The Day I Became a Rocket Scientist

I went to a Top 20 Business school for my undergraduate degree. I went to a Tier 1 law school for my Juris Doctor. All of that education left me woefully unprepared for the morning my sweet Tatiman woke up in tears—because I had not purchased him “Rocket Jet Shoes” while he slept, and “How could [he] possibly fly now?”

The Tatiman is not much for distraction. When he says something, he is bound to repeat it. And not just once or twice; he has a card catalog filled with events from his short life, and he has no problem reminding you of every minute detail. When he was about 18 months old, I dared to open the door at his Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop's house before he was on the front porch. That was nearly 2 years ago...and he often reminds me of the time I almost ruined his life by opening that door before he got there.

So, I knew I was in for it. Big time. The Tatiman is the grandson of an actual rocket scientist. And the son of a man who designs flight simulators (who also happened to be away on a business trip during this entire saga). His expectations are high, to say the least. And I failed calculus, repeatedly.

I decided I needed to do something. I remembered seeing something in a Family Fun magazine about using tissue boxes to make dinosaur shoes. How different could Rocket Jet shoes be, really? I got to work during naptime—using construction paper, scissors, tape, and an entire glue stick. Forty-five minutes later I had some lovely Rocket Jet shoes, just waiting for the Tatiman to wake up from his nap. I worried, however, that my preschool quality Rocket Jet shoes would not live up to his MIT dreams.

After nap, I told the Tatiman that I had a surprise. When he came running down stairs I proudly held out the Rocket Jet shoes. They were green, just as he requested. He quickly put them on and hopped around oh so happily. I snapped pictures and posted them on facebook. The applause rolled in.

And then the Tatiman stopped jumping and said “These look a lot like tissue boxes.” Wah wah wah wahhhhhhh. “And they don't really work.” ….exhale. As much as I tried to convince him that he could use his imagination to fly, he wasn't buying my story. He did, however, humor me, and run around in his Rocket Jet shoes here and there for the next few days.

Tonight, on our drive home, the Tatiman was quiet for a moment. That is usually a sign that I should brace myself. This time was no different. “Mommy, I need you to build me a JET PACK because the Rocket Jet shoes did not really fly.”

Thankfully, Daddy came home tonight. Phew.

Why I chose cloth.

A lot of people wonder why I use cloth diapers on Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo. There is a short answer and a long answer.

The short answer: Because I can.

The long answer: I actually bought cloth dipes to use on the Tatiman. I bought them because I thought they were so cute. I wanted to be able to say I used cloth diapers. Neither environmental, nor financial considerations played into my decision tree. I used cloth on the Tatiman for a few months, and then he got ginormous. I really struggled to find pants that fit him well and looked cute. Remember, my initial decision was all about appearances…and it was not an option for my first born to be dressed in stretchy pants every day. So, the cloth dipes got packed away, and I resumed using our favorite brand of disposable dipes. No harm, no foul.

Then the Finny Bo Binny came along. We used ‘sposies from the start with him. When he was about six months old, I started to think about those cloth dipes again. We were throwing $60 a month down the drain in disposable diaper costs. The Tatiman was potty training, so I knew that diaper bill was about to cut in half—and the thought occurred to me that I could eliminate it entirely. We are fortunate that $60 does not make or break our monthly budget, but suddenly the idea of literally throwing it out, especially in this uncertain economy, just seemed ridiculous. Plus, the Finny Bo is a little peanut, so adding a little fluff to his tush actually helped his fashion cause! I figured it was a win-win situation.

The truth is I am not in love with cloth dipes. I’m not in love with any dipes, really. They contain poop and pee, and then I rinse and repeat. That’s it. They are, perhaps, slightly more difficult than disposable dipes—only because they require a smidgen more forethought and planning. But I do feel good about my decision. I’m saving money. I’m not putting chemicals against the sweetest little dimpled tushy in the world. And, I’ll admit…I think they look really, really cute.

Kid Fears.

I’ve come to realize that as a parent, I have three main fears. They are, in no particular order:

1. That something horrible will happen to my children
2. That something horrible will happen to me or my husband
3. That a sippy cup, filled with milk, will go missing in the playroom.

Just like Old Times…only Completely Different.

During my senior year in college, I lived in a tiny apartment with seven girls. We made up our own sorority, Sigma Gamma Gamma. We spent countless hours hanging out at home doing ridiculous things, like eating spaghetti with chopsticks, making paper rings to drape around the entire apartment counting down the days until graduation, and being filmed for a TLC show. You know, typical college stuff. It was one of the best years of my life.

I just got home from my trip to L.A. where I visited one of these former roommates. She happened to marry my cousin, but that is neither here nor there. (By the way, my boys survived and thrived while I was gone…just as I predicted!). She has a beautiful new baby girl, who is my 2nd cousin thrice removed (or something like that), and I was dying to see her.

While I was there, we decided to skype with one of our other former college roomies. She is also home on maternity leave, with an 11 week old son. We chatted for a while about random whatever kind of stuff. About the word for earthquake not being the same as the word for Vermont (you had to be there)…and then we started talking about boobs. Just like old times. I remember many conversations about boobs in the SGG house…who wanted them bigger, who wanted them smaller, who was showing too much to a guy, who wasn’t showing enough—you know, the usual. But this time, we were talking about breastfeeding. Oh, the trials and tribulations, and successes, of breastfeeding.

When we lived in our tiny apartment 10 years ago (gasp!), I can assure you I never imagined a day that this would come. Sure, I hoped I would maintain a friendship with these ladies for the rest of my life. But there was no way to even comprehend technology like skype, or that our boobs would one day serve a much higher purpose. Cheers to that.

I lost my cell phone in LA. I had to call my hubby from a payphone to let him know I landed safely. That part was totally just like old times.

For my Mudder.

My mom was my Brownie troop leader. My mom provided (the best) snacks for an entire neighborhood of kids. My mom painted sets for musical productions. My mom sat freezing her tuchus off in an ice skating rink. She brought oranges and water bottles to soccer games. She hand painted shirts for my elementary school teachers. She came on pumpkin picking field trips. My mom worked full time and somehow never missed a school concert, talent show, conference, class party…the list goes on. I used to think my mom was so amazing because she could do it all. But now that I’m an adult, and a mom in my own right, I realize that she couldn’t do it all—nobody can—she made countless sacrifices to make me feel like whatever was going on in my life at the time was the most important thing. That makes her even more amazing.

My mom made a home that wasn’t just comfortable for me and my brother, but was a second home for all of our friends. She was a surrogate mom to so many of our friends who really needed a place that they could come ‘home’ to.

My mom cooked meals from scratch, every night.

My mom taught me to make Shabbat.

My mom gave me the love of baking in mass quantities.

My mom showed me that it is ok to be afraid of something, but it is triumphant to
face that fear.

My mom taught me to bring hostess gifts.

My mom taught me to throw a party. Not just a little shin-dig, but a full blown fete.

My mom taught me that it is important to find reasons to have a celebration.

My mom always challenged my crazy ideas. I called it pessimism. She called it realism. Whatever you call it, it made me dig deep to get what I thought I wanted.

My mom threw me a wedding that was better than my wildest dreams.

My mom is an amazing grandmother. Her grandchildren have no idea that she is
constantly making sacrifices to make them feel like they are her number one priority. I know one day they will have that realization, and they will feel her love even more.

My mom isn’t perfect. But her flaws have shown me that there is beauty in being a real woman.

Happy Mothers Day to my Mommy. I love you to the ends of the earth. And I thank you today, and always. Even though some days I’m louder about other stuff, so it’s easy to miss that.