Heartbreak

Our community lost one of its mothers this week.  It was a tragedy that I want to call "preventable," but I'm not sure that would be entirely accurate.  This mom was beautiful, athletic, fit, exuberant, outgoing, inclusive, always laughing and welcoming, extending friendship.  She was one of those people whom I was always genuinely happy to see.  If I went to an event and she was there, I knew I would have someone to talk to or sit by.

Now she is gone.  I don't know anything about anything, but I have to assume she wasn't the only woman out there who has felt a sense of hopelessness.  What is the answer?  I always tell my children that, if they are approached by a stranger, they must run to the nearest house and go in.  Just go in.  Or run to the nearest mom.  If you are an adult who senses danger, either internal or external, you could use the same advice.  Run to the nearest mom and expose that danger.  You have a friend, you have a neighbor, you have an acquaintance.  Don't downplay your agony.  Sometimes, people feel like they have exhausted their support system.  Maybe their troubles are chronic or recurring.  Go to someone you barely know.  Had this woman knocked on my door and said, "Help me," yes, I would have.  Anyone would.

Like I said, I don't know anything about how to make the world a better, safer place or how to ease the silent suffering that surely must be going on right in my face.  But I say:  If you're hurt or wounded and you can't knock on my door, knock on somebody's door.

And to my beautiful friend:  My daughters will watch out for your daughters.  They will try to shelter and help them.  And I will watch out for your daughters from where I am, as you watch over them from where you are.  I wish you peace.

 https://www.facebook.com/groups/416533615104539/

Big, Handsome Chip

My dear little Ptolemy is so funny.  I would say he is cute, but I'm not allowed.  I'm only allowed to say he's a big, handsome boy named Chip.  Heaven help the innocent bystander who says "Cute little Ptolemy."  He's big, he's handsome, and his name is Chip!  And here are some of the funny things he says:

Yesterday he had a runny nose and got fed up with it, saying,  "Ugh!  Stuff is NOT supposed to come outta my nose!"

When we go to the zoo, half the reason we go is so that I can relax in the car with my hot cocoa and listen to NPR.  I love the drive.  Last week, we got in the car, I turned on Morning Edition and Ptolemy said,  "NPR is not invited to go to the zoo with us!"
 
He was watching Tziporah toddle around picking things up off the floor and putting them in her mouth.  He watched her for a minute and then said, "Where did we GET this baby anyway?"

We were watching a ballet recital DVD in the car and I said, "This is what YOU get to do next year!"  He squinted at the screen for a moment and then said, "Those are GWILL children!"  I finally convinced him that some of the children were boys.  Now, on each dance, he says quizzically, "Is that ME?!"

We try to visit Nana Ruby about once a week, but lately, Ptolemy has been whining every day to visit her.  He says, "We hafta visit Nana because she's my gwandpawent."  It's hard to say no to that, he asks with such urgency, and his urgency is so justified.  So it's off to visit Nana, Ptolemy's grandparent, again this morning.  Maybe Chip will let NPR come with us.

Can't Go Wrong

Can you hear the choir of angels when you look at this picture of a steaming hot bowl of hearty winter soup?  It was quite a simple soup, but everyone loved it.  I'm giving the credit to the bread bowl.  When feeding kids, it's all about the presentation.  My kids will eat anything out of a ramekin, no matter how veggie-laden or weird-colored.  They will eat pureed broccoli out of a ramekin, as long as it's topped with melty cheese.  Ramekins are small, too, so they don't waste a lot of  food.

I thought the ramekin was my best friend until I met the bread bowl.  I always associated these with special occasions, but now that I see their hypnotic effect on children, I will serve every meal out of them!  "Mom, why is there a stack of graham crackers in this bread bowl?"  "I know, yummy, right?!"  "Yes, Mother.  Thank you for dinner!"

Granted, this soup isn't the healthiest meal, unless you're raising a premature panda baby.  It will definitely stick to your ribs, which is good if you're a baby panda.  If you already weigh enough, you may want to eat this in moderation.  And good luck with that, because it's goooooood.

Here's my bread bowl soup recipe:

Cook chicken breasts in the crock pot, dice, throw back in, save the juice.
Saute diced onions and carrots in butter, add to crock pot, don't wash the pan because you're about to make a roux in it.
Make a roux (lots) with butter, flour, milk and the stock from cooking the chicken.
Dice potatoes, boil, add to crock pot along with a bag of frozen peas.
Add sea salt and coarse ground pepper, and the secret ingredient: a couple of tablespoons of pesto.

Now that I look at that, it's not much of a recipe, given the lack of measurements (other than "lots"), but it's soup.  You can't really go wrong. Just make up some numbers and stick them in there.

One number you can count on with this soup is 100.  100% success rate with anyone eating it, provided you have lots of (there's that measurement again) butter for the bread.  Bon appetit!

He'll Do It His Way

Freestone got a note at church that said, "Freestone has the opportunity to give a prayer on Sunday, March 10th in Primary."  He crossed out "prayer" and wrote "Minecraft Tutorial."

Church could get very interesting on March 10th.

Toast or You're Toast

Am I bossy?  I don't think so.  It's just that someone has to steer the boat.  That's me.  I'm the captain, and if the rest of the crew follow my orders, it will be smooth sailing and we will all arrive at our destination safely, on time, even if our socks don't match.

That's how I see it.  The rest of my family just thinks I'm bossy.

Today, I was home alone and caught myself giving orders to and English muffin.  In my defense, I felt that it popped up too soon.  But I can see that anyone who can be overheard saying to an English muffin, "I don't think you're all the way toasted.  Now get back down there until you are,"...might be bossy.  Might.  I'll let you know if I decide you're allowed to agree with me.

Hinges

My students had a recital last night.  I didn't take any pictures because I couldn't bend my arm.  An hour before the recital, I was vacuuming the stairs and the vacuum fell on my elbow and cracked it good, at which point I learned a new lesson.  It's similar to "don't point the knife toward yourself."  It's "don't use vacuum attachments downhill from the vacuum."

It was like a 5-Alarm funny bone situation, with a big knob popping up where the side of my elbow used to be.  Either they kids felt sorry for me, or they were terrified by all the moaning and grunting, because they whipped the house into shape in no time.  I sounded like I was in labor, except that when I gave birth, everything was numb from my chin down and I was full of happy adrenaline and miraculous drugs and the only sounds were laughter and pleasant conversation.  This wasn't quite as much fun.  It's way easier to push a baby out with an epidural than it is to carry a chair down the stairs with one arm dangling at your side, unaided by prescription drugs.  I called my mom and said calmly, "Hi!!!!  I'm just uughghgh getting reeeeeeeADY for a recitaaaaaoooow!!!  My arm huuuuuuuuuurtzjzhzhh."  She rushed over to help me get my shirt off and change into something that didn't hurt my arm as much as what I was wearing.

With my new, bloody ping pong elbow, I had to drive to pick up Ruby at ballet.  Driving with one arm is no picnic, especially when you're making contingency plans for when you pass out at the wheel.  I had to roll down the window because my vision kept including swimming black dots.  Maybe they were Oreo crumbs.  I couldn't tell.  I was pounding back a whole package of Oreos with my good arm, which left no arms for driving.  When I careened to a stop at the red light, teeth black with Oreos, vision black with floating Oreo crumbs, I started to cry.  Then I started laughing.  How about a shout-out for tinted windows, because I'm sure I looked like a rabid donkey who hadn't brushed his teeth ever in his life.  Hee haw, hee haw.  BUT I was wearing a cute shirt of my mom's so I'm sure I looked darling.

If driving is hard with a ping pong ball for an elbow, you should try playing the violin.  The knobby arm just happened to be the one that normally moves up and down, running the bow over the strings.  I was slated to accompany some of my students, and I didn't want to ruin whatever all those video cameras were poised and ready to record for posterity.  I told everyone that I was going to demonstrate "playing in the upper half of the bow," and that's what I did with my three inch range of motion.  Ow.  I have never felt so pathetic.  But we all sounded great. 

Following close on the heels of my recital was Ruby's recital, which started just as my guests were exiting with the last of their refreshments in hand.  We divided the recitals up because of seating limitations.  Plus, two half-hour recitals=half as much time spent per capita listening to someone else's kid "saw away" at the violin.  Ruby's (and Golda's one flute student) were great!  One of Ruby's guitar students brought her dad, who is one of our doctors.  I told him I was going in after the recital to have the ping pong ball x-rayed and he said, "Let me save you a hundred bucks.  You're fine."  All it takes is someone with capital letters after their name to say you're gonna make it, and the healing begins.  Thanks, Dr. Fife! 

So I can't bend my arm.  Big deal.  It's ironic, though, and makes me think I'm being punished by the universe.  Just last week, Scott and I were ruthlessly mocking the Primary song that goes, "I'm all made of hinges 'cause everything bends, from the top of my neck right down to my ends..."  Seriously, does there have to be a song about our joints and how thankful we are to have them so we can bend?

Then I got cupcake frosting on my finger and couldn't get it to my tongue.  Because my hinge wouldn't bend.  Now I get it.  I GET IT, OK, UNIVERSE?  I'm thankful for bending joints. Are you happy now?

How to Organize Your Silverware Drawer in a Jiffy!

First, you will need dividers that fit into the drawer.  You can get them by texting this code to Coco: Ineedtogetorganized.

Second, label all 12 slots "Miscellaneous."  (Label them in your mind.  Actually labeling them would take trips to Staples and special pens, and it would be inefficient and redundant.)

Then distribute the silverware according to the labels.

Once you get used to this new system, it will save you a crazy amount of time.  When you need something, simply go to one of the slots labeled (in your mind) "Miscellaneous" and grab it.  What's all this nonsense about having certain types of utensils in certain sections?  That's just ridiculous.

Common Ground

I absolutely love having five daughters because, among other things, it ensures that I will always have plenty of dance classes to take them to.  We could be doing something else and that would be great, but we're doing this, and we like it.  It's what we share.

This is us after the season finale of Dance Academy.  Golda and Ruby have been rationing out the limited number of episodes, watching 15 minutes a day so they don't run out.  I didn't even see it, but when Golda and Ruby started sobbing about the boy who died in a car accident the day of the grand prix, right after his strict Jewish father had finally said he was proud of his son, even though he chose ballet over medical school and sometimes had to leave class early on Friday nights to get to Shabbat services, well, I cried too.  He was so close to his dreams!  We needed a lot of ice cream that night.

So that's having daughters.

Having sons is another story.  Man, I'm thankful for Freestone and Ptolemy, and the way they bring things into my world that weren't there before.  Yesterday, Ptolemy kept saying, "Butt.  Butt.  Butt."  I told him we don't say that, but he patiently explained to me, "I have to, Mom.  It's one of my exercises."  Oh, well then, go right ahead.  Ptolemy brings a whole new vocabulary to my sheltered existence.  We have tried to convince him not to call people idiots, so he has invented new put-downs.  Instead of screaming, "I can do EVER I want, you IDIOT!," he now screams, "You're in the bug's mouth!"  We don't know why that's bad, but it is the strongest insult.  You do not want to be in the bug's mouth.  Freestone goes in the bug's mouth a lot because of all the teasing he dishes out to Ptolemy.

Freestone is the guy who brings whole worlds into my world.  Whatever he's interested in, he tends to get obsessed.  As everyone knows, the current obsession is Minecraft.  He loves to watch YouTube videos called "Mary and Dad's Minecraft Adventures."  (Another parent sharing a hobby with his kid.  Love it!)  Freeestone wasn't as prudent as Golda and Ruby and didn't ration out the Mary and Dad episodes, so he has seen them all and is desperate for Season Seven to come out.  Since the people making it are probably just regular folks, we have no idea when that will be, which is excruciating for Freestone.  In the meantime, he can be found lecturing on and on about Minecraft at any given moment.  Here are two:  A little tour of Freestone's Minecraft house and some basic information about something Minecraft on the way home from violin this morning.

The first time I was invited to Freestone's Minecraft house, he made me a character and took me on a tour, me using Ari's Kindle.  It was cool!  I fell down the stairs because I didn't know how to navigate, so Free promised to build me a railing.  Then I got stuck in Freestonen's basement and he had to rescue me.  Later, I went outside and wandered off and got lost.  Freestone laughed and said, "Turn around, Mom!"  I turned my guy around saw the house in the distance.  Free thought I was hilarious.

What I've discovered is, whether you're in an alternate reality or a ballet studio, in front of the TV or on the sidelines of a game, there is always common ground under your feet.  You just have to stand on it and look up.  For me,  I don't want to look up and find myself standing somewhere else, somewhere less magical, less hallowed.  Somewhere that ultimately just doesn't matter.

All of that being said, kids really aren't that cool.  Here's proof!

Fraidy Cat

Once upon a time, I was not afraid to fly.  Then after 9-11, I started feeling anxious on airplanes.  I was sure I was going to die.  It was such an uncomfortable feeling that it wasn't worth it to even go on an airplane.  I dreaded the inevitable panic, and the sensation that I couldn't breathe.

That was the beginning.

But still, I taught ballet classes without walking up and down the barre picturing in my mind what I would do if a gunman burst through the door.  Not now.  Now I think:  I would immediately hurry all my girls out the back.  Right?  If I rehearse it in my mind, I can be ready and save them all.  Should we have a drill, I wonder sometimes.

Until quite recently, I sat in audiences with my children without wondering how many I could shield with my own body if someone were shooting at us.  Before, I never noticed where all the exits were and created strategies for escape.  I never wondered if Ptolemy could understand the concept of "playing dead."

I remember when cancer seemed like an "if," not a "when," and my lungs didn't hurt just from living where I live.

This is crazy.  Am I just losing it?  Are we all?

Then again, none of my children will ever die, probably, by falling off a wagon, getting kicked in the head by a cow, or getting their arm caught in a hay baler.  When they get sick, I am not afraid they'll die, because we have medicine, hospitals.  If every time and place has its dangers, ours probably has fewer than most, fear itself being primary among them.  Fear, I can conquer.  Fear doesn't carry an assault rifle.  Or maybe it does, and that's our problem.

The Red Thread Turns Into a Very Thick Cable

ONE of the great things about having Xanthe in our family is that we get to celebrate extra holidays.  Chinese New Year is the biggest holiday in the world, celebrated by well over a billion people.  Records are broken every year in regards to number of texts sent, number of train tickets sold, worldwide volume of phone calls, etc.  More people travel for Chinese New Year than anything else in the world, because part of CNY is going home.

This year, we stayed right where we were and the party came to us!  And boy did the party come in force!  We had many new families as well as old.  Everyone knew someone, but nobody knew everyone.  What we all knew was that there was a ton of good food, if you could get to it!  I think our house finally met its party match.  I know there were at least 95 people, 20 or 30 of whom seemed to be running in circles around the basement in their Chinese finery, shrieking and giggling.  A perfect activity; not messy and good exercise!

As crowded and noisy as it was, I can't put into words why I love having the house packed to the gills or why it's such a thrill to have people gather here.  I just love it.  For Scott, hosting isn't necessarily his calling in life.  He's a social guy and a good sport, but parties are something he puts up with because he loves me, just like I put up with...um...I can't think of anything.  Scott is perfect.  (Breathe a sigh of relief, Scott, but hurry, because we're having two recitals at our house Friday.  You don't have to come! :D)

Yes, the red thread community we have become a part of has turned into a very strong cable of families who are bound together by something invisible, indescribable, yet unbreakable.

Ptolemy stole the show, wearing our only pair of Chinese pajamas.  I was talking to another mom and called Ptolemy "my cute little guy," which is a no-no.  He was quick to point out that, "I'm big!  And I'm handsome, too!"

Sneaking cookies before the party?

And then, this happened!

Gracie, Ari and Kate, three of my very favorite past and present ballet students, found a quiet corner.

The Amazing Passeys.  We love you guys!

That's Liese Checketts on the right, the organizer of all this craziness.  Thanks for everything, Liese!

These are just the cooperative kids.  There were about this many who didn't make it to the couch because they were just too busy!  It's OK, though, because the couch was pretty much at capacity!

Sophia playing a traditional Chinese instrument, a reed flute.

Changs and Sandy.  Terah and Ruby had something in common:  They were both the Arabian soloist in the Nutcracker during consecutive years.  Now they might have something else in common too, if the Changs end up adopting from China or Taiwan! 

Loose Cannons

Well, it was an exciting weekend.  Through a computer glitch, we almost had the chance to book a Paris apartment for $27.00 a night.  The dangers of airbnb.com are myriad, including the temptation to sell your integrity for a cheap apartment near the Arc du Triomphe.  After we decided not to "book it for $27.00 and see if they notice," based more on Trajan's schedule not working with taking Ruby to Paris right then than any moral conviction on our part, we were deflated.

It was Saturday afternoon and someone said, "I love San Francisco."  Someone else said, "Let's go there right now!"  We all stood around with this unstable gleam in our eyes for a moment, ready to bolt, until I stated the awful truth: "We have a room full of loose cannons here!  We cannot go to San Francisco right now!"  Trajan said, "Yeah.  If we would have thought of it yesterday, though..."  For sure.

So the farthest afield anyone went was Park City.  Scott and I went up for one of our 14-hour getaways.  Leave after half the kids are asleep Saturday night, come home in time to take the girls to their choir commitment Sunday morning at nine.  Somehow, it's long enough.  Freestone made an apple pie Sunday night, which I took as a symbol of how nice it is to stay home.  Mom and apple pie, hominess, Uncle Sam and all that.  Home sweet home! 

Then Scott called me this morning and said something that started with, "So I was on airbnb..."  and ended with, "and she also has a cheap apartment in Belleville, your favorite neighborhood in Paris!"

Well, they do have apple pie in Belleville...

Back in Time

 I wish I were in 5th grade.  I'm the cutest one here!

 Me me me me me me!

Tziporah didn't feel well at the lip synch contest.  She still had an ear infection and, just as an added bonus, RSV.  Don't worry, she was on antibiotics.  But still whimpery.

 Scott said he was too busy to come to '50's Day to see Ari's lip synch. Yeah, right.  I wasn't surprised at all when he walked through the door. 

 Is it perfect yet?

Yep!

Elizabeth, Ari and Kirtlan.  They practice A LOT for their lip synch, which they did to "Rock Around the Clock."  It was fabulous!  They won for "Most Original."  Kirtlan made a clock out of cardboard as a prop.  At the end, Kirtlan collapses in front of the clock.  In the performance, the clock fell on his head at exactly the right time.  They couldn't have scripted it better!  Unfortunately, even though Scott held up his phone as if he were recording the whole time, he failed to push the "Start" button.  I would have been really bent out of shape about that, if I hadn't just done the same thing at Freestone's scout talent show two weeks ago.  The kids did such a great job that I'm going to try to get a recording from Kirtlan's dad, provided he pushed START.

 The kids practiced for their lip synch in our basement for a total of probably four hours.  They were serious!  It turned out really, really cute.

Some big personalities here!

Thanks for coming, Grandma!  It's always nice to have a supportive audience.

 Ptolemy wasn't sure if he was supposed to hold his pants out like Ari is holding her skirt out.  :)

 Mom looking like a deranged ex-cheerleader in my uniform; the shirt that everyone compliments me on.  If you get tired of it, give me another one just like it in different colors.  Thanks.

After the lip synch contest, the 5th graders had a dance.  They learned quite a few dances from the '50's!

The Chicken

Box Step

 At the sock hop

 Hmm.  The dog appears to have a collar.  An untied collar.

 Last-minute hair

And now we have three poodle skirts for anyone who needs them to borrow.  We have Tizzy's little one, a pink one that Golda and Ruby wore and the new turquoise one.  But darnit, I'm afraid none of them will fit Xanthe when she gets to fifth grade.  She's a tiny little thing, but not tiny enough for the baby skirt.  Mom, Xanthe likes pink.  Just sayin'...not that I would ask you to make another skirt or anything!  Just, like, if you want to. :)