There is a phase of pregnancy that typically occurs in the final weeks before the birth known as “nesting”. During this time, the expectant mother enjoys a burst of energy which she uses to prepare her home for the new baby. Considering that I’ve spent the last few days cleaning out the house, vaccuming and mopping floors, flipping load after load of laundry, putting together the bassinet and arranging baby clothes, stocking up on birth supplies and doing prep cooking and shopping for the weeks, post-baby, when I’m out of commission, I think we can safely conclude that I am, in fact, nesting.

That said, after a vigorous mopping of almost the entire upstairs, L.B. has decided to hunker down in my pelvis, making me feel like a steamship that just released anchor. So, I’m taking a little breather while Yonah wanders around, chattering like a monkey in a constant stream of toddlerized monologue. For the most part, he sounds like a meeting of the U.N. without the interpreter speaking underneath, but once in a while he’ll throw in some choice English phrases: “Mama”, “Tata” (Shuie), “Mina” (Sima Ellie), “Wadee” (water), “Peh-too” (pretzel), “Oh, Wow!”, “Uh-Oh”, “A, B, C, A, B, C” and my personal favorite… “Eight, Nine, Ten…Yay!”. Who needs TV when you’ve got Yonah?

My midwives Becca and Amanda are coming by today to do an official “homebirth visit”, even though they’ve both been here already and we’ve pretty much covered all the basics. The plan at this point is for me to labor in the tub for as long as I want, though in the throes of it I may decide I’m more comfortable someplace else. The interesting thing about planning a homebirth is that there are so many unknowns: how and where I’ll handle labor, where the baby will actually be born, how the first few days will be, etc. While I don’t actually want a hospital birth, one thing I will say for their set-up is that you pretty much know what to expect. In my case, I’ll plan as much as I can and the rest I’ll have to let go until it’s time.

One thing floating around my busy brain is whether or not I would be able to spend six hours a week this June taking one of the most formidable of nursing prerequisites, Statistics, at Cape Cod Community College. While I would like to get it out of the way, whenever I think of it I remember what Elana, my tutor in Israel, told me about mothers with young children: for the few years they are in the thick of raising their little people, mothers’ I.Q.s go down significantly, but go up again when the kids are a little bit older. Knowing myself now, compared to two years ago, I have no doubt that that’s true. With that in mind I envision myself sitting in this statistics class, staring absently into space, leaking milk and drooling while the teacher from Charlie Brown drones incomprehensibly in the background. Not the most auspicious beginning for a new career. Luckily, I have until May 28th to decide, so we’ll see if I’m remotely close to having my bearings gathered by then.

I’m afraid to get out of my chair lest LB suddenly decide to make a quick entrance, but I must if I don’t want Yonah to have a meltdown for not reading him “Hop on Pop” for the umpteenth time today. And so, amongst a symphony of screaming, I leave you…

If you happen to be a muffin lover, chances are you’d love hanging around my house. Muffins happen to be my personal specialty and they are so freakin’ easy it’s a joke. I try to substitute honey for sugar and applesauce for oil or margarine to make them a little healthier; that way, I don’t feel like I’m training my kid for sugar-fiendom. Here is a foolproof Banana Muffin recipe that my husband, my sister and my son — “Moo Muppin, Mama” — put in special requests for on a regular basis.

Killer Banana Muffins:
3 or 4 Large bananas, mashed (the more bananas the moister, so I use 4)
1/2-3/4 cup white sugar or honey (depends on how sweet you like them)
1 slightly beaten egg
1/3 cup melted margarine, butter or applesauce
1 teaspoon baking soda1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt1
1/2 cups flour (I use Whole Wheat or Spelt)
OPTIONAL ADD-INS:
3/4 c chocolate chips
2/3 c. peanut butter

Mix the mashed banana, sugar, egg and margarine together. Set aside. In a separate bowl, mix together baking soda, baking powder, salt and flour. Mix wet and dry ingredients all together. Pour into greased muffin tins, and bake in 350 degrees oven for approximately 20 minutes. Let cool and watch your life transform.

So Passover has finally ended and we’re returning to a state of (somewhat) normalcy. That is, if you call a whirlwind of pre-baby activity (cleaning the house, shopping for supplies, cooking/freezing meals) normal. We’ve entered countdown mode: L.B. is due in about 2 weeks, but considering my hyperactive uterus (contraction party!) and the fact that this is my second baby, it is safe to say that the new arrival is pretty much imminent.

Whoa.

In the meantime, life in the 9th month is full of interesting experiences, as most pregnant women will testify. Take, for example, the walk I took with Yonah the other day after my midwife Becca “suggested” that I need more exercise. It was a gorgeous, sunshiny day and I was enjoying a brief window when the baby was high enough to not feel like I was trying to steal a bowling ball. So off we went, Yonah in his stroller and Mommy in her sneaks, to the post office.

As we left the house I felt the need to pee, but it was faint enough that I figured I could make it to the Post Office at least, or the library across the street. Well, I underestimated the power of gravity on an almost-seven-pound baby perched directly on my bladder. I was about a quarter-mile from my house when things shifted from “It can wait” to “Potty Emergency!” in a matter of seconds. I was gridlocked: there was no way I was going to make it to the post office but I was too far from home to make it back. This was happening, now, whether I liked it or not.

There was only one thing to do. I found a picturesque front yard with a wooden fence and a grassy patch in front I decided to consider neutral territory. I rolled Yonah up toward the fence and sat down beside him, arranging myself just-so (I was wearing a dress, conveniently) and took care of business. Anyone who saw me at that moment would have just thought I was a really pregnant woman with a baby taking a breather in the sunshine; a car even passed by and I tossed them a friendly smile (talk about multi-tasking). Crisis was averted, and in less than a minute Yonah and I were on our merry way again.

Don’t you feel like we know each other so much better now?

My dear friend Danielle wrote to me the other day to tell me that she is hosting a seder for people recovering in Alcoholics Anonymous and she was looking for some resources that she could use. Aside from a couple of websites that I knew are loaded with information, what immediately hit me was a story in the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous called, “Freedom From Bondage”. The story is about a woman who never learned how to cope with life and expected that the sense of well-being she was looking for was somewhere outside of herself. She burned through men, money and, of course, copious amounts of alcohol, traveling around the world until she finally bottomed out and came to AA in her thirties. It was there that she finally realized that she was trapped inside of herself, and no amount of running would ever give her the escape she was seeking so desperately. Aside from helping other alcoholics, she dedicated herself to building trust and reliance on God and to cultivating peace and wholeness within herself.

The parallels between this story and Passover, the holiday that commemorates the Jews’ freedom from bondage, are pretty obvious. However, one of the requirements of the Passover holiday is to feel as if you experienced the Exodus from Egypt personally. I’ll be honest; I have to work pretty hard to conjure up images of myself in a raw linen shift tied with rope, some piping hot matza stuffed under one arm, Yonah, a tombourine (women brought tambourines out of Egypt with them so they could celebrate when the Exodus was official) and probably some kind of heiroglyphic gossip mag for the road in the other, waiting for Uncle Moses to split the sea. But when I think of the woman in that story, the idea of exodus from slavery becomes as real as my hands.

As it turns out, today, the first day of Passover, is also the 6-year anniversary of recovery in Overeaters Anonymous. Six years ago I stopped eating flour and sugar, drinking alcohol and using drugs. There are many people out there who may not understand the power of food addiction or compulsive overeating — “Why don’t you just not eat it?” one astute doctor suggested — I assure you that it is just as intense and dangerous as, say, a nasty crack habit. At my worst, I was morbidly obese and holed up in my apartment, spending my days bingeing, purging, and contemplating the quickest, most painless way to kill myself. I was resentful at everyone, fearful of everything, and completely obsessed with myself and how I was going to get my next fix. As my friend Margaret likes to describe it, “I was a big ball of suicidal fun”. As much as I wanted to stop, I was physically incapable. Plus, deep down, I didn’t really want to stop because that would mean feeling all the feelings I was trying to numb out on 5,000 calories a day and enough pot to knock out a dromedary.

The moment I finally was able to pick myself and start getting my life together, it really was a miracle. It was like a light switch turned on in my head, all by itself. I knew, somewhere deep inside, beyond the desperate cravings and emotional chaos, that there was something more powerful than me that was going to take care of me from here on out. I didn’t know what that something was, only that it was there. All I had to do was stay clean and take it a day at a time. It felt like, for the first time in my life, I had woken up. I haven’t used since. More importantly, I’ve managed (somewhat) to get out of my own head and let go of some of the selfishness and self-will that made me so sick in the first place. I can actually make commitments to people — and keep them. I can raise children without them dying of neglect. I can look people in the eye today and, except for a few choice days when I haven’t slept enough, like myself as a person. If that isn’t freedom from bondage, I don’t know what is.

I think we all have things that constrain us, to which we are slaves: materialism, gossip, depression, ego, negative thinking, television, internet, the list goes on. For me, the spirit of Passover is the belief that no matter what binds us, God can and will relieve us of it, if we let Him. We can be set free, just like our ancestors in Egypt. So, with that thought, I wish all of you an inspiring, renewing Passover and a Happy Anniversary to me.

As I stood scrubbing at a sticky puddle of spilled Agave Nectar in the cabinet I was cleaning out, I had what I like to call a “Cinderella Moment”. For any of you who have seen the Disney film, one of the first scenes is of Cinderella greeting her morning with a smile and a song as she embarks on her daily chores in the company of her happy animal friends. Sure, she’s a little harried and somewhat snippy — even Miss Cindy can’t always be perfect — but for the most part she’s in good spirits and looking pretty glam, for a chambermaid. While I worked up a bit of elbow grease, I found a sense of pleasure bubbling up inside; despite the rigors of major household cleaning, there is something satisfying about having a fresh, clean slate to work on. Not that I’m rushing to open a maid service or anything, but at least I can muster up some positive energy about the whole Passover prep thing.

While still on the fence about the “To New York or Not To New York” question, I gave a ring to my mother-in-law, who had a good suggestion. If we leave on Sunday and break the trip in half, staying overnight somewhere and finishing the last leg on Monday, it may not take as much out of me. All of my siblings-in-law, save one, are at the house, so there will be plenty of people on hand to help with Yonah, and I won’t have to do any of the cooking. Plus, my mother-in-law’s best friend is an OB and will just so happen to be home in the unlikely event that I go into labor. So, I’m hoping that this is an arrangement that will work for me, because I want to do the right thing by going without tapping out the energy I need to conserve for the Big Push. I am meeting with my midwife, Becca, tomorrow, and will see what her thoughts are about it.

I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge the simple pleasure of bargain shopping. This morning, Yonah and I popped into Marshall’s to pick him up a new pair of spring sneakers. It being Marshalls, the perfect pair I found had neither a price nor a security tag, but I figured that since I picked them out they were probably the most expensive item on the shelf, I wagered around 20-25 dollars. But when I brought them up to the register, Surprise! They were only 12 bucks! I don’t know about you, but when I pull off a purchase like that, I feel like stroking my whiskers and lapping the last of the cream off my lips.

But then I was faced with the bargain shopping moment of truth: “Since I saved so much cash,” I thought to myself, “Maybe I should go back and see if they have anything nice for Yonah to wear on Passover”. This, my friends, is the lure of the bargain store, and how, despite their low prices, they are manage to be some of the most powerful companies in the world (Wal-Mart, anyone?). You innocently fill your cart with a slew of cheap treats, but when you get to the register, you realize you’re blowing next month’s rent. But hey, you figure, it’s worth it, since you’re getting so much stuff. Well, today, as the siren song of discounted Kenneth Cole baby clothes lured me back, I held myself in check, remembering what my friend Julia said about her recent trip to Target: that she can never go in without spending at least 300 dollars. Instead, I pocketed my change, went out to the car and patted myself on the bag for resisting a woman’s basic need for a full-scale shopping spree.

Ah, life’s little victories.

This morning, Yonah and I headed for Boston to spend the morning with Uncle Joshy, Auntie Katherine and Auntie Shira. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the bridge to get off the Cape, I was overtaken by a bone-draining exhaustion with a side dish of back spasms and contractions. As much as I wanted to see my sibs, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to complete the trip to the city. So, we did a tidy about-face and went home. Could this be an indicator that I won’t be able to make it all the way to New York next week?

Being me, of course, I had to take at least a minute to second-guess myself: Maybe I could have pushed it out…Maybe it’s good for me to get out a bit…But before I could make myself too crazy, I passed by a hilltop church near my house –I like to call it “The Cool Church” — with a board out front that regularly features clever, pithy phrases to lure wayward Christians through its antiquated wooden doors. This week, the board read, “U-Turns are Okay with God”. I like to take signs where I can get them, and this was one that quickly put my thoughts to rest. An unfortunate defect of mine (one that I pray will be lifted one day) is fear of making the wrong decision, a fear that is exacerbated by the multitude of choices I have to make every day. Sometimes, the fear becomes so overwhelming that I freeze, unable to make a decision at all (also known as “Analysis Paralysis”), or I put off making the decision until some external factor makes it for me, thereby absolving me of responsibility if it doesn’t work out. However, today’s little message was a nice reminder that nothing is permanent, and every decision can be made, un-made, and re-made again, if I so choose. There is no one “right” way to do this life; every person’s path is unique to them and only I can know what the truth is for me. So, each day I can make the decision that seems is best and deal with whatever comes as a result.

Okay, enough waxing philosophical.

The bane of every Jewish woman’s world is Passover, the holiday coming up next week that commemorates the Jews’ redemption from slavery in Egypt. It’s not the holiday itself that’s such a problem, but the preparation for it that can be a major pain. Part of the observance of Passover is to clean the house of all “Chametz”, or leavened substances (i.e. bread, pasta, cereal, beans, the list goes on), down to the last crumb. We are not allowed to have it in our possession for the duration of the holiday, and we are even discouraged from seeing it. Our dishes and crockery, used year-round for cooking “chametz”, are considered unfit for use during Passover. That being the case, we are required to do a major housecleaning and turn over our kitchens until we are chametz-free. It is absolutely exhausting, particularly for anyone with children or other responsibilities besides playing June Cleaver on steroids. Smart, rich people go away for Passover to kosher hotels or on fancy cruises so they don’t have to deal with the cleaning and cooking for Passover. I’m (usually) smart, but rich I am not (for today), so cleaning the house falls to me and Shuie, at least until this weekend when Dad, Josh and Katherine will come to help. I’ve already gotten the chametz we won’t be eating this week out of our pantry and cabinets, and I’m letting that be enough for today. I’ve come to accept that my productivity level has been cut by about 90%, so if I accomplish such a small task as that, I’m doing pretty well.

I’ve started digging through our cookbooks to create a Passover menu. Most of the cookbooks here belonged to my mother, so many of them have folded corners where she marked them and notes she wrote to herself in her sassy teacher handwriting (”Excellent! Make Double!”, “Add 1 tbsp. Peanut Butter”, “Quick and Easy!”). Reading through them feels like I’m having a conversation with her, which is both lovely and sad. At this time last year, she was moving here after being diagnosed as terminal, the VNA nurses were coming each day help us with her meds, and my father and I were turning the house upside-down in preparation for Passover. It was my first time at the helm of the holiday and I still have no idea how I managed to pull it off between chasing baby Yonah and manning the fort while Dad ran back and forth to New York. It was definitely a testament to my belief that we women have a resource of strength we don’t realize we have until circumstances force us to draw it forward. I’ll need it again pretty soon, when L.B. decides it’s time to show up.

Speaking of L.B.’s imminent arrival, I started feeling doubts about having the baby at home after meeting a doula who lost a baby last year at her homebirth. I made a panicky call to my midwife Becca, who assured me of everything I already knew intellectually, but forgot emotionally: homebirths are just as safe as hospital births (if not safer, in some respects) for healthy women, that I am in great health and a perfect candidate for a homebirth, and that if something does Gd forbid go wrong, my midwives are trained to detect it early enough that we will be able to get to the hospital in time. After a bit, I felt I had backed up a bit from the ledge. The next day I learned that a close friend of mine who just had her first baby ended up with a C-section after being induced, and that she’s trying to balance recuperating from major abdominal surgery with the demands of caring for a newborn. After that, the faith in my decision was restored. All I can do is pray for protection and safety for me and L.B.

Book Recommendation: “Committed” by Elizabeth Gilbert, the writer of “Eat, Pray, Love”. “Committed” is a meditation on the institution of marriage in our culture, along with the roles, expectations and beliefs that surround it. As a married person, I am truly enjoying it, but I believe even the unmarried have much to gain from reading it.

Right now, Yonah and I are hanging out on my bed watching “The Piglet Movie”. Mr. I’m 19-months-old-now is brimming over with personality and entertains me more and more every day. His vocabulary continues to grow (newest words are “Elmo Socks!” and “Butterfly”) and he’s showing a keen interest in potty training, following Shuie and I into the bathroom whenever we go. I’ve decided to hold off on training him until after the baby comes, anticipating a possible regression as the result of such a big change. In the meantime, we’ll just enjoy him saying “Bye-bye, Doo-doo!” every time the toilet flushes. He’s also started doing what Shuie and I like to call “The Orange Dance” whenever he hears a song he likes (especially “You are my Sunshine”, sung by his animatronic flower). The Orange dance is basically a frantic series of kicks and jumps, kind of galloping Can-can thing, which is possibly the most adorable/funniest thing I have ever seen in my entire life. Currently, he’s taking nose-first ski jumps off of my husband pillow and rolling onto the bed, so I must give him both my eyes so he doesn’t fall off. Wishing everyone a fabulous week…

There’s an expression in Israel that gave me a chuckle the first time I heard it: “Every child is an angel from 7 to 7″. Well, in my kid’s case that is definitely true. He’s a precocious, sweet-natured troublemaker during the day; at night, fast asleep, he looks like the poster child for childbearing. I was just upstairs checking on him, after which I planned on doing a little straightening up while I had some time to myself. The air blew out of that idea pretty quickly, though, when I remembered that I am eight months pregnant with an energy expenditure of 98% by 9 a.m. I drag through the rest of the day on fumes, trick mirrors and “Elmo’s World”. So, I decided to come downstairs and write to all of you lovely people, seeing as it’s been almost two weeks since my last confession.

We’re finally back at the Cape after our three-week adventure around the Tri-State Area. It’s been mostly uneventful here since we got back (that’s actually a good thing), but I have had a couple of spells of extreme exhaustion as well as a dramatic dip in blood pressure that required my husband to almost carry me up the stairs to bed. Becca, my midwife has upped my sodium and encouraged me to get some more Vitamin D into my system. She also wants me to eat more Vitamin K/Chlorophyll because it helps with blood clots (in hopes of preventing a post-birth hemorrage). I keep forgetting that I’m not the single, unattached 124-pound sprite I was at this time four years ago, when I could leap out of bed at 5 a.m. and charge like a locomotive through my day, which typically ended somewhere between 10 and 11 at night. Aside from work, I could do what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it and not think twice. I think I’m finally starting to get that those days are over, for a while, at least. Nowadays my schedule is dictated my the moods, whims and appetite of a certain little Bug, and the marrow-draining growth of a certain little Bean. But as my friend Devorah, a powerhouse mother of six, says, “Of course, we’re not complaining, are we?”.

The latest question up in the air is where I will be spending Passover: at my in-laws’ in New York or here on the Cape? Between the extreme exhaustion, the five-hour drive, the Braxton-Hicks contractions that have started coming regularly and the fact that I will be almost 37 weeks pregnant (considered full-term) when the holiday rolls around in two weeks, I am inclined to stay put and do the Seders with my family, who will all be coming out for the occasion. The sticky part is, we’ve spent the last three Passovers with my family, the first when we were still engaged, and the following two because my mother was diagnosed with, and later, dying of, Cancer. So this year is really my in-laws’ turn. While I am a big believer in the Oxygen Mask Theory (also known as “Take care of yourself so you can take care of others”), family politics are never an easy ride. In the next couple of days I will have to make a decision. Amazing how a holiday that celebrates our redemption can get me into such a bind.

I’m on the market for a double stroller and need recommendations. I want something lightweight, user-friendly and easy to fold up. I like those cute little side-by-side jogger guys I see being pushed all over Manhattan that look like chic little wheelbarrows and cost more than my car; I’ve been combing through Craigslist ads to see if I can find one second-hand. If people have any ideas (or a stroller to get off their hands!) I am open to all possibilities.

On the kitchen front, I’ve been whipping up some fun soups thanks to my handy-dandy new immersion blender (Thanks, Shuie!). This weekend I made what I call the “Broc-Cauli Adventure” and today’s delight was Carrot and Parsnip with Tarragon (delish…email if you want the recipe). Soups rule because they’re a meal in a bowl and I can sneak all kinds of veggies into my kid without him chucking them at me, along with his new favorite word, “No!”. Plus, you walk away feeling super-full and super-warm without feeling like one of those blimps from the Macy’s Day Parade. I also made sugar-free chocolate muffins that even Yonah passed on, which, despite myself, I took personally. Luckily, my husband will eat anything I put in front of him, so they are slowly disappearing…

Off to spend a little time with Shuie before the fumes sputter out for good. Shout out to Ceasar on this most tragic of days: Brutus done you bad, dude.

I just got off the phone with my good friend Avigayil who gave me one of the best quotes I have ever heard: “I don’t need my husband to buy me flowers or romance me; all he needs to do is not screw up”.

Just thought I’d share.

For the past two days I have been camping out in Montville, NJ at the home of my Aunt Renee and Uncle Scott, and my cousins Elli and Nathan (their older brother Max is away at Binghamton). Montville is about a ten minute drive from North Caldwell, the town where I grew up. So, I’ve been taking Yonah to see the many places that mark the History of Mommy. I figure it’s good to do it now while he’s too young to yawn in my face and tell me it’s “Bo-ring…”

Our first stop was the house where I grew up, 48 Hamilton Dr. East. It’s a large, gray contemporary with lots of windows and a sweeping downhill driveway tailor-made for kamikaze runs on bikes, scooters and rollerblades. I arrived all ready to ring the doorbell, stick out my pregnant belly, have Yonah put on his extra-cute face and ask if I could poke around a bit for nostalgia’s sake. I was hoping that walking the wooden floors, hearing the familiar echo of footsteps in the cavernous living room and standing in front of the giant island in the kitchen would transport me back to a time when I was young, free of worry and my mother was still alive. Maybe I would even see her there, elbow deep in challah dough, the smell of chicken soup wafting through the house. It would be like no time had passed at all. But the driveway was empty. No one was home. So, after a few minutes of waiting, I took Yonah on the next leg of our tour, perhaps saved from the disappointment of seeing what was once so familiar forever changed.

Later in the afternoon we went to Temple Agudath Israel, the conservative synagogue where I spent almost every Saturday morning running through the hallways, sneaking cookies from the kitchen and making all kinds of mischief (age-appropriate, of course). Most of my friends and my family’s friends were a part of that community and a huge part of who I am today is connected to the time I spent there. Since I moved away, the building has undergone a full-scale renovation that is absolutely astounding. Wide glass doors mark the entrance, beautiful walls of stone and mosaic line the hallways, and the sanctuary, now enlarged, features the most awe-inspiring display of stained-glass windows I have ever seen. Even though there are remnants left of the place where I grew up, it was like meeting your best friend from high school after they’ve won American Idol, had major plastic surgery and hired a full-time personal trainer. The difference here, though, is that the essence of the place hasn’t changed. Many of the faces there are the same, and there’s still the same sense of family that has always been.

But it was a strange feeling, returning to Agudath. On the one hand, I longed to return to something familiar, something that reminded me of home. I could see myself slipping right back into that world as if I’d never left. And yet, I’ve changed in the years since I’ve been gone. While this was a world I once fit into as easily as that last puzzle piece, today my place is elsewhere. I don’t belong here anymore. The hard part now is figuring out where I do belong.

The other day I decided to suit up and haul Yonah down to SoHo to the Children’s Museum of Art, where three mornings a week they hold an art class for little ones. On our cab ride there, I envisioned a serene, light-filled space with Mozart playing in the background and rows of mini-easels set up for all the little Picassos (which Yonah, of course, would be). Not quite.

What met us as we walked into the CMA after we wrestled through the parking lot of strollers was basically an overcrowded nursery school class in the middle of a sugar high. Toddlers darted between different tables set up with various art projects: tube paints, play-doh, watercolors, markers and construction paper and the old standby, a sand table. Instead of Mozart, the soundtrack was the kids’ squealing and their mommies’ chatter.

This, in and of itself, does not scare me. I am a teacher, after all, and have dealt with much worse. It was actually my own kid that completely wiped me out. Gd Bless my gorgeous, intelligent son, but he’s just not quite old enough to get what “art” is about (so much for my “prodigy” fantasy…). First of all, despite all of my arguments, he insisted on keeping his ducky hat on, so going in, he was already “that kid”. Instead of using the tube paints to paint, he stuck his fingers on the tips and wiped them all over himself and me. Play-Doh was a no-go and watercolors lasted less than three minutes when Yonah decided to spill out the dirty rinse water all over the table. After stealing another child’s art project, Yonah headed over to the sand table, where he tried to make off with a yellow plastic bucket, wearing it on his head like a hat. After twenty-five minutes of art-class, I was ready to pack it in. I am so looking forward to the reports I get after Yonah’s first day of preschool.

One of the interesting things that has been coming up a lot with my little man is some gender confusion. Not on his part, of course (he’s young yet), but because his face is so beautiful (purely objective statement) and we’re growing his hair until he’s three, many people mistake him for a girl. I correct them hesitantly because I know how embarrassing that kind of mix-up can be, but it still makes me laugh on the inside, thinking of a story my husband once told me. He was also often mistaken for a girl when he was little. One day, as his third birthday (and first haircut) approached, a woman in a store saw him and exclaimed, “What a beautiful little girl!”. “I’m a boy,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Of course you’re not a boy,” the woman said. “Look at your long hair!”. “I am a boy,” he replied, and proceeded to pull down his pants to prove it. I can only imagine what kind of damage control my mother-in-law had to do.

We are in the midst of a crazy blizzard here in the city. Our only trip out in the past 24 hours has been to the grocery next door so I can get food for Shabbos. Yonah is loving the snow and the million and one dogs who live in the area. I’m amazed at how fearless he is, charging right up to them and giving them kisses. Man, does that kid have a lot to teach me.