chag sameach

It's a cliché, but for good reason, I guess: mothering comes with a decent amount of guilt attached. Guilt that you're overindulging, guilt that you're depriving, guilt that you've made the wrong decision. Holidays shouldn't induce guilt, but they often do, and the Spring ones are no exception. This year, George noticed those dreadful pre-made Easter baskets in the stores. Specifically, he noticed the one displayed prominently at our local grocery store that seemed to have been made just to entice him -- containing not one, but two full-sized, "big guy" basketballs -- and he asked to buy it on more than one occasion. When I tried feebly to explain that, actually, those are Easter baskets and we don't celebrate Easter, but rather we have a very long dinner during which we read a story and eat some food ("Noodles?!" Uh, no...) and drink a lot of wine, well, he was unimpressed. Passover has no dreidel and gelt, no presents. It's an admittedly tough sell to a two year old, albeit one I'm more than willing to keep peddling, as these traditions are important. The least "fun" being, arguably, the most important. 

So, as we sat around our hosts' seder table for the second year running -- as our friend led the meal in broken Hebrew befitting a crowd of Athiests, cultural Jews and... others -- my son ran around with his new little friend, having as much fun as a couple of toddlers could have at a Pesach seder. He spit out the maror, passed wholesale on the dinner and didn't live up to my dorky dream of joining everyone in saying cheerfully, "Next year in Jerusalem!" now that he actually could. 

I felt bad for bringing a rowdy child to a seder, no matter how irreverent. I wanted to supply coloring pages, to make a cute felt envelope for the afikomen and pass out masks illustrating the plagues for any guests who were game to wear them, but my shit was decidedly not together. I wanted George to have fun, to see that he didn't need an Easter basket or a chocolate bunny, but I also wanted him to understand the gravity of a holiday without gimmicks. I failed, it seemed, on both counts. And felt guilty. 

Despite all that, after a lovely meal with friends new, old and somewhere in between -- Zelda's first seder -- we came home and went to bed. The next day was glorious. Sunshiny. Springtime. I decided to give myself a break: that our cultural identity wouldn't be compromised if I indulged a little, to celebrate this beautiful season. After all, we've made it through the winter, and our modern, first world plagues: seasonal affective disorder, outrageous heating costs, perpetually damp pant hems and a lack of local fresh fruit, icy roads, waiting for the bus in the rain. Our chickens are laying reliably again -- as sure a sign of improved conditions as any -- so bright eggs may as well be hidden around their yard for a sun-starved toddler to find. 

Find them he did. And he had a ball. More fun than his time playing around the Pesach seder? Who's to say? And does it matter? Cultural sell-out or not, I want my kids to have fond memories of childhood. While that might not mean they get the double basketball grocery store Easter basket, I'm pretty okay with the plain old wicker one, and eggs filled with dimes. And if later they decide to go back outside to hunt for worms?

Yeah, much better than a stuffy church. Or temple, for that matter. Sunday best is relative. 

bocka bocka

There are three recent additions to our family, and George and I are whole-heartedly obsessed with them. These days, if you'd like to have intelligent conversations about worldly matters, we maybe could but probably wouldn't have much to offer (except for Nathan, who gives a bang-up verbal treatise on the latest issue of the Economist). On the subject of cutie little feathery buddies, however, we are rather stunning conversationalists. You know, if I do say so myself. 

Three pretty ladies to chase around the yard in mostly futile attempts at chicken petting. Three funny, chickeny friends to hang out with in the garden. They're thoroughly lovable, and so, tonight, when, during fake-chicken-taco dinner, Nathan said, "Hey George, do you want some more chicken?" we should've seen it coming. 

He looked around in utter horror and started clucking. 

Oh no, we assured him: we are not eating the chickens! "Papa meant tacos. Do you want more tacos? More fake chicken? Err... no, that doesn't work. More meat? Fake meat? Taco filling? WHAT THE HELL DO WE CALL IT?"

Precise language -- well thought-out, accurate and succinct -- is something I value so deeply, and I believe equally deeply in the power of words to do both significant harm and good. If you're feeling up to a losing fight, try arguing with me about how it's totally okay to say "you're retarded" or "that's so gay" because, like, language is a living thing, man, and besides, you're too sensitive, and you know who really has it bad? Black lesbians in wheelchairs and anyway, I was just kidding. 

Until now, I'd been confident in my word choices with George. I am purposeful, inclusive; I don't dumb things down, and when prompted he can point to his scrotum just as quickly as he can his ears. Victory, right? Well, as with most best laid plans, something was forgotten and it caused a minor conniption fit brought on by the fear that we'd just had our pets for supper. OOPS.

It wasn't easily solved, though, either. Usually, I can correct and move on, but I'm at a loss. What do I call the fake meat that we eat? If it's seitan, I guess that's easy and I'm not counting tempeh or tofu -- also clearly identifiable -- but the fake bacon and ground "beef"? The "sausage" (is 'sausage' just any old thing in a casing?)? I'm sure to some this is an odd (stupid?) quandary, but it intersects at intentional eating and intentional communicating: two things I'd always hoped to instill in my child(ren). I will not be thwarted by Morningstar breakfast links and my abiding love of taco night. 

So, dear readers, friends: what do you suggest? The first person to say "start eating meat" gets a punch in the nose. 

spring

Our payoff for Northwest winter is Northwest spring. Happy cherry blossom time; my very most favorite. 

The blossoms, the little bits of life peeking through the muddy brown gloom, our tulips and the way they show up somewhere slightly new every year in their migration through the front yard planter, the chirpy little chicks we picked out this afternoon: they all say stretch your legs and dust off! Wear your sandals, even though you'll regret it later. Optimism in pastels, bright green. Later light, neighborhood kids and their bikes on the gravel as the soundtrack to my tidying up.