Size 16 Slim Fit

Now before you go gettin’ your granny panties in a bunch, I can say this. I haven’t been a Misses size since before I was a Mrs., and I was born bigger than a Junior size 11. (I enjoyed a short stint at size 12 when my marriage was shifting, and then discovered the marriage of ice cream and Eggo waffles, for breakfast, and all hope was lost.)

I was browsing in one of those not-even-as-good-as-Target Women’s departments where most of the clothes look like something out of a bad episode of Roseanne. The shirts have snaps (because bigger women need to get their clothes off extra fast) and everything is embroidered, and if it’s not embroidered it’s got some animal running across it. Usually a giraffe.

Then I came across a really cute pair of capris. Button, no snaps. Plain, no embroidery. No tribute to Wild Kingdom. And no polyester.

Then I saw the tag. Slim Fit.

And literally thought, W.T.F? Is someone out there just trying to torture me s l o w l y by insinuating that I should be able to fit into something marked SLIM when I’m already looking at a size deemed larger than the average American woman? (Granted, there is nothing average going on here, but still. I was pissed.)

Then, I thought of you. Yep, all of you. And my blog.

And I was happy.

I left the jungle and drove home as fast as I could, leaving all the snapping slim fit embroidered giraffes in my dust.

Oh and that diet? It starts tomorrow.

September 11th was the day our country fell to pieces, and the day I knew that my marriage had shattered as well.

I was getting dressed and watching the Today Show as the morning’s horrors unfolded in front of me. I got into my car to head to the grocery store, heart-pounding. It sunk in. I turned around and drove home. I sat in front of the tv all day, like millions of others, transfixed and terrified, calling my children’s school, my family, my friends.

I did not call then-husband. It difficult to reach him when he was working. If he didn’t know what was going on, the middle of a work day was not the time to tell him. So I sat home alone and watched as the world changed in front of my eyes.

Later that day I found out that then-husband did know what happened, that his day had been cancelled. He stayed at work. He did not call home to check on his wife or his children.

All around us families clung together, garnered new support for one another, strengthened their ties and realized their blessings. But not us.

It was then, that deep within the my aching American soul, I accepted what I knew anyway. That then-husband was getting his support, sharing his dreams and fears, and counting his blessings, elsewhere. That day, and for many days to come, I traversed this world tragedy that lie on my doorstep, alone, all the while realizing that my life was about to unravel.

And it did.

So, the last time I saw the New York City skyline in person my world was completely different. The whole world was completely different. And in two weeks I am spending a day in New York with my kids and my aunt. It’s the kids’ first time. They can’t wait, nor can I.

But I wonder how I’ll feel, and what I’ll remember, when I see the skyline as we drive into the city. The New York I knew and loved when I was a young East Coast mom only two trains stops away? The subway system I mastered before my son was born so that I could go to interviews for fancy jobs I almost landed? What will standing at Ground Zero do to me? Though the physical rubble is gone, the emotional debris lingers. Will I remember that as the country lost its faith in its fundamental security, so did I?

What I’m hoping, and expecting, is that this day brandishes old memories to make room for new. New memories of an old, and new, New York and of being there with my kids. Watching them feel the pulse of the city and looking at it with them, through their eyes. I know that alone will overshadow very real but distant memories.

It’s only one day, but I want them to feel like they’ve been in New York. So we won’t be seeing shows or scouring museums, we will be walking and looking - with no real itinerary other than that. And this. Because no first visit to New York is complete without a sandwich the size of your head.

I am excited to share New York with my children - and I am blessed because I can. Because it is here, and so are we. I suppose it’s all really that simple.

New York is a constant in the life of our country…refusing to be dimished by its experience, learning from it, and thriving, because of and despite it. It continues to change and improve and grow, all the while leaving in tact what must remain to be true to it’s core. What a lesson in and of itself.

And vaguely familiar.

What they say is true. Some of the best conversations with teens and tweens happen in the car. After all, older kids want to go places all the time, and in the car, they are a parent’s prisoner captive audience.

Pre-Kvetch, at 10 and 3/4, is an easy-going kid. Things roll off her back. She is fortunate to possess a terrific demeanor (when she isn’t kvetching) and has a way of lighting up a room, quite frankly, just by being in it. But, part of this personality is that she doesn’t like to delve or discuss anything too heavy most of the time. Serious conversations that evoke too much emotion, with her, are like pulling teeth. This includes talking about her dad in anything but a let’s-remember-something-fun kind of way.

So, while we were in the car on a ten-minute ride to pick up Kvetch Teen from basketball - I figured I’d try a somewhat serious, possibly emotional topic. If she didn’t want to go into it, she’d change the subject or simply shrug her shoulders (which I wouldn’t be able to see, but I’d get the idea). Then I could broach it at home, when I could look at her and put my arms around her.

Know what Gran-Pop gave Gran-Mom for Mother’s Day?

What?

He named a star after her.

Cool. (Major contemplation) How did he do that?

He paid money, got an official certificate, and now that star is named after Gran-Mom.

Like for real?

For real.

Cool.

Would you want to name a star after your dad?

Yes!!!! (So much of a yes that it almost took my breath away.) But what would I name it?

Anything you want. (Probably not a good idea to take suggestions from me, honey.)

OK.

((Silence))

((Silence))

((Silence))

There was so much silence, to be honest, I thought maybe, just maybe, she was crying. Or best case scenario, she was thinking about what to name the star and was going to come up with something spectacularly creative or very sweet and silly.

I’d forgotten whom I was dealing with.

Stars blow up eventually, you know.

Thanks, honey, I said, laughing.

Well it’s true! (She proceeded with the life-cycle of a star and some extraneous facts about the solar system, so I interrupted her.)

How about this? We’ll be sure to buy a new star, so it doesn’t blow up any time too soon.

She laughed, and obviously satified, said, “OK.”

I found the cereal, box unopened. Not in the freezer, not in the fridge, not in the laundry basket, backyard, coat closet or under the sink. In the, um, kitchen cabinet.

Feelin’ better than you even thought possible, huh?

I thought so.

My pleasure.

Domestic organization is not my strong suit, but I believe I’ve hit an all time low.

While some might feel out of sorts or dismayed, I can’t help but think that my lot in life is fulfilled at times like this. I’m destined to be the one that people look at and think, “It could be worse”. (And, yes, I know I’m blessed. Blah, blah, blah. You wouldn’t trade places with me would you? Didn’t think so.)

So, if that is the case, then for today, or for the month perhaps, I’ve fulfilled my obligation and all of you can rest easy because it definitely could be worse.

I’ve lost a box of cereal.

Yes, folks. Somewhere in the cabinets, on the shelves that are not tall enough nor wide-enough for today’s mega-anythings, is a box of Weight Watchers crunchy-munchy-fibery clusters lying on its side. I bought it for me, put it away, and can’t find it. I promise you that the kids did not eat this cereal. Nor did they pawn it off on the dogs. I did not leave it in the car, or at the grocery store. I brought it into the house, took it out of the bag, and put it in the cabinet (which in itself was a big step up in the organizational department). I lose pens, socks and even the occasional dog if one is sleeping somewhere unusual, but I can usually locate my breakfast foods. Really I can.

Now its true, that in my other lifetime, then-mother-in-law once said, “I just loooove your kitchen, Kvetch. You know, the way, anything goes anywhere.”

Um, yeah, thanks?

Maybe I better check the freezer.

All the right reasons and pizza dinners don’t negate the fact that my relationship with my dead ex-husband’s widow is, undeniably, odd.

It’s also strange because it’s normal. For us. It’s part of our newest normal. Getting together, once a month, with the widow of my dead ex-husband, and her children, and mine, is just what we do.

When we are together, she has always and still, asks me if I am dating. I usually just slide by with a simple “no”. Ok, and sometimes I make stuff up.

To add a little spice to a recent get-together, with some prep and planning, I delivered the line of a lifetime. I’m not sure what I expected, but I think it went WHOOSH right over the her head. Or she ignored it. Whatever happened, she didn’t feel the zing, or let on. The whollup just evaporated. I didn’t even get credit for having chutzpah. It elicited nothing.

So, does it count?

I hope so.

It was an instant classic, that when retold, sends friends and family into a tizzy of laughter and pseudo-psychotic delight. Grown men have giggled. Grown women have wept.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“No, it’s hard to meet men here in Mayberry.”

“Well you have a lot of friends, you know a lot of people.”

“Yes, but all the men I know are…

married.”

Seems I’ve gotten an about as-good-as-it-gets-for-a-mommy-blog review at I Talk Too Much.

If you’re unfamiliar, this site is rather raunchy and harsh in its reviews, to say the least. It never professes to be anything but what it is — a no-holds-bar opinion-only blog of foul-mouthed blog reviewers. I’ve agreed with some of the reviews I’ve read there, and really disagreed with others. Writing blogs and reading blogs is intensely personal — it’s all a matter of opinion. And opinions vary greatly, as we all know.

But since today they say that I am better than “the ocean of mediocre crap” out there, today I think their opinion is quite brilliant.

And also, that they obviously haven’t been reading most of your blogs.

I was at my wit’s end.

“Cheerios?”

“No.”

“Eggs?”

“No.”

“Toast?”

“No.”

“Yogurt?”

“No.”

“Crackers?”

“No.”

My daughter was two and on my hip, where she had taken up permanent residency. I opened multiple floor-to-ceiling cabinet doors simultaneously. Together we scanned the cupboard contents for something. Something…for… breakfast.

“Macaroni and cheese?”

She looked at me.

“Macaroni and cheese!”

She smiled, eyes wide.

I smiled back.

“Whatever works,” I said.

She giggled.

I giggled right back, and for 6 months, or longer, my two-year-old ate Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for breakfast.

I was somewhat stunned by the magic of inadvertently becoming a work-with-me-I’ll-work-with-you parent - a philosophy I intentionally hold steadfast to this day. Not only did we bond while inventing the silly blue box breakfast, she got her most important meal of the day and we learned a lesson. Together. Being flexible, a little left of center, and thinking outside the (blue) box was really OK. Even fun! For both of us. And there was no tantrum, no kicking, no screaming, no huffing, no puffing. By either of us.

Some lessons, like this one, have long-lasting residual effects. They superimpose themselves onto every aspect of our lives if we let them. And I try to. I try to be a parent who sees and takes many different routes to the same end…and who remembers that choosing my battles, over battling for convention or convenience, is usually the way to go. For us.

I’m hoping that knowing that whatever works, sometimes works, will allow my children to grow up creative thinkers, with limitless choices, for more than just breakfast.

As a tween, my daughter still holds fast to a breakfast staple or two. She eats Eggo chocolate chip waffles almost every morning with the occasional bowl of Grape Nuts thrown in for kicks. She gets her own breakfast since I am usually too busy reading blogs running around getting ready for the day.

And anyway, she is 10 and 3/4.

One morning after losing and finding my sneakers, car keys and cell phone, I got the kids off their two different schools, swung by the post office, paid the overdue water bill at town hall, and came home to feed and check on the dogs before heading off to work.

I saw an empty HandiSnack vanilla pudding container on the counter.

We must be out of Eggos. And Grapenuts.

So she found the next best thing.

Whatever worked.

Forget that I’ve contributed my own two cents on Cool Mom Picks today, making me feel like a rock star giving me another outlet for my writing…just go there because it’s COOL!

Co-founded and co-edited by two of the nicest and most talented bloggers around, it is catchy, fun, easy-to-read and informative. And it’s free.

And yes, I am coming out of my very anonymous box by adding initials over there. ~ ASN

Necessity is not only the mother of invention, it is it’s Jewish mother.

Saturday night I had the rare treat of having Kvetch Teen at home. Bored, but home. He plunked down on the couch right next to me and we watched tv. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday night. Until I did.

“Tomorrow is Mother’s Day,” I said, “Would you rub my foot?”

“Sure.”

I rarely ask for this type of service from my children, but I get as much out of the Mother’s Day, birthday and illness caveat, as I can. And I knew he was really bored.

After a few minutes he said, “You know, that really makes no sense. It’s the night before Mother’s Day, so I should rub your foot?”

And we laughed.

He got me. But not for long.

“Well, then, I guess it’s — Erev* Mother’s Day. All Jewish holidays start at sundown the night before.”

“And?”

“And, since I’m a Jewish mother, and you’re a Jewish kid, Mother’s Day is a Jewish holiday for us.”

We laughed some more.

And the foot rub commenced.

* * * *

Mother’s Day foot rub? Worth the price of orthotics.

Kvetch Teen laughing without rolling his eyes? Priceless.

*Erev - both ‘e’s as in ‘end’; accent on first ‘e’.
Eve or evening before, thus ‘Erev Shabbat’ (Friday evening - start or first part of the Biblical Shabbat); ‘Erev Pesach’ - the Eve of Passover, on which the Seder (Passover Meal) is partaken of.