many times Eli has been asked by strangers at the mall, "Did you go visit Santa today?" Or by strangers other places, "Is Santa coming to your house?" Or how many people have asked me, "Is he very excited about Christmas?" The answers? "No," "No," and "Yeah, I think so."

I've found myself needing to walk a fine line these days. The truth is, he will celebrate Christmas to some extent. Since my side of the family is not Jewish, there's plenty of Christmas cheer to be found. We will spend the day at my sister's house, surrounded by garland and wreaths and twinkling lights. We'll be serenaded by Bing Crosby. We'll drink egg nog. We'll open presents. So, let's face it, Eli will celebrate Christmas. But he won't be sitting on Santa's lap at the mall and we won't need to open our flue to let him visit on Christmas Eve.

I'm not sure it would be easier to explain if we didn't have this gray area to contend with, but regardless it's confusing. Not to him, to me. I still haven't sorted out how I'm going to explain it all to him. I suppose it's not as complicated as I'm making out to be right now, and that once I really have to give him hard and fast information - once it occurs to him to wonder why Santa doesn't come here but he does visit his cousins, once he becomes more insistent that we have holiday decorations like the ones he so admires on the neighbors' houses - I guess it really won't be that hard. It is what it is. And for the time being, he doesn't really need to know more than he does. It's Christmas, the lights are pretty, and giving and receiving gifts feels really good. So for now I'll put aside my need to intellectualize, over-analyze, categorize his experiences and just let him be (almost) three. After all, you only get to do that once.

the ultimate in naval gazing

Today's theme over at Picture This is Mama, which offers the perfect opportunity to focus on myself for a frame or two. As I read Tracey's description, I thought to myself, "What defines me as a mama?" Not a difficult question, it turns out. It's my belly, which has become somewhat of a roadmap of my life. My belly button is a marker of my distant past, my connection with my own mama; my less-distant past represented by the now mostly-closed piercing just above it. My slightly stretched violet tattoo is a touchstone, a connection with a different time in my life, when I only dreamed of being a mama myself and thought I'd be young forever. And, of course, in the past this belly was also a home, a cocoon for my Eli. In the present it is rounder, softer than it used to be, but those newer qualities are hard-earned and cherished. And then there's the future, when it may again - someday - be a place for a bunch of tiny cells to stake a claim at the core of my heart, the center of my universe. Whether that happens or not, my belly is what it is because I am who I am. And who I am is a mama.

Overheard

Eli took a while to start talking. Until a few months ago he communicated mostly through sign language and a few select words like "mama" and "cookie." (You know, the important things.) Now that he's chatting up a storm, I can't get enough of it. If I could bottle every conversation and save those bottles to uncork them and drink them down when he's grown and gone and I'm a lonely shell of a mother with 18 cats and a collection of bird figurines, I would. Since that's not possible, I must do what's second best: videotape what I can and transcribe everything else.

Sometimes the things he says to me are laughable in their no-holds-barred, tell-it-like-it-is, don't-pretend-it's-not-happening honesty. For example, one of his favorite things to do is poke at or pinch my, um, less toned areas. He'll come up behind me and squeeze the back of my upper arm and proclaim "Fun to do!" Or he'll poke at my pooch and say "Mushy" (though it comes out more like "moochy"). Sometimes the proclamations have a slightly bittersweet edge to them, like the times he'll point at that same moochy tummy and say "No baby in there." Thanks kiddo. I knew that. He made up for that one when a few days later he reached up, stroked my face, and quietly said, "Real Mommy." Thanks kiddo. I'm glad you think so.

Some of my favorite conversations happen right after he's woken up in the morning or after a nap. For a long time, when our interactions were mostly one-sided with me talking and him nodding or gesturing or gibberishing, I would go in and say "Did you have happy dreams?" After a while he started answering yes (usually) or no (once in a while). Now, after a good sleep, he'll wake up and sit on his bed and repeat over and over "Had happy dreams." "Had happy dreams!" "HAD HAPPY DREAMS!" (Apparently, this now translates to, "My dreams were fine, come get me woman! I need processed snack foods!") That's okay, I'll take it.

Often, if he's a little groggy, I can get him to lie back down with me and snuggle for a bit. Sometimes the things that come out of his mouth in this setting are especially random, like the time he announced, "Mommy has a penis!" (I don't.) But some conversations are consistent, like if I ask him what his dreams were about he'll invariably say "Teletubbies came to our house." This has been his happy dream for as long has he's been able to talk, and the best thing about it is that it's slowly evolving as his imagination takes shape. What I mean is that for a long time it was just that they came to our house. Then he would talk about them dancing. When I would ask if he danced with them, he'd always say "No. Danced alone." But then recently, maybe two weeks ago, when I asked him that question he said "Yes." And then another day he told me they went in their hole and he went with them.

If you're still reading this, I give you credit. I realize that the dreams of someone else's two-year-old may not be the stuff of Pulitizer Prizes, but here's why I need to have a record of it: Can't you just see his little brain working overtime to go beyond the things he's seen somewhere else? Can't you just see my little guy coming out of his shell through these descriptions? I mean, first he's just talking about these weird colorful creatures, describing them from a distance. Now he's dancing with them. As the mother of a shy, reserved boy, this is huge.

What strikes me often is how much the little tiny things in motherhood are simply magic. There is no way I can ever communicate to him how much a one-minute cuddle and conversation in his bed nourishes my whole heart. There is no way he'll ever understand that I relish every opportunity to pick him up out of his car seat because it gives me a chance to feel him and smell him and sneak a kiss onto that neck. There is no way he'll do much more than roll his eyes if, years from now, I tell him that I used to like to sit close to him while he was eating because the very sound of him smacking his lips and the sight of him happily inserting almond butter sandwiches into his mouth could make my insides melt. The best I can hope for is that the almost paralyzing love I have for this kid makes him strong, and happy, and content. And in being all of that, on some level, perhaps he'll know.

Starts and stops, please

If there's one thing I like about blogger it's that you can start numerous posts and then stash them away like old movie stubs or your prom corsage - you know, just in case you need them later. That's what I've been doing lately. Stashing. I keep thinking I have an idea for a post but then when I sit down to write something about it, it fizzles out after a few sentences. In short: I don't have much to say.

I did want to make note of something for myself, however. Yesterday, my son became polite. That's right, he now says "please" without being begged and prodded and today I found myself in a bit of a honeymoon phase. I know where it all came from, too. We had a barbecue over the weekend and one of the desserts was a sort of "make your own sundae" deal. So, we are now up to our ears in chocolate and rainbow sprinkles. I wouldn't have wanted Eli eating any sprinkles anyway, but one of the conversations we had at the barbecue was about the fact that sprinkles, like the eyes of Peeps, don't dissolve in acid. And you thought the french fry in Super Size Me was gross. So, yeah, even with his pickiness and the fact that I am thrilled when he eats almost anything with calories, I wasn't pushing for these.

But, he's two, and he knows they're in the house, and we told him "no" once, and that pretty much means he's going to keep asking for them. So last night he formed one of his longest sentences yet: Some. Rainbow. Sprinkles. Now. Please. (Periods there because forming sentences is still a bit of work for him so each word comes out completely independent of the others.) This request was followed by a very hopeful and - if I do say so myself - adorable look on his face. How could we say no?

So there it was. In that brief moment our son discovered the power of "please." All day today he's been adding the word onto every request. "Go up escalator, please?" "Eat french fries, please?" "Go home now, please?" And because it's new and adorable and sweet and exactly how I want him to ask, I say "Yes" to everything. He's getting everything he asks for and I'm busting at the seams with mother-pride.

It can't last, though. One of these days he'll ask for something that I can't possibly agree to and he'll realize that the word is not magic after all. And I suppose at that point we'll regress a bit and I'll have to start dragging it out of him again. But for now I'll just enjoy it. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go hire a magician and learn how to juggle fire. (Hey, he asked!)

It's all in the numbers

One: The number of children I think we might wind up with.
Even as I ruminate over all of our options (acupuncture, charting, OPKs, adoption, donor eggs, adopting Vicki the Robot, you get the picture) I still keep coming back to the fabulousness of having just Eli. I mean, think of it: I can devote scads of time to him AND still have some time left over for myself. Pre-school of our choice, regardless of cost? Done. The cool sneakers when he's in 8th grade? No problem. A car when he turns 16? Sure, let's get him a safe one with airbags everywhere. College education? Not cheap, but we can manage it. Wedding? Sure! We'll spring for half. I mean, it all just seems so manageable. It's not lost on me that most of the things I just mentioned are financial, and we happen to be operating with a rather squeezed budget at the moment. I would never want to make this kind of decision based solely on money, but finances aside, sticking to one is very tempting. I've said all along that I'm content with whatever course our family history takes. It's the uncertainty of it all that'll be the death of me. But the number one does keep creeping back in to my head, and there must be a reason for that. I'm sure there will be other posts on this at other times, but this is all there is to say about it for now.

40: My age and, apparently, the shelf life of eggs.
For years I'd heard the statistics about fertility in your 40s and I figured, "Not me." I mean, I haven't had a cavity in years. My blood pressure is awesome, if I do say so myself. And sometimes I'll be very still, in the midst of doing something, and I feel like it's very possible that I haven't even breathed in the last minute or so. Seriously, this happens to me. Given that I actually question whether my body needs oxygen to survive, why would I think those blasted statistics would ever apply to me? I mean, I might not even be mortal, for goodness sake. And yet here I am, wishing and hoping that my tired ovaries will crank out a decent egg this weekend. And while I'm pushing for that, my best friend from childhood just had her ovaries removed the other day. She tested positive for the breast cancer gene and lost her mother to ovarian cancer, so this was what she considered the logical choice (and personally - though I know it's controversial - I don't disagree). So I'm thinking there's a shelf life on these things. It's not hard and fast, but it's there, it appears to be 40(ish), and it's annoying me.

Seven: The day, the month, the year.
I know a lot of very pregnant couples are hoping for their children to be born on this date, what with the lucky symbolism of it. I'm asking the Vegas gods to spread a little luck this way, though. The way I look at it, those couples are already lucky. Those babies are coming out one of these days anyway and there are some of us that could really, really use that luck. Like me, for instance. I'll be ovulating today (is that TMI? My blog; my personal details - sorry!) and I think conceiving a kid on this, the luckiest day of the century, could be very nice. And think of the fetus nicknames! Jackpot. Jackie P. Little JP. Yes, it's the perfect day indeed. So come on, sevens. Mama needs a new pair of baby shoes.

Scrooge

I am well on my way to becoming one of those crazy old ladies who stands on her front porch screaming nonsensical orders at innocent people who happen to travel by. It's sad but true.

Eli has been napping for an hour and forty five minutes and I like it. I want to keep him sleeping because it is quiet and I am content. So the fact that my neighbors across the street (teenagers) are outside playing basketball does not please me. The "thud" "thud" "thud" was not awful. Sort of a rhythmic white noise and Eli was sleeping through it. Then they brought the dog outside. The dog barked. Quiet! You... DOG! (That was in my head.) Neighbor girl yelled at the dog. While the sentiment was appreciated from this side of my front door, the noise level was not. Quiet! You... neighbor girl!

These are not the only noises that I think of as my nemesis. The worst one? The &%$*! ICE CREAM TRUCK! The damn thing manages to circle our house several times, almost always during nap time. There have been a couple of exceptions which only means that Eli has seen it and now when he hears it but doesn't get to the window in time to see it, we have a problem. He spends the rest of the day whining "Want mucack (music) truck!" (Yes, I told him it's a music truck. I don't think he really needs to know what's inside there, do you?)

So, yeah, I'm the crazy lady who utters obscenities at the sounds of children and animals playing and at the ice cream truck. Great.

Don't you wish your boyfriend was two like me?

It's a marvel, this unconditional love. I would have (and probably have, in fact) dumped men from my life for far less than I tolerate with my current constant companion. And yet, aside from the occasional parenthetical complaint (like this one), my son gets away with some of the worst habits I've ever encountered from a member of the opposite sex.

To wit:
*He orders me around with no manners whatsoever. I can weasel a please out of him when I remember to try, and he'll offer the occasional ill-timed "thank you" (after he's hoisted himself into his car seat on his own, while I'm busy doing something in the front seat, for example), but more often I get "take away" or "don't like; move" and I quietly comply.
*He doesn't know the meaning of personal hygiene. He loves tissues, but mainly sees them as an activity - as in "how many can you take out of the box in 30 seconds flat?" - rather than a tool. Instead, he prefers to offer his boogers to me. And I take them. Gladly.
*I generally put all of the effort into this relationship. I'm constantly coming up with things for us to do that involve... Fantasy! (Let's pretend we're elephants!) Travel! (Hey, let's go to that new playground!) Adventure! (Let's make a fort!) And 87 times out of a hundred, I'm met with a flat "No." The other 13 times the "No" is accompanied by a high pitched whine. Hey, kid, let's see you make some effort!
*His sense of humor is questionable. His favorite joke is decidedly unfunny, and yet he unapologetically acts it out over and over again, completely oblivious to the sensibilities of his audience. And how could you fault him for that? Even when your strongest wish in the world is that he would please stop taking off his shoes every time I put the car into park!
*He has no qualms about groping me in the most public of places. Breastfed until he was 20 months old, I guess he still finds comfort in the old gals. And did I mention he seeks comfort mainly in public places?
*He has no sense of physical space. Every time I rack up a new bump or bruise from an accidental encounter with my son's hard, hard head I am reminded of that age-old question, "If a tree falls in a deserted forest..." Because really, if a mom gets a black eye but is more concerned with calming her crying boy than icing a swelling, purple cheek, does it really even count?

This morning when I realized that if had ever dated someone with my son's habits he'd've been gone in a second I also realized something else. When it comes to Eli, none of this matters one lick. I am henpecked and boogered-up. I am unamused and beat-up. And I am completely and madly in love and I wouldn't trade any of it.