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.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Friday, December 23, 2011
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, March 5, 2009
Yes Sir, That's my Baby
We are walking home from gan and her slightly sticky little girl fingers are wrapped halfway around my hand.
"Ima."
"Yes, Princess?"
"You saw Leah's mommy? She has a big belly. It's big like there's a baby inside. Isn't that silly?"
"Um, I don't know if it's so silly, love. I think that there is a baby in there."
"But, Ima! Leah already has a baby!"
"I guess Leah's baby is going to be a big brother. I think that Leah's mommy is going to have another baby!"
Her hand jerks in mine. She is quiet. Then, "Ima?"
"Yes?"
"Who was the big girl when I was the baby?"
(Let me just interject here to say that Princess is very, very bright. And in touch with her feelings. And a little scary. Because she is three years old and is really around seventeen. Just without braces and body image issues. And with a few more almost-made-it-to-the-bathrooms than the average teen. I cannot say anything in front of her that she will not repeat back to me and then to the woman on the park bench next to me. She wrestles with ideas that she is really not supposed to grasp yet. So I am VERY GLAD and GRATEFUL that she shares her feelings with me. )
(oh, and temper tantrums. She has more temper tantrums that other seventeen year olds.)
(Actually, scratch that. I think it's about even.)
(Do you realize that half of this entry is in parenthesis?)
(I'll stop now. Back to the heart-stopping question posed to me by my 3 year-old.)
It took me a few blinking moments to understand what she was saying, and why she was gripping my hand so hard. Then I got it. I stopped walking and knelt on the ground in front of my beautiful apple-cheeked daughter, who thought that when I was going to have another baby, she was going to go the way of the last big girl. Out with the old, in with the new! Omigod!
"There was no big girl when you were a baby, love. It was just you."
When I was pregnant with Coco-pop, I was torn up with guilt. How dare I introduce a new presence into the house that will cause my precious Princess feelings of jealousy and insecurity? I would sneak into her room at night and watch her sleep, feeling my love for her and doubting that I could love another as much as I loved her. And she needed so much. Even as an only child, she needed validation and reassurance constantly. How would she react to another baby sitting on my lap when she wanted to cuddle? To me nursing someone other than her? How could I DO this to her?
Oh, and I was also hormonal.
After I had my second baby, I knew that a parent can and does love more than one child, that love is like fire that can be given over to another candle without any loss to the first candle. I just didn't know if Princess felt the same way. Actually, we got a few good clues that love was not a fever on Princess' brow as she gazed at the 7 and 1/2 pound invader for the first time. She picked up the edge of the blanket covering Coco-pop and pulled it completely over her head. Then she inquired casually about the hospital's return policy.
The coming together as a family was coming together now, I think. It's always so delicate, the balance. Do I ignore when Princess takes the toy away from Coco-pop? Do I scold her? When Princess hits the baby, I tell her not to. When Coco-pop takes a swat at her, I tell her that Coco-pop is just a baby. Is that a double standard? Am I making her feel picked on?
I know that I am very, very imperfect. I have a temper. I work on it. But is that good enough? Am I good enough? We took her 6,000 miles way from loving extended family, including grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Does Princess feel happy and safe and warm, wrapped up in a family of only mother, father, me and baby sister?
I stand up and take her hand again. I hope that I allayed her fears. "I love you."
Distractedly, "I love you, too." We walk across the street.
Then, "Oh! So Ima! It's gonna be like this. You and Abba stay Ima and Abba. I'm gonna be the big girl, Coco-pop will be the little girl, and the baby will be--" her eyes sparkled with the effort of her thinking--"the baby could be the BABY!"
"Ima."
"Yes, Princess?"
"You saw Leah's mommy? She has a big belly. It's big like there's a baby inside. Isn't that silly?"
"Um, I don't know if it's so silly, love. I think that there is a baby in there."
"But, Ima! Leah already has a baby!"
"I guess Leah's baby is going to be a big brother. I think that Leah's mommy is going to have another baby!"
Her hand jerks in mine. She is quiet. Then, "Ima?"
"Yes?"
"Who was the big girl when I was the baby?"
(Let me just interject here to say that Princess is very, very bright. And in touch with her feelings. And a little scary. Because she is three years old and is really around seventeen. Just without braces and body image issues. And with a few more almost-made-it-to-the-bathrooms than the average teen. I cannot say anything in front of her that she will not repeat back to me and then to the woman on the park bench next to me. She wrestles with ideas that she is really not supposed to grasp yet. So I am VERY GLAD and GRATEFUL that she shares her feelings with me. )
(oh, and temper tantrums. She has more temper tantrums that other seventeen year olds.)
(Actually, scratch that. I think it's about even.)
(Do you realize that half of this entry is in parenthesis?)
(I'll stop now. Back to the heart-stopping question posed to me by my 3 year-old.)
It took me a few blinking moments to understand what she was saying, and why she was gripping my hand so hard. Then I got it. I stopped walking and knelt on the ground in front of my beautiful apple-cheeked daughter, who thought that when I was going to have another baby, she was going to go the way of the last big girl. Out with the old, in with the new! Omigod!
"There was no big girl when you were a baby, love. It was just you."
When I was pregnant with Coco-pop, I was torn up with guilt. How dare I introduce a new presence into the house that will cause my precious Princess feelings of jealousy and insecurity? I would sneak into her room at night and watch her sleep, feeling my love for her and doubting that I could love another as much as I loved her. And she needed so much. Even as an only child, she needed validation and reassurance constantly. How would she react to another baby sitting on my lap when she wanted to cuddle? To me nursing someone other than her? How could I DO this to her?
Oh, and I was also hormonal.
After I had my second baby, I knew that a parent can and does love more than one child, that love is like fire that can be given over to another candle without any loss to the first candle. I just didn't know if Princess felt the same way. Actually, we got a few good clues that love was not a fever on Princess' brow as she gazed at the 7 and 1/2 pound invader for the first time. She picked up the edge of the blanket covering Coco-pop and pulled it completely over her head. Then she inquired casually about the hospital's return policy.
The coming together as a family was coming together now, I think. It's always so delicate, the balance. Do I ignore when Princess takes the toy away from Coco-pop? Do I scold her? When Princess hits the baby, I tell her not to. When Coco-pop takes a swat at her, I tell her that Coco-pop is just a baby. Is that a double standard? Am I making her feel picked on?
I know that I am very, very imperfect. I have a temper. I work on it. But is that good enough? Am I good enough? We took her 6,000 miles way from loving extended family, including grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Does Princess feel happy and safe and warm, wrapped up in a family of only mother, father, me and baby sister?
I stand up and take her hand again. I hope that I allayed her fears. "I love you."
Distractedly, "I love you, too." We walk across the street.
Then, "Oh! So Ima! It's gonna be like this. You and Abba stay Ima and Abba. I'm gonna be the big girl, Coco-pop will be the little girl, and the baby will be--" her eyes sparkled with the effort of her thinking--"the baby could be the BABY!"
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