When you aint got your Man

I am a strong and capable woman. I take care of my kids. I take of my household. And I do it all with a smile! Yes! I am capable and strong! I am woman! Hear me roar!

Meow. meow moew moew.

No, really.

My husband left to America on business for a week and I have thus far eaten a box of candy, not gone to the gym, ran my fingers idly through the dirty laundry, cast a disinterested gaze over the piles of dirty dishes, and woke up every 15 minutes at night with a start at the silence in the bed next to mine, saying, "what was that?"

I am tired. My house is a mess. My kids are painting on the walls as we speak and eating leftover breakfast for lunch. I am eating a bag of lettuce since that is all I can stomach after The Candy Incident.

Wah. You don't have to feel bad for me; I feel bad enough for myself.

But, it is enough! Pull yourself together, girl! Turn on some music, pull out the broom, and clean and dance with your babies and dust-mites.

Although I am torn. Because I heard that if you let your dust-mites get big enough, they make very good, very quiet, low-maintainence pets. Then maybe I can cuddle up with one and finally fall into a good, deep sleep.

Of Wailing Walls

Princess has been creating her very own swimming pool out of her own tears lately.

I have lost track of the amount of times that she'll cry in the length of one day. Our dialogues seem to go like this:

Princess: Ima, can I have a cookie for breakfast?

Me: Um. Um? No? We do not and have never eaten cookies for breakfast? Sweetie?

Princess: But--but--BUT--Ima! IwannacookieforbreakfastYOUNEVERLETMEHAVEACOOKIEFORBREAKFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!

This intelligent and thought-provoking dialogue and other similiar ones usually end with me putting myself into time out.

The other day, being slighly suicidal, I took my girls to the kotel with a friend and her three kids. 5 kids + 2 mommies on the number 2 bus = you do the math. Chaos theory come to life.

We made it, we took turns davening, then let the kds run around in the square, wide-eyed at the beautiful kallas and the more colorful tourists. We fed them a run-around dinner, then, as the sky darkened and the crowds thinned, started heading back to the bus.

The bus pulled up, and opened up its back doors. I held Princess' hand in one hand, Coco-pop's in the other, and the carriage--oh, oops, the carriage! Halfway in her ascent up the stairs, I dropped Princess' hand to grope for the carriage. Got it!

And then, it happened. Well, nothing really happened, to me or to most passengers ascending the stairs, so I will give it to you from Princess' percpective:

I am going up the stairs, holding Ima's hand tightly. So many people--cannot let go of her hand or I might never see her again. Hey--Ima!--where are you? Don't let
go! Need to turn around, look for her--the doors! They are CLOSING--Ima, is leaving me ALL ALONE FOREVER FOR THE REST OF MY WRETCHED EXISTANCE!

'K, back to me. What happened was, as I turned to grab the stroller, the doors started closing. I didn't blink, just hammered on the door and yelled out somewhat indelicately, "Nahag, regah!" The doors re-opened, I entered with Coco-pop and the carriage, and was greeted by a screaming, white-faced Princess.

She sat on my lap and held my hand all the way home.

Me: Princess, look at that huge tree out your window!

Princess: Mmmmm.

Me: Look, it must be a hundred years old!

Princess: DON'T let go of my hand!

That night, as I was putting her in, we spoke about it. And I got a chilling revelation about how Princess, my smart, perhaps too-smart 4 and a half year old oldest thinks.

"I thought that I was going to be all alone on the bus because I couldn't figure out how to open the door."

"But sweetie, you did not have to try to figure it out. Ima got the door open."

"I didn't know what to do. Because the door was too heavy for me."

"Ima would never ever ever leave you alone on the bus, right?"

"Right. But I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to open the door."

And that's when I realized what she was getting at, what it was All About.

Princess doesn't see me as her Knight In Shining Armor. She doesn't thinlk that I could rescue her. She thought that the whole thing, the whole problem, and therefore the whole solution, was on her shoulders. She was the only one in control.

But love, I wanted to tell her, you are only 4 and a half years old! You do not need to come up with the answers yet; you should look to me for all of them. That is a heavy heavy weight that you carry, little girl. Why won't you let me lift it for you?

Instead, I said, "Princess, it's Ima's problem. Not yours. Ima's. Ima is the one who has to figure out what to do. Not you. Ima. Ima saw the door closing. Ima hammered on the door. The driver opened the door. Your job was to just sit and wait."

She let out a long suddering breath, and hugged me for a few millenium.

I have to keep reminding her.

I have to keep reminding myself.

Hashem li, lo irah.

Conversations

Princess: Ima, what kind of gan will I go to next year?

Me: Just like this year, but for older girls, because you will be bigger next year!

Princess: No, I mean what language will we learn next year, instead of Hebrew? Spanish?

----

Princess: Can you sing that song, Ima? About the beautiful morning?

Me: (warbling) "O what a beautiful mooooorning, O what a beautiful daaaay. I've got a beautiful feeeeeling, everything's going my way!"

Princess: Ima, you sang it wrong at the end. It's "everything's getting in my way!"

Me: Erm...

----

Princess: Ima, who's birthday is next?

Me: Abba's. It's right after chanuka.

Princess: Can we make a party?

Me: (stage whisper) Yes! But let's keep it a suprise. We'll have a cake, and balloons, and--

Princess: (not in a stage whisper) Okay! And pekalach! With wafers and a lolipop and popcorn! Abba! Abba! Abba, we are going to make you a party with cake and balloons and pekalach and also, it's going to be a suprise !

In Which I Open My Mouth To Insert My Foot

Oooookay.

So.

Outdoorsman, this is for you.

Because what I meant by not having anyone that I want to talk to in a 6,000 mile radius when I wrote that I have no one in a 6,000 mile radius that I want to talk to was that OF COURSE I have someone that I want to talk to in my 6,000 mile radius!

And that person is you, my beloved helpmeet! Because you are so wonderful and so charming and so captivating and so disarming! And you are funny and so witty and so delightful and so pretty!

Did I mention so witty?

Disarming?

I am flipping through the pages of my thesaurus at an alarming rate, darling.

All because there is nothing that I'd rather do than only talk to you. Because you. Are witty. And stuff.

So I googled! To find a poem that matches my feelings. I found this one:

Yes baby, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, ....! ! ! !

……and on top of that, I’m very sorry……! ! !

Thrush

I held the medicine dropper up the light to ensure that Coco-pop had taken all of the medicine to my satisfaction. She hadn’t. I didn’t need to look at the dropper to realize that; the thick red liquid (‘cool-aid flavored! Babies love it!’) was running down her chin, dripping into her collar, and blending nicely with the ex-contents of her nose. She was doing her best, it seemed, to roll over and stain the blanket she was lying on. She was also squalling at the top of her lungs.

I stared at the fevered 2 year-old on the couch and the whole scene took on panoramic proportions until my glassy eyes took in the heaps of almost-sorted laundry, the coffee cups with hardened coffee dregs sitting on the table, almost hidden from view by the most random collection of items—why is the soup pot on the table, and is that an umbrella next to it? If those flowers were any deader, they would be coming back to life…oh, so that’s what smells like the dead rodent that I spent all morning jumping at the dust mites because of—and then it caught my eye. The scene retracted again. There was a small stain on my new skirt. It was red. I sniffed at it. It smelled like cool-aid.

Baby wipes are good for these types of situations.

Crying might be less so, although perhaps the chemical makeup of tears might work together to create a good cleanser. Scientific research of exactly this idea might have been in the back of my mind as I stared blindly at my bawling baby and joined in. The room, the baby, the dead flowers, and the stain all blurred.

It all blurred and became one. And so I cried about the stain. I cried about all my stained skirts and the skirts that were not stained because 2 years after the baby was born, they still didn’t fit me. I cried about my pettiness, not being happy enough with my beautiful children and the weight that I had lost, but always mourning my one-size-smaller skirts. And then sudden;ly I was crying that I do not have a freezer full of freshly baked cookies and cakes, but knowing full well that I also cry when I make them...trapped, trapped, trapped, with no car and a broken carriage. And 6,000 miles away from anyone that I really want to talk to. My sisters, my Ima, the comfort of laughing with them. And my Abba, my patient Abba with his beautiful smile the only expression that I’ve seen him with lately, painted in stark relief against the gauntness of his finely chiseled facial structure. I’m so happy that you are in Yerushalayim, his smile tells me. Even though I can never visit.

And I have a stupid stain

On my stupid skirt.

But not everything is big. I mean, sometimes it is okay to sweat the small stuff—or, at least cry about the small stuff—because the small stuff can be big, in such a small apartment and in such a small country.

Which can work both ways, you know. Because a few minutes later, when Coco-pop, who had stopped howling abruptly to stare at me, bewildered, decided that Ima crying was the funniest thing that had happened all day and began giggling, I started laughing, too. Then I dropped the dropper, picked up my still-laughing daughter, and medicine-smeared cheeks and all, began dancing with her.

Then I changed my skirt and walked across the length of the ballroom and started making dinner.

Living Large

I am so cold.

I wake up cold and I go to sleep cold and in the middle of the day? I'm cold.

Did I mention that I'm cold?

Because if I didn't, I do want you to know that on a scale of one to ten of cold? I'm FREEZING. Which is pretty cold.

It's this season that my indignation rises like gorge in my throat, and I think, hey, you know? I'm American, damnit. I should be comfortable AT ALL TIMES. I should be in an artificial 75 degrees, always.

And then I have to remind myself about how wonderful it is to be in touch with the weather as it actually is, because it's real. Just like having fruit in it's proper season, and having some things that are not sanitized for your own protection and double wrapped with politeness and orderliness. There is something special, just because it's real, about experiencing life just as it is, as it comes.

I asked Princess what she wants for Chanuka. Her eyes grew big with all of her wildest imaginings. Then she blurted, "Stickers! And a treat."

They are so unspoiled, so blessed, my little girls.

It's really living, living in this country.

But wouldn't it be nice if the real living can be done just a leeeeetle warmer?

Flood This Forum!

Okay. I really really need feedback on this. I wrote out the speech in long copy that i will be giving at a seminary tomorrow. The principal asked me to speak about growing up with a sick father, and the tools that I gained to deal with it. So. I wrote it, and added some articles a the end to read together. Problem is--in real life, I am actually a really private person. Which is why this blog is so important to me, and why this speech to so hard for me. I can't even rehearse it in front of a friend and get feedback, because...I'm so shyyyyyyy,you see. Not really, but I don't like when people but me into a box. I am what you see, not my past. So. Anyway. Point is, I need your help. My husband says that it's great, but I need female imput. And impartial imput, since he also thinks I look great right after labor.

Here 'tis:

Edited: I decided to delete the speech in the end. I wasn't comfortable having it up, and also, I thought, if a girl from the seminary googles one of theartivles I used and finds this blog...me not be happy. So. It's gone. I have decided, and I am THE ULTIMATE POWER ON THIS BLOG! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Til The Fat Lady Sings

I need to go shopping for shabbas. It's thursday night. I was not so organized this week, and now I'm gonna pay the price. I'll be up cooking until the wee wee wee hours. But that's okay! It's all because of whay's been going on these past few days!
Like a rainstorm of creative openings, is my life right now! I am acting in a play. I am giving a yom iyun speech at a seminary. I am going to dust off my Healthy Body Image seminar and give that over, too.

And the most creative thing of all I cannot breathe a word of to anyone for another couple of months, but it is making me rather fatigued and nauseous in the morning...

You won't tell anyone, will you, O Internet?

Tznius, Cover your Knee-is!

So, we started these tznius groups in our neighborhood. We had the first meeting last week after shabbas, and the second tonight. 'Cept I missed it because I went to table-read for a play that I will be in. So fun, by the way! My part, which is the main part, which is super cheezy to say, but rolls off the tongue SO NICELY, is super de duper dramatic and I get to wear a wedding dress and sing about my PAIN and LONGING, and it's been a long time since I got to make an audience cry! I love makin' 'em cry!

Anyway. Back to the tznius groups.

So. Tznius discussions always brings out weird things in me. Not weird like a tendancy to grow fur and fangs and howl at the moon, but weird like ambivalent and teenage-ish rebellious stirings.

Now, I consider myself a pretty tznius person. I don't wear tight clothing, I am very careful about the length of my skirt, and my shaitel (which sits so nicely and patiently in my closet beside my oft-worn bin of scarves) is a long less than two feet long. (although if being tnzius means blending in to the neighborhood, maybe I should rock me some two foot-long shaitel and black skin-tight tops. But that is a mean and caty sort of thing to say, so pretend that I didn't say it. Because I'm not mean. Or catty. Meow.) I just have a hard time listening to it being preached. A few reasons:

1. Still a little traumatized from being brought to the front of the room in 11th grade and, using a book that had these little measurements drawn all over little drawings of girls and a TAPE MEASURE, my teacher showed the whole class why my shirt was not tzius. Blush much?

2. I feel like they always MISS THE POINT. (I am going a little capslock crazy in this post, am I not? I apologise. I REALY DO.) Like they talk about the symptoms instead of the problem. Yes, girls do show too much and don't understand the spirit of the law. But they don't ask WHY. WHY do they feel the need to dress this way? I agree with Outdoorsman who says that so much of tznius is all about how you feel about yourself. If you feel good and accomplished in your own skills and merits, you won't feel that pressing need to get attention with your body. And when girls are not allowed to do anything except shop, then yeah, they might show a tendancy to be materialistic and give their bodies more importance then they should have.

3. They seem to confuse being a bas melech with wearing dry-clean clothes and only wearing a shaitel. I know that denim rhymes with gehenom, but seriously? Banning a fablic? I feel that dressing casually, at least for me, means more time for the kids in the sandbox, and letting them cry and get snot all over my shoulder, because I'm a MOTHER, not a runway model, and I'm okay with dressing like one.

I could elaborate for many pages on all of my points, but I'll leave it for now because it's almost one in the morning and my kids should be waking up in oh, around NOW. No...NOW. Yup, there she is. Coco-pop. Am I good, or am I good?

Anyway anyway. I'll just end with a line that Outdoorsman started and I finished:

Tnzuis is not about covering your knees. It's about not thinking that your knees are that important.

Chulent-powered Rockets will take Man to the Moon

"Look at the horses!" Princess said.

--Which is not a comment you get every day walking down the streets of Ramat Eshkol, Jerusalem. So we stopped, because indeed, there were horses in the front of my building.

4 horses, they were. Two brown, one with a star on his forhead, and one black and one gray. They were tall, glorious, proud, and poopping all over the front walk.

The horses were tied to their trucks, and four bored-looking cops were sitting with their legs flung up, eating club sandwhiches and drinking coffee. What were they doing here, I wondered, as Princess backed up a step and clutched my hand. Scared as she was, she couldn't take her eyes off of the magnificent creatures, and Coco-pop's little fuzzy brain still didn't realize what her eyes were looking at at all. She continued to eat her Bamba, saliva and peanut butter mixing beautifully down the front of her shabbas dress.

Someone in the shabbas-bedecked crowd whispered something about the protest that was going on regarding a business that was going to stay open on shabbas. The horses and cops were probably hanging out here until they recieved a call that they were needed. In the parking lot across the street, we saw what looked like a water canon.

The crowd thinned until it was only us. 15 minutes later, Coco-pop Realized What It All Meant. They were Animals! And they had Huge Teeth! Waaaa! "Waaaa!" she remarked. Then I remembered my challa that I had put up to warm an hour ago that was surely burning, and we all headed at a clipped pace towards the front door. Our guests came, and we all sat down. We had pre-kiddush chit-chat. Then I said, "Let's give them some chulent."

"Who?"

"The cops."

Silence.

Outdoorsman said, slowly, "That is an amazing idea."

We dished out 4 bowls of Outdoorsman's famous chulent, steaming and fragrant. We carried them out to the cops.

They said, no. We said, try some! They said, no. We said, it's really goooooood. They said, no. We gave it to them anyway. They took. They tried. They said, this is gooooood. We said, we know. Enjoy!

Later, Outdoorsman remarked that loving your fellow man is easy if the only fellow man that you love is the one that is just like you.

Today I read in the news that the protestors, protesting in the name of shabbas, threw rocks (on shabbas!) at the cops, and yelled and screamed in wild hatred.

With love, and in the name of shabbas, we served the cops warm and hearty chulent on a chilly shabbas day.

I wonder which one of us Shabbas Herself would be more proud of.

Yes I Would, If I Only Could

The kids found a dead crow in the park today, and set upon it at once. Sticks were brought out to poke it, and the brave in the pack touched it with the tips of their shoes.

Princess came running over to, roses in her cheeks, to tell me all about it. "So it's a CROW, and it's DEAD, and now we can look at it. Come see it! Come, Ima!"

Now, when I was around Princess' age, I was the original animal right's activist. Maybe the first one who couldn't spell it yet. I would cry when my neighbor poured water over an ant's nest, and spent hours trying to save as many of the insects as I could. Baby kittens, abandoned and milky-eyed would get bowls of cream. I could not kill spiders, nor did I want anyone else to. Nowawdays, I protect the stray cats in the park when children try to torment them. I fully expect to wake up one day and discover that I am the neighborhood Crazy Cat Lady (and every neighborhood has one, no?) with long stringy grey hair and a horrible screechy voice. And cat smell.

ANYWAY, Princess was pulling in my skirt and inviting me to gaze upon the sad little corpse of the dead crow. "No, Princess. I really don't want to. Looking at things like that makes Ima sad."

Princess puzzled over this. "But I didn't kill it!"

Oops. "I know, sweety. But just the idea that it is dead on the ground instead of flying in the sky and will never fly again makes Ima sad. So I do not want to see the dead crow. Okay?"

Thought bubbles apeared above Princess' head. They all said something to the effect of, Oh wow. I am only 4 1/2 years old, and I have been saddled with a loony mother. This is like those movies. And I don't know how I know that, because I've never seen a movie in my life.

So she shrugged, released her vulcan death grip on my skirt, and skipped off to play with the lifeless bird who had long since gone to The Great Windshield In The Sky. Mothers shouted out to the tight group around the crow, telling them that it was full of germs and dangerous, but the Call Of The Crow was too strong. They stood there, the world against them, but nothing would make them abandon their passion.

Five minutes and two recipe exchanges later, a bloodcurling scream echoed around the park. Mothers heads picked up collectively, eyes scanning for their progeny, and relaxing when they realized, not my kid.

'Twas mine.

Eyes wide with panic, she ran into my arms, trembling all over. "They--threw--the BIRD--at me! And said--I was gonna--get--SICK!"

I shushed and soothed, and held her. But she would not calm down. She looked up at me, eyes filled with unshed tears, and asked in a quieter voice, "What's going to happen to me?"

I told her nothing, nothing, nothing's going to happen, you will not get sick, it just touched you, and there is nothing to worry about, Ima is here.

"Who did it?" I whispered in her ear, and she pointed a shaky finger at the brown haired, brown skinned girl a few feet away rom us. Mean girl! Nasty girl! She was the girl who responded to Princess' friendly overtures by sticking out her tongue at her, who made the merry-go-round spin extra fast when Princess attempted to go on...nasty girl! Mean girl!I held my hapless daughter closer to my chest.

That was two days ago.

Yesterday, a girl called me on the phone. She spent the first ten minutes apologising for calling and then finally explained; apparently Princess had been bothering her daughter in gan. Teasing her, taking things away from her, throwing sand in her face from the sandbox. I told her I'll look into it. I did. I questioned Princess, who looked confused and innocent. The teachers were no help. either. ("how's my daughter?" "oh, she is so sweet and cute!" "oh, I bet you say that to all the pretty mothers.") So, I'm not really sure what the real story is, but it did shake me out of my little black and white world.

You see, if my daughter is a bully, they can't be Those Nasty Mean Girls. I mean, I guess I knew that. They are 4 years old, after all. And I knew that when I wrote this. But the satisfaction of knowing that my daughter would never do that is all gone. Simon and Garfunkle wrote that they'd rather be the hammer than the nail, but I think that the world is much simpler and clear-cut when you are the nail...but life is not like that, I suppose. I cannot cloak myself in self-righteous indignation anymore.

It's like the world is shades of gray! And not black and white! Or something!

Does that mean that my annoying neighbor is really annoyed BY ME?

No. That's just taking it too far.

Right?

Prince of Darkness

So much has been said about the misrad hapnim (i.e; punicipal office; office of interior; home of Dracula's tomb and evil incarnate) And it is not. enough. I have not spoken about it in a while because I know, dear internet, that it gets you all worked up and mad. (or wait. maybe that's me.)

I will therefore write about my visit yesterday in a light, happy vein, perhaps with a little rhyme. Perhaps the way that Dr. Suess would write it.

You are here for your visa? But I must take my break.
I need more coffee to fill the ache
In my breast from my lack of a soul
All this bloodsucking takes it's toll.
Ah yes! I finished my coffee, but do not come in yet,
First I must finish my cigarette.
Now enter! My presence! But, no, you must leave.
There is still one more paper that you must retrieve
And that is written proof that your grandfather's cat, Treat,
Never failed to land on all four feet.
Then you must go to the bank and get more money
(your laugh must be hysterics, because really, I'm not funny)
And then when you return from chashing in all your stock,
You will see the door. On it will be a lock.
You will cry and scream and tear out your hair,
But save it, honey. There is no one to care.

....on second thought, while that all pretty much rhymes, it's not funny at all. Oops.

On the bright side, after trying for one whole year to renew our visas, the fourth time is the charm! We are the proud owners of little pieces of paper glued to our passports that proclaim to the world--actually, I'm not sure what they proclaim. I'm not even sure what the point of visas is? To show that I know that I'm not a citizen? I thought that my lousy hebrew and my need for personal space was proof enough.

My little gingy Coco-pop spread a ray of sunlight around the dreary, dank darkness of the building. She was like a stake in a vampire's heart.

Yes, I will lay off the meds now.

Time of Our Lives

So we went to Tzfat during the Great Rainstorm of 2009. We went for Thursday, Friday and Shabbas. It rained on Thursday, on Friday, and on Shabbas. It rained. It mudded. It basically emptied its nose out on the narrow cobblestoned paths.

Then there was the agent. See, we're thinking about making an investment purchase in Tzfat, which was the real purpose of our trip. It all started off well enough. We stopped off at a real estate office, spoke to the guy behind the desk (or, rather, Outdoorsman spoke to him. I stayed in the car and sang "I wish I were a little striped skunk" 87 times to my adoring little fans in the back seat.) and then agreed to meet an agent as a certain address in two hours time.

We took a quick look around the artist quarter, fell in love with a painting and a pair of candlesticks, then met the agent at the apointed spot.

The problem began at exactly that moment.

The agent, you see, was wearing pointy cowboy boots.

Now, this is not a problem in and of itself. People are free to choose clothing that expresses whatever it is that they wish to express. I know people who wrap who pashminas around their heads and they are perfectly wonderful. The problem, I guess, is the nature of the client/agent relationship. Basically, it's like this:

Client: Hi! I love Israel! I want to purchase property in this sacred place!

Agent: mwahahahahahahahahahaha!

So, as clearly demonstrated in the above sketch, agents are pretty much, well, slime. Who want to fleece you. And then skin you. And then carve sinister tattoos on your lower calves.

So, someone who is in a slimy business should wear a nice suit, a tie that is knotted a bit too tight, a genuine smile--you know, try to give over the impression that while agents in general are horrible, he is a nice, honest guy who is not in it for the money, no, he is in it simply to make you happy.

So. Back to the pointy cowboy boots. In a nutshell, they sing:

If you are slimy and you know it wear pointy boots
If you're slimy and you know it wear pointy boots
If you're slimy and you know it
And you really want to show it
If you're slimy and you know it wear pointy boots!

Or maybe I have been singing too many backseat songs lately.

But, Agent in Boots turned out to be be exactly what he seemed to be. Which is actually honest of him. Which makes me all confused. So I will go on and forget about it.

Basically, we almost bought a place for double it's worth, and it rained. All. The Time.

And I don't even like cowboy boots.

But now for the postive!

1-It rained. A lot. But! I am happy, because we need rain. And right above the kineret! Which is totally amazing and a huge blessing and maybe means my water bill will not require a shot of bourbon before opening.

(Only, maybe, it could have started, like, on sunday? As we were pulling out? Like, Oh yay, wow, thank you G-d, it's raining! What a blessing! And also now we are in a nice warm and dry car!)

2-Agent, he lied. But Outdoorsman outsmarted him by figuring out the real value of the cottage. So, sad short term, but happy long term.

3-Also, my girls now know all of the songs that made my childhood so memorable.

All in all, a trip to remember. Then we'll say, "Oh, do you remember that time? When we went to Tzfat? And it rained the whole time and everyone was muddy and cold and you forgot to pack sweaters and we were cooped up in a tiny room with no windows and in the middle of the night someone yelled through door for someone named Mendel and then the agent tried to cheat us out of our life savings? Remember?"

Then we'll all laugh. Nervously. And change the subject.

In Which My Weapon of Choice is a Black Whip

Let me just preface the preface by saying something that I will be glad to get off my chest; I am a nerd. I really am. My whole life, I have been a nerd stuck in a cool girl's body.

I really do feel much better now.

Now here is the preface. I was thinking about this old Batman TAS episode. (see? the nerd. she emerges with alacrity.) It was kind of deep, and that is why I carry my nerd card with pride. They are all kind of deep, the sci-fi shows and books that I love. They are a sort of fun house mirror of our lives that can tell it just how it is precisely because it takes place on such a different plane of existance, and--hey, you. Reader. Wake up! There will be a quiz on this afterwards!

Okay, I'll stop. (For now.) But the point is, I was staring at myself in the mirror, and sort of wistfully thinking about my pre-baby body, and maybe even thinking about my old one-stomach-crunch-per-calorie body from so long ago, and then I thought about the coming-out-of-the-cool-closet-to-flash-my-nerd-soul Batman TAS episode.

It was about this evil chick who went around kidnapping all of these heads of modelling companies. Turned out, she used to work for all of them, as a model, and was kicked out when she turned 30. Because she was too old and therefore not perfect.

She wore a mask and did not even let her evil minions see her face. When she was captured at the end, the police removed her mask, and she covered her face with her hands, screaming, "my face, my hideous face!"--but not before the veiwer caught a glimpse.

She was beautiful.

I guess the real question is, why do we do it to ourselves? It doesn't feel good. I don't like crying 10 minutes before candle lighting because I feel so fat in all of my clothing. I don't like crossing my hands over my body while talking to someone thinner than me.

I guess I know that people see me as a very pretty girl. When I was younger, it was the only sense of self that I had to cling to. But the second I am stressed, or feeling inadequate, presto-chango, I am Di The Horror Show. And I actually believe that if I would only lose 20 pounds, I would be this whole different person. A better mother, even. Instead of just the same person in a smaller body.

When I catch Princess watching at me as I am looking at myself, judging, I feel a wash of hot and cold. I need to break the cycle of senseless self-loathing. Even if I cannot understand it completely, I just need to stop. If not for me, than for the little 4 1/2 year old who wants to know what "baby fat" is, and if it's catchy.

Or I might don a mask and start kidnapping people. For kicks.

What's Mine is Yours

It probably had something to do with me being the middle child, (4 years of therapy, ladies and gentlemen) but growing up with nine siblings in a four bedroom house, I spent a few years sleeping in the playroom. I had been downgraded from the kids' room, a great big room (or maybe I was just small?) with two bunk beds and a single bed when the newest baby was born. I was not downgraded alone, though. I served my sentence with my sister. We shared a daybed that had a high riser that we pulled out and yanked up into groaning, cranky, half-hearted position every night. Although the truth is that the bed was probably older than my mother, and I should not make light of my elders, so scratch the previous sentence. We also shared a closet, which also held all of the winter coats and a great big basket of school bags, and we also shared a dresser. We each had three drawers.

During the day, the playroom was, in fact, a playroom, and was therefore played in. By everyone. Did I mention that I have nine siblings? I did, didn't I. It bears repeating. Nine.

So, as one can clearly see, I grew up used to the fact that very little belonged solely to me. It is for that reason, I think, that I still get a tingly feeling in my spine when the school year is about to start and all of the stationary stores' displays go up featuring new, unbent notebooks and fresh pencils and pens. When I got my school supplies in the beginning of the year, they were MINE. My own. No one else's. (and you can't have em! Mwahahahahahaha! Ha?)

This is all a preface that will all tie together brilliantly at the end to what happened yesterday.

I had passed by the toy store, and sitting out front was a pile of boxes of BIMBAS, a little toy car or truck with wheels that a toddler can ride on and scoot along with his/her feet. I had been wanting to get one for Coco-pop for a while, and these were on a good sale, and I had some money on me (meant for vegetables, but who needs vegetables? You don't win friends with salad.) so I bought it. Outdoorsman put it together while Princess and Coco-pop watched. Then Coco-pop spoke.

"Wanna ride Princess' new Bimba."

"No!" I corrected her, smiling. "Booba, it's yours! It's your Bimba!"

Her face screwed up in concentration. Her little fuzzy two-year-old brain turned for a full minute. Then she said, "It's mine Princess' Bimba!"

She could not really comprehend that it was hers. Everything, after all, belonged truly to Princess. Even if it were hers, it was, in essence, Princess'.

Wow.

When I was pregnant with Coco-pop, I was so worried. I was so intuned to Princess' every move, every thought, every wish. I did not know how I would be able to be there for them both equally.

And you know what? I wasn't. I couldn't be. Sometimes they both cry together and you have to make a choice. Sometimes one is right and one is wrong. Sometimes, you see that one is more sensitive and one is less so and can handle "no" better at the moment.

A second child does not get the same undivided attention as a first one does no matter the intentions of the parent. And the fifth (cough* school supplies *cough) well...

I knew the universe did not revolve around me. I think that Coco-pop knows that she is pretty cute and can get away with pretty much everything when she smiles her beautiful sunshiney smile, but at the same time she, too, know this truth. Princess is convinced that she is the single most important thing that has happened, ever. She draws pictures of the family as three adults, and one tiny baby Coco-pop. (Actually, in her last family portrait, Outdoorsman and Princess had three big strong feet each, and I was a cloud with one eye. And eight arms.I looked like a nearsighted Indian goddess. I wonder what that means.)

Maybe it's healthier. Since the world does not actually revolve around anyone, and is in fact the other way around, maybe it's better than we as mothers cannot always leap the second a need is discovered. Maybe it's okay that they have to repeat themselves sometimes, and have to share. And the pure, unspoiled excitement and astonishement at actually getting something new that is ALL THEIRS--maybe that's a good thing.

Plus, if you're sleeping in the playroom, and you are bored at night, there are all these, you know, toys. To play with.

Coco-pop has been guarding her "my Princess' Bimba" with her life. She has lost some of her best men in the battle. Strollers, dollhouse, dolls; all were allowed to be sacrificed for the cause; keeping both hands on the Bimba and never, ever, letting go.

Scales Are For Fishes!

"...and this shows that you are 30% body fat. Which means that you have low tone. So we'll have to work on that!"

She looked at me, the gym lady, all perky and smiley and exclamation points, and then jotted something down on my chart. Probably something like, whoo-whoo, you are one fat chick.

I smiled back, and then two little being fluttered onto my (low-toned) shoulders. One said, in a deep and scary voice, kinda batman-like, "Omigodomigodomigod, you are fat."

I assumed that one was the devil.

Then the next one spoke up in a silvery voice that bespoke of hope, and dreams, and love. It said, "Omigodomigodomigod, you are fat."

So I'm not sure why I needed both of them to tell me what I already intuited on my own. So I sent them away. I can speak for myself. I opened my mouth, and I said, "Omigodomigodomigod, I am fat."

"No!" Thus spoke Perky Gym Lady. "You are not at all fat! You just have to work on your toning! And that's what we are here for! Together, we will reach your goals!"

There is something so demeaning about being weighed and measured. Like I am being reduced to a number, to a mathematical formula. You are this number, and you want to reach this number. Subtract that, and you will get this. That is you, and that will be you.

I used to do that. I used to do that to myself. I don't want to do that anymore. But I do want to be healthy. And I do want to look good and feel good. There has to be a happy medium, and I have to find it.

I recently found a stream of consciousness kind of writing that I must have written when I was prgnant with Princess. I have included in at the end of this post. I was still struggling so much then, but I was in a good place. I am still in a good place. And I can stay in a good place and still have a mad awesome body. Right?

Right?

I passed by a girl today, and I knew her from Before. You know. Before cereal with milk and close-faced sandwiches. She had a baby and a toddler and she was bent under their weight, even though she was not carrying either one. But I knew that she was bent under their weight, the pounds that they had put on her during pregnancy despite her ignoring the intense demands of her pregnant body.

We smiled at each other; said our ‘hello’s and ‘what brings you here’s as her eyes raked over my body. I felt her mind calculate my weight, and then calculate her weight, and I saw the tight look in her eyes ease. She was the thinner one, by far. She was the winner. Satisfied, she turned to go and left me there, reduced to nothing but the pounds that would show up on my scale, had I owned one.

I covered my pregnant belly with my arms in fear. Is it contagious? Could I catch it? The twenty-odd pounds that I gained for my unborn baby—I do not even know the exact amount—would it hurt me, cause me to bleed inside until my very skin seemed black and blue and wounded? I still cry sometimes, when it’s dark outside and cold inside and the night seems to stretch on forever, over the pounds that I gained; but not like that. Never again like that.

I closed my mind on the shadows that immediately crowded into my head, clamoring for attention. She was not going to put me back in a place that I had no interest in being. The cold dryness of scales and pills and charts, mirrors and calculators and a chorus of accusing voices have no place in the warm, watery world of pregnancy and washing dishes. Warm and watery, like the tears that fall silently after I cry out about my pounds, my beautiful baby pounds. How can I cry out like that? How dare I cry out like that? And I’m not any more deserving than the friend who struggled and overcame but is left inexplicably with empty arms. And I’m not any stronger than the friend who struggled and fell and struggled and fell and then left this world so abruptly that I couldn’t catch my breath.

It was all a game. We played to fill the emptiness that yawned like a rocky pit inside of us. We played to personify the nothingness that was felt inside, the way a tongue automatically probes the area of a missing tooth. We played because we felt that the dichotomy was too strong and it would tear us in two. We played for lack of a better way to demonstrate how it all felt.

And then on the other side, there was no depth. It was just a simple fight to the death. Thinner is the winner. Can you see me now? How about now? Now? What if I stand sideways? Got you there, huh? I disappear. I can bend the rules of physics and live, ghostlike, in both worlds.

I wanted to run after her and shake her. Not for her sake, I realized with a guilty start, but for mine. Don’t you do that, I wanted to yell in her too-chiseled face. Don’t you dare think that you can calculate my worth with one glance. Don’t you dare think that I can be reduced to a number. The world is not your playing field and I refuse to be your opponent. I will not be someone that you have beaten, because you see, I no longer play The Game. I changed the rules. I’m filling up and fleshing out the empty space inside instead of personifying it. And I’m filling it with a brand new life.

I Hope You Dance

I was doing a quick spot check on my kids in the park--one in the little car, trying to climb on the roof, one going down the slide head first--when a friend asked me, "Do you think that you would give your life for your children?"

The one going headfirst down the slide was going a little too fast, but no emergency action was needed--"huh?"

"Like, a girl was saying yesterday, that she would totally jump into fire for her kids. And I'm not sure. I'm afraid that I would hesitate."

Wow. Fire. Your child's terrified face at the window, and you are Supermommy and you dive right into the flames, your child's name on your lips and you pull her from the gaping jaws of death. Not today, oh scythe! She is mine.

But what if you hesitate? If the flames are so high and so hot and instead you scream and scream and freeze in place?

--Coco-pop was going way too fast. I ran to the slide and stopped the impact. "Slide down!" She exclaimed, and scrambled out of my arms to do it all again.

The flames are licking at the edges of the window. Her beautiful little face shadowed, reddened, screaming--"Yes! I would. I would. I would jump into a fire for them."

But is that the point? Is that how you know that you are Mommy, that you would die for your children?

Because just today, I yelled at Princess. She can be so trying. Everything has to go her way, even to the point of being ridiculious. "Princess, go to the bathroom before we go to the park."

"No!" She answered immediately, automatically. "First, I have to--"

"Have to WHAT? Have to WHAT? We always go to the bathroom before leaving the house. Please just go to the bathroom so that we can go, before it gets too dark!"

"No!" Her will, not mine! "First I have to dance!"

And the child started dancing.

As I write this, I am smiling at the image of Princess doing a silly little flailing dance, all to avoid having MY will imposed on her. But at the time, I was furious. It was just too much. Just DO it! Just GO! So that we can GO! "Go!" I glowered. Mean Mommy! "Go to the bathroom NOW, or we are not going to the park at all!" (Because I am a glutton for punishment, and not going to the park would mean three more hours before bedtime in my little apartment, with the two of them tearing the walls down and me tearing my hair out.)

I think flames shot from my eyes, because she went. And then we went. And then my friend asked me if I would die for them, or if I would hesitate.

But it's not about dying for them, is it?

It's about taking a deep breath and counting to ten when they tell you that they need to dance first before going to the bathroom. And maybe laughing, because you know, that's really kinda funny. And pulling her into a hug and saying, yes, my love, my precious, let's dance together. Let's turn on some music and dance together because you are a bright ray of light, you are a sunbeam, you are my life. Let's dance and never stop until we fall on the floor, laughing, exhausted. Then let's make some cookies and eat them warm from the oven with some milk. Then let's dance some more.

So I don't think that we need to think about hesitating before pulling them from a burning building. I don't think that we need to worry about dying for them.

I think that we need to think about living. About loving. About dancing.

My daughter, the Rocket Scientist

"Ima, how does a baby come out of an Ima's belly?"

It's bedtime. I am tired. Coco-pop decided to try an alternative lifestyle--a feeewheeling newborn--and has been waking up roughly every other SECOND at night. Or something like that.

So tired. So it makes sense that Princess would spring something like that on me.

"Ima, how? It's too big to just pop out of the belly button."

Darn it. Belly button was on my lips. "Well, it's a miracle! Hashem just makes it come out!" I smile brightly, briskly, and tuck her in. There. Done.

I bend down to kiss her cheek, and get a roll of the eyes from the child who not a moment ago popped out of my belly button. Or something. "Ima. I know it's a miracle. But how does the miracle work?"

I answer something to her satisfaction (or maybe I point out the wonderful hummingbird that was just out the window! Over there! No, over there! It's so beautiful!--oh, you missed it. AnywaygoodnightIloveyouseeyouinthemorning!) and stumble off to the couch and a cup of chai. Mmmm, chai.

I totally had a point that I was getting at here. About us wanting to know how miracles work and bitachon and emunah and hishtadlus and all that. Good stuff, I think. But, oh, chai. And a depthless book and a soft couch. Too many deep thoughts are already swirling around the precocious little mind of one member of this family. I think perhaps I'll keep things at an equilibrium by just, ya know, not thinking. At. All.

What I am Not

13 Things that you'll never hear me say:

1. "Actually, this skirt is swimming on me. Do you have it in a size 0?"

2. "Ah, 5:30 in G-d's holy morning! Bless you, my precious progeny, for waking me thusly (by sitting on my face clad in nothing but a soggy morning diaper)so that I can start off my day nice and early!"

3. "Oh, yes, I can eat as much ice cream as I want. I never seem to put on an ounce."

4. "You are so right! Girls really are so much easier to raise than boys!"

5. "You can totally eat off of my floor. I just finished waxing it."

6. "Oh no, I never drink. I have no tolerance at all."

7. "Well, the bathub is scrubbed to a pearly sheen! I guess there's nothing else left to clean today."

8. "French tip, please."

9. "Steps are great! A free workout!"

10. "Why, I prefer my post-partem body. It means that I bore children, and besides, more of me to love."

11. "Superman? Lame-o. What am I, an 11 year-old boy?"

12. "Dr Google is not a real doctor! You can't trust him!"

13. "Wouldn't it be awesome if I got bitten up by mosquitoes from head to toe tonight?"

The Succah Hop

"One over there, Ima. A new one."

"And another one! That makes 8!"

"Nine."

"Eser! Because that's 10 in hebrew. And another! How do you say 11?"

Succoses (Succosim? Succii?) are poppin' up like daisies in the spring. It's so nice. Everyone has a little zip in their step, even the succah building fathers and the decorating and kid managing mothers. But best of all are the kids. Counting all of the new succosesessses (oh, I give up pluralizing that)and bringing home gan-made (morah made, in my suspicious opinion, is my daughter's lovely wall-hanging), building tiny creations on the corners out of leftover scraps of wood, and begging for the ready-made decorations sold on every corner stand, especaily the ones that light up (jingle bells, jingle bells...but which Israeli knows, or even cares, about the tzadik with the long white beard and merry smile depicted on the shiny chains of lights, all dressed in warm winter red?)

And I...I feel a combination of the seasonal excitement, and also a little homesickness for the huge succah that we made in my parent's house on the back patio, filled to capacity with my brothers and sisters, but even more than that for the smaller succah that we used to make in the old house when I was little, in the backyard, and how during the meal we used to run outside and watch the fireflies moving across the darkened sky as the laughter and clattering of forks from the adults in the succah filtered through the fall night air.

Succos is a time for family. I have family 6,000 miles away, but I also have family right here, counting succoses(eses?) and coveting shiny new decorations as we skip down the street in the Jerusalem fall night air.

Mean Girls

"How was gan today, sweetheart?"

"Ima, what did you bring me?"

Okay, I thought as I handed her a small treat and started pushing the stroller up the hill towards my building. It's okay. She doesn't have to tell me right away. It doesn't mean that she had a bad day, it just means that she wants her treat. A habbit, by the way--a treat after gan every day--that I have no idea how it started nor have I the foggiest how to stop it. So for now, it continues.

I made lunch, managed not to wince as every toy in the house crash landed on the floor in Princess' new manic phase that lasts roughly from the second she tantrums her way through the door after gan until, oh, I would say ten minutes after bedtime. Ya know. FOREVER.

But. Back to the moment. Throwing toys. Ima smiling, giving everyone lunch. Yes. Then, after Princess ate half of her lunch and fed the rest of it to our Hamster, we read a book. I hugged her. She hugged me back. I melted all over the couch like warm butter on top of a stack of pancakes. Then--

"So I told a girl about how Coco-pop turned 2."

"Oh! Is this girl a friend of yours?"

"NO. Because while I was talking she said to another girl, 'let's not listen to her. Let's go away.' And then they went away."

"Oh. That must have made you feel very bad."

"They didn't want to hear what I was saying. They stopped me in the MIDDLE. And I was left all alone."

Princess looked up at me with my own eyes, and just like that, I am a little girl again. And such a shy little girl. So shy, I stammer. Only in school. I would sit in class and doodle, and dream. Social interaction was something to watch and wonder about. This lasted until 5th grade, when I decided that being popular was like a science, a formula to figure out. I figured it out. I cracked the code. I became wildly popular for one year. Then promply lost interest.

But before that...it was painful. I was an open book, all my pages unread. "Why are you so insecure?" my mother used to say half to me, half to herself, perhaps not realizing that reading 20 books a week had led me to understands the meaning of words such as "insecure." (also some other words which I would never ever use, you understand, but were a lot of fun to think VERY LOUD.) "Why are you so insecure? You are so beautiful." As if being beautiful would make others love me. As if being beautiful would make me love myself.

A memory...standing on the porch of my summer bungalow, rocking the ancient structure wih my grief. "Ima! Ima! They--they!--listen to what they are singing!"

Because the two other girls in the bulgalow colony that were my age were standing on the porch of the bulgalow next door and singing a song that can make me cry even now, if I would think about it for too long. (and helped along with some hormone juice and also it helps if I gained a pound or two that day.)

Here I present to you, untarnished by age, unfettered by literary style, the song of Mean Girls everywhere:

We're buddies
We're friends
But we're NOT D's friend
We're friends forever
Just us two
But NOT D's
At
All.

I think it was picked up by a major studio, by the way.

But let us woosh right back to my daughter, 20 years later. I will leave the little girl me, holding on to the railing of her rotten porch because her knees won't support her. Histroy does not have to repeat itself, and besides, doesn't Princess know how BEAUTIFUL she is?

Oh.

"Princess, when someone says something like that to you, that's a clear sign that she's probably not someone that you want to be friends with. It probably means that you should choose a different friend."

"Yeah, because she's kinda silly. Because I was still talking."

"Yeah, kinda silly."

"..so, can I have a treat because what she said made me sad?"

Associate food with comfort? Yeah, why not. Who am I kidding? "Okay, but a small treat. And then we'll go to the park. And find a friend who talks nicely."

"K."

And then the next day I found out that the Mean Girl is just a Sad Girl because she had been best friends with Rochelli, the little girl in my neighborhood who died so tragically this summer.

Which made me think over a whole bunch of things, really.

Mio!

Alright. 10 good things about me. Big and small. Things that i can take credit for and things that G-d handed to me. (Because really, they were all handed to me...)

1. I sing to my kids. A lot. Coco-pop's first sentence was "Sing whole song, Ima!"

2. I can make my husband laugh.

3. I am a good cook.

4. I admit when I am not good at something.

5. I feel very deeply for other people's pain.

6. I rock as an actress.

7. I'm a pretty good director and writer, too.

8. I'm spontaneous and flexable. I can be happy in a lot of different situations.

9. I brought two beautiful babies into this world.

10. I overcame something that was really big and consumed me. And I do everything that I can to keep it from creeping back.

...erm. Okay! Now all of you have to make me feel better and not left hanging out there like a big matza ball. We all rock! Share your wonderful traits as well!

Or pay the price.

Dip the Apple

"Thank G-d there's a fast tomorrow; I must have gained 5 pounds over Rosh Hashana" is probably not the best thought to pop into ones head right after havdala, is it?

No, I thought not, as well.

Ah, me. What will be? Why is it that when I sat down to think about my progress this year, the only thing that I could think of was the fact that I lost 20 pounds over the summer? (and of course the thought following that thought, lest I be too happy with myself, is that I still want to lose 10 more?)

I have so much to be thankful for. This time last year, Outdoorsman was in a black hole job that was sucking his creativity and self-respect, a job that had started out with so much promise and us doing the happy dance in the middle of the living room, and trickled down to betrayal and emptiness and the ugly cry in the middle of the kitchen. I was attempting to support my little family, and it mostly worked because we only had our electicity turned off twice, and I can make so many creative and delicious dishes out of nothing but hot water and pasta.

Now Outdoorsman is busy with a job that he loves,(and it makes money! and I like money! money buys sweet crunchy apples and rolls of fluffy toilet paper and stickers for charts and shampoo for hair! and you can pay bills with it! and basically exchange it for goods and services! or just roll around in it and laugh a loud, evil laugh!)and he still has time to learn, and he does so now with a clear head and a chavrusah that he enjoys, and I am free to fill my freezer with challa and zucchini bread and keep my baby home with me. Also, did I mention that I lost 20 pounds? (and did you know that all I wanted to lose was 20 pounds, and now that I lost 20 pounds, I want to lose 10 more? Do you know that being thin is not the road to happiness? I know, I still think it is, too. I'll keep you updated after I lose 10 more pounds.)

I can turn this post so easily into a rant about how ungrateful I am, and how I still have the same goals yearafteryearafteryear--and how sad that makes me, and how I feel like I have not grown at all in so long.

But, I will not. Because a wise person informs me (thank you, love) that I have changed, and even if I have not changed one iota, such thoughts are self-defeating do not come from a good place. And thoughts that come from the Dark will keep you in the Dark.

So I choose to think about the wonderful things. There are so many wonderful things. About me. Really!

20 minutes later--

Wow, this is harder than I thought. This is ridiculous, in fact. I will think. I will think long and hard. And the next post will be a list of all the things that I
totally rock at.

I'd rather be in the light. Ah gut bebenched yur.

A Man is Just a Man

The Rabbi said something so perfect about my grandfather at his shloshim yesterday. He said that he was of a generation of men who, every day, for 90 years, did what they were supposed to do and did it to the best of their abilities. No fanfare, no dreams of glory, just discipline and hard work and the knowledge that you were using your talents to make the world a better place.

I think that this is best personified in the two degrees that my grandfather held. One in social work, and one in sewology. My grnadfather started camps all over the US, Canada, and Israel. He got a degree in social work to understand group dynamics and to be able to raise the bar for modern orthodox Jewish camps to a degree that had never been seen before but is now the model for camps everywhere. And the sewology degree--well, the sewers in camp backed up. Someone had to take care of them.

I spent the morning cleaning, and I broke down a little, because I spend every morning cleaning, and I guess I have really evil elves because instead of a clean apartment and carefully mended shoes, I have dirty diapers hanging from the lone lightbulb on the ceiling and cottage cheese forming in the bottom of abandoned sippy cups. (I gotta stop filling the little saucers up with milk and switch to Jack Daniels. Maybe that'll help my elf problem.)

And it's all the same and it's always the same, and I clean and make dinner and clean and make breakfast. And clean. And something inside of me this morning woke up and she had bed hair and stubbed her toe or something, because she was angry.

"Enough," she said. "Enough! Diapers! Dishes! Dirt! And other nasty things that start with a "D"!"

"So," I said back, toilet brush in hand. "I should just leave it all and read a book?"

"No!" she shrieked, and threw the toilet brush across the bathroom. (since the bathroom is roughly the size of a refridgerater after you put an elephant inside, it didn't go too far.) "Go do something important! What happened to you, D? Your New York Time's bestseller! Your acting career! Your world famous art! Your changing the world thing! Remember all that? Put down that toilet brush, girl, and untaggle the gnarls in your soul!"

--which I'm not sure the meaning of, exactly, but I guess it does mean that she is not so happy with me. And how I am living my life.

But twenty washed dishes later, I knew that even though I still have to do some animal training on my inner Ambition, and even though it's true, I could be doing things better, I could be making more time for the rest of the world--I am making my own little world a better place for my little family. And the social worker/sewologist that was my grandfather would be proud of me.

Trail Of Crumbs

This is a shout-out to Outdoorsman! Whom I just rudely kicked off the computer and who just fell asleep on the couch waiting for me--

I love you! You are the sweetest, nicest, hardest-working husband in the whole wide world. I love your thoughts on torah and on our daily lives. I love how you always try to be more than you were the day before. I am awed and amazed at your drive and motivation, and how you always know the right thing to say and when to say it.

But right now, what amazes me most of all is the fact that when I opened up the third drawer in the freezer to put an extra challa from shabbas back inside, I saw them. The two gallon-sized freezer zip-locks that I had filled on tuesday with 8 dozen freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies.

They are filled with chocolately goodness no more.

I am amazed and a little bit in awe of you right now, Outdoorsman.

And also need to bake more cookies.

Half of which I shall hide in a container marked "Chicken fat."

The Ancient Hebrews Are Coming!

Gan is: Crying. Tantrums. Acting out. Then a light in the horizon:

Princess: "Ima, today a Hebrew girl walked in the room, and another Hebrew girl told her "Tizkor hadelet" and she closed the door, BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT IT MEANS. It means to close the door! And I know that." Her eyes glow. Her dimple shows.

She's going to do it! It's hard and I hate myself for leaving her sobbing to play in her small fringe group of anglo children when she is used to being the queen of gan and the center of attention in general. But she's getting it! And she is so proud!

"Tizkor hadelet!" Princess says again.

Coco-pop looks up from eating her lunch of scrambled eggs and Where the Wild Things Are. "Delet! Door!" She exclaims. She gets up and runs to the front door. "Delet door!"

Maybe it'll be easier the second time around.

I'll sleep in your embrace at last

But you would live, 'Ponine, dear G-d above
If I could heal your wounds with words of love...

Was going to write about Princess' next few days of gan. Her stiff upper lip until I am about to leave. Her puffy eyes upon my return. Her joke: "Ima, I made friends with a Hebrew girl! (ancient hebrews, anyone?) I understand everything she says!" Joyous, incredulous mother, then--"Just joking!" Her tantrum over Shabbas and her ear-splitting declaration, "I don't wanna LEARN HEBREW!"

But then my mother called and told me that my father is in the hospital again. He was foaming at the mouth and nose (like soap suds, she tells me, and I gag at the sudden visual imagery) and could barely breathe, and had to be stabilized before transferred to the ambulance.

Thank G-d my mother found him in time, thank G-d they stabilized him in time, thank G-d we had a friend who had emergency room duty and got him a room. Thank G-d for hospitals, and hatzala drivers, and the little voice in my mother's head that told her to check on my father.

Yes. All that is thanks to G-d.

But all I can think of is, he could have died. Alone. Like that. Foaming and without breath or voice while my family sat five feet away from him, chatting in the kitchen over ice cream cones from Sweet Choice and after Shabbas dish washing.

Alone in a house full of people, he could have died.

I know that we don't choose how, or when. But please, dear G-d above, don't let him die like that. Let him die as he lived, surrounded by love.

Like a no good can of beans

So, actually, the first day of gan went pretty smoothly.

I woke up in a cold sweat, went to the bathroom 3 times, left the apartment a flying wreck, and exited at precisely 7:45 AM to Meet The Teacher.

She was sweet, the classroom had little corners with toy stations set up in them, and the teacher's assistant held out a container of candies to each new girl. Coco-pop figured the system out pretty quickly and waited in line time and again until her little mouth and fists were full. Princess looked around, enchanted. I stayed with her for around an hour, and then gently told my beloved progeny, who was bent over a doll carriage and in the process of tucking a blanket around a slightly chewed-on baby, that I would be leaving in around an hour, and prepared myself for the flood of pain and tears.

That's when her ponytail started talking to me. It said, "That's okay. You can go now."

I stared her ponytail in the eye for a while. Then I said, brokenly, "do I even get a hug?"

He ponytail swung back and forth a little. Then it said, "Maybe when you come to pick me up."

So there was angst and tears after all. But they were all mine.

My loving arms have been exchanged for a doll carriage.

There was another thing that I didn't count on; Coco-pop's feelings at the loss of her playmate/ruthless enemy. I thought that she would enjoy the quiet morning with me, but every few minutes she would go to the window, and call out, "Princess, where are you?" And look at me with confusion when I replied that Princess would be coming home soon. Her toys had no meaning, and she didn't even want her milk. She just stood at the window, waiting for her Princess to come home.

Crisis in Kindergarten

Is 11 o'clock in the morning too early for a drink? It's 5 o'clock somewhere, and that will just have to be enough for me today.

So first, Princess is enrolled in a wonderful transitional kindergarten. The way it's supposed to work is that the teacher starts off the year in English, which is th only language that my daughter really knows as of yet, (although I did not have the heart to tell her that her endless sentences of gibberish are not, in fact Hebrew, until she came over to me the other day, tears streaming down her cheeks, and told me that the Israeli girl upstairs was ignoring her. "I said ghsae shameti bracha to her, and she just walked away!")

Okay, then a few weeks ago I discover that the transitional gan is not going to open this year. (I called the teacher. She did not call me. She was in a constant state of "totally just about to call you!" the whole year.)The reason why is so stupendously stupid and lowers my regard for mankind in general and mothers in particular, and gives me such a bad craving for Ben and Jerries Chunky Monkey that I will not write about it here. Suffice to say, it's a dumb and idiotic and maybe even moronic, but the bottom line is, I had to apply late for the govorment kindergarten and therefore I did not get into the one that I wanted.

I wanted that one because it's closer, all her friends are there, and I heard good things about the teacher. But! One must go on. I tried to be possitive about the new place, as can be clearly seen in the next few groups of parenthesis. I got into one that was farther away,(more exersise for me! Yay me!) does not contain anyone that she knows (she'll make new friends! It's good for her!) and has a new, untried teacher. (Fresh blood! New ideas!)

But. When I got the letter yesterday from the exciting new exersise-inducing, harbringer of new friends and container for fresh blood teacher, I realized that Princess is actually enrolled in a younger grade.

And now hours of phonecalls and pleading are before me.

So I ask you yet again, kind, understanding Internet. Should I wait an hour? Or can I have a drink now?

Soul Search

Sometimes, you hear people say things. Good things. Things that should go straight to your heart. But they don't. You write the words down, and then when you go home, the notebook with those words gets placed in the pile with the other notebooks, and you cook dinner and clean up and go to sleep and grit your tired teeth (teeth get tired! they do! when your baby is up at the top of every hour because she discovered that she is turning two and is too sweet for turning two. Her childhood is slipping away before her very eyes! she must do something evil and two-year-old like, before it is too late! something like waking up 5-6 times per night and making her mother and father's teeth tired! and gums. and legs. and nerves.) when your baby is up yet again and you stomp over to her crib in a blurry haze of exhaustion and never bring to mind the words in the notebook about raising children and What It All Means.

Then someone else says those same exact words. But this time, you cry. And your heart soaks it all up. Because this person who is telling you all about the job of raising pure beautiful souls just lost one of hers. A soul that was only here for 3 and a half years.

Rocheli, you lived and died for a reason. Your death seems to have been a horrible freak accident, but we know that there are no such things as accidents. You died to teach us about life. You died to teach the rest of us how to live and raise our children, and what the ultimate goal for us as mothers is: to treasure the responsibility that we have been handed and to treat our children with the same Love that has been shown to us when they were handed to to us in the first place.

G-d, please grant me the patience that I do not always have to see in my children the heavenly souls within their human bodies. And please help me to never lose sight of them. Even as they wake up hour after hour after hour.

Maybe it's not about terrible twos at all. Maybe she is just doing that to remind me once again of how truly blessed I am to have her--both of them--in my life.

The next morning

I pulled Princess closer to me on the couch. "Princess, I have something to tell you."

"'K."

I took a deep breath. "Remember Sabba R? We visited him so many times this summer? And you kissed him on the cheek and Savta gave you a chocolate candy?"

"I remember the chocolate candy!" her dimple peeks out at the memory. "And Sabba's cheek. It had prickles."

My eyes burn. He always had prickly cheeks. As though he was in a constant state of having shaved the day before.

"Well, Sabba...he..." why is that word so hard? Died. He died. We always have to soften that reality with phrases like " he's passed on." or "we lost him." or "he's gone." But I have to say the word died to her. I can't have her think that we can go around misplacing people or something. If she's anything like I was at her age, that would be exactly what she would think. "Sabba died."

"Sabba died?"

My throat burns. "Yes."

"Like Zeidy?"

"Yes. He's in shamayim now, with Hashem."

"Oh." She thinks about it. I get tense. "So Hashem came out of shamayim and took him back with Him?"

I relax a bit. "Yes, exactly."

"How can He do that? Without us seeing Him?"

"...well, He's Hashem. He can do everything."

"Without us seeing Him?"

"Without us seeing Him."

"Can you read Madeline to me and bring me milk? In the pink cup."

So that was it, death explained to a 4 year-old. She made sure that the concept was clear in her mind, the "how" fully elaborated on, and then she was on to more important things, such as short picture books about young french school girls. And milk. In the pink cup.

How is so much easier to answer than why.

Sabba

I kissed his bristly, slightly swollen cheek, promised lightly to see him in a few months, told him I loved him, and said goodbye. Then in the back of my head, a small voice said, well, this might be it. He is 90 years old, sick, and you won't be back in the states for a while. This might be it. So make it count. So I kissed him again, and bribed the kids to kiss him, and said I love you with all my heart.

Then I got on the airplane and landed with half of my sanity intact thanks to benadril, unpacked, got half out of jetlag, and then took a night off to go swimming with a friend of mine. I left behind an exhausted husband whom I ordered directly into bed.

I got home and he was still up. Because he was waiting up for me with news.

My goodbye was forever.

My grandfather is gone.

I don't have any clever words about full lives well lived and tender memories, although that is true about him. I just have a hole in my heart, and a very unreal feeling about me. Like my head and heart are full but empty at the same time. I'm cold and hot all at once.I want to clean up my whole apartment and curl up on my couch with a blanket.

I just want to say I love you and goodbye one more time.

Just one more time.

Just once more.

I love you, Sabba.

Goodbye.

The Beautiful

America! Hugs and love and family! And free food! And cars and customer service! And grass and pools and happy happy happy days and nights!

yay!

'Cept. We are subletting our apartment, and I am looking at it with a stranger's eyes for the first time. And my eyes hurt. I didn't realize the bathroom window is coated in black mold. I thought that it was painted black. So, out came the bleach and the rags! And off came the mold--and the paint, and the wood. And almost, the window. So I have splinters in my fingers and bleach under my nails and a wild look in my eyes. We are leaving in three days, and one of those days is Shabbas. I am not packed, the house smells like bleach but still looks like a large rodent trimmed its teeth on every available surface, and also seems to be growing shoes and small parts of games that I have not seen in years.

I would get a cleaner to help me, but they cost tons of money, and I'm still waiting on the rich great-great something-or-another who died and I never knew but looked upon me and loved me from afar and left me all of his money before I do that. Or maybe I'll try to find out if I have any of that great Native American blood, or the blood of some other people who get money just for bein' alive.

Although I guess if I had any of the above options, I wouldn't be living in an apartment that the Turantula and Cocaroach Weekly calls, "A stunning find! Move-right-in condition! Bring all your relatives!"

Erm. Maybe it's bad timing to PMS right now.

I'm still excited, though! Land of the free and home of central air!

I Can't Make This Stuff Up

Okay. So Coco-pop doesn't have insurance. That's not the worst thing in the world. Like, on a scale from 1 to 10, 1 being a romantic getaway in the Carribean and 10 being the Holocaust, and 4 being Coco-pop doesn't have any insurance, it would be, well, I guess it would be around a 4, then.

This country is a falafel sandwich wrapped in chest hair, wrapped inside red tape. This is the third time that Outdoorsman went down to the Misrad Hapnim (Ministry of Interior, as in the interior of your SOUL, which they will SUCK out and LEAVE you STANDING THERE SOUL-LESS), and the third time that he was turned away for incorrect paperwork, and also, the previous sentence is a terribly disgusting one and also doesn't really work. Also what I wrote in quotes doesn't work. I am too annoyed to make sentences work.

Anyway.

This time, the letter from his Rabbi neglected to state that he was Jewish. He should have whipped out the picture of his grandfather with his gloriously Jewish shnozola and removed all doubts.

So Coco-pop doesn't have insurance since her temporary one-year insurance ran out (see, they know it takes a YEAR to get on the insurance. Proof! That they do it ON PURPOSE! Arrrrrgh! And me with no vodka in the freezer! The timing could not be worse!)

It's a 4. It's just a 4. A blip on the radar of alarm.

Speaking of blips and radars, Coco-pop just woke up from her nap. Her cry sounds a little...nasal? A little snotty? A little....sick?

Oh G-d. Just let me know when I can panic. I'll be sitting here, waiting, drinking warm vodka and orange juice.

Baby Talk

Princess: Ima, Coco-pop is big already.

Me: Yes, she is getting big, isn't she? You both play so nicely--

Princess: She's too big to be the baby anymore.

Me: Well, she's a big baby.

Princess: No. She's a toddler.

Me: I thought you were a toddler.

Princess: (eye roll) Nooooo. I am the huge big girl.

Me: Ah.

Princess: (a look that says, as I was saying, before your ridiculous interruption) so we have a toddler and a huge big girl, and no baby.

Me: Oh. Yes, well. Okay.

Princess: We need a baby.

Me: Do you want more ketchup with your chicken?

Princess: I'm gonna daven for a baby.

Me: Um! Okay. Just make sure that you daven that the baby should come in the right time.

Princess: (nods) How about right after lunch?

Gotta be me, just gotta be me

Outdoorsman has been coming home for the last few days sweaty, tired, aching, covered in a layer of fine white dust, and happier than I've seen him for a long time. He got a contracting job, he's making money and working with his hands at something that he is really good at. He's learning better as a result, because his head is clearer (though slightly sweatier and dustier) and he is Hunter-Provider. Hear him roar.

I'm so happy that he is happy, and really, the money thing will be good, too. Okay, it will be great. Until they come out with a diaper and yogurt tree, we kind of need it.

So what's the problem, you ask? I'll tell you.

Did I mention that I work at the bottom-most rung of Ramat Eshkol society? I am a babysitter. I babysit babies and change their poopy diapers and let them spit up on my carpet and drool on my toys and pass on various bugs and diseases to my kids, my husband, and I while their mommies go off and do Very Important Things.

Outdoorsman never wanted me to work. He wants to Provide while I be a full-time SAHM. Change my own babies' poopy diapers and let them spit up on my carpet and drool on the toys--but they would be pooping my babies' poop and spit up my babies' spit up and drooling on their own toys, so it's different, you see. Plus, I might actually have more energy for the endless book reading marathons and the more-than-occasional tantrum and the startling questions--

(Princess-"Ima, if there are boy birds and girl birds, how can the birds know if they are a boy or a girl?"
Me--"erm...maybe it's written on the bottom?"
Coco-pop-"Bird!")

So. Bear all the canclulations in mind. My work is not exactly glorious. It also takes its toll on my mothering and energy levels. My husband wants nothing more than for me to be free to be the best mother and wife that I can be. A+B=C. Or something mathematical like that.

So why, when Outdoorsman triumphantly informs me that I do not have to work next year, that it's finally going to all work out, why do I just feel a sense of loss? How can my sense of self possibly be wrapped up in this?

I think that maybe it has to do with the 36-hour day that we women are supposed to have. The day where it's the best thing in the world to be home with the kids that you, after all, brought into this world, but have you no self-respect, woman? What are you, a baby and diaper machine? So hence, the 36-hour day. Viola! You stay home with your kids, and have a full-time career at the same time! It takes on new dimensions in a kollel community, where working in order for your husband to learn is held so sacred. The ice-coffee-beat women, those black-clad pouty-lipped dependantly wealthy girls are held (by me as well, I must admit) in distain.

I guess I'm afraid that I will become A Lady In Black.

No, that's a lie. I'm not afraid of becoming one of them. It goes very much against my nature, and besides, the last time that I was a size 2, I was officially admitted to a rehab for anorexia. My twenty extra pounds and I are bound for rehab no longer. No, what I am afraid of is even more embarrassing.

I am afraid that people will think that I am one of them.

I will find myself explaining. (I'm looking for work, I don't know how it got this way, on second thought I'll put back the oranges, they are so expensive, you know how it is, and so do I because I'm also not a free-loader.)

I am 27 years old. I have two kids. I have been married for 5 years. (Reverse the order of those last two, on second thought.) How long will what they might think control what I do?

Happy Father's Day

My father came home from the hospital last night. Or yesterday? Um. Time difference. Makes me feel all sci-fi-like, and as if I did that whole going back in time thing and accidentally killed someone's great-great-grandpa and now the whole planet is under the dark dictatorship of the giant cheeesy mushroom people.

Mmmm, cheesy mushrooms.

Anyway. He's home, at least for now, and his infection is cleared up, and he's back to himself, which means basically that he can smile if he tries, but that's about it. Multiple Sclerosis makes the giant cheesy mushroom people look like kindly old blue-haired cashiers.

The cause of death for many M.S. sufferers, statisticially, is euthanasia. The physical agony, the slow degeneration of a once vibrant person, the pride-robbing dependance-- And someone in my family said recently, when this newest wrinkle developed, "maybe he should just stay home, and let the infection take its course." My mother repeated the comment to me without rancor and added dryly, "pretty cold-blooded, huh?"

Um, yeah.

I know that there is a huge world-wide debate about euthanasia, the side for citing dignity for the ill person.

I don't think that that is what it is at all. It's about productivity. We don't consider people useful, viable, contributing members of society if they are not, well, contributing and viable. And useful. My father does not seem to be any of those things anymore.

I heard a wonderful tape by a wonderful Rabbi (Rabbi Frand, maybe? I don't remember the names of my best friends--really embarrassing story just happened with that, I'll post about it when the blush fades--so the names of the Rabbis are definitely pick-a-rabbi style) who said that it is not "quality of life" that makes someone alive. Rather it is "sanctity of life."

Life is sacred and precious in and of itself. That is why we have children, even in a world that knows darkness and pain and will one day be ruled by the cheesy mushroom people as soon as I figure out what to fuel my time machine with. My father's life is sacred and unique and has worth simply because he is alive.

That is how my mother has the strength to do what she does. That is why my father is still alive so many years after the doctors gave him 6 months. I remember when Christopher Reeves (with whom my father bears a striking resemblance to) died of complications of a bedsore. Those kind of things are taken care of right away on my mother's watch. Because she cares and loves him. Because she has the sacred mission not only of having brought brought 10 souls into this world, but of preserving this one, this one whose body may seem to be growing sicker and sicker but whose essence shines with a light from the eternal.

Second Star to the Right

When we were little, my siblings and I would sit up at night for hours and fantisize about how it would be when we grew up. We would all get married and live in the same little town. It would be close enough to the city that we wouldn't get bored, but far into the country that we so loved and lost ourselves in every summer. And we would have it all to ourselves.


When you grow up in a tight knit--and large--family like mine, the rest of the world is faded compared to the vibrant colors of home. I never suffered from peer pressure. All I wanted to be was just like my big sisters, and my little sisters want to be just like me. We had our own language, our own games, our own way of looking at the world. We are all tall and when we all walk together we walk taller. Green eyed, light skinned, prone to laughter and a slightly sarcastic sense of humor, we would live together forever.


Husbands and kids and stuff too, of course.

Then we really did grow up. Got husbands and kids and stuff.

And moved far away from each other.

As of August, when some visiting siblings blow this joint, ('cause "blow this joint" sounds light and like I don't even really care that they are all LEAVING ME) I will live 6,000 miles from the nearest green-eyed, light skinned (slightly) sarcastic sister.

It's not that I don't love my new little family with all my heart. It's just that when I play scrabble with my husband, we don't play the way I played growing up (namely, flipping your board around and saying, "OMG, I have the worst letters ever. Does anyone have a T?" And then someone handing you a T.) and actually, that's not it, either. It's fun to play by the real rules sometimes. And adding staight hair and brown eyes to the gene pool is good, too.

And honestly...you can't ever go back, so maybe that's what this is about. You can't grow up and still have things stay the same. I can't be a mother and make (the right?) choices for my family and still run from the friday night shabbas table with my siblings and play "fire" as the laughter and singing from the adults left at the table wafted into the darkness of the den.

But it's not about that, either, is it? I was not the happiest child. I don't really want to be a child again. I just...want...things to be...simple. Like the tormenting thoughts that visit at night and after I ate something that I shouldn't have; am I a good mother? a good enough wife? do I bring joy to my home? are we making the right decisions about our children's future? do I give my husband the confidence that he needs and the love he deserves?

That self-doubt and worry versus being 10 siblings strong, strong enough to be our own community, strong enough to be our own bulwark against anything dark and scary and unknown. When we had all the answers and knew just what the future was going to be like-- namely, us, together, having fun.

I miss that.

I do miss that.

That I'm all grown up and too big to fly again to NeverNever Land makes me a little sad.

I'm just sad that everyone is leaving.

Just a little sad.

Backwards, turn backwards O Time, in Your flight
Make me a child again, just for tonight
...
Rock me to sleep, Mother,
Rock me to sleep!