His teeth were big and white, with spaces in between each one. His hair and beard were trimmed short. His skin was dark and his eyes had smile-lines that extended from behind the sunglasses.
Arab, I thought.
I loaded up the carriage and kids anyway and told him where we needed to go. My husband waved goodbye. "Call me the second you get there," he said.
The driver looked at me in the mirror. "Call him, he is a little afraid maybe of me."
I laughed a little, but clutched the phone.
"What is your name?" He asked Princess.
"Princess," she whispered.
"A beautiful name!" He said. He smiled. It was a very nice smile. "What a lucky girl to have such a beautiful name."
He waved at a police officer and shouted out a greeting in Arabic. The police officer answered in monotone Hebrew. "You see," he said. "He is a Bedouin. They pretend not to speak Arabic." He smiled again.
I shifted the baby, who had fallen asleep, to my other side and nudged Coco-pop, who was falling asleep.
He turned back to Princess. "Do you love Chanuka?" He said.
She nodded.
He smiled.
"Do you have a holiday like that, with lights in the winter?" I asked.
"No," he said. "But we light a fire when it is cold."
"These kind of lights are for the cold you feel inside. In your soul. You know, because of the winter and the dark. The lights make you feel like everything is going to be okay. That in the heart of winter, of sadness, it's already halfway over."
He looked thoughtful. "We light lights on Ramadan. Shaped like a moon, you know, like a banana. It is very pretty."
"It sounds pretty."
"But expensive."
"Ah."
A few minutes of silence. I adjusted Coco-pop's head, which had flopped forward, and put the phone into my pocket.
"Do you dress like that?" He pointed.
I looked, but saw nothing. "Like what?"
"There was a woman, wearing clothes from top to bottom, but so tight it was like she was wearing nothing. It is not right. It is not for a woman's honor, to dress like that."
"I agree. It is not tzniut."
"What is tzniut?" He asked.
"Like...well, like what you said. A woman's honor."
"Ah. Yes."
We arrived. He took the stroller out and gave me change. He smiled at Princess. "Chamuda," he said. He chucked a sleepy Coco-pop under her chin.
I took the stroller from him. "Toda," I said.
"Call your husband!" He said. "He shouldn't worry."
"Toda," I said again.Do you hate me? I didn't say. How can you hate me?
I didn't say it. And then he was gone.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
It Could Always Be Worse
Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a kingdom by the sea, except there was no sea because this was really in a tiny shtetl with no sea at all but that's just how these stories start, just ignore the sea part, there was a man who lived in a tiny little house. It was crowded with his family members, so crowded that he felt like he couldn't breathe.
So he goes to the Rabbi and recounts his troubles with much sighing of the sighs and crechtzing of the crechtzs. Farm animals! Says the Rabbi. Many many much of them.Bring them into your house and let them frolic!
Long story short, when he let the animals go, the house felt much bigger. And he was so happy, he felt like he really was living in a kingdom by the sea. The end.
I live in 87 square meters. It is crowded with my progeny and husband who has many much hobbies and also tools for his legitimate jobs. Also, the bird.
My two little sisters (and their two suprise friends! Surprise!) Will be here for two and a half weeks.
They are cute and I'm so glad that they are here!
I cleared off some shelves for them to put their stuff on. The shelves used to be filled with Princess' and Coco-pop's clothes. I put their clothes on the bookshelves and the books on the toy shelves and the toys in the fridge and the food--well, everyone ate it. So now I have to go make more food.If I can just squish past all the people in here to get to the stove.
So.
I feel like it is a much less barnyard-y solution to my problem. Come the middle of January, and my house will be so big, I will be fishing at my kingdom's sea.
So he goes to the Rabbi and recounts his troubles with much sighing of the sighs and crechtzing of the crechtzs. Farm animals! Says the Rabbi. Many many much of them.Bring them into your house and let them frolic!
Long story short, when he let the animals go, the house felt much bigger. And he was so happy, he felt like he really was living in a kingdom by the sea. The end.
I live in 87 square meters. It is crowded with my progeny and husband who has many much hobbies and also tools for his legitimate jobs. Also, the bird.
My two little sisters (and their two suprise friends! Surprise!) Will be here for two and a half weeks.
They are cute and I'm so glad that they are here!
I cleared off some shelves for them to put their stuff on. The shelves used to be filled with Princess' and Coco-pop's clothes. I put their clothes on the bookshelves and the books on the toy shelves and the toys in the fridge and the food--well, everyone ate it. So now I have to go make more food.If I can just squish past all the people in here to get to the stove.
So.
I feel like it is a much less barnyard-y solution to my problem. Come the middle of January, and my house will be so big, I will be fishing at my kingdom's sea.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Blink
I put the baby in for the night (well, one can always hope) and then served the girls dinner. I then ran to the computer to squeeze in a few minutes of writing.
"Ima sit with us," said Princess.
"How do you ask for something?" The question rises automatically. I didn't even hear what she said. 'Slither' is a better word than 'slide,' I thought. I changed the word. Then I changed it back. Hmmm.
"Ima, can you please sit with us?"
"Much better," I said. Slither. Slide. I stare at the sentence.
"...so, can you now?"
"Now what?" I look up at them, sitting by the table. They are both holding their forks. It is a dinner that they both like. Did they want something else? "Do you want ketchup with that?"
"No!" Princess said. "SIT with us."
"How do you ask?" says I.
Really? said Princess' eyebrows.
Did I already say that? "I'm coming!" I said. I came. I sat down. I wiggled a bit. "Eat your dinner, girls," I said. Slither...?
"Ima, can you feed me?" said Coco-pop.
"Three bites, and then you eat the rest yourself, okay?" Slide.
"Also me," said Princess.
I nod. They're both good words. I think I can use both if I--oh, perfect! "One second, okay?" I bolt over to the computer and quickly type in the sentence. "The smile slithered off of his face like raw egg sliding down the wall."
"Ima!"
I hurried over and sat. I faced my girls and fed them each three bites and thought about the sentence. Was it too fun? Was it kind of gross? Was it gross but also funny? Does the grossness cancel out the funny? I wanted to run back to the computer and look at it, in black and white. Coco-pop wiggled her nose at me. I wiggled mine back. We both laughed. I fed her one more bite and pinched her nose lightly. Then I pinched Princess'. She made an I am too big for this face but her dimple peeked out.
"Ima, you know that today when I was walking to school I fell on my knee and I cried because I had blood and then I walked to school like this--" she slid off of her chair and demonstrated a hobble--"and then I got there and showed it to my morah and she said she gave me a band-aid."
Princess cries when she hurts her finger and there is not a mark. She asks for band-aids anyway, saying, "Any MINUTE now it's going to bleed, I know it!" I could not picture her walking to school with torn tights and a bloody knee.
"You were walking with M?"
"No, because she walked ahead."
"You were walking by yourself?"
"Yes."
I blinked at her, this big girl of mine. "And you just walked to school?"
"Yes because then I would be late if I just stayed and cried and cried!"
Big girl. Great big girl, walking to school by herself ignoring her fears and pain because she would be late.
Blink and you miss it. There they are, eating dinner, and here I am, at the table with them. The story is not yet done, the laundry not yet folded, but we are sitting in the middle of all of that, a moment in time that I can see and be a part of as long as I keep my eyes open.
(She threw a fit five minutes later about a cuticle, my big little girl. But you have to watch all of the minutes for the kind of moments that make you realize why.)
"Ima sit with us," said Princess.
"How do you ask for something?" The question rises automatically. I didn't even hear what she said. 'Slither' is a better word than 'slide,' I thought. I changed the word. Then I changed it back. Hmmm.
"Ima, can you please sit with us?"
"Much better," I said. Slither. Slide. I stare at the sentence.
"...so, can you now?"
"Now what?" I look up at them, sitting by the table. They are both holding their forks. It is a dinner that they both like. Did they want something else? "Do you want ketchup with that?"
"No!" Princess said. "SIT with us."
"How do you ask?" says I.
Really? said Princess' eyebrows.
Did I already say that? "I'm coming!" I said. I came. I sat down. I wiggled a bit. "Eat your dinner, girls," I said. Slither...?
"Ima, can you feed me?" said Coco-pop.
"Three bites, and then you eat the rest yourself, okay?" Slide.
"Also me," said Princess.
I nod. They're both good words. I think I can use both if I--oh, perfect! "One second, okay?" I bolt over to the computer and quickly type in the sentence. "The smile slithered off of his face like raw egg sliding down the wall."
"Ima!"
I hurried over and sat. I faced my girls and fed them each three bites and thought about the sentence. Was it too fun? Was it kind of gross? Was it gross but also funny? Does the grossness cancel out the funny? I wanted to run back to the computer and look at it, in black and white. Coco-pop wiggled her nose at me. I wiggled mine back. We both laughed. I fed her one more bite and pinched her nose lightly. Then I pinched Princess'. She made an I am too big for this face but her dimple peeked out.
"Ima, you know that today when I was walking to school I fell on my knee and I cried because I had blood and then I walked to school like this--" she slid off of her chair and demonstrated a hobble--"and then I got there and showed it to my morah and she said she gave me a band-aid."
Princess cries when she hurts her finger and there is not a mark. She asks for band-aids anyway, saying, "Any MINUTE now it's going to bleed, I know it!" I could not picture her walking to school with torn tights and a bloody knee.
"You were walking with M?"
"No, because she walked ahead."
"You were walking by yourself?"
"Yes."
I blinked at her, this big girl of mine. "And you just walked to school?"
"Yes because then I would be late if I just stayed and cried and cried!"
Big girl. Great big girl, walking to school by herself ignoring her fears and pain because she would be late.
Blink and you miss it. There they are, eating dinner, and here I am, at the table with them. The story is not yet done, the laundry not yet folded, but we are sitting in the middle of all of that, a moment in time that I can see and be a part of as long as I keep my eyes open.
(She threw a fit five minutes later about a cuticle, my big little girl. But you have to watch all of the minutes for the kind of moments that make you realize why.)
Wishing You were Somehow Here Again
I have been busy lately. Productive busy. The kind of busy that when you fall asleep, sometimes you're still dressed. Good busy. But very busy.
I went to Coco-pop's Chanuka Mesiba today. She glowed, singing the songs. My camera only shows glimpses of her; the Very Animated girl to her left enthusiastically blocked her with every shake of her candle pom-pom and her menorah cymbal, but they were very sweet glimpses.
I am not a huge fan of the productions they do in this country. They are flashy and fancy and the music they play for the girls to sing along with has a singer that completely drown them out. As I have mentioned before, I think it is a very group-think oriented exersise and goes against my American grain. I try very hard to see the positive in it, but here was positive; Coco-pop's smile and the little line betwen her eyebrows as she concentrated on remembering all of the words to the songs.
I sit in the little tiny chair, filming my girl (and her animated bench-mate) for five minutes before the battery runs out on the camera. Oops. The rest of the time I sit and watch. She is so cute. Then the mesaba winds to a close. Not! The mesaba launches into another song. It is long, the animated girl is blocking Coco-pop again, and I sit on the tiny chair holding a dead camera doing nothing for the first time in a while. And I'm thinking, Abba, Abba, I miss you so much Abba. I am suddenly aware that tears are rolling down my cheeks. Mortified, I wipe my face. They keep coming.
I think of Coco-pop, how sensitive she is to my moods and how excited she was about this day. I do not want to ruin it for her. But I can't stop myself.
Someone leans over and asks me a question. I smile and answer and do my best to get into a conversation with her in my sin-against-humanity awful Hebrew. I distract myself seaching for a word and the tears stop.
I keep busy. So busy. Because underneath the busy all I am thinking is,Abba, Abba, I miss you so much Abba.
Coco-pop wants to know what Sabba is doing in shamayim.
He is walking and talking up there. He is basking in the light of the shechina, I tell her, I tell myself. He is free. He is at peace.
I know that.
I'm not sad for him.
I'm sad for me.
I went to Coco-pop's Chanuka Mesiba today. She glowed, singing the songs. My camera only shows glimpses of her; the Very Animated girl to her left enthusiastically blocked her with every shake of her candle pom-pom and her menorah cymbal, but they were very sweet glimpses.
I am not a huge fan of the productions they do in this country. They are flashy and fancy and the music they play for the girls to sing along with has a singer that completely drown them out. As I have mentioned before, I think it is a very group-think oriented exersise and goes against my American grain. I try very hard to see the positive in it, but here was positive; Coco-pop's smile and the little line betwen her eyebrows as she concentrated on remembering all of the words to the songs.
I sit in the little tiny chair, filming my girl (and her animated bench-mate) for five minutes before the battery runs out on the camera. Oops. The rest of the time I sit and watch. She is so cute. Then the mesaba winds to a close. Not! The mesaba launches into another song. It is long, the animated girl is blocking Coco-pop again, and I sit on the tiny chair holding a dead camera doing nothing for the first time in a while. And I'm thinking, Abba, Abba, I miss you so much Abba. I am suddenly aware that tears are rolling down my cheeks. Mortified, I wipe my face. They keep coming.
I think of Coco-pop, how sensitive she is to my moods and how excited she was about this day. I do not want to ruin it for her. But I can't stop myself.
Someone leans over and asks me a question. I smile and answer and do my best to get into a conversation with her in my sin-against-humanity awful Hebrew. I distract myself seaching for a word and the tears stop.
I keep busy. So busy. Because underneath the busy all I am thinking is,Abba, Abba, I miss you so much Abba.
Coco-pop wants to know what Sabba is doing in shamayim.
He is walking and talking up there. He is basking in the light of the shechina, I tell her, I tell myself. He is free. He is at peace.
I know that.
I'm not sad for him.
I'm sad for me.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
It's All Good
Remember when I indicated that it can be hard to find something to be grateful for when life gangs up on you?
I am ashamed. I am ashamed in the face of my father.
My sister, M, had a final to study for. So naturally, she cleaned her room and baked a cake, made a slide show that she had promised a friend she would make but had been pushing off, and polished her shoes. Then she poured herself a big cup of coffee and decided to go through all of the old files on the family computer. It seemed timely.
She found a folder labeled "My Thoughts." It had last been updated in 2002. She opened it.
And this is some of what she found.
I want to thank HaShem for all the good that he has given me.
I’ D LIKE TO THANK HASHEM FOR GIVING ME THESE YISSURIM, SO THAT I CAN HAVE A GREAT REWARD WAITING FOR ME IN THE WORLD TO COME.
I want to thank HaShem for giving me this house, next door to a shul and a yeshiva, a with a ramp.
A rich man is one who is happy with his lot.
Looking for the Chesed in the “Ra”…if I wouldn’t be in my wheelchair, I wouldn’t learn my Mishnayos.
I keep saying to myself that “Mitzvah Gedolah Lehios B’simcha Tamid” (to rejoice always is very meritorious).
Everything is for the best.
I want to quote Christopher Reeves, “I am not my body, I am not my body.”
I’d like to thank HaShem for (my wife) and for my 10 healthy kids.
In 2002 my father was nearly blind. He was able to sit for a few hours a day in his wheelchair. He was able to support on hand with the other and type painfully and slowly with one finger.
And this is what he did with that one, nearly numb finger. He thought and typed out ways in which he could be grateful to Hashem for the illness that was robbing him of everything.
After 2002, my father could no longer sit in the wheel chair or move even one finger. But a friend of his just told us that once a week my father, bedridden and hooked up to feeding tubes and colostomy bags, would tell him what he was grateful for that week. He could barely talk, but he would breathe out words filled with happiness at his lot in life.
He had all the words even though he could not talk.
I, who can talk, am speechless.
I am ashamed. I am ashamed in the face of my father.
My sister, M, had a final to study for. So naturally, she cleaned her room and baked a cake, made a slide show that she had promised a friend she would make but had been pushing off, and polished her shoes. Then she poured herself a big cup of coffee and decided to go through all of the old files on the family computer. It seemed timely.
She found a folder labeled "My Thoughts." It had last been updated in 2002. She opened it.
And this is some of what she found.
I want to thank HaShem for all the good that he has given me.
I’ D LIKE TO THANK HASHEM FOR GIVING ME THESE YISSURIM, SO THAT I CAN HAVE A GREAT REWARD WAITING FOR ME IN THE WORLD TO COME.
I want to thank HaShem for giving me this house, next door to a shul and a yeshiva, a with a ramp.
A rich man is one who is happy with his lot.
Looking for the Chesed in the “Ra”…if I wouldn’t be in my wheelchair, I wouldn’t learn my Mishnayos.
I keep saying to myself that “Mitzvah Gedolah Lehios B’simcha Tamid” (to rejoice always is very meritorious).
Everything is for the best.
I want to quote Christopher Reeves, “I am not my body, I am not my body.”
I’d like to thank HaShem for (my wife) and for my 10 healthy kids.
In 2002 my father was nearly blind. He was able to sit for a few hours a day in his wheelchair. He was able to support on hand with the other and type painfully and slowly with one finger.
And this is what he did with that one, nearly numb finger. He thought and typed out ways in which he could be grateful to Hashem for the illness that was robbing him of everything.
After 2002, my father could no longer sit in the wheel chair or move even one finger. But a friend of his just told us that once a week my father, bedridden and hooked up to feeding tubes and colostomy bags, would tell him what he was grateful for that week. He could barely talk, but he would breathe out words filled with happiness at his lot in life.
He had all the words even though he could not talk.
I, who can talk, am speechless.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
I, Ima
Turtle can walk now.
Horray for Turtle!
Turtle can now climb onto the couch.
He can open the toddler-proof containers. He broke the child-locks on my cabinets. He adores cleaning the toilet with the toilet brush and his head. He goes on his tippy-toes to empty the silverware onto the floor and he broke all of my favorite mugs.
He smiles and snuggles and then pulls all of the wires out of their sockets. He broke my cellphone and got stuck under the bunkbed. He tries to climb up the ladder to the top bunk. He climbs into the bathtub and turns on the water.
I have never sent a child to gan until they were three years old. I have always worked around this, around having them home. I have catered from home, babysat, directed plays with an infant on my lap, tutored with the baby between my knees, Typed stories with one finger while feeding a toddler with the other hand.
Outdoorsman watched Turtle for two hours on Shabbas while I napped. I slept so soundly, I did not hear the noise that a toddler makes when he pulls the sandwhich maker out of the cabinet and pulls the milk pitcher off the counter.
I woke up and stumbled into the living room. "Thanks so much. That was great," I said to my beloved helpmeet.
My beloved helpmeet met my eyes. "Send him to gan," he uttered.
"There is no gan on shabbas," I laughed. Silly husbands.
"No, really. How do you do this every day? No wonder you're all frazzled lately."
I bristled. I am not all frazzled lately. "I am not all frazzled lately," I countered. I am totally all frazzled lately.
"Seriously, D. You should send him out. A few times a week. He'll love it, you know he will."
And you know what the problem is? He will. He will love it. He loves other babies. He is just so bored at home with me, and I can't take him out because he keeps getting colds and it's freezing out now, so I try to play with him but he needs more than that. He needs friends.
It's another expense, though. It's a lot of money. I was happy calculating how much money I was saving by having him home and counting it as money that I was earning by not spending it. If that makes sense. I do the same for my lack of cleaning help, and low-cost dinners. I'm proud of being a low maintanance wife. But how can I know which corners I'm not supposed to cut?
Well, let's look at this logically.
He would love it. And he would.
We'd find the money. Outdoorsman said it's feasable.
What else is left, that I'm still fighting this?
Me. I'm left.
I keep my kids home until they're three.
Me.
I.
Ego.
It makes me cry to think that no matter how altruistic I think I'm being, everything boils down to this.
Horray for Turtle!
Turtle can now climb onto the couch.
He can open the toddler-proof containers. He broke the child-locks on my cabinets. He adores cleaning the toilet with the toilet brush and his head. He goes on his tippy-toes to empty the silverware onto the floor and he broke all of my favorite mugs.
He smiles and snuggles and then pulls all of the wires out of their sockets. He broke my cellphone and got stuck under the bunkbed. He tries to climb up the ladder to the top bunk. He climbs into the bathtub and turns on the water.
I have never sent a child to gan until they were three years old. I have always worked around this, around having them home. I have catered from home, babysat, directed plays with an infant on my lap, tutored with the baby between my knees, Typed stories with one finger while feeding a toddler with the other hand.
Outdoorsman watched Turtle for two hours on Shabbas while I napped. I slept so soundly, I did not hear the noise that a toddler makes when he pulls the sandwhich maker out of the cabinet and pulls the milk pitcher off the counter.
I woke up and stumbled into the living room. "Thanks so much. That was great," I said to my beloved helpmeet.
My beloved helpmeet met my eyes. "Send him to gan," he uttered.
"There is no gan on shabbas," I laughed. Silly husbands.
"No, really. How do you do this every day? No wonder you're all frazzled lately."
I bristled. I am not all frazzled lately. "I am not all frazzled lately," I countered. I am totally all frazzled lately.
"Seriously, D. You should send him out. A few times a week. He'll love it, you know he will."
And you know what the problem is? He will. He will love it. He loves other babies. He is just so bored at home with me, and I can't take him out because he keeps getting colds and it's freezing out now, so I try to play with him but he needs more than that. He needs friends.
It's another expense, though. It's a lot of money. I was happy calculating how much money I was saving by having him home and counting it as money that I was earning by not spending it. If that makes sense. I do the same for my lack of cleaning help, and low-cost dinners. I'm proud of being a low maintanance wife. But how can I know which corners I'm not supposed to cut?
Well, let's look at this logically.
He would love it. And he would.
We'd find the money. Outdoorsman said it's feasable.
What else is left, that I'm still fighting this?
Me. I'm left.
I keep my kids home until they're three.
Me.
I.
Ego.
It makes me cry to think that no matter how altruistic I think I'm being, everything boils down to this.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Elokai Nishama
I am just getting over a stomach bug that left me with this feeling of never wanting to put anything unantural in my body again.
It was just a bug, I think, it wasn't actually something I ate, but I feel oddly cleansed, and anything processed makes my stomach lurch.
It's funny. I think we actually always know what our body wants. That line that goes 'inside every fat girl is a skinny girl screaming to get out, but I can usually shut her up with some cookies' has some truth it it. It's not about being skinny though; it's about not treating our bodies like garbage cans. Eating right, I think, can be simple if we would just learn to listen to what our bodies are saying.
I remember my birthing class teacher saying something to this effect, her beaded necklaces jangling against each other as she leaned forward to emphasise the point. "Listen to your bodies, girls."
It was hot. We were sweaty. We were pregnant.
And because I am really 14 years old, I said, "My body says...iiiiice cream."
She laughed. In a very polite way, I think.
Point is (and I did have a point, believe it our not)that when you throw awesome tasting junk at a person like the 20th and 21st centuries have done to us (devil dogs. I cannot be alone in this.)the real signals grow weak. Like a flashlight with a dying battery in a dark forest.
But we can scrape it all away and feel the truth, because that's just how awesome we are.
I had a teacher many a moon ago who was going on and on about how awful my generation is. On and on, and we were sitting there, taking it, taking notes!
I stood up. I should not have. I was not her favorite. "We rock," I said. "We have so much garbage to deal with and we are still frum, still keeping the faith! That means we are awesome! We have to fight through so much sheker to hear the truth, and we still hear it."
The class clapped.
I might have gone on from there to blame her generation for raising us poorly because once my mouth is in motion, it takes a lever the size that can move a planet to stop it from doing that. But moving past that.
We can move past it.
Because we start off so pure.
Coco-pop said to me as we were walking to gan, "In M's house, they played not Jewish music."
This didn't sound right to me. I strained my morning brain to remember. M's house. We were there yesterday. They were playing something, like one of those annoying Jewish boys bands. "It was Jewish, Coco-pop," I said.
She shook her head. "It was NOT."
And I don't know what defines "Jewish" music (I just know that I only like a very narrow section of it) but to Coco-pop's innocent ears, that wasn't it. And I would have to agree.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't just play D'vekus 'round here. Outdoorsman and I have pretty interesting and varied tastes in music. I think we listen to good music. I think that good music is important.
But we start off pure, and we can feel when things are off.
I asked Rebbetzin Heller once what she thought about a specific tznius book the color and size of Barney the Purple Dinosaur. She said, "Why do you need 800 pages to tell you to cover your knees and elbows?"
It's buried under an avalanche of pages of Cosmo and Vogue. And maybe even under rules and measuring tapes brought out by well-meaning teachers. But I think that underneath, a light glows. We just have to dig deep down. We know what real tnuius is, each of us, inside.
We know what truth is. Hashem planted it in us from when we were young and pure.
And every morning that pure soul is returned to each of us.
It was just a bug, I think, it wasn't actually something I ate, but I feel oddly cleansed, and anything processed makes my stomach lurch.
It's funny. I think we actually always know what our body wants. That line that goes 'inside every fat girl is a skinny girl screaming to get out, but I can usually shut her up with some cookies' has some truth it it. It's not about being skinny though; it's about not treating our bodies like garbage cans. Eating right, I think, can be simple if we would just learn to listen to what our bodies are saying.
I remember my birthing class teacher saying something to this effect, her beaded necklaces jangling against each other as she leaned forward to emphasise the point. "Listen to your bodies, girls."
It was hot. We were sweaty. We were pregnant.
And because I am really 14 years old, I said, "My body says...iiiiice cream."
She laughed. In a very polite way, I think.
Point is (and I did have a point, believe it our not)that when you throw awesome tasting junk at a person like the 20th and 21st centuries have done to us (devil dogs. I cannot be alone in this.)the real signals grow weak. Like a flashlight with a dying battery in a dark forest.
But we can scrape it all away and feel the truth, because that's just how awesome we are.
I had a teacher many a moon ago who was going on and on about how awful my generation is. On and on, and we were sitting there, taking it, taking notes!
I stood up. I should not have. I was not her favorite. "We rock," I said. "We have so much garbage to deal with and we are still frum, still keeping the faith! That means we are awesome! We have to fight through so much sheker to hear the truth, and we still hear it."
The class clapped.
I might have gone on from there to blame her generation for raising us poorly because once my mouth is in motion, it takes a lever the size that can move a planet to stop it from doing that. But moving past that.
We can move past it.
Because we start off so pure.
Coco-pop said to me as we were walking to gan, "In M's house, they played not Jewish music."
This didn't sound right to me. I strained my morning brain to remember. M's house. We were there yesterday. They were playing something, like one of those annoying Jewish boys bands. "It was Jewish, Coco-pop," I said.
She shook her head. "It was NOT."
And I don't know what defines "Jewish" music (I just know that I only like a very narrow section of it) but to Coco-pop's innocent ears, that wasn't it. And I would have to agree.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't just play D'vekus 'round here. Outdoorsman and I have pretty interesting and varied tastes in music. I think we listen to good music. I think that good music is important.
But we start off pure, and we can feel when things are off.
I asked Rebbetzin Heller once what she thought about a specific tznius book the color and size of Barney the Purple Dinosaur. She said, "Why do you need 800 pages to tell you to cover your knees and elbows?"
It's buried under an avalanche of pages of Cosmo and Vogue. And maybe even under rules and measuring tapes brought out by well-meaning teachers. But I think that underneath, a light glows. We just have to dig deep down. We know what real tnuius is, each of us, inside.
We know what truth is. Hashem planted it in us from when we were young and pure.
And every morning that pure soul is returned to each of us.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Time in Your Flight
Once there were four families who lived in one neighborhood. They were all good friends. They went to each other's houses for Shabbas meals, the kids had playdates together, the fathers would have boys night and smoke some cigars and the mothers would get together for coffee.
All was peachy and dandy and other words from the 50's indicating contentment.
In the back of one of the mother's minds there was a shoe. And she was waiting for it to drop.
(Because it always does, she thought.)
Bang.
One of the families decide to move away.
Bang.
One of the families is talking about how they, too, do not belong here, maybe not in this country.
Bang.
One of the families is talking about something--terrible. So terrible.
You know how in novels there is the steady character, the static one, the straight man, who serves as our eyes in a changing world? That is the fourth couple, the last man standing. That would be us, the mutual friends to the rest of the families.
I am totally borrowing trouble.
(which I shouldn't because sometimes shoes hover in the air.)
(no they don't. Shoes don't hang in the air; that's ridiculous.)
(and anyway, you can't depend too much on friends. Because they're not family. Or their shoes. Because they're shoes.)
(I am having an arguement with myself in parenthesis.)
(I'll stop now.)
No one has moved yet. No one has signed any papers yet. No one has left the country yet. But I feel like the woman in the poem who dreams of turning back time, and of her her mother rocking to sleep again.
I just want things to stay the way they are.
Remember when we actually wanted to grow up?
Somebody hold me.
All was peachy and dandy and other words from the 50's indicating contentment.
In the back of one of the mother's minds there was a shoe. And she was waiting for it to drop.
(Because it always does, she thought.)
Bang.
One of the families decide to move away.
Bang.
One of the families is talking about how they, too, do not belong here, maybe not in this country.
Bang.
One of the families is talking about something--terrible. So terrible.
You know how in novels there is the steady character, the static one, the straight man, who serves as our eyes in a changing world? That is the fourth couple, the last man standing. That would be us, the mutual friends to the rest of the families.
I am totally borrowing trouble.
(which I shouldn't because sometimes shoes hover in the air.)
(no they don't. Shoes don't hang in the air; that's ridiculous.)
(and anyway, you can't depend too much on friends. Because they're not family. Or their shoes. Because they're shoes.)
(I am having an arguement with myself in parenthesis.)
(I'll stop now.)
No one has moved yet. No one has signed any papers yet. No one has left the country yet. But I feel like the woman in the poem who dreams of turning back time, and of her her mother rocking to sleep again.
I just want things to stay the way they are.
Remember when we actually wanted to grow up?
Somebody hold me.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
With the Moon on their Wing
"Ima, sing a new song that we never ever never heard before," said Princess.
"Ever never," added Coco-pop.
I scoured my mind. My head is full of countless musicals, and my kids have never seen a movie or show. They think that I make them up. Ima is Magic.I don't discourage this.
"Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens," I started."Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with string, these are a few of my favorite things."
When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad!
They loved it. They made me sing it over and over with all the stanzas until they knew all the words, too. I thought it was time for A Lesson For Life.
"You can sing this song when you're feeling sad! Or you can just close your eyes and think of all the things that you love, all the things that make you feel happy and safe. All the things that you are grateful for."
Princess had a dentist appointment the next day. I thought it was hashgacha pratis.
The next day in the dentist chair, her eyes were bugging out of her head and full of unshed tears. I held her hand gently and started singing, "Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudles, doorbells--"
She shot up, pushed the dentist's hands out of her mouth. The tears spilled down her cheeks. "Don't sing that!" she yelled. "Don't sing that song!"
Every friday night when I light the candles I thank Hashem for my family and children and husband and friends, and then I think of something new to be thankful for. I think of something every week, but in order to be sincere I need to be calm and comfortable. When it was a hard week, a hard day, or even, honesty forces me to admit, a hard last five minutes (think: the baby pulled the tablecloth off and he hasn't quite mastered the technique of leaving the dishes on when he does that) that put me into a bad mood, it's hard to find something new to feel grateful for.
We made a thanksgiving dinner on friday night and invited a bunch of friends. Jut for fun, really; we are stricter about Thanksgiving in Israel that we ever were in America. I looked around the table and thought about what a hard year it's been so far. And also what a wonderful year, and when things were hard, how my friends pitched in and helped. I felt an unexpected wave of happiness right there over my turkey and green beans. This is It. Knowing that there is bad and there is good and usually both at the same time. And knowing that there are people who love you who will help you through the bad and eat turkey with you through the good.
It wasn't until the next day that I realized I'd forgotten to serve the cranberry sauce.
"The cranberry sauce!" I wailed to Outdoorsman. "How could I have forgotten to serve that?! It's one of my favorite things with turkey!"
Coco-pop's ears perked up at the phrase My Favorite Things. "You love it like you love girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes?"
Princess said, "And snowflakes that stay on my nose and eylashes?"
"Hey," I said, because I am petty, "when you were at the dentist--"
But they were already twirling around the living room. "silver-white winters that melt into spring, these are a few of my favorite things!"
So much just in this room. And it's not old, to thank Hashem every week--every day, every moment--for my tempestuous dancing butterflies--because every second, they are renewed. Every second, they are made over fresh again for me.
I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don't feel so bad.
"Ever never," added Coco-pop.
I scoured my mind. My head is full of countless musicals, and my kids have never seen a movie or show. They think that I make them up. Ima is Magic.I don't discourage this.
"Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens," I started."Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with string, these are a few of my favorite things."
When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad!
They loved it. They made me sing it over and over with all the stanzas until they knew all the words, too. I thought it was time for A Lesson For Life.
"You can sing this song when you're feeling sad! Or you can just close your eyes and think of all the things that you love, all the things that make you feel happy and safe. All the things that you are grateful for."
Princess had a dentist appointment the next day. I thought it was hashgacha pratis.
The next day in the dentist chair, her eyes were bugging out of her head and full of unshed tears. I held her hand gently and started singing, "Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudles, doorbells--"
She shot up, pushed the dentist's hands out of her mouth. The tears spilled down her cheeks. "Don't sing that!" she yelled. "Don't sing that song!"
Every friday night when I light the candles I thank Hashem for my family and children and husband and friends, and then I think of something new to be thankful for. I think of something every week, but in order to be sincere I need to be calm and comfortable. When it was a hard week, a hard day, or even, honesty forces me to admit, a hard last five minutes (think: the baby pulled the tablecloth off and he hasn't quite mastered the technique of leaving the dishes on when he does that) that put me into a bad mood, it's hard to find something new to feel grateful for.
We made a thanksgiving dinner on friday night and invited a bunch of friends. Jut for fun, really; we are stricter about Thanksgiving in Israel that we ever were in America. I looked around the table and thought about what a hard year it's been so far. And also what a wonderful year, and when things were hard, how my friends pitched in and helped. I felt an unexpected wave of happiness right there over my turkey and green beans. This is It. Knowing that there is bad and there is good and usually both at the same time. And knowing that there are people who love you who will help you through the bad and eat turkey with you through the good.
It wasn't until the next day that I realized I'd forgotten to serve the cranberry sauce.
"The cranberry sauce!" I wailed to Outdoorsman. "How could I have forgotten to serve that?! It's one of my favorite things with turkey!"
Coco-pop's ears perked up at the phrase My Favorite Things. "You love it like you love girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes?"
Princess said, "And snowflakes that stay on my nose and eylashes?"
"Hey," I said, because I am petty, "when you were at the dentist--"
But they were already twirling around the living room. "silver-white winters that melt into spring, these are a few of my favorite things!"
So much just in this room. And it's not old, to thank Hashem every week--every day, every moment--for my tempestuous dancing butterflies--because every second, they are renewed. Every second, they are made over fresh again for me.
I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don't feel so bad.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Don't Worry 'bout a Thing
When I freelance,after I send an article or story in, I sit on the computer. I leave my e-mail open, and will it to show new mail. I peek at it all day long and then pretend that I did no such thing. When I make the baby' bottle at 2:45 in the morning I tiptoe, bleary-eyed and without my glasses to the computer to see if the editor wrote back. I sit on that story or article with a gun to its head. "Accept my story! Or this article gets it!"
I cannot leave good enough alone. Living with a variable is hard.
So multiply that a multiple amount of time, this inability to live with an unknown. Say your landlord--completely hypothetically of course!--tells you one day that he's selling, the next day maybe not, the third day selling and also but maybe not selling...yeah, I have no hair left in my scalp.
I have often thought of how wonderful it was that kids' skin and bones heal so quickly. How quickly they bounce back from a fall! But also, this afternoon, Coco-pop was playing with a friend in her room. This involved piling every toy we own onto her bed and making a three foot high Ima-Will-Cry-When-She-Sees-This. ANYWAY, they were busy turning my hair grey (I guess I do have a few strands left just for that purpose) and I escaped to the bathroom to resist the urge to straighten as they sit there playing. Because yes, I am that crazy. Also, I had to go to the bathroom. Turtle had beensmearing eating a peanut butter cracker sandwhich, but in my momentary absence galloped at full crawl into Coco-pop's room.
"Ima!" She shrieked.
"Yeah?" I called from the bathroom.
"He's ruining everything!"
I sighed. "Coco-pop, I'm in the bathroom."
"But Ima!"
I waited a beat. I hate this, I always have to rush out of the bath--
"Okay!" I heard Coco-pop's sweet little voice. "So it's his birthday and so the tower is a cake and he can eat the whole thing!"
The variable, effortlessly incorporated into her reality.
I have so much to learn from my 4 year-old.
I cannot leave good enough alone. Living with a variable is hard.
So multiply that a multiple amount of time, this inability to live with an unknown. Say your landlord--completely hypothetically of course!--tells you one day that he's selling, the next day maybe not, the third day selling and also but maybe not selling...yeah, I have no hair left in my scalp.
I have often thought of how wonderful it was that kids' skin and bones heal so quickly. How quickly they bounce back from a fall! But also, this afternoon, Coco-pop was playing with a friend in her room. This involved piling every toy we own onto her bed and making a three foot high Ima-Will-Cry-When-She-Sees-This. ANYWAY, they were busy turning my hair grey (I guess I do have a few strands left just for that purpose) and I escaped to the bathroom to resist the urge to straighten as they sit there playing. Because yes, I am that crazy. Also, I had to go to the bathroom. Turtle had been
"Ima!" She shrieked.
"Yeah?" I called from the bathroom.
"He's ruining everything!"
I sighed. "Coco-pop, I'm in the bathroom."
"But Ima!"
I waited a beat. I hate this, I always have to rush out of the bath--
"Okay!" I heard Coco-pop's sweet little voice. "So it's his birthday and so the tower is a cake and he can eat the whole thing!"
The variable, effortlessly incorporated into her reality.
I have so much to learn from my 4 year-old.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Turtle for a Day
(1) We can start with the footsie pajamas that I keep him in all day because the floor is so cold. Footsie pajamas. They are soft and warm. With footsies.
(2) He wakes up in the morning and is greeted as if he has been gone for years. He curls up on my lap and drinks warm milk. In footsie pajamas.
(3) The whole world is new. It's crazy exciting. Look! Blocks!So exciting--check these things out!
(4) Especially the new walking trick. Everytime, everyone flips out. Everytime! King of this town, baby!
(5) When he's tired, he sleeps. Oooooh. Sleeeeep. I could use me some of that.
(6) The world loves you just for being. You can drool, you can pull your sister's hair, you can steal the food right out of your mother's hand, and everyone turns dreamy puppy-dog eyes on you and lets you wipe random Turtle-gook all over their shoulders. And you get carried. Everywhere.
Oh, Turtle. I love you, my baby. And I would love to be you. Just for one day.
(2) He wakes up in the morning and is greeted as if he has been gone for years. He curls up on my lap and drinks warm milk. In footsie pajamas.
(3) The whole world is new. It's crazy exciting. Look! Blocks!So exciting--check these things out!
(4) Especially the new walking trick. Everytime, everyone flips out. Everytime! King of this town, baby!
(5) When he's tired, he sleeps. Oooooh. Sleeeeep. I could use me some of that.
(6) The world loves you just for being. You can drool, you can pull your sister's hair, you can steal the food right out of your mother's hand, and everyone turns dreamy puppy-dog eyes on you and lets you wipe random Turtle-gook all over their shoulders. And you get carried. Everywhere.
Oh, Turtle. I love you, my baby. And I would love to be you. Just for one day.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Excuses, excuses
Oh, this was impossible. It's three hours to shabbas. "Coco-pop, you need to move over. I can't reach the cabinet."
"But I'm making challa! Can I have sprinkles?"
"Challa doesn't--yes, here. Sprinkles. Just move over!"
"I'm gonna take it to my room." She takes her dough, her sprinkles, her cookie shapers, and her cup of flour and gets out of my hair.
It's just because my kitchen is so tiny, wherever they stand they are blocking something. It's a tiny kitchen, that's all. It's a coffin shaped, coffin sized, teeny little old crumbly kitchen, I think to myself as my relief mixes with guilt.
Today I woke up sad. It's my grandmother's unveiling today and of course I'm missing it. My editor didn't get back to me about a story, and it's always hard to start a new one when I don't know the fate of the last one. I miss my father like missing is a physical thing, and the kids room was an unbelievable wreck--and it's so hard for me to clean when we might be moving. It's silly, but it's something that's hard for me. Like I'm cleaning something that is already not mine.
Oh,and did I mention that the kids have all been waking up up a quarter to six in G-d's holy and freezing morning?
Yeah? Bears repeating, anyway.
And the dryer broke this morning, too.
Point is, I had a cupful, roomful, a coffin sized, coffin shaped kitchen roomful of excuses for why my daughters were sent to school today by a bleary-eyed mommy with no patience.
Did I do my best with the tools that I had at that point in time? Maybe.
But part of me knows that there will always be something. A small kitchen should not keep me from making challa with my daughter. A sad morning should not stop me from taking a deep breath, counting to ten and doing it right.
There will always be a way to excuse myself and take a backseat intead of grabbing the wheel.
Life is happening right now. And I need to be here to live it because it's short. Too short to waste on excuses.
I got an early start on lunch this morning. I poured the pasta into the collander in the sink, and a cloud of steam rose up and steamed my glasses. It all vanished; the sink, the pasta,my hands, the counter, my kitchen. Gone in one second, my tiny kitchen, my world.
"But I'm making challa! Can I have sprinkles?"
"Challa doesn't--yes, here. Sprinkles. Just move over!"
"I'm gonna take it to my room." She takes her dough, her sprinkles, her cookie shapers, and her cup of flour and gets out of my hair.
It's just because my kitchen is so tiny, wherever they stand they are blocking something. It's a tiny kitchen, that's all. It's a coffin shaped, coffin sized, teeny little old crumbly kitchen, I think to myself as my relief mixes with guilt.
Today I woke up sad. It's my grandmother's unveiling today and of course I'm missing it. My editor didn't get back to me about a story, and it's always hard to start a new one when I don't know the fate of the last one. I miss my father like missing is a physical thing, and the kids room was an unbelievable wreck--and it's so hard for me to clean when we might be moving. It's silly, but it's something that's hard for me. Like I'm cleaning something that is already not mine.
Oh,and did I mention that the kids have all been waking up up a quarter to six in G-d's holy and freezing morning?
Yeah? Bears repeating, anyway.
And the dryer broke this morning, too.
Point is, I had a cupful, roomful, a coffin sized, coffin shaped kitchen roomful of excuses for why my daughters were sent to school today by a bleary-eyed mommy with no patience.
Did I do my best with the tools that I had at that point in time? Maybe.
But part of me knows that there will always be something. A small kitchen should not keep me from making challa with my daughter. A sad morning should not stop me from taking a deep breath, counting to ten and doing it right.
There will always be a way to excuse myself and take a backseat intead of grabbing the wheel.
Life is happening right now. And I need to be here to live it because it's short. Too short to waste on excuses.
I got an early start on lunch this morning. I poured the pasta into the collander in the sink, and a cloud of steam rose up and steamed my glasses. It all vanished; the sink, the pasta,my hands, the counter, my kitchen. Gone in one second, my tiny kitchen, my world.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Let The Music Heal Your Soul
I am sitting here instead of getting a move on--it's Friday, and the challa is not made yet--because at 8:10 in the morning, I am on my second coffee break. I was always a big coffee drinker, and even the word coffee can make me grow misty-eyed and start spouting bad poetry, but this is ridiculous.
Last night, deep into chicken soup and carrot muffin making, I thought, I'm tired. I need a pick-me-up. And I poured myself a cup of coffee (coffee...can't you hear it? It's pure poetry.) that must have brought my total for the day to around 6 cups. Not to mention the endless teas. And it hit me that what I'd normally be doing is cranking up the music.
I have not listened to music since my father died, and I am only now realizing its place in my life. I used music all the time. I used it like band-aids, when the kids were cranky. I'll turn on something with beat, and we would dance and soon everyone would be laughing. It was a cure-all.
I'd turn it up when I was low energy and still had a lot to do. Fast music, loud music, something I could sing to while dancing around my kitchen with my wooden spoon mike.
I'd listen to classical music by the kids' bedtime. It works like a charm. They calm down, snuggle. I would also listen to soft music when writing or doing something else creative. It stirred up all that creativity. It's wonderful.
We used to dance, my father and I and all of my siblings, to the most teeth-rattlingly loud music every motzai shabbas. We would dance for what felt like hours.
I've been replacing music with coffee, and it's a poor replacement.
Music. I sing all day(until my long-suffering kids crawl under the couch to get away from it) but it's not the same as music. Except sometimes. Like when my father died.
We sang to him for days, as he lay dying. We sang to him as his heart stopped, we sang as his soul left his body. We sang as he was finally free, as we lost him forever.
My mother told me that someone who works in the ward next to where my father died said they are still talking about us, about the family that sang to their father. She said that all the nurses and aids and even doctors would find excuses to wander into his room and stay for a while, listening to the music we made, the songs that we did not write but came from our hearts and souls. We did not notice them. We were singing.
It's hard, not listening to music. I remember an all-star single that I used to listen to in high school called "Let the music heal your soul." I guess I'm not supposed to let it heal yet. Even music that makes you cry is healing, and I guess all of the raw pain that I feel about my father is how I am supposed to feel. I am not allowed to soothe it yet.
It is so interesting, this year, learning to embrace feelings that we usually do anything to get away from. I feel like crying, and I drop everything and let the tears flow. I ride the wave. This is life, I guess, getting used to death.
But for now, I got me my little music. Coffee. Cofffeeeee. Caffiene and song all in one.
Last night, deep into chicken soup and carrot muffin making, I thought, I'm tired. I need a pick-me-up. And I poured myself a cup of coffee (coffee...can't you hear it? It's pure poetry.) that must have brought my total for the day to around 6 cups. Not to mention the endless teas. And it hit me that what I'd normally be doing is cranking up the music.
I have not listened to music since my father died, and I am only now realizing its place in my life. I used music all the time. I used it like band-aids, when the kids were cranky. I'll turn on something with beat, and we would dance and soon everyone would be laughing. It was a cure-all.
I'd turn it up when I was low energy and still had a lot to do. Fast music, loud music, something I could sing to while dancing around my kitchen with my wooden spoon mike.
I'd listen to classical music by the kids' bedtime. It works like a charm. They calm down, snuggle. I would also listen to soft music when writing or doing something else creative. It stirred up all that creativity. It's wonderful.
We used to dance, my father and I and all of my siblings, to the most teeth-rattlingly loud music every motzai shabbas. We would dance for what felt like hours.
I've been replacing music with coffee, and it's a poor replacement.
Music. I sing all day(until my long-suffering kids crawl under the couch to get away from it) but it's not the same as music. Except sometimes. Like when my father died.
We sang to him for days, as he lay dying. We sang to him as his heart stopped, we sang as his soul left his body. We sang as he was finally free, as we lost him forever.
My mother told me that someone who works in the ward next to where my father died said they are still talking about us, about the family that sang to their father. She said that all the nurses and aids and even doctors would find excuses to wander into his room and stay for a while, listening to the music we made, the songs that we did not write but came from our hearts and souls. We did not notice them. We were singing.
It's hard, not listening to music. I remember an all-star single that I used to listen to in high school called "Let the music heal your soul." I guess I'm not supposed to let it heal yet. Even music that makes you cry is healing, and I guess all of the raw pain that I feel about my father is how I am supposed to feel. I am not allowed to soothe it yet.
It is so interesting, this year, learning to embrace feelings that we usually do anything to get away from. I feel like crying, and I drop everything and let the tears flow. I ride the wave. This is life, I guess, getting used to death.
But for now, I got me my little music. Coffee. Cofffeeeee. Caffiene and song all in one.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Baby, you make me Crazy
Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a house filled with knee-high crazy people.
My sister is doing internship right now in Belview. I spoke to her the other day. "D, you would not believe the people that are here."
"Why, because they're crazy?" I asked as I grabbed a pair of scissors out of Turtle's hands before he inserted the pointy end in his ear.
"No, because they seem so normal. You talk to them, and they are all regular, good, and then suddenly they are all like, yesterday I spoke to George Washington."
"That's crazy," I said. "Princess, stop hitting your sister! WE DO NOT--"
"But she does't want to play with me!"
"She doesn't have to play--"
"Yes, she does, because I'm the queen!"
"M, can you hold on for a minute?" I said. I kissed a howling Coco-pop, informed Princess that she was not going to be queen ever ever again if she hit her sister again, pulled Turtle out of the toilet, and picked up the phone. "You were saying?"
"That it's frightening how quickly they go from regular, normal, then suddenly out comes the crazy."
Yeah, I hear that.
Knee-high crazy people in my house. The answer to "come for dinner girls!" Can sometimes be responded to with "coming Ima!" and then "I'm starving!" And then, you know, them eating it, or alternatively, with "soon!" and then with, "I hate that," and then with them not eating it and waking up at two in the morning crying for dinner.
We have princesses and kallahs, we have queens and an obsession for the two of them dressing their little brother up as a girl and calling him Sarah.
Little tiny lunatics.
And the baby. Are they born with absolutely no sense of self-preservation at all? First they smile and worm their way into your hearts. Then starts the fun. The toilet is for diving into, the door is to slam fingers on, the steps are for hurling yourself down face-first. And the garbage. Turtle will not eat tuna, but the can? Delectable. The sharper the top the better.
No, you cannot punch your sister. No, you do not need a warning. No sweetie, Hashem will not cut a hole is the sky, so you do not have to worry about neshamos raining down. Yes, sweet girl, I love you up to the sky and back. But no, we cannot fly there even if we flap our arms very very fast. No, not even if we flap them that fast. No, the table does not look better with blue painted spots all over it. GET THE WIPES! Why are you crying? I should be---
Oh...you made it for me?
Crazy babies.
I sometimes feel like Big Nurse, except my little inmates are so cute, we think their behavior is normal. I am here to tell you that it is not. Because that level of cute is not normal.
It's crazy.
My sister is doing internship right now in Belview. I spoke to her the other day. "D, you would not believe the people that are here."
"Why, because they're crazy?" I asked as I grabbed a pair of scissors out of Turtle's hands before he inserted the pointy end in his ear.
"No, because they seem so normal. You talk to them, and they are all regular, good, and then suddenly they are all like, yesterday I spoke to George Washington."
"That's crazy," I said. "Princess, stop hitting your sister! WE DO NOT--"
"But she does't want to play with me!"
"She doesn't have to play--"
"Yes, she does, because I'm the queen!"
"M, can you hold on for a minute?" I said. I kissed a howling Coco-pop, informed Princess that she was not going to be queen ever ever again if she hit her sister again, pulled Turtle out of the toilet, and picked up the phone. "You were saying?"
"That it's frightening how quickly they go from regular, normal, then suddenly out comes the crazy."
Yeah, I hear that.
Knee-high crazy people in my house. The answer to "come for dinner girls!" Can sometimes be responded to with "coming Ima!" and then "I'm starving!" And then, you know, them eating it, or alternatively, with "soon!" and then with, "I hate that," and then with them not eating it and waking up at two in the morning crying for dinner.
We have princesses and kallahs, we have queens and an obsession for the two of them dressing their little brother up as a girl and calling him Sarah.
Little tiny lunatics.
And the baby. Are they born with absolutely no sense of self-preservation at all? First they smile and worm their way into your hearts. Then starts the fun. The toilet is for diving into, the door is to slam fingers on, the steps are for hurling yourself down face-first. And the garbage. Turtle will not eat tuna, but the can? Delectable. The sharper the top the better.
No, you cannot punch your sister. No, you do not need a warning. No sweetie, Hashem will not cut a hole is the sky, so you do not have to worry about neshamos raining down. Yes, sweet girl, I love you up to the sky and back. But no, we cannot fly there even if we flap our arms very very fast. No, not even if we flap them that fast. No, the table does not look better with blue painted spots all over it. GET THE WIPES! Why are you crying? I should be---
Oh...you made it for me?
Crazy babies.
I sometimes feel like Big Nurse, except my little inmates are so cute, we think their behavior is normal. I am here to tell you that it is not. Because that level of cute is not normal.
It's crazy.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Temper, Temper
I turned my back for a minute, I swear. But that's what they all say, right?
"Shel me ha'yeled hazeh?"
I ignored the voice in the hallway. My yeled was right--
?
I found myself in the hallway, hand over my heart. I live on a fourth floor, and by the steps there is a space--
--you know what, I can't even think about it.
"He's mine! Sheli!" I shouted to my neighbor, and that's when I realized that he was on the roof.
"Who left the door open! Who did it!" I shouted at my daughters drive-by style as I ran to claim Turtle. I shot a relieved smile at my neighbor. He did not return the smile.
"Zeh mamash sackana!" He scowled. It's very dangerous!
Are you kidding me? I felt the smile freeze on my lips. "Ken, ani yodaea." Yes, I know. Do you not see me freaking out? Did you think I left the door open on purpose? He is so fast. I took my eyes off of him for a second.
"Don't leave the door open!" He continued.
And I'm sorry to say that it was not self-control or good manners that kept me from saying what exploded in my head at that moment. It was simply my eye-wateringly awful Hebrew.
Because this man leaves his children waiting at their door sometimes for close to an hour after they come home from school. He is still in Yeshiva, and I pass by these kids hunched on the steps and I sometimes invite them up and sometimes tsk tsk. (And usually also in this mixture is a great deal of annoyed, because they block the steps and I have to wait for them to move and Turtle weighs roughly a gazillion pounds.)
And once when he went out he locked the kids into the house (!!!) and forgot one of them, a three year-old boy (!!!!!!) who wandered around the hallway (I sent Princess out to get him but he didn't want to come) until the locked kids inside found a key and let him in.
So back to me on the roof and all these words locked behind a wall of broken-teethed Hebrew. I let out a strangled "Todah," and went home.
I was still spewing internal venom as I sat down to help Princess wih her never-ending homework. And there was so much that I could be self-righteous about, but three cups of tea later, I realized some unpleasant things about myself.
I consider myself a non-judgemental person. But apparently, this only holds true when there is nothing to judge.
When there is, I do, and nothing except for a bad command of the language kept me from verbalizing my judgements.
And how about my temper? Am I so unsure of my parenting that one parent, whose methods I heartily dissaprove of, can ruin my afternoon with my children? Apparently, I am. Apparently, it can. Apparently, it does.
It is sobering. I'm a little ashamed. And maybe glad for the first time that I still have not gotten around to taking an Ulpan.
"Shel me ha'yeled hazeh?"
I ignored the voice in the hallway. My yeled was right--
?
I found myself in the hallway, hand over my heart. I live on a fourth floor, and by the steps there is a space--
--you know what, I can't even think about it.
"He's mine! Sheli!" I shouted to my neighbor, and that's when I realized that he was on the roof.
"Who left the door open! Who did it!" I shouted at my daughters drive-by style as I ran to claim Turtle. I shot a relieved smile at my neighbor. He did not return the smile.
"Zeh mamash sackana!" He scowled. It's very dangerous!
Are you kidding me? I felt the smile freeze on my lips. "Ken, ani yodaea." Yes, I know. Do you not see me freaking out? Did you think I left the door open on purpose? He is so fast. I took my eyes off of him for a second.
"Don't leave the door open!" He continued.
And I'm sorry to say that it was not self-control or good manners that kept me from saying what exploded in my head at that moment. It was simply my eye-wateringly awful Hebrew.
Because this man leaves his children waiting at their door sometimes for close to an hour after they come home from school. He is still in Yeshiva, and I pass by these kids hunched on the steps and I sometimes invite them up and sometimes tsk tsk. (And usually also in this mixture is a great deal of annoyed, because they block the steps and I have to wait for them to move and Turtle weighs roughly a gazillion pounds.)
And once when he went out he locked the kids into the house (!!!) and forgot one of them, a three year-old boy (!!!!!!) who wandered around the hallway (I sent Princess out to get him but he didn't want to come) until the locked kids inside found a key and let him in.
So back to me on the roof and all these words locked behind a wall of broken-teethed Hebrew. I let out a strangled "Todah," and went home.
I was still spewing internal venom as I sat down to help Princess wih her never-ending homework. And there was so much that I could be self-righteous about, but three cups of tea later, I realized some unpleasant things about myself.
I consider myself a non-judgemental person. But apparently, this only holds true when there is nothing to judge.
When there is, I do, and nothing except for a bad command of the language kept me from verbalizing my judgements.
And how about my temper? Am I so unsure of my parenting that one parent, whose methods I heartily dissaprove of, can ruin my afternoon with my children? Apparently, I am. Apparently, it can. Apparently, it does.
It is sobering. I'm a little ashamed. And maybe glad for the first time that I still have not gotten around to taking an Ulpan.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Holy Carboard Boxes, Batman!
Okay, so two men walked into a bar. You'd think one of them would have seen it.
Badump-ch!
Why did the woman cross the road? Who cares? Why is she out of the kitchen?
Badump-ch!
I'm moving again.
Badump-ch!
No, really.
Yeah, not so much funny.
We just moved. And we just moved before that.
This will be our fifth apartment just in this neighbohood. Maybe we are really gypies or something, and it's our fate to wander. Maybe I should get those awesome hoop earings and full colorful skirts. I already have scarves. And tamborines! I can play and sing for money!
Or just get boxes. To pack my stuff in. Again.
There's a lesson here, I know. About the transience of life and how this world is not real. I should write it up and tie it all in beautifully. But I am too grumpy because I have to MOVE, you see.
Blaugh. Argh. And other expressions of disgust usually only found in comic books.
What did the landlord say to the tennant? I'm selling the apartment and you have to leave!
Badump-ch!
Badump-ch!
Why did the woman cross the road? Who cares? Why is she out of the kitchen?
Badump-ch!
I'm moving again.
Badump-ch!
No, really.
Yeah, not so much funny.
We just moved. And we just moved before that.
This will be our fifth apartment just in this neighbohood. Maybe we are really gypies or something, and it's our fate to wander. Maybe I should get those awesome hoop earings and full colorful skirts. I already have scarves. And tamborines! I can play and sing for money!
Or just get boxes. To pack my stuff in. Again.
There's a lesson here, I know. About the transience of life and how this world is not real. I should write it up and tie it all in beautifully. But I am too grumpy because I have to MOVE, you see.
Blaugh. Argh. And other expressions of disgust usually only found in comic books.
What did the landlord say to the tennant? I'm selling the apartment and you have to leave!
Badump-ch!
Thursday, November 10, 2011
To Have Loved and Lost
You know when you're venting to a friend and she goes, "yeah, yeah, that's horrible. It's like what happened to me that other day," and suddenly you're no longer talking about you but it became about her?
So yeah, apparently I'm that friend. These days, it's all about me.
A huge talmid chacham and tzadik died suddenly, and the frum world is in shock. R' Nosson Tzi Finkel changed the face of the Mir and meant so much to so many people. He was a regular kid from Chicago who made decisions in his life that led him to become the Rosh Yeshiva of the largest yeshiva in the world. Illness did not stop him from becoming the man he was.
But when I see people write things on facebook like "We've lost a father," I get bitter. I think, no you didn't. You don't even know what that is. This is confirmed five minutes later when the same person comments on someone's status about shoes using the word OMG.
I know that it hits too close to home and I'm so sensitive now; I made a scene at the dry cleaners when the owner, trying to be a good business man and pretend that he knows me said to me, "Oh, I think your father's in town, right?"--and I promptly burst into tears, much to his horror.
When people--friends!--casually say things like "Oh I heard a great song--but I guess you can't hear it now, right?" Or, at the levaya of R' Nosson Tzvi Finkel, "Yeah, your father also suffered a lot, right?" --I cry, I cry, I'm crying right now.
I know it's raw and it still hurts so much. But I wish that I didn't always make it about me. I wish my skin was thicker, my heart quicker to judge for the positive, my mind able to excuse them. They just don't know. Thank G-d they don't know.
Thank G-d they don't know.
May we know no more pain.
So yeah, apparently I'm that friend. These days, it's all about me.
A huge talmid chacham and tzadik died suddenly, and the frum world is in shock. R' Nosson Tzi Finkel changed the face of the Mir and meant so much to so many people. He was a regular kid from Chicago who made decisions in his life that led him to become the Rosh Yeshiva of the largest yeshiva in the world. Illness did not stop him from becoming the man he was.
But when I see people write things on facebook like "We've lost a father," I get bitter. I think, no you didn't. You don't even know what that is. This is confirmed five minutes later when the same person comments on someone's status about shoes using the word OMG.
I know that it hits too close to home and I'm so sensitive now; I made a scene at the dry cleaners when the owner, trying to be a good business man and pretend that he knows me said to me, "Oh, I think your father's in town, right?"--and I promptly burst into tears, much to his horror.
When people--friends!--casually say things like "Oh I heard a great song--but I guess you can't hear it now, right?" Or, at the levaya of R' Nosson Tzvi Finkel, "Yeah, your father also suffered a lot, right?" --I cry, I cry, I'm crying right now.
I know it's raw and it still hurts so much. But I wish that I didn't always make it about me. I wish my skin was thicker, my heart quicker to judge for the positive, my mind able to excuse them. They just don't know. Thank G-d they don't know.
Thank G-d they don't know.
May we know no more pain.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Hope and Change
Sometimes you realize that you had it all on backwards. Sometimes that realization puts you into spasms of humiliation, and other times it just all clicks into place. You get the "aha!" kind of feeling.
Guilt. It's a longstanding Jewish tradition. We are overachievers. We expect perfection from ourselves. I would not have a perfect mothering morning, say, and waving them off I would feel a why? I would feel her morning could have been so different if I would have only... I would feel, guilty, guilty, guilty. Who told you that you should have kids, anyway?
I always know that its counterproductive kind of thinking because my drive would be gone and I would soothe my self-wounded ego in ways that had nothing to do with what I should be doing that morning, ie, things that were productive and would build up my fragile ego again. I would wallow. I would feed the negative thoughts and then think, see? I'm not cut out for this.
I heard a speaker last night. She is not a "real" speaker, but she is a real person. She spoke about simcha, happiness, and she said that one thing that she can share about herself with regards to this topic is the fact that she never beats herself up over mistakes.
"Say what," says I.
"Like, I would say to myself, 'I did the best that I could at the moment with the tools that I had.' And move on!"
I smelled a rat. "But," I said, "Sometimes you KNOW that you did NOT do the best that you could. Sometimes you're lets say cleaning the counter and your daughter walks in and has a meltdown about something and you know you should put down the shmata and go to her, touch her, not do what you do which is continue to clean and say to her without eye-contact, 'oh hon what's wrong?'"
"You didn't have the tools at the moment to listen to that internal nagging voice. You didn't--"
"I DID. I could have PUT DOWN THE CLOTH. You simpy open your hand, and--"
"In retrosepct, yes. Right then, for whatever reason, no."
"But I could have. I knew that I should."
"So now you have a tool that you didn't have last time. You know better. You will do better."
And that was when I knew that I used guilt instead of change. If I felt bad about it, it meant that i wasn't really that bad, right? I mean, a bad mother wouldn't FEEL bad for yelling. I do, so I'm not bad.
But it was all backwards, and I guess I really knew that. Guilt is so draining. It's like spinning your wheels in mud. If I could just let it go, let it ride, then I could actually get somewhere.
My friend told me that she yelled at her daughter in the morning to get up get up GET UP, and felt horrible as she waved her off. When her daughter got home from school she apologized and then said cheerfully, "But the good news is that I yelled so much this morning that I took care of all the yelling for a year!"
There's this acting game that we play in which you pretend to be two different characters. A third person says "Change!" and the character has to switch that last sentence to something completely different.
To change, without the guilt. To allow yourself the space to acquire the tools that you need so that you react the way you want to in the moment.
It's like realizing I've been tying my shoes wrong for years and the real way is easier but my fingers keep tying them the old way, the comfortable way. I need to focus and make the new into the comfortable. "Change!"
Guilt. It's a longstanding Jewish tradition. We are overachievers. We expect perfection from ourselves. I would not have a perfect mothering morning, say, and waving them off I would feel a why? I would feel her morning could have been so different if I would have only... I would feel, guilty, guilty, guilty. Who told you that you should have kids, anyway?
I always know that its counterproductive kind of thinking because my drive would be gone and I would soothe my self-wounded ego in ways that had nothing to do with what I should be doing that morning, ie, things that were productive and would build up my fragile ego again. I would wallow. I would feed the negative thoughts and then think, see? I'm not cut out for this.
I heard a speaker last night. She is not a "real" speaker, but she is a real person. She spoke about simcha, happiness, and she said that one thing that she can share about herself with regards to this topic is the fact that she never beats herself up over mistakes.
"Say what," says I.
"Like, I would say to myself, 'I did the best that I could at the moment with the tools that I had.' And move on!"
I smelled a rat. "But," I said, "Sometimes you KNOW that you did NOT do the best that you could. Sometimes you're lets say cleaning the counter and your daughter walks in and has a meltdown about something and you know you should put down the shmata and go to her, touch her, not do what you do which is continue to clean and say to her without eye-contact, 'oh hon what's wrong?'"
"You didn't have the tools at the moment to listen to that internal nagging voice. You didn't--"
"I DID. I could have PUT DOWN THE CLOTH. You simpy open your hand, and--"
"In retrosepct, yes. Right then, for whatever reason, no."
"But I could have. I knew that I should."
"So now you have a tool that you didn't have last time. You know better. You will do better."
And that was when I knew that I used guilt instead of change. If I felt bad about it, it meant that i wasn't really that bad, right? I mean, a bad mother wouldn't FEEL bad for yelling. I do, so I'm not bad.
But it was all backwards, and I guess I really knew that. Guilt is so draining. It's like spinning your wheels in mud. If I could just let it go, let it ride, then I could actually get somewhere.
My friend told me that she yelled at her daughter in the morning to get up get up GET UP, and felt horrible as she waved her off. When her daughter got home from school she apologized and then said cheerfully, "But the good news is that I yelled so much this morning that I took care of all the yelling for a year!"
There's this acting game that we play in which you pretend to be two different characters. A third person says "Change!" and the character has to switch that last sentence to something completely different.
To change, without the guilt. To allow yourself the space to acquire the tools that you need so that you react the way you want to in the moment.
It's like realizing I've been tying my shoes wrong for years and the real way is easier but my fingers keep tying them the old way, the comfortable way. I need to focus and make the new into the comfortable. "Change!"
Monday, October 31, 2011
Every Day
I clean and cook and
clean
and you, baby boy at my side
destroy faster than I can put together.
It's hard, sometimes, to wash dishes and them put them on the table
and put them back in the sink
you walk, my daughters, in sticky shoes across the floor
still damp from sponga and turn up your noses
at my attempts at dinner.
And I think, I can't.
And I think, it's too much.
And also it's cold and also we're broke and also and also and also
What?
You think that will make it all better?
I love you too, baby boy
Little girl
Big girl
But--
But there never was a but, you know.
The second you smiled
and asked me what clouds smell like
and arms flying, told me that story about Rav Shach
you, you three
you sticky picky three
take my protests
and breath
away.
clean
and you, baby boy at my side
destroy faster than I can put together.
It's hard, sometimes, to wash dishes and them put them on the table
and put them back in the sink
you walk, my daughters, in sticky shoes across the floor
still damp from sponga and turn up your noses
at my attempts at dinner.
And I think, I can't.
And I think, it's too much.
And also it's cold and also we're broke and also and also and also
What?
You think that will make it all better?
I love you too, baby boy
Little girl
Big girl
But--
But there never was a but, you know.
The second you smiled
and asked me what clouds smell like
and arms flying, told me that story about Rav Shach
you, you three
you sticky picky three
take my protests
and breath
away.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Today and Today and Today.
(Still have not quite fixed the comment problems--if I have not commented back to you on a comment or on your own blog, that is why! Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. Will have it fixed soon, hopefully.)
Everyone has their own personal goals and their own way of getting there. Mine is heavily wrapped up with my parenting and my writing and has to do with my tendancy to dream of the future and dwell in the past at the expense of the present. It is beautiful, the way that I can see so clearly how both pursuits of mine can help me to overcome that basic character trait of mine. My life was tailor made for me to improve.
It's something that I struggle with on a minute by minute basis. Then I recently read such a sobering, chilling, terrifying article that put it all into percpective in such a beautiful and horrible way. What if the future was out of bounds, and the present was all that you had?
How would you parent--or live--if there will be no tomorrow?
Tay Sachs Turns Mom Into Parent We All Should Be
Posted by Julie Ryan Evans
For all the parenting challenges we face in our hectic day-to-day lives, few, if any, compare to those that Emily Rapp, a self-professed Dragon Mom, encounters every day. Her son Ronan, now 18 months old, was born with Tay-Sachs, a rare genetic disorder that is ultimately fatal. From the time he was born, she knew he would likely die before his third birthday in a slow and painful process. But despite her heartbreaking situation, she parents like we all should.
In a beautiful and heart-wrenching column in The New York Times yesterday, she explained how knowing that she only has such a short time to raise her son has turned her into this different breed of parent. It's a breed made up of those with terminally ill children that no one would choose to join, but from whom we can all learn.
We are dragon parents: fierce and loyal and loving as hell. Our experiences have taught us how to parent for the here and now, for the sake of parenting, for the humanity implicit in the act itself, though this runs counter to traditional wisdom and advice.
Unlike Tiger Mom and all the hordes of us out there planning for and trying to prepare our children for successful futures and big accomplishments through every move they make, dragon moms just love and live in the minute. She says no longer do worries about things like future SAT scores or development milestones take up time and energy. "Ronan has given us a terrible freedom from expectations, a magical world where there are no goals, no prizes to win, no outcomes to monitor, discuss, compare."
How freeing would that be?
And really none of us has any guarantee that our children will be here tomorrow. Any day we could lose them to a horrifying accident or get a terminal diagnosis. We can't dwell on the what ifs and live in fear of such things, but we need to remember them more often when it comes to how far and fast we push our kids. Maybe that means letting them eat a little bit more candy and maybe it means not pressuring them to do so well in school. Maybe it just means putting it all into perspective and reminding ourselves more often that none of it really matters when it comes down to it -- that loving them and soaking up the best of every minute we have with them is what it's all about. As Rapp says in her final paragraph:
I can see my reflection in his greenish-gold eyes. I am a reflection of him and not the other way around, and this is, I believe, as it should be ... Parenting, I’ve come to understand, is about loving my child today. Now. In fact, for any parent, anywhere, that’s all there is.
Everyone has their own personal goals and their own way of getting there. Mine is heavily wrapped up with my parenting and my writing and has to do with my tendancy to dream of the future and dwell in the past at the expense of the present. It is beautiful, the way that I can see so clearly how both pursuits of mine can help me to overcome that basic character trait of mine. My life was tailor made for me to improve.
It's something that I struggle with on a minute by minute basis. Then I recently read such a sobering, chilling, terrifying article that put it all into percpective in such a beautiful and horrible way. What if the future was out of bounds, and the present was all that you had?
How would you parent--or live--if there will be no tomorrow?
Tay Sachs Turns Mom Into Parent We All Should Be
Posted by Julie Ryan Evans
For all the parenting challenges we face in our hectic day-to-day lives, few, if any, compare to those that Emily Rapp, a self-professed Dragon Mom, encounters every day. Her son Ronan, now 18 months old, was born with Tay-Sachs, a rare genetic disorder that is ultimately fatal. From the time he was born, she knew he would likely die before his third birthday in a slow and painful process. But despite her heartbreaking situation, she parents like we all should.
In a beautiful and heart-wrenching column in The New York Times yesterday, she explained how knowing that she only has such a short time to raise her son has turned her into this different breed of parent. It's a breed made up of those with terminally ill children that no one would choose to join, but from whom we can all learn.
We are dragon parents: fierce and loyal and loving as hell. Our experiences have taught us how to parent for the here and now, for the sake of parenting, for the humanity implicit in the act itself, though this runs counter to traditional wisdom and advice.
Unlike Tiger Mom and all the hordes of us out there planning for and trying to prepare our children for successful futures and big accomplishments through every move they make, dragon moms just love and live in the minute. She says no longer do worries about things like future SAT scores or development milestones take up time and energy. "Ronan has given us a terrible freedom from expectations, a magical world where there are no goals, no prizes to win, no outcomes to monitor, discuss, compare."
How freeing would that be?
And really none of us has any guarantee that our children will be here tomorrow. Any day we could lose them to a horrifying accident or get a terminal diagnosis. We can't dwell on the what ifs and live in fear of such things, but we need to remember them more often when it comes to how far and fast we push our kids. Maybe that means letting them eat a little bit more candy and maybe it means not pressuring them to do so well in school. Maybe it just means putting it all into perspective and reminding ourselves more often that none of it really matters when it comes down to it -- that loving them and soaking up the best of every minute we have with them is what it's all about. As Rapp says in her final paragraph:
I can see my reflection in his greenish-gold eyes. I am a reflection of him and not the other way around, and this is, I believe, as it should be ... Parenting, I’ve come to understand, is about loving my child today. Now. In fact, for any parent, anywhere, that’s all there is.
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