I haven’t had a chance to write a real blog post this week. So, instead I offer up a few updates on prior posts. The last one helps to explain why I have been a bit preoccupied . . .
Months ago, I mentioned that once my oldest child (Jacob) turned three, I realized just how little I knew. About anything. Jacob is now four-and-a-half. And his relentless questions have, of course, continued. “Mommy, can bees sting each other?” “What do rats do during the day?” And a few days ago: “Why do penguins have wings if they can’t fly?” I launched into some long-winded thing about them having common ancestors with birds that can fly. And evolution. Blah, blah, blah. My husband Dan took another approach. “They have wings to help them swim.” Oh right. That. (Have I mentioned that I double-majored in Biology?)
A few months back I wrote a blog post entitled Fashion Police in which I talked about my children’s general disdain for my fashion choices. Not much has changed. Yesterday I got dressed for work in a pink cardigan and pink-and-white print blouse. Jacob walked over to me. Looked at me thoughtfully. And began buttoning up my sweater. “Let’s just button these up and cover up the shirt,” he said gently. I looked down at my child and thought: you are FOUR. You’re not supposed to be mortified by what I wear FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER EIGHT YEARS.
In a recent blog post, I presented my (completely reasonable) rationale for not bothering to register Jacob for kindergarten. (Yet.) I mentioned that we did, however, apply to one charter school. You’ll happy to know that despite the fact that this school received 800 applications for a mere 54 spots, Jacob is only number 143 on the waiting list. (Woohoo!) So, if ALL of the children offered a spot at this school decide not to attend and ALL of the children who are then admitted from the wait list also turn it down, Jacob has a REAL SHOT at getting in. But why would we want to send our child to a school that over 100 parents had just rejected? As you can plainly see, WE are really the ones rejecting THEM. Nuff said.
And of course, I have written about my son Jacob’s love affair with the hit tunes from the movie “Frozen”. We were at a bat mitzvah over the weekend where Jacob had a chance to stand up in front of everyone and sing “Let It Go”. For Jacob: DREAM. COME. TRUE. For me: HARD. TO. MAINTAIN. COMPOSURE. This was not a solo though; Jacob was singing alongside a group of about twenty lovely 13-year-old girls. NO PROBLEM. He was totally comfortable with this group. After all, he had been sharing the dance floor with them for the past TWO HOURS. (At one point, I had to grab his shirt before he dove on the floor and shimmied through the legs of an unsuspecting teen girl who was facing the other way. In his mind, it was just a fun obstacle to maneuver around. She might not have seen it the same way.) How, oh how will we ever coax Jacob out of his shell?
And, finally, I have also written about our efforts to sell our house. And our recent partnership with a new team of realtors. Here’s my update on that:
HELLS, YEAH. So, here are the stats . . . with our first realtor, the house was on (and off and on) the market for about nine months culminating in a low ball bid. We rejected it. With our new realtors (Sam and Heather) the house was on the market for nine days. Nine DAYS, people. We got a bid slightly below our asking price. And took it. Apparently all we really needed to sell our house was about eight bazillion throw pillows. (Thank you, Heather.) And hotel-smooth bedspreads. And a lot off annoying plants that we had to water. And different rugs. And better artwork on the walls. And better decorations in our built-in cabinets. I think what I’m saying is that what we really needed was better taste. (I have little hope for our children. Perhaps one of them will marry an interior decorator and at least there will be hope for the next generation . . .)
That’s all for now. Stay tuned for blog posts on our no-doubt-unsuccessful attempts to keep Jacob and Emma from climbing the mountain of boxes that are soon to begin piling up in the living room. Time to pack ourselves up and move our fumbling existence down the road.