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Let The iBeatings Begin!

Posted on January 21, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I want to beat my children. Wait, did I say that out loud? Please don’t call child services. I don’t really want to beat them in the literal way, just figuratively. Figuratively, I want to beat them silly.

Why? I don’t know. Maybe because they’re spoiled and deserve a good figurative beating. Because maybe, I’m tired of the word, “Wait” when I’m asking something like, “Do you want vanilla or chocolate?” and their video game can’t be interrupted; or maybe because they remember they need special molding clay at 9pm for a diorama due the next day. Or because I make three different dinners for them to say, “I’m not hungry” but five minutes after everything has been cleared away, find them attached to my waist, devastated by hunger. Because I sit and help patiently with homework only to be told that “It’s fine” with an eye roll of disdain, even when it’s not, and they haven’t figured out yet that they should say bless you when I sneeze, or offer to help when I’m schlepping in 12 grocery bags instead of throwing their knapsack on top of the bags. That’s why. I could go on, if you need more.

But it’s no longer the 70’s when beatings were just as acceptable as lack of supervision and random light drug use. When I tell my children I’m going to beat them – an entertaining threat that I somehow picked up watching the hysterical skit from Bill Cosby Himself – they roll their eyes. “Oh funny, mom.”   Yeah, I have them quaking in their furry crocs.

Ooops.

Ooops.

I need something to show them that I mean business. I probably would get more of a response if I threatened to beat their devices.

That’s it! They would cower in fear. I would have them at my mercy. I can hear them now…

“NO! My iPhone hasn’t done anything wrong. Please, beat me! Just leave it alone.”

“But, it’s taken me so long to get to that level!”

“Not my contacts!”

“Take the DS! Or the Wii. Just leave the X-Boxxxxxxx!”

phone death 3

Gee, what’s that doing there? Mwahahaha

Or, maybe we could create a new app – iMomfia where I control all the apps on my kids’ devices. If one of the children doesn’t behave, I could make one of their apps just disappear. They’ll never know which one.

I would hold their complete submission in my hands. I would have them doing their homework, putting their dishes in the sink, taking showers without hassle. It’s genius. Or blackmail. Same, same.

Somehow technology has become the only effective method of bribery in my house. For the past few years I’ve used it as a carrot, dangling before them. “Do well in school this year and I’ll get you an iTouch… Show me how helpful you can be around the house and maybe you’ll earn yourself an iTunes card…”  So, I guess it’s partly my fault that it’s become the most important thing to them, but I prefer to blame society.

Yes! It’s society’s fault that I own them in the first place, and now just to get my children’s attention, I may have to beat a device worth hundreds of dollars.

Ouch.

This is gonna hurt.

phone death

*No children or devices were harmed in the making of this totally humorous post.

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You’ll grow up when I’m good and ready

Posted on January 15, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

“Hey, baby.” I say to my eleven year-old. It’s what I call my boys, except my middle son, who at four would already reprimand me for calling him baby. “I’m not a baby.” He’d growl, to which I’d reply, “You’re my baby.” He never accepted my answer and would yell at me whenever I slipped.

Not so with my oldest. He’s always embraced both being a baby and being my baby.

I can’t say I don’t love it, but at times I worry if I’ve made his comfort zone too comfortable; if I’ve babied my baby too much.

“You want to call a friend to come over?” I ask.

He’s curled up in his favorite chair, wrapped in a blanket for comfort not warmth, a bowl of popcorn at his feet watching Austin and Ally on television. He barely turns his head toward me when he answers, “Nah. I’m good.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, walking to the chair and squatting down next to him.

At my closeness, he immediately leans over and nuzzles his head against my body. I give him a squeeze and kiss his head. Ah. My baby.

“I’m good.” He says again, opening his arms for a hug, which I happily embrace.

It’s his downtime. He works hard at school, homework and sports, so I don’t mind him relaxing if that’s what makes him happy.

He craves home, while my middle son craves independence. At eight, he’s already a social animal, and has secured a friend to come over. After his play date, it is not unusual for him to ask for another.

Sometimes, I worry a bit that my oldest is too happy nestled in his chair while his more socially developed friends spend more time bonding and making connections. I worry about him being left behind. Even, shallowly, about not being cool. I want, what I think, most parents want, for him to have an easy run through middle and high school. To fit in. To be well-liked.

“Mommy?” He asks, as I give his head one last tousle and rise to leave him. “Can you bring me water?”

I struggle with wanting to push him out there and pull him back in. I struggle with wanting to do things for him and for him to do them himself. Push. Pull.

He’s eleven. Maybe that’s the age where they need to mature. Almost all of his friends are texting and addicted to Instagram. Quite a few are already into girls. At the moment, my beautiful, sweet son remains blissfully unaware of the social tornado going on all around him.

But probably not for very long.

“Okay, baby.” I say.

His chair

His happy place

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The house where food goes to die

Posted on January 9, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

“Uh, this says pink grapefruit juice.” My friend said skeptically, holding out a container filled of brown liquid, a clump of growth in the center.

We were at my parents’ vacation home upstate, looking for something edible in the closets that would save us a trip out in the cold. My friend had no way of knowing that the house is used intermittently, and my parents are notoriously bad at remembering to throw anything away. It’s funny because whenever I’m here, I think I clear the old stuff out, only to find more the next time we come. This is the house where food comes to die.

“Yeah, sorry. It’s just old. Be careful what you eat here. The last time I was here I grabbed a bag of chips dated 2001.” I didn’t mention the four year-old cream cheese I once found that should have been donated to science.

I pulled a random box of cookies from the cabinet. “Let’s see. Not too bad… They expired in 2010.” I pulled down another box and grimaced. “2009.”

Box by box, we systematically emptied the place. It became a game to see if we could find anything that wasn’t expired. The closest was a jar of peanut butter dated August, 2013. The oldest was a refrigerated jar of jelly dated 2003.

During our rummaging, one of the kids sauntered in. “Oooh cookies!” He exclaimed, eyes wide as an Oreo.

My friend and I immediately grabbed the box. “No!” We both screamed like he was about to touch fire.

Oreo eyes now looked like they had been dunked and might start to drip.

“Sorry!” We both quickly apologized. “They’re bad. They could make you sick.”

He looked at us skeptically. In his eight years, he heard many questionable reasons from adults as to why he couldn’t have a cookie. This was just another to add to the list. He left empty-handed, but full of suspicion.

Just then my husband walked in holding a bag chips, his mouth chewing.

open at your own risk...

Open at your own risk…

“Hey,” I said slowly. “Where’d ya get those?”

“Up there.” He pointed to the cabinet.

Uh oh.

My friend and I exchanged a look.

“Um, they might be a little old.” I said, grabbing the nearly empty bag.

“Expires, March, 2013.” I read.

He shrugged, unimpressed. “Tasted fine.”

It was the exact same thing he said to me every night when I asked how dinner was. Apparently my superior culinary skills have dumbed down his expectations so that even expired food is agreeable to him. I didn’t know whether to be horrified or thrilled. I think both.

Later, we of course went out for dinner and purchased some fresh snacks for our stay.

I have no doubt that I will see them again for years to come.

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My grandma may be dead but she’s still inspiring

Posted on January 7, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I’m sitting here waiting for inspiration to hit me. I’m ready inspiration, come and get me. But no, the only thing here with me is my cat, rubbing his head annoyingly against the top of the screen. I give him a little shove, but clearly, he doesn’t get it and pads even closer to me, intent on laying his body across my keyboard. As if I didn’t have enough obstacles.

Uh, move it buddy.

Seriously?

I’m struggling to come up with meaningful thoughts to put out there; a moment that resonates, that tugs at the heart stings with a twang, a story with a moral that makes you really think about life, or the real coup, being able to give you a good laugh, the kind that can change your mood for just a second.

Instead I just sit here, staring at the screen until I’m almost looking through it, waiting for one of those cool 3-D images to pop out at me. START TYPING. THINK, DAMN IT. YOU CAN DO IT.

I’ve been feeling so numb lately, and not just because of the Raynaud’s that turns my feet and  fingers white and cold as a cup of milk. Could it be winter blues? Or, is this the next stage of my mid-life crisis? I went from feeling a little sexy to a little bit conflicted, and now feeling a little dead? It happened so fast I didn’t even find an appropriate outfit to wear to the funeral. But I guess the old gym pants will do. It’s how I lived, and I’m nothing if not consistent.

But now I’m just being dramatic. And I can tell already, my mother is hating this essay. Don’t worry, mom, it’s just a moment. This too shall pass, as my dead grandmother used to say. She’s looking at me now from a picture across the room; her head thrown back in joy, even with the shower cap on her head which she must have forgotten she was wearing when my husband snapped the picture, because there is no way she would be caught dead in a picture with a shower cap. Ah, the irony.

Gone two years now, she looks radiant, even in the cap, with me by her side and my three boys lined up like beautiful, dutiful progeny; the future, captured in the present which is now the past.

I miss her. I do. Even thinking it now brings that drippy sentimentality to my eyes making them leak at the edges. Looking around, I see some of her treasures glittering: a ceramic dog that was her mother’s, an ugly turn-of-the-century figurine couple mid step, pretty, useless little tea cups on display. There are other things, but that’s all they are. Things. And who needs them really, except that they were hers.

The real gift she left me was living long enough to have a real presence in my life. To make a difference in who I was and am. To have a voice so strong, I can still hear her throaty rasp so clearly…

“Get your head out of your arse and stop this nonsense!”

I smile. Already I feel warmer.

She’s got me thinking.

Going with the glamour hat over the shower cap. You're welcome, Grandma.

Going with the glamour hat over the shower cap. You’re welcome, Grandma.

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Rabbi, we have to stop meeting like this

Posted on January 2, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

We, the parents of the Hebrew class of Gimel, which means third graders to non-Hebrew readers, were called to temple recently for a teaching moment with the Rabbi.

In theory, this is a very nice thing. We have a friendly, young rabbi and bunch of parents who I have known for years. In reality, putting me anywhere near the Rabbi has in the past proven somewhat problematic. Apparently, Rabbis make me nervous or stupid, possibly both.

That’s why, I have resolved for the past year or so now, to watch my mouth and what comes out of it. I will not tell the rabbi, that my hotness is the reason that the room is warm. I will not swear ‘Jesus Christmas’ when I accidentally spill my coffee that I probably should not have brought into temple in the first place. I will not comment on any part of his appearance, like I did when he grew a beard after the passing of his mother, which, who knew – was connected. Um, every Jewish person but me.

This morning, the Rabbi tells us we were brought together to discuss the Shema. I’ve always been a good girl, but never a good Jewish girl, so I couldn’t really tell you what it means beyond that is a prayer that sounds lovely to ear and speaks to the heart of the covenant between you and God. I think.

It’s probably because when the rabbi started speaking I was too involved with searching for a butterscotch candy deep in my bag. Don’t worry, he waited for me to find it.

And when one of the women asked a question that made me roll my eyes a little, I couldn’t help nudging the friend next to me and giggling like an elementary school idiot.

It’s an informal gathering and thankfully the rabbi is kind and tolerant. I add my two cents here and there, and am my general babbling self, causing one woman to remark that I should possibly just lead the discussion.

Okay, then. I’ll shut up now.

And I did, silently chastising myself until the children all filed in. They were part of this ‘special activity’ with the parents and rabbi. They took their seats around the table and my eyes followed my little third grade boy, so freaking adorable with his new haircut that accentuates his huge, green eyes that are always glittering with mischief.

They all settled in and we turned our attention back to the rabbi. “So we are all here for this….”

The sound of a chair rustling interrupted.

The rabbi starts again.

More rustling.

It is, of course, my son.

We all turned to watch my impish boy as he worked to move his chair in between the two next to him.

When he was finally done, he looked up at me and smiled radiantly. I couldn’t help but smile back, but we’re going to have to have a talk when we get home. He just can’t go around being so distracting.

I have no idea where he gets it.

owen and me

Damn. I know where he gets it.

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Forecast for 2014 – unresolved

Posted on December 30, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

The New Year is fast approaching and even though there are many areas in need of improvement, on principal, I refuse to make any resolutions. I mean, why does it make any sense that I could tell myself to eat less sugar, be more forgiving or whatever life altering change I need to do on January 1st that I couldn’t motivate myself to do on December 1st?

I guess it’s the old, I’ll-start-being-a-better-person on Monday, deal. As if Monday signifies a fresh start that you could never pull off on a Tuesday. Crap, if you screw up Monday, you’ve blown it, might as well go about your business of screwing up, generally with renewed vigor since you now know your time as a screw-up is limited, and try again next week.

That’s the power of Monday; knowing that you have an opportunity to wipe the slate clean but the freedom of knowing that if you don’t, you can have a donut party by lunch and it’s all good. New Year’s resolutions are Mondays on steroids; the biggest, baddest Monday on the block.

If I were to make any resolutions, they’d be the same boring things I’ve needed to work on my whole life – lose some weight, be more patient, do more for other people, appreciate, appreciate, appreciate… I’m not a total failure on all accounts, but it’s the areas that can always be improved. It’s kind of like when I get to wish on a first star or a birthday cake, I’ll always choose the safe, expected wish. You know it, the ‘good health for your family’ wish. Heaven forbid I’d ever wish for something like getting my manuscript published, skin that doesn’t look like a chicken waiting to boil or for my father to sucker, I mean find someone to take care of him, I mean love. That kind of self-serving wishing is just asking for trouble.

So for 2014 I resolve to leave myself unresolved. I accept that I’m a bit impatient because I also get things done. And yeah, I’m addicted to ice cream, but damn it, I deserve that pleasure. Of course, I could always do more for others, but I’m also allowed to take time for myself. And my body could be better, a lot better, but it’s my body and as long as it’s working for me, I need to shut up about my own insecurities and just keep moving.

There are many improvements to make, but right now, I accept me as I am, the good, the bad and the ugly.

Besides, there’s always Monday.

Happiest, sweetest new year, everyone.

Happiest, sweetest New Year, everyone.

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Baby, it’s cold outside.

Posted on December 18, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I opened my eyes slowly. For some reason, the room seemed darker and cozier than normal, and getting out of bed was even more of an effort. Slowly, I shuffled toward the bathroom and on my way caught a glimpse of the outside world through my window. Oh my God, it’s snowing. No wonder it was hard getting out of bed. Somehow the body knows when it rains or snows and instinctually wants to burrow in.

It’s beautiful. The sky is bright and grey, a silver lining, speckled with small fluffs of white; soft winter butterflies fluttering gently to the ground.  I peer at it, watching it fall; the houses almost surreal in their untouched new snow beauty. A snow globe all shook up.

If I close my eyes, I imagine a horse drawn carriage, a rosy cheeked family, puffs of cold laughter coming from their mouths that dissipate as they bring a cup of steaming cocoa to their lips. The cold is warm under the blankets and magical as it falls all around. Lovely. So lovely.

My block under cover of downy white looks like a postcard and later my kids will make it even more picturesque, sliding around outside, making forts, hurling snowballs. Their faces will turn red from the cold and exertion, their noses all a bit runny, their eyes glittering with excitement, and snow sparkling in their lashes and the locks of hair that have escaped from their hats.

snowman

They will slosh through my house afterwards, peeling off heavy boots and coats, leaving glistening chunks of snow all over my floor. They will strip off layer after laying of clothing for me to find like a scavenger hunt later on; a wet sock under the couch, underwear in a boot. They will cry that their fingers hurt and I will hold them tightly in mine until I can warm them up with my breath and a cup of hot chocolate.

We will all huddle together inside, warm and cozy, maybe light the fireplace that we almost never use. It’ll turn dark and colder, but the allure of shimmering snow in moonlight will be too much for the three little faces at the window, eyes widening at the sight.  They will wait expectantly for their daddy to come home, wanting to go out  in the winter wonderland again.

I will watch them by the screen door, tossing each other around like snowballs. I have no interest in being out there with them. I am mama bear. I hate the cold. I only love their delight. So I’m content to watch from my cave, knowing that soon, one by one they will come to me, either freezing or crying or both, and I will comfort them with my warm hug.

After hot showers, their faces and bodies now pink with warmth, we will tuck all their exhausted, excitement into bed; their happy voices drifting off into the quiet of falling snow.

Then I will sigh contentedly, go downstairs, do a hundred pounds of laundry and pray that it all melts by morning.

Oh yeah, loads of fun.

Oh yeah, loads of fun.

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My five year-old is no longer five

Posted on December 12, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“You’re the best mommy,” my still officially five year-old son for ten more hours and two minutes, says as I sit with him in his bed at night. Because of the L word that cannot be mentioned, he is hugging around my waist while I am bent up against his head board, my hair wrapped in a tight mint-sprayed bun.

We are clear, I think. I mean, I’m pretty sure. Once you get L, you might never feel confident or clean again. I have been officially cleared twice by professionals, have treated myself none-the-less and combed out my hair every night, pulling so much that soon, I will have no hair left to worry about. Still, I feel them crawling on me and scratch at my head like a crazy person, which obviously, I am.

I have spent the week torturing my entire family. Checking and combing, freaking out when one sib’s head interferes with another sib’s personal head space, yelling for head checks, denying play dates. A few days ago when my 8 year-old went to bed early, I pulled my fine tooth comb through his hair in the dark at least five times before he woke and yelled at me.The casual hug is a thing of the past. Now my head tilts awkwardly so as not to touch anyone else’s hair. Snuggling in bed is also off limits. Until tonight, I wouldn’t even have sat in his bed. But tonight is the last night he will be five, and after days of begging me to snuggle, I can deny him no longer.

It’s been a difficult week for many reasons and now thinking that I am holding on to the last moments of my baby being five, I am heavy with the thickness of my emotion. I could fall over right now and cry myself to sleep. But of course, I can’t, because then our heads might touch.

My five – for nine more hours and fifty seven minutes – year-old is my youngest, but he really is no longer a baby. He’s now strong and agile, joining his brothers in school and on the field; a mischievous charmer, filled with sass and silliness.

Yet, he still randomly misuses bigger words, saying things like, ‘Happy university’ instead of anniversary, or telling me to use the ‘constructions’ to put something together. He still tells me secrets from his ear to mine, basically making it impossible to hear his little whispers. And he insists on cuddling with me in bed. My 8 year-old and 11 year-old do as well, but not with the same need as my 5 year-old, who will not stop calling until he has his due.

At this moment, his little upturned nose and the full curve of his cheek make him look almost cherubic in profile, so close to a baby. His hair is still damp from his shower, the unstoppable waves pressed against me. If I move just a little, he will hug me tighter, afraid that it is time for me to go. But I’m in no hurry tonight, because there are only nine hours and fifty-two minutes left of my baby being five, and we’re going to hug till he snores.

“Tomorrow’s my birthday.” He announces, as if we haven’t been counting off the days for months.

“I know.” In nine hours and fifty minutes.

“I can’t wait.” He says and snuggles closer.

I can.

“You’re the best mommy,” He repeats softly, drifting off.

“You’re the best baby.” I whisper.

And then I can’t take it anymore. Imaginary lice be damned, I lean down and kiss him on the head, pulling him to me.

I love this boy. And that’s the only L word that matters.

Who's cooler than him?

Back when he was  just five.

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Ice Scream Mama’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

Posted on December 10, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Today was too good not to write about. I mean, seriously, it was that bad. So hold on to your hats. And I mean that literally…

6:58am – Callback from lice professionals. I had left a message at 11pm last night, freaked out that my sis-in-law’s family had lice and we had basically spent the weekend braided together.  I checked my kids and found nothing, but smothered them with lice repellant regardless and barely slept, sweating rosemary and mint all night. Our appointment is at 9:30am.

7:30am – Frying up latkes for middle child’s class for Hanukka party we would no longer be attending. Still, the latkes must go on, with or without us.

latkas

8am – Call to wake my father for doctor appointment that he already missed once and had issues you don’t want to know about, the second time. Bless the stars, he is awake.

8:30am – Frying, making breakfast, calling schools, freaking out over lice which I cannot see but know is there.

8:40am – Middle son runs in with finger gushing blood. I think it’s a joke from the magic kit we got them for Hanukka. “That’s not real blood.” I laugh. Yeah, it was.

8:45am – Call from dad alerting me that he would be missing appointment again because boils have broken out all over his body. Seriously. Boils.  Blood. Lice. It’s officially the plagues.

9:30am – Without a trace of hail in the sky, we make it to lice professions. Whew.

lice professionals

Boy 1 checked, pronounced clean.

Boy 2 checked, clean.

Boy 3 checked…. Noooooooooo!!!

Mommy checked, clean. So they say. Mommy lays with boy 3 every night at bed time.

The brush out

The brush out

Noon – Scratching the invisible bugs in my brain, we leave lice professionals cleaned of nits and cash.

Drop latkes at co-class mom’s house for afore mentioned party, pick up library book for oldest son, pizza place and home.

1 -2:40 – Laundry to sterilize every fabric in house.

3pm – Orthopedist for oldest son who hurt his hand a few days ago and is still somewhat swollen. We figure we should check it out.

4pm – Hello irresponsible parents. It’s a fracture. Cast applied, child and mother miserable, Coach Dad inconsolable.

jack cast

4:30pm – Father at primary care doctor for boils who offers up this bit of brilliance, “Wow. No idea what that is!” Appointment with specialist secured.

5pm–8pm – Missed homework, dinner, never-ending laundry marathon continues.

Suffocate all stuffed toys in garbage bags.

Find children rolling on top of one another playing. Freak out and spray them like crazy with lice repellent. Near blinding occurs.

8pm – Oldest, “Uh, mom, I forgot I need this stuff for school tomorrow.”

list

8:15pm – At market.

8:40pm – “Time to shampoo and lice comb!”

“You forgot Hanukka presents!” Cry boys 1,2 & 3.

Crappity crap crap.

Run up to get gifts, run back down. Hurry through prayer and candle lighting. Throw gifts at them. It’s all extremely meaningful.

Boy 1 – “Why’d you get me this?”

Boy 2 – “This isn’t what I asked for.”

Boy 3 – A small nod of happy.

Yay. We can still make the 5 year-old happy. That’s almost thanks. Kind of.

8:30-9:30 – Lice shampoo all little heads. Pull UV light off lizard tank for better view while combing. Identify questionable dots of brown. Could be 8 year-old cradle cap or nits.

Husband who can’t find OJ in fridge glances over and says, “I don’t know why you’re driving yourself crazy. They’re good.”

Beat husband with lice comb.

9:45 – Children asleep on newly made up beds. 6th load of laundry goes in.

The End

10:45 – Sitting here writing this list, getting ready to shower and lice shampoo my head.

Feeling about 100% confident that tomorrow will be filled with combs and shampoo and stress.

I am totally bugged out.

fat head

This would never happen in Australia

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Latke them up and don’t let them go

Posted on December 5, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

My kitchen reeked of potatoes and onions. The smell infiltrated my hair and clothes, and even after a shower and thorough shampooing, the scent would linger hours later, causing dogs to trail after me as well as one ever hungry husband.

I was frying up latkes for my 11 year-old son’s multi-cultural holiday fest at Middle school the next day, and had been at it all afternoon.

I tried to get out of it. I did not want to make latkes. I suggested bringing in jelly donuts from Dunkin Donuts. I suggested chocolate gelt. Nope, he shook his in-need-of-a-haircut head. He wanted latkas.

I huffed and puffed and blew a lot of hot air, but of course, there I was, splattered with oil, spatula in hand flipping one potato pancake after another when my son walked in from school with his friend.

“Oh, you’re making Latkes.” his friend casually commented.

I nodded, proud of myself. Look at me, I’m making latkas. “Would you like one?” I asked, ever the altruistic domestic fry goddess.

His friend and my son each took a pancake and munched happily. “Good.” His friend said, “My mom is making them too for the multi-cultural fest next week. “

My eye started to twitch.

Next week?

I turned to my son, “Honey? When did you say your thing was?

Sheepish, sweet, aw shucks oops. “Oh. I think I made a mistake.”

Gripping the spatula tightly, I flipped a potato pancake instead of flipping out. “Oh, ya think?”

“Sorry mama.” He said.

Hard to stay mad with that goofy smile combined with a sorry mama, so I turned my fire on the pan, finished up and froze the batch of them.

Freaking latkes.

***

The next week. 7am… Actual Multi-cultural fest day.

“Baby, I’m going to reheat the latkas and bring them to school around 1pm.”

Baby bear paws around my waist, his face buried in my stomach. “Thank you, mama.”

It’s all worth for these hugs. For these hugs, I will do anything he asks.

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

He is crouched over, still hugging, his eyes big and hopeful. “Will you not come to my multi-cultural fest?”

“What?”

But I made latkas… But you always want me to go…. But…

“Please.” He says and hugs my waist tighter, squeezing any defiance from me.

Oh…

“Sure,” I say, deflated.

He squeezes me one more time, and I run my fingers through his moppy shag before a car beeps outside and he runs out the door for his ride to school. My baby is growing up. I hate this day.

I stand there for a second, watching and waving from the screen door when I feel a presence sidle up next to me. It is my youngest. His small, strong body is naked but for his Skylander underwear. He rubs the dreams from his eyes, but some still linger and he raises his sleepy arms to me. He is five for another two weeks and I will suck every drop of five left in him. I lift him up and cuddle him as I watch the car with my oldest disappear.

Sighing, I stare at the empty street. It was only a blink ago that my 11 year-old was in my arms, never wanting me to leave him, asking where his wife would live when he married, and worrying we’d send him away to college.

“I’m hungry.” My five year old says, dragging me from my wistful melancholy into the kitchen.

I wish I could keep them more innocent than knowing, more mamma boys than young men, more needing me than their friends. But time marches on, and the only thing that seems to linger is the smell of latkes.

latka

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