Snowed in

We’re snowed in today. I resisted blogging about it because I can imagine the countless number of blogs that will begin, “We’re snowed in today”. But I must remind myself that what I have to say is specific and unique to my own personal snowed-in day. Or not. Fact is, there is only so much a family can do on a snow day. There are the outdoor activities; snowmen construction, sledding, snowball warfare. And then there are all the indoor diversions like games and crafts and the occasional movie.

We have yet to participate in any of those outdoor activities. It’s cold outside. I hate the cold. Luckily (or not), my elder child inherited an extreme dislike for the cold. “I’m an indoor person,” he tells me often, and I have to agree that cold weather sucks though I choose alternate descriptives when concurring with him. While I try to encourage him to bundle up and face the elements so that he can enjoy the wonders of winter, he can hear the disingenuous tones and knows that I, myself, do not believe in the fallacy of the wonders of winter.

At this moment, Gabriella is baking her second batch of cuccidati. Her mother, Rosa, made these Christmas cookies each year and, knowing that Gabriella loved them, she sent them to her by the bucket no matter how long it took to make them or where that bucket needed to go. She sent them to Chicago, and she sent them to London. She’d spend hours in the kitchen making the fig and chocolate filling. Hours more perfecting the soft, lemony dough and making the vanilla icing that added that perfect layer of sweetness and a home for festive sprinkles. Every Christmas since Rosa died 8 years ago, Gabriella swore that she was going to make those cookies but something always got in the way. This year, is the year of the cuccidati. After the first batch came out of the oven, Gabriella presented them to me fresh out of the oven, still on the baking sheet her eyes red and puffy but her smile satisfied and proud. There was no better way to honor Rosa’s sweet memory.
You know, spending so much time indoors, a girl can get all sentimental. This is taking an unintentional shmaltzy path. Let’s switch gears, shall we? It may not be a smooth segue, but I need to make a sharp turn before I start telling you all about how I was watching Toy Story 3 with the boys and saw Asher and Levi grow up and pack for college and leave me and their childhoods behind without a second thought.
So, the other day, Asher was doing his homework. The subject at hand was the word “have”. At this age, first graders must memorize how to spell lots of little words whose spelling and pronunciation are at odds. Like “you” and “who”, such is the word “have”. Writing is not one of Asher’s favorite things to do. From concept to execution, writing is torture. He also does not like to make mistakes. Few children do. He often writes bs as ds and vice verse. He forgets to use upper case letters at the beginning sentences. He berates himself for not knowing how to spell. My job is to try to make the process as painless as possible.

Deborah: Ok, Asher, you have to think of a sentence using the word ‘have’ and write it down. It’s a good thing your teachers gave you such an easy assignment. You can do that, right?

Asher: I guess.

Deborah: Think of things you have.

Asher: I know! Don’t look until I’m finished.

Deborah: Ok.

Deborah: Finished?

Asher: Yes.

Deborah: Well, your letters are VERY neat, Asher, and you remembered to use a capital letter at the beginning of the sentence. Well done. Can you tell me what the sentence says? You may need some help with spelling.

Asher: Sure. I have a bike.

Deborah: Fantastic. Let me help you with your ‘b’ and correct your spelling just a bit.

The thought occurred to me to let it ride. I could add a post-it note with an explanation or I could just wait for the phone call, but instead I chose to let Asher erase the misspelled word thoroughly and start fresh. Somehow, I didn’t think that the teachers would see the humor in Asher’s original sentence:

I have a dick.

I may not bake cuccidati, but I can serve up stories that are just as memorable and sweet...or humiliating depending on Asher's sense of humor.

Bah, Chum-bug (ch pron. like phlegm stuck in throat)

Joyous, I! Chanukah is over!!

Reasons I am happy to put this holiday to bed:

1. New Jersey Transit. It rained and poured and gusted winds on the first night of Chanukah. New Jersey Transit stopped service from New York City to our fair town. Though Gabriella did everything in her power to get home in time to spend the first night of Chanukah with her family, New Jersey Transit thwarted all efforts. By the time she arrived home-hours after she had left the office, she was exhausted and defeated. We rushed through candle lighting and barely had time to open gifts before herding the boys to bed. It was not even close to the celebratory and leisurely evening with Mommy we had planned. The first night was a bust. Her story is one of thousands told by the Jews commuting from Manhattan rushing to get home for the first night of Chanukah. A bit of breezy rain? Really?!? I’m convinced. New Jersey Transit is anti-semitic.

2. Wrapping. No one wraps gifts anymore, myself included. I buy 95% of my gifts on-line, and I have no interest in paying more money to send a wrapped gift that arrives in a sealed box, anyway. So, I do not begrudge the gift-givers in our lives who send unwrapped presents. I wrapped each gift so the boys would have the satisfaction of destruction and the pleasure of the reveal. I ran out of paper mid holiday, and went into my local drug-store whose name rhymes with Shmite-Aid and asked where the Chanukah paper was, the sales clerk said, “I’ve never seen no HanKah paper.” Yup, Shmite-Aid. Anti-semitic.

3. Unwrapping. Bags of paper. Mountains of boxes. Plastic encasings protecting toys that required a chain saw to unlock. Bubble wrap and packing popcorn. Screw drivers and batteries of various sizes required. And these mother-fucking wires!!


4. Food. I like potatoes. I do. I like mashed potatoes, french fries, scalloped potatoes and occasionally a baked potato with lots of fixings. I do not care for potato pancakes. Also, I don’t cook-anything-ever. The last thing I want to do is fry up oily potatoes and not eat them and then serve them to my children only to have them not eat them, too. Jelly donuts are gross, too. There is nothing appealing about a jar’s worth of sticky, gloppy jelly encased in dough that explodes out of it casing upon the first bite unless you pour the jelly directly down your throat before it has time to splooge all over your shirt. My boys agree. Sometimes, traditions blow. Thank goodness for Chanukah gelt.

5. The fun never ends. NEVER! They both received some pretty cool toys and games, I’ll admit. Most of them require parental participation. “That’s an awesome game we’ll have to play together!” “That’s the coolest thing we’ll have to construct together each day after school for at least a month!” “Wow, Asher! I've never seen one of those, and I’ll have to spend hours reading the instructions over and over again and still not understand what the fuck we’re supposed to do. And then I’ll have to find a demonstration on YouTube before we can spend days and days fiddling with it until it breaks!” “When will they open a present and disappear in their rooms for hours?” she wistfully asked no one in particular.

6. Guilt. No holiday is complete with a healthy portion of guilt. On this holiday, I scooped it up on an oily spatula and served it hot with a dollop of sour cream.

Asher: I can’t wait until Chanukah next year. I really wanted that candy dispenser.

Mom: A candy dispenser?? Aren’t you happy with all the amazing things you got this year?!? You got a phenomenal present on every night of Chanukah thanks to our family and friends. Do you know how many people only get 1 present for the entire holiday? Are you aware that some people don’t even get any presents because they don’t have enough money to buy them?!?”

Oh yes I did. It just came out like a soda-induced belch from the dark hollows of my stomach. I am sure that I feel more guilty about handing out that load of crap to a 7 year old than he feels about wishing he had a candy dispenser.

I got an electric blanket. I don’t care how much of an old lady that makes me. I love my micro fleece, dual control electric blanket with automatic preheat and temperature hold feature. And after a long day of kvetching about Chanukah, I look forward to sliding my bare feet into a soft, warm, temperature controlled heaven. My feet are toasty, and my holiday is over. S’all good.