You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April 2007.
Miss M, to Taxman: “Ema’s still tired again.”
Yeah.
Miss M is having a tears-running-down-face tantrum because she wants a lollipop.
Never mind that it’s breakfast time and under no circumstances would we allow that.*
Never mind that we have no lollipops.
Never mind that she’s eaten exactly one lollipop in her entire life.
“Buy some more lollipops!” comes the piteous whine. (I don’t think I’ve ever bought them.)
Sometimes I wonder what planet she flew in from.
* AM is feeding himself peas for breakfast. It’s weird, but green and healthy. Also, I am too lazy to cut up melon right now.
Jennie’s comment on a recent post was the final push I needed to get working on a post about Orthodox Judaism a la One Tired Ema.
I’m Orthodox (actually a pretty modern Orthodox mind trapped inside an Orthodox body) now, but I wasn’t raised that way. How I got there is a whole complicated kettle of fish, involving post-Bat Mitzvah classes, a search for authenticity, charismatic rabbis, disbelieving parents, cutting out of wills*, guilt, Passover, deception, grandparents, and college.
But I have always been Jewish and have never wanted to be anything else.** Twenty-nine years later, my stepmother still tells the story of meeting me for the first time during the holiday season of 1978. The first thing out of my three-and-a-half year old mouth was “Are you Jewish or Christian?” (So I knew whether to say Merry Christmas or Happy Chanukah.) So I was always aware and (mostly) comfortable with what and who I was versus the rest of America at large.
In my narrow teenage mind, there were two big pieces*** to becoming Orthodox. The first was eating only kosher food. This was something I came to slowly. I ate my last lobster when I was 15. (Still sad about it, if you must know.) My last pepperoni pizza when I was about the same age. I slowly gave up eating non-kosher meat everywhere but at my parents’ houses. Ordering in restaurants became really easy, because I restricted myself to pretty much plain pasta and vegetables. By my sophomore year in college I was patronizing only kosher restaurants (unless I was having only a drink).
The other huge part of an observant lifestyle was adhering to the restrictions of Shabbat and holidays. People are mystified by this, I think, because the restrictions are usually called “work.” You can’t work on Shabbat. Hey, G-d didn’t, which is the origin of the whole thing. So fine, you don’t go to the office–what’s wrong with shopping for new shoes or seeing a movie or flying to Aruba for a little sun and scuba diving?
In truth, there are 39 categories of restricted behavior. (Confession: When trying to explain to Chichimama why I couldn’t meet up with them on one of the “holiday” days of Passover–as opposed to the intermediate days when the restrictions don’t apply–I put it in the simplest New York terms. With one exception, if alternate side of the street parking is suspended for Jewish religious observance, I don’t drive that day. Easier than getting into a long explanation! This is not at all a comment on Chichimama, but rather a testament to my own laziness.)
The 39 categories of restrictions are based on the kinds of labor done to build the Temple (in Hebrew it is called the Beit Hamikdash), as described in the book of Exodus. They range from sowing seeds (the wheat would be used for Temple sacrifices) to sewing vestments (for the priests serving in the Temple) and include an entire universe in between.
I had spent a few weekends in a shomer Shabbat (lit. guarding the laws of Shabbat) environment, first with my grandparents and later at summer programs (with the help of a friend). And while the days were peaceful, filled with good meals, pleasant walks, synagogue, board games, and afternoon naps, the restrictions seemed dizzying. Beyond the obvious–and easily avoidable–things like riding in a car or watching television, there were things like no cooking, no bathing, no tearing toilet paper, no writing, no picking clovers on a lazy summer afternoon.
So although I had firmly decided to join the fray of the Shabbat observant once I got to college, I was petrified of making mistakes. Of hating it. Of feeling trapped and restricted by the “no”s. Was I really ready to eschew Friday night movies in favor of Shabbat dinners? Trade a Saturday at a bookstore for synagogue services and an unending afternoon without e-mail, radio, talking on the telephone, or doing homework? How could I go an entire day and night without turning on the lights in my dorm room? What if my roommate and I**** couldn’t manage to work around it?
My answer–my salvation, really–came in the form of Chem Lab.
When I got to college, I wanted to major in biology. About half the freshman class did, although I didn’t want to go to med school, like most of them. So chemistry was step one in the weeding out process. I actually had a connection to a biology professor at my school (her son had been a camper of mine for the summer), and she toed the line and said if I wanted to take introductory bio, I could do it as a sophomore, like everyone else, once I had passed Chem 10.
So I tried. Chemistry and I had never been friends. My first B in high school was in chemistry. I plugged along in the regular class, managing to pass the quizzes and do the reading and problem sets, vaguely understanding. But the lab was a whole different story. Four hours every Monday afternoon. A non-English speaking TA (she was Chinese and spoke chemistry). Experiments that had vague results. And the lab writeups were ruining my life. Not an exaggeration. I spent hours in my lab partner’s dorm as the two of us tried to figure out what the hell was flying. Twenty or more hours a week just got sucked into this lab vacuum. I missed the weekly hangouts with munchies on my hall. I had icy exchanges with my roommate. I had very few friends. I cried a lot.
And I lived for Shabbat. An oasis in the week. Twenty-five blissful hours in which I did not have to think about Chem Lab. I could read books for pleasure! I could go to bed at 10 pm! I sat and did nothing! Synagogue was a happy diversion. I lingered over lunch, talking to people. As Shabbat ended and I joined the throng for havdalah, I could always feel the tension begin to creep back into my shoulders. Less than 48 hours until I was Back In The Lab.
Fortunately, the story has a good ending. Second semester I took a wonderful elective class (American Jewish fiction). Decided to change my (as of yet undeclared) major. Was infinitely happier. Got to be friends with my roommate. I realized that while I was still going to Chem Lab on Monday afternoons, I wasn’t writing them up. Oops. Dropped the lab before I failed it.
And I kept up the Shabbat observance. It wasn’t as hard as I had expected. Plus, I had already received so much in return–a lifeline.
Any questions?
* not me, someone else
** Ok, every once in a rare while Quaker because they have principles and value silence. And have some great educational institutions.
*** Ha! If only there were so few. But it’s probably better that I thought that at the time.
**** Heh heh, now she’s pretty observant too.
* It’s not what you think.
I have a post that I am dying to write. I’ve been thinking about it since an email exchange I had with another blogger several weeks ago, and then CCW dubbed me a cool Jewish blogger and I had further inspiration.
But AM has not let me sleep of late. Even though our pediatrician basically said let him nurse whenever to allow me the maximum amount of sleep, it’s still not what you would call sufficient. (And, as a bonus, I think he’s now addicted to Orajel. Is that even possible?)
I would probably have to be in bed for 10+ hours for a yield of 6 (interrupted, of course). It is unrealistic for me to go to bed at 8:30pm, so here I am, zombie-like.
My urge to create is being squashed by the fact that I need to convince myself to stand up long enough to make pasta for the kids.
But it’s in there. I want to let it free. Hopefully before my mom comes next week.
Exhausted because there’s been more time in the sun in the past two days than in the prior two months, I think. A lot of walking, actual exercise (yesterday; today–ouch!), outdoor concert, public transportation, the zoo. Not hot, but warm–and sweaty when you wear a baby.
Exasperated because of a day of friction with my dad. He drove in to see me and the kids today. It’s nice of him to do it. Although he spent years of his life living in New York City, he isn’t all that fond of coming here and hates driving here (this applies to most people I know who live here and then leave); today he got stuck in crazy traffic. Considering how close he and my stepmom live to us (125 miles), we really should see them more often. We see them as much or even less than we see my mom, who lives 2,000 miles away.
I am grateful that my kids have grandparents who think they are adorable and charming and worth visiting. So my complaint is petty, I admit that. But here goes.
The first thing that drives me nuts–and has for almost three years–is that he calls Miss M by her English name. We gave her a legal name but refer to her solely by her Hebrew name. Originally we used her English name with non-native English speakers, bank employees, insurance providers and the like because her Hebrew name has a tricky vowel construction. But after all this time, pretty much everyone in her life calls her what we do. She’s even taken to correcting our doormen (all Latino and generally very sweet) when they try to call her by her English name; why she doesn’t correct her grandfather, I’m not sure–perhaps because she sees the doormen all the time? As a baby, Miss M would not respond to my dad when he called her “English M,” and we told him repeatedly to “try” using her Hebrew name. Even my stepmom, whom we love and is as WASPy as they come, calls her by her Hebrew name now. The whole thing just sets my teeth on edge for no good reason.
Anyway, the kids got over their initial stranger anxiety quickly, and we headed for the zoo. The Bronx Zoo has a ”zoo within a zoo” specifically for kids, with lots of things to touch and see and do. It’s the kind of place where a child (of a certain age, of course) can really take the reins in terms of pacing and observation. But my dad kept hurrying Miss M along. (For what?) He kept miscalculating what would keep her interest or what was beyond her capabilities. Fine, it’s been a long time since he had to deal with an almost-three-year-old, but I kind of know of what I speak. It’s my damn job.
Lunch was a series of near-disasters. I kept trying to keep Miss M focused on her half-sandwich (difficult because she isn’t a fan) and carrots with bribes of sips of juice when he offered her pretzels. “Da-ad!” I yelped. “Can you wait until she’s done with her lunch before getting to the snacks?”
When she declared herself finished, she made a beeline for the gift shop. She refused to heed my voice, naturally, and wandered in. I had my hands full of petite peas and Cheerios (AM got to eat too!). My dad ran to get her, but whereas I would have read her the riot act–and did–he promised her a present later.
Said present was supposed to be a stuffed animal–and one for AM too–before I said no. We have a houseful of crap. At least 15% of the crap is comprised of stuffed animals that haven’t been looked at since Miss M’s birth. So, no. No more stuffed animals. I suggested T-shirts and consented to a Bronx Zoo pen for Miss M, although my dad tried to offer her a stuffed snow leopard when he thought I wasn’t looking. I also had to nix a souvenir penny for her, because of the overwhelming chance that it was going to wind up lodged in AM’s throat. “If you want to come up and spend some quality time with him in the pediatric ER, feel free,” I told him. “But really, let’s just skip it.”
So by the time we left the zoo, I was super cranky. My poor dad must think I have an enormous stick up my ass. “Let me indulge her,” he begged. But really, he has no idea what it takes to get through my day. It takes so much effort for me to maintain a modicum of control in public–and I don’t mean control like keeping Miss M shackled to me to mold her mind, but just to keep everyone safe: hats, sunscreen, drinks of water; tied shoes; one kid buckled into the stroller; not running into the path of other people/strollers/the Zootrain or running away. That scares the crap out of me.
School tomorrow. Adults who can say no. What a relief.
Not channeling Winnie-the-Pooh, just tagged as a Thinking Blogger by the clever, sharply funny, and lovely CCW. I am honored and slightly embarrassed, because mostly there’s a lot of drivel here. Some day I hope to have my own well-rested and uninterrupted thoughts at the rate of at least once or twice a day, instead of once or twice a week fortnight.
The rules are as follows:
1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme
3. Optional: Proudly display the ‘Thinking Blogger Award’ with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn’t fit your blog).
Everything I read on a regular basis offers me something, but here are a few standouts.
Anita at This, That, and the Mother Thing. I’ve been reading Anita’s blog since 2003. (Isn’t that forever in Internet time?) She is an inspiration for anyone attempting to balance work and life, parenting and life, or self-improvement and life. And she has a vegetable garden that makes me jealous every summer. I could blame my presence in the blogosphere on her–I eventually started reading the (sorely missed) mc via Anita, then got from mc to Phantom and Phantom’s blogroll and that was the end of life as I knew it.
Speaking of Phantom Scribbler….She’s probably been nominated a gazillion times, but she deserves it. Interspersed among all the self-deprecating remarks and cute kids are wonderful posts about books, politics, and the world at large. And toddler nursing. Plus she runs the best mid-week therapy session on teh Internets.
Moxie’s blog, but in particular her Ask Moxie column. Take the best of parenting columns, advice columns, and recipe columns, put them in a blender with coconut milk and you’ve got Moxie. She answers every question with research, thought, and grace, then opens up the comments for other parents to help each other. An invaluable resource for me, and when trying to help others I’ve got to really think and reformulate my own parenting processes. It’s kind of like having a life editor right there in the computer.
Chichimama at A Day in the Life. She’s witty, her kids are cute, and she gives me hope that one day (soon!) I’ll be able to sleep at night and cook dinner and come near to sanity again. Some of her posts literally changed how I approach Life-at-the-Moment and now things are better.
jo(e) at Writing as jo(e). Confession: I don’t read jo(e) every day. Because her blog is like a rich dessert. It makes me think, wonder, and laugh. I only treat myself when the kids are sleeping, the sink is empty, and I don’t have other distractions. Her writing is beautiful and just has this amazing calming effect on me. (Her kids are almost grown, so she’s been where I am now, and come through to the other side with her Self intact and still improving. Whenever she leaves a comment for me I feel like the Queen stopped in to say hello.) Just wow. The pictures she posts are icing on the cake.
The nasty late nights and evil Sundays have departed.
And Taxman, being his usual sweet self, skipped the end-of-season party on Tuesday to come home and parent the screamers while I went to my book club.
Last night he was home at 7. He took over tub duty as I made a from-scratch dinner. (This may as well be a New World Order. Alas, it’s only temporary. On all fronts.) He did dishes and helped clean for the cleaning lady.
As I was falling asleep on the couch at 9:45, he exhorted me to go to bed. “But I want dessert,” I whined. “And there’s nothing sweet in the house.” *
“So I’ll go to Local Crappy Grocery.”
“Oh, don’t bother.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Dunkin’ Donuts is closer.”
“Ok, so I’ll go there.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“My shoes are already on. What do you want?”
“Are you trying to get into my [purple-and-blue-striped pajama, for the folks at home] pants?” (eyeing him suspiciously)
“If I were, do you really think I’d be going out at 10 o’clock?” he said, laughing. ”Putting clothes on?”
“No, I guess not,” I agreed.
“I’m just so happy to be home at a reasonable hour. I want to do this for you.”
And so he did. I watched House and folded laundry.
And we have plans for Sunday–as a family. Hooray!
* We’re having Shabbat lunch guests, so now there are freshly baked brownies and oatmeal raisin cookies.
While I was mulling over this post, AM chewed about half of a cardboard puzzle piece. (The result was gross.) So grains of salt everywhere.
Today at pre-school pickup, as I was struggling to get Miss M into her sweatshirt and jacket while wearing AM on my front, the head teacher approached me.
After pleasantries, she asked, “Does Miss M eat salad?”
“What?” I replied.
“She doesn’t eat vegetables here. Cucumbers, tomatoes, things like that.”
“Well, she doesn’t like lettuce and tomatoes, so she doesn’t eat salad, per se. She does like cucumbers.”
“She won’t eat them here.”
“Miss M does eat vegetables, though. She doesn’t have a huge variety in her repetoire, but she’ll eat a lot of the ones she likes.”
(Teacher looks extremely skeptical, so I actually list the vegetables Miss M eats.)
“Well, ok,” she finally says. “I just thought you should know.”
“I have to be honest,” I say, jokingly, “if you offered me a choice between cucumbers and French Fries,* I wouldn’t eat the cucumbers either. She’s only here for three meals a week.”
I thought that would be the end of it, because I was all clever and disarming. But she went on! “I know that she eats fruit.” (Yes, she does, like it’s going out of style. Woe unto us if we have fewer than three different kinds of fruit in the house.)
Finally, I put it to rest by pointing to Miss M, running around like a lunatic, and saying, “She’s not exactly wasting away. And it’s only three meals a week.”
But, to borrow a phrase from the Grey’s Anatomy writers, Seriously?!
There are kids who come to school eating lollipops–at 9:00 in the morning. There are kids whose moms are shoving bites of breakfast into their mouths as they run in the door because they refuse to eat at home. There are kids who will only drink juice and refuse water. There for the grace of Demeter go I, clearly, because Miss M is none of these: partially because we don’t allow it, and partially because she’s fine with my rulings (food has never been a huge battleground, thank goodness, although there are plenty of others).
Not eating cucumbers at school, though. That’s serious business. How many demerits do you think I deserve?
* The lunches at school aren’t anything to write home about, in my opinion. The kitchen facilities are limited, so they get meals from a local restaurant and reheat. They serve cucumbers and tomatoes every day because, I’m guessing, there is very little prep required. They also bake cookies or muffins or a sweetbread at least once a week and eat it at their Shabbat party. So it’s not like their program is the be all and end all of health and balanced nutrition.
Update: Now I feel terrible for saying that the grabbing and walking is annoying. Partially because that’s just where he’s at right now and partially because he is having a sucky day. He’s fallen down and bumped his head at least twice, and I keep fetching the wrong things out of the deep toy box. Could be that a tooth is bothering him, or that he’s got cabin fever from being stuck inside. I’ll probably never know exactly why. But for now there is mucho kvetching.
AM’s reps would like to thank you all for your birthday wishes.
To the shock of just about everyone who’s been keeping up with his physical development, AM’s not walking yet. No pressure, of course, but he has been crawling for over half his life now. He stands and cruises and loves to push around walking toys, doll strollers, even plastic kiddie chairs–this drives Miss M just batty, because she considers the chairs hers.
Without something in front of him, however, he just plants his feet and throws his upper half towards his target. Unnerving. But on the other hand, he makes damn sure that he has something to hang on to wherever he is.
Namely, me. Wherever I am, he finds me and pulls up. When I’m standing in the kitchen doing dishes reading blogs. When I am sitting on the couch folding laundry watching television.
Sometimes when he finds me I’m on the move. So he tags along, burying his face into my skirt and lumbering behind. It’s awfully cute, yet incredibly annoying. Have you ever tried to answer the phone while an unsteady little bit (think of a tiny, very drunk sailor) is lurching to keep up? Oh, and you really don’t want him to fall on his sweet little head. Degree of difficulty is pretty high.
Sometimes it gets even more interesting because his teeth are seeking out flesh. There are four now. They’re sharp. So dodging the teeth aimed at my thigh, trying to keep the boy upright, and getting to my destination?
I should get a citation for this.
Or I could do what my mother-in-law did during our time at her house: every time AM pulled up on her, she dropped what she was doing and picked him up. Hmm….a boy could get used to that.
I feel like I’m boring you all, but I’ve got to press on! Here’s April 13 and April 14 together.
April 13, 2006 was a watershed day in my parenting of Miss M. It was the first day ever (and one of only three total in her life) that I didn’t nurse her. I was having painful contractions every six minutes and couldn’t sit still enough to do it.
At 5:30 am, after another sleepless night, I was leafing through a magazine at my in-laws’ kitchen table, munching on matzah with cream cheese. Every six minutes, I dropped to the floor in a cat pose and mewled in pain for a minute or so. Then I went back to breakfast.
The day seemed interminable. I was so antsy, but my contractions never got closer together than six minutes. I puttered from the bathtub to the birth ball and back, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. In the mid-afternoon I decided to just go to the hospital because I couldn’t stand not knowing how far I was.
When I got checked in, I got examined by Dr. Conservative (so named for his medical approach). He proclaimed me one and a half centimeters dilated. I proceeded to lose my shit. I told Taxman I wanted a C-section “Right.This.Minute!” “I am not doing this again,” I raved. (My labor with Miss M had been similar; I had never progressed past four centimeters and it ended in a C-section after a 3 1/2 day labor.) Taxman managed to talk me out of my tree, citing the fact that we had doulas on call and to at least give them a chance to help.
My doula was with another client, so she sent her backup. With her help, and an epidural, I progressed to 5 cm. Taxman had a second seder consisting of matzah and grape juice.
Dr. Conservative refused to give me Pitocin to help progress things further, citing the risk of my prior C-section. My personal OB, Dr. Dashing, had always told me that he couldn’t give me Cervadil to induce me, but Pitocin in labor was ok. We seemed to be at an impasse with Dr. Conservative, who wouldn’t even page Dr. Dashing at 3 am. Thankfully, he agreed to call him at 5:30. Dr. Dashing came on service at 6. We explained the situation, and he said, “Sure, I’ll give you Pitocin. As much as you want.”
The nurses changed shifts. The doulas changed shifts. I still hadn’t slept. I never had an epidural with Miss M, so I didn’t know they monitor your blood pressure every 15 minutes. If you are a high-maintenance sleeper like me, it’s difficult to ignore your upper arm being tightly squeezed four times an hour. So no sleep. Still.
In the early afternoon on the 14th, I was, to the shock of everyone in the room who had been around the block with me before (husband, doula, OB) fully dilated.
So there was pushing. It sucked. It was lengthy and painful and unsuccessful. I was so exhausted and strung out I could not really speak. I got out one word at a time. I wanted to stand up to let gravity help, but the epidural was not fully gone, so I couldn’t support myself. I wasn’t pushing properly. I didn’t know how. Nothing was happening.
There was apparently a lot of yelling. When Dr. Dashing appeared to check my progress, he said, “Based on all the screaming I thought you were crowning.” Sadly, no.
My contraction pattern got wonky, Dr. Dashing frowned a lot and then told me that I could have another hour to try to straighten things out. He thought this labor was going nowhere fast, but he wanted to leave it to me to make the call. “I call it right now,” I whimpered. “Please make it stop.”
And then I had to wait for an empty operating room. Essentially I had a 90-minute, 30-peak contraction while the waiting took place. Taxman and Dr. Dashing were talking about hockey. (Somehow I managed to forgive them both.) Finally I got to the table. I couldn’t even sit up, so I draped myself over Dr. Dashing while one of the Dr. Lees (there were two) administered my spinal.
Twenty minutes later, there he was. Perfect and almost a clone of baby Miss M, down to the reddish hair fuzz. Oh, except for the big purple bruise on his head where he got caught on my pubic bone. Oops.
But now he’s perfect.
I’m exhausted. How about you?
