My Brother's Keeper

Sam just turned 1. He is really a precious, kind, fun-loving, mischievous little kid, who loves to destroy everything within reach and hates to sleep. I know other people's kids' milestones are infinitely boring, so I will spare you the count of his teeth or the exact date he started walking.  He is changing every day, learning new things and finding ways to apply them.  Perhaps the most exciting one is empathy.



While Maddie is still very attached to her paci, Sam has never taken to one.  So when the babysitter took it away from Maddie, she started her regular Oscar-winning wailing sessions.  Sam went to hug her, to comfort his sister in her most sincere misery. It made me really, really happy and hopeful that it's just a little glimpse into the person he is becoming.

Maddie has prevented many a fall for Sam and has tried to teach him the safe way to climb down the stairs.  On the edge of a staircase, she grabs him by his hood and holds him like a puppy on a leash until I get there.   Unprovoked, she always shares her food with him - in part because she hates eating, but also, because she loves him.

And Henri, he knew that Maddie's favorite princess is Aurora.  So even though he is nearly allergic to princesses, he made sure that's what he got her for her birthday.  And it didn't go unappreciated. The way they greet each other with ecstatic screaming and jumping and hugging could be cheesy were it not so completely unrehearsed, sincere and unaware of anyone watching them.

In-between these incredibly tender moments, they are all monsters.  But I hope the cloth they are cut from is the same, and not just a similar pattern. I hope they have each other's backs. I hope they share more than crazy parents.

A Year in Review

Almost a year ago:

And this is more recent:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=evz-NB2WXFM

Happy Birthday Dear

I’ve lived in this wonderful country (I mean it, by the way) for 18 years, and I came here as an impressionable tween, but the level of familiarity in the American culture and the blurred line of respect for superiors and elders still feels slightly foreign. It has been argued that unlike Russian, Spanish, or French, the English “you” is actually an equivalent of “vous” and there is no informal “you.”

Bullshit.

Even if this were ever true, the modern-day American English knows no “vous.” You are you, your mother is you, the president is you – y’all are yous. We’ve leveled the playing field in that respect and there is certainly some value in this custom. My view was recently reinforced when driving in the deep suburbs bordering upstate New York. We were passing a store called “The Christian Living Store.” I wouldn’t have batted an eye had they not displayed an enormous banner visible from all angles of the highway that read “Happy Birthday Jesus.”

Not a believer myself (you’d be shocked to find out), I felt a little uncomfortable for Jesus and embarrassed for some of his constituents. Seems like the evangelicals are on a first name basis with Jesus, which is a little strange. Sounds like Jesus is a pal or at least the dude sharing the cubicle wall with you. That’s where I relate more to the Catholics, keeping it formal, not real. This whole intimate friendship with Jesus is very disconcerting, kind of like having a friend who has an imaginary friend past the age when it is endearing.

I recently made a new Russian-speaking acquaintance and we had a brief moment where one inquired if we can switch to addressing each other informally. Certainly, let’s go for it, I am hip like that. My mother, on the other hand, has declined her bosses’ requests to switch to the informal form (she is not hip like that). The combination of addressing someone by his/her first name but in the “vous” form has a special flavor, like expressing ultimate good will mixed with sincere feelings of respect. Often the first name takes a diminutive form and turns into something faintly nauseating like “Marinochka, would you be so kind as to pass the teapot.” An interaction like that usually entails way too many “pleases” and “thank yous” but it is far less uncomfortable than witnessing someone wishing Jesus a Happy Birthday.

I guess another cultural barrier that I have is that Russians never just wish a Happy Birthday! We always follow it with specific wishes for health, happiness, success in personal and professional lives, luck, etc. I generally wish for someone’s dreams to come true and I also wish people whatever they wish for themselves (I am terribly awkward and uncreative). So I wonder what the Happy Birthday Jesus! would be followed by, what specific wishes or directives…

Perhaps Jesus is so close of a friend, they can joke around and follow it by one of these suggested hilarities (I googled “happy birthday wishes” and stumbled upon these, among many other gems):

1. "There is a really smart, rich, and famous person who was born today. Too bad it wasn't you. Maybe it will be next year. Happy birthday."

2. "You didn't get older, you became more distinguished. I can tell by your silver crown. Happy Birthday!"

3. "No matter how old you get, I don't think you'll ever grow up. Happy birthday."

4. "I'm sorry we couldn't put the candles on your cake. There were too many to meet fire code. Safety first! Especially at your age."

5. "Just think, in a few years I won't have to give you anything for your birthday because you'll forget what day it is. Happy Birthday, while you still remember."

6. "You say you want to stop having birthdays, but the people who have stopped don't seem to be doing as well as you. Count your blessings. Happy birthday."

7. "I would make fun of your age, but there are so many other things that are more fun to make fun of you for. Happy birthday."

Feel free to leave you belated birthday wish to Jesus here, I'll pass it along.

Little Sam

Here is our little boy!
Samuel Zev
Born January 27 at 5:42 AM
6 lbs 8 oz
19 in

Dazzling Croton

Most of my urban transplant friends and peers have mixed feelings about moving to Croton. Sometimes, this rather nice suburb feels more like the country side, which can evoke feelings of peace in some and panic in others; generally, I am with the others. The scarce sidewalks, sparse entertainment, subpar pizza, and rare but dull conversations on the playground remind me just how far away we are from the concrete jungle where ironically, the grass seems to be greener.

Well, those WERE my feelings some of the times, but no longer… Why? Because in Croton… in Croton, we have everything one may need. River views, tranquility, a hippy coffee shop, a good ice cream joint, and now, vajazzling. What’s that you ask? I will let you google it yourself but will reveal that it involves swarovski crystals and someone who probably refers to herself as an artist. I am really hoping that vajazzling will put Croton on the map. I feel that as a village, we have finally arrived. Some true genius assessed the market opportunity in this area and decided that this is the place to introduce vajazzling!

Who needs a book store when you have a vajazzling salon? Vajazzling is undoubtedly a game changer. Next time you see a familiar mom on the playground with a twinkle in her eye, go ahead and ask “something is different about you – did you vajazzle?”

Me, Myself, and I

As an avid reader of bullshit articles on the internet, you know… those promising to reveal something life-changing through a human interest story, I find myself unable to get past the atrocious grammar and properly contemplate how to be a better communicator, cut unnecessary expenses, look and feel my best, etc. Take the first paragraph from a heart-warming article titled The Marriage Secret Nobody Tells You by Lyz Lenz: When one of my friends got engaged, he was over the moon. At dinner one night, he told my husband and I how much he was in love. Really? He told “I,” Lyz? You fucking genius. What is it with people thinking that using “I” in place of “me” makes them sound smarter? More importantly, what is it with people who don’t know when to use “I” getting paid for writing? It strikes me that, in the recent years, we have excelled at rewarding incompetence and redefining success.

I was so taken by Lyz’s idiocy that I clicked through to the full text article only to read: “I am forever indebted to a couple who told my husband and I a story about their epic battle over putting together a bookshelf.” Learn some elementary grammar, Lyz, before you come up with cutesy ways to spell your name.

Some other favorites include commonplace emails that ask to contact “So-and-so or myself if you have any questions." I do have a question for yourself, moron.

I am sure this and all my preceding entries are sprinkled with grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. I am, however, writing pro bono. And, as we know, you get what you pay for (yes, that is a preposition on the end).

P.S. The most recent bumper sticker: Smile, your mom chose life. I don’t even know where to start.

THAT Lady

Today, I was THAT lady.

I woke up in the morning to find only one contact lens in my case. Like a drug addict, I searched the whole house for a spare, looking in every purse and drawer while cursing profusely, as though this magic combination of profanities would make the contact gods take pity on me. While my frustration was inadequate to say the least, I cut myself some slack as I fully understood that getting a box of contacts today would be a nearly impossible and likely a very expensive undertaking. In fact, I think I’d have a much easier time buying me some crack. You can’t get contacts without a current prescription and I don’t have a current prescription, so I called Wal-Mart. Donald, the receptionist, was SUPER nice, but informed me that it would be against the law for him to sell me contacts without the proper authorization (proper authorization resides in Brooklyn and is on vacation). “Donald, please, I really really really need them for tomorrow. My daughter is getting surgery and I have to be able to drive!” I pleaded on the phone. I had to stop myself from saying “I’ll do anything” to this nice man. I do own one pair of glasses, the one that makes me look like a young orthodox Jewish mother exercising on Ocean Parkway in a below-the-knee skirt, but Maddie stretched them out and they keep falling off. The ones that made me look like an 8th grade spelling bee winner are broken after Maddie got a hold of them. After about six calls back and forth, Donald said he could possibly release the two boxes to me if I got there before 2:30.

So I got there as soon as I could, looking horrible with messed up hair, a questionable outfit and a screaming toddler. Maddie, who is normally a well-behaved, though independent young lady, was pretty impossible. After filling out multiple forms and telling Donald what a fine human being he is for helping me out, I couldn’t resist a little shopping in that fine establishment. Of course, like a true idiot, who just grabs anything that screams “organic” on the package and has a picture of a decent looking baby, I grabbed some biscuits for Maddie – only to pull one of them out of her mouth as I read that the deliciousness was made in China. To reward myself for such a successful trip and for not losing my shit as Maddie cried on the never-ending line, I stopped by Old Navy. “That’s a nice little sweatshirt…” thought I…”Let me go try it on…” WHAT THE FUCK?! Nice sweatshirt? Try it on?

Our next stop? Wendy’s drive-thru! That’s right! Regretting my decision to pull into that hell hole, I reluctantly order a salad. Then regretting that decision again as I look at the calories, I revise the order to half a salad…and fries. We drove home with the Music Together CD blasting in my “fuck you mobile.” The fuel efficiency meter read 14.7 miles per gallon. That’s the life. The man on the CD really worked on his Russian-sounding Rs as he sang something that sounded “ran tan tan tannaa..ran tan tanaaa ran ran.” Maddie liked it and quietly sang along. Taking the opportunity to eat at the traffic light, I shoved some lettuce in my mouth with bare hands and looked at the lady in the car next to us, realizing what a sorry, but not uncommon, spectacle I was.

Tomorrow will be a better day, I am convinced. And today wasn’t that bad, of course. And the sweatshirt fit quite nicely and I’ll be wearing it for years, I am sure.

P.S. Back to the bumper stickers, a car parked in front of Wal-Mart, had one that read: “An American by Birth. A Biker by Choice. A Patriot Forever.” You go, man, you show’em! Fool me once…