So, you know how they say that you never appreciate something until you don't have it anymore? 'K. Guilty.
I have reached that stage in pregnancy in which I vascilate between Do I Really Have another Month and a Half Before this thing is Out Of Me? to ThePainTheBloodTheFear... maybe it should just stay put. Especially since I went for my last ultrasound, and the warm loving technicion (why are you here? in a voice like the dust from the bottom of an unused tea-cup. Because I'm havin' a baby! says I, bouncy-like, havin' a baby-like. Oh. Yeah. She says, with a voice from a thousand fathoms deep. Get on the table. It's dirty? Whatever. Yank down some more paper. Also? My soul is completely dead.) said, are you sure that the week is right? The head, which I am measuring now, is a few weeks larger than the date given.
Check the rest of the body says I, bounciness receding like sudden male-pattern baldness.
The rest of the body was normal to date given.
She glances at Outdoorsman. He is a big man. Ah, says she casually. The baby probably just has your husband's head.
Then, as if she hadn't just announced just how my labor was going to be (a NIGHTMARE), she clipped my papers together and gloomily informed me that I can get my own paper towel to clean up the jelly smeared on my belly.
How do I know from that one little casual comment that labor would not be a walk in the park? Or rather, a walk in the park during a hamsin? Because, you see, Princess had the same diagnosis. Only hers accured an hour and a half into pushing. When my labor coach glanced at my beloved helpmeet and said, "you have a rather large head."
"yeah," he said, puzzled.
"I think that might be the problem," she said softly, but not quite softly enough. That was around the time that I fell to pieces.
But! This time it will be different! Because it is number 3 and my body knows this game and all will be perfect.
Quiet, internet, with your horror number 3 stories, by the way. All will be perfect.
You in the Back! Stop it! With your back-labor-ten-hour-pushing-then-it-turned-out-to-be-triplets stories! All will Be Prefect!
Now. I feel much better. Where was I going with this, by the way? Oh, yes. This was all an intro to how we never appreciate until yadda yadda yadda.
So, I was pretty much uncomfortable, hot, not sleeping, glaring at my snoring husband's large head. Then something happened to make me realize that I had it really good.(aside from the fact that there are so many girls who WANT to get pregnant...I know that at 3:00 in the afternoon, but not so much at 3:00 in the morning...) I got a stomach flu. This is the second time its made its rounds in my family, but it was mild before. this time, it came with all of the trimmings. Fever, vomiting, my legs as weak as a newborn calf's.
I am now getting over the worst of it, and I must say, it is so nice to just have a regular 8-month pregnant belly to be uncomfortable with. Nothing like something real to complain about to put everything else into its proper perspective.
Edited To Add:
But this morning Coco-pop woke up with fever and a diaper too horrible to describe. Here we go again...
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Slimy and Satisfying
We are moved, we are settling in--or will be, as soon as I vanquish The Random Boxes of Pain and Agony and Random Stuff. I hear woodpeckers and bluebirds from my window and can fill up the pool and have the kids in bathing suits in under five minutes.
(I'm also 8 months pregnant and living at the bottom of a hill during hamsin weather, but, ya know, pros have their cons.)(I'm also supposed to be doing laundry and making a shopping list and cleaning the house and emptying out a few Random Boxes of Pain and Agony and Random Stuff-or ThoseDarnBoxes, as I affectionately call them, right before I burst into tears--instead of eating cold leftover broccolli kugel and blogging, but ya know, pros have their cons.)
Anyways. We are getting there, lazy pregnant iron deficient lady of the house not-withstanding. And we are so happy! We have trees! We stand under our trees and pick out the ripest looking fruit and eat them and feed them to the kids and then lick our fingers, sticky from the juice. My kids are not used to the idea of bugs ALL OVER THE PLACE and honestly, since they do not pay rent, as Outdoorsman says, they will be sprayed and evicted, not in that order, but the idea of having an OUTDOORS--in Jerusalem--wow. It's so nice.
We are so grateful. We are making a BBQ chanukas habayis to show Hashem our gratitude even though we do not own the apartment. Because nothing lasts forever, right? Not even a place that you buy.
As I write this, the girls are having a tea party on the little round table outside. They just opened the door to the house by themselves, brought out the toy tea set, and set the table. Their heads are together, one blond-ish, one red-ish, and they are giggling.
This pregnant lady will now go before she leaks tears and shorts out the computer.
(I'm also 8 months pregnant and living at the bottom of a hill during hamsin weather, but, ya know, pros have their cons.)(I'm also supposed to be doing laundry and making a shopping list and cleaning the house and emptying out a few Random Boxes of Pain and Agony and Random Stuff-or ThoseDarnBoxes, as I affectionately call them, right before I burst into tears--instead of eating cold leftover broccolli kugel and blogging, but ya know, pros have their cons.)
Anyways. We are getting there, lazy pregnant iron deficient lady of the house not-withstanding. And we are so happy! We have trees! We stand under our trees and pick out the ripest looking fruit and eat them and feed them to the kids and then lick our fingers, sticky from the juice. My kids are not used to the idea of bugs ALL OVER THE PLACE and honestly, since they do not pay rent, as Outdoorsman says, they will be sprayed and evicted, not in that order, but the idea of having an OUTDOORS--in Jerusalem--wow. It's so nice.
We are so grateful. We are making a BBQ chanukas habayis to show Hashem our gratitude even though we do not own the apartment. Because nothing lasts forever, right? Not even a place that you buy.
As I write this, the girls are having a tea party on the little round table outside. They just opened the door to the house by themselves, brought out the toy tea set, and set the table. Their heads are together, one blond-ish, one red-ish, and they are giggling.
This pregnant lady will now go before she leaks tears and shorts out the computer.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Stuff and Nonsense
When huricane Katrina hit, with all of its horrible destruction and devastation, the second thought that accured to me (the first one being, OMG! of course) was the weird and chilling idea that the people who were killed had been murdered by their own things.
That is to say, their own stuff flew in the air and killed them and in effect caused all of the horrors that they are still facing today.
Stuff. We have so much stuff. Furniture and pots and lipsticks and files. Food and mugs and books and linens. And as I'm packing (not very well at the moment, since I am actually BLOGGING and not packing at all, you see) I think the weirdest thing is--we are getting along fine right now. Okay, pasta for dinner is not ideal, and I never want to see another peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, but if we are okay--WHAT IN THE WORLD IS IN ALL OF THESE BOXES? I'm tempted to light the whole stack on fire and see if I even notice.
Except for the toys, I think, since Princess and Coco-pop are wandering around the apartment like two little lost kittens, looking for balls of yarn. (If kittens, ya know, in some kind of parallel-infinite-possibility universe threw tantrums and asked impossible questions, that comparison would be perfectly apt.)
When I was growing up, I had so little space to call my own that I became a tosser. If I didn't need it, into the garbage it went. I even (though I regret it now) burned (I was a kind of dramatic teenager) all 20 of my journals that I had accumulated over high school. My motto for cleaning, gleaned from the wisdom of my mother who raised 10 kids in a four bedroom house, is when it comes to tossing, "it only hurts for a second."
Outdoorsman, on the other hand, is nostalgic. He keeps things. (But Di, it's The Very First Discman that I ever bought!) It's very sweet, actually, but I think that he needs a Man Cave in the basement instead of random keter drawers filled with things that I have no idea what to do with. The problem with a Man Cave in the basement is that most apartments don't come with basements. Oh well. I think that there is some unwritten law, somewhere, that marriage is composed of two people--one who cannot sleep with the windows shut, and one who cannot sleep with the windows open. Ditto on the keeper/tosser thing, I think.
Except I think that in spirit, he is ready now, too, for a clean new start. Especially after packing 60 boxes in 4 days. Maybe I can sort of pay the mover to drop some strategically placed boxes...
NO. That would be totally wrong.
Right?
Edited to Add:
I found the rule! I found the rule! It is not unwritten after all, and is in fact written brilliantly by Ogden Nash. Here 'tis:
I DO, I WILL, I HAVE
How wise I am to have instructed the butler to instruct the
first footman to instruct the second footman to instruct
the doorman to order my carriage;
I am about to volunteer a definition of marriage.
Just as I know that there are two Hagens, Walter and Copen,
I know that marriage is a legal and religious alliance entered
into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut and
a woman who can't sleep with the window open.
Moreover just as I am unsure of the difference between flora
and fauna and flotsam and jetsam
I am quite sure that marriage is the alliance of two people one
of whom never remembers birthdays and the other never
forgetsam,
And he refuses to believe there is a leak in the water pipe or
the gas pipe and she is convinced she is about to asphyxiate
or drown,
And she says Quick get up and get my hairbrushes off the
window sill, it's raining in, and he replies Oh they're all
right, it's only raining straight down.
That is why marriage is so much more interesting than divorce,
Because it's the only known example of the happy meeting of
the immovable object and the irresistible force.
So I hope husbands and wives will continue to debate and
combat over everything debatable and combatable,
Because I believe a little incompatibility is the spice of life,
particularly if he has income and she is pattable.
That is to say, their own stuff flew in the air and killed them and in effect caused all of the horrors that they are still facing today.
Stuff. We have so much stuff. Furniture and pots and lipsticks and files. Food and mugs and books and linens. And as I'm packing (not very well at the moment, since I am actually BLOGGING and not packing at all, you see) I think the weirdest thing is--we are getting along fine right now. Okay, pasta for dinner is not ideal, and I never want to see another peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, but if we are okay--WHAT IN THE WORLD IS IN ALL OF THESE BOXES? I'm tempted to light the whole stack on fire and see if I even notice.
Except for the toys, I think, since Princess and Coco-pop are wandering around the apartment like two little lost kittens, looking for balls of yarn. (If kittens, ya know, in some kind of parallel-infinite-possibility universe threw tantrums and asked impossible questions, that comparison would be perfectly apt.)
When I was growing up, I had so little space to call my own that I became a tosser. If I didn't need it, into the garbage it went. I even (though I regret it now) burned (I was a kind of dramatic teenager) all 20 of my journals that I had accumulated over high school. My motto for cleaning, gleaned from the wisdom of my mother who raised 10 kids in a four bedroom house, is when it comes to tossing, "it only hurts for a second."
Outdoorsman, on the other hand, is nostalgic. He keeps things. (But Di, it's The Very First Discman that I ever bought!) It's very sweet, actually, but I think that he needs a Man Cave in the basement instead of random keter drawers filled with things that I have no idea what to do with. The problem with a Man Cave in the basement is that most apartments don't come with basements. Oh well. I think that there is some unwritten law, somewhere, that marriage is composed of two people--one who cannot sleep with the windows shut, and one who cannot sleep with the windows open. Ditto on the keeper/tosser thing, I think.
Except I think that in spirit, he is ready now, too, for a clean new start. Especially after packing 60 boxes in 4 days. Maybe I can sort of pay the mover to drop some strategically placed boxes...
NO. That would be totally wrong.
Right?
Edited to Add:
I found the rule! I found the rule! It is not unwritten after all, and is in fact written brilliantly by Ogden Nash. Here 'tis:
I DO, I WILL, I HAVE
How wise I am to have instructed the butler to instruct the
first footman to instruct the second footman to instruct
the doorman to order my carriage;
I am about to volunteer a definition of marriage.
Just as I know that there are two Hagens, Walter and Copen,
I know that marriage is a legal and religious alliance entered
into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut and
a woman who can't sleep with the window open.
Moreover just as I am unsure of the difference between flora
and fauna and flotsam and jetsam
I am quite sure that marriage is the alliance of two people one
of whom never remembers birthdays and the other never
forgetsam,
And he refuses to believe there is a leak in the water pipe or
the gas pipe and she is convinced she is about to asphyxiate
or drown,
And she says Quick get up and get my hairbrushes off the
window sill, it's raining in, and he replies Oh they're all
right, it's only raining straight down.
That is why marriage is so much more interesting than divorce,
Because it's the only known example of the happy meeting of
the immovable object and the irresistible force.
So I hope husbands and wives will continue to debate and
combat over everything debatable and combatable,
Because I believe a little incompatibility is the spice of life,
particularly if he has income and she is pattable.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Brave New World
When we first came to look at this apartment, we realized a couple of things about it. One, the rent was really cheep, which was the reason we were looking at the apartment in the first place. Two, it had two bedrooms, one more than what we had until then. And three, that we could make this place into a home with a bit (okay, a lot) of scrubbing and a bunch of love.
So, we did. Scrubbed it and loved in it and hung up a few paintings. It's in a good location, we have good neighbors, a comfy leather couch, and all was well. Until this year, when we realized that we were outgrowing it and needed a third bedroom. We found a new apartment, and even though it was in the middle of our contract, we figured it was a good time of year for moving, and we would have no problem finding someone to take our current apartment off our hands.
That's when we realized, for the first time, the fourth thing about our apartment.
It's gross.
No, really. The walls are peeling and the plumbing is external and the bathtub is gray. The sink backs up and the floors are uneven and the cabinets are crumbling from the inside out.
We know this now from the expressions on the prospective couple's faces when they walk in to view our home.
And honestly, I just don't get it.
Because when we came in 4 years ago, we saw a kitchen to bake and cook in and a dining room to eat in. We saw a place for our washer and dryer, a place for our couch, a place for our beds and a place for our shelves. No we are not blind, and we did notice that it was not renovated and was actually kind of old. But we also saw walls to contain our shabbas meals, walls to contain our spontaneous dancing in the living room, walls to contain our growing family and the laughing and loving and joy.
Where we saw a bathtub and room for a bottle of cherry bubble bath, they only see mold. Where I cooked for endless shabbas guests, they see peeling cabinets and faded countertops. Where Outdoorsman learned and roughhoused with the kids, they see ancient tiles.
It's been a week, and we have not found someone to take over our lease, though a dozen people have trouped through my door, searching.
Searching for what?
Either I need new glasses...or they do.
So, we did. Scrubbed it and loved in it and hung up a few paintings. It's in a good location, we have good neighbors, a comfy leather couch, and all was well. Until this year, when we realized that we were outgrowing it and needed a third bedroom. We found a new apartment, and even though it was in the middle of our contract, we figured it was a good time of year for moving, and we would have no problem finding someone to take our current apartment off our hands.
That's when we realized, for the first time, the fourth thing about our apartment.
It's gross.
No, really. The walls are peeling and the plumbing is external and the bathtub is gray. The sink backs up and the floors are uneven and the cabinets are crumbling from the inside out.
We know this now from the expressions on the prospective couple's faces when they walk in to view our home.
And honestly, I just don't get it.
Because when we came in 4 years ago, we saw a kitchen to bake and cook in and a dining room to eat in. We saw a place for our washer and dryer, a place for our couch, a place for our beds and a place for our shelves. No we are not blind, and we did notice that it was not renovated and was actually kind of old. But we also saw walls to contain our shabbas meals, walls to contain our spontaneous dancing in the living room, walls to contain our growing family and the laughing and loving and joy.
Where we saw a bathtub and room for a bottle of cherry bubble bath, they only see mold. Where I cooked for endless shabbas guests, they see peeling cabinets and faded countertops. Where Outdoorsman learned and roughhoused with the kids, they see ancient tiles.
It's been a week, and we have not found someone to take over our lease, though a dozen people have trouped through my door, searching.
Searching for what?
Either I need new glasses...or they do.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Back From The Land of Starbucks
Jetlag blurs days together. When did it become thursday? Never mind thursday; when did it become April? 2010? Ya gotta be kidding me. And whose kids are these, anyway? What do they want from me? Why are they up at 4:30 in the morning, and why do they keep calling me Ima?
Anyways. Past the blur. Beyond what I can't see. I have been to America, and sharing one computer with 25 people tends to have a damper on my mad blog-writing skilz. So, here I am, a bunch of weeks later, hoping that the internet will soon once again purr beneath my hands. (Or at least work. Old computer. Bli ayin hara, pitoo pitoo pitoo.)
So, a million things happening. What should I write about? My America trip? A family crisis that is being blamed on me? That we are moving to a new apartment in less than a week, and are just getting boxes today? That my kids are so jetlagged, they have been going to sleep for the night after the sun already lightened the sky?
Oh! I got it. Princess.
Ooooh. Where should I start?
Princess is, well, a princess. Or rather, a queen. She asked me yesterday, while drip-drying in her princess towel, "who is more powerful (!) a queen or a princess?"
"Well," says I, "A princess is the daughter, and a queen is the mother."
"I'm a queen, then," says she with a proud tilt of her royal chin, as she dripped royal bathwater all over the royal ripped leather couch, "and you can be the princess."
The girl is not easy. She is way too smart for her age, and has a real thirst for power as well. She is always the one who initiates the game with her friends, and the weirdest thing is, they follow her. They all do. No matter how independent they are, they all toe the line around Princess. She loves it. She is a good master, too. She compliments her subjects freely, and stratigicaly. She gives them the idea that they have free will even when they don't.
But this aspect of her personality makes it kind of hard for her to bow to my authority. Her techniques don't work on me, though she tries, and that is very frustrating for her. As I posted about earlier, we recently changed our way of dealing with our precocious oldest. (I also set up a lifeguard at the gene pool. Find me the ditzes, I told the lifeguard. Find me the lighthearted laughing ones. One Princess in the family is perfect. Don't be afraid to blow your wistle!)And it was working! She was happy and responsive and all was Coming Up Roses. But then came (drumroll, please?) The Shabbas With Shira.
Shira. My husband's best friend's daughter. Not the scary brightness of Princess, but her taste for power squared. And then multiplied. And then add to all that the fact that her parents give in to her.
She is catty. She is manipulative. She has her parents wrapped around her finger.
For Princess, it was love at first sight.
Since the shabbas that we spent together, almost a month ago, Princess has been trying everything that she saw over the weekend. Everything. And I'm so jetlagged and tired and it's so hard not to yell and scream sometimes when I see all of my hard work spilling down the drain. It was pretty obvious to me where all of the new agression and tantrums were coming from, but it was all clinched yesterday when she was playing with the downstairs neighbors. Princess decided that everyone in her game was to have made-up names.
"Let's have pretend names for this game. I will be (re-use drumroll) Shira."
She'll get over it, right? She'll pull through. It will all be okay. Because what you learn from the home is most important, and the outside world can remain that way s long as I keep trying and keep smiling and keep doing my best to instill positively and warmth and love. Right? Right?
Hold me.
Anyways. Past the blur. Beyond what I can't see. I have been to America, and sharing one computer with 25 people tends to have a damper on my mad blog-writing skilz. So, here I am, a bunch of weeks later, hoping that the internet will soon once again purr beneath my hands. (Or at least work. Old computer. Bli ayin hara, pitoo pitoo pitoo.)
So, a million things happening. What should I write about? My America trip? A family crisis that is being blamed on me? That we are moving to a new apartment in less than a week, and are just getting boxes today? That my kids are so jetlagged, they have been going to sleep for the night after the sun already lightened the sky?
Oh! I got it. Princess.
Ooooh. Where should I start?
Princess is, well, a princess. Or rather, a queen. She asked me yesterday, while drip-drying in her princess towel, "who is more powerful (!) a queen or a princess?"
"Well," says I, "A princess is the daughter, and a queen is the mother."
"I'm a queen, then," says she with a proud tilt of her royal chin, as she dripped royal bathwater all over the royal ripped leather couch, "and you can be the princess."
The girl is not easy. She is way too smart for her age, and has a real thirst for power as well. She is always the one who initiates the game with her friends, and the weirdest thing is, they follow her. They all do. No matter how independent they are, they all toe the line around Princess. She loves it. She is a good master, too. She compliments her subjects freely, and stratigicaly. She gives them the idea that they have free will even when they don't.
But this aspect of her personality makes it kind of hard for her to bow to my authority. Her techniques don't work on me, though she tries, and that is very frustrating for her. As I posted about earlier, we recently changed our way of dealing with our precocious oldest. (I also set up a lifeguard at the gene pool. Find me the ditzes, I told the lifeguard. Find me the lighthearted laughing ones. One Princess in the family is perfect. Don't be afraid to blow your wistle!)And it was working! She was happy and responsive and all was Coming Up Roses. But then came (drumroll, please?) The Shabbas With Shira.
Shira. My husband's best friend's daughter. Not the scary brightness of Princess, but her taste for power squared. And then multiplied. And then add to all that the fact that her parents give in to her.
She is catty. She is manipulative. She has her parents wrapped around her finger.
For Princess, it was love at first sight.
Since the shabbas that we spent together, almost a month ago, Princess has been trying everything that she saw over the weekend. Everything. And I'm so jetlagged and tired and it's so hard not to yell and scream sometimes when I see all of my hard work spilling down the drain. It was pretty obvious to me where all of the new agression and tantrums were coming from, but it was all clinched yesterday when she was playing with the downstairs neighbors. Princess decided that everyone in her game was to have made-up names.
"Let's have pretend names for this game. I will be (re-use drumroll) Shira."
She'll get over it, right? She'll pull through. It will all be okay. Because what you learn from the home is most important, and the outside world can remain that way s long as I keep trying and keep smiling and keep doing my best to instill positively and warmth and love. Right? Right?
Hold me.
Monday, March 8, 2010
To A Little
Girl,
Running hand in hand
in hand
with her Abba,
wearing his jacket;
It is chilly,
and you were chilly, and he is big and strong and warm.
and he shrugged off his jacket,
and he put it on you.
The jacket hangs to your knees,
turns your thin arms into large black wings,
warms your shoulders
And brightens the gray, gray day
with both of your matching bright eyes,
your identical smiles.
Running hand in hand
in hand
with her Abba,
wearing his jacket;
It is chilly,
and you were chilly, and he is big and strong and warm.
and he shrugged off his jacket,
and he put it on you.
The jacket hangs to your knees,
turns your thin arms into large black wings,
warms your shoulders
And brightens the gray, gray day
with both of your matching bright eyes,
your identical smiles.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Butterfly Kisses
"But, but but, I want it, want it want it, and also, it's almost Purim, so it's a good time to get a treat. Right?"
I kept my face carefully blank. Then let a smile touch my lips. "You want it want it want it?"
Princess' face looked like the sun coming in from behind gray clouds. "Yes."
And it's a good time for a treat?"
"uh huh."
I touched her chin. Her stubborn, set, adorable chin. "Just because I love you. Here you go."
Her eyes looked suspicious. "In a bag."
"In a bag."
"I want to pick them."
"It's so important to you?"
"Uh huh." She paused. "Please?"
"You can pick them. Then we need to hurry home."
"Okay! Thank you! My morah says that we need to all dress up tomorrow! For the party! And you can come! Imas can come! But not Abbas." A frown creased her round little mouth. "I don't know why."
We are changing our interaction with Princess, and now it's listing to one side of our ultimate Golden Means. And I am holding my breath, but it seems to be working. She has had only one tantrum in the past two days, as aposed to all. day. long. The odd thing is, we were inspired by a vlog.
It's weird to even watch it. It's basically a vlog about the day-to-day life of this family. They happen to be religous Mormons. And I can't stop watching them. It took me a month to figure out why.
They have three kids and one on the way, a huge family out of our world. And it was clear to me that the mother and father love every minute of it.
It took me another month to figure out why.
I think they just love them. The kids, I mean. They just love their kids. And that sounds like, well, duh, but really it pretty deep, I think. They just love them. They discipline, sure, and they are actually kind of strict, but there is never anything harsh behind the interactions. No expectations.
I'm actually having a hard time putting this into words. Let me give an example. When I was 9 months pregnant with Princess and living in 35 square meters in a building where you needed to try really hard NOT to hear exactly what was going on in all your neighbors' lives (I was tempted once to write a letter to one neighbor, explaining why he was right, and she had spent too much money that week carelessly. I also knew when another neighbor found out that she was expecting a boy after three girls. So excited for you! About what? Erm. About. Your new dress?)my husband and I overheard a father admonishing his little girl, "Is this how our tzadekes behaves?!" And I remember thinking, or maybe one of us said to the other, maybe she doesn't want to behave like a tzadekes. Maybe she wants to be a little girl.
That's it, basically. I am not trying to give in to her wants and constant desires. I am trying to project simple love and understanding, with no expectations. Not that I don't believe that she can become whomever she wants to become. Not that I don't believe that she can't rise above her contant need to control every situation. But that right now, while I would love her to, and I will try to lead her onto that path, I don't expect it. I won't project disproval while you wear your emotions on your sleeve. I don't expect you to be a tzadekes, my complicated little girl, I am trying to tell her. I love you for who you are right now, in front of me.
I tucked her in last night, my eyes red with the fatigue that has been hounding me since my pregnancy started, and has gotten worse recently. Outdoorsman, bless him, has been helping nightly with bedtime these past few weeks. "Tell me something that made you not so happy today, and something that made you happy today."
She thought for a moment. "Merav said I was a little baby today in gan."
"Oh. That didn't make you feel good?"
"NO. But she is silly because I'm even bigger than her."
"Yes, you are. And did something happen today that made you happy?"
"Yes." she dimpled. "You bought me an extra treat. Because you love me."
Because I love you.
I kept my face carefully blank. Then let a smile touch my lips. "You want it want it want it?"
Princess' face looked like the sun coming in from behind gray clouds. "Yes."
And it's a good time for a treat?"
"uh huh."
I touched her chin. Her stubborn, set, adorable chin. "Just because I love you. Here you go."
Her eyes looked suspicious. "In a bag."
"In a bag."
"I want to pick them."
"It's so important to you?"
"Uh huh." She paused. "Please?"
"You can pick them. Then we need to hurry home."
"Okay! Thank you! My morah says that we need to all dress up tomorrow! For the party! And you can come! Imas can come! But not Abbas." A frown creased her round little mouth. "I don't know why."
We are changing our interaction with Princess, and now it's listing to one side of our ultimate Golden Means. And I am holding my breath, but it seems to be working. She has had only one tantrum in the past two days, as aposed to all. day. long. The odd thing is, we were inspired by a vlog.
It's weird to even watch it. It's basically a vlog about the day-to-day life of this family. They happen to be religous Mormons. And I can't stop watching them. It took me a month to figure out why.
They have three kids and one on the way, a huge family out of our world. And it was clear to me that the mother and father love every minute of it.
It took me another month to figure out why.
I think they just love them. The kids, I mean. They just love their kids. And that sounds like, well, duh, but really it pretty deep, I think. They just love them. They discipline, sure, and they are actually kind of strict, but there is never anything harsh behind the interactions. No expectations.
I'm actually having a hard time putting this into words. Let me give an example. When I was 9 months pregnant with Princess and living in 35 square meters in a building where you needed to try really hard NOT to hear exactly what was going on in all your neighbors' lives (I was tempted once to write a letter to one neighbor, explaining why he was right, and she had spent too much money that week carelessly. I also knew when another neighbor found out that she was expecting a boy after three girls. So excited for you! About what? Erm. About. Your new dress?)my husband and I overheard a father admonishing his little girl, "Is this how our tzadekes behaves?!" And I remember thinking, or maybe one of us said to the other, maybe she doesn't want to behave like a tzadekes. Maybe she wants to be a little girl.
That's it, basically. I am not trying to give in to her wants and constant desires. I am trying to project simple love and understanding, with no expectations. Not that I don't believe that she can become whomever she wants to become. Not that I don't believe that she can't rise above her contant need to control every situation. But that right now, while I would love her to, and I will try to lead her onto that path, I don't expect it. I won't project disproval while you wear your emotions on your sleeve. I don't expect you to be a tzadekes, my complicated little girl, I am trying to tell her. I love you for who you are right now, in front of me.
I tucked her in last night, my eyes red with the fatigue that has been hounding me since my pregnancy started, and has gotten worse recently. Outdoorsman, bless him, has been helping nightly with bedtime these past few weeks. "Tell me something that made you not so happy today, and something that made you happy today."
She thought for a moment. "Merav said I was a little baby today in gan."
"Oh. That didn't make you feel good?"
"NO. But she is silly because I'm even bigger than her."
"Yes, you are. And did something happen today that made you happy?"
"Yes." she dimpled. "You bought me an extra treat. Because you love me."
Because I love you.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Beer and Burkas
I was changing a particularly vile diaper of Coco-pop's creation and dreaming about a toilet that trains toddlers all by itself (because. how cool would that be?) when Coco-pop drew her knees to her chest abruptly.
"Do not do that, sweetie," I said sternly. "Ima needs to finish cleaning you."
"But z'not tznius!" she retorted, around a mouthful of pacifier.
Okay.
So.
We definitely live in Eretz Yisrael. I know this because all around me the buildings are made out of white stone, I purchase my milk in a bag, and my 2 year-old just informed me that changing her diaper is really not very tznius.
Being that Princess will be five this year, I have been thinking a lot about getting her into Bais Yaakov.
Now, I am a firm believer in judging things for myself. I never take other people's word for it. About anything. I know a lot of people who left this country for red-bricked-er and milk-in-containers-er pastures, claiming to be afraid of the Israli School System. Honestly, I never had a kid in the Israeli school system, and I refuse to judge it until I have experienced it for myself. Nothing is perfect. There are plenty of problems with the schools that I went to in the U.S. I guess it's all a question of the lesser of evils. And to decide which evil is the lesser, I need to experience both.
But then I get scared. Becuause maybe the devil that you know is better than the one that you don't know and all that. I am not sure how to respond to claims that the diaper changing thing, really Mom, is kinda not tznius, donchaknow. And I know it's something that she is repeating without really knowing what she is saying exactly, but that's the point. It's in the air here. And while tznuis is laudable, (even when it freaks me out that Princess refuses to wear socks because "when I run, you see my legs, Ima!") it also comes along with other things. Like this black and white attitude. It's either good or it's bad. Nothing is in between. When I know in my heart that most of the world is gray. I have a neighbor who punished her daughter for undressing her doll because "it's not tznius," and she thinks that the word "naked" is a 4-letter word. (Even though it's 5 letters. You know what I mean.) I don't like that. At all. But is it better in New York, where the kid sitting next to your kid watches TV all day, picking up subtle messages and a 3-second attention span, and sharing these delights with your child?
Remember when we actually wanted to be adults, and be in charge of decisions?
Don't know what I was thinking.
Although I don't really need to worry about getting into Bais Yaakov in the end, dear internet. Because this morning, while strolling between the isles of the very crowded makolet, Coco-pop turns to the woman next to me and informs her, "I like beer. I like to drink the whole thing up."
Because the other day, she asked for some of Outdoorsman's dregs, and I gave the can to her, figuring she'll never ask for it again. She liked it. Very much, in fact. So I do not have to worry about getting into Bais Yaakov, if the look on that woman's face is any indication. Because with honesty like that, it doesn't matter how tznius my daughters are, we aint getting in.
"Do not do that, sweetie," I said sternly. "Ima needs to finish cleaning you."
"But z'not tznius!" she retorted, around a mouthful of pacifier.
Okay.
So.
We definitely live in Eretz Yisrael. I know this because all around me the buildings are made out of white stone, I purchase my milk in a bag, and my 2 year-old just informed me that changing her diaper is really not very tznius.
Being that Princess will be five this year, I have been thinking a lot about getting her into Bais Yaakov.
Now, I am a firm believer in judging things for myself. I never take other people's word for it. About anything. I know a lot of people who left this country for red-bricked-er and milk-in-containers-er pastures, claiming to be afraid of the Israli School System. Honestly, I never had a kid in the Israeli school system, and I refuse to judge it until I have experienced it for myself. Nothing is perfect. There are plenty of problems with the schools that I went to in the U.S. I guess it's all a question of the lesser of evils. And to decide which evil is the lesser, I need to experience both.
But then I get scared. Becuause maybe the devil that you know is better than the one that you don't know and all that. I am not sure how to respond to claims that the diaper changing thing, really Mom, is kinda not tznius, donchaknow. And I know it's something that she is repeating without really knowing what she is saying exactly, but that's the point. It's in the air here. And while tznuis is laudable, (even when it freaks me out that Princess refuses to wear socks because "when I run, you see my legs, Ima!") it also comes along with other things. Like this black and white attitude. It's either good or it's bad. Nothing is in between. When I know in my heart that most of the world is gray. I have a neighbor who punished her daughter for undressing her doll because "it's not tznius," and she thinks that the word "naked" is a 4-letter word. (Even though it's 5 letters. You know what I mean.) I don't like that. At all. But is it better in New York, where the kid sitting next to your kid watches TV all day, picking up subtle messages and a 3-second attention span, and sharing these delights with your child?
Remember when we actually wanted to be adults, and be in charge of decisions?
Don't know what I was thinking.
Although I don't really need to worry about getting into Bais Yaakov in the end, dear internet. Because this morning, while strolling between the isles of the very crowded makolet, Coco-pop turns to the woman next to me and informs her, "I like beer. I like to drink the whole thing up."
Because the other day, she asked for some of Outdoorsman's dregs, and I gave the can to her, figuring she'll never ask for it again. She liked it. Very much, in fact. So I do not have to worry about getting into Bais Yaakov, if the look on that woman's face is any indication. Because with honesty like that, it doesn't matter how tznius my daughters are, we aint getting in.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Ben and Jerry's and G-d
It was late.
I was cold.
The aparment was a mess.
Dinner was not ready.
The kids were in bed, but still up and making ten last requests a second.
Oh, who am I kidding?
I was riding on a wave of pregnancy hormones when Outdoorsman asked me something terribly provoking, like, do you want me to help with dinner?
Flames shot out of my blood-dripping eyes and talons grew from my fingernails. Fur sprouted. Jaws elongated. I growled with my new long, dripping tongue, "You think that I'm a horrible housewife, and also ugly and fat, and if you hate me so much, why did you marry me anyway?!"
He said something like no no, you are wonderful and beautiful and perfect, darling,and I am so sorry for thinking that you might like some help, and backed away slowly, as one should do when faced with a rabid animal.
So I burst into tears and said something like, It's late, I'm cold, the apartment is a mess, the kids are in bed but still up and making ten last minute requests a second.
He said yes dear, of course dear, would you like some ice-cream dear? And bought Ben and Jerry's Cookies 'n Cream, which costs around a shekel a spoon-full.
I have been thinking lately about women's mitzvos versus men's. (and I am allowed to change the topic at random because I am PREGNANT. Also, it will all tie together so brilliantly in the end, it will take your breath away. Or else.) How we do not have any of the positive commandments mandated. How I always learned that we don't need all that, we are somehow purer, above it.
I never felt purer, or above it. I was never really satisfied with what seemed to be the pat answers to my indignant questions. ("thank G-d that I was not made a woman?" Dude! Cold. Why can't be both just be "happy that G-d made us who we are?")
So I decided to work backwards, to understand.
What is the goal, the same goal that all of us have, even if we have to take different roads to get there? I asked myself in saner, cooler, post-feminist days.
Of course, it is to have a relationship with Hashem.
How can we go about doing that?
By really understanding whatever it is our human minds can grasp about Who Hashem is.
What can we know about Him? We can repeat His Attributes, but they are only parables. We can't know what He is like. We can only really know that He is in control of the world, and we are not.
Ah.
So it's not about being purer, maybe. Maybe it's about simply being one step closer to that Truth.
It's really so unsettling, what happens to us women, I thought as my spoon hit the bottom of the Cookies 'n Cream container. And not only when pregnant. We are ruled by our cycles. The hormone flow is something that men can never really understand. It's like being possessed. It's like not being in control of who we are.
It's like--like not being in control.
It's like--women, intrinsically knowing that Someone else is in control.
Edited to add: Incidentally, after buying the ice-cream, Outdoorsman rigged an old music box to a cabinet in the kitchen. Now, whenever I open the cabinet door, it plays music. This has nothing to do with this post, except to add that my husband knows how to tame a beast.
I was cold.
The aparment was a mess.
Dinner was not ready.
The kids were in bed, but still up and making ten last requests a second.
Oh, who am I kidding?
I was riding on a wave of pregnancy hormones when Outdoorsman asked me something terribly provoking, like, do you want me to help with dinner?
Flames shot out of my blood-dripping eyes and talons grew from my fingernails. Fur sprouted. Jaws elongated. I growled with my new long, dripping tongue, "You think that I'm a horrible housewife, and also ugly and fat, and if you hate me so much, why did you marry me anyway?!"
He said something like no no, you are wonderful and beautiful and perfect, darling,and I am so sorry for thinking that you might like some help, and backed away slowly, as one should do when faced with a rabid animal.
So I burst into tears and said something like, It's late, I'm cold, the apartment is a mess, the kids are in bed but still up and making ten last minute requests a second.
He said yes dear, of course dear, would you like some ice-cream dear? And bought Ben and Jerry's Cookies 'n Cream, which costs around a shekel a spoon-full.
I have been thinking lately about women's mitzvos versus men's. (and I am allowed to change the topic at random because I am PREGNANT. Also, it will all tie together so brilliantly in the end, it will take your breath away. Or else.) How we do not have any of the positive commandments mandated. How I always learned that we don't need all that, we are somehow purer, above it.
I never felt purer, or above it. I was never really satisfied with what seemed to be the pat answers to my indignant questions. ("thank G-d that I was not made a woman?" Dude! Cold. Why can't be both just be "happy that G-d made us who we are?")
So I decided to work backwards, to understand.
What is the goal, the same goal that all of us have, even if we have to take different roads to get there? I asked myself in saner, cooler, post-feminist days.
Of course, it is to have a relationship with Hashem.
How can we go about doing that?
By really understanding whatever it is our human minds can grasp about Who Hashem is.
What can we know about Him? We can repeat His Attributes, but they are only parables. We can't know what He is like. We can only really know that He is in control of the world, and we are not.
Ah.
So it's not about being purer, maybe. Maybe it's about simply being one step closer to that Truth.
It's really so unsettling, what happens to us women, I thought as my spoon hit the bottom of the Cookies 'n Cream container. And not only when pregnant. We are ruled by our cycles. The hormone flow is something that men can never really understand. It's like being possessed. It's like not being in control of who we are.
It's like--like not being in control.
It's like--women, intrinsically knowing that Someone else is in control.
Edited to add: Incidentally, after buying the ice-cream, Outdoorsman rigged an old music box to a cabinet in the kitchen. Now, whenever I open the cabinet door, it plays music. This has nothing to do with this post, except to add that my husband knows how to tame a beast.
Monday, January 18, 2010
As Wet As They Let This Wet Pet Get
It's raining.
It's raining felines and canines. Or, as Princess put it, it's raining "like Hashem put on these huge boots and is stomping around in the sky! And also He gave some boots to Zeidy and Sabba, because they're in shamayim with Him, and they're all stomping around!" Then she let out a laugh of pure delight at the visual she created for herself.
So, it's definitely raining. Which I am glad for! We need rain! But also, Coco-pop is sick, and when I bundled her up to take Princess to gan, I tasted all different flavors of guilty. We set off on the 15 minute walk, Coco-pop in the stroller, wrapped like a tortilla, Princess walking proudly in her flower raincoat directly behind the stroller, and me, behind her, regretting my decision not to buy boots (waste of money! And honestly, where can I keep 'em? said I when opportunity knocked.) and pushing the stroller while balancing an umbrella over all three of us.
We got there, more or less soaking wet.
Then, the villain of the story strolls in. Or rather, rolls in. As in, in a car.
Let me set the scene for y'all.
Us three, soaking wet, my hand burning from holding the umbrella in position while pushing the stroller at the same time.
Her, in shaitel and makeup and white coat with fur collar and cuffs, emerging dry from her car to open the door for her equally dry child.
Our girls run in together,giggling as they splash all the puddles on the way to the front door of the gan.
Meanwhile, she returns to her car, and rolls down the window. A ride home? My heart leaps up as if I had beheld a rainbow in the sky. I walk towards her, smiling, but vague, just in case it's a false alarm.
It is.
"What do you think of this weather?" she asks.
Um. "Wet?" I ventured.
"I think it's so refreshing!" she smiles.
Then
she
pulls
away.
And all I could think of all the way home was that we could not afford fruit last year, and every time I buy some, I feel grateful that I can. Doesn't she remember what it was like when she didn't have a car? My shoes were waterlogged, and so was my spirit.
I got home, put Coco-pop into warm clothing, gave her some milk and put her in for a nap. Then I attacked the house. I was up to sweeping when I realized that I knew what it was like to not afford fruit. But did I know what it was like to not be able to pay rent? No. Thank G-d we had that every month from what we earned. Did I think about people who couldn't scrape it together and had to beg their landlord to give them another day, another week to get it all?
Not really.
Lady In White probably always had a car. She probably thought that the rain looked refreshing outside of her window, shared that with me, and then went on her way without another thought. Because not having a car--oh, she probably needs a ride!--was not a rounded out thought in her head.
So I forgave her. But for me--well, I think that we can do better than that.
I read today on aish.com about a couple who never forgot where they came from when they became really wealthy, and were constantly giving back.
We can and should overcome our blocks in our minds and souls, and feel for those who have less.
So don't worry, y'all. When Outdorsman and I become filthy stinkin' rich, I will totally not forget all the little people.
It's raining felines and canines. Or, as Princess put it, it's raining "like Hashem put on these huge boots and is stomping around in the sky! And also He gave some boots to Zeidy and Sabba, because they're in shamayim with Him, and they're all stomping around!" Then she let out a laugh of pure delight at the visual she created for herself.
So, it's definitely raining. Which I am glad for! We need rain! But also, Coco-pop is sick, and when I bundled her up to take Princess to gan, I tasted all different flavors of guilty. We set off on the 15 minute walk, Coco-pop in the stroller, wrapped like a tortilla, Princess walking proudly in her flower raincoat directly behind the stroller, and me, behind her, regretting my decision not to buy boots (waste of money! And honestly, where can I keep 'em? said I when opportunity knocked.) and pushing the stroller while balancing an umbrella over all three of us.
We got there, more or less soaking wet.
Then, the villain of the story strolls in. Or rather, rolls in. As in, in a car.
Let me set the scene for y'all.
Us three, soaking wet, my hand burning from holding the umbrella in position while pushing the stroller at the same time.
Her, in shaitel and makeup and white coat with fur collar and cuffs, emerging dry from her car to open the door for her equally dry child.
Our girls run in together,giggling as they splash all the puddles on the way to the front door of the gan.
Meanwhile, she returns to her car, and rolls down the window. A ride home? My heart leaps up as if I had beheld a rainbow in the sky. I walk towards her, smiling, but vague, just in case it's a false alarm.
It is.
"What do you think of this weather?" she asks.
Um. "Wet?" I ventured.
"I think it's so refreshing!" she smiles.
Then
she
pulls
away.
And all I could think of all the way home was that we could not afford fruit last year, and every time I buy some, I feel grateful that I can. Doesn't she remember what it was like when she didn't have a car? My shoes were waterlogged, and so was my spirit.
I got home, put Coco-pop into warm clothing, gave her some milk and put her in for a nap. Then I attacked the house. I was up to sweeping when I realized that I knew what it was like to not afford fruit. But did I know what it was like to not be able to pay rent? No. Thank G-d we had that every month from what we earned. Did I think about people who couldn't scrape it together and had to beg their landlord to give them another day, another week to get it all?
Not really.
Lady In White probably always had a car. She probably thought that the rain looked refreshing outside of her window, shared that with me, and then went on her way without another thought. Because not having a car--oh, she probably needs a ride!--was not a rounded out thought in her head.
So I forgave her. But for me--well, I think that we can do better than that.
I read today on aish.com about a couple who never forgot where they came from when they became really wealthy, and were constantly giving back.
We can and should overcome our blocks in our minds and souls, and feel for those who have less.
So don't worry, y'all. When Outdorsman and I become filthy stinkin' rich, I will totally not forget all the little people.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
I Was Totally Asking For It
In the 50s, or maybe the 40's? TV was not endless programs that you could watch all hours of the night. 3 o'clock in the bleary morning home shopping network was not heard of. I guess no one had insomnia in those days.
ANYWAY, these 50's or 40's TV people would reach the end of the day of regularly scheduled programming and sweet stories about boys and their dogs, and it would end. Tada. The end. See you all tomorrow.
That, in a nutshell, is what happens to my brain after the kids' normally scheduled bedtime. Tada. The end. See you all tomorrow. I will now watch white snow on a black screen (or...is it really black snow on a white screen? Hmmm...maybe I'll watch it for a few more hours and get back to you on that.) until tomorrow morning.
Cam you see where I am going with this? Yes. Last night. They were up until 11:30.
I use my last ounces of sweet patience on pajama time and book time and milk time and shema time. Maybe a last minute water call and blanket tucking in. Then, they must go to sleep. At once. Because it's hard to talk to children with your brain tuned in to white/black snow.
"Ima!"
"Mmmmph?"
"Do you know how to say couch in hebrew?"
"Sapah?"
"Nooooo, sapah. (with an indistiguish-able difference. American-Israeli kids!)"
"Mmmph."
"Right I know so much Hebrew?"
"Hmmmhm."
"Can you sing me another song?"
"Go."
"To."
"Sleep."
"Does that mean no?"
Meanwhile Coco-pop was rattling around in her crib like a ghost in chains, singing a song of her own creation. It went like this:
"Iiiiiiiiima, wanna come out, Iiiiiiiima, wanna to come out, Iiiiiiima, wanna to come out!"
The chorus was pretty much the same.
When they finally fell asleep, I slumped, dejected, to my own bed. I felt like any Good Mommy Points that I had scored were gone, finished, done with, used up. I felt like I had to talk to someone about it. I turned to my husband. His eyes were closed, but he was still awake. Probably.
"You know, I hate that my brain turns off. I wish that I had more patience with them. I need to work on this. They do not have to turn off like clockwork every night in order for me to be happy. They could ask me questions and I should give them normal, human-like responses!"
"Mmmmph."
"I remember waking up with a nightmare when I was little and walking back and forth in the hallway, trying to creak someone awake. I wished with all my little heart that my mother would wake up and hold me. I need to always be there for them, even when it's 2 in the morning."
"Mmmmph."
"Maybe I should take classes. Or just tell myself that life is not perfect and does not fall into predesignated slots. You know?"
"Hmmmhmmm."
"I should make a list. I should hang it up. I should--"
"Go."
"To."
"Sleep."
"....I guess that means that you're not going to sing me a song."
"Zzzzz...."
And that, my friends, is what we call karma.
ANYWAY, these 50's or 40's TV people would reach the end of the day of regularly scheduled programming and sweet stories about boys and their dogs, and it would end. Tada. The end. See you all tomorrow.
That, in a nutshell, is what happens to my brain after the kids' normally scheduled bedtime. Tada. The end. See you all tomorrow. I will now watch white snow on a black screen (or...is it really black snow on a white screen? Hmmm...maybe I'll watch it for a few more hours and get back to you on that.) until tomorrow morning.
Cam you see where I am going with this? Yes. Last night. They were up until 11:30.
I use my last ounces of sweet patience on pajama time and book time and milk time and shema time. Maybe a last minute water call and blanket tucking in. Then, they must go to sleep. At once. Because it's hard to talk to children with your brain tuned in to white/black snow.
"Ima!"
"Mmmmph?"
"Do you know how to say couch in hebrew?"
"Sapah?"
"Nooooo, sapah. (with an indistiguish-able difference. American-Israeli kids!)"
"Mmmph."
"Right I know so much Hebrew?"
"Hmmmhm."
"Can you sing me another song?"
"Go."
"To."
"Sleep."
"Does that mean no?"
Meanwhile Coco-pop was rattling around in her crib like a ghost in chains, singing a song of her own creation. It went like this:
"Iiiiiiiiima, wanna come out, Iiiiiiiima, wanna to come out, Iiiiiiima, wanna to come out!"
The chorus was pretty much the same.
When they finally fell asleep, I slumped, dejected, to my own bed. I felt like any Good Mommy Points that I had scored were gone, finished, done with, used up. I felt like I had to talk to someone about it. I turned to my husband. His eyes were closed, but he was still awake. Probably.
"You know, I hate that my brain turns off. I wish that I had more patience with them. I need to work on this. They do not have to turn off like clockwork every night in order for me to be happy. They could ask me questions and I should give them normal, human-like responses!"
"Mmmmph."
"I remember waking up with a nightmare when I was little and walking back and forth in the hallway, trying to creak someone awake. I wished with all my little heart that my mother would wake up and hold me. I need to always be there for them, even when it's 2 in the morning."
"Mmmmph."
"Maybe I should take classes. Or just tell myself that life is not perfect and does not fall into predesignated slots. You know?"
"Hmmmhmmm."
"I should make a list. I should hang it up. I should--"
"Go."
"To."
"Sleep."
"....I guess that means that you're not going to sing me a song."
"Zzzzz...."
And that, my friends, is what we call karma.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Mornings with Coco-pop
Me: Who's my baby? Who's my little baby?
Coco-pop: Not a baby! A little girl!
Me: (heart breaking into five pieces)
----
I love love having her home with me. I stare at her. I really do. When she is sitting on my lap, I look at her little profile and I get caught, in my mess and halfway through my list of Things To Do and do nothing but gaze at her little upturned nose and the way that her lashes rest on her rounded pink cheek and the auburn curls that lightly frame her face and I turn her chin gently so that she faces me. I ask her if she wants me to eat her little face up. She declines. I eat her face up anyway. She squeals and giggles and then says, do it again, Ima. And the whole time I am filled with wonder, filled with awe, filled with a need to touch her, to rub my cheek against her cheek, to play with her rounded fingers, her nails with the chipped red nail polish and half-moons of dirt from playing in the sandbox.
The knowledge that my blood pumps through her veins, that she is bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, all that floods through me as she sits on my lap, demanding another story. I tell her another story, making it last, curling up with her for as long as she'll stay still.
It's hard to describe, in this impure world, this physical manifestation of mother's love. I hesitate to post this, not wanting to be misunderstood.
It's hard to put into words, to put into into black and white the color of my love for my baby.
Sorry, Coco-pop. I meant, of course, my love for my little girl.
Coco-pop: Not a baby! A little girl!
Me: (heart breaking into five pieces)
----
I love love having her home with me. I stare at her. I really do. When she is sitting on my lap, I look at her little profile and I get caught, in my mess and halfway through my list of Things To Do and do nothing but gaze at her little upturned nose and the way that her lashes rest on her rounded pink cheek and the auburn curls that lightly frame her face and I turn her chin gently so that she faces me. I ask her if she wants me to eat her little face up. She declines. I eat her face up anyway. She squeals and giggles and then says, do it again, Ima. And the whole time I am filled with wonder, filled with awe, filled with a need to touch her, to rub my cheek against her cheek, to play with her rounded fingers, her nails with the chipped red nail polish and half-moons of dirt from playing in the sandbox.
The knowledge that my blood pumps through her veins, that she is bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, all that floods through me as she sits on my lap, demanding another story. I tell her another story, making it last, curling up with her for as long as she'll stay still.
It's hard to describe, in this impure world, this physical manifestation of mother's love. I hesitate to post this, not wanting to be misunderstood.
It's hard to put into words, to put into into black and white the color of my love for my baby.
Sorry, Coco-pop. I meant, of course, my love for my little girl.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Drown In The Now
When I was little, the window in my bedroom overlooked a main four-laned street that further down merged into a highway. I would sit on my bed and look down at the toy-sized cars whizzing back and forth at all times of the night (I had major insomnia all my life, totally cured by the birth of my oldest. Ya always want what ya can't have, I guess!) and I would try to come up with different, intricately detailed stories for each car, explaining why they were on the road at 2 o'clock in the morning.
The little blue car with the broken tail light was obviously speeding away from the cops who tried to issue him a ticket. He turned onto a major street in the hopes of losing them. He can't afford a ticket, you see, because he just lost his job, and his three children are dressed in rags and never get any treats at all.
The green one with the suitcase on the roof-rack is probably coming back from a weekend in Florida (I didn't know much about any states in between New York, New Jersey, and Florida) and he and his wife keep taking turns at the wheel on the long trip home, while in the cookie-crumb-covered and sticky-with-spilled-apple-juice
back seat, their two children sleep.
I saw each car, each person, as a little floating bubble of unique life, a tiny world on its own rotation, that can get very close to another little world but never actually merge. (Especially those of you who think it's okay to pick your noses in the rear-view mirror. We DO see you from the window, guys. YOU know who I'm talking to!)
As I got a little older, I realized that there are actually points of intersection, and that most of them really boil down to how you feel about this person walking down the street, and how this person walking down the street makes you feel about yourself.
Little thought bubbles at the points of intersection:
"Oh no, I think that I owe her money. Do I owe her money? Oh, darn, and I think it was from a long time ago, too."
"She is always so patient with her kids. I wish that I could do that. She makes it look so easy."
"Ooooh...remember when I said that stupid thing and it was in front of her and then I got so embarrased and I never explained...I wish that I could explain now, but it was 10 years ago. Oh, why can't I just get over it already!"
"She is totally skinnier than me. But maybe I'm prettier?"
"She is totally prettier than me. But maybe I am skinnier?"
Like our nerve endings are rubbed raw with the contact, the intimacy of interaction. Our minds are jumbled with thoughts and feelings and memories until it's not clear if you feel a certain way about the person that you are chatting with or if you feel that way about yourself...
I took the kids to the park yesterday afternoon. Hogging the merry-go-round was one of the girls who has been teasing Princess in gan. I braced myself. Princess loved the merry-go-round. How was this going to work out?
"Hi, M!" Princess called out. "Stop the merry-go-round, I want to get on!"
"Okay," M agreed.
And to my amazement, 5 minutes later, the girl were spinning around with their arms around each other, singing "Bar Yochai" at the very top of their lungs.
Because now it's the afternoon. Who cares about what happened this morning, in gan? Right now we are two good friends on the same merry-go-round, singing this really great song.
Someone wise once said that when you walk into a party and you're all self-conscious about your choice in outfit, just remember than no one is looking at you. Just like you, they are all busy looking at themselves in the mirror.
So live. Laugh. Love. Forget what happened 10 years ago. (Except for that chick whom you owe money to. You should probably pay her back.) Twirl around together, because the past was already. The future doesn't matter yet.
Live in the present, their 4 year-old voices were singing.
Live for the now.
The little blue car with the broken tail light was obviously speeding away from the cops who tried to issue him a ticket. He turned onto a major street in the hopes of losing them. He can't afford a ticket, you see, because he just lost his job, and his three children are dressed in rags and never get any treats at all.
The green one with the suitcase on the roof-rack is probably coming back from a weekend in Florida (I didn't know much about any states in between New York, New Jersey, and Florida) and he and his wife keep taking turns at the wheel on the long trip home, while in the cookie-crumb-covered and sticky-with-spilled-apple-juice
back seat, their two children sleep.
I saw each car, each person, as a little floating bubble of unique life, a tiny world on its own rotation, that can get very close to another little world but never actually merge. (Especially those of you who think it's okay to pick your noses in the rear-view mirror. We DO see you from the window, guys. YOU know who I'm talking to!)
As I got a little older, I realized that there are actually points of intersection, and that most of them really boil down to how you feel about this person walking down the street, and how this person walking down the street makes you feel about yourself.
Little thought bubbles at the points of intersection:
"Oh no, I think that I owe her money. Do I owe her money? Oh, darn, and I think it was from a long time ago, too."
"She is always so patient with her kids. I wish that I could do that. She makes it look so easy."
"Ooooh...remember when I said that stupid thing and it was in front of her and then I got so embarrased and I never explained...I wish that I could explain now, but it was 10 years ago. Oh, why can't I just get over it already!"
"She is totally skinnier than me. But maybe I'm prettier?"
"She is totally prettier than me. But maybe I am skinnier?"
Like our nerve endings are rubbed raw with the contact, the intimacy of interaction. Our minds are jumbled with thoughts and feelings and memories until it's not clear if you feel a certain way about the person that you are chatting with or if you feel that way about yourself...
I took the kids to the park yesterday afternoon. Hogging the merry-go-round was one of the girls who has been teasing Princess in gan. I braced myself. Princess loved the merry-go-round. How was this going to work out?
"Hi, M!" Princess called out. "Stop the merry-go-round, I want to get on!"
"Okay," M agreed.
And to my amazement, 5 minutes later, the girl were spinning around with their arms around each other, singing "Bar Yochai" at the very top of their lungs.
Because now it's the afternoon. Who cares about what happened this morning, in gan? Right now we are two good friends on the same merry-go-round, singing this really great song.
Someone wise once said that when you walk into a party and you're all self-conscious about your choice in outfit, just remember than no one is looking at you. Just like you, they are all busy looking at themselves in the mirror.
So live. Laugh. Love. Forget what happened 10 years ago. (Except for that chick whom you owe money to. You should probably pay her back.) Twirl around together, because the past was already. The future doesn't matter yet.
Live in the present, their 4 year-old voices were singing.
Live for the now.
Monday, December 28, 2009
When you aint got your Man
I am a strong and capable woman. I take care of my kids. I take of my household. And I do it all with a smile! Yes! I am capable and strong! I am woman! Hear me roar!
Meow. meow moew moew.
No, really.
My husband left to America on business for a week and I have thus far eaten a box of candy, not gone to the gym, ran my fingers idly through the dirty laundry, cast a disinterested gaze over the piles of dirty dishes, and woke up every 15 minutes at night with a start at the silence in the bed next to mine, saying, "what was that?"
I am tired. My house is a mess. My kids are painting on the walls as we speak and eating leftover breakfast for lunch. I am eating a bag of lettuce since that is all I can stomach after The Candy Incident.
Wah. You don't have to feel bad for me; I feel bad enough for myself.
But, it is enough! Pull yourself together, girl! Turn on some music, pull out the broom, and clean and dance with your babies and dust-mites.
Although I am torn. Because I heard that if you let your dust-mites get big enough, they make very good, very quiet, low-maintainence pets. Then maybe I can cuddle up with one and finally fall into a good, deep sleep.
Meow. meow moew moew.
No, really.
My husband left to America on business for a week and I have thus far eaten a box of candy, not gone to the gym, ran my fingers idly through the dirty laundry, cast a disinterested gaze over the piles of dirty dishes, and woke up every 15 minutes at night with a start at the silence in the bed next to mine, saying, "what was that?"
I am tired. My house is a mess. My kids are painting on the walls as we speak and eating leftover breakfast for lunch. I am eating a bag of lettuce since that is all I can stomach after The Candy Incident.
Wah. You don't have to feel bad for me; I feel bad enough for myself.
But, it is enough! Pull yourself together, girl! Turn on some music, pull out the broom, and clean and dance with your babies and dust-mites.
Although I am torn. Because I heard that if you let your dust-mites get big enough, they make very good, very quiet, low-maintainence pets. Then maybe I can cuddle up with one and finally fall into a good, deep sleep.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Of Wailing Walls
Princess has been creating her very own swimming pool out of her own tears lately.
I have lost track of the amount of times that she'll cry in the length of one day. Our dialogues seem to go like this:
Princess: Ima, can I have a cookie for breakfast?
Me: Um. Um? No? We do not and have never eaten cookies for breakfast? Sweetie?
Princess: But--but--BUT--Ima! IwannacookieforbreakfastYOUNEVERLETMEHAVEACOOKIEFORBREAKFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!
This intelligent and thought-provoking dialogue and other similiar ones usually end with me putting myself into time out.
The other day, being slighly suicidal, I took my girls to the kotel with a friend and her three kids. 5 kids + 2 mommies on the number 2 bus = you do the math. Chaos theory come to life.
We made it, we took turns davening, then let the kds run around in the square, wide-eyed at the beautiful kallas and the more colorful tourists. We fed them a run-around dinner, then, as the sky darkened and the crowds thinned, started heading back to the bus.
The bus pulled up, and opened up its back doors. I held Princess' hand in one hand, Coco-pop's in the other, and the carriage--oh, oops, the carriage! Halfway in her ascent up the stairs, I dropped Princess' hand to grope for the carriage. Got it!
And then, it happened. Well, nothing really happened, to me or to most passengers ascending the stairs, so I will give it to you from Princess' percpective:
I am going up the stairs, holding Ima's hand tightly. So many people--cannot let go of her hand or I might never see her again. Hey--Ima!--where are you? Don't let
go! Need to turn around, look for her--the doors! They are CLOSING--Ima, is leaving me ALL ALONE FOREVER FOR THE REST OF MY WRETCHED EXISTANCE!
'K, back to me. What happened was, as I turned to grab the stroller, the doors started closing. I didn't blink, just hammered on the door and yelled out somewhat indelicately, "Nahag, regah!" The doors re-opened, I entered with Coco-pop and the carriage, and was greeted by a screaming, white-faced Princess.
She sat on my lap and held my hand all the way home.
Me: Princess, look at that huge tree out your window!
Princess: Mmmmm.
Me: Look, it must be a hundred years old!
Princess: DON'T let go of my hand!
That night, as I was putting her in, we spoke about it. And I got a chilling revelation about how Princess, my smart, perhaps too-smart 4 and a half year old oldest thinks.
"I thought that I was going to be all alone on the bus because I couldn't figure out how to open the door."
"But sweetie, you did not have to try to figure it out. Ima got the door open."
"I didn't know what to do. Because the door was too heavy for me."
"Ima would never ever ever leave you alone on the bus, right?"
"Right. But I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to open the door."
And that's when I realized what she was getting at, what it was All About.
Princess doesn't see me as her Knight In Shining Armor. She doesn't thinlk that I could rescue her. She thought that the whole thing, the whole problem, and therefore the whole solution, was on her shoulders. She was the only one in control.
But love, I wanted to tell her, you are only 4 and a half years old! You do not need to come up with the answers yet; you should look to me for all of them. That is a heavy heavy weight that you carry, little girl. Why won't you let me lift it for you?
Instead, I said, "Princess, it's Ima's problem. Not yours. Ima's. Ima is the one who has to figure out what to do. Not you. Ima. Ima saw the door closing. Ima hammered on the door. The driver opened the door. Your job was to just sit and wait."
She let out a long suddering breath, and hugged me for a few millenium.
I have to keep reminding her.
I have to keep reminding myself.
Hashem li, lo irah.
I have lost track of the amount of times that she'll cry in the length of one day. Our dialogues seem to go like this:
Princess: Ima, can I have a cookie for breakfast?
Me: Um. Um? No? We do not and have never eaten cookies for breakfast? Sweetie?
Princess: But--but--BUT--Ima! IwannacookieforbreakfastYOUNEVERLETMEHAVEACOOKIEFORBREAKFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!
This intelligent and thought-provoking dialogue and other similiar ones usually end with me putting myself into time out.
The other day, being slighly suicidal, I took my girls to the kotel with a friend and her three kids. 5 kids + 2 mommies on the number 2 bus = you do the math. Chaos theory come to life.
We made it, we took turns davening, then let the kds run around in the square, wide-eyed at the beautiful kallas and the more colorful tourists. We fed them a run-around dinner, then, as the sky darkened and the crowds thinned, started heading back to the bus.
The bus pulled up, and opened up its back doors. I held Princess' hand in one hand, Coco-pop's in the other, and the carriage--oh, oops, the carriage! Halfway in her ascent up the stairs, I dropped Princess' hand to grope for the carriage. Got it!
And then, it happened. Well, nothing really happened, to me or to most passengers ascending the stairs, so I will give it to you from Princess' percpective:
I am going up the stairs, holding Ima's hand tightly. So many people--cannot let go of her hand or I might never see her again. Hey--Ima!--where are you? Don't let
go! Need to turn around, look for her--the doors! They are CLOSING--Ima, is leaving me ALL ALONE FOREVER FOR THE REST OF MY WRETCHED EXISTANCE!
'K, back to me. What happened was, as I turned to grab the stroller, the doors started closing. I didn't blink, just hammered on the door and yelled out somewhat indelicately, "Nahag, regah!" The doors re-opened, I entered with Coco-pop and the carriage, and was greeted by a screaming, white-faced Princess.
She sat on my lap and held my hand all the way home.
Me: Princess, look at that huge tree out your window!
Princess: Mmmmm.
Me:
Princess: DON'T let go of my hand!
That night, as I was putting her in, we spoke about it. And I got a chilling revelation about how Princess, my smart, perhaps too-smart 4 and a half year old oldest thinks.
"I thought that I was going to be all alone on the bus because I couldn't figure out how to open the door."
"But sweetie, you did not have to try to figure it out. Ima got the door open."
"I didn't know what to do. Because the door was too heavy for me."
"Ima would never ever ever leave you alone on the bus, right?"
"Right. But I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to open the door."
And that's when I realized what she was getting at, what it was All About.
Princess doesn't see me as her Knight In Shining Armor. She doesn't thinlk that I could rescue her. She thought that the whole thing, the whole problem, and therefore the whole solution, was on her shoulders. She was the only one in control.
But love, I wanted to tell her, you are only 4 and a half years old! You do not need to come up with the answers yet; you should look to me for all of them. That is a heavy heavy weight that you carry, little girl. Why won't you let me lift it for you?
Instead, I said, "Princess, it's Ima's problem. Not yours. Ima's. Ima is the one who has to figure out what to do. Not you. Ima. Ima saw the door closing. Ima hammered on the door. The driver opened the door. Your job was to just sit and wait."
She let out a long suddering breath, and hugged me for a few millenium.
I have to keep reminding her.
I have to keep reminding myself.
Hashem li, lo irah.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Conversations
Princess: Ima, what kind of gan will I go to next year?
Me: Just like this year, but for older girls, because you will be bigger next year!
Princess: No, I mean what language will we learn next year, instead of Hebrew? Spanish?
----
Princess: Can you sing that song, Ima? About the beautiful morning?
Me: (warbling) "O what a beautiful mooooorning, O what a beautiful daaaay. I've got a beautiful feeeeeling, everything's going my way!"
Princess: Ima, you sang it wrong at the end. It's "everything's getting in my way!"
Me: Erm...
----
Princess: Ima, who's birthday is next?
Me: Abba's. It's right after chanuka.
Princess: Can we make a party?
Me: (stage whisper) Yes! But let's keep it a suprise. We'll have a cake, and balloons, and--
Princess: (not in a stage whisper) Okay! And pekalach! With wafers and a lolipop and popcorn! Abba! Abba! Abba, we are going to make you a party with cake and balloons and pekalach and also, it's going to be a suprise !
Me: Just like this year, but for older girls, because you will be bigger next year!
Princess: No, I mean what language will we learn next year, instead of Hebrew? Spanish?
----
Princess: Can you sing that song, Ima? About the beautiful morning?
Me: (warbling) "O what a beautiful mooooorning, O what a beautiful daaaay. I've got a beautiful feeeeeling, everything's going my way!"
Princess: Ima, you sang it wrong at the end. It's "everything's getting in my way!"
Me: Erm...
----
Princess: Ima, who's birthday is next?
Me: Abba's. It's right after chanuka.
Princess: Can we make a party?
Me: (stage whisper) Yes! But let's keep it a suprise. We'll have a cake, and balloons, and--
Princess: (not in a stage whisper) Okay! And pekalach! With wafers and a lolipop and popcorn! Abba! Abba! Abba, we are going to make you a party with cake and balloons and pekalach and also, it's going to be a suprise !
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
In Which I Open My Mouth To Insert My Foot
Oooookay.
So.
Outdoorsman, this is for you.
Because what I meant by not having anyone that I want to talk to in a 6,000 mile radius when I wrote that I have no one in a 6,000 mile radius that I want to talk to was that OF COURSE I have someone that I want to talk to in my 6,000 mile radius!
And that person is you, my beloved helpmeet! Because you are so wonderful and so charming and so captivating and so disarming! And you are funny and so witty and so delightful and so pretty!
Did I mention so witty?
Disarming?
I am flipping through the pages of my thesaurus at an alarming rate, darling.
All because there is nothing that I'd rather do than only talk to you. Because you. Are witty. And stuff.
So I googled! To find a poem that matches my feelings. I found this one:
Yes baby, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, ....! ! ! !
……and on top of that, I’m very sorry……! ! !
So.
Outdoorsman, this is for you.
Because what I meant by not having anyone that I want to talk to in a 6,000 mile radius when I wrote that I have no one in a 6,000 mile radius that I want to talk to was that OF COURSE I have someone that I want to talk to in my 6,000 mile radius!
And that person is you, my beloved helpmeet! Because you are so wonderful and so charming and so captivating and so disarming! And you are funny and so witty and so delightful and so pretty!
Did I mention so witty?
Disarming?
I am flipping through the pages of my thesaurus at an alarming rate, darling.
All because there is nothing that I'd rather do than only talk to you. Because you. Are witty. And stuff.
So I googled! To find a poem that matches my feelings. I found this one:
Yes baby, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, ....! ! ! !
……and on top of that, I’m very sorry……! ! !
Monday, December 7, 2009
Thrush
I held the medicine dropper up the light to ensure that Coco-pop had taken all of the medicine to my satisfaction. She hadn’t. I didn’t need to look at the dropper to realize that; the thick red liquid (‘cool-aid flavored! Babies love it!’) was running down her chin, dripping into her collar, and blending nicely with the ex-contents of her nose. She was doing her best, it seemed, to roll over and stain the blanket she was lying on. She was also squalling at the top of her lungs.
I stared at the fevered 2 year-old on the couch and the whole scene took on panoramic proportions until my glassy eyes took in the heaps of almost-sorted laundry, the coffee cups with hardened coffee dregs sitting on the table, almost hidden from view by the most random collection of items—why is the soup pot on the table, and is that an umbrella next to it? If those flowers were any deader, they would be coming back to life…oh, so that’s what smells like the dead rodent that I spent all morning jumping at the dust mites because of—and then it caught my eye. The scene retracted again. There was a small stain on my new skirt. It was red. I sniffed at it. It smelled like cool-aid.
Baby wipes are good for these types of situations.
Crying might be less so, although perhaps the chemical makeup of tears might work together to create a good cleanser. Scientific research of exactly this idea might have been in the back of my mind as I stared blindly at my bawling baby and joined in. The room, the baby, the dead flowers, and the stain all blurred.
It all blurred and became one. And so I cried about the stain. I cried about all my stained skirts and the skirts that were not stained because 2 years after the baby was born, they still didn’t fit me. I cried about my pettiness, not being happy enough with my beautiful children and the weight that I had lost, but always mourning my one-size-smaller skirts. And then sudden;ly I was crying that I do not have a freezer full of freshly baked cookies and cakes, but knowing full well that I also cry when I make them...trapped, trapped, trapped, with no car and a broken carriage. And 6,000 miles away from anyone that I really want to talk to. My sisters, my Ima, the comfort of laughing with them. And my Abba, my patient Abba with his beautiful smile the only expression that I’ve seen him with lately, painted in stark relief against the gauntness of his finely chiseled facial structure. I’m so happy that you are in Yerushalayim, his smile tells me. Even though I can never visit.
And I have a stupid stain
On my stupid skirt.
But not everything is big. I mean, sometimes it is okay to sweat the small stuff—or, at least cry about the small stuff—because the small stuff can be big, in such a small apartment and in such a small country.
Which can work both ways, you know. Because a few minutes later, when Coco-pop, who had stopped howling abruptly to stare at me, bewildered, decided that Ima crying was the funniest thing that had happened all day and began giggling, I started laughing, too. Then I dropped the dropper, picked up my still-laughing daughter, and medicine-smeared cheeks and all, began dancing with her.
Then I changed my skirt and walked across the length of the ballroom and started making dinner.
I stared at the fevered 2 year-old on the couch and the whole scene took on panoramic proportions until my glassy eyes took in the heaps of almost-sorted laundry, the coffee cups with hardened coffee dregs sitting on the table, almost hidden from view by the most random collection of items—why is the soup pot on the table, and is that an umbrella next to it? If those flowers were any deader, they would be coming back to life…oh, so that’s what smells like the dead rodent that I spent all morning jumping at the dust mites because of—and then it caught my eye. The scene retracted again. There was a small stain on my new skirt. It was red. I sniffed at it. It smelled like cool-aid.
Baby wipes are good for these types of situations.
Crying might be less so, although perhaps the chemical makeup of tears might work together to create a good cleanser. Scientific research of exactly this idea might have been in the back of my mind as I stared blindly at my bawling baby and joined in. The room, the baby, the dead flowers, and the stain all blurred.
It all blurred and became one. And so I cried about the stain. I cried about all my stained skirts and the skirts that were not stained because 2 years after the baby was born, they still didn’t fit me. I cried about my pettiness, not being happy enough with my beautiful children and the weight that I had lost, but always mourning my one-size-smaller skirts. And then sudden;ly I was crying that I do not have a freezer full of freshly baked cookies and cakes, but knowing full well that I also cry when I make them...trapped, trapped, trapped, with no car and a broken carriage. And 6,000 miles away from anyone that I really want to talk to. My sisters, my Ima, the comfort of laughing with them. And my Abba, my patient Abba with his beautiful smile the only expression that I’ve seen him with lately, painted in stark relief against the gauntness of his finely chiseled facial structure. I’m so happy that you are in Yerushalayim, his smile tells me. Even though I can never visit.
And I have a stupid stain
On my stupid skirt.
But not everything is big. I mean, sometimes it is okay to sweat the small stuff—or, at least cry about the small stuff—because the small stuff can be big, in such a small apartment and in such a small country.
Which can work both ways, you know. Because a few minutes later, when Coco-pop, who had stopped howling abruptly to stare at me, bewildered, decided that Ima crying was the funniest thing that had happened all day and began giggling, I started laughing, too. Then I dropped the dropper, picked up my still-laughing daughter, and medicine-smeared cheeks and all, began dancing with her.
Then I changed my skirt and walked across the length of the ballroom and started making dinner.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Living Large
I am so cold.
I wake up cold and I go to sleep cold and in the middle of the day? I'm cold.
Did I mention that I'm cold?
Because if I didn't, I do want you to know that on a scale of one to ten of cold? I'm FREEZING. Which is pretty cold.
It's this season that my indignation rises like gorge in my throat, and I think, hey, you know? I'm American, damnit. I should be comfortable AT ALL TIMES. I should be in an artificial 75 degrees, always.
And then I have to remind myself about how wonderful it is to be in touch with the weather as it actually is, because it's real. Just like having fruit in it's proper season, and having some things that are not sanitized for your own protection and double wrapped with politeness and orderliness. There is something special, just because it's real, about experiencing life just as it is, as it comes.
I asked Princess what she wants for Chanuka. Her eyes grew big with all of her wildest imaginings. Then she blurted, "Stickers! And a treat."
They are so unspoiled, so blessed, my little girls.
It's really living, living in this country.
But wouldn't it be nice if the real living can be done just a leeeeetle warmer?
I wake up cold and I go to sleep cold and in the middle of the day? I'm cold.
Did I mention that I'm cold?
Because if I didn't, I do want you to know that on a scale of one to ten of cold? I'm FREEZING. Which is pretty cold.
It's this season that my indignation rises like gorge in my throat, and I think, hey, you know? I'm American, damnit. I should be comfortable AT ALL TIMES. I should be in an artificial 75 degrees, always.
And then I have to remind myself about how wonderful it is to be in touch with the weather as it actually is, because it's real. Just like having fruit in it's proper season, and having some things that are not sanitized for your own protection and double wrapped with politeness and orderliness. There is something special, just because it's real, about experiencing life just as it is, as it comes.
I asked Princess what she wants for Chanuka. Her eyes grew big with all of her wildest imaginings. Then she blurted, "Stickers! And a treat."
They are so unspoiled, so blessed, my little girls.
It's really living, living in this country.
But wouldn't it be nice if the real living can be done just a leeeeetle warmer?
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Flood This Forum!
Okay. I really really need feedback on this. I wrote out the speech in long copy that i will be giving at a seminary tomorrow. The principal asked me to speak about growing up with a sick father, and the tools that I gained to deal with it. So. I wrote it, and added some articles a the end to read together. Problem is--in real life, I am actually a really private person. Which is why this blog is so important to me, and why this speech to so hard for me. I can't even rehearse it in front of a friend and get feedback, because...I'm so shyyyyyyy,you see. Not really, but I don't like when people but me into a box. I am what you see, not my past. So. Anyway. Point is, I need your help. My husband says that it's great, but I need female imput. And impartial imput, since he also thinks I look great right after labor.
Here 'tis:
Edited: I decided to delete the speech in the end. I wasn't comfortable having it up, and also, I thought, if a girl from the seminary googles one of theartivles I used and finds this blog...me not be happy. So. It's gone. I have decided, and I am THE ULTIMATE POWER ON THIS BLOG! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Here 'tis:
Edited: I decided to delete the speech in the end. I wasn't comfortable having it up, and also, I thought, if a girl from the seminary googles one of theartivles I used and finds this blog...me not be happy. So. It's gone. I have decided, and I am THE ULTIMATE POWER ON THIS BLOG! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Friday, November 27, 2009
Til The Fat Lady Sings
I need to go shopping for shabbas. It's thursday night. I was not so organized this week, and now I'm gonna pay the price. I'll be up cooking until the wee wee wee hours. But that's okay! It's all because of whay's been going on these past few days!
Like a rainstorm of creative openings, is my life right now! I am acting in a play. I am giving a yom iyun speech at a seminary. I am going to dust off my Healthy Body Image seminar and give that over, too.
And the most creative thing of all I cannot breathe a word of to anyone for another couple of months, but it is making me rather fatigued and nauseous in the morning...
You won't tell anyone, will you, O Internet?
Like a rainstorm of creative openings, is my life right now! I am acting in a play. I am giving a yom iyun speech at a seminary. I am going to dust off my Healthy Body Image seminar and give that over, too.
And the most creative thing of all I cannot breathe a word of to anyone for another couple of months, but it is making me rather fatigued and nauseous in the morning...
You won't tell anyone, will you, O Internet?
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Tznius, Cover your Knee-is!
So, we started these tznius groups in our neighborhood. We had the first meeting last week after shabbas, and the second tonight. 'Cept I missed it because I went to table-read for a play that I will be in. So fun, by the way! My part, which is the main part, which is super cheezy to say, but rolls off the tongue SO NICELY, is super de duper dramatic and I get to wear a wedding dress and sing about my PAIN and LONGING, and it's been a long time since I got to make an audience cry! I love makin' 'em cry!
Anyway. Back to the tznius groups.
So. Tznius discussions always brings out weird things in me. Not weird like a tendancy to grow fur and fangs and howl at the moon, but weird like ambivalent and teenage-ish rebellious stirings.
Now, I consider myself a pretty tznius person. I don't wear tight clothing, I am very careful about the length of my skirt, and my shaitel (which sits so nicely and patiently in my closet beside my oft-worn bin of scarves) is a long less than two feet long. (although if being tnzius means blending in to the neighborhood, maybe I should rock me some two foot-long shaitel and black skin-tight tops. But that is a mean and caty sort of thing to say, so pretend that I didn't say it. Because I'm not mean. Or catty. Meow.) I just have a hard time listening to it being preached. A few reasons:
1. Still a little traumatized from being brought to the front of the room in 11th grade and, using a book that had these little measurements drawn all over little drawings of girls and a TAPE MEASURE, my teacher showed the whole class why my shirt was not tzius. Blush much?
2. I feel like they always MISS THE POINT. (I am going a little capslock crazy in this post, am I not? I apologise. I REALY DO.) Like they talk about the symptoms instead of the problem. Yes, girls do show too much and don't understand the spirit of the law. But they don't ask WHY. WHY do they feel the need to dress this way? I agree with Outdoorsman who says that so much of tznius is all about how you feel about yourself. If you feel good and accomplished in your own skills and merits, you won't feel that pressing need to get attention with your body. And when girls are not allowed to do anything except shop, then yeah, they might show a tendancy to be materialistic and give their bodies more importance then they should have.
3. They seem to confuse being a bas melech with wearing dry-clean clothes and only wearing a shaitel. I know that denim rhymes with gehenom, but seriously? Banning a fablic? I feel that dressing casually, at least for me, means more time for the kids in the sandbox, and letting them cry and get snot all over my shoulder, because I'm a MOTHER, not a runway model, and I'm okay with dressing like one.
I could elaborate for many pages on all of my points, but I'll leave it for now because it's almost one in the morning and my kids should be waking up in oh, around NOW. No...NOW. Yup, there she is. Coco-pop. Am I good, or am I good?
Anyway anyway. I'll just end with a line that Outdoorsman started and I finished:
Tnzuis is not about covering your knees. It's about not thinking that your knees are that important.
Anyway. Back to the tznius groups.
So. Tznius discussions always brings out weird things in me. Not weird like a tendancy to grow fur and fangs and howl at the moon, but weird like ambivalent and teenage-ish rebellious stirings.
Now, I consider myself a pretty tznius person. I don't wear tight clothing, I am very careful about the length of my skirt, and my shaitel (which sits so nicely and patiently in my closet beside my oft-worn bin of scarves) is a long less than two feet long. (although if being tnzius means blending in to the neighborhood, maybe I should rock me some two foot-long shaitel and black skin-tight tops. But that is a mean and caty sort of thing to say, so pretend that I didn't say it. Because I'm not mean. Or catty. Meow.) I just have a hard time listening to it being preached. A few reasons:
1. Still a little traumatized from being brought to the front of the room in 11th grade and, using a book that had these little measurements drawn all over little drawings of girls and a TAPE MEASURE, my teacher showed the whole class why my shirt was not tzius. Blush much?
2. I feel like they always MISS THE POINT. (I am going a little capslock crazy in this post, am I not? I apologise. I REALY DO.) Like they talk about the symptoms instead of the problem. Yes, girls do show too much and don't understand the spirit of the law. But they don't ask WHY. WHY do they feel the need to dress this way? I agree with Outdoorsman who says that so much of tznius is all about how you feel about yourself. If you feel good and accomplished in your own skills and merits, you won't feel that pressing need to get attention with your body. And when girls are not allowed to do anything except shop, then yeah, they might show a tendancy to be materialistic and give their bodies more importance then they should have.
3. They seem to confuse being a bas melech with wearing dry-clean clothes and only wearing a shaitel. I know that denim rhymes with gehenom, but seriously? Banning a fablic? I feel that dressing casually, at least for me, means more time for the kids in the sandbox, and letting them cry and get snot all over my shoulder, because I'm a MOTHER, not a runway model, and I'm okay with dressing like one.
I could elaborate for many pages on all of my points, but I'll leave it for now because it's almost one in the morning and my kids should be waking up in oh, around NOW. No...NOW. Yup, there she is. Coco-pop. Am I good, or am I good?
Anyway anyway. I'll just end with a line that Outdoorsman started and I finished:
Tnzuis is not about covering your knees. It's about not thinking that your knees are that important.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Chulent-powered Rockets will take Man to the Moon
"Look at the horses!" Princess said.
--Which is not a comment you get every day walking down the streets of Ramat Eshkol, Jerusalem. So we stopped, because indeed, there were horses in the front of my building.
4 horses, they were. Two brown, one with a star on his forhead, and one black and one gray. They were tall, glorious, proud, and poopping all over the front walk.
The horses were tied to their trucks, and four bored-looking cops were sitting with their legs flung up, eating club sandwhiches and drinking coffee. What were they doing here, I wondered, as Princess backed up a step and clutched my hand. Scared as she was, she couldn't take her eyes off of the magnificent creatures, and Coco-pop's little fuzzy brain still didn't realize what her eyes were looking at at all. She continued to eat her Bamba, saliva and peanut butter mixing beautifully down the front of her shabbas dress.
Someone in the shabbas-bedecked crowd whispered something about the protest that was going on regarding a business that was going to stay open on shabbas. The horses and cops were probably hanging out here until they recieved a call that they were needed. In the parking lot across the street, we saw what looked like a water canon.
The crowd thinned until it was only us. 15 minutes later, Coco-pop Realized What It All Meant. They were Animals! And they had Huge Teeth! Waaaa! "Waaaa!" she remarked. Then I remembered my challa that I had put up to warm an hour ago that was surely burning, and we all headed at a clipped pace towards the front door. Our guests came, and we all sat down. We had pre-kiddush chit-chat. Then I said, "Let's give them some chulent."
"Who?"
"The cops."
Silence.
Outdoorsman said, slowly, "That is an amazing idea."
We dished out 4 bowls of Outdoorsman's famous chulent, steaming and fragrant. We carried them out to the cops.
They said, no. We said, try some! They said, no. We said, it's really goooooood. They said, no. We gave it to them anyway. They took. They tried. They said, this is gooooood. We said, we know. Enjoy!
Later, Outdoorsman remarked that loving your fellow man is easy if the only fellow man that you love is the one that is just like you.
Today I read in the news that the protestors, protesting in the name of shabbas, threw rocks (on shabbas!) at the cops, and yelled and screamed in wild hatred.
With love, and in the name of shabbas, we served the cops warm and hearty chulent on a chilly shabbas day.
I wonder which one of us Shabbas Herself would be more proud of.
--Which is not a comment you get every day walking down the streets of Ramat Eshkol, Jerusalem. So we stopped, because indeed, there were horses in the front of my building.
4 horses, they were. Two brown, one with a star on his forhead, and one black and one gray. They were tall, glorious, proud, and poopping all over the front walk.
The horses were tied to their trucks, and four bored-looking cops were sitting with their legs flung up, eating club sandwhiches and drinking coffee. What were they doing here, I wondered, as Princess backed up a step and clutched my hand. Scared as she was, she couldn't take her eyes off of the magnificent creatures, and Coco-pop's little fuzzy brain still didn't realize what her eyes were looking at at all. She continued to eat her Bamba, saliva and peanut butter mixing beautifully down the front of her shabbas dress.
Someone in the shabbas-bedecked crowd whispered something about the protest that was going on regarding a business that was going to stay open on shabbas. The horses and cops were probably hanging out here until they recieved a call that they were needed. In the parking lot across the street, we saw what looked like a water canon.
The crowd thinned until it was only us. 15 minutes later, Coco-pop Realized What It All Meant. They were Animals! And they had Huge Teeth! Waaaa! "Waaaa!" she remarked. Then I remembered my challa that I had put up to warm an hour ago that was surely burning, and we all headed at a clipped pace towards the front door. Our guests came, and we all sat down. We had pre-kiddush chit-chat. Then I said, "Let's give them some chulent."
"Who?"
"The cops."
Silence.
Outdoorsman said, slowly, "That is an amazing idea."
We dished out 4 bowls of Outdoorsman's famous chulent, steaming and fragrant. We carried them out to the cops.
They said, no. We said, try some! They said, no. We said, it's really goooooood. They said, no. We gave it to them anyway. They took. They tried. They said, this is gooooood. We said, we know. Enjoy!
Later, Outdoorsman remarked that loving your fellow man is easy if the only fellow man that you love is the one that is just like you.
Today I read in the news that the protestors, protesting in the name of shabbas, threw rocks (on shabbas!) at the cops, and yelled and screamed in wild hatred.
With love, and in the name of shabbas, we served the cops warm and hearty chulent on a chilly shabbas day.
I wonder which one of us Shabbas Herself would be more proud of.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Yes I Would, If I Only Could
The kids found a dead crow in the park today, and set upon it at once. Sticks were brought out to poke it, and the brave in the pack touched it with the tips of their shoes.
Princess came running over to, roses in her cheeks, to tell me all about it. "So it's a CROW, and it's DEAD, and now we can look at it. Come see it! Come, Ima!"
Now, when I was around Princess' age, I was the original animal right's activist. Maybe the first one who couldn't spell it yet. I would cry when my neighbor poured water over an ant's nest, and spent hours trying to save as many of the insects as I could. Baby kittens, abandoned and milky-eyed would get bowls of cream. I could not kill spiders, nor did I want anyone else to. Nowawdays, I protect the stray cats in the park when children try to torment them. I fully expect to wake up one day and discover that I am the neighborhood Crazy Cat Lady (and every neighborhood has one, no?) with long stringy grey hair and a horrible screechy voice. And cat smell.
ANYWAY, Princess was pulling in my skirt and inviting me to gaze upon the sad little corpse of the dead crow. "No, Princess. I really don't want to. Looking at things like that makes Ima sad."
Princess puzzled over this. "But I didn't kill it!"
Oops. "I know, sweety. But just the idea that it is dead on the ground instead of flying in the sky and will never fly again makes Ima sad. So I do not want to see the dead crow. Okay?"
Thought bubbles apeared above Princess' head. They all said something to the effect of, Oh wow. I am only 4 1/2 years old, and I have been saddled with a loony mother. This is like those movies. And I don't know how I know that, because I've never seen a movie in my life.
So she shrugged, released her vulcan death grip on my skirt, and skipped off to play with the lifeless bird who had long since gone to The Great Windshield In The Sky. Mothers shouted out to the tight group around the crow, telling them that it was full of germs and dangerous, but the Call Of The Crow was too strong. They stood there, the world against them, but nothing would make them abandon their passion.
Five minutes and two recipe exchanges later, a bloodcurling scream echoed around the park. Mothers heads picked up collectively, eyes scanning for their progeny, and relaxing when they realized, not my kid.
'Twas mine.
Eyes wide with panic, she ran into my arms, trembling all over. "They--threw--the BIRD--at me! And said--I was gonna--get--SICK!"
I shushed and soothed, and held her. But she would not calm down. She looked up at me, eyes filled with unshed tears, and asked in a quieter voice, "What's going to happen to me?"
I told her nothing, nothing, nothing's going to happen, you will not get sick, it just touched you, and there is nothing to worry about, Ima is here.
"Who did it?" I whispered in her ear, and she pointed a shaky finger at the brown haired, brown skinned girl a few feet away rom us. Mean girl! Nasty girl! She was the girl who responded to Princess' friendly overtures by sticking out her tongue at her, who made the merry-go-round spin extra fast when Princess attempted to go on...nasty girl! Mean girl!I held my hapless daughter closer to my chest.
That was two days ago.
Yesterday, a girl called me on the phone. She spent the first ten minutes apologising for calling and then finally explained; apparently Princess had been bothering her daughter in gan. Teasing her, taking things away from her, throwing sand in her face from the sandbox. I told her I'll look into it. I did. I questioned Princess, who looked confused and innocent. The teachers were no help. either. ("how's my daughter?" "oh, she is so sweet and cute!" "oh, I bet you say that to all the pretty mothers.") So, I'm not really sure what the real story is, but it did shake me out of my little black and white world.
You see, if my daughter is a bully, they can't be Those Nasty Mean Girls. I mean, I guess I knew that. They are 4 years old, after all. And I knew that when I wrote this. But the satisfaction of knowing that my daughter would never do that is all gone. Simon and Garfunkle wrote that they'd rather be the hammer than the nail, but I think that the world is much simpler and clear-cut when you are the nail...but life is not like that, I suppose. I cannot cloak myself in self-righteous indignation anymore.
It's like the world is shades of gray! And not black and white! Or something!
Does that mean that my annoying neighbor is really annoyed BY ME?
No. That's just taking it too far.
Right?
Princess came running over to, roses in her cheeks, to tell me all about it. "So it's a CROW, and it's DEAD, and now we can look at it. Come see it! Come, Ima!"
Now, when I was around Princess' age, I was the original animal right's activist. Maybe the first one who couldn't spell it yet. I would cry when my neighbor poured water over an ant's nest, and spent hours trying to save as many of the insects as I could. Baby kittens, abandoned and milky-eyed would get bowls of cream. I could not kill spiders, nor did I want anyone else to. Nowawdays, I protect the stray cats in the park when children try to torment them. I fully expect to wake up one day and discover that I am the neighborhood Crazy Cat Lady (and every neighborhood has one, no?) with long stringy grey hair and a horrible screechy voice. And cat smell.
ANYWAY, Princess was pulling in my skirt and inviting me to gaze upon the sad little corpse of the dead crow. "No, Princess. I really don't want to. Looking at things like that makes Ima sad."
Princess puzzled over this. "But I didn't kill it!"
Oops. "I know, sweety. But just the idea that it is dead on the ground instead of flying in the sky and will never fly again makes Ima sad. So I do not want to see the dead crow. Okay?"
Thought bubbles apeared above Princess' head. They all said something to the effect of, Oh wow. I am only 4 1/2 years old, and I have been saddled with a loony mother. This is like those movies. And I don't know how I know that, because I've never seen a movie in my life.
So she shrugged, released her vulcan death grip on my skirt, and skipped off to play with the lifeless bird who had long since gone to The Great Windshield In The Sky. Mothers shouted out to the tight group around the crow, telling them that it was full of germs and dangerous, but the Call Of The Crow was too strong. They stood there, the world against them, but nothing would make them abandon their passion.
Five minutes and two recipe exchanges later, a bloodcurling scream echoed around the park. Mothers heads picked up collectively, eyes scanning for their progeny, and relaxing when they realized, not my kid.
'Twas mine.
Eyes wide with panic, she ran into my arms, trembling all over. "They--threw--the BIRD--at me! And said--I was gonna--get--SICK!"
I shushed and soothed, and held her. But she would not calm down. She looked up at me, eyes filled with unshed tears, and asked in a quieter voice, "What's going to happen to me?"
I told her nothing, nothing, nothing's going to happen, you will not get sick, it just touched you, and there is nothing to worry about, Ima is here.
"Who did it?" I whispered in her ear, and she pointed a shaky finger at the brown haired, brown skinned girl a few feet away rom us. Mean girl! Nasty girl! She was the girl who responded to Princess' friendly overtures by sticking out her tongue at her, who made the merry-go-round spin extra fast when Princess attempted to go on...nasty girl! Mean girl!I held my hapless daughter closer to my chest.
That was two days ago.
Yesterday, a girl called me on the phone. She spent the first ten minutes apologising for calling and then finally explained; apparently Princess had been bothering her daughter in gan. Teasing her, taking things away from her, throwing sand in her face from the sandbox. I told her I'll look into it. I did. I questioned Princess, who looked confused and innocent. The teachers were no help. either. ("how's my daughter?" "oh, she is so sweet and cute!" "oh, I bet you say that to all the pretty mothers.") So, I'm not really sure what the real story is, but it did shake me out of my little black and white world.
You see, if my daughter is a bully, they can't be Those Nasty Mean Girls. I mean, I guess I knew that. They are 4 years old, after all. And I knew that when I wrote this. But the satisfaction of knowing that my daughter would never do that is all gone. Simon and Garfunkle wrote that they'd rather be the hammer than the nail, but I think that the world is much simpler and clear-cut when you are the nail...but life is not like that, I suppose. I cannot cloak myself in self-righteous indignation anymore.
It's like the world is shades of gray! And not black and white! Or something!
Does that mean that my annoying neighbor is really annoyed BY ME?
No. That's just taking it too far.
Right?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Prince of Darkness
So much has been said about the misrad hapnim (i.e; punicipal office; office of interior; home of Dracula's tomb and evil incarnate) And it is not. enough. I have not spoken about it in a while because I know, dear internet, that it gets you all worked up and mad. (or wait. maybe that's me.)
I will therefore write about my visit yesterday in a light, happy vein, perhaps with a little rhyme. Perhaps the way that Dr. Suess would write it.
You are here for your visa? But I must take my break.
I need more coffee to fill the ache
In my breast from my lack of a soul
All this bloodsucking takes it's toll.
Ah yes! I finished my coffee, but do not come in yet,
First I must finish my cigarette.
Now enter! My presence! But, no, you must leave.
There is still one more paper that you must retrieve
And that is written proof that your grandfather's cat, Treat,
Never failed to land on all four feet.
Then you must go to the bank and get more money
(your laugh must be hysterics, because really, I'm not funny)
And then when you return from chashing in all your stock,
You will see the door. On it will be a lock.
You will cry and scream and tear out your hair,
But save it, honey. There is no one to care.
....on second thought, while that all pretty much rhymes, it's not funny at all. Oops.
On the bright side, after trying for one whole year to renew our visas, the fourth time is the charm! We are the proud owners of little pieces of paper glued to our passports that proclaim to the world--actually, I'm not sure what they proclaim. I'm not even sure what the point of visas is? To show that I know that I'm not a citizen? I thought that my lousy hebrew and my need for personal space was proof enough.
My little gingy Coco-pop spread a ray of sunlight around the dreary, dank darkness of the building. She was like a stake in a vampire's heart.
Yes, I will lay off the meds now.
I will therefore write about my visit yesterday in a light, happy vein, perhaps with a little rhyme. Perhaps the way that Dr. Suess would write it.
You are here for your visa? But I must take my break.
I need more coffee to fill the ache
In my breast from my lack of a soul
All this bloodsucking takes it's toll.
Ah yes! I finished my coffee, but do not come in yet,
First I must finish my cigarette.
Now enter! My presence! But, no, you must leave.
There is still one more paper that you must retrieve
And that is written proof that your grandfather's cat, Treat,
Never failed to land on all four feet.
Then you must go to the bank and get more money
(your laugh must be hysterics, because really, I'm not funny)
And then when you return from chashing in all your stock,
You will see the door. On it will be a lock.
You will cry and scream and tear out your hair,
But save it, honey. There is no one to care.
....on second thought, while that all pretty much rhymes, it's not funny at all. Oops.
On the bright side, after trying for one whole year to renew our visas, the fourth time is the charm! We are the proud owners of little pieces of paper glued to our passports that proclaim to the world--actually, I'm not sure what they proclaim. I'm not even sure what the point of visas is? To show that I know that I'm not a citizen? I thought that my lousy hebrew and my need for personal space was proof enough.
My little gingy Coco-pop spread a ray of sunlight around the dreary, dank darkness of the building. She was like a stake in a vampire's heart.
Yes, I will lay off the meds now.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Time of Our Lives
So we went to Tzfat during the Great Rainstorm of 2009. We went for Thursday, Friday and Shabbas. It rained on Thursday, on Friday, and on Shabbas. It rained. It mudded. It basically emptied its nose out on the narrow cobblestoned paths.
Then there was the agent. See, we're thinking about making an investment purchase in Tzfat, which was the real purpose of our trip. It all started off well enough. We stopped off at a real estate office, spoke to the guy behind the desk (or, rather, Outdoorsman spoke to him. I stayed in the car and sang "I wish I were a little striped skunk" 87 times to my adoring little fans in the back seat.) and then agreed to meet an agent as a certain address in two hours time.
We took a quick look around the artist quarter, fell in love with a painting and a pair of candlesticks, then met the agent at the apointed spot.
The problem began at exactly that moment.
The agent, you see, was wearing pointy cowboy boots.
Now, this is not a problem in and of itself. People are free to choose clothing that expresses whatever it is that they wish to express. I know people who wrap who pashminas around their heads and they are perfectly wonderful. The problem, I guess, is the nature of the client/agent relationship. Basically, it's like this:
Client: Hi! I love Israel! I want to purchase property in this sacred place!
Agent: mwahahahahahahahahahaha!
So, as clearly demonstrated in the above sketch, agents are pretty much, well, slime. Who want to fleece you. And then skin you. And then carve sinister tattoos on your lower calves.
So, someone who is in a slimy business should wear a nice suit, a tie that is knotted a bit too tight, a genuine smile--you know, try to give over the impression that while agents in general are horrible, he is a nice, honest guy who is not in it for the money, no, he is in it simply to make you happy.
So. Back to the pointy cowboy boots. In a nutshell, they sing:
If you are slimy and you know it wear pointy boots
If you're slimy and you know it wear pointy boots
If you're slimy and you know it
And you really want to show it
If you're slimy and you know it wear pointy boots!
Or maybe I have been singing too many backseat songs lately.
But, Agent in Boots turned out to be be exactly what he seemed to be. Which is actually honest of him. Which makes me all confused. So I will go on and forget about it.
Basically, we almost bought a place for double it's worth, and it rained. All. The Time.
And I don't even like cowboy boots.
But now for the postive!
1-It rained. A lot. But! I am happy, because we need rain. And right above the kineret! Which is totally amazing and a huge blessing and maybe means my water bill will not require a shot of bourbon before opening.
(Only, maybe, it could have started, like, on sunday? As we were pulling out? Like, Oh yay, wow, thank you G-d, it's raining! What a blessing! And also now we are in a nice warm and dry car!)
2-Agent, he lied. But Outdoorsman outsmarted him by figuring out the real value of the cottage. So, sad short term, but happy long term.
3-Also, my girls now know all of the songs that made my childhood so memorable.
All in all, a trip to remember. Then we'll say, "Oh, do you remember that time? When we went to Tzfat? And it rained the whole time and everyone was muddy and cold and you forgot to pack sweaters and we were cooped up in a tiny room with no windows and in the middle of the night someone yelled through door for someone named Mendel and then the agent tried to cheat us out of our life savings? Remember?"
Then we'll all laugh. Nervously. And change the subject.
Then there was the agent. See, we're thinking about making an investment purchase in Tzfat, which was the real purpose of our trip. It all started off well enough. We stopped off at a real estate office, spoke to the guy behind the desk (or, rather, Outdoorsman spoke to him. I stayed in the car and sang "I wish I were a little striped skunk" 87 times to my adoring little fans in the back seat.) and then agreed to meet an agent as a certain address in two hours time.
We took a quick look around the artist quarter, fell in love with a painting and a pair of candlesticks, then met the agent at the apointed spot.
The problem began at exactly that moment.
The agent, you see, was wearing pointy cowboy boots.
Now, this is not a problem in and of itself. People are free to choose clothing that expresses whatever it is that they wish to express. I know people who wrap who pashminas around their heads and they are perfectly wonderful. The problem, I guess, is the nature of the client/agent relationship. Basically, it's like this:
Client: Hi! I love Israel! I want to purchase property in this sacred place!
Agent: mwahahahahahahahahahaha!
So, as clearly demonstrated in the above sketch, agents are pretty much, well, slime. Who want to fleece you. And then skin you. And then carve sinister tattoos on your lower calves.
So, someone who is in a slimy business should wear a nice suit, a tie that is knotted a bit too tight, a genuine smile--you know, try to give over the impression that while agents in general are horrible, he is a nice, honest guy who is not in it for the money, no, he is in it simply to make you happy.
So. Back to the pointy cowboy boots. In a nutshell, they sing:
If you are slimy and you know it wear pointy boots
If you're slimy and you know it wear pointy boots
If you're slimy and you know it
And you really want to show it
If you're slimy and you know it wear pointy boots!
Or maybe I have been singing too many backseat songs lately.
But, Agent in Boots turned out to be be exactly what he seemed to be. Which is actually honest of him. Which makes me all confused. So I will go on and forget about it.
Basically, we almost bought a place for double it's worth, and it rained. All. The Time.
And I don't even like cowboy boots.
But now for the postive!
1-It rained. A lot. But! I am happy, because we need rain. And right above the kineret! Which is totally amazing and a huge blessing and maybe means my water bill will not require a shot of bourbon before opening.
(Only, maybe, it could have started, like, on sunday? As we were pulling out? Like, Oh yay, wow, thank you G-d, it's raining! What a blessing! And also now we are in a nice warm and dry car!)
2-Agent, he lied. But Outdoorsman outsmarted him by figuring out the real value of the cottage. So, sad short term, but happy long term.
3-Also, my girls now know all of the songs that made my childhood so memorable.
All in all, a trip to remember. Then we'll say, "Oh, do you remember that time? When we went to Tzfat? And it rained the whole time and everyone was muddy and cold and you forgot to pack sweaters and we were cooped up in a tiny room with no windows and in the middle of the night someone yelled through door for someone named Mendel and then the agent tried to cheat us out of our life savings? Remember?"
Then we'll all laugh. Nervously. And change the subject.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
In Which My Weapon of Choice is a Black Whip
Let me just preface the preface by saying something that I will be glad to get off my chest; I am a nerd. I really am. My whole life, I have been a nerd stuck in a cool girl's body.
I really do feel much better now.
Now here is the preface. I was thinking about this old Batman TAS episode. (see? the nerd. she emerges with alacrity.) It was kind of deep, and that is why I carry my nerd card with pride. They are all kind of deep, the sci-fi shows and books that I love. They are a sort of fun house mirror of our lives that can tell it just how it is precisely because it takes place on such a different plane of existance, and--hey, you. Reader. Wake up! There will be a quiz on this afterwards!
Okay, I'll stop. (For now.) But the point is, I was staring at myself in the mirror, and sort of wistfully thinking about my pre-baby body, and maybe even thinking about my old one-stomach-crunch-per-calorie body from so long ago, and then I thought about the coming-out-of-the-cool-closet-to-flash-my-nerd-soul Batman TAS episode.
It was about this evil chick who went around kidnapping all of these heads of modelling companies. Turned out, she used to work for all of them, as a model, and was kicked out when she turned 30. Because she was too old and therefore not perfect.
She wore a mask and did not even let her evil minions see her face. When she was captured at the end, the police removed her mask, and she covered her face with her hands, screaming, "my face, my hideous face!"--but not before the veiwer caught a glimpse.
She was beautiful.
I guess the real question is, why do we do it to ourselves? It doesn't feel good. I don't like crying 10 minutes before candle lighting because I feel so fat in all of my clothing. I don't like crossing my hands over my body while talking to someone thinner than me.
I guess I know that people see me as a very pretty girl. When I was younger, it was the only sense of self that I had to cling to. But the second I am stressed, or feeling inadequate, presto-chango, I am Di The Horror Show. And I actually believe that if I would only lose 20 pounds, I would be this whole different person. A better mother, even. Instead of just the same person in a smaller body.
When I catch Princess watching at me as I am looking at myself, judging, I feel a wash of hot and cold. I need to break the cycle of senseless self-loathing. Even if I cannot understand it completely, I just need to stop. If not for me, than for the little 4 1/2 year old who wants to know what "baby fat" is, and if it's catchy.
Or I might don a mask and start kidnapping people. For kicks.
I really do feel much better now.
Now here is the preface. I was thinking about this old Batman TAS episode. (see? the nerd. she emerges with alacrity.) It was kind of deep, and that is why I carry my nerd card with pride. They are all kind of deep, the sci-fi shows and books that I love. They are a sort of fun house mirror of our lives that can tell it just how it is precisely because it takes place on such a different plane of existance, and--hey, you. Reader. Wake up! There will be a quiz on this afterwards!
Okay, I'll stop. (For now.) But the point is, I was staring at myself in the mirror, and sort of wistfully thinking about my pre-baby body, and maybe even thinking about my old one-stomach-crunch-per-calorie body from so long ago, and then I thought about the coming-out-of-the-cool-closet-to-flash-my-nerd-soul Batman TAS episode.
It was about this evil chick who went around kidnapping all of these heads of modelling companies. Turned out, she used to work for all of them, as a model, and was kicked out when she turned 30. Because she was too old and therefore not perfect.
She wore a mask and did not even let her evil minions see her face. When she was captured at the end, the police removed her mask, and she covered her face with her hands, screaming, "my face, my hideous face!"--but not before the veiwer caught a glimpse.
She was beautiful.
I guess the real question is, why do we do it to ourselves? It doesn't feel good. I don't like crying 10 minutes before candle lighting because I feel so fat in all of my clothing. I don't like crossing my hands over my body while talking to someone thinner than me.
I guess I know that people see me as a very pretty girl. When I was younger, it was the only sense of self that I had to cling to. But the second I am stressed, or feeling inadequate, presto-chango, I am Di The Horror Show. And I actually believe that if I would only lose 20 pounds, I would be this whole different person. A better mother, even. Instead of just the same person in a smaller body.
When I catch Princess watching at me as I am looking at myself, judging, I feel a wash of hot and cold. I need to break the cycle of senseless self-loathing. Even if I cannot understand it completely, I just need to stop. If not for me, than for the little 4 1/2 year old who wants to know what "baby fat" is, and if it's catchy.
Or I might don a mask and start kidnapping people. For kicks.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
What's Mine is Yours
It probably had something to do with me being the middle child, (4 years of therapy, ladies and gentlemen) but growing up with nine siblings in a four bedroom house, I spent a few years sleeping in the playroom. I had been downgraded from the kids' room, a great big room (or maybe I was just small?) with two bunk beds and a single bed when the newest baby was born. I was not downgraded alone, though. I served my sentence with my sister. We shared a daybed that had a high riser that we pulled out and yanked up into groaning, cranky, half-hearted position every night. Although the truth is that the bed was probably older than my mother, and I should not make light of my elders, so scratch the previous sentence. We also shared a closet, which also held all of the winter coats and a great big basket of school bags, and we also shared a dresser. We each had three drawers.
During the day, the playroom was, in fact, a playroom, and was therefore played in. By everyone. Did I mention that I have nine siblings? I did, didn't I. It bears repeating. Nine.
So, as one can clearly see, I grew up used to the fact that very little belonged solely to me. It is for that reason, I think, that I still get a tingly feeling in my spine when the school year is about to start and all of the stationary stores' displays go up featuring new, unbent notebooks and fresh pencils and pens. When I got my school supplies in the beginning of the year, they were MINE. My own. No one else's. (and you can't have em! Mwahahahahahaha! Ha?)
This is all a preface that will all tie together brilliantly at the end to what happened yesterday.
I had passed by the toy store, and sitting out front was a pile of boxes of BIMBAS, a little toy car or truck with wheels that a toddler can ride on and scoot along with his/her feet. I had been wanting to get one for Coco-pop for a while, and these were on a good sale, and I had some money on me (meant for vegetables, but who needs vegetables? You don't win friends with salad.) so I bought it. Outdoorsman put it together while Princess and Coco-pop watched. Then Coco-pop spoke.
"Wanna ride Princess' new Bimba."
"No!" I corrected her, smiling. "Booba, it's yours! It's your Bimba!"
Her face screwed up in concentration. Her little fuzzy two-year-old brain turned for a full minute. Then she said, "It's mine Princess' Bimba!"
She could not really comprehend that it was hers. Everything, after all, belonged truly to Princess. Even if it were hers, it was, in essence, Princess'.
Wow.
When I was pregnant with Coco-pop, I was so worried. I was so intuned to Princess' every move, every thought, every wish. I did not know how I would be able to be there for them both equally.
And you know what? I wasn't. I couldn't be. Sometimes they both cry together and you have to make a choice. Sometimes one is right and one is wrong. Sometimes, you see that one is more sensitive and one is less so and can handle "no" better at the moment.
A second child does not get the same undivided attention as a first one does no matter the intentions of the parent. And the fifth (cough* school supplies *cough) well...
I knew the universe did not revolve around me. I think that Coco-pop knows that she is pretty cute and can get away with pretty much everything when she smiles her beautiful sunshiney smile, but at the same time she, too, know this truth. Princess is convinced that she is the single most important thing that has happened, ever. She draws pictures of the family as three adults, and one tiny baby Coco-pop. (Actually, in her last family portrait, Outdoorsman and Princess had three big strong feet each, and I was a cloud with one eye. And eight arms.I looked like a nearsighted Indian goddess. I wonder what that means.)
Maybe it's healthier. Since the world does not actually revolve around anyone, and is in fact the other way around, maybe it's better than we as mothers cannot always leap the second a need is discovered. Maybe it's okay that they have to repeat themselves sometimes, and have to share. And the pure, unspoiled excitement and astonishement at actually getting something new that is ALL THEIRS--maybe that's a good thing.
Plus, if you're sleeping in the playroom, and you are bored at night, there are all these, you know, toys. To play with.
Coco-pop has been guarding her "my Princess' Bimba" with her life. She has lost some of her best men in the battle. Strollers, dollhouse, dolls; all were allowed to be sacrificed for the cause; keeping both hands on the Bimba and never, ever, letting go.
During the day, the playroom was, in fact, a playroom, and was therefore played in. By everyone. Did I mention that I have nine siblings? I did, didn't I. It bears repeating. Nine.
So, as one can clearly see, I grew up used to the fact that very little belonged solely to me. It is for that reason, I think, that I still get a tingly feeling in my spine when the school year is about to start and all of the stationary stores' displays go up featuring new, unbent notebooks and fresh pencils and pens. When I got my school supplies in the beginning of the year, they were MINE. My own. No one else's. (and you can't have em! Mwahahahahahaha! Ha?)
This is all a preface that will all tie together brilliantly at the end to what happened yesterday.
I had passed by the toy store, and sitting out front was a pile of boxes of BIMBAS, a little toy car or truck with wheels that a toddler can ride on and scoot along with his/her feet. I had been wanting to get one for Coco-pop for a while, and these were on a good sale, and I had some money on me (meant for vegetables, but who needs vegetables? You don't win friends with salad.) so I bought it. Outdoorsman put it together while Princess and Coco-pop watched. Then Coco-pop spoke.
"Wanna ride Princess' new Bimba."
"No!" I corrected her, smiling. "Booba, it's yours! It's your Bimba!"
Her face screwed up in concentration. Her little fuzzy two-year-old brain turned for a full minute. Then she said, "It's mine Princess' Bimba!"
She could not really comprehend that it was hers. Everything, after all, belonged truly to Princess. Even if it were hers, it was, in essence, Princess'.
Wow.
When I was pregnant with Coco-pop, I was so worried. I was so intuned to Princess' every move, every thought, every wish. I did not know how I would be able to be there for them both equally.
And you know what? I wasn't. I couldn't be. Sometimes they both cry together and you have to make a choice. Sometimes one is right and one is wrong. Sometimes, you see that one is more sensitive and one is less so and can handle "no" better at the moment.
A second child does not get the same undivided attention as a first one does no matter the intentions of the parent. And the fifth (cough* school supplies *cough) well...
I knew the universe did not revolve around me. I think that Coco-pop knows that she is pretty cute and can get away with pretty much everything when she smiles her beautiful sunshiney smile, but at the same time she, too, know this truth. Princess is convinced that she is the single most important thing that has happened, ever. She draws pictures of the family as three adults, and one tiny baby Coco-pop. (Actually, in her last family portrait, Outdoorsman and Princess had three big strong feet each, and I was a cloud with one eye. And eight arms.I looked like a nearsighted Indian goddess. I wonder what that means.)
Maybe it's healthier. Since the world does not actually revolve around anyone, and is in fact the other way around, maybe it's better than we as mothers cannot always leap the second a need is discovered. Maybe it's okay that they have to repeat themselves sometimes, and have to share. And the pure, unspoiled excitement and astonishement at actually getting something new that is ALL THEIRS--maybe that's a good thing.
Plus, if you're sleeping in the playroom, and you are bored at night, there are all these, you know, toys. To play with.
Coco-pop has been guarding her "my Princess' Bimba" with her life. She has lost some of her best men in the battle. Strollers, dollhouse, dolls; all were allowed to be sacrificed for the cause; keeping both hands on the Bimba and never, ever, letting go.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Scales Are For Fishes!
"...and this shows that you are 30% body fat. Which means that you have low tone. So we'll have to work on that!"
She looked at me, the gym lady, all perky and smiley and exclamation points, and then jotted something down on my chart. Probably something like, whoo-whoo, you are one fat chick.
I smiled back, and then two little being fluttered onto my (low-toned) shoulders. One said, in a deep and scary voice, kinda batman-like, "Omigodomigodomigod, you are fat."
I assumed that one was the devil.
Then the next one spoke up in a silvery voice that bespoke of hope, and dreams, and love. It said, "Omigodomigodomigod, you are fat."
So I'm not sure why I needed both of them to tell me what I already intuited on my own. So I sent them away. I can speak for myself. I opened my mouth, and I said, "Omigodomigodomigod, I am fat."
"No!" Thus spoke Perky Gym Lady. "You are not at all fat! You just have to work on your toning! And that's what we are here for! Together, we will reach your goals!"
There is something so demeaning about being weighed and measured. Like I am being reduced to a number, to a mathematical formula. You are this number, and you want to reach this number. Subtract that, and you will get this. That is you, and that will be you.
I used to do that. I used to do that to myself. I don't want to do that anymore. But I do want to be healthy. And I do want to look good and feel good. There has to be a happy medium, and I have to find it.
I recently found a stream of consciousness kind of writing that I must have written when I was prgnant with Princess. I have included in at the end of this post. I was still struggling so much then, but I was in a good place. I am still in a good place. And I can stay in a good place and still have a mad awesome body. Right?
Right?
I passed by a girl today, and I knew her from Before. You know. Before cereal with milk and close-faced sandwiches. She had a baby and a toddler and she was bent under their weight, even though she was not carrying either one. But I knew that she was bent under their weight, the pounds that they had put on her during pregnancy despite her ignoring the intense demands of her pregnant body.
We smiled at each other; said our ‘hello’s and ‘what brings you here’s as her eyes raked over my body. I felt her mind calculate my weight, and then calculate her weight, and I saw the tight look in her eyes ease. She was the thinner one, by far. She was the winner. Satisfied, she turned to go and left me there, reduced to nothing but the pounds that would show up on my scale, had I owned one.
I covered my pregnant belly with my arms in fear. Is it contagious? Could I catch it? The twenty-odd pounds that I gained for my unborn baby—I do not even know the exact amount—would it hurt me, cause me to bleed inside until my very skin seemed black and blue and wounded? I still cry sometimes, when it’s dark outside and cold inside and the night seems to stretch on forever, over the pounds that I gained; but not like that. Never again like that.
I closed my mind on the shadows that immediately crowded into my head, clamoring for attention. She was not going to put me back in a place that I had no interest in being. The cold dryness of scales and pills and charts, mirrors and calculators and a chorus of accusing voices have no place in the warm, watery world of pregnancy and washing dishes. Warm and watery, like the tears that fall silently after I cry out about my pounds, my beautiful baby pounds. How can I cry out like that? How dare I cry out like that? And I’m not any more deserving than the friend who struggled and overcame but is left inexplicably with empty arms. And I’m not any stronger than the friend who struggled and fell and struggled and fell and then left this world so abruptly that I couldn’t catch my breath.
It was all a game. We played to fill the emptiness that yawned like a rocky pit inside of us. We played to personify the nothingness that was felt inside, the way a tongue automatically probes the area of a missing tooth. We played because we felt that the dichotomy was too strong and it would tear us in two. We played for lack of a better way to demonstrate how it all felt.
And then on the other side, there was no depth. It was just a simple fight to the death. Thinner is the winner. Can you see me now? How about now? Now? What if I stand sideways? Got you there, huh? I disappear. I can bend the rules of physics and live, ghostlike, in both worlds.
I wanted to run after her and shake her. Not for her sake, I realized with a guilty start, but for mine. Don’t you do that, I wanted to yell in her too-chiseled face. Don’t you dare think that you can calculate my worth with one glance. Don’t you dare think that I can be reduced to a number. The world is not your playing field and I refuse to be your opponent. I will not be someone that you have beaten, because you see, I no longer play The Game. I changed the rules. I’m filling up and fleshing out the empty space inside instead of personifying it. And I’m filling it with a brand new life.
She looked at me, the gym lady, all perky and smiley and exclamation points, and then jotted something down on my chart. Probably something like, whoo-whoo, you are one fat chick.
I smiled back, and then two little being fluttered onto my (low-toned) shoulders. One said, in a deep and scary voice, kinda batman-like, "Omigodomigodomigod, you are fat."
I assumed that one was the devil.
Then the next one spoke up in a silvery voice that bespoke of hope, and dreams, and love. It said, "Omigodomigodomigod, you are fat."
So I'm not sure why I needed both of them to tell me what I already intuited on my own. So I sent them away. I can speak for myself. I opened my mouth, and I said, "Omigodomigodomigod, I am fat."
"No!" Thus spoke Perky Gym Lady. "You are not at all fat! You just have to work on your toning! And that's what we are here for! Together, we will reach your goals!"
There is something so demeaning about being weighed and measured. Like I am being reduced to a number, to a mathematical formula. You are this number, and you want to reach this number. Subtract that, and you will get this. That is you, and that will be you.
I used to do that. I used to do that to myself. I don't want to do that anymore. But I do want to be healthy. And I do want to look good and feel good. There has to be a happy medium, and I have to find it.
I recently found a stream of consciousness kind of writing that I must have written when I was prgnant with Princess. I have included in at the end of this post. I was still struggling so much then, but I was in a good place. I am still in a good place. And I can stay in a good place and still have a mad awesome body. Right?
Right?
I passed by a girl today, and I knew her from Before. You know. Before cereal with milk and close-faced sandwiches. She had a baby and a toddler and she was bent under their weight, even though she was not carrying either one. But I knew that she was bent under their weight, the pounds that they had put on her during pregnancy despite her ignoring the intense demands of her pregnant body.
We smiled at each other; said our ‘hello’s and ‘what brings you here’s as her eyes raked over my body. I felt her mind calculate my weight, and then calculate her weight, and I saw the tight look in her eyes ease. She was the thinner one, by far. She was the winner. Satisfied, she turned to go and left me there, reduced to nothing but the pounds that would show up on my scale, had I owned one.
I covered my pregnant belly with my arms in fear. Is it contagious? Could I catch it? The twenty-odd pounds that I gained for my unborn baby—I do not even know the exact amount—would it hurt me, cause me to bleed inside until my very skin seemed black and blue and wounded? I still cry sometimes, when it’s dark outside and cold inside and the night seems to stretch on forever, over the pounds that I gained; but not like that. Never again like that.
I closed my mind on the shadows that immediately crowded into my head, clamoring for attention. She was not going to put me back in a place that I had no interest in being. The cold dryness of scales and pills and charts, mirrors and calculators and a chorus of accusing voices have no place in the warm, watery world of pregnancy and washing dishes. Warm and watery, like the tears that fall silently after I cry out about my pounds, my beautiful baby pounds. How can I cry out like that? How dare I cry out like that? And I’m not any more deserving than the friend who struggled and overcame but is left inexplicably with empty arms. And I’m not any stronger than the friend who struggled and fell and struggled and fell and then left this world so abruptly that I couldn’t catch my breath.
It was all a game. We played to fill the emptiness that yawned like a rocky pit inside of us. We played to personify the nothingness that was felt inside, the way a tongue automatically probes the area of a missing tooth. We played because we felt that the dichotomy was too strong and it would tear us in two. We played for lack of a better way to demonstrate how it all felt.
And then on the other side, there was no depth. It was just a simple fight to the death. Thinner is the winner. Can you see me now? How about now? Now? What if I stand sideways? Got you there, huh? I disappear. I can bend the rules of physics and live, ghostlike, in both worlds.
I wanted to run after her and shake her. Not for her sake, I realized with a guilty start, but for mine. Don’t you do that, I wanted to yell in her too-chiseled face. Don’t you dare think that you can calculate my worth with one glance. Don’t you dare think that I can be reduced to a number. The world is not your playing field and I refuse to be your opponent. I will not be someone that you have beaten, because you see, I no longer play The Game. I changed the rules. I’m filling up and fleshing out the empty space inside instead of personifying it. And I’m filling it with a brand new life.
Friday, October 16, 2009
I Hope You Dance
I was doing a quick spot check on my kids in the park--one in the little car, trying to climb on the roof, one going down the slide head first--when a friend asked me, "Do you think that you would give your life for your children?"
The one going headfirst down the slide was going a little too fast, but no emergency action was needed--"huh?"
"Like, a girl was saying yesterday, that she would totally jump into fire for her kids. And I'm not sure. I'm afraid that I would hesitate."
Wow. Fire. Your child's terrified face at the window, and you are Supermommy and you dive right into the flames, your child's name on your lips and you pull her from the gaping jaws of death. Not today, oh scythe! She is mine.
But what if you hesitate? If the flames are so high and so hot and instead you scream and scream and freeze in place?
--Coco-pop was going way too fast. I ran to the slide and stopped the impact. "Slide down!" She exclaimed, and scrambled out of my arms to do it all again.
The flames are licking at the edges of the window. Her beautiful little face shadowed, reddened, screaming--"Yes! I would. I would. I would jump into a fire for them."
But is that the point? Is that how you know that you are Mommy, that you would die for your children?
Because just today, I yelled at Princess. She can be so trying. Everything has to go her way, even to the point of being ridiculious. "Princess, go to the bathroom before we go to the park."
"No!" She answered immediately, automatically. "First, I have to--"
"Have to WHAT? Have to WHAT? We always go to the bathroom before leaving the house. Please just go to the bathroom so that we can go, before it gets too dark!"
"No!" Her will, not mine! "First I have to dance!"
And the child started dancing.
As I write this, I am smiling at the image of Princess doing a silly little flailing dance, all to avoid having MY will imposed on her. But at the time, I was furious. It was just too much. Just DO it! Just GO! So that we can GO! "Go!" I glowered. Mean Mommy! "Go to the bathroom NOW, or we are not going to the park at all!" (Because I am a glutton for punishment, and not going to the park would mean three more hours before bedtime in my little apartment, with the two of them tearing the walls down and me tearing my hair out.)
I think flames shot from my eyes, because she went. And then we went. And then my friend asked me if I would die for them, or if I would hesitate.
But it's not about dying for them, is it?
It's about taking a deep breath and counting to ten when they tell you that they need to dance first before going to the bathroom. And maybe laughing, because you know, that's really kinda funny. And pulling her into a hug and saying, yes, my love, my precious, let's dance together. Let's turn on some music and dance together because you are a bright ray of light, you are a sunbeam, you are my life. Let's dance and never stop until we fall on the floor, laughing, exhausted. Then let's make some cookies and eat them warm from the oven with some milk. Then let's dance some more.
So I don't think that we need to think about hesitating before pulling them from a burning building. I don't think that we need to worry about dying for them.
I think that we need to think about living. About loving. About dancing.
The one going headfirst down the slide was going a little too fast, but no emergency action was needed--"huh?"
"Like, a girl was saying yesterday, that she would totally jump into fire for her kids. And I'm not sure. I'm afraid that I would hesitate."
Wow. Fire. Your child's terrified face at the window, and you are Supermommy and you dive right into the flames, your child's name on your lips and you pull her from the gaping jaws of death. Not today, oh scythe! She is mine.
But what if you hesitate? If the flames are so high and so hot and instead you scream and scream and freeze in place?
--Coco-pop was going way too fast. I ran to the slide and stopped the impact. "Slide down!" She exclaimed, and scrambled out of my arms to do it all again.
The flames are licking at the edges of the window. Her beautiful little face shadowed, reddened, screaming--"Yes! I would. I would. I would jump into a fire for them."
But is that the point? Is that how you know that you are Mommy, that you would die for your children?
Because just today, I yelled at Princess. She can be so trying. Everything has to go her way, even to the point of being ridiculious. "Princess, go to the bathroom before we go to the park."
"No!" She answered immediately, automatically. "First, I have to--"
"Have to WHAT? Have to WHAT? We always go to the bathroom before leaving the house. Please just go to the bathroom so that we can go, before it gets too dark!"
"No!" Her will, not mine! "First I have to dance!"
And the child started dancing.
As I write this, I am smiling at the image of Princess doing a silly little flailing dance, all to avoid having MY will imposed on her. But at the time, I was furious. It was just too much. Just DO it! Just GO! So that we can GO! "Go!" I glowered. Mean Mommy! "Go to the bathroom NOW, or we are not going to the park at all!" (Because I am a glutton for punishment, and not going to the park would mean three more hours before bedtime in my little apartment, with the two of them tearing the walls down and me tearing my hair out.)
I think flames shot from my eyes, because she went. And then we went. And then my friend asked me if I would die for them, or if I would hesitate.
But it's not about dying for them, is it?
It's about taking a deep breath and counting to ten when they tell you that they need to dance first before going to the bathroom. And maybe laughing, because you know, that's really kinda funny. And pulling her into a hug and saying, yes, my love, my precious, let's dance together. Let's turn on some music and dance together because you are a bright ray of light, you are a sunbeam, you are my life. Let's dance and never stop until we fall on the floor, laughing, exhausted. Then let's make some cookies and eat them warm from the oven with some milk. Then let's dance some more.
So I don't think that we need to think about hesitating before pulling them from a burning building. I don't think that we need to worry about dying for them.
I think that we need to think about living. About loving. About dancing.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
My daughter, the Rocket Scientist
"Ima, how does a baby come out of an Ima's belly?"
It's bedtime. I am tired. Coco-pop decided to try an alternative lifestyle--a feeewheeling newborn--and has been waking up roughly every other SECOND at night. Or something like that.
So tired. So it makes sense that Princess would spring something like that on me.
"Ima, how? It's too big to just pop out of the belly button."
Darn it. Belly button was on my lips. "Well, it's a miracle! Hashem just makes it come out!" I smile brightly, briskly, and tuck her in. There. Done.
I bend down to kiss her cheek, and get a roll of the eyes from the child who not a moment ago popped out of my belly button. Or something. "Ima. I know it's a miracle. But how does the miracle work?"
I answer something to her satisfaction (or maybe I point out the wonderful hummingbird that was just out the window! Over there! No, over there! It's so beautiful!--oh, you missed it. AnywaygoodnightIloveyouseeyouinthemorning!) and stumble off to the couch and a cup of chai. Mmmm, chai.
I totally had a point that I was getting at here. About us wanting to know how miracles work and bitachon and emunah and hishtadlus and all that. Good stuff, I think. But, oh, chai. And a depthless book and a soft couch. Too many deep thoughts are already swirling around the precocious little mind of one member of this family. I think perhaps I'll keep things at an equilibrium by just, ya know, not thinking. At. All.
It's bedtime. I am tired. Coco-pop decided to try an alternative lifestyle--a feeewheeling newborn--and has been waking up roughly every other SECOND at night. Or something like that.
So tired. So it makes sense that Princess would spring something like that on me.
"Ima, how? It's too big to just pop out of the belly button."
Darn it. Belly button was on my lips. "Well, it's a miracle! Hashem just makes it come out!" I smile brightly, briskly, and tuck her in. There. Done.
I bend down to kiss her cheek, and get a roll of the eyes from the child who not a moment ago popped out of my belly button. Or something. "Ima. I know it's a miracle. But how does the miracle work?"
I answer something to her satisfaction (or maybe I point out the wonderful hummingbird that was just out the window! Over there! No, over there! It's so beautiful!--oh, you missed it. AnywaygoodnightIloveyouseeyouinthemorning!) and stumble off to the couch and a cup of chai. Mmmm, chai.
I totally had a point that I was getting at here. About us wanting to know how miracles work and bitachon and emunah and hishtadlus and all that. Good stuff, I think. But, oh, chai. And a depthless book and a soft couch. Too many deep thoughts are already swirling around the precocious little mind of one member of this family. I think perhaps I'll keep things at an equilibrium by just, ya know, not thinking. At. All.
Monday, October 5, 2009
What I am Not
13 Things that you'll never hear me say:
1. "Actually, this skirt is swimming on me. Do you have it in a size 0?"
2. "Ah, 5:30 in G-d's holy morning! Bless you, my precious progeny, for waking me thusly (by sitting on my face clad in nothing but a soggy morning diaper)so that I can start off my day nice and early!"
3. "Oh, yes, I can eat as much ice cream as I want. I never seem to put on an ounce."
4. "You are so right! Girls really are so much easier to raise than boys!"
5. "You can totally eat off of my floor. I just finished waxing it."
6. "Oh no, I never drink. I have no tolerance at all."
7. "Well, the bathub is scrubbed to a pearly sheen! I guess there's nothing else left to clean today."
8. "French tip, please."
9. "Steps are great! A free workout!"
10. "Why, I prefer my post-partem body. It means that I bore children, and besides, more of me to love."
11. "Superman? Lame-o. What am I, an 11 year-old boy?"
12. "Dr Google is not a real doctor! You can't trust him!"
13. "Wouldn't it be awesome if I got bitten up by mosquitoes from head to toe tonight?"
1. "Actually, this skirt is swimming on me. Do you have it in a size 0?"
2. "Ah, 5:30 in G-d's holy morning! Bless you, my precious progeny, for waking me thusly (by sitting on my face clad in nothing but a soggy morning diaper)so that I can start off my day nice and early!"
3. "Oh, yes, I can eat as much ice cream as I want. I never seem to put on an ounce."
4. "You are so right! Girls really are so much easier to raise than boys!"
5. "You can totally eat off of my floor. I just finished waxing it."
6. "Oh no, I never drink. I have no tolerance at all."
7. "Well, the bathub is scrubbed to a pearly sheen! I guess there's nothing else left to clean today."
8. "French tip, please."
9. "Steps are great! A free workout!"
10. "Why, I prefer my post-partem body. It means that I bore children, and besides, more of me to love."
11. "Superman? Lame-o. What am I, an 11 year-old boy?"
12. "Dr Google is not a real doctor! You can't trust him!"
13. "Wouldn't it be awesome if I got bitten up by mosquitoes from head to toe tonight?"
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The Succah Hop
"One over there, Ima. A new one."
"And another one! That makes 8!"
"Nine."
"Eser! Because that's 10 in hebrew. And another! How do you say 11?"
Succoses (Succosim? Succii?) are poppin' up like daisies in the spring. It's so nice. Everyone has a little zip in their step, even the succah building fathers and the decorating and kid managing mothers. But best of all are the kids. Counting all of the new succosesessses (oh, I give up pluralizing that)and bringing home gan-made (morah made, in my suspicious opinion, is my daughter's lovely wall-hanging), building tiny creations on the corners out of leftover scraps of wood, and begging for the ready-made decorations sold on every corner stand, especaily the ones that light up (jingle bells, jingle bells...but which Israeli knows, or even cares, about the tzadik with the long white beard and merry smile depicted on the shiny chains of lights, all dressed in warm winter red?)
And I...I feel a combination of the seasonal excitement, and also a little homesickness for the huge succah that we made in my parent's house on the back patio, filled to capacity with my brothers and sisters, but even more than that for the smaller succah that we used to make in the old house when I was little, in the backyard, and how during the meal we used to run outside and watch the fireflies moving across the darkened sky as the laughter and clattering of forks from the adults in the succah filtered through the fall night air.
Succos is a time for family. I have family 6,000 miles away, but I also have family right here, counting succoses(eses?) and coveting shiny new decorations as we skip down the street in the Jerusalem fall night air.
"And another one! That makes 8!"
"Nine."
"Eser! Because that's 10 in hebrew. And another! How do you say 11?"
Succoses (Succosim? Succii?) are poppin' up like daisies in the spring. It's so nice. Everyone has a little zip in their step, even the succah building fathers and the decorating and kid managing mothers. But best of all are the kids. Counting all of the new succosesessses (oh, I give up pluralizing that)and bringing home gan-made (morah made, in my suspicious opinion, is my daughter's lovely wall-hanging), building tiny creations on the corners out of leftover scraps of wood, and begging for the ready-made decorations sold on every corner stand, especaily the ones that light up (jingle bells, jingle bells...but which Israeli knows, or even cares, about the tzadik with the long white beard and merry smile depicted on the shiny chains of lights, all dressed in warm winter red?)
And I...I feel a combination of the seasonal excitement, and also a little homesickness for the huge succah that we made in my parent's house on the back patio, filled to capacity with my brothers and sisters, but even more than that for the smaller succah that we used to make in the old house when I was little, in the backyard, and how during the meal we used to run outside and watch the fireflies moving across the darkened sky as the laughter and clattering of forks from the adults in the succah filtered through the fall night air.
Succos is a time for family. I have family 6,000 miles away, but I also have family right here, counting succoses(eses?) and coveting shiny new decorations as we skip down the street in the Jerusalem fall night air.
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