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Overheard: how not to help with homework

The thing about living in New York, right, is that we all hear each others’ secrets. It’s one of the chief pleasures of living here, isn’t it? (Admit it!)  Listening to the conversation at the next table, or between the couple walking down the street, or the more mundane joy of peeking into someone’s window as you stroll to get the newspaper.  Given that we’re all on top of each other most of the time, it’s a wonder that any of us actually has any secrets.  But of course, then there are those days where we see or hear things that make us uncomfortable, make us wonder if everything is okay in that life over there.

Scene: Hamilton Fish Library, after school, Monday.

A boy, maybe in 3rd grade, and an older man, probably his father. A worksheet in front of the boy has a few penciled markings on it, and a paperback copy of The Enormous Egg sits next to the boy’s elbow.

Man: Just write. You know the answers.

Boy, head down: I do not. I need a kleenex. Help me.

Man: I tried and you made faces and so now you just have to do it. It’s not my homework.

Boy is silent.

Man: Wipe that look off your face or I’ll smack it off you.

Boy, snuffling: I need a kleenex.

Man: You need this, you need that, what you need is to do your work. Just shut up.

Boy is silent, head down.

Man: Pick up the pencil and start.

The pencil stays on the table. The boy’s head stays down.

Man: Stop it. Just stop it. Don’t make me smack you. Answer the question. You’re supposed to say how your character changes during the story.

Boy: I don’t know.

Man: You’re the one who read it. Did you read it?

Boy: Yes. But I don’t understand.

Man: It’s easy. The answer is in the book. Don’t be stupid. Just write it down. Stop whining or I’ll smack you.

Boy puts his head back on the table, snuffles.

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Posted in Parenting, overheard.


A Project

Step 1: IMG_3935

Step 2:

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Step 3:

 

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Caleb spent Tuesday before dinner designing an alien. And this is why even though I spend at least an hour a day stepping on, over, and through various piles of legos, I still think they may be the best toy ever invented.

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Posted in legos.


Sometimes you just say hmmm

I’m seeing New York streets these days through the filter of someone who is thinking about maybe moving out of the city.  This filter means that everything seems a little sharper, for both good and ill: the wads of dead gum are darker and more disgusting; the joy of being able to find anything I want within a six-block radius more exhilarating.

One of New York’s chief pleasures, for me at least, is what I see while I walk around, and today on my way to an eight AM yoga class (let me say that again: EIGHT AM YOGA, people), I had two of those New York moments that aren’t “aha” moments but  “hmm” moments.

The first is a sign for Vitamin Water, part of their new ad campaign, which I imagine some newly graduated media studies major pitched as edgy and urban. I’m not sure this particular sign is either of those things. In fact, if I lived in Chelsea, it might just piss me off:

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The other puzzlement wasn’t an ad, wasn’t edgy at all, really, but was definitely urban. Could become a prop in one of those continuing ed creative writing courses, you know, write the story of how this photo came to be:

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After I took this picture, I wondered if I was myself being photographed, if someone had perhaps set these shoes just so on the snowbank to see if anyone would stop. Maybe the whole thing was a setup.

But maybe not. Maybe clown shoes in the snow were just to remind me that the city’s gifts can be found in unexpected places.

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Posted in New York City, street notes.

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Snow Day! (and the day after)

On Friday, the day of the “snowicane,” the “slushocalypse,” Manhattan looked like this:

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Today, the day after the snowicane? It’s like a hangover:

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Posted in New York City.


Cheap at the price

Yesterday, when Liam came home from school, he was sure there would be a snow day on Friday. “It’s going to snow for twenty hours, mom,” he said, channeling his inner Sam Champion.

Visions of two boys trapped inside all day danced in my head–I could almost hear the bickering, the endless loops of “stop it, no you stop it, no you stop it, MOM!”

Without really thinking about it, I opened my mouth and out came a bet: “If you two are home all day, Liam, I bet you twenty bucks you can’t spend the whole day without getting angry at Caleb.”

“Not getting angry? At all? What about just once? What if I just used one angry word?”

“Nope. Not for twenty bucks. For twenty bucks, not one angry word.”  I couldn’t imagine that the schools would close–New York City schools almost never close, right?

Wrong. This morning…still snowing. Snowed all day. Still snowing now. And when I tiptoed into the boy’s  room this morning at 6:53 to tell them there was no school, Liam smiled and whispered, “you’re gonna owe me twenty dollars tonight, mommy.”

I didn’t believe him, but I wildly underestimated the power of his greed.

Not one crabby word came out of his mouth. True, we were outside playing for a big part of the day, and true, Liam spent a bunch of time running in the snow with his friends while Caleb went sledding with daddy, so it’s not like they were on top of each other all day. But they did play legos all morning, play together in the snow–and have a snowball fight–without bloodshed–later this afternoon, and then resumed their lego adventures together tonight after dinner.

At dinner, Caleb announced that if Liam was getting twenty dollars, then he should get something too. He wanted five tokens (we use foreign coins as his “payment” for his little chores).  Not five dollars, five tokens. Kid drives a hard bargain.

It’s almost bedtime and I think I’m going to have to fork over twenty bucks and five euros or pence or whatever’s in the coin jar.

Funny. I don’t remember reading in any of my parenting books about the importance of “monetizing” good behavior.  And yeah, probably I shouldn’t do this on a regular basis (of course, I can’t afford to, either).

But for today? For today, I’m all about Gordon Gekko. Greed is good.

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Posted in Children, mothering boys.

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All doughnuts are not created equal

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I don’t like doughnuts. I’ve never fully understood the allure of Krispy Kreme and as for runnin on Dunkin? Nope. Doughnuts are usually too sugary, too puffy, and they sit in my tummy like a big ball, which really needs no extra roundness these days, thanks.

But. But then…there’s the Doughnut Plant. Their doughnuts have actual tastes and textures, unlike DD doughnuts, which taste like deep-fried 7-up. If there’s a heaven, they’re serving Doughnut Plant doughnuts up there.

The Plant is a few blocks from where one of Liam’s best friends lives and when Grandma was here last week, we all rode downtown to that friend’s house to pick up Liam after a sleepover. We stopped for doughnuts afterwards to ease the trauma of leaving “the most fun sleepover ever” and the little-brother trauma of “why do I always have to gooooo with to pick him up?”  

Caleb, ever the traditionalist, went for the double chocolate and although I forced him to share a bite of it with all of us, I understood his reluctance to part with even one velvety crumb. Grandma wasn’t going to have anything — just too many calories, she said, with smidge of self-righteousness in her voice.  Liam got my favorite flavor, tres leches, and after one bite of that, darned if Grandma didn’t march right up to the counter and get one for her and one for me. Calories and ever-rounder tummies be damned: tres leches is a glazed doughnut, sort of, except under the first layer of glaze is a thin layer of a sort of carmel, and then there’s the densely fluffy doughnut itself.  A little ring o’bliss, that’s what it is.

The Plant is something of an institution, so perhaps it’s no news to you that they’re serving manna on the LES. And if you didn’t know, well, you can thank me later.  A dozen doughnuts would do nicely.

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Posted in New York City, food.


Haitian relief, now in fourteen fashion colors

 

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What do we think about this display? Apparently if you buy this bag from Ralph Lauren’s Rugby shop, for $35, 50 meals will be provided to Haitian schoolchildren through the UN World Food Program. This display should make me happy, yes? Feeding schoolchildren is good; Haitian relief effort, also good; targeting affluent college kids (this store is on University Place, just from the NYU campus), that’s gotta be good.

Somehow, though, despite all good intentions of the part of the store, this display irked me. Perhaps it’s the wild disparity between what it costs to feed a Haitian kid (50 meals for 35 bucks? that’s not very much food), and what the outfits on the mannequin cost:  the “Ashlin X Rugby” is 89.50; the fleece shorts are 59.50; the “pointelle cotton ruffle dress” is $178; god only knows what you’d pay for those leg-warmers that look like they cut the arms of an old-fashioned tennis sweater (and we won’t ask why you’d wear leg-warmers and shorts. If you’re cold, put on pants). Those outfits, cashed in, would buy a lot of lunches for little kids.

If you dig around on the Rugby Ralph Lauren website, you find that the store is also selling a Haiti Relief t-shirt designed by CFDA for $25, with the entire proceeds going to Haitian relief through the Clinton Bush Haiti Fund (Bubba and Dubya doing good works togetha).  And that’s a good thing too, that money from these t-shirt sales will continue to fund relief efforts, long after all the movie stars have stopped answering phones at the telethon.

What is it, then, that bugs me, aside from a case of late February misanthrope-itis? Maybe it’s my populist streak coming out again, along with those gray roots I keep forgetting to get touched up? Couldn’t Ralph Lauren just give, outright, a big huge freaking check to the World Food Program, or the Bubba Dubya foundation, or Doctors Without Borders, or whichever organization suits his sensibility? Does he (and others like him) really need to shill a canvas bag–use the bag, in fact, as bait to lure shoppers into the shore? Come in to buy a bag, walk out with weird tennis sweaters for your legs?

I gave money to Haiti, I will continue to give money to Haiti, I hope we all continue to help re-build that country. But the Feed Haiti bag reminds me that all too often, “good works” are accompanied by a sense of self-aggrandizement: look at me! I’m helping!

That self-aggrandizement shouldn’t matter, right? What should matter–what does matter–is that money keeps funneling to those who are on the ground in Haiti. That’s the big picture.  So if Rugby Ralph needs to flog a bag and a t-shirt on his website so that everyone knows what a mensch he is, fine, I guess. But there’s no way I’m buying those leg warmers.

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Posted in Politics, Products.

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An Olympic Moment

This morning, Liam and I were talking about what it meant to be “passionate,” which is the word that his pediatrician has used to describe him since he was a little boy (she suggested passionate as an alternative to some of the other, far less flattering words I was using to describe my then toddler-aged son). 

Liam asked what passionate meant, exactly, and I said that it meant having strong feelings about things–positive or negative.

“You mean how I want to win all the time?”

“Yes, that’s part of it. But you’re passionate about karate, soccer, school work…”

“And when Caleb makes me mad, I’m really mad?”

“That’s part of it too. You’re a passionate person, so you’re passionate about everything.”

“Not everything, mommy.”

“Really? What aren’t you passionate about?”

Liam thought a minute. “Luge.”

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Posted in Children.

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Maybe ketchup IS a vegetable, and other thoughts on lunch

The SV Mom Bloggers Network had an opportunity a few weeks ago to join a conference call with Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsack about Michele Obama’s new initiative against childhood obesity, Let’s Move.  These two things, plus Jamie Oliver’s campaign to improve children’s diets, has me thinking (again, still) about the lunchboxes I pack every morning.

I don’t know about your kids, but mine have a devotion to routine that makes me think they’ve got futures in the military, and their lunchbox contents, as a result, are pretty much the same every day: each kid gets a juicebox, a small handful of pretzels or goldfish crackers, a yogurt or applesauce, and a sandwich: son #1 gets half a peanut-butter-and-honey, son #2 gets a pbj with no crusts. If there are crusts, EVERYTHING IS RUINED FOREVER. Continued…

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Posted in Children, Parenting, food.

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In Praise of Whimsy

Public art. A lot of it sucks (the belching smoke and clock weirdness at Union Square, anyone?) but sometimes?  At its best, public art can leaven the air, open the eyes, lift the mood.

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I don’t know if it’s art, but it makes me happy. Could you walk past these without smiling?

And today, waiting and waiting for the A train,  were Caleb and I bored? Was he restless and crabby? Not at all.  Because we had company down there, underground:

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These sculptures dot the A train platform and create an entire narrative about life underground (the name, not uncoincidentally, of the installation).  Little people sweep up fallen coins, creatures with moneybag heads swing from the subway beams–and there is, of course, an alligator coming out of a sewer:

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Apparently the artist who designed the installation went a little crazy with the world he’d created and while maybe it’s not Picasso’s Daley Plaza sculpture, these little creatures make the subway a happier place.

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Posted in New York City.