Moving Pictures
Posted on May 31st, 2011 by Cheryl Rosenberg
They giggle.
Even the toddler, his head tilted back, all dimples and teeth.
I smile, too. I can’t see what they do. I can hear it, though.
We are on our way to Palm Springs and, thanks to modern technology, we have a drop-down screen in our SUV.
We get in the car, pop in a DVD, and the kids are engaged.
This is a lot different from the car trips I remember as a child. The five of us packed into a Chevy Malibu. My mother sat in the middle of the back seat, my brother in the front because, eventually, he was the tallest.
We spent our time yelling at our father to unroll the window so we didn’t have to breathe his cigarette smoke and to change the station from his “old people” station to something we could tolerate.
We then ducked to avoid the arm that would appear in the back seat, swinging wildly in an attempt to make contact with one of us annoying kids.
We’d do Mad Libs. We’d see how many different states on license plates we could find. We sang songs WE liked to drown out that awful music my father chose.
We whined. We picked fights with each other. We demanded to know how much farther. We begged for a stop at McDonald’s.
We were bored.
I’m sure my parents yearned for some quiet. But there was only so much we could do, packed into the car like circus clowns.
My kids will never know that kind of ennui, the sort that practically forces you to pull your brother’s hair or reach across your mother and pinch your sister. I mean, what else was there to entertain us?
They’ve practically got a theater. We even have headphones for them so my husband and I can have a conversation. But we don’t always have them use them.
I admit it: I listen to the movies. I hear lines in Madagascar I didn’t notice the 23rd time I heard it. I laugh at Ratatouille. I even know the funny parts of G-Force – and I’ve never actually SEEN it.
Their memories of road trips will be a bit different than mine from my childhood. And that’s okay. There’s still plenty of time for them to smack each other or sing loudly. There is that pesky downtime while we change DVDs.
Beyond Mendel
Posted on November 2nd, 2010 by Cheryl Rosenberg
The obstetrician lifted my first baby, all purply and slimy and squinty and seconds old, and said, “Well, there’s no doubt who the father is.”
This is how it all began. How my dreams of gazing into green eyes like mine, burying my face in a head of reddish curls, seeing my smallish mouth or pointy chin in miniature, were completely smashed.
Three times.
My husband calls me “the nanny.”
Because my kids look absolutely nothing like me. And everything like HIM.
David is half-Korean. My kids have almond-shaped eyes and look like they’re half-Korean, too, even though they are only one-quarter.
I know a little bit about genes. I remember the charts with the dominant and recessive genes we made in 10th-grade biology.
Based upon my completely scientific calculations?
I got screwed.
My husband’s mother is full Korean. His father is German and has blond hair and light blue eyes. My father was 6-foot-4 with a shock of red hair and had hazel eyes. My mother has olive skin and dark, curly hair and hazel eyes.
David has brown hair and light brown eyes.
So I’m thinking I could have three light-eyed kids with maybe a touch of Asian. Instead, my two boys have eyes the color of day-old coffee. My daughter has gray eyes that change to honey and dark blonde hair, but her heart-shaped face and tilted eyes? Not from MY side of the family.
I grossly underestimated the power of those Korean genes, which appear to supersede any contribution from my (Russian, Eastern European) kin.
They apparently do not care about any stinkin’ chart.
One time, when my first was about a year old, he and I went to our neighborhood park. It was early and there was no one there besides us – and a small group of women with young kids.
I put Sawyer in the bucket swing and while pushing him, noticed they kept glancing my way. And talking to each other. And looking back at us.
Finally, one of them approached and put her daughter on the swing next to Sawyer. We started chatting. And she asked if I was part of the group. Everyone was wondering.
“What group?” I asked.
“We’re moms who’ve adopted children from China.”
Wha?
I assured her my stretch marks and the ability to pee myself with only a sneeze were directly due to the carrying and birthing of my little boy.
I held out hope my second baby, our only daughter, would maybe look something like me. Unfortunately the only thing she got was my attitude.
When I became pregnant with my third child, I once again thought I’d finally, finally get one who looked like me.
I should’ve known better. He even got the same dimpled chin as his brother – and, of course, as his father.
People are nice. They say Sawyer looks like me around the eyes (nope). Or that Sage has my hair-color (not even close). I appreciate their effort. I do, I know they’re trying to be nice, that they feel bad for me as they hug their own mini-mes.
But I’m okay with it: My husband’s very good-looking.
If I want to know what it feels like to see something of me in them, I just need to peer deeper. I’m there in Sawyer’s gift of gab, in Sage’s determination and sassiness, in Xander’s independence and sense of humor.
That is how I want the world to see them, too. To look beyond and within and see them for the amazing souls they are.
Even if they look nothing like me, they are still undoubtedly my babies.
And you know what? My kids? They’re gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.
A Year Without Food
Posted on May 12th, 2010 by Cheryl Rosenberg
I almost stuck my finger, covered in my neighbor’s homemade buttercream, right into my mouth.
Almost.
I was frosting cupcakes for my daughter’s birthday party and I got a dab of pink fluffiness on me. It’s an unconscious gesture: you get frosting on your finger, you lick it off.
But not for me. Not anymore. 
That Familiar Melody
Posted on January 29th, 2010 by Cheryl Rosenberg
I am coming into the house from the garage. I open the door to hear my two children singing. First it’s Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Then they move on to the Alphabet Song. They are sitting together on Sage’s tiny rocking chair, Sawyer perched on the arm.
It is a moment in time. My kids forgot about squabbling and instead found a common ground through music. These are the songs that will forever remind me of being a Mommy. When he was an infant, the only tunes that would calm Sawyer in the car were Simon & Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits. And Sage, when she was in speech therapy, learned to sing Brown Bear, Brown Bear, catapulting her into a vocabulary explosion. Every night before bed we sing them the “Sleep Song.” It’s partly from a Music Together song, partly made up. They will not go to sleep without it, so even if my husband is on bedtime duty, I know I will have to step away from the computer or put down the dishes and climb the stairs to deliver my version.
Don’t Call It Puppy Love
Posted on January 24th, 2010 by Cheryl Rosenberg
I still tell the story about how I saw his picture on the internet and it was love at first sight.
Sound shallow? Easy for you to say, since you didn’t see those eyes, those ears, that fur. That’s right, fur. He was a dog. My first baby. Gable.
Then a few months later, we got our second, Garbo, a mutt we rescued from a shelter.
I guess my husband and I were like a lot of newly-betrothed couples. We’d just bought our first home, and before we started a family, we had our practice kids: dogs.
The Dragon Lady
Posted on January 21st, 2010 by Cheryl Rosenberg
My son Sawyer saw the poster at the mall with the singular vision that only those age three and under seem to possess. I didn’t even notice it—he pointed it out, the poster for some movie with a scary-looking woman on it.
She became, of course, the Dragon Lady.
And even now, more than two years later, the dragon lady’s legend continues. It is a tale spun solely from my son’s imagination, a world created and built upon whatever inspiration he thinks of.
Staycation?
Posted on January 21st, 2010 by Cheryl Rosenberg
The beach has pristine white sand. A soft breeze ripples the palm tree leaves as I laze in my hammock, fruity drink in hand, as the sun turns my skin a soft bronze. Ah vacation. And, unfortunately, a total fantasy. Especially with young kids.
This summer, we didn’t spend one night away from home, let alone a few hours of uninterrupted relaxation by the ocean. It really didn’t have much to do with the economy. Instead, it was about our sanity: our third child was born in March, and for some reason, my husband was not eager to hop on a plane with three kids ages 5 and under—especially an infant. I can’t say I blame him. Because no matter where we go, it would just be a lot of work. The backdrop would just be prettier.
The One with Flames on the Side
Posted on January 21st, 2010 by Cheryl Rosenberg
Sawyer sifted thoughtfully through his toys. He picked out a few cars. Some planes. And another car. The red one with the flames on the side. The blue one with the doors that open. Then another plane. One more.
He knew this was an important job. Finally satisfied, he stuffed his collection into a Ziploc bag.
It was time to go. He climbed into his seat in the back of our SUV, carrying his precious cargo in his lap all the way there.
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