Last night I heard rustling outside the front window, and looked out to see one very large adult raccoon climb up into and then back down out of our tree...followed by SIX still-pretty-small offspring. I know I'm supposed to be horrified and freaked out, but they were so cute! Even Baroy was "aaaawwwww"ing all over the place.
It's 7:30 at night, and I cannot decide what to make for dinner. N didn't eat lunch until almost 3, so I'm OK for another half hour or so. But still. I really need to get a handle on this parenting thing. Apparently, nearly 11 years at this gig hasn't been enough.
I'm listening to The Brief, Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao on my iPod these days. This is how I know a book is totally kick-ass: I make up excuses to go for more than one long walk a day, just so I can listen to more of it. I can't tell you why I'm enjoying this book so much, but I am absolutely swept up in this story, and more than a little sad that I'm on the last disc. I hate when good books end.
It's easy to feed me; I eat anything and everything. It's my two guys who are a pain in the butt when it comes to dinner-making.
My new volunteer gig at my synagogue is putting together the monthly newsletter. To say that I'm already enjoying it more than I did heading up the religious school's PTA is a vast understatement. But there's an odd side to it. We're such an exceptionally small synagogue that I know the names--and, more often then not, the faces, the addresses and phone numbers, the children and/or parents of--every person who is on the lists of birthdays and anniversaries, thank yous and donations, condolences and yahrzeits. I now know who needs to light a candle for his grandmother in three weeks, and I know who gave a generous donation to the sisterhood fund. It all feels a little...voyeuristic, somehow
Speaking of yahrzeits, my first one for my father is fast approaching. In fact, his name was near the top of the yahrzeit list I just finished editing. This year, his yahrzeit falls on August 8 (because, as with all things Jewish, you don't commemorate a death based on the Roman calendar, but on the Jewish lunar-based calendar). This means I will be lighting the candle for him at sundown on August 7...which would have been his 70th birthday. That freaks me out a little, but mostly because it gives the whole thing a much larger significance and import than it's likely to have for me, to be honest.
Maybe I'll just make some fish sticks for N. Baroy and I can fend for ourselves.
1 comment:
I always feel hopeful for my mega-picky eaters when I think of the fact that you ate nothing but hamburgers and fries and tuna fish sandwiches for years, and now you eat anything.
My dad died on Aug. 8. It really struck me as ironic that he died on 8/8, because 8 is supposed to be the luckiest number for Asians, so that's the luckiest possible day (hence the Beijing Olympics are starting on 8/8 at 8:08). I'll be thinking of you and your dad on that day.
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