« October 2007 | Main | December 2007 »
Blocks have always been a classic favorite, but they aren't just for kids anymore. No, these are fancy designer blocks. Here's a few that are eye candy too.
Animal Puzzle designed by Aoi Huber Kono in 1975 for Naef Toys, Switzerland
Secici Animali (16 animals) by Enzo Mari
Nod Alphabet Blocks designed by Michael Mabry for Land of Nod
Alexander Girard Alphabet Blocks, created by House Industries
notNeutral Wood Block Puzzle Set
Möbelspiel, The Furniture Game by Willy Guhl for Vitra
Huh?
Wassat?
Oh, sorry. I think I fell asleep.
A mere few weeks ago, I used to do that sleeping thing regularly. At night. In my bed, even.
Not since the big boy bed. Sleep be darned! Now my sweet boy comes to visit his moms four times a night. When we bring him back to the room, we need to stay there until he sleeps. We, of course, don't get to sleep during this new routine. I tried that once.
See, we got the ugly (UGLY, I say) bed rail for the big boy bed. He hated it. (Thank goodness we have the same aesthetic temperament.) So we decided to lay his crib mattress under his big boy bed, so if he rolls off, he'll have a soft landing. One night I got so tired of going back and forth between the two rooms, I decided to curl up on the crib mattress and just sleep there. This is what I dreamed: I walked back to my bed and got into my soft cozy adult-sized mattress with my honey. Three minutes later, Cakie is in the room and I'm carrying him back to his room, waiting for him to go back to sleep, then going back to my nice bed. Repeat dream. Repeat it about eight times.
I didn't even know I was dreaming this exhausting dream. That is, until I woke up. How did I wake up, you ask? My son fell on top of me.
Just in case you hadn't already heard, kids are giving other kids their custom-printed business cards. My husband mentioned it a few weeks ago, (He had read an article about it in the paper.) But after an initial snort of disbelief, my mind wandered to other things and I promptly forgot about it. Until today, when Sam received a card from a classmate. He was so excited! Not only by the design but by the quantity of said cards which came in a box filled with enough for each child in the class, "And then there were lots left over!" Sam gasped. As he happily wandered home, card clutched in his hand I wondered if this was yet
another task I needed to add to my 'attempt at being a good, au courant, parent' checklist. I never did manage to get those mommy playdate cards printed up when that was in fashion and okay, I'm someone who doesn't actually have a regular business card myself. I used to, when I had a real job. And I do have some generic brown cards that say 'this is my card' (Is this a little hostile?) and if I remember to have them on my person I can scrawl my name and number on them. But that's the extent of it.
I am wondering, is this just a New York thing? Does anyone else feel a little uncomfortable about this?
Our darling son, Cakie, has pretty much slept from 7ish pm to 6:30ish am every night for the past year and a half, with only a few minor lapses. I dedicated my February vacation when he was six months old to sleep training him. It paid off, big time. We couldn't stand to let him cry it out, so we took a different route which worked swimmingly...
Until about three weeks ago. Three weeks ago, two-year-old Cakie decided he was scared to death of his bedroom and sleeping alone in general. It happened suddenly, not unlike a three-car pile-up. As A was putting him to sleep in his crib, he started screaming. She left the room and closed the door, deciding to let him calm himself down and possibly settle into dreamland. Rather than get more calm, he got louder and higher pitched. Then we heard it: THUMP, patter patter patter. A ran to the door, opening it to find Cake liberated from his crib, standing at the door crying.
Time for a big boy bed.
We put his crib mattress on the floor. We dutifully headed that weekend to Ikea. We had gone the weekend before, managing to avoid Cakie's recurrent carsickness and grumpiness on anyone's part to buy hardware for our kitchen renovation. We had high hopes for this trip as well. High hopes, that was, until poor little Cakie dispersed the contents of his stomach all over the back seat, five minutes from Ikea. Things went downhill from there. You've had those shopping trips. The ones in which everyone is so tired and cranky and hungry that you end up buying things you hate just to get out of the store more quickly. It was exactly one of those trips.
It culminated in me fetching the car with the Cake Man, who decided to have quite possibly the largest and loudest screaming fit I have witnessed from him, simply because he did not want to get in the car seat. You know, when your child is screaming so loudly that people whip out their video cameras to possibly get footage of you abusing the child? When you have to say very loudly in your sweetest mommy voice to make the gawkers continue on their nosey way, "I'm sorry honey but you must get into the carseat. It is the law."
By the time I got to the loading area, Cake and I were so exhausted from the carseat battle and the following three minute car ride with howls of anguish from the poor carseat-suffering child, we nearly both fell alseep. He did, anyway. I had a bigger job ahead.
Somehow in our crazed shopping and purchase of the cheap-but-unattractive big boy bed, we forgot that we are not those people who drive the large SUVs. No. We drive a 1996 Nissan Altima sedan. The big boy bed was big. I was ready to leave it on the curb. After about thirty minutes of taking things out of boxes and trying to shove the long piece of the bed through two windows, we were visited by a friendly spirit in the form of a guy who worked at Ikea, who must have seen the likes of us before. He quickly rearranged the entire contents of the car, save our sleeping child, and managed to fit it all in! This is a great trick: he reclined the front seat as far as it would go, and slid the long piece diagonally over it. It was a miracle. Then as quickly as he appeared, he was gone. A got in the backseat and we dragged ourselves home.
I thought we were tired then. It seems so long ago now. Stay tuned for Big Boy Bed, Part 2.
CAUTION: obsessive yoga discussion ahead
Eve is one of my oldest friends. We met in fencing class in college,then became roommates, then both moved to England and married British guys (from whom we are both now divorced). When our wild days were sort of behind us, we also became interested in yoga. We had drifted apart by then, living in different states and pursuing different careers, but somehow we were united in this. It was a nice surprise whenever we reconnected.
So I was all fired up for a Thanksgiving weekend ashtanga workshop with Eve at her local studio in Massachusetts. I had never done ashtanga yoga and didn't bother to look up any information about it. Eve said, "Be prepared to sweat." But I thought how can you sweat any more than in Bikram? Well I was in for a shock on several counts.
First of all, almost everyone there was really, really limber and strong, frequently holding their entire body weight with just their arms, performing something called 'jump throughs' with grace and agility. (You cross your legs, raise yourself up on your arms, then swing forward.) 
Secondly, there was an exerting sun-salutation like sequence (including chaturanga and upward dog) between asanas. Thirdly, something had happened to my back and I couldn't even bend over to touch the floor. I tried and tried and finally the extremely capable teacher suggested I try child's pose (agony!) and when that didn't work told me to just lie on the floor and observe.
I hate to admit that tears trickled from my eyes. I felt sorry for myself and very left out. I felt betrayed by my body. I had never had back pain before - even when I was pregnant. Even when I lifted heavy things in an incorrect manner. Why was this happening right now? But the day before I had knelt on the floor to assemble a playmobil toy (ggrrr..) and when I got up felt a shooting pain in my lower back that had not gone away.
After feeling very sorry for myself for about 15 minutes, I started to see the bright side. I had never actually observed a yoga class without participating and it was interesting to see the variations, the adjustments, and the ways different people responded to different poses. I felt self conscious, sitting it out, but I definitely learned a lot, not the least of which was patience.
Someday I will try ashtanga again - after my back is better, after I get back in shape with less extreme forms of the practice. Maybe next year I will go back and will be able to do one jump through. That is my goal. In the meantime I'll be taking it easy until my back heals. And when it does, I'm going to try not to take it for granted ever again.
I have had a bit of a sore throat for the past few days. Worse at night, better during the day. Surely the result of a cold, I told myself. But last night, about 2 hours before I was supposed to host a monthly knitting circle at the local Barnes and Noble, I found it almost impossible to swallow. My throat was burning - constantly - and a fever had appeared out of nowhere. I had never experienced a sore throat like this before, and since I was supposed to chaperone on Hank's field trip the next morning, I decided to go to the emergency room. As I slumped on the plastic chair in the waiting room I kept thinking 'better me than the kids.' But when the test results came back positive for strep I became convinced that they had it too. I panicked. What if that cold Sam had last Tuesday really wasn't and I had let a case of strep go in him for a week? What if Hank, who has betrayed no symptoms of illness at all for the past few weeks except for an occasional cough that I associate with his asthma, had had strep so long that it had turned into rheumatic fever? How would I know? 
Frantic searches on webmd worsened my fears. Needless to say, both kids are out of school today and we are taking a car service over to the pediatrician in about an hour.
I find it difficult to know where to draw the line between prudent parenting and being a hysteric, convinced that my kids have everything that's going around. It doesn't help that we constantly have warning notes taped to their cubbies at school. "Warning! A case of strep/lice/pinkeye/etc. has been found in your child's class. Please contact the office or your pediatrician for more information." I have already had both kids tested for strep once in the past fortnight - and it tuned out to be just a common cold. I have spent hours checking their heads and researching how to best identify nits. I have wished, time and time again, that I got a degree in nursing rather than teaching. As a mom, I often feel like the old adage 'jack of all trades, master of none.' I feel unprepared for all of the nuances of the job. Is doing the best I can really enough?
Since I was a child, I have been searching for some sort of fame. What can I say? I like being the center of attention.
As a small child, I wanted to be a model/television star. See, when I was an infant, my actress babysitter convinced my parents to take some pictures of me and bring them to an audition for a commercial. So my dad whipped out his 35 mm and took some shots and developed them himself. They brought his homemade portfolio to the audition and sat in the waiting room with other parents who obviously put a lot more money into their professionally-made ones. I got the job. I was in a diaper commercial. It was for one of the very first disposable diapers. In the print version, which my mother still keeps in a photo album, my babysitter is holding me, while dropping my dirty diaper into a toilet. (Sorry, planet.)
That small success always stuck with me. However a few choice moments have altered my quest for fame over the years. My quest for a modeling career ended in high school, when I took a modeling class. When they showed the agency honcho my proofs, I heard her say, "What's wrong with her eye?" Nothing, lady. Well, I have a lazy eye, and I don't need to be judged for it so forget this garbage. (I'm a thin-skinned attention seeker.) I stopped seeking my career as a movie star also in high school when I saw Ted Danzen on a ski trip. The poor guy was just trying to ski with his family. Everyone kept wanting to shake his hand. Eh. I don't need to be interrupted on vacation with my family. I won't be a movie star. In junior high I wanted to be an architect. I could design fabulous buildings that would exist way beyond my living years. Then I took physics. Never mind.
In college, I decided I would write a book. I learned at that point that all fame is fleeting. I worked in the library shelving books. They were wonderful old musty things. Eventually they went out of print or out of circulation. But for a while, anyway, each book carried on a life of its own. It helped people. Or entertained them. They might go out and look for it in a store. Then get excited when they find it. Then carry it around for a while, hugging it sometimes or staying up late to read it. Later they might argue with a spouse about keeping it, rather than sending it off to the used book store. "It has been there forever. You never read it." "I don't care. This one stays." That's the kind of fame for me. No hassles at vacation time. No worries about my lazy eye or my weight. I'm still working on that one.
It has morphed from a book of poetry, to a children's book to its present form: a non-fiction guide book for lesbian moms (the ones who are not pregnant) I'm actually writing it, so if you know anyone who would like to be interviewed, let me know in a comment.
Then along came reality tv. I, like many of you, marvel at people's choices to appear on shows in which they share a dating partner with dozens of other people, or live in a house that they cannot leave with people who producers obviously chose to argue with them for a slight chance at winning some money. I know it is the fame. They want to be hassled on vacation. I, on the other hand, would only appear on a reality show for which I was guaranteed payback. I would be willing to humiliate myself on national TV for a make-over. Fix my house, fix my hair, give me a big fat credit card with which I can only buy expensive clothes. I'll do it. You hear that producers? I've been dropping hints to my friends for years. No one has nominated me for such a show.
The experts would scoff at my chunky shoes (I walk to school and I have a bone spur.) They would scowl at the state of my pretty-colored hair that has not been cut since June. I'm willing to wear stained sweatpants for a month for the hidden cameras.
I even thought of plugging the producers of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy to do a spin-off. Queer Eye for the Gay Grrrl? How about Straight Eye for the Queer Chick? Anything? I'd like my hair and my house done-over, please.
My quest for fame has boiled down to this: I'd be happy for one published book. I'd be very happy. I'd sell my soul for a new look... well $5,000 worth of new look, or $1000 and Vern Yip for my bedroom. Producers? Do you hear me?
I thought I'd put a spotlight on one of my favorite things: TOYS. I like to go into toy stores and check out stuff as much as my kids do. This is dangerous since I am trying really hard not to spoil them. (So far it's not working.)
This week's toy is probably created more for the design savvy parents (read: ones who can afford Bugaboos and Netto cribs) than their wee ones. It's a modernist doll house called Villa Sibi, designed by Wolfgang Sirch and Christoph Bitzer. It's available at moderntots.com and can be mortgaged for $750. 
On Election Day, the kids were off from school. Of course the teachers had to work.
Luckily, I have a pretty amazing principal who did not keep us cooped up in unproductive meetings all day. The first great thing she did was give us each a copy of a book that she loved so much, she wished that every one of her staff would read it. Then she gave us two hours to all sit in the same room and read. I loved the book. It re-affirmed for me that I do a lot of things right as a teacher. It also pointed toward a few things I could tweak. Better than the book, was sitting in a big room with fifty people reading for two hours. We force the kids to read independently every day. I was surprised at how fidgety I was and how I had to stop reading and move around quite often. I'll have to remember that.
The second cool thing she did, was treat us to a lovely lunch and a walking tour of our non-profit partnership, Green-Wood Cemetery. I have taken the tour at least three times before. The cemetery is a sprawling landscape of, well, history. And people who are history. Before Prospect Park was built, people would flock to the Cemetery and picnic on their family plots. Buried there are the man who supposedly invented hot dogs, one of the engineers of the Brooklyn Bridge, Leonard Bernstein and Dewitt Clinton. This time the tour was given by a newbie-- an extremely enthusiastic and occasionally inaccurate newbie.
At lunch I was approached by my favorite colleague, D. She had been asked to officiate at the wedding of two of our other colleagues. D is my real-life reading and writing buddy. She often comes into my classroom bearing a poem she has written or a book she has read as gifts. She wrote a poem for the wedding. I had been trying to help her edit it. Seeing as I have not written much of my own poetry in the past few years, I savored the wordplay. It also felt important -- much better than being published in some journal -- this poem was central to someone's union. Cool. I won't reprint the poem here, since I don't have permission. Entitled "Renew," it used the image of the phoenix to describe love in a life-long relationship. It started off really well, then petered off and got kind of trite near the end. This was the last stanza before I got my hands on it:
Because love
Is ever
Renewed.
Eh. We could do better. So this day spent walking around the freezing cemetery, I had this ember of a poem in my mouth. I kept running up to D and whispering revisions in her ear. That was between shivering, marveling at the artistry of the strangers-to-me who labored over tombs and statues, and mentally correcting our tour guide... "Dewitt Clinton, Governor, Senator and spearhead of the Erie Canal construction was the reason why New York City has the diversity it does today!" (I beg to differ. At least 18 languages were spoken in New Amsterdam over 100 years before Clinton was born.)
"See that monument of the boy over there, Georgie? It was designed by the designer of the Lincoln Memorial." (Ummm, it says Frankie on the monument.)
I was supposed to be getting developed, professionally. I have to say, I did spend most of the day thinking of labor. The work of teaching. The work of building. The work of motherhood. The work of relationships. In the end the last stanza looked like this. A little better, I think:
This work--
Love's work
Renews.
The Brooklyn Museum hosted a very fun children's book fair today. Hank and I were among the attendees listening to read-alouds, perusing the books (most by local authors) and playing with balloons in the vast and lively Rubin Pavilion. That's one of the things I love about city life - that these types of events not only happen, they happen often, are easy to get to, and are (yes, I am inherently thrifty) free. Growing up in Maine, I don't think I ever met a 'real' author and here they seem to be a dime a dozen, popping up at all sorts of venues, happily making conversation and signing their books.
One of the highlights was hearing the very wonderful book What Happens on Wednesdays by Emily Jenkins, who also read another great book Daffodil, Crocodile
- most memorable to me due to Hank's openmouthed chewing whenever she read the words "chomp, chomp, chomp." I think he will continue doing it in his sleep. He had declined to touch the crocodile mask she brought along before the reading but afterwards rushed over to feel it, beating out every other child for the first touch. I think he gladly would have put it on his head and paraded around the museum chomping at people, but a 3 year old is fickle and by the time the other children had their turns he had lost interest.
We bought an intriguing book before we left - A Horse in the House and Other Strange But True Animal Stories. I am looking forward to reading it at bedtime as I think the subject matter will be right up Sam and Hank's alley. (Plus why was that horse in the bathtub anyway?) The premise has immediately put me back in touch with the urge that made reading The Guinness Book of World Records such a fascinating childhood pastime. Bring on the bearded lady and that super-long fingernailed guy.
