Fun With Play-Dough

My daughter, like many six-year-olds, has a bit of a lazy streak.  While visiting our family in Holland, she notices how much walking is involved in daily life. My family members don’t jump in the car for every little errand, and when they do, they park far away and still walk for a long time.  This is not because they are so health conscious; rather, it’s a behavior born out of necessity.  There is no parking close to anything, and the traffic is a mess.  “You know, I once had an uncle who walked all the way from the Russian-Polish border back to Rotterdam”, I remark when she complains.  “We are only going to the supermarket”. My daughter looks at me as if to say: “and this has something to do with me how?” I guess she’s still too young for the ‘you-don’t-know-how-good-you-have-it’ speech.

            She comes by her complaining honestly.  My husband, who never fails to mention how much he does at the gym (he works out, big deal) refuses to carry her because now that she weighs over 50 pounds, she is too heavy.  He will hurt his back, he pulled a muscle, or he is just too tired from sitting in his office all day.  Besides, his knees hurt. And here I was thinking that going to the gym made you healthier.  Of course, going to the gym does nothing. I’ve been to the gym many times.  It’s actually doing something while you’re there that makes a difference.  And, apparently, when you do the right things while you’re there, it gives you the right to complain about sore muscles and such.  I admit, I’m a little jealous; I, too, want to be able to say: “My legs hurt! Because I worked out! Aren’t I a good girl?”

            It’s not as if I never do anything; I’ve owned and used a treadmill for years.  I don’t use it for running though; I walk. Running would be much more impressive, but, as far as I’m concerned, extremely undesirable.  When I walk, I can focus my thoughts on nothing in particular. I can think about the book I just read, or about the shopping list I still need to write.  I like to make up stories, sing along with my Ipod, daydream; whatever strikes my fancy that day.  It is also a time to kind of clear my head and get rid of any cobwebs I might have been cultivating.  Nonetheless, as healthy as this all is for my psyche, it doesn’t do all that much for my physique.  I am one cheesecake away from being a fat slob.

            Recently, my friend and I decided we would start working out together. Our mothers have taught us that our bodies are temples and need to be treated as such.  Besides, with kids in school we have run out of excuses.  Full of good intentions, I call the Gym and I make an appointment with one of the trainers.  She gives me a fitness assessment.  She pinches, pokes, and measures; the scale at the gym is unforgiving and tells me that I weigh six and a half pounds more than I do at home.  I manage six push-ups.  I agree to come back in two days and she will set up a workout regimen for me. 

To celebrate taking this important first step, I decide to try out one of the machines right away. I must say, I’m a little afraid of these machines.  They seem to have a mind of their own, and, what’s worse, they seem to have opinions.  “Look at her”, I imagine them saying to each other, “what is she doing here? I hope she’s not planning to touch me.” Okay, I probably have a little too much imagination for these types of situations, but the truth is,  there are few things that could make me feel more out of place.  Except for the Dallas-cheerleaders Christmas party, maybe. I finally settle on an exercise bike; it seems the least threatening, and besides, I know how to ride a bike.  Thirty minutes later I walk, very slowly, to the car.  Who knew riding a bike would hurt this much? The next day, I can barely move.  My body feels nothing like a temple; instead, I resemble one of those sandbags they use when the floods threaten. Or maybe a cardboard shack on the beach after a Tsunami.  You get the point.  Still, I am a little proud of myself: I made important progress.  Now I’ll have to go back.  That is, after all, the down side of exercise: you have to keep doing it, again and again.  I sincerely regret every bad thing I’ve ever eaten, and wonder for the millionth time: did they have to make the M&M’s kosher?  If I want to truly improve myself, old habits need to make way for new neuroses. Will my thighs finally get smaller? Will I fit into that black dress?  Will my unbearably high fat percentage shrink?  And, most importantly, will I stick with it?  We’ll have to see.  Rome wasn’t built in one day, my mother always said, and neither are temples.  Especially when that temple is mine.

My daughter brings home her report card from religious school, and her Hebrew evaluation reads as follows: “Isabella is extremely smart and knowledgeable in Hebrew; however (why does there always have to be a ‘however’?), she doesn’t give the other children a chance to answer questions.”

I guess my daughter is a know-it-all. I believe this is a good thing: nobody ever got anywhere acting dumb.  Besides, she’s not always the sharpest one around; I regularly see her spacing off in ballet class, raising her arms when she should keep them down, jumping when she should be still, and lying flat on the floor when she should be sitting upright.

I also think there is something enviable about a six-year-old who has such abundant self-confidence; as adults, we often lose the sense that we can do anything, anywhere, any way we choose.  So, when our children are very small, we need to enjoy the fact that their sense of self-confidence rubs off on us.  Their mommy is the most beautiful, best dressed, smartest woman in the universe, and there is no problem so big that daddy can’t solve it in less than five seconds.  Your house may be a royal mess and you may suck at your job, but when you have kids, you’ll always have that little advocate in your corner.

It is unfortunate that this safety net -for those days that you truly feel horrible about yourself- doesn’t stick around. At some point, the chickens simply have to come home to roost. When they do, they’ll subsequently get their heads chopped off and land in the soup, and your little one will see that mommy/daddy isn’t all that perfect after all.

“No, mom,” they say, barely containing their contempt, “you’re wrong.” Patiently, they explain why it is you’re wrong; I believe it’s that patience that kills me. An angry child announcing how wrong the parent is can be ignored. A child calmly telling you why you’re such an idiot leaves scars. It says they’ve realized you’re not all that smart, and they’ve accepted it.

The other day, my daughter received her first Siddur; the Hebrew prayer book that is handed out to first graders in Jewish day schools everywhere. It’s a rite of passage, and she looks forward to the big day for weeks. As part of the celebration, parents are asked to decorate the Siddur cover; a piece of pretty blue velvet is sent home. With it come the letters that spell my daughter’s Hebrew name. Since my husband is not good with glitter, the task of decorating falls to me. I think I do a decent job, until I find out from my daughter’s teacher that I’ve glued the letters in the wrong order. I don’t speak or read Hebrew, but even I should have been able to accomplish this simple task: her name holds three letters. My daughter calmly explains how I have switched two of them, and now it reads something like “Yacha”.  Which sounds a little like the sound one makes when throwing up. Or when you taste something disgusting. Or when the ugliest boy in school asks you on a date. You get the point. The bottom line is, from now on I am no longer the smartest woman my daughter know; it’s the beginning of the end.

Luckily, there is no need to panic and go to extremes (have another child and start over) because at the same time that children figure out their parents are idiots, they also lose their perfect memory. To know whether you’re in the clear, try this simple experiment: choose a morning to cease all interference in your child’s life; she will be late for school, be dressed in the wrong clothes, have no lunch, and forget her swim bag/ homework/ gym shoes. I think nature designed it that way. You can relax in the knowledge that, from now on, you can do as many stupid things as you want because she’ll never remember them all.  Until she’s a teenager, that is.