Taking Albertsons by storm

Today, the blinding coolness of two small blue house dwellers completely intimidated the other shoppers at our local Albertsons. No one was prepared to meet such hipsters in a shopping cart, and everybody squirmed and secretly wished they'd worn something a bit spiffier.

SADS sufferers, take note: trying sunglasses on babies at Albertsons when there is no sun to be had, indoors or out, is just the thing to brighten your mood on a grey Seattle day. Especially with a baby that knows instinctively how to strike a pose (and a funny round-faced sweetie, who doesn't).

Saulchik is definitely the lead singer in this band, and Hannah is the bass player, or maybe the drummer chick who never makes eye contact with the crowd, but is adored nonetheless. (The real Hannah makes intense, prolonged, and very sparkly eye contact--but if we are going to be a hip band, we have to uphold tradition.) As for the others....Ezra we'll sell to the circus so he can express his talents there as lead monkey. Naomi will be a performance artist, or make strange installations, like that guy who put orange sheets all over Central Park. Jacob will dwell in the tents of Torah.* Mommy will log off and resume her extremely fascinating and historic existence in the halls of... um....in the laundry room. As for Daddy, he's made quite a few waves already, and Confucius say: Daddy will have big success and nice fortune soon. 

* 4/30/08 update: Yasha! He no dwell in no tents of no Torah! He's taking over from Hannah as the drummer (she can be bass) - it's all he does all day! Bangs blocks on our metal folding chairs, bangs them and bangs them, as loudly as possible, and smiles (quietly - he's my quiet one)---but oh, what a racket! 

The day is short, the task is great...

...and the worker is lazy! What am I going to do when the deedees start talking?! 

It's been interesting around here... I had insomnia (yes, boring) and there was the infamous (as far as I'm concerned) Block Episode wherein the paws of the Daddy actually dared dump three harmless, innocent wooden blocks from a perfect, lovely, symmetrical block wagon into the garbage. The garbage!! "They looked like garbage--they were just lying around on the floor," he explained, not meekly enough, and with woefully inadequate understanding of the Sisyphean work of motherhood (i.e. cleaning up things that don't stay cleaned up--and did he know I'd been searching for weeks for those three blocks...I know their colors, for goodness' sake; I like this wagon, this wagon makes--made!--me happy! This wagon symbolized order--so rare chez nous, chez bleu!!!). The search was at times cheery and optimistic, at times grumpy and despairing--and always tiring!--but, most especially, it was earnest, it was meaningful, it was and is the tiny stuff of my Life. Alas, alas, my reaction was not at all lovely. Feminine fury was unleashed. One of those moments in marriage occurred when the other (calm) party truly and soberly considers the possibility of severe and possibly irreversible mental problems in the delirious and raving party. I have been calming myself down, and I foresee total forgiveness being granted at least in time for Pesach. I apologized for my horrifying performance, and sincerely so, but.... but..... can I deny it still pains me to see the wagon, and I still wish the blocks would come home, like Odysseus, like Dorothy, like E.T... ohhhhhhh, blocks! 

There it is. Sad, sad block wagon. (Replaceable, I tell myself. Maybe $10 at IKEA? It will be okay. Stay calm.) 

Anyhow...was that boring enough for you? It was incredibly exciting for me... yes, we know, too exciting. But it is, as they say, good to "get it out of my system." 

 

On to odds and ends...  Purim: It is hard for me to be on time, and harder still with a confusing and not-quite sufficient parade of babysitters, some of whom need rides, all of whom have funny not-quite-right hours, and---the usual. So, costumes were thrown together at the last minute. Naomi wore leopard-print cat ears, and a leopard vest, and high heeled black shoes with straps, and had an eyeliner nose and whiskers (it's still there - tells you a lot about hygiene around here). And really, really looked the part of a wild kitty (though not in this photo, taken when we'd just found the ears/vest at the thrift store). She whines, she growls, no acting was needed. 

Ezra was SuperBear, because he had a borrowed bear suit and a Super-man cape. He was a self-proclaimed "scary Superman." Hannah wore her purple velvet dress and went to shul. It was very exciting. We sat at an almost-empty table at the shul seudah. I felt like I was on my first public date with someone I was falling head over heels for, and got all flushed when people came over and were friendly to her, just as is customary at that stage of courtship. The deedees stayed home with Olmedi (no speek Inglish - but do laundry ahora! YAY!) from Honduras. They ate bottles in their cribs... but the room was limpia! SuperBear surprised us all by reading in Hebrew! (And didn't surprise us by stashing shaloch manos candy--with co-conspirator Noma--under living room couch.) The deedees bit (through foil) into Hershey's kisses and Peppermint Patties which tumbled from bags in the master bedroom, whose door it was impossible to keep closed. And one light-up lollipop-pacifier-ring--most highly coveted goodie, destined, I thought, to provoke tears and fights--was instead passed around among all the children, spitty babies not at all excluded (yuck!). Moments like those remind me that things were different for me; I was an only child.

Things the kids have said recently:

Me (to Naomi): Don't pet Saul while he's eating.

Naomi: I can't help it; he's too fuzzy to stop petting.

Naomi, who got to come with me to our Rebbetzin's daughter's Shabbos callah, misunderstood, and said: Mom? When is the wedding? Is it today? Are we going to the wedding right now?

And on and on, making us all laugh. And then, this morning, on my lap, examining her hands:

When we went to the wedding... I fell on the ground and I got this cut (clearly pleased with its impressive redness). 

The wedding is tomorrow, no kids allowed. Though it was nice, once upon a time, to bring lap-infants to avoid the dizziness of hora-dancing marathons in sweaty halls. My simcha batteries do not last nearly as long as those of Chabad chicks... 

Up to no good

The twins were caught red-handed in their favorite room (we got wise to this, and, thankfully, the lid was down). At least Jacob had the decency to look guilty. You can sort of see Saul's giddy, playful personality coming through here... and both boys get points for nice standing. 

A face in the crowd, and siblings too-closely spaced...

Yesterday, many, many Jews from the Greater Seattle area (of all stripes, always

heart-warming) willingly 

entered the tiny JCC gym and subjected themselves to 3 hours of airless-ness and din--all because we love our children. It was, of course, a Purim Carnival! 

Ez and Josh went ahead, with Josh's family, and Noma and I went later, after the babysitter's arrival. She saw her princess friend from school, who held out her arms in a nice-kind-of-popular Junior H.S. girl way, and she and Nomi happily hugged. The princess's favor bestowed, she vanished, and Nome proceeded to request the exact same face paint as the princess sported--flower on one cheek, heart on the other. (We actually had to track down the princess to make sure we got the colors right.)

I had an absolutely wonderful time admiring my daughter among the hordes of children. It is delightful to watch your children (being good, of course) in a crowd, to pick them out and want to kidnap them, as if they weren't already yours! She seemed simultaneously older and younger, unselfconsciously doing little kid things (moon bounces, etc.) and being lovely and awkward. Lucky for her, she got to have (kosher) fresh, warm, cotton candy, which mommy meekly tasted (pretending not to want my own). 

Ez returned from his movie (he and Josh left early to see Horton Hears a Hoo) tired and therefore ready for a fight, and began showing off and trying to make Naomi jealous. I tried to break it up by having each of us say something that we loved about each other. Some funny results: Ez: I love Hannah because she loves bubbles and so do I. Noma: I love (Jacob, Saul, Hannah) because I love him (her) and (s)he's cute (3x). Ez: I love you, Mom, because last week you had an ouchy hand (but I don't anymore! so now you don't love me?) And I love Dad because he reads me "Character Boy" (his term for the Lord of the Rings series). It was fun for me to say I loved Noma because she was sweet and helpful and humble about it, and Ez because he had lots of energy and ideas and was my bachor (though I was quick to add that Naomi was my sweet bachora), and Hannah because she had nice manners (didactic mommy, I know!) and said Tank you at the Shabbos table thus inspiring her elder sibs to copy, and Dad because he took care of us (Ez said: Yeah! that's why!)... and the deedees because they were the deedees. Duh! 

I had to feed them a reason for loving each other, so I exclaimed with great conviction: Kids! You love each other because... you were babies together! 

Is that a good reason, or what?? I'm still wondering.

Saulie... Crawlie!!! (and Sit, babies, sit! Good babies!)

The news is now one week and 2 days overdue! What kind of a kid-obsessed blog is this, anyway? Last Erev Shabbos, Saulie the Seal took off, with little fanfare but with perfectly silly grace and symmetry, upon both of his flabby arms, and graduated to his other, arguably better name of Saulie Crawlie. A few days after that (no date recorded, due to shortage of love), both twins started sitting, first on their way to other things, and then in a relaxed and contented way which signaled that they had nowhere more exciting to rush off to, and that the toy (or orange air freshener can, whatever) in their sweet chapped hands might finally get the attention it deserves. They are delightful when they are giddy, but equally delightful when they are calm and mellow and folded in half by their sitting. It's so funny to see ridiculous baby faces and bodies suddenly in repose. Isn't it odd that both babies did it backwards, i.e. learned to crawl before learning to sit? Mesdames et Messieurs, it is not comme il faut! Did they conspire together to break family (and developmental) tradition? Twins... wondrous, mysterious beings.

Hannah among the wizened sages

I just found this again... and laughed as hard as when Daddy first showed it to me, surreptitiously taken with camera phone at a Rabbit party. Perhaps it will be a self-fulfilling prophecy? 

Digging in dirt

This morning, as we were doing Ezzie's Hebrew homework over breakfast, I noticed the above paper tucked into the back of his folder. Naturally, I first used all my mental powers to figure it out (the sun, and the moon with a square star are not the right answer), and finally caved and asked him what on earth it meant. "Okay," he answered, ready as usual for a long, detailed explanation (men, anyone?) "This is gold, and these are dinosaur bones. I asked everybody in my class what they wanted. Some people wanted two things, and they're gonna get them when I find them - in little bags. So those are their initials." Me: Is that what you're digging for in the backyard? Ez: Yes. Me (suppressing all emotion, Naomi- and Hannah-style): Oh.

It all adds up - this crazy paper is just so full of his crazy Ezra life, from toddlerhood on up. He is obsessed with money (it can buy toys and candy!), he is obsessed with dinosaurs (T-Rexes - the bullies of the dino world - naturally), dirt, digging, yard work involving tools and machines. As a tiny big-boy, nothing could be better than to watch the backhoe "coop" dirt, and the dumper truck go dump-dump-dump, and the cement mixer spin around, and the roller truck flatten the road. At home, nothing was better than to wear the real hard hat from Jim the neighbor, and to play in the "construction site" in the backyard (now the site of the archeological dig and the gold dig). 

I love that I have a male child and that I cannot with any cell of mine feel any interest in any of these things. (Nope! Not interested in money! Not one bit!)

Ezra... It makes me feel guilty that sometimes I despair of him, when his wildness and loudness overwhelm me and abruptly puncture the sweet babyland I inhabit until exactly 4:22 daily. Even though I know when to expect him, I'm never prepared for his energy to pounce into the house, and so I start off too often on a critical note, and we end up in a pointless power struggle all evening. But Ezra has a sweet, big heart; he is capable of surprising thoughtfulness and love and I just need to pray that his bullying side disappears. The happy, crazy energy will come in handy, transformed for adult life somehow.

Ezra adores Hannah. The kid is obsessed with money, but not stingy. Because he loves money, and also loves Hannah, he has a sandwich bag full of money he calls Hannah's, and she knows it's hers, and where it's stored (in an unused "meat" drawer) and says "I want my moneys" at least once daily. He shows it to her, at least once daily. On Fridays (today) the "big kids" at school open their "store," and he tells Hannah excitedly that he is going to bring her a lollipop (an interesting, different lollipop hailing from Brooklyn, New York!) and she says: I wan my lollipop! (And then needs comforting 'cause it's not yet here, of course.)

Ez to Hannah, also this morning: Hannah, I need a bye-bye kiss 'cause I'm gonna be gone for like more than three hours! Or maybe even four! (Try eight, kid.)

She freely gives it, then walks madly up and down the hall, saying: I needoo dzheck my eeeee-moooooo! 

I was changing her on our bathroom rug this morning, and she picked up my slippers (which were lying right there) saying: Do you wan your slipooos, mommy? And I said no thanks, and she said, with a twinkle in her eye: Do you wan your slipooos in your pah-tee? 

I laughed, and she said: I'm fah-neee. 

She is funny, and that was a good one. Maybe not one of your very best, Hannah, but... :-) 

A little grocery

Yesterday, Ezra helped me unload the groceries and a Hannah from the car. He brought her in last and said, "I have another grocery! Look, I brought a walking grocery!" He knows all about walking groceries; he was one himself.

The hand of G-d and my left hand

(N.B. what follows is not entertaining--noted solely for my own purposes.) Purim is coming, which reminds me of a taped shiur I once heard about the Megillah (was it DL? AT?). The Megillah is famous for not mentioning the name of G-d even once, while the incredible “coincidences” of timing, and seemingly random plot twists of the story (condensed in time and seen as a whole, as if from a G-d’s eye view) leave no doubt as to His loving, guiding hand. The tape spoke of the need not just to appreciate the Megillah of Queen Esther, but to write the Megillah of one's own life. Had the Jews not been alert (and I'm not sure exactly how all the pieces were put together) they would never have noticed the many miracles that led to their salvation. Likewise, we should learn to become attuned to G-d's workings even in our own lives, to "connect the dots"--even if, as in the Purim story, it takes many years--and not be blind to the miracles in our own lives, including the way in which the seeming dead ends, wrong turns, etc. turn out to be integral parts of the story. I'm charmed by this at first chutzpadik-seeming idea... we each have our own Megillahs to trace (and write...?)

DL speaks often of the need to silence the noise and get in touch with the many ways in which G-d speaks--and in many shiurs he emphasizes the message of pain, punishment (was it in the Nefesh Hachaim series?--can't remember). So, last week, when I was struck with a ridiculously dramatic OUCH, I actually tried to crack the code.

Our tea kettle had rusted, so I’d been boiling water in a glass in the microwave, when, one night, I didn’t know I’d overheated the water, and when I dropped a teabag into the glass, the entire contents of the glass--with a loud hiss--erupted onto my hand, shocking me and causing incredible pain. I yelled and panted and panicked, and D. filled a bowl with cold water into which I immersed by hand. The pain was numbed at least to the point where I could stand it, and (I’ll skip the calls to docs and hospital answering services and emergency rooms and so on), to make a long story short, I spent literally the entire night imprisoned in my bathroom, hunched over a bowl of water, trying to be brave but mostly crying like a baby, because every time I tried to take my hand out of the water, I could take the pain for only a few moments and had to return it to the bowl. I didn't believe I would ever, ever get up off the bathroom rug, until 7 hours later (still swallowing tears, still having to constantly move my hand to "cooler" parts of my blanket to avoid feeling the burning feeling) I finally flopped into bed. The healing process took about a week (I’m still peeling, but basically fine) during which time I had to apply a cooling antiseptic cream, wrap hand and fingers in lots of soft gauze, and, to hold it all in place, wear a silly soft sock or glove on that hand. Given that I have 3 babies in diapers and use my left hand more extensively than I ever knew, it was extremely aggravating, not to mention that seeing my skin turn leathery and wrinkled (and not knowing it would all peel right off so quickly, in the end) made me feel, when I looked at it, like a 90 year old lady. I kept thinking, and asking G. (this already is a victory for me) “Why this dramatic, localized message – what are you saying? What have I, or my left hand, done, to deserve precisely this?” ignoring the side of me that said “What, you? You think you’re some sort of special tzaddekes, another Miriam, who gets instant divine correction when she messes up? And what's the big deal anyway? Just a little burn! (granted)” So, I ignored it and decided, I’m going to interpret this, God is an artist, I’m going to figure out his symbols (ignoring the other voice saying, "You! You’re bad at art, and were never good at doing this sort of thing in literature class. Who are you kidding?” Still I plowed ahead, and came up with an obvious, but super-useful thing for me. And I’m thrilled, psyched, and convinced that G. cares enough for me--we’re living in different times, after all--to honor me by sending me this message in such a memorable and symbolic way, so here goes.

Just before this happened, we had been having a week of D. being (waaaah!) unfair to me, and he had just then made nice and we were friends. Instead of welcoming this, I took advantage of his good will and starting chipping away at it, in my manner (now that I’ve thought hard about it) by trying to “teach” him how to speak. He said an ever so slightly abrupt Goodnight-I’m-going-to-bed, and I chose to give him an absolutely idiotic lecture about injecting some warmth into his tone (as if that would inspire him to) and he got upset, and it was a Fight.

So, here’s the lesson. I think I’m such a good wife, and a loving mother, but I’m not--and what bothers G-d most is not that I’m late and frazzled and somewhat disorganized (anyone would be in my shoes). He knows I am aware of that, and need to gradually strengthen my will power and that’s all. But he wanted to show me my blind spot. I think, half-consciously, that I am so mild-mannered and sweet and have a sometimes-moody husband, but I am not. The left hand represents the side of din, judgment, strictness, harshness, and my din side, it turns out, is too strong. I got burned for doling out din when it was wrong to do so--and I am forced to admit that I do it a lot: chip, chip away at my family relationships with little and not-so-little criticisms. And the healing process was a physical embodiment of what I need to do to my spiritual din side. I need to be conscious of it (as I was annoyingly conscious of that hand all week), and constantly quiet and cool it. And yet, I need to be strong--as I had to be--since I am such a pain-wimp!--strong in ways that matter, strong in patience, fortitude, holding my tongue - the non-hyper virtues, for a ex-hyper (now-grown!) child. And I need to be a soothing presence in my home, to my family, in every way--I can make a huge transformation in the blue house energy. :-) C'est tout...

Happy Birthday, Twins!

Oooooooh, it had to be done! I had to embarrass them on their birthday, especially since no one's really looking. And it's not even really their birthday, but 10 months certainly counts for something. Yay, twins! Naked came you into the world and into the tub. Love you yummy yum-yums into a zillion sweet squishy pieces. And your response? Yasha: "Up!" and Saulie: "Da DA!" 

The new up-tairs

Grownups. Last night, despite the tumult and chaos in the house from DST jetlag, without warning Daddy suddenly swooped down upon Hannah's bed (still a pack-n-play, with an extra little mattress) and dragged it downstairs into the dark and squalid room of the Ahzee-Noma. Many hours and tears later ("I wanna go up-tairs, I wanna come owwwwwwt," and the like), Hannah was happy again, asleep as peacefully as she had once been up-tairs. And D. and I congregated compulsively in Hannah's office, savoring its emptiness and our freedom with a tiny tinge of guilt.

Sniff! Who will worry about Daddy--whether he's having his morning doffee, whether he is doin' his email, and whether he likes those things? Who will sit on Daddy's lap to be photographed by the computer's secret camera in the wee hours (thank G-d for that; I had actual, physical pains in my chest, knowing that Hannah's sleep cycles were being tinkered with)? Who will dump out the contents of the file cabinet so trustingly placed within reach - and dumped by this good child only once?  

This morning, to mark her important rite of passage, Hannah padded up the stairs and announced, "I did my shleep, I waked UP! I didit!" Thus ended an era.

"I love you!" (or, How we almost lost Hannah)

This morning, what with Ozzie-Noma at shul with Daddy, the twins asleep, and Hannah puttering in the living room, I began cheerily making sock balls from the neglected piles of clean laundry in my room (piles which, by the way, Ezra calls "Har Sinai's") when it suddenly struck me that it was too quiet. I bolted downstairs to find the front door ajar, and  - sure enough! - a pink booted, dinosaur-pj'd Hannah at the very bottom of our steep driveway, talking (phew!) to a nice lady just coming from the neighbors' house. (Barb is a much-sought-after parenting guru, and I can only hope she hasn't bugged our house.) The lady was kind enough not to give me the you're-a-bad-mommy look of horror, graciously letting my conscience do its job. She said sweet things about Hannah, then bent right down to her and asked, "What's your name?" In response, Hannah beamed at her with eyes brimming with deep emotion, and sang liltingly: I loooooooooooooooooove you! 

(More sweet things were said about Hannah, and the small matter of her name handled by Mama.)

Moral of the story? Making sock balls just isn't in the spirit of Shabbos, and I must learn to love all Har Sinais, everywhere. It's time to be a Zen Buddhist about messy Jewish houses (note: not for you, my dear husband) and I'll start by curling up--at least on Shabbos--with a nice, yummy book and shiny, tall glass of tea, the latter resting at least ten inches from all counter edges (good mommy!) and to hell with socks till the three stars are out.

Rosh Chodesh Adar II... and some Nomisms

Hannah, being in tune with spiritual reality, woke up in the correct and halachically mandated mood of the day, proclaiming after her usual I-wanna-g0-vneez round:

Mommy! I'm hah-pee! (mom says she's happy too) I got my Misha and my binty and my pull-oh (pillow)! Mommy, you're hah-pee? (mom says yes) Oh. 

And then, half-rediapered, seeing musical apple toy: I wan dat apple on my dummy! (gets it) I like dis apple! 

And then: Whurz Daddy? (at shul) Whurz Azzie-Noma? (downstairs) Whurz Banina? (New York) Whurz Dursty (at work) Whur are da deedees? (right under you, eating) Oh. 

In the world outside, there is the heartbreaking Mercaz HaRav story... but in the blue house, all is bursting with lovely loquacious life. 

Yesterday's Nomisms (she stays home with me Thursdays):

Mom, I love you because you have an ouchy hand (burned last week). (Actually this was a fake - she said it like an Ezra.)

And some dreamily observant and authentic Nomisms:

Naomi (flopping on bed in deedee room): Mom, I think Yash is going to be Russian when he grows up. 

Me: You mean, because he looks Russian?

N: Yeah.

Me: But he's growing up in America, so he's going to be American.

N: Yeah.... but he's going to go in a rocket ship and go to Russia.

And later, snuggling with Dad as he ties his shoes:

Dad? Dad, your forehead is so smoooooooth, and it's shiny a little. (Dad laughs, a little sheepishly.) 

A baby sandwich, with all the fixings

Here they are, clock-wise from top left (always wanted to write that!): Hannah, Ezra, Naomi, Jacob and Saul.  

Naomi's hair is growing не по дням а по часам, since the 6am meat shears episode of a few months ago, and her inner girl is reemerging along with it. 

This is perhaps the only picture we have of all five of them together, which just goes to show that maybe a day at J.C. Penney's photo studio wouldn't be so bad.... 

Random funnies

Ezra, upon receiving two very clicky toy guns and one real stethoscope from friends: 

"Bang, bang! I'm Double-Gun Doctor!! I help you with your pain! Do you have pain, Mommy? (mommy says yes) Bang, bang - now you don't!"  It was certainly a bit dismaying to learn that our son is a euthanasia advocate,  but we'll take care of that in due time...

Hannah, last night: Daddy, I'm funny. I'm a fah-nee fish. Daddy, I lah you. Daddy--my pazha's!!! (patting herself, excited over new pj's). Daddy, you're havin' your eemo (email)?

Hannah, this am (ah, how I love her in the mornings...): Mommy I wanna go vneez (Russian). I wanna go vneez, I wanna go vneez, I wanna go vneez (through the door).

Later on, wearing stethoscope and a shirt with snaps at the bottom: Mommy, open my dummy (tummy)...so she could listen to her sweet heart beating...

Yesterday, Noma puts Yasha down, and commands: Crawl... you big... buffalo! 

So now we have Saulie the Seal (on account of his inimitable one-armed scooting-upon-the-tummy technique), and Yasha Kasha, and--why not?--the big buffaloes. Naomi can go for days whining and throwing minor tantrums and speaking only in baby talk or in a false quasi-babyish voice, but then suddenly say something effortlessly hysterical--stick a big plastic negelvaser cup on her foot, and announce: Captain Foot-Hook! or else, let us into her dreamy, lovely inner world, as recently overheard:

Naomi: (humming, coloring) Ez-wha, when I'm singing a beautiful song, it makes my colowing more beautiful.

Ezra: (looking) Yeah... you're right! I would argue... I mean, I would agree.

Naomi: And when I'm singing in a beautiful language, it's really, really beautiful.

Another recent classic, by a pensive Ezra at tucking-in time: Mom, can you make Dad not be angry so he can work good so we could get the R2-D2 to guard my room?

Cheers for now... it's time for Hannah's nap, in what Daddy refers to grudgingly as Hannah's office. Just today, I asked Hannah where Yasha was (she pays attention to these things) and her ready answer was, "Yasha's in my office!" But it won't be hers much longer; she'll graduate to big girl status in a matter of days, when she moves in with Naomi. I bet Daddy will miss her, too.

Why this blog exists

This blog really shouldn't exist, but - POOF! -  it does! Shhhhh, be quiet, let's please not call it a blog, at least; no one in this house has time for a blog! And "blog" would imply something deliberately crafted and lovingly tended and, hopefully, illuminating or inspiring to at least one poor webby soul out there. But THIS blog is pure self-indulgence, an aid to the mommy's murky memory and nothing more. The deedees (Jacob and Saul), the Hannah, the Noma, the Ah-zee (or, as he signed himself today, the i.e.) are just too much of EVERYthing to be utterly forgotten as they grow and change. And, as my digital camera (thank you, hubby hanukah present) is still an object of suspicion and dread to me, I have no choice but to write. I will freeze in time the sweet, funny, crazy, disturbing, depressing, ridiculous, maddening, boring, defiant, mendacious (alas!) and all-around childish sayings of the children of the Happy Blue House (as a dear and proper blogger once dubbed it, in order to convince blue mommy, once upon a time long ago, to let it be bought). I vow to record charming mispronunciations and errors of all kinds, and if sundry other things get thrown in as well, so be it. Rambling and random tidbits will be written down at will, and not always intelligibly. We all know it takes entirely too much time to edit, and this is NOT a proper blog... 

Hannah, now two, has always been incredibly in touch with her feelings, with the feelings of others, and is generally the most sensitive and intuitive and compassionate and endearing creature imaginable--all of which I'll hope to capture later by means of anecdotes--but for now, a Sunday morning's little dialogue:

Hannah: Mommy, I'm happy.

blue mom: I'm happy too.

Hannah: Mommy, we're happy. Less feed the deedees.

Thus, a few moments' conversation with an adorable tiny blond fluff head serves as a timeless lesson in how to live. Apropos of which, Hannah could teach blue mom a thing or two about bedtime, which she invariably greets with "Idunwannagotosleep" immediately followed by "Do Hannah's Eeeee-aaaahhhh," (her invented noun for the brushing of the teeth) and "Where's Hannah's Misha?" (ch-ching on the Russian!) and "Put binty (blanket) on Hannah's Misha" - when I'm not quite quick enough to give proper kavod to the Misha. Good night, creatures everywhere... 

But first, random and recent:

Me: Ezzie, do you remember your life before Naomi was born? (thinking a second) No, of course not, you were too young. 

Ezzie (pensive): But it was still fun.

Oh, it's hard to stop! I'm thinking of Hannah, so must write while I remember. Already many months ago, she astounded me with her self-knowledge and self-control, which I suspect is precocious (oh, you suspect me of doting?). Upon being denied something, i.e. a desired food, her siblings' crayons, etc. she would burst into tears, cry out "Hannah's sad!" her tiny body shaking with sobs. Very soon thereafter, she would suddenly size up the situation, realize it wasn't changing, half-pull herself together and say, still quite weepy, "Hannah's happy!" It was, on the simple level, extremely comical to see a sniveling girl call herself happy, but by saying it before it was true, she made it a reality, and truly was a happy Hannah again. 

And then there is her sensitivity and compassion. When the deedees, whose room is farthest from the stairs, have barely just poked out their silly heads and are not yet crawling down the hall, she already calls anxiously to me: Hannah needs the date (gate) UP! Put da date up for me! 

When they pull up on our rickety bar stools, and I know they might fall, but figure they'll learn eventually, she hovers and pats them and worries: No, Saulie, dun fall! No, Yasha, dun fall! 

And when I cry, though big girls aren't supposed to cry, she modulates her voice (where did she learn, who taught her), and asks in a loving, grave, almost mournful drawl (feels absolutely like the Platonic ideal of compassion): Are you saaaad, mahhhhhhmmy? (mom nods) Oh, Maaaaaahmeeeeeee! 

After which, I cannot possibly, possibly, possibly be sad, I can only marvel.  

These are little things she has done for a while. It seemed to me (from her earliest habit of this kind, way before she could speak at all: helping us dress and undress her, deliberately offering us her arms, legs, head, moving her toy to the other hand to help the first go into a sleeve, so on*) and still does that her wisdom and sensitivity are gifts, not natural to her age, certainly not learned from her siblings, or (alas) her parents. These little things about her thrill me to no end because they scream out that there is such a thing as a divine soul. But then, looking into your child's eyes (any child) is proof enough.

And now, good night to creatures everywhere! 

*Ha! The deedees started doing it, too, at around a year! Guess the other two were just slow...