Stories: The Pirate who Fell in Love with the Mermaid

During a three-hour road trip this winter, I spun off about six "Pye-witt" stories. Two survived.  This is my favorite, probably because there's a grown-up moral or two buried herein.  He'en prefers The Talking Treasure Chest, which will follow when I get a couple more free fingers for typing.

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Once upon a time, there was a pirate. He was the roughest, toughest, meanest, dirtiest, and smelliest pirate in all the world. He loved only one thing: treasure!  He didn't love anything else in the world. So of course nobody loved him back.

Because he was so rough and tough and mean, and because he was always trying to steal other people's treasure, this pirate was always getting into fights. In one of the fights, he lost his leg. In another, he lost his eye. He was so grumpy about losing his leg and his eye that he spent all day stomping around his pirate ship. When he stomped, his wooden leg would bang. So it sounded like this: step-STOMP, step-STOMP, step-STOMP. And that sound made him even grumpier.

One day, the pirate was sailing his ship far out at sea, looking for treasure. As usual, he was in a grumpy bad mood.  Step-STOMP, step-STOMP, step-STOMP, he stomped around the deck of the ship.

Far below the waves, in the deepest brightest blue ocean where the mer-people lived, a mermaid heard the funny noise from above:  Step-STOMP, step-STOMP, step-STOMP! She was a very good mermaid, very lovely with pale skin and long dark hair, and very curious.  "I wonder what that noise could be," thought the mermaid.

The noise didn't stop.  Day after day it continued -- Step-STOMP, step-STOMP, step-STOMP -- until it nearly drove the mermaid mad! 

"I have to find out about that strange noise," she told her mer-friends. "I will swim to the surface and find out!"

"Oh, no," said her mer-friends. "The surface is much too dangerous! You can't go there!"

But the curious mermaid was determined to go. So early one morning, she swam up-up-up through the blue water. She swam far and she swam fast, following the step-STOMP sound. And when she reached the surface by the grumpy pirate's ship, it was dawn. The sun was streaming over the water. The curious mermaid was swimming so fast that she burst out of the water and into the air like a rocket! Water splashed and sprayed everywhere until it looked like a shower of diamonds in the bright morning light.

"ARRRRR!!!!" shouted the grumpy pirate from the deck of his ship, where he was awake early and step-STOMP-ing around. "TREASURE!!! Look at all those DIAMONDS!"

The curious mermaid splashed down into the water again and bobbed her head up. "Those aren't diamonds," she said, "it's just me. Are you the one making that wonderful step-STOMP sound?"

But the pirate wouldn't answer. He was too grumpy and too distracted, thinking only of treasure. "Diamonds!" he shouted at the mermaid. "Give me those diamonds!"

"Really, there aren't any diamonds!" protested the mermaid.

The pirate still didn't believe her. "Give me those diamonds or I will come TAKE them from you!" he shouted. And no sooner did he shout that, then he dove over the side of his ship and into the water, trying to grab the diamonds.

Well, but once he was in the water, the pirate couldn't swim, having only one leg. And he couldn't see, having only one eye. So he started to thrash around and flail around and started to sink.

The curious mermaid felt very sorry for the pirate (even though he had been extremely rude and greedy). She couldn't return him to his pirate ship, so she did the next best thing. With her mer-magic -- because all mer-people have at least a little magic -- she changed that pirate into a merman!

His wooden leg floated away . . . and his remaining leg turned into a tail! He still had his eye-patch but it turned into a giant pearly fish-scale held on by a strand of golden and silver seaweed. [He'en insisted on this detail.] And after a good dunking in the ocean, he was much less dirty, and he wasn't smelly at all.

But was he grateful? Oh, no. 

"ARRRRGH!" cried the pirate, "Ye silly mermaid, what have ye done to me?"

"I've turned you into a mer-man so you wouldn't drown," said the curious mermaid, who wasn't about to put up with any more nonsense or rudeness. "Now come with me!" She took his hand and they swam down, down, down to the deepest brightest blue ocean where the mer-people lived.

As they swam, an amazing thing happened. The pirate saw treasure everywhere!

In the splashing water, he saw blue sapphires and aquamarines.
In the shining scales of fish, he saw silver and gold.
In the tiny bubbles all around, he saw crystal and pearls.
In the shining coral, he saw red rubies and purple garnets.
In the waving seaweed, he saw green jade and emerald.

"Treasure," he gasped, "Everywhere around me, there is treasure!"

At last, the pirate had found the one thing that made him happy. And in time, with enough treasure to satisfy him, he found that he wasn't so grumpy.  He didn't miss his leg, because he had a fine new tail. He didn't miss his eye, because he could see very well underwater.  As the days passed, the pirate found that he wasn't so rough, or tough, or mean.

In fact, he turned quite nice. And he fell in love with the curious mermaid who wouldn't put up with any of his nonsense. And they got married. And they lived, deep down where the mer-people live, under the bright blue ocean,

happily
ever
after.

Yep, Mamas and Spiders

DH and I were looking at nanny advertisements to survey the local pay rates. "I can't believe," I fumed, "that the market says somebody who helps raise your children deserves only $10 per hour. What the what? For two kids? What more important or difficult job is there?"

"Well, don't take this the wrong way," DH ventured, "but it is basically unskilled labor."

[N.B. - The gentle reader is here welcome to pause and send me a small monetary bonus for not busting him in the teeth with my laptop. Eight years of marriage has significantly mellowed me. Or maybe just scrubbed me into submission.]

In any event, I think we all can agree "unskilled" does not mean "easy." It's a shame that inborn parenting instincts have no market value. Just like spiders, Mamas get very little appreciation for the amazing daily miracles we do. So I'll just appreciate myself a little bit here, e.g., this morning:

"Mom?" After a nice wake-up, a nice breakfast, and a cheerful dispatch to her room to begin dressing in outdoor clothing, He'en now is visibly trembling and mincing down the stairs in nothing but a pair of Cinderella undies.  In a choking sob, she announces, "Mom? Mom . . . I don' wanna go ice skay-ting."

My first instinct is flatly Dickensonian: to grab the child by the ear and march her upstairs while firmly pronouncing that "we'll have no such nonsense."

OK, admittedly I don't deserve to get paid for that one. The second Mom-instinct is why I deserve the big bucks. This is the instinct that takes her hand, walks with her back upstairs, sits on her bed and snuggles her into my lap, wraps her in the favorite pink blanket, and asks,

"Why don't you want to go ice skating, honey?"

"I . . . I jus' doan." Tears have overflowed out of her neon-blue eyes and her superlong lashes are wet and spiked.

"You don't. Okay."

Pause. Hug. Thinking thinking thinking fast and especially thinking that I am sure-hell not about to get all aw-honey-you-don't-have-to-go after spending half of yesterday running all over town for the lesson registration, a pink-and-purple helmet, and a pair of itty bitty used figure skates (omg, so cute).

Further, and piffle on the foregoing:  DH has agreed to take the child ice skating, every Saturday morning for a month, at 8:00 a.m. Is that enough italics? Can you see the Grinchy grin on my face from where you are sitting?  Oh, yes, that child is going ice skating if I have to send her in nothing but Cinderella panties and a stocking cap.

Pause. Hug. Thinking thinking thinking.

Then I noticed the thermal tights on the floor. Next to those, a pair of pink sweatpants. Both are crumpled. Aha.

Sniff.  My offspring nuzzles her drippy little nose into my shoulder.

This is the gift of mothers and spiders: we can discern and track a trajectory that we didn't know existed four seconds beforehand. In this case, she had too much time to think. She got wound up in the gear. Excitement, which in my side of the family is never more than a breath away from apprehension at the best of times, had mutated into fear.  Argh, I should have gotten up here sooner.

Pause. Hug.  Then, very gently, "Is there something you are afraid of, about the ice skating?"

"Yessss...."

Pause.

"Can you tell me what it is?"

Pause. Sniff. Then,

"Fawwing. I doan' wan' to faw."

Thank God she is still 4, and I hope to have about 10 more good years during which she will still tell me what is wrong.

So here's Part II of why Mamas deserve executive salaries: you are not out of the woods at this point because you can't belittle the fear. That gets you nowhere. And my husband has on his parka and is jingling his car keys, so time is ticking away. I don't know why Harrison Ford gets millions for pretending to defuse bombs under hot deadlines when Mamas do this every day.

"Falling. Well, that's very normal to be scared of falling. Falling is scary. I fall when I am ice skating. Even your dad falls."

Sniff. "Effen Dad?"

"Yep. We both fall. And do you know what?"

A glimmer of interest has emerged. "What?"

"At this first lesson, they are going to teach you how to fall. Isn't that silly, learning how to fall? But they will teach you how to fall so you don't get hurt."

Sniff. "When I yam skiiing, I fall on my bottom."

"Well, I don't know if that's how you fall when you are ice skating. It may be different.  You will have to find out and tell me. Do you want to find out? And tell me?"

Pause.  Sniff. "Okay."

Mama thinks:  "YAYYYYYY ME!!!!!"
Mama says:  "Okay, that's my good girl. So let's get on your tights."

She and her father left about a half-hour ago, all smiles. Yay me. Yay spiders. Yay instincts. Yay Mamas everywhere. Generous bonus checks will be issued to everybody.

Do They [need to] Know it's Christmas?

Who remembers this BandAID video from 1984?*  The sentiment is fine, but nowadays even the question "Do They Know it's Christmas?" feels so so very Americentric. I can pretty well guarantee that, in Ethiopia, they do not know it's Christmas.

I say this with some authority because I am right here *in* America, smack in the middle of America in fact, in my messy American kitchen this morning, here on Christmas Eve day, and planning not one single Christmassy thing for the two kids in this as-Jewish-as-it-needs-to-be household.

No tinsel, no lights, no glitter. No racing downstairs with the dawn on Christmas morning. No lifting the plump heavy stockings down from the fireplace, or -- even better -- happily cradling them in two hands because they are too plump and heavy to keep hanging and have been thoughtfully laid on the hearth. No candles on the buffet. No traditional Norwegian foods, no songs, and certainly no tree.  None of the Christmas joys with which I was so lovingly raised.  We've chosen to partake of a different tradition.

Some would argue that it's a more tenacious tradition. Some would argue that a December Dilemma choice for Hanukkah instead of Christmas -- as opposed to "both" or "with grandparents" or "hybrid" or any of the other impressive number of holiday permutations and workarounds -- represents the choice between mellow gold versus glittering brass; deep diamond versus flashing cubic zirconia; subtle harmonies versus trumpet fanfares. OK, in fairness, I don't think my kids would say that if you dangled a sparkly tree and a pile of presents in front of them, but they had a terrific Hanukkah, spearheaded by my amazing sister who is a Village unto herself, and I am great with that.

So, no, my kids don't know it's Christmas, any more than most Ethiopians.

That said -- and before I am accused of sociopathically missing the point of BandAID's hard work and Christmas as a whole -- I don't think my kids need to know it's Christmas. Because shouldn't Christmas be every day? Peace on earth? Goodwill to men? In America, Ethiopia, and Israel too? 

I'll share a little sumthin' sumthin' I've picked up over the last few years: the Jewish faith celebrates Christmas every week. And, what's more, the Jewish people are exhorted and commanded to celebrate Christmas every day, all day.

How's that, you say? Well, every week, there is a day set aside to light candles, give thanks, eat a special meal, bring strangers into your home, give comfort to those who are alone, give charity to those in need, and live in total peace with yourself, God, and others for just one day. Every week. They call it Sabbath.

Imagine if everybody did that? All the time? Every day? Or even for one special day each year? Gee, that day would be starting to look a lot like Christmas . . . and, some Jews believe, that day would herald the arrival of God's kingdom on earth. Sounding familiar?

I am posting in haste and without much proofing because I was just now interrupted by the pittypat of little feet in pink tights and a blue sequined swimsuit cover-up. "I yam all dwessed!" she announces. "I weah this shirt two weeks evewy day!"

But if I don't get back to making a lump in my own throat on this happy day and magical night and the following holy-day, God bless us, every one. Peace on earth. Goodwill to all men.

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*OK, I am probably just a little sociopathic because I can't thinking that BandAID probably raised more money for men's hair products than for the famine in Ethiopia. Check out those stylin' styles.

My Preschool Hanukkah Lesson

To celebrate the 2012 holiday season, we are moving into a new house, balancing a four-month-old and a four-year-old, emerging from a scary bout of croup, participating in a co-op art show, and planning three (3) major December trips, one of them outside the country. 

Accordingly, Five Kids Is a Lot of Kids's "When Good Enough Turns Out to be Good AND Enough" has hit me right in the necessaries. This concept deserves lapel pins, colored ribbons, and an Awareness Day.

My Good Enough this month: preschool Hanukkah. As the parent of the only Jewish kid in the class, I was approached for a Hanukkah Day contribution. I tried not to look too deer-in-the-headlights as the teacher enthused over past years' activities.  In one banner year, apparently, a Mama appeared with a frying pan and cooked latkes right there for all the kids. The word "latkes" was, in fact, tossed around several times during the discussion.

Now, although I am committed to raising Jewish children, I have never in my life made a latke. And I didn't think that my first time should involve 15 preschoolers and a vat of hot oil. So I cheerfully agreed to do something, then went home and cast about for an alternate activity.

Idea #1: maybe we could make sufganiot! (Wait, that falls into the "preschoolers and hot oil" category.)

Idea #2: ok, what about baked donuts? (Oh. "Preschoolers and hot oven" is not really better.)

Idea #3: let's make little oil lamps! (Right, yes, mixing preschoolers, hot oil, and fire.)

The class is already doing marshmallow menorahs. Hunh. Those clever teachers snapped up the easy one.

More Googling ensues, landing me eventually at the story of Yehudit, which is suspiciously similar to the story of Ya'el, but who cares because it does not involve hot oil. Instead . . . cheese!

Down the cheesemaking rabbithole we go, desperately searching for a no-cook recipe. This, as those in the know will know, is a good challenge. But I found one, and the next day buttonholed the teacher with a full report:

Me: " . . . and we'll have to edit the story of Yehudit some, because in the real story she cuts off the general's head and we don't want it to be gory so instead we can just say he fell asleep and . . ."

Teacher: [cautiously] "Well, you know, it should be simple, or else they lose interest . . ."

Me:  [frenzied babbling] ". . . so that's the tie-in to the cheese, and then it's a combined snack and a craft, well, we might not be able to really make cheese, but that's okay, because it should be quick and not too much mess, and we can use the sink right? but we won't have to cook anything . . ."

Teacher: [edging slightly away] "Maybe you could just bring some cheese?"

Me: "and I could bring cheesecloth so they'd each have their own little . . . wait . . . did you say just bring cheese?"

Teacher: [clearly used to dealing with irrational four-year-olds] "And maybe a book?"

Me: ". . . a book? To read? Just a book?"

Teacher: [gently] "We even have Hanukkah books, if you don't want to bring one."

Me: "Bring cheese? And a book? And that's it?"

Teacher: "Well, if you have some of that flat bread, they might like that, too."

Me: "Matzoh? Sure, yes, um, I can bring cheese and matzoh."

Teacher: [probably greatly regretting the whole conversation and greatly relieved to be shut of this crazy-eyed Mama] "That would be great, just great, and you could maybe read a story to them during snack time. They would love that."

So I was off the hook, right? No fancy combined-craft-and-snack activity required. No best-ever Hanukkah doings expected. No adaptations of gory Bible stories. No homegrown cheese recipes.

You would think I could be content with that and move along. But even so, I didn't feel it was enough. It seemed totally inadequate for the Hanukkah Day activity provided by the Mama of the Only Jewish Kid In The Class. So inadequate, in fact, that I even crazily attempted to crap out at the last minute:

Me: "He'en, how would you feel if I just sent the snack tomorrow?"

He'en: "But? But you are com-een, wight?"

Me: "Well, I thought maybe I would not come to class. But you would have your snack."

He'en: [tears begin to flow] "But! But you are com-een to cass, wight?"

And that's where I realized, Duh!

DUH, Mama!

It's not about the Hanukkah craft or activity or latkes or anything else.  Duh! It's just about com-een to cass. Little He'en just wants to show off her Mama to the class and provide a snack. Of any kind. Duh!!!  I don't know how I missed that. It's just been such a month, I guess. But DUH.

So the Good Enough Preschool Hanukkah, in the end, included:

NOT a cleverly adapted Yehudit story. Just me, ol' boring Mama, reading aloud a whopping two pages about Hanukkah from A Mouse in the Rabbi's Study.

NOT matzoh. Couldn't find it this time of year. Instead, crackers from Walmart.

NOT Hanukkah gelt. Walgreens was sold out. Instead, stocking-stuffer chocolate coins.

NOT re-enacted handmade biblical artisan cheese. Instead, oh, I can't even type it:



That. I did that. To 15 unsuspecting preschoolers. For Hanukkah. If Judaism had hell, I would be going there.

But you know what? It didn't matter. The kids happily listened to their excerpt. They cheerfully ate their crackers. They delightedly savored their "gelt."

And afterward, my child -- the Only Jewish Kid in the Class -- was beaming with pride and delight.

It was enough.

And it was good.

Stories: Princess Helen and the Red Dress

He'en no longer asks for this story. It saddens me, because the Princess Helen stories are some of my favorites, and this is my favorite of the short-lived series.

Once upon a time, Princess Helen lived in a castle high in the mountains. She loved her subjects in the village below, and they loved her back.

Princess Helen's favorite color was red.* She had red everything. Her bedroom was painted red. She had a red rug, and red curtains, and a red bedspread.  "Red, red, red," she would say, "Red is my favorite color!"  And of course all her dresses were red. So, every day, Princess Helen would wear a red dress.

The people in the village below noticed that she only wore red dresses. "Wouldn't you like another color?" they asked. "A purple dress, or a blue dress, or a pink dress?"

"No, red is my favorite," said Princess Helen.

But the villagers didn't believe her. They thought that another color would make her happier. So, one night, while Princess Helen was asleep, the villagers snuck [N.B. - sneaked?] into her castle and took all her red dresses out of the closet. They took them all away. They replaced them with orange dresses, yellow dresses, green dresses, purple dresses, pink dresses, grey dresses, and dresses in all the colors of the rainbow. They were beautiful dresses, but they were not red.

When Princess Helen got up the next morning, she went to her closet and found that all her red dresses were gone! There were beautiful pink dresses, purple dresses, gold and silver dresses, and dresses in every color of the rainbow, but no red dresses at all.

Princess Helen was so sad, because red was her favorite, and she had no red dresses to wear. So, what did she do?

Little voice: I daw-no!

Did she sit down and cry?

Little voice: Yes!

Well, she did for a minute, probably, because she was sad. But does sitting and crying solve anything?

Little voice: Nooooo . . .

That's right, sitting and crying doesn't solve anything. So Princess Helen had a good cry, and then she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. And then she got up and found a pair of scissors. With those scissors, Princess Helen cut up one of her red curtains and . . . made another red dress!

Then she left the castle and went down to the village, wearing her new red dress.

When the villagers saw her wearing a red dress, they realized that red really was her favorite, and that she was really happy wearing red and not some other color.

So the villagers said they were sorry. And they came up to the castle and took away all the pink dresses and orange dresses, all the blue dresses and white dresses, all the gold and silver dresses, and they gave back all Princess Helen's own red dresses.

And everybody lived happily ever after.

Epilogue:

Should you ever use scissors to cut clothes or curtains?

Little voice: Nooooo....

That's right, it's just in the story.  You cut only paper from your craft drawer. And you always tell Mom first that you're going to use scissors, right?

Little voice: Wight.

Wight.

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*Although He'en's actual favorite color is "pink! and puhpoe, and sio-fer, and gode!", the Princess Helen story has always been about the color red and does not change. I dunno why. I'm just the Mama.

Sweetly Tangled

Dragon Girl is overdue for a post. She's staying with her wonderful auntie, so I even have time to do the post.  With Child #1, I had lots of time to send detailed emails to my family outlining when Child #1 napped, what she wore, how much she was eating, &c., &c.  Poor Dragon Girl, Child #2, just gets some formula whenever she cries, a clean diaper, a cute outfit if I'm exceptionally well-organized that day, and away we go again.

But, at 4 months, she is now doing stuff.

The 4-month mark is my biggie. Some plump for the 3-month mark, but I can't say that was a milestone around here. At 16 weeks on the planet, however, Dragon Girl is a delight.  We're through the floppy alien-eyes stage and she is "home" nearly all the time now. There is very little eye-rolling and much more focus. There's a little person looking out of those eyes, in fact.  I figure she has at least as much processing power as the average housecat and probably much more than our famously stupid dog. She knows that the microwave "beep" means imminent milk, and she greets me with a smile from her crib in the morning. She will even giggle at a funny sound or a tickle on the changing table.

Of most interest, she is making her hands work for her. I can tell that she enjoys it.  She will reach for her Ladybug toy and handle it for a long time with a satisfied little dolphin smile on her plump face.  We passed through the swatting stage pretty rapidly; she is now reaching and grasping with pretty good accuracy. I forgot that they don't develop 3D processing for a while. She will try to pick up the tree branch printed on my coffee sleeve. We got a lot of mileage this weekend out of the crinkly envelope window on a piece of junk mail.

And, best of all, she gets all tangled up in Mama.  Often after feeding her, I will get ready to put her down and find that her arm is stretching like a strand of mozzarella, because she's fallen asleep clutching a little handful of my shirt collar or bathrobe. She is happy. I am happy. I love being sweetly, sweetly tangled with this little Dayenu girl.

Draydoh, Draydoh, Draydoh

He'en's preschool Holiday Program is approaching. This one sandbagged me, and I am triple-booked for the day. Fie upon't. With Sister's able assistance, I probably can rearrange things enough to get there. After all, He'en is approaching the age where she just might remember if I attended or not.

I would ask DH to cover, but I'm keeping a low profile about the Holiday Program.  I expect it's the usual mishmash of Christmas traditionals, a token rendition of "Dreidel Dreidel" for the two Jewish kids in the school, and then the rest are about what Sister calls, "Reindeer songs, a totally gray area."  Maybe they've included something Kwanzaa-ish if they are really ambitious.

To my lapsed-Lutheran ears, this all sounds pretty harmless, but DH could have a differing opinion and I don't want a tussle.  We don't have time for a tussle, and we don't have any options anyway. There is no Jewish preschool within an hour's drive, so our religious homeschooling, such as it is, falls on my patently unqualified shoulders. For four years, I've been limping along with the help of Jewfaq.org, and since He'en can recite basic table grace in Hebrew, I think I am doing pretty well. For eleven months of the year, I am doing pretty well.

For the twelfth month, oy vey, enter the Christmas season.  It's such a widespread problem that there is a catchy catchphrase for it, and if you Google "December Dilemma" (hereinafter "DD") you can read more than you ever wanted to know. Here's one to get you started. Here's another, this one by a rabbi.

Everyone approaches the DD in a different way, according to the mandates of their hearts, faiths, and families. When DH and I decided to raise the kids exclusively Jewish, my parents were incredibly sporting about the DD. Without a fuss, they converted their Christmas presents to Hanukkah gifts. They even have accepted the absence of the grandkids on that great glittery day. Instead they welcome me, staggering in solo every year for Mom's Week Off, Oh, and Christmas, Too, and sleeping for 12-hour stints blissfully alone in a hotel room - O Holy Nights indeed!).

But no matter what you choose to do with your kids, unless you live in a seriously Jewish community, it's just plain tough to say to a four-year-old, "Those 14 aisles of glitter in Target are for other kids, not you. You get this blue-and-silver endcap with the menorahs printed on the napkins. And we light some candles. But don't feel marginalized!"

He'en, however, seems to be quite competently working through the theological difficulties on her own.  This morning, she was singing a little wheedly song into her egg.  On closer listening, I realized it was "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel." *Except that He'en is working on the letter L, still, so "Dreidel" rhymes with "Playdoh.")

She is so happy and content, meandering through this simple little song, and then she launches into "Jinguh Beyos." Then she abruptly stops.

"MOM!" (Every "Mom" lately is smartly spat like the "Sah!" on a Marine's first day of boot camp.)

"Eh? What? Yes?"

"You kin cewwebwate [celebrate] Kwistmas and still be Dewish, right?"

"Little one, you certainly can."

"Becoss I am Dewish no matter what, right?"

"Yes, you are.  No matter what."

I think she has summed it up nicely.