I was never one of those girls who dreamed of her wedding day and who the man standing beside me would be. I never doodled wedding gowns in the margins of my notes during class. (I was more likely to doodle angry chicks in little dresses. I was a wierd kid.)
When I dated Outdoorsman, and he proposed, I was excited to get married to him, not about getting married in general. I was a calm and collected bride, not a giggling head-over-heels one, and I fell in love slowly but surely as I spent more time and shared my life with my wonderful husband.
I would like to define that love.
I like when Outdoorsman buys flowers for me (except when I remember that cut flowers are already dead and just don't know it yet. Then they make me cry. But that's usually when I'm pregnant or otherwie psycho).
I like when he sends me texts during a long day to let me know that he misses me.
I like when he compliments my dinner, takes my opinions seriously and tells me that I look beautiful and no, that does not make me look fat. I likde when he roughouses with the girls and when he remembers to throw his socks in the hamper.
I like that he knows just about everything but is not condescending about it, and seems to be able to fix anything.
But love...
Love is waking up from the baby yet again at 3:45 in the morning and reaching for him...only, he's not there. Outdoorsman is holding him, his large hand supporting the little head,and he's feeding him. "go back to sleep," he whispers and you blink blearily at the two of them, father and son. "I got him."
That's love.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
like Monet, but different
I hate shopping. That being said, sometimes, instead of window shopping, lingering longingly over clothes and accesories displayed in a shop window, I go people shopping. I pick and choose certain traits and attributes from those around me and covet them. I want her figure, her sense of humor, his ease with the world around him, and her knack of anyways knowing when to keep her mouth shut. (because I don't know how to do that at all.) I want her shade of green eyes, his genuine love of people, and her graceful walk.
Then I put them all together in my head and presto! A new D, one that will finally be capable of doing all the things that I should be doing but don't because I am one green eyeshade away from it the way I am now, you see. (Quiet. It makes sense in MY HEAD.)
Yesterday, Princess and Coco-pop were coloring, which turned into cutting out, which turned into pasting in, which turned my whole apartment into what looked like the inside of a box of Fruity Pebbles. Colorful scraps where everywhere. I was resisting the urge to sweep it all up from under their feet as they were creating their masterpieces. Just let them be creative and have fun, My head told my itching hands, and you'll clean up later. On cue the baby started crying, so that decision was taken out from under me. I totally would have made the right one, though. Yup. Fer sure.
ANYWAY, point is, they were creating these works of art, and then Princess frowned. Brave men tremble when Princess frowns.
"What's wrong, Princess?" I inquired delicately.
"My CARRIAGE. It looks like scribble-scrabble. I don't know how to do it. YOU do it for me."
"Princess, you are an artist!" I gushed. Overgushed? Probably. "You make such beautiful carriages! You don't need me to make it for you!"
Princess' brows drew together, and her lower lip started to pout. The world paused on its sojourn around the sun, wary of the impending storm.
"No I don't! I make bad bad BAD carriages! They look like BIKES or CARS! There is no room for the BABY! YOU MAKE ME ONE!!"
"How do we ask?"
"YOU MAKE ME ONE! please?"
I put the baby down and drew a carriage on her paper. Then Coco-pop wanted me to draw her one. Then they wanted me to finish both of their pictures. Then they wanted the pictures hung on the fridge.
I read somewhere that it's better to do something poorly than to sit and watch other people do it perfectly. Or something to that effect. I guess we all know that in our hearts, because later, even though Princess said that she was proud of her project half-drawn by me because I do it better, I noticed that when she made her next project (by herself) she put it right on top of this one.
Her carriage did look like a car.
"It's so pretty Ima, right?"
"You're an artist, Princess."
She beamed. Birds sang and kings breathed sighs of relief. "Like Monet, right? I know."
Then I put them all together in my head and presto! A new D, one that will finally be capable of doing all the things that I should be doing but don't because I am one green eyeshade away from it the way I am now, you see. (Quiet. It makes sense in MY HEAD.)
Yesterday, Princess and Coco-pop were coloring, which turned into cutting out, which turned into pasting in, which turned my whole apartment into what looked like the inside of a box of Fruity Pebbles. Colorful scraps where everywhere. I was resisting the urge to sweep it all up from under their feet as they were creating their masterpieces. Just let them be creative and have fun, My head told my itching hands, and you'll clean up later. On cue the baby started crying, so that decision was taken out from under me. I totally would have made the right one, though. Yup. Fer sure.
ANYWAY, point is, they were creating these works of art, and then Princess frowned. Brave men tremble when Princess frowns.
"What's wrong, Princess?" I inquired delicately.
"My CARRIAGE. It looks like scribble-scrabble. I don't know how to do it. YOU do it for me."
"Princess, you are an artist!" I gushed. Overgushed? Probably. "You make such beautiful carriages! You don't need me to make it for you!"
Princess' brows drew together, and her lower lip started to pout. The world paused on its sojourn around the sun, wary of the impending storm.
"No I don't! I make bad bad BAD carriages! They look like BIKES or CARS! There is no room for the BABY! YOU MAKE ME ONE!!"
"How do we ask?"
"YOU MAKE ME ONE! please?"
I put the baby down and drew a carriage on her paper. Then Coco-pop wanted me to draw her one. Then they wanted me to finish both of their pictures. Then they wanted the pictures hung on the fridge.
I read somewhere that it's better to do something poorly than to sit and watch other people do it perfectly. Or something to that effect. I guess we all know that in our hearts, because later, even though Princess said that she was proud of her project half-drawn by me because I do it better, I noticed that when she made her next project (by herself) she put it right on top of this one.
Her carriage did look like a car.
"It's so pretty Ima, right?"
"You're an artist, Princess."
She beamed. Birds sang and kings breathed sighs of relief. "Like Monet, right? I know."
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Three Kids=Surround Sound
New Year's Blog resolution: I will write often, and I will write better.
I have so much that I want to write about. The problem is, to write in a way that I can actually click the Publish Post button, one needs a bit of creative energy. Or just energy. And while my darling little boychik is sweet and beautiful and wonderful, leaving me full of energy is not one of his talents. He is up at night from around 1 oclock AM until 5, when he falls into an exhausted sleep.
But, not to shirk from his duties, as his eyes close, he calls out weakly to his sisters, "I've done my bit. You guys take over now." And they do. 5 o'clock in the Lord's Holy and Blessed Morning. They take over. Yogurt and wet diaper and mini morning crisis, as the sun rises.
Ah, my babies. How I love them. I do.
In case I forget how much I love them, as 3 o'clock in the morning can sometimes do to you when your muddled little brain throws up a flare and blearily says, everyone else is sleeping. Everyone. Everyone except me and this child, I have a little note at the side of my bed. On it are listed three names.
Shaina b-s Yehudis
Rivka b-s Sara Chaya
Blima b-s Hindy
They are my friends, and Hashem has not yet given them what I have.
It helps me count my blessings, even when my blessings come wrapped in leaking diapers.
So! I will write more! I will work on my book! I will get published! And I will go to the living room right now where it seems that Princess has Coco-pop in a head lock. Very loudly.
I have so much that I want to write about. The problem is, to write in a way that I can actually click the Publish Post button, one needs a bit of creative energy. Or just energy. And while my darling little boychik is sweet and beautiful and wonderful, leaving me full of energy is not one of his talents. He is up at night from around 1 oclock AM until 5, when he falls into an exhausted sleep.
But, not to shirk from his duties, as his eyes close, he calls out weakly to his sisters, "I've done my bit. You guys take over now." And they do. 5 o'clock in the Lord's Holy and Blessed Morning. They take over. Yogurt and wet diaper and mini morning crisis, as the sun rises.
Ah, my babies. How I love them. I do.
In case I forget how much I love them, as 3 o'clock in the morning can sometimes do to you when your muddled little brain throws up a flare and blearily says, everyone else is sleeping. Everyone. Everyone except me and this child, I have a little note at the side of my bed. On it are listed three names.
Shaina b-s Yehudis
Rivka b-s Sara Chaya
Blima b-s Hindy
They are my friends, and Hashem has not yet given them what I have.
It helps me count my blessings, even when my blessings come wrapped in leaking diapers.
So! I will write more! I will work on my book! I will get published! And I will go to the living room right now where it seems that Princess has Coco-pop in a head lock. Very loudly.
Monday, August 23, 2010
To Life
We have no living grandfathers between us, which left room for a lot of debate regarding our son's name. But even as we decided and talked about it and eventually consulted the Amshinover Rebbe regarding it, the whole time this strange, unbidden thought kept rising in my mind, despite my squashing it down...why are we bothering to think of names when it's obviously going to be Moshe?
Moshe is my father's name, and two weeks after the bris I can tell you that my baby's name is not Moshe. Which is good. Because it means that my father survived the hospital's attempt to kill him.
The details are not even important. I mean they are, to me, to my family, but it's a long story that can be summed up by starting with My chronically ill father was rushed to the hospital with a collapsed lung and have in the middle My father can't be taken off the respirator and needs a trach and end with The hospital only gave him 1500 calories a day and NO FLUIDS and he wasted down to a skeletal 110 pounds on his 6"2 frame and almost died.
My baby was 2 weeks old when my mother called with the news that my father probably had a stroke. He was completely unresponsive. Or in the words of my eloquent 5 year old nephew, "Hey, is Sabba dead? Because he looks kinda dead." Outdoorsman and I were trying to figure out how to get the baby a passport in case I had to rush back. I could not stop crying.
It turned out to be fever and infection brought on from severe dehydration because, you know, who would have thought that he would totally need fluids and food?
I am flooded with relief and gratitude that he is still here with us.
Mostly.
My mother has dedicated her life to keeping his body and soul together. She is unbelievable. She keeps him alive with sheer dedication and the force of her love.
But when I spoke to her while we thought that he had a stroke and they were transfering him to another hopsital, I heard a weariness in her voice that I had never heard before. They were trying to put an IV in him and couldn't. They tried a central line instead. She said, "What should I do? How long should I let them torture him like this?"
Dear G-d. I know he is a special soul and I know that life is intrinsicly important. And I also know that just having him here on this earth is incredibly important to me...but how long is he to be tortured like this? He has been sick for over twenty years. He has slowly, painfully, lost everything. How long is he to be tortured?
Most of you are probably open-mouthed at my callousness. But that's because you just don't get it. Thank G-d that you don' get it.
He is very weak now, but my mother just called to tell me that he managed a smile for her.
I am so relieved.
Mostly.
Moshe is my father's name, and two weeks after the bris I can tell you that my baby's name is not Moshe. Which is good. Because it means that my father survived the hospital's attempt to kill him.
The details are not even important. I mean they are, to me, to my family, but it's a long story that can be summed up by starting with My chronically ill father was rushed to the hospital with a collapsed lung and have in the middle My father can't be taken off the respirator and needs a trach and end with The hospital only gave him 1500 calories a day and NO FLUIDS and he wasted down to a skeletal 110 pounds on his 6"2 frame and almost died.
My baby was 2 weeks old when my mother called with the news that my father probably had a stroke. He was completely unresponsive. Or in the words of my eloquent 5 year old nephew, "Hey, is Sabba dead? Because he looks kinda dead." Outdoorsman and I were trying to figure out how to get the baby a passport in case I had to rush back. I could not stop crying.
It turned out to be fever and infection brought on from severe dehydration because, you know, who would have thought that he would totally need fluids and food?
I am flooded with relief and gratitude that he is still here with us.
Mostly.
My mother has dedicated her life to keeping his body and soul together. She is unbelievable. She keeps him alive with sheer dedication and the force of her love.
But when I spoke to her while we thought that he had a stroke and they were transfering him to another hopsital, I heard a weariness in her voice that I had never heard before. They were trying to put an IV in him and couldn't. They tried a central line instead. She said, "What should I do? How long should I let them torture him like this?"
Dear G-d. I know he is a special soul and I know that life is intrinsicly important. And I also know that just having him here on this earth is incredibly important to me...but how long is he to be tortured like this? He has been sick for over twenty years. He has slowly, painfully, lost everything. How long is he to be tortured?
Most of you are probably open-mouthed at my callousness. But that's because you just don't get it. Thank G-d that you don' get it.
He is very weak now, but my mother just called to tell me that he managed a smile for her.
I am so relieved.
Mostly.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Where my Baby At?
It's my due date, and I'll cry if I want to.
Outdoorsman insists that I was just as miserable the last two pregnancies in the ninth month as this one, but I really have a hard time believing that if I was this uncomfortable that I would go ahead and do it all again. Wow. The mind is a really amazing thing, to forget something like this. To perpetuate the species? Or just to add to my collection of stretch marks? We will never know.
There has also been decreased activity in the normally active little resident of Hotel des D. So I pulled out my dog-eared copy of What To Expect When You are Expecting, and was referenced to two pages. Page 314 read cheerfully, do not fear! The head must be engaged! All is well!
My heart lighter, I turned to page 516. Or, of course, the book continues, the cord could be wrapped around the neck of the baby. This could be fatal. And all different sorts of bad. So freak out and run to the doctor.
Instantly, I developed a split personality from the trauma. Then I made an appointment to get monitered. They gave me a quart of sugar water and the movements picked up ever so slightly. The doctor made a face but said that it was okay.
The second I got home, the baby started moving. And hasn't stopped since. Which means the baby is playing with my head. Which does not bode well for when he actually decides to emerge.
Which, by the way, baby? Ready when you are.
Outdoorsman insists that I was just as miserable the last two pregnancies in the ninth month as this one, but I really have a hard time believing that if I was this uncomfortable that I would go ahead and do it all again. Wow. The mind is a really amazing thing, to forget something like this. To perpetuate the species? Or just to add to my collection of stretch marks? We will never know.
There has also been decreased activity in the normally active little resident of Hotel des D. So I pulled out my dog-eared copy of What To Expect When You are Expecting, and was referenced to two pages. Page 314 read cheerfully, do not fear! The head must be engaged! All is well!
My heart lighter, I turned to page 516. Or, of course, the book continues, the cord could be wrapped around the neck of the baby. This could be fatal. And all different sorts of bad. So freak out and run to the doctor.
Instantly, I developed a split personality from the trauma. Then I made an appointment to get monitered. They gave me a quart of sugar water and the movements picked up ever so slightly. The doctor made a face but said that it was okay.
The second I got home, the baby started moving. And hasn't stopped since. Which means the baby is playing with my head. Which does not bode well for when he actually decides to emerge.
Which, by the way, baby? Ready when you are.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Stars, in their multitude
And for the third time running, I find myself in a tent, on a mat, covered in masquito bites, nine months pregnant, counting down the minutes until morning and listening to everyone else snore.
It's not that I don't love camping. I do. My friends think I'm nuts, but there is something so magical, so peaceful, about the campfire after dinner, when the kids are sleeping, sharing thoughts with people that you can barely see, the sky a canopy of stars overhead. And when the kids are up, seeing them so excited as the tent goes up, licking gooey marshmellow from their fingers, playing in the dirt, at peace with the elements in a way that is so natural to them, I love that. I do.
I just don't see why I have to always do it two weeks before my due date, ya know?
We were laughing about it, Outdoorsman and I, about the last minute panic that sets in right before the baby comes. Oh, no, this is it. We will never be able to do anything like this again. This is our very last chance.
So we rent a car and read up on how to deliver a baby yourself in a rustic setting, pack up the BBQ and the sleeping bags and the kids and go.
Naturally, I don't get much sleep.
Why do we do this, this freaking out and running to get in our last licks? I guess we live in the moment, for the most part. We're shortsighted. It's hard to see when you are living in the minutes, that we also live in years. We will go camping again. We will sleep again. Labor won't last forever. Neither will this nice walk we are taking together.
This morning, Coco-pop popped a water balloon all over my skirt. We laughed, Outdoorsman said I told you so, and then got ready for gan. Five minutes later, with her little packpack on her back, she said, "Remember when I popped the balloon all over you, Ima?"
Yes, I remember, love. It happened five minutes ago. A lifetime ago, I guess, to someone on this earth for just under 3 years so far.
But why do I laugh at her? Look at me, last night, pounding the wall in frustration because of a mosquito that kept strafing me. The mosquito will eventually stop ringing in my ear, so why does it make me so angry, so put upon? The house will be clean. I will get dinner on the table. I will not be pregnant forever.
The question is, does this idea of impermanence comfort me--or scare the heck out of me?
A lot of bit of both.
The new baby will come, with G-d's help. And then the new baby will not be a new baby forever. Soon he will he licking his fingers clean of gooey marshmellow and playing in the dirt outside of our tent. Soon he will look up and see the canopy of stars and stare in wonder, comfortable in the elements.
It's not that I don't love camping. I do. My friends think I'm nuts, but there is something so magical, so peaceful, about the campfire after dinner, when the kids are sleeping, sharing thoughts with people that you can barely see, the sky a canopy of stars overhead. And when the kids are up, seeing them so excited as the tent goes up, licking gooey marshmellow from their fingers, playing in the dirt, at peace with the elements in a way that is so natural to them, I love that. I do.
I just don't see why I have to always do it two weeks before my due date, ya know?
We were laughing about it, Outdoorsman and I, about the last minute panic that sets in right before the baby comes. Oh, no, this is it. We will never be able to do anything like this again. This is our very last chance.
So we rent a car and read up on how to deliver a baby yourself in a rustic setting, pack up the BBQ and the sleeping bags and the kids and go.
Naturally, I don't get much sleep.
Why do we do this, this freaking out and running to get in our last licks? I guess we live in the moment, for the most part. We're shortsighted. It's hard to see when you are living in the minutes, that we also live in years. We will go camping again. We will sleep again. Labor won't last forever. Neither will this nice walk we are taking together.
This morning, Coco-pop popped a water balloon all over my skirt. We laughed, Outdoorsman said I told you so, and then got ready for gan. Five minutes later, with her little packpack on her back, she said, "Remember when I popped the balloon all over you, Ima?"
Yes, I remember, love. It happened five minutes ago. A lifetime ago, I guess, to someone on this earth for just under 3 years so far.
But why do I laugh at her? Look at me, last night, pounding the wall in frustration because of a mosquito that kept strafing me. The mosquito will eventually stop ringing in my ear, so why does it make me so angry, so put upon? The house will be clean. I will get dinner on the table. I will not be pregnant forever.
The question is, does this idea of impermanence comfort me--or scare the heck out of me?
A lot of bit of both.
The new baby will come, with G-d's help. And then the new baby will not be a new baby forever. Soon he will he licking his fingers clean of gooey marshmellow and playing in the dirt outside of our tent. Soon he will look up and see the canopy of stars and stare in wonder, comfortable in the elements.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Our Bodies, Ourselves
I feel like telling someone, but only in a whisper. It's a pretty momentous secret, actually. Too big to contain, too big to let out.
But you won't tell anyone, will you, O Internet?
I have a cleaning lady.
She just started coming last week. She comes every sunday for three hours and does all the things that I can't do due to Large Belly Syndrome. She scrubs out the bathroom and cleans the outside of the windows. She dusts the tops of the cabinets and the hard-to-reach corners.
I tidy up along-side her, doing the dishes, folding laudry, projecting a busy, industrious air.
My husband hired her, only telling me at the last minute.
Most of you are rolling your eyes and leaving your computer to get a cup of coffee. You have a very nice husband, you weirdo, you are thinking. Get a grip. I thought that you were gonna say something along the lines of, I'm having triplets. And they're all over 12 pounds.
But some of you understand.
When a friend of mine has a cleaning lady, and inevitably finshes that thought with "because..." as in, "I have a cleaning lady, because my mother insists and besides she pays for it." I nod understandingly and, while laughingly tell her that there is nothing wrong with having a bit of help, relish the inner smugness of, I don't need one. I do just fine juggling everything on my own.
I come from a family of superwomen. My mother works full time, keeps house in perfect condition, is primary caregiver for my chronically ill father, and mother for the kids that are still at home and are out of the house as well. She is never overwhelmed, never tired, and will stay up until all of the laundry and paperwork is done.
My sisters all work, or run their own communities, and balance everything in between.
This year, for the first time, I am not working. I am a stay-at-home-mom. And my inner superwoman is laughing at me. They all do it, she says. They all do it, and work besides. What is wrong with you?
I try to explain to her that as a stay-at-home, I am with my kids much more, and it takes a lot of energy. Plus my husband WANTS me to have some help. And I am due in 3 weeks. And...
And nothing. My imperfection is showing, and that is why I have a knot in my stomach, and that is why I have not told anyone about my weekly visitor from Sri Lanka.
And maybe I'm reaching, but I think that I know why.
I feel like we grew up in a generation that requires of itself perfection, and not just perfection, but effortless, breezy perfection. Our mothers did it all. We need to do it all too, and be thin and have perfect teeth besides.
In my neighborhood, the majority of the girls are slender and pretty, their children dressed like little mini-me-s, and they attend chinuch and shalom bayis classes twice a week. Everyone is all smiles. Everyone looks, well, perfect.
Through my own battles with eating disorders and unhealthy body image while I was all smiles I know, the hard way, that effortless perfection is very, very, messy. I KNOW that. I teach that. I write about that. True perfection is G-dly. We are all trying to emulate Him, and in this world of klipa and sheker, we get everything all mixed up.
I am in the middle of reading a book, as reasearch to flesh out my body image workshop. I'm not sure how much help this book will be to that end, but the author says something so nice, so true, so heartfelt.
She says how everyone and her mother is thin and perfect. Thin and perfect is nice to look at for a while, it's easy on the eyes, but it's actually boring. What is interesting, what is sexy, what is endearing?
And I misquote, to bring to more to home:
My mother's gap-toothed smile is endearing. My small mouth in endearing. My friend's large nose with the small bump makes her look soulful, exotic. Beauty marks and moles are interesting. Large hips can be sexy. A rounded belly. Dark brown eyes. Short legs. A loud sense of humor. A laugh that comes from somewhere deep inside. The ability to cry.
Our so-called shortcomings, physical and emotional, mental and spiritual, make us who we are, and make us memorable.
And if that all seems like a pretty dramatic justification for having a cleaning lady three hours a week, that's okay. I am dramatic. That's part of who I am. And that's okay.
But you won't tell anyone, will you, O Internet?
I have a cleaning lady.
She just started coming last week. She comes every sunday for three hours and does all the things that I can't do due to Large Belly Syndrome. She scrubs out the bathroom and cleans the outside of the windows. She dusts the tops of the cabinets and the hard-to-reach corners.
I tidy up along-side her, doing the dishes, folding laudry, projecting a busy, industrious air.
My husband hired her, only telling me at the last minute.
Most of you are rolling your eyes and leaving your computer to get a cup of coffee. You have a very nice husband, you weirdo, you are thinking. Get a grip. I thought that you were gonna say something along the lines of, I'm having triplets. And they're all over 12 pounds.
But some of you understand.
When a friend of mine has a cleaning lady, and inevitably finshes that thought with "because..." as in, "I have a cleaning lady, because my mother insists and besides she pays for it." I nod understandingly and, while laughingly tell her that there is nothing wrong with having a bit of help, relish the inner smugness of, I don't need one. I do just fine juggling everything on my own.
I come from a family of superwomen. My mother works full time, keeps house in perfect condition, is primary caregiver for my chronically ill father, and mother for the kids that are still at home and are out of the house as well. She is never overwhelmed, never tired, and will stay up until all of the laundry and paperwork is done.
My sisters all work, or run their own communities, and balance everything in between.
This year, for the first time, I am not working. I am a stay-at-home-mom. And my inner superwoman is laughing at me. They all do it, she says. They all do it, and work besides. What is wrong with you?
I try to explain to her that as a stay-at-home, I am with my kids much more, and it takes a lot of energy. Plus my husband WANTS me to have some help. And I am due in 3 weeks. And...
And nothing. My imperfection is showing, and that is why I have a knot in my stomach, and that is why I have not told anyone about my weekly visitor from Sri Lanka.
And maybe I'm reaching, but I think that I know why.
I feel like we grew up in a generation that requires of itself perfection, and not just perfection, but effortless, breezy perfection. Our mothers did it all. We need to do it all too, and be thin and have perfect teeth besides.
In my neighborhood, the majority of the girls are slender and pretty, their children dressed like little mini-me-s, and they attend chinuch and shalom bayis classes twice a week. Everyone is all smiles. Everyone looks, well, perfect.
Through my own battles with eating disorders and unhealthy body image while I was all smiles I know, the hard way, that effortless perfection is very, very, messy. I KNOW that. I teach that. I write about that. True perfection is G-dly. We are all trying to emulate Him, and in this world of klipa and sheker, we get everything all mixed up.
I am in the middle of reading a book, as reasearch to flesh out my body image workshop. I'm not sure how much help this book will be to that end, but the author says something so nice, so true, so heartfelt.
She says how everyone and her mother is thin and perfect. Thin and perfect is nice to look at for a while, it's easy on the eyes, but it's actually boring. What is interesting, what is sexy, what is endearing?
And I misquote, to bring to more to home:
My mother's gap-toothed smile is endearing. My small mouth in endearing. My friend's large nose with the small bump makes her look soulful, exotic. Beauty marks and moles are interesting. Large hips can be sexy. A rounded belly. Dark brown eyes. Short legs. A loud sense of humor. A laugh that comes from somewhere deep inside. The ability to cry.
Our so-called shortcomings, physical and emotional, mental and spiritual, make us who we are, and make us memorable.
And if that all seems like a pretty dramatic justification for having a cleaning lady three hours a week, that's okay. I am dramatic. That's part of who I am. And that's okay.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Smell Of Summer
What we were really supposed to be doing, on that breezy, hot, post-sandstorm afternoon, was reaplying suncreen and blowing up tubes on the green green grass next to the blue blue pool.
Which was very different than what we were actually doing--holding the kids back with one hand and scooping the unbelievably vile contents of the overflowing sewer into garbage bags with the other.
It was an interesting day. I use the word interesting very sparingly. I had made up with a group of friends to take the kids to the big swimming pool. One of us has a car, and all of us packed sandwiches, suncreen, tubes, bathing suits, and sunglasses. Then the morning dawned, and one of us woke up with a stomach bug. I woke up to weather which must have been over one hundred degrees and sand blowing against the windows, a nine month pregnant belly and a husband who sternly reminded me that I had been all shaky the day before and perhaps the pool was a bad idea.
Also, the truth is, I had been feeling bad about the expense. Even with my friend driving, it costs a lot of money to get in, and I would also have to buy a couple of new tubes.
So I stayed home.
And then the washing machine broke. And then the bathroom overflowed. And then the sewer plate started spewing the most vile horrible unbelievable---
An unbelievable amount of NIS nis later, I think perhaps the pool might have been the way to go...
Memorable quotes from the afernoon of fun in the sun by the (cess) pool:
Princess: "Can I also scoop? Please? Ima! You never let me scoop stuff from the sewer!"
Plumber: "That will be all of your life savings, please."
Landlord: "It's your fault, because you flushed TOILET PAPER down the toilet."
Plumber: "Actually, we found a red hose and a pair of pajamas and a box full of sand down there. Nothing to do with toilet paper.
Landlord: "Ah. Well. It's your fault anyway. We gotta go....catch a plane somewhere. Byeee!"
And to sum it all up:
Coco-pop: "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew, Ima."
Which was very different than what we were actually doing--holding the kids back with one hand and scooping the unbelievably vile contents of the overflowing sewer into garbage bags with the other.
It was an interesting day. I use the word interesting very sparingly. I had made up with a group of friends to take the kids to the big swimming pool. One of us has a car, and all of us packed sandwiches, suncreen, tubes, bathing suits, and sunglasses. Then the morning dawned, and one of us woke up with a stomach bug. I woke up to weather which must have been over one hundred degrees and sand blowing against the windows, a nine month pregnant belly and a husband who sternly reminded me that I had been all shaky the day before and perhaps the pool was a bad idea.
Also, the truth is, I had been feeling bad about the expense. Even with my friend driving, it costs a lot of money to get in, and I would also have to buy a couple of new tubes.
So I stayed home.
And then the washing machine broke. And then the bathroom overflowed. And then the sewer plate started spewing the most vile horrible unbelievable---
An unbelievable amount of NIS nis later, I think perhaps the pool might have been the way to go...
Memorable quotes from the afernoon of fun in the sun by the (cess) pool:
Princess: "Can I also scoop? Please? Ima! You never let me scoop stuff from the sewer!"
Plumber: "That will be all of your life savings, please."
Landlord: "It's your fault, because you flushed TOILET PAPER down the toilet."
Plumber: "Actually, we found a red hose and a pair of pajamas and a box full of sand down there. Nothing to do with toilet paper.
Landlord: "Ah. Well. It's your fault anyway. We gotta go....catch a plane somewhere. Byeee!"
And to sum it all up:
Coco-pop: "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew, Ima."
Sunday, June 13, 2010
A Wrinkle In Time
The apartment is messy again. Socks on the floor. Toys on the table. Dust on the shelves. Laundry hamper full. I finished my coffee and brought the girls to gan. I am working up the energy to put my swollen feet on the floor and start cleaning up. But as much as I pretend it's about my swollen feet, I feel like there's more to my reluctance than that.
Sometimes I feel like I'm going around in circles. I love having a clean apartment, fresh food on the table. I equate it with happy faces around me, knowing that I am providing a haven for my husband and girls. But this aimless feeling, this feeling that I am not Doing That Which I Should Be Doing is so strong sometimes that I don't actually do that which needs to be done. Is this what I am really here for? To make dirty dishes clean and then dirty them again? To sweep against the never-ending tide of dust? To pick up the toys and then encourage the girls to take them out again?
What happened to the girl with a mission, marching off to the Emerald City armed with nothing but a certainty that she was supposed to be Somewhere, anywhere, but here?
Should I not be having a midlife crisis when I'm only in my twenties?
Yesterday, as I was putting on my shaitel for shabbas, Princess and Coco-pop, my fashion consultants, were eyeing me critically.
"Make the pony a little higher, Ima," Princess dictated. I did so.
"You look so pretty, Ima," Coco-pop beamed at me. I beamed back.
"Ima," Princess inquired and I braced myself for another emergency change of my earings, "What are those line on your forehead?"
Eh? Say what?
"What lines, sweety?" I kept my voice light.
"Those lines." She touched my forehead lightly.
I looked at her smooth, umblemished skin. Then I looked at myself, hard, in the mirror. And for the first time, instead of a slightly bewildered 16 year-old, a woman, aged 28, looked back at me. She looked a little tired, or were those bags permenant? And yes, when I stood even closer to the mirror, I saw the lines. On my forehead. But no time to panic. There is a little girl at my side, and she is waiting, fingers rubbing her own forehead anxiously, for an answer.
"Oh! These lines," I said. "You'll get them when you are as old as me. Should we go to the kiddush now?"
And the woman, limping with age, escorted the children out of the house.
There is going to be a gap in this post, after these lines. I will not bridge it, not yet. I need to actually feel the smooth transition from my fears, from my questions, from my domestic reluctance to the beautiful poem that I have hanging in my kitchen and that I so love. So for now, I will simply skip a few lines, write the poem down for you, and then finish this post with my daughter's innocent ending line to the above conversation. Then I will turn on the sink and start the dishes. And after a few minutes of warm soapy water and the house starting to put itself back in order, I will get there. I will feel the poem.
I always do.
Maybe it's all about the doing. Maybe it's about being. Maybe it's not so much about Emerald City and far more about what you can learn on the yellow brick road.
I Stop Writing the Poem
by Tess Gallagher
to fold the clothes. No matter who lives
or who dies, I'm still a woman.
I'll always have plenty to do.
I bring the arms of his shirt
together. Nothing can stop
our tenderness. I'll get back
to the poem. I'll get back to being
a woman. But for now
there's a shirt, a giant shirt
in my hands, and somewhere a small girl
standing next to her mother
watching to see how it's done.
As we walked to shul, Princess touched her forehead again and looked at me. "Maybe when I'm six, and I'm so big, I'll get them?"
Sometimes I feel like I'm going around in circles. I love having a clean apartment, fresh food on the table. I equate it with happy faces around me, knowing that I am providing a haven for my husband and girls. But this aimless feeling, this feeling that I am not Doing That Which I Should Be Doing is so strong sometimes that I don't actually do that which needs to be done. Is this what I am really here for? To make dirty dishes clean and then dirty them again? To sweep against the never-ending tide of dust? To pick up the toys and then encourage the girls to take them out again?
What happened to the girl with a mission, marching off to the Emerald City armed with nothing but a certainty that she was supposed to be Somewhere, anywhere, but here?
Should I not be having a midlife crisis when I'm only in my twenties?
Yesterday, as I was putting on my shaitel for shabbas, Princess and Coco-pop, my fashion consultants, were eyeing me critically.
"Make the pony a little higher, Ima," Princess dictated. I did so.
"You look so pretty, Ima," Coco-pop beamed at me. I beamed back.
"Ima," Princess inquired and I braced myself for another emergency change of my earings, "What are those line on your forehead?"
Eh? Say what?
"What lines, sweety?" I kept my voice light.
"Those lines." She touched my forehead lightly.
I looked at her smooth, umblemished skin. Then I looked at myself, hard, in the mirror. And for the first time, instead of a slightly bewildered 16 year-old, a woman, aged 28, looked back at me. She looked a little tired, or were those bags permenant? And yes, when I stood even closer to the mirror, I saw the lines. On my forehead. But no time to panic. There is a little girl at my side, and she is waiting, fingers rubbing her own forehead anxiously, for an answer.
"Oh! These lines," I said. "You'll get them when you are as old as me. Should we go to the kiddush now?"
And the woman, limping with age, escorted the children out of the house.
There is going to be a gap in this post, after these lines. I will not bridge it, not yet. I need to actually feel the smooth transition from my fears, from my questions, from my domestic reluctance to the beautiful poem that I have hanging in my kitchen and that I so love. So for now, I will simply skip a few lines, write the poem down for you, and then finish this post with my daughter's innocent ending line to the above conversation. Then I will turn on the sink and start the dishes. And after a few minutes of warm soapy water and the house starting to put itself back in order, I will get there. I will feel the poem.
I always do.
Maybe it's all about the doing. Maybe it's about being. Maybe it's not so much about Emerald City and far more about what you can learn on the yellow brick road.
I Stop Writing the Poem
by Tess Gallagher
to fold the clothes. No matter who lives
or who dies, I'm still a woman.
I'll always have plenty to do.
I bring the arms of his shirt
together. Nothing can stop
our tenderness. I'll get back
to the poem. I'll get back to being
a woman. But for now
there's a shirt, a giant shirt
in my hands, and somewhere a small girl
standing next to her mother
watching to see how it's done.
As we walked to shul, Princess touched her forehead again and looked at me. "Maybe when I'm six, and I'm so big, I'll get them?"
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The Closed Mouth Gathers No Foot
"Ima, I put my sandals on my own feets!" Coco-pop informed me. Her little heart-shaped face was flushed with pride.
"Oh, look at you! Wow! What a big, huge--" my automatic, but heart-felt praise was interrupted by the sounds of Princess' laughter. I asked her what was so funny.
"Coc-pop! She said feets!" Princess almost shrieked.
"Well, what should she have said?" I asked the all-knowing big sister.
"You don't say feets! You say foots!"
And sometimes I wonder if I do that, too. Intervene with my oh-so-helpful know-it-allness and really just put my foot--or foots--or feets--straight into my mouth.
I have ideas. I have solutions. I have solved the world's problems in less time than it takes to drink a cup of coffee after the kids are out of the house. All seems so bright and clear when I have some space to myself and the house is clean.
And every night, when my kids are asleep, I suddenly realize the Perfect Road To Parenting and Clean Bathrooms All The Time has been before me all along. I expouse muchly in this manner to Outdoorsman, and then drink another cup of coffee. The next morning, when I am awakened at 5:00 AM by a soggy diapered bottom sitting on my face, my wonderful solutions flee, afraid, I guess, of my morning hair. (The word Jew-fro was invented for the amazing way my hair has of defying gravity in the morning, so I don't really blame anyone.
Someone once said that when one person is talking, the other isn't listening; he's waiting. Waiting for the lips of the one doing the talking to stop doing that wierd up-and-down motion so that he can jump in with what he wanted to say.
I don't want to be like that. I don't want to have to be like that. Is it because I need people to think that I know everything, that I'm smart? I think I'm smart. Why would someone else thinking that make it more true?
Outdoorsman is totally my hero with this. He never has to get his words in. He knows that the world will get along just fine without his words of wisdom, if they don't get said. I think it's because he does not need confirmation. He doesn't need the world to see things through his eyes.
I need to stop talking all the time and start listening. Really listening. Then maybe I will hear what Princess hears when she says things like;
"Ima, when you sit outside and close your eyes and no one is talking, you can hear the birds. They are singing such a beautiful song."
"Oh, look at you! Wow! What a big, huge--" my automatic, but heart-felt praise was interrupted by the sounds of Princess' laughter. I asked her what was so funny.
"Coc-pop! She said feets!" Princess almost shrieked.
"Well, what should she have said?" I asked the all-knowing big sister.
"You don't say feets! You say foots!"
And sometimes I wonder if I do that, too. Intervene with my oh-so-helpful know-it-allness and really just put my foot--or foots--or feets--straight into my mouth.
I have ideas. I have solutions. I have solved the world's problems in less time than it takes to drink a cup of coffee after the kids are out of the house. All seems so bright and clear when I have some space to myself and the house is clean.
And every night, when my kids are asleep, I suddenly realize the Perfect Road To Parenting and Clean Bathrooms All The Time has been before me all along. I expouse muchly in this manner to Outdoorsman, and then drink another cup of coffee. The next morning, when I am awakened at 5:00 AM by a soggy diapered bottom sitting on my face, my wonderful solutions flee, afraid, I guess, of my morning hair. (The word Jew-fro was invented for the amazing way my hair has of defying gravity in the morning, so I don't really blame anyone.
Someone once said that when one person is talking, the other isn't listening; he's waiting. Waiting for the lips of the one doing the talking to stop doing that wierd up-and-down motion so that he can jump in with what he wanted to say.
I don't want to be like that. I don't want to have to be like that. Is it because I need people to think that I know everything, that I'm smart? I think I'm smart. Why would someone else thinking that make it more true?
Outdoorsman is totally my hero with this. He never has to get his words in. He knows that the world will get along just fine without his words of wisdom, if they don't get said. I think it's because he does not need confirmation. He doesn't need the world to see things through his eyes.
I need to stop talking all the time and start listening. Really listening. Then maybe I will hear what Princess hears when she says things like;
"Ima, when you sit outside and close your eyes and no one is talking, you can hear the birds. They are singing such a beautiful song."
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Olam Haba and Orange Juice
I had a scary dream.
I've spent the past two days not accepting that dream, as per Outdoorsman's instructions. We gave money to tzedaka. I said tehilim.
Still for someone not accepting a dream, I spend an awful lot of time thinking about it. And I realized how often I think about worst-case scenerios in general. Outdoorsman 15 minutes late? The most logical explanation involves two fire engines and a nuclear bomb. Coco-pop not up at her usual 6:00 AM? I run, heart pounding, to check her breathing. Dr. Google has diagnosed me with bubonic plague and scurvy. I have written a will, and of course, always wear clean underwear. Because, you know, if you are run over by a truck and the doctors see that your underwear wasn't clean, you could die of embarrassment.
My mind leads me places that I have no interest in visiting, much less settling in for a winter or two, and I must follow the train of thought, helpless, unable to press the bell and say, "Okay, Mind. This is my stop. Lemme off."
I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid of something unknown scaring me to death.
I read about some detective finally finding the true murderer, and I think, The person is dead. Gone forever. What's the difference?
And I wonder. What does this say about my emunah, my belief, in Hashem's plan? If I truly believed in Olam Haba, and I truly believed that everything happens for some ultimate reason, would I be so afraid? This much afraid? Reading about someone in the news and cry cry cry, thinking, she must have been so scared, how could a person survive, being so scared?
Outdoorsman says that, like everything else in our adult world, it's not so simple. He says that there are degrees of belief, levels of emunah. We need to work on them, sure. But it doesn't mean that I don't actually believe.
Which is nice, and a little more heartening than my black and white binoculars that I use to view myself and my faults.
Yesterday, Princess came across a picture of Outdoorsman's grandfather, who passed away when Outdoorsman was four years-old. "I never saw him,"Princess said, puzzled. Then her face cleared. "Oh. He must be in shamayim with Zaidy and Sabba and Hashem. Can I have some juice?"
I've spent the past two days not accepting that dream, as per Outdoorsman's instructions. We gave money to tzedaka. I said tehilim.
Still for someone not accepting a dream, I spend an awful lot of time thinking about it. And I realized how often I think about worst-case scenerios in general. Outdoorsman 15 minutes late? The most logical explanation involves two fire engines and a nuclear bomb. Coco-pop not up at her usual 6:00 AM? I run, heart pounding, to check her breathing. Dr. Google has diagnosed me with bubonic plague and scurvy. I have written a will, and of course, always wear clean underwear. Because, you know, if you are run over by a truck and the doctors see that your underwear wasn't clean, you could die of embarrassment.
My mind leads me places that I have no interest in visiting, much less settling in for a winter or two, and I must follow the train of thought, helpless, unable to press the bell and say, "Okay, Mind. This is my stop. Lemme off."
I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid of something unknown scaring me to death.
I read about some detective finally finding the true murderer, and I think, The person is dead. Gone forever. What's the difference?
And I wonder. What does this say about my emunah, my belief, in Hashem's plan? If I truly believed in Olam Haba, and I truly believed that everything happens for some ultimate reason, would I be so afraid? This much afraid? Reading about someone in the news and cry cry cry, thinking, she must have been so scared, how could a person survive, being so scared?
Outdoorsman says that, like everything else in our adult world, it's not so simple. He says that there are degrees of belief, levels of emunah. We need to work on them, sure. But it doesn't mean that I don't actually believe.
Which is nice, and a little more heartening than my black and white binoculars that I use to view myself and my faults.
Yesterday, Princess came across a picture of Outdoorsman's grandfather, who passed away when Outdoorsman was four years-old. "I never saw him,"Princess said, puzzled. Then her face cleared. "Oh. He must be in shamayim with Zaidy and Sabba and Hashem. Can I have some juice?"
Monday, May 31, 2010
In My Arms
Outdoorsman, after a particularly hard day with Princess: "Princess, we wouldn't be able to live without you."
Princess, pout painted on: Nuh-uh, nuh-uh nuh-uh. You would would would.
Outdoorsman, stroking her hot little cheek: "No, we wouldn't. We need you."
Princess, squirmng away from him: "No, you don't need me at all. You have Coco-pop."
Outdoosrman: "But she is not you."
Princess: "Yes, she is. She's big now."
Outdoorsman: "But she is not you."
And she melted and sobbed.
I need to hold you more and touch you more, my Baby-Big Girl. I take it for granted that because I love you so much you know that without being told. You don't. I need to tell you. And tell you. And tell you.
So this morning, I told you. I told you that before you were born, Ima and Abba were just a wife and husband. That when you were born, you made us into Ima and Abba. And that no matter how big you get, you will always be our baby, because you were the first.
After reasuring yourself that always being the baby does not mean getting back into diapers, I think that you understood.
My baby. My big girl. How often do I need to say I love you until you finally believe me?
Princess, pout painted on: Nuh-uh, nuh-uh nuh-uh. You would would would.
Outdoorsman, stroking her hot little cheek: "No, we wouldn't. We need you."
Princess, squirmng away from him: "No, you don't need me at all. You have Coco-pop."
Outdoosrman: "But she is not you."
Princess: "Yes, she is. She's big now."
Outdoorsman: "But she is not you."
And she melted and sobbed.
I need to hold you more and touch you more, my Baby-Big Girl. I take it for granted that because I love you so much you know that without being told. You don't. I need to tell you. And tell you. And tell you.
So this morning, I told you. I told you that before you were born, Ima and Abba were just a wife and husband. That when you were born, you made us into Ima and Abba. And that no matter how big you get, you will always be our baby, because you were the first.
After reasuring yourself that always being the baby does not mean getting back into diapers, I think that you understood.
My baby. My big girl. How often do I need to say I love you until you finally believe me?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Hollow
Like a cloud of dust slowly settling on a newly washed floor. So slowly, so gently, it settles, you don't even realize the floor is filthy until later. Much later.
So slowly that when it dawns on you it feels quick, like someone flicked out the lights. All you know is, now you're groping in the dark.
This madness. This sadness.
You know what it is, really. It's not really like Before. Like That Time Long Ago. You're heavily pregnant. You know it's hormones. You know it's the frustration of not being able to do what you need to do because your hips ache so bad, your body is rebelling, and it's so hot. You know the kids drain you, too.
But that knowledge doesn't help you when the darkness settles in. When the light switches off simply when your husband forgets to say goodbye when he leaves in the morning. Buried in a snowdrift, where no one can hear you scream.
Edited to Add:
Outdoorsman got me a gift certificate for a massage, and set a bubble bath for me. My friend took my kids to the park for the afternoon. Sometimes the sun comes back so quickly, you blink back happy tears, blinded by everyone's love.
So slowly that when it dawns on you it feels quick, like someone flicked out the lights. All you know is, now you're groping in the dark.
This madness. This sadness.
You know what it is, really. It's not really like Before. Like That Time Long Ago. You're heavily pregnant. You know it's hormones. You know it's the frustration of not being able to do what you need to do because your hips ache so bad, your body is rebelling, and it's so hot. You know the kids drain you, too.
But that knowledge doesn't help you when the darkness settles in. When the light switches off simply when your husband forgets to say goodbye when he leaves in the morning. Buried in a snowdrift, where no one can hear you scream.
Edited to Add:
Outdoorsman got me a gift certificate for a massage, and set a bubble bath for me. My friend took my kids to the park for the afternoon. Sometimes the sun comes back so quickly, you blink back happy tears, blinded by everyone's love.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
To You
To My Darling Princess,
on the day that you turned five,
The last thing that you said to me today before you went to sleep, as we took off the shabbas clothing that you wore in honor of your birthday, took my breath away. You said, "Ima, tomorrow I will be five."
"Today you are five, sweetie," I said, puzzled.
"No, today I AM five. With shabbas clothing and a party. Tomorrow I will wear plain clothing and just be five. Like a regular day, only I will be five."
You took my breath away, with your mature observation, your deep connection to the way things are, your need to understand and clarify the world around you so that it makes sense in your mind.
But you always take my breath away, my beautiful tempest, my too-smart little girl. Life is not so easy on you, because you wear your emotions on your sleeve. The world disappoints you deeply, as do I. As do I.
But life is also a thing of wonder and beauty for you, because you feel so deeply. Because you are quick to tears, you are also quick to laughter. Because you cry rom the depths of your soul, you also fly to the moon with delight. You feel, touch, drink life. You are a ray of sunlight. You are my princess.
On this fifth birthday, I give you a blessing;
May you find your path in life, and feel it with your heart and mind. And may it make you happy.
I love you.
Ima
on the day that you turned five,
The last thing that you said to me today before you went to sleep, as we took off the shabbas clothing that you wore in honor of your birthday, took my breath away. You said, "Ima, tomorrow I will be five."
"Today you are five, sweetie," I said, puzzled.
"No, today I AM five. With shabbas clothing and a party. Tomorrow I will wear plain clothing and just be five. Like a regular day, only I will be five."
You took my breath away, with your mature observation, your deep connection to the way things are, your need to understand and clarify the world around you so that it makes sense in your mind.
But you always take my breath away, my beautiful tempest, my too-smart little girl. Life is not so easy on you, because you wear your emotions on your sleeve. The world disappoints you deeply, as do I. As do I.
But life is also a thing of wonder and beauty for you, because you feel so deeply. Because you are quick to tears, you are also quick to laughter. Because you cry rom the depths of your soul, you also fly to the moon with delight. You feel, touch, drink life. You are a ray of sunlight. You are my princess.
On this fifth birthday, I give you a blessing;
May you find your path in life, and feel it with your heart and mind. And may it make you happy.
I love you.
Ima
Friday, May 21, 2010
Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, Tea, Toast.
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...
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...
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.
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