spring fashion special

Can you see my Jewish children's Easter "baskets"? I went whole hog this year. The irony of the term "whole hog" is not lost on me, either. As a non-practicing, Buddhist-leaning Hebrew school drop-out, I have absolutely no problem with Christmas. The whole aesthetic gets me drooling like a diseased dog. I go catatonic with slack-jawed glee at the sight of twinkle lights, the smell of pine, and froth with giddy excitement upon viewing a slick, shiny load of gift-wrapped presents, even when I know they will disappoint one way or another.

bad morning somebody

Jennifer Weiner lives in Philly. She read from her upcoming novel at Headhouse Books last Tuesday night and in a fit of career-savvy, fun-loving adventure, I grabbed a pal and headed east to feast my eyes and ears on someone who has the kind of life that I covet, at least that I think I covet, meaning that I tell myself and anyone who listens that I'd give my... my... well, see, that's the thing. I wouldn't give my right arm. I need that to write with. And I couldn't give my firstborn. I'd feel too guilty. And people never say they'd give their second-born. That doesn't roll off the tongue. I'd give my grandmother, but would anyone want a dusty corpse? Doesn't seem like a fair trade, not much of a commodity. I might give my laptop, but how important is a thing you can buy at a store? Eye teeth? No, I'd hold onto those too.

yin yang pink pang

Enjoying the weather, indulging in a little creativity, taking advantage of the natural light. It makes for much tastier paint. It's just not as good when you eat it in the basement. This way it's more like a picnic. Alfresco dining makes even the blandest paints taste special. I like giving special treats to my children because it shows I care. But washing the paint out of her mouth? Off of her face, hair and hands? That's what Stella would call child abuse, if she knew the term. It was so cute, the other day, she said, "Don't say 'fuck,' Mommy." Baby's first swear word. Precious. But you know, the trauma of bathing that I inflict on this tender angel, I think it makes her more creative. Brings out the soulfulness in her work. It's win-win.

Namaste.

a way out

This is the second sewer in two weeks that my children have worshipped. We might have to make it an official Miller ritual. Every playground we go to, scope out the drain, then scream into it for fifteen minutes straight. Who needs a frigging jungle gym anyway? Swings. Pah. Slides. We spit at them. We'll take a mangy old sewer any day of the week. Right kids? Eh? What does Stella hope to find down there? A kindred spirit? An easy escape? This is it, honey. There ain't no way out. You gotta get through it is all. She'd tell you maybe, if she could articulate it, that maybe she just likes to hear the sound of her own voice, her usually piercing ear-splitting shrieks magnified into hell's bellows from echoey damp walls slick with ancient slime, oh the profound joy. To be young again instead of THIS close to forty, willing myself to appreciate the foundling spring sunshine on my face just a little bit more, as if I could. Kids, you always find new ways to inspire me. Now get your ass in the bathtub!

two's the limit

At the playground the other day, the weather was warm, sunny and breezy, one of those magical, unseasonable days where the air got balmier instead of cooler as the sun sank in the sky. I had my two kids there from about one o’clock until four-thirty. At around three I started weakly rounding them up, mostly because there was a lull in mothers that I wanted to talk to. But the kids were having fun climbing the monkey bars, digging in the sand and inspecting the new baseball turf. I was a little hungry, a little ornery, but not dead-set on leaving, especially as it would mean more work for me. Baths. Dinner. Picking up toys. Refereeing fights.

head nut

I woke up around 7:30, happy as a born-again Christian. Sipped my coffee, wrote in my journal, gazed around the room approvingly, even pored over a thick interiors book with Stella cozied on my lap, and somehow didn’t think to look at the clock to wake Hamish until 8:39, six minutes before I usually start schlepping everyone out of the house (at least my goal every morning is to leave by 8:45.) With only six minutes to get ready, there was no time for breakfast at the table, so I got them out with the promise of Pop-Tarts in the car. They’re fortified, people. 

hidden treasure

You might have to click on this picture to really appreciate it. Can you see the bear with its hands on its beefy, beary bits? This is the hidden bonus of playdates at Hamish's friends' houses. You never know what treasures you'll discover. Our bear friend is from a Chinese board book. I think I am now an official fan of Chinese products, poisonous red paint be damned, because you would never in a million years find a photo like this in an American children's book. Can you imagine the Oprah episode condemning the filthy publisher? I took the picture on the sly with my phone camera when the live-in nanny was busying herself in the kitchen toasting cheesy bread and chicken nuggets. Mmm. Nuggets. 

getting busy

Strep is coursing through my family like a raging river. Knock wood, I am the only one who remains strep-free. Hamish started the trickle, the dam broke with Bryan, and Stella is hanging onto a metaphorical tree branch as the bacteria sweeps her into feverish discomfort between doses of bubblegum-pink amoxicillin. It's been a hell of a week planning Hamish's birthday celebration without Bryan to pick up the slack, and he is usually the slack-picker-upper extraordinaire.

got dreams?

When we lived in Brooklyn and Bryan worked typical office hours, I never went to his shows. Now that we're suburbanites, you can't keep me away. Above is his gig in Bryn Mawr. I was convinced that the photographer pictured was from the Main Line Times and that Bryan was finally on his way to superstardom, albeit in a down home hometown kind of way, because while the Big Apple is up to its stem in Americana acts, I imagine the western Philadelphia suburbs are drooling for such a thing and Bryan is their man. But it turned out that the photog was a portrait artist who liked Bryan's look. So I still got my dreams.

licker

Yep, my daughter is a window licker. I take this as an omen. Note to self: buy the eco-friendly window kleener. Note 2: Maybe use it once in a while.

Since you asked, and I thank you for doing so, here's another poem... 

you can’t describe what motherhood is like
to people who don’t have kids
and even if you could
they’d never listen

because what you do that irks them
they swear they’d never do
but then when they’re in it
they can’t believe it’s them too

maybe we all despise ourselves secretly
or maybe it’s just me

log

Hamish was not arrested. The photograph above was taken for his passport at the UPS store and then promptly rejected by the passport office. But if my four-year old son were arrested, I'll bet his mugshot would look a lot like that. Stay out of trouble, boy. It isn't pretty.

And now, a poem for you—

Just as I lie down with my book and sigh
The best moment of my day is shattered
When your baby sister cries

My nerves are suddenly frayed and tattered

new religion

At school we have the option to drop our kids off without getting out of the car, sort of the reverse drive-through, or we can park and unbuckle and schlep them in, in the freezing cold, and when it's not Stella's day, I get to schlep her back to the car and rebuckle, remitten, recoat... Can you guess I choose the former method? Would you?

keeping. carrying.

Very proud of my new poster although I have a hunch that eighty per cent of Domino Magazine readers probably have one. I gotta say, when the kids, say Stella, is screaming when I'm trying to score some solitude upstairs, I take a gander at the message and an automatic deep breath fills my clenched lungs and it like, helps. Plus, it's pretty. Below, I told Stella to make her "mad face."

rachel

My niece Rachel at Johnny Rockets restaurant on Royal Caribbean Freedom of the Seas last week. Rachel's bat mitzvah was celebrated sans blow-out reception-slash-dance par-tay, but instead as a Caribbean cruise which we joined her and twenty more for.

have you been writing anything?

Now when people ask me if I've been writing, instead of growling at them and explaining that I'm a stay-at-home mom with a two- and four-year old, I can say YES. I wrote an essay about my mother and my daughter for an anthology, and it's coming out on April 1.

my brother the turkey farmer

My family is full of celebrities. My brother Jon Bermon is a farmer in Rochester at Aberdeen Hill Farm. He treats his turkeys better than he used to treat me when we were kids, that's for sure. Remember when you tied me to the pole in the basement and turned the lights out? I'll bet you don't tie up your turkeys in the dark, and that's good for the turkey and the turkey eater. Anyway, I forgive you because I do yoga now. It's good to see that my big brother has grown up into such a respectable member of society. My mother must be kvelling all over her Jones New York outlet cardigan. I'm not a big meat eater, but Jonathan has the right idea with the humane treatment and the local food movement. Please watch the video and buy his meat. That's what she said.

toughskins

"What are you lookin' at?"

Seriously. 

This morning in the mad dash to get the kids to school on time, I ran upstairs to throw on a pair of jeans, leaving them to their own TV-less devices only to return downstairs to find four-year old Hamish screaming for help, his leg stuck between the wall and the bed where his two-year old sister Stella had pushed him. That's what you get for not putting your socks on when I told you the first ninety times. And yet, how many times does Stella shriek with rage because her big brudder knocked her down, took her shoe, closed the door on her? Many, my friends. My new mantra, other than, "You gotta let that go," is "They're supposed to be irritating." It truly helps. And so do your comments. Go us.   

USA!

The kids don't know what to do with me. Mom, dancing at 8 A.M.? Before her coffee? For freakin' out loud, what is going on? "Oh! Bama, Oh! Bama, he's the new president, the new president," I sing, skipping around Hamish's room this morning. His response? "I'm hungry." Everyone I talk to can't believe the relief they feel, we didn't know how stressed we were until California's polls closed at 11 P.M. last night. I didn't go to bed until 2 A.M. and this morning Stella woke up crying at 7 because  she peed in her bed and I couldn't be happier.

In the shower, I remember one of my favorite songs from The Wiz, "Can't you! feel a! Brand new day! Can't you! feel a! Brand new day-ay!" Who the hell am I anymore? What happened to the surly reluctant mom I once was, in America's dark age, just yesterday?

I feel the pride of, well, of a mother for our country for the choice we so clearly made. As my friend Danielle wrote on her facebook page, "I am so gay for America right now." I wish I'd said it first. I hope I can communicate the hugeness of this day to Hamish and Stella. The historical landmark it is, how it fills otherwise jaded and cynical grown-ups with the same wonder a child is naturally made of, and maybe, just maybe I can get Hamish to sit and watch Obama's acceptance speech and show him what class and humility and grace and brilliance really look like. 

greetings from pukeland

We moved back to my hometown just in time to witness sports history, meaning the Phillies winning the World Series. My mom dragged my rebellious heels away from here in 1981, one year after their last win. Shiver.

My mother admits that she's so superstitious that she has to turn off the TV if the other team starts scoring. I asked her, "You mean you think you're so important to the outcome of the World Series that you actually believe it makes a difference if your, YOUR TV is on or off?"

Affirmative.

This interrogation somehow led to another admission of my mother's, that it's the wife's responsibility to hold onto her husband by being upbeat. Peppy even. I can't remember how the thread of convo actually wove its way from sports witchy mojo to marriage secrets of the fifties, but it did, and I'm a changed woman as a result. I'm going to skip right into the kitchen, make my man a Manhattan and whip up some cacciatore, all with a smile. Or not. In reality, the kids and the hubby are all puking their guts out and I am the lucky duck who gets to mouth-breathe while washing twelve-thousand sheets. Go Phils. I know how to celebrate. 

for freaking out loud

Did I mention that I loathe the Republican ticket this election? It's not like me to be so engaged. Usually I shudder a bit and then get back to my Us Weekly. I don't protest. I don't rally. I don't make a stink. This year though, I am a changed woman. For instance, I spend way too much time on Youtube watching Tina Fey and Sarah Palin, cackling with evil glee over all of it, which somehow leads to watching way too many clips of the bickering between the diabolical Elisabeth Hasselback and Joy Behar on The View. (Loved the ones with Bill Maher.) (I know I'm supposed to provide links here but I have a DVD of Mad Men downstairs burning a hole in the player and it's not getting any earlier.)