To which I answered, “We don’t actually celebrate Hanukkah. Whoever might have given you that idea?”

She and I smiled down at Paige, who practically started whistling and kicking the dirt to look all innocent.

My friend Shira just wrote a sweet, funny blog post for my day job about growing up Jewish in a Christmas-hyped world. My daughter will likely blog some day about her unfulfilled childhood longings for latkes and dreidel play, and how she’d tear through her stocking on Christmas mornings hoping to find chocolate gelt.

And really, as a wanna-be Jew myself, I totally appreciate where Paige is coming from. In fact, this week I nearly ran away with a Klezmer band.

Sure, lots of people have chosen to follow The Dead, or become rock groupies. And really, who hasn’t read—and loved—Pamela Des Barre’s classic I’m With the Band?

But me? I want to throw caution to the wind and go on the road with a band that plays traditional Hebrew music dating back to Biblical times. Now THAT is hot, people. That’s how I’m plotting my rebellion.

And sure, it helps that one of my most beloved friends is the front man for them. They’re exuberant, joyful, funny, quirky—and alternately pretty deep and sorrowful. But before I start to sound like a music reviewer (and fail miserably at it), I’ll just say that the music they make draws you in, makes you clap, chuckle, stomp your feet, and belt out verses like “Oy yoy yoy yoy yoy!” And somehow, without even knowing what 90% of the words mean, you feel totally connected and a part of it.

Trust me, it’s good stuff.

I saw the band play Thursday night in Berkeley and was so fired up I decided to take Kate to their Saturday night gig. Which was an hour and a half away. And started at her bedtime.

But if as a parent you have ever had a moment of feeling like what you are doing is so exactly the thing you should be doing with your child, even though in all practical ways it seems totally wrong, well Saturday night was just that for me.

Kate spent the day yammering on to her dolls (and anyone else who’d listen) about “going to my first concert.” When we arrived, she marveled at the modest, rural community center, “I think this place is a mile long!” She played foos-ball with the drummer backstage. And when she saw Lorin walk up to the mic and start singing, I thought she’d levitate off her seat with bliss.

Even when I poured her exhausted, rumpled body into the car for the long, late-night drive home, part of me thought, “Let’s just drive on to L.A.! Let’s tap into more of that amazing, addictive energy! Let’s start writing set lists and chanting at encores for Mermaid’s Avenue.”

Oh, I wanted to oy yoy yoy all the way down to Disney Hall. But instead I drove home, tucked Kate into bed, and satisfied myself by watching them play tonight on the Conan show. My special band on TV for the whole world to see.

Here it is, less than a week away from Christmas and Mark and I have still not figured out what to buy poor Paigey. So Mark, in all his brilliant practicality, asked her yesterday what she wanted. And without batting an eyelash she made her pronouncement: “I want a menorah.”

Well then, of course. So as soon as I hit ‘Post’ here I’ll be going onto Amazon to find one. (Is that even where one buys a menorah? I’m such a hopeless goy.)

Yes, I think Paige has made her point loud and clear. The next time I pack up Kate and hit the road to follow a Klezmer band, I’ve got to make room for one more groupie.

“How old is she?” she asked in a fabulous thick accent.

When I told her two, she smiled and said her son used to have curls just like Paige’s. Until she stopped breastfeeding.

“In my country we call them ‘milk curls,’” she said. But really I think in her country they probably call them something like curlio latte.

Anyway, she said that the first haircut he got after she stopped nursing, the curls never grew back.

I was aghast.

As much as I mock those who refuse to cut their kids’ hair—particularly boys’ hair, and especially for reasons such as fearfulness that blondness or curliness will go away forever—as much as I disdain those folks, I have never cut Paigey’s hair.

The thing is, she hasn’t NEEDED a haircut yet.

And God knows that now, based on this new information, she may never get one. Unless, of course, I can somehow manage to muster some milk from these previously-retired boobies.

Most other days of the year I wouldn’t dream of changing my half-Italian, half-Polish background. But I’m sure I’m not the only person who suffers from intermittent cultural jealousy. I mean, think of all those Irish-Americans yip-yip-yipping and twirling to accordion music at big polka festivals. They stuff themselves silly with kielbasa and just wish they had some of what I’ve got.

I married into Irish blood. But I never really felt I could claim it until we had kids. Somehow their Irishness embodied with my genes made me feel a closer kinship to Guinness beer. I’m not running out to get a four-leaf clover tattoo mind you, but in the past several days I’ve been experiencing what has just got to be the luck of the Irish.

On Friday we heard back from schools. Of the three we applied to for Kate, she was accepted at two, wait-listed at one. Or rather, “wait-pooled.” I wonder if that sounds more European—being in the pool rather than on the list? Or does the term ‘waiting pool’ conjure some sort of contented foot-bathing images in ones mind, making it seem like not a bad place to be?

At any rate, one of the acceptances was from my first choice. (Mark’s second runner-up.) I am SO WICKED EXCITED about this place. All three schools deemed Kate ready for kindergarten, and even though there’s plenty of time and potential for me to beat myself up over this decision later, we’re pulling the trigger and starting her next year.

Yesterday the girls and I drove to the school and happily handed over a check. And even though there are 19 (not 20) steps leading to the main entrance—something that left Paigey and I, who were counting as we walked, hanging a bit—I’m confident that we are going to love love love the place. I’ve already mentally signed up for every committee and volunteer opp.

Still riding high on the news about kindergarten, we went to Kate’s preschool auction Friday night. And I was feeling thrifty. Already we were shelling out for tickets to the event and babysitting. The last thing we should endeavor to do was get into a bidding war with some other family over a set of gymnastics classes or a weekend in Napa. (Because finally, a year or so into the recession, Mark and I are trying to be good about spending.)

But open bars tend to weaken people’s resolves. And after just one turn through the silent auction tables I’d bid on a painting (several times over), and Mark succumbed to the roving raffle ticket sellers.

Seconds before the auction closed I placed the winning bid on the painting. Yee-ha! It now hangs above our bed, and should The Big One hit, at least Mark and I will be clocked on the heads with a lovely work of art, the sale of which benefited a deserving preschool.

Desperate to get more drinks down before the school’s babysitting ran out, we were leaving for a restaurant when the bellowing auctioneer announced the raffle drawing.

“Please forgive me,” he muttered, squinting down at the square of paper. “I’m terrible pronouncing names.”

I had a twinge.

“Mark, uh… Mik-CLUSS-kee?” he said, looking up from the mic hopefully.

A roar of cheers went up amongst our friends, and I double high-fived Mark who’d already edged himself nearly out the door. We are the proud new owners of an “instant wine cellar,” a collection of 40 bottles of first-rate wine, each contributed by different families at the school. (Of course, Mark has already logged them all into our online wine cellar app, cackling with delight like a kindly Ebenezer counting his money.)

Saturday morning’s hangover made me useful for only one thing. Shopping. Specifically thrift shopping. I headed to San Fran with Kate to hit up my favorite stores for used kids duds. Nothing thrills me more than finding a lightly-used Oilily frock for $9.

The car ride over was Kate talking NON STOP. Now, I have no one but myself to blame for her propensity for chatter, but MY GOD, do these kids sense when you have a hang-over and set out to jabber like they’re filibustering? Ouch! “Blah blah ballet class. Blah blah dancing Swan Lake. Blah blah the bee-oooo-tiful princess turns into a swan. He turns into a swan too. Have I ever seen a swan, Mama? Is a swan like a goose? Where is Swan Lake, Mama? Can we go there? Pleeeeez, can we? Can we get the book? Can we see Swan Lake some time?”

I said something that a non-abusive college-educated woman who is gently trying to shut her blathering child up might say. I mean, I’m not even certain now what it was. But there was a LOT of talk, and I was softly muttering hopefully conversation-curbing responses.

At our first store, after grabbing all the fabulous French outfits I could clutch, I scanned the book and toy shelf. And there, front and center was a pristine, hard cover copy of none other than Swan Lake. 99 cents.

“Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I muttered in my best Irish brogue, as I slid the book off the shelf. “Would you look at that?” A little more luck of the not-quite Irish.

Yep, their workin’ days are done. With Paige being the final output from Mark and Kristen Productions and all, these girls of mine are hangin’ it up. Cashing in after years of noble milk-making service. Buying a nice little condo in Clear Lake maybe. Or better yet, Palm Springs. You know, subscribing to TV Guide and marking with a yellow highlighter all the shows they plan to watch.

As good as it all sounds, they do experience temptation to return to work. On a nearly daily basis, in fact. Paige has had a wretched hacking late night and early morning cough that makes them want to go to her, to comfort her with warm Mama’s milk. Not to mention a kind dose of healing antibodies.

And their desires aside, sometimes the whole of me will catch a glimpse of the little tummy paunch that wasn’t there just weeks ago. The eat-like-a-farm-hand,  turn-blood-to-milk, have-baby-suck-milk-from-boobies holy trinity, which requires no use of Thigh Masters or of even breaking a sweat, but manages to keep one’s weight in check. And is now sadly over.

Trouble is, I still eat like a farm hand.

But my head tells my heart—and my heart tells my boobies—that this decision was okay. Paige is nearly 16 months old now, and I’ve done right by her nursing her for as long as I have. Whatever mother issues she’ll bring to a therapist as an adult, I’ll have victimized her with honestly, but in totally different ways than this.

In the way that mother’s forget the pain of childbirth, children forget the bliss of breastfeeding. Right?

Well, whatever the case, planner, achiever and overall anal retentive gal that I am, I’ve got a plan. Any agita I’m experiencing during this transition I’m brilliantly intending to offset with the intake of alcohol. Consuming it happily and recklessly, knowing my body’s the only one I’ll task with processing its toxins.

As for the boobies, with all the free time they’ve got themselves now, it seems only natural for them to consider taking up golf.

One booth right near the entrance was selling t-shirts and Mark pointed one out to me. It had a drawing of Obama on it and below the illustration it said PILF.

How brilliant is that?

A justifiable rant, or am I off my rocker?

Dear Dan:

As an alumna and lifelong fan of Wheeler, I want to thank you for the great job you’ve done helping me feel connected to all that’s happening at the school. I appreciate hearing about everything from curricular enrichment to campus development, how my donation dollars are being spent, and even being kept in the loop in times of tragedy. All these things have made me feel closer to the Wheeler community than I have in years. If I didn’t live 3,000 miles away, I’d send my daughters to Wheeler in a heartbeat.

I’m sure it’s in that same spirit of inclusion that somewhere along the line correspondence to me from the school started to be addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. Mark McClusky.” My husband has attended some Wheeler events with me, and even he commented on how odd it is that as a result my own name has dropped off all mail from the school.  

I know this is likely is a matter of old-world etiquette. And in that vein, it makes me ponder whether Mary C. Wheeler herself was ever married. I don’t believe she was, but I can’t help but wonder if she had been–even back in 1889–whether she’d have named her progressive all-girls school something akin to The Mrs. John C. Smith School.

It appears that you are mindful about how you present your own name in school correspondence–sometimes signing with the familiar “Dan” rather than using your full name and title. I’ll continue to look forward to receiving news from Wheeler. I just hope that going forward you’ll be as thoughtful about how you address the envelopes as you are about their contents.

Best,
Kristen Bruno McClusky, ’85

I wonder what approach they’re taking with her. Flash cards? Crib sheets? Miking her updo? For her sake I hope they’re coming at it from all angles.

Oh Sarah. It’s sure to be a long night for you. But all the coffee along with the stress–I mean ‘energy’–coming off the pack of Republican handlers frantically working with you should help get you through.

Besides, remember all those long nights you’ve had conferring with the Russians on complex foreign policy issues? You’re used to burning the midnight oil!

And really, we’ve all had our share of all-nighters in college, right? So it’s in that spirit that we in the McClusky household will be watching the debate tomorrow night. We’ll do a shot every time Palin says something utterly asinine.

Now that I’m thinking of it, maybe Mark should plan to take Friday off of work.

As with Kate, I’m once again daunted by the prospect of staying home to care for kids. It’s really a luxury that I realize we are lucky to be able to afford (at least temporarily), but as someone who is addicted to people and action and energy and activity, in my most fearful hours I look at is as a jail sentence.

The thing is, if we lived in some turbo suburbia where there were rows of houses occupied by other stay-a-home moms (and kids), I think it would be easier. Just walk out the door and there’s someone else doing what you are doing–in other words, clutching a latte for dear life and looking desperately for something to do to entertain the kids that is inexpensive, safe, not overly taxing on your own energy, and maybe even somewhat educational. I guess if some were to walk through our neighborhood they’d make the argument that I have nothing to complain about. You can’t swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a $700 stroller.

But invariably it’s being pushed by a nanny. I mean, not that I’m opposed to socializing with a nanny and her charges, but somehow it’s different from conspiring (and sometimes commiserating) with another mom. Probably ’cause we’re not getting paid.

All this thinking has me wondering if a different setting would make the staying home thing more fun. I mean, shouldn’t I be springing from bed each day delighting in the fact that no part of my day will involve saying my name when I answer the phone, or sitting in a gray cubicle as Outlook tells me where to go and what to do? You’d think.

Oh great. Kate is wailing in her room, “Mama! Mama!” trying to dodge taking a nap, and the lawn/garden guys just pulled up in front of the house ready to turn on their volume 11 weed whackers and whack to high hell any hope of Kate settling down. See? I used to worry about client presentations. Now I fear that my well manicured lawn could result in a cranky over-tired toddler. Sheesh.

Paige, on the other hand, is napping nicely in her carseat bucket. Must remember to relish this early-life sleep ethic.

Okay, call me crazy but I’m “going in” to see if I can settle Kate down into restful slumber. Wish me luck, and see you in the grocery store. I’ll be the one in the $10 Target Mom sweatpants…

2. Where toddler poop is discernible through smell, infant poo is audible.

3. Much time is spent deconstructing the newborn face. To wit: There’s consensus that Paige has Mark’s cleft chin, and Kate’s ears (which have a little heart-shaped notch). Thus far no features have been attributed to me–unless people are comparing the fat folds in our thighs behind my back.

4. Baby poop smells like butterscotch.

Paige weighed a hearty 9 lbs. 3 ozs. at birth, and is 21.5 inches long. Her Apgar scores were perfect.

Mark, Kate and I are assimilating to life as a family of four, and spending long stretches of time gazing adoringly at Paige. Oddly, but thankfully, Kate finds diaper changing an exciting spectator sport. Thus far she hasn’t asked us to return Paige to the hospital, but God knows there’s plenty of time for that.

Thanks to all for the calls, emails, love, flowers, food and support!