THE CHECK IN

Oh, hello there. Hi. Hey. What's up. Remember me? GOOD. I know.... been a while since I've posted anything. I'm well overdue for a story about Jonah and his questions or my unshaven legs (though I must say, shockingly, they're actually quite smooth these days. Jonah on the other hand... his questions are still incessant).

Anyway... What exactly have I been doing that has taken me away from all things perfectly disheveled? I don't entirely know. But I know I've been BUSY. I've got a pile of mail, a slew of phone calls to returns, an inbox of of unread emails, and a dozen shows that are on the brink of DVR deletion... On that note, I'm going to keep it short and sweet, and leave you with 1) a promise that I will start to write more. Soon. & 2) a little story about little J.

Tonight, after returning from an oh, SO fun sesh with my accountant (Three letters: FML), I walked in while Jonah was taking a bath. I sat down next to Tricia (our nanny) and started to catch up with them.

Me: So.... tell me about your afternoon. How was it? What did you do?

J: Mommy, we already told you.

Me: Can you tell me again?

J: Why do you always check on me while I'm with Tricia? Just let us hang out. We're fine. Geeeeee.

Tricia and I laugh.

Me: Oh, my darling.... I will check on you for the rest of your life. In 30 years from now, I'll check on you.

J: 30???!

Me: Yep... when you're married, with children, I'll check on you. I'll ask you about your day then too.

J: But, why???

Me: Because I'm your mom. And I'm jewish. And we want to know what you ate, where you ate, who you ate with, how you feel, how you felt, how you think you'll feel and if you're still hungry.

Jonah laughed.

J: Are you just joking?

Me: Oh, no. I'm pretty serious.

He puts his hand to his head.

J: Oh my god, mother!

And so it begins....

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY: HOLY MOSES

Waiting patiently for the Red Sea to part....

EAT THIS

As you may recall from the string cheese incident that rocked the nation in late 2009, my beloved 2.5 year-old son, is quite particular about food. It has to be cut just so... Served just so.... Fed just so... Nothing can touch, nothing can be too hot, and nothing, I repeat, NOTHING, may be eaten (aka stolen) from his plate, unless he is in the sharing mood and demanding that everyone at the table takes a bite (whether they like it or not).

Baby-Ko's appetite and palette is completely unpredictable. One day he may devour an entire plate of spaghetti and "meat-a-balls," and another day he may completely protest it. Unfortunately, this combination, and my inherent neurosis as a Jewish mother who runs a parenting website and has access to far too much information, means that I am at his every whim come meal time... I come with more choices than a menu at Cheesecake Factory.

Just this morning, Baby-Ko got in to bed with me for our normal 6:30 am visit, and asked for a "snackie." Before I could even offer him a cup of cheerios, he was already asking for "something else!" Nine different options of snacks that I have gotten used to finding under my covers night after night later, he settled on sliced apples. (BTW, you realize that means I had to actually get up and slice the apple... BC (before coffee) that is a painful, painful process). The point is, I. AM. A. RESTAURANT.

While I'm certain that I'm not the only mom who turns in to a short order cook every meal, I'm also certain that there are moms out there that have trained their little ones to eat what they're served... even if the spinach is god forbid touching the macaroni and cheese.

Check out the video that's up on Momversation and tell me, ARE YOU A RESTAURANT? If not, what is your trick? Do your children eat what is served? Tell me your thoughts.... Please!

HAPPY... EVERYTHING

I'm Jewish. My mother is Jewish. My father is Jewish. My ancestors are Jewish. As a child I spent summers at (Jewish) summer camp, attended religious school, and was even bat mitzvah'd. I feel Jewish. Think Jewish. And catch me on a humid, not so good hair day, alas, I look Jewish.

All of that Judaism, for me, has meant one thing (okay, three): Food, jokes, and tradition. Let me break this down as to what this means....

Food. This one has nothing to actually do with the type of cuisine Jews eat, because frankly, if you judged my Judaism by the "Jewish things" I eat, I would not measure up. I hate lox, despise gefilte fish, and think herring smells like death. I have never tried a chopped liver I like, and that includes the zshuzshed up/real deal version that is foie gras. Blech. No thank you. For me, food, and how it relates to my religion is connected to my obsession with it-- Not like foodie obsession, because no, I'm not a foodie. Simply, I like to eat. And I like to talk about eating. This 100% stems from a family that gets together to eat and spends entire said meal talking about food and what it is that they will eat next. Not only do we plan what we'll have for breakfast as we eat dinner (and analyze this Passover's brisket compared to the Hanukkah Brisket), but we take time to appreciate the ingredients in the food we're eating. This past Thanksgiving, everyone went around and said how many sticks of butter they had used to make their respective dishes. We figured that 12 sticks of butter were used for our meal... There were 12 of us.

Jokes. A Jewish mother walks in to a bar. Enough said.

Tradition. For me, this is everything. It's not necessarily about what the books say we should or shouldn't do, or how we should do it... It's what we've learned from our experiences, from our family that makes us do it over and over again. It's these things that are etched in our minds forever and make us feel a part of a family, a group, a tribe. For me, it's the 20 year old lamb shank that my Nana keeps in the freezer and takes out every year to proudly showcase on the Seder plate.... It's freezer burned, petrified smell and the joy my Nana gets when telling everybody that someday, "god willing, this bone will be hers..." Or the prayer books we use that are literally from 1923 and use language that hearkens back to the days of yore... Sure, I was bat mitzvah'd, sure I spent a summer in Israel and can read Hebrew... but the rules, the regulations, the WHY of my religion? I don't know. And frankly, I'm okay with that.... I believe that some things in life are okay to do because THIS IS WHAT WE DO... THIS IS WHAT WE KNOW.

And yes, as Baby-Ko gets older, I do hope to give him answers to his questions and teach him the why, how, and what of our religion and every other religion for that matter too... But for now, I'm happy to have conversations that go like this:

Me: It's Passover, Baby-Ko. Happy Passover!

Baby-Ko: It's happy... Passover? What does it mean?

Me: Um, um... It's means.... It means, Holiday.

Baby-Ko: What's a holiday?

Me: Um... holiday means... Happy.

Baby-Ko: No, it means Jewish.

Y es... Yes it does.