Category Archive

I have a lot of stuff swirling around in my head, but can’t act on most of it. To wit: it is too early to shop/cook for AM’s birthday dinner (next Sunday). It is too early to pack for Pesach. Or to even wrap my head around how tricky that will be, seeing as how it will be five days at my in-laws’ in New York (will we have even cracked 65 degrees?) and then 12 days in Israel, where I am sure it is already scorching. I will spare you my bathing suit crisis because it would make you all hate me.

But anyway, the thing that is stressing me out the most is not how the kids will acclimate to a totally foreign climate, a seven-hour time difference, new foods, and being hauled all over the country to see people and sights. Rather, it is how we will survive the plane ride. When chichimama returned from London, I did not ask her about the charms of London or how the kids did with traveling in general. No. I rather breathlessly emailed to ask about the plane flights–a mere 15 hours worth of her entire vacation.

Usually when I have things tumbling around in my brain it manifests as insomnia. I toss and turn; I can’t get comfortable. Hours pass. Sometimes I just can’t bring myself to go to bed, although I am physically exhausted, because I don’t want to just lie there waiting for sleep to arrive.

But I am so crazed about one aspect of the trip that it’s invaded my dreams. I had a vivid one a few weeks ago. The four of us were in the airport, taking one of those peoplemover cart thingies to the gate. Taxman took the kids on to the plane, leaving me with AM’s carseat and, seemingly, dozens of small bags, spilling over with toys and books. I somehow managed to gather everything and haul it on to the plane, which looked oddly like a conference room. I dropped everything at Taxman’s feet and started ticking off what we had…then realized that in our obsessive race to get everything done for the kids, we had forgotten to pack our clothes. The true crux of the dream, however, was when I turned to him and said, ”Oh, oh, oh!!!!! I don’t have snacks!”

Yes, we are an army that travels on its stomach. AM expects a snack in the car from the second he’s strapped in. I have an array of relatively healthy snacks that travel well: Cheerios, raisins, dried cranberries, pretzels, crackers, string cheese, steamed baby carrots, grapes (although I have been trying not to buy the imported ones), apple slices, bananas, popcorn, animal crackers, and even slices of bread. That would be plenty for a 12-hour plane flight.

Let us edit that list for Pesach, however: Cheerios, raisins, dried cranberries, pretzels, crackers, string cheese, steamed baby carrots, grapes, apple slices, bananas, popcorn, animal crackers, and even slices of bread. Not so good. Perhaps New Yorkers have read of the Tam Tam travesty?  No?  It was covered in the Times! Tam Tams are matzah crackers with additions of salt and (I’m guessing) palm oil. The makers of Tam Tams were waiting on a new piece of baking equipment that did not arrive in a timely way…so now we’re all screwed, essentially. We’re also taking my Pesach brownies and small bags of Pesach potato chips. And macaroons, which probably only I will eat. But really, this will gnaw at me until we are safely on the other side of the ocean.

Because I can assure you that, just as in my dream, shelves full of peanut M&Ms in the airport newsstand will not be able to save us.

Purim is coming. (My hamantaschen lament here, in case you missed it last year.)

But tomorrow, the day before, is known as ta’anit Esther, the fast of Esther. No big explanation as to its origins; it’s right in the megillah. When Mordechai tells Esther that she must approach the king, unbidden (a potential capital offense), in order to save the Jewish people from destruction, she undertakes a fast to prepare herself. Her fast was three days, though. Surely, she was made of tougher stuff, so we fast for one day.

Anyway, I am skipping the fast. My status as “pregnant or nursing or mother of baby under 2″* is quickly running out. No plans to change it soon. For the past four years I’ve only fasted on Yom Kippur and Tisha B’av, the “major” fasts, 25 hours long and with additional restrictions.

I will still be nursing after AM turns 2, assuming he wants to continue–Miss M, of course, will have to be driven away with a sharp stick on the eve of her 4th birthday–but in the Eyes of the Law things will have changed. It’s true, they have changed. He is adorable and funny. We have the funniest half-sign conversations. And obedient! (Sometimes.) I can’t get over it. When I say, “Ok, it’s time to clean up your chalk/legos/books so we can go home/watch Signing Time/take a bath,” he usually just trots over and does it. Shocks me every time because I am so used to the “Huh? Me? I didn’t hear what you said. / I am completely ignoring you, bitch. / Ha! You say you don’t negotiate with terrorists yet you negotiate with ME!” of Miss M.

But I digress. Perhaps the return to a cycle of six fast days will signal a return of other things. Synagogue attendance. Spiritual feeling. Energy to attend to things happening outside the walls of my house. Who knows, perhaps I will even find work. (Although, as BrooklynGirl notes, that comes with its own set of challenges.)

When I first was excused from the minor fasts I felt like I was somehow cheating. As a religiously rebellious-yet-repressed 15 year old, fasting was something I COULD do. Couldn’t keep Shabbat, but wow could I not eat all day! Easy peasy. I even took on fasts I didn’t have to. (The fast of the first-born, the day before Passover, is only for first-born sons and has an easy out for anyone who attends synagogue that morning.)

But four-and-a-half years into the pregnant/nursing/mothering thing, I will tell you this: I need all the help I can get.

* I am not a rabbi, nor do I play one on TV. My Local Orthodox Rabbi (who is a total gadol ha’dor, if you ask me) is pretty lenient about things concerning pregnant/nursing women.

Miss M, finally ceasing from her relentless performance of Oh, Chanukah: “Antiochus!”
Me: “Did you learn about him in school?”
Miss M: “He dreamed about the big cows and the little cows.”
Me: “What?”
Miss M: “He had a dream about the big cows and the little cows.”
Me: “No, sweetie, you’re thinking of Pharaoh.”*
Miss M: “Oh. Pharaoh.”

* Genesis 41 and Pharaoh’s odd dreams are part of the lengthy lead up to the Passover story. By interpreting Pharaoh’s dream, Joseph establishes himself as a star in the Egyptian community. It is only several generations later, when a Pharaoh arises who does not remember Joseph (Exodus 1:1), that the trouble begins.

I digress–the point is I was impressed that Miss M knew this. I thought she had remembered this since Pesach, which would have been impossible ridiculous until I realized that this week’s parsha (weekly Torah portion) is Mikketz (Genesis 41:1-44:17), so she had talked about it in school. Recently.

On AM’s potential speech therapy: Visit from the case worker was a big to-do about nothing. It was basically signing his life away. Ok, not really, just agreeing that All the Important Professionals can share information about him. The case worker looked like she was about 18,* but she’s been calling every couple of days with updates as events warrant, so I can’t complain. Although she seemed pretty flustered when I told him that we don’t call him “J” (his legal name, but the one that we use for things like health insurance, medical records, etc.) but rather a-cute-Hebrew-nickname-for-AM. I had to repeat myself twice. But she might have been making sure that we did not need to redo all the paperwork registering him under “J TiredFamily.” Why is the idea of a nickname so hard to understand? No idea. To be honest, though, I thought that the case worker was going to have some minimal evaluation of him, in which case it would have been important to know that he does not respond to the name “J”–this is why I brought it up in the first place.

On nightweaning: Still a dumbass. But the beginning of the end is December 21st. I mean it.

On hats: No progress. I went hat shopping in upscale-New-Jersey-hotbed-of-religious-Jews and could not bring myself to spend $130 on a hat. And that was cheap. I tried on a brown felt (felt! not, like, mink or something) for $351. I kid you not. Maybe Brooklyn is cheaper, but going there requires a great deal of planning. Maybe berets are truly the way to go, so we can continue to, you know, eat.

On division of labor: As I was driving, singing along to Laurie Berkner, a voice piped up from the back, “Ema, stop singing! That’s Laurie’s job!” Perhaps LB would like to trade…just for a little while.

On excellent big brother potential: When our nephew (who is almost four and a half) met his little sister, he kept remarking about how little she is. But then he said he’d love her even when she gets big. Seriously, is that not the cutest?

* She also didn’t seem to know all that much about babies. When I said that I was concerned about AM’s drooling, given his age, I also said, “But he doesn’t have all his teeth yet, so who knows.” And she looked kind of confused.

I want to start over.

I do not have the time, money, patience, haircut, or correctly shaped face/head to start over.

That is all.

* Is it too late to be that person who wears berets to all occasions? I am 75% that person anyway.

Monday

The La Leche League meeting I hosted was really fun. Sometimes there are so many moms and babies in my not-so-big living room, or some really serious issues–newborn not latching, 3-week-old not gaining weight, etc.–but this one was comparatively loose and carefree. The youngest attendee was six weeks and already nursing like an old hand, so we wound up talking about strategies for nursing in public and comparing nursing bras and tanks (yes, by lifting our shirts). It was very Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, but for grownups. And way cooler.

Tuesday

My attempt to get a “younger siblings of 3 yr old classmates playgroup” off the ground was, yet again, partially stymied by people who I think don’t like me very much because they can’t be bothered to remember dates or write them down or act the slightest bit interested after the initial contact. But honestly? The three kids who were here (AM, a neighbor, and one other) had a good time and the adults were actually able to have a conversation because there were plenty of toys to go around.

Wednesday

Miss M’s favorite school day of the week was subverted by pre-Thanksgiving festivities. Turkey for lunch (boo!), but also sweet potatoes (yay!). Topped off with the arrival of Taxman at 5:15 pm–just an hour after dark! So we kicked up our heels and went out for mediocre pizza. Well, we had just had pizza days before so I had a greek salad. But it was the principle of the thing.

Thursday

Do I sound like I am about 80 years old if I say that one of the highlights of Thanksgiving was parking my behind in a chair at the kitchen table, talking with whomever happened to be in the kitchen at the time, and not getting up? For an entire hour, just sitting? (The kids were, naturally, not present.)

Friday

I did my shopping for Shabbat at 11:00, returning home at 12:00. Shabbat started at 4:14. I made mushroom barley soup, honey orange chicken, baked chicken for the fusspot Miss M, roasted potatoes, and grilled zucchini & eggplant for dinner. (Making up for subpar Thanksgiving eats? Why yes, I was.) And then baked ziti for lunch. I got it all done, plus left the kitchen in decent shape.

I never, ever want to do that again. The time pressure, it makes me unpleasant. Ask anyone.

Saturday

Miss M woke with a raging case of pink eye.* Treated with multiple courses of breastmilk in the eyes. (PSA: breastmilk is antibacterial, gentle, free, and does not require a prescription. Handy for holiday weekends. Am I already worried about a time when it will not be in my house? Yes, since I had trouble expressing an ounce to use. Nursing two older kids doesn’t demand on the body quite like an infant.) Praying she can go to school Monday.  Taxman and I scraped by with a minimum of childcare duties in favor of reading Harry Potter (6 for me, 7 for him).

Sunday

Skipped a bris in favor of a funeral. My grandmother’s. (The funeral, not the bris.) It was sufficiently non-traditional that Taxman, a kohain (descendant of Temple priests–not allowed to be in the presence of a dead body or human remains), could attend. So that was weird, for me but especially for him. My mom and my aunt gave amazing eulogies, considering that my grandma was a difficult spirit. In many ways. But holy moly could she cook.

All week long

Insomnia, why do you torture me so?

Just 26 days until the next four-day weekend…

* It should go without saying that she smeared it from one eye to the other, despite our almost literally tailing her with a squirt bottle of hand sanitizer all day Saturday. It should also go without saying that AM, also known as “the boy in my bed (sharing my pillow),” has it now as well.

When I first became religious, I used to come out of a 3-day holiday (which doesn’t really exist–it’s a two-day holiday with Shabbat on one end or another) with the urge to just flip light switches. 

In a past life, I could have spent last evening on the couch, reading The New Yorker. In my future life, I will probably be like my mother-in-law and her sisters; they stay up until 2 in the morning after the holiday ends, putting their houses back together, sweeping up grandchildren’s cereal crumbs and removing endless bags of trash, all in the name of waking up to a clean kitchen and a chance to do the crossword puzzle.

For now we are caught in the middle. There is no earthly way we could finish all the tasks before us, but neither were we free to ignore them. Of course the house will never really be put together–because the kids still live here–but we really must do dishes and laundry, at a minimum.

But I digress.

I ventured out because I hadn’t bought perishable foodstuffs, namely fruit, since Monday. When you have two children who are the human equivalent of fruit bats, five days without a fresh supply is an incredibly long time. Miss M could possibly go for another day solely on dried fruit and applesauce, but I was not going to chance it.

Time had gotten funky over the holiday, elongating afternoons, shortening mornings, extending nights. Both kids went to sleep just before havdallah, so I drifted out to the store carrying only wallet, cellphone, and keys. It was a balmy night, but I was nevertheless shocked by how many kids I saw, on the sidewalks with their parents, shopping for groceries. I know in other parts of the world it’s regular to keep kids up late, but really everyone I know has their small children in bed by 9 at the latest. And it had been dark–seemingly–for hours.

It was only when I got back to my car that I realized how lost I was in post-chag oblivion. It was only 8:09.* Thank goodness, though. Plenty of time to do what we had to do and watch the finale of Top Chef.

* I think I was messed up by the weather. If it’s that warm and that dark, it should be 10:00.

To avoid this.  

It takes a lot of carbs and water to replace what I’ll be drained of tomorrow. I actually felt fine after my fast on Tisha B’Av, but we were traveling to Maine that long afternoon; I had a lot of distraction and so did the kids. 

Good news: Miss M’s down to one two-minute nursing.

Bad news: AM just really made the connection between signing “milk” and getting me to nurse him. He uses it often.

On the other hand: Up until now he’s been plopping himself in my lap and trying to unhook my bra, so really no difference.

Remarkably: This was the child I was terrified would wean himself nine months ago because he was so distractable. He didn’t. Which is good.

Yom Kippur, like Rosh Hashana, has been temporarily (I hope) swallowed up by the kids and their (relatively) incessant waking demands. Except tomorrow without the distraction of Laurie Berkner, magic markers, or leisurely family meals.*

If anyone sees my spiritual life lying on the sidewalk somewhere, please feel free to give it a friendly shove in my direction. Thank you.

* I haven’t seriously considered getting a babysitter so I can go to synagogue because the kids are not easily adaptable. AM is finally at the point where I can leave him with my mother-in-law, a regular (minimum 2-3 times a month) visitor, without tears upon departure. But a stranger? No way.

This is the post where I am supposed to have some gravitas, where I have deep thoughts about the upcoming Very Important Jewish holidays.

But, dude. Every time I darken the door of a synagogue, I am immediately thrust into my regular role of Giver of Snack. Except I am wearing pantyhose and shoes that hurt. And have to keep the kids quiet and contained. So the profundity…well. It’s lacking.

I know it’s a few days early to sign off, but I’ve got a lot of cooking to do. I have three pounds of string beans that need to be trimmed. That’s a lot of beans. Eight pounds of chicken. Five pounds of salmon. You get the idea.

I leave you, temporarily, with this thought.

You know you’ve been watching too much Iron Chef America and Top Chef when the following appears on your Rosh Hashana dinner menu:

Gazpacho shooters with guacamole and blue corn chips

To which Taxman said, “Shooters? Are you kidding?”

Nope.

Because part of the Rosh Hashana dinner is the ”course” called “significant omens.” First you dip an apple in honey and offer blessings for a sweet new year. Then there are other foods that have a role  in the ceremony, such as pomegranates, carrots, and fish heads. (We skip the fish heads!)

Anyway, by the time everyone has their fruit medley, that’s half an appetizer right there. Hence the small appetizer to follow.

I thought it was creative!

Plus, I make kick-ass guacamole.*

K’tiva v’chatima tovah, y’all.

* Taxman will not eat avocados, so he has not experienced this seriously tasty delight.

• It was chilly enough for long sleeves. Weird. But–don’t get me wrong–beautiful weather!
• The naps were thrown off enough on Saturday that both kids were up for havdallah (8:45 or so?). Also weird.
• As my MIL would say, “It’s almost winter!” (She says this as soon as Shabbat starts getting a little earlier, so about the end of July or so.)
• I wore an outfit two years in the making. As in, I bought the top and the skirt two years ago, then immediately found out I was pregnant with AM, so I couldn’t wear the skirt that fall because of the paunch or the top last summer because of the p0rn star b00bs. When we were out in bright sunlight I looked at the skirt and realized it clashed with the top. Sigh. Indoors it looked ok.
• We voluntarily stayed up until midnight on Friday, hosting friends who are awaiting their first baby any day now. They patiently waited through all the rigmarole of getting our kids to bed and we actually had real!adult!conversation! Much of it related to birth and whatnot, but I got to use three-syllable words and everything.
• The reason we messed with the naps was to go out for lunch, to friends in our building.
• There were five kids under seven at the lunch.
• It was the most kid-unfriendly food I think I have ever seen at a Shabbat table. A touch gourmet, perhaps, but (to go all Top Chef on you) poorly executed. Tough leek ends in the cold cucumber-leek soup (which was an odd combo). Green olives and flavorless dressing in the rice salad. Underdone eggplant in the chicken dish.
• I didn’t like it much either, but I, unlike a preschooler and a toddler, can roll with the punches.
• Taxman went back to our apartment to bring something for our kids to eat besides challah.
• I make half a box of pasta and steam baby carrots and/or zucchini every Friday afternoon to ensure that my fusspot (Miss M) and any other visiting small fry will eat something at lunch.
• People usually exclaim over this like I’ve reinvented the wheel.*
• But really, if you have a toddler, how can you not if you’re going to go an entire day without being able to turn on the stove/oven/microwave/toaster and/or bring in pizza?
• Also at lunch, I got asked if AM has been evaluated for speech therapy. Because “he so clearly has something to say, but he can’t get the words out.” (She wasn’t being obnoxious–she is just a fan of early intervention, as she explained later.)
• I literally felt myself blinking in disbelief as I said, “No, he’s 16 months. He understands everything, and he says Abba and Ema and has over 20 signs.”
• But then I found myself worrying later because the 15-month-old at lunch, who is being raised bilingually, already makes animal sounds.
• I was so worried about Miss M’s speech but not at all about AM’s, which seems to be on a similar trajectory. Perhaps I should be worried just a touch?
• What is wrong with people sometimes?
• In that vein, I made an enormous faux pas with a pregnant friend at the park. I assumed, based on her toddler parenting style, that she’d be breastfeeding. But she alluded to having had breast reduction surgery 15 years ago and being too worried to do it. A little salt and pepper for my foot would have been nice. Makes it go down easier.

* I know that 3daughters wouldn’t, because I’ve spent Shabbat at her house and seen nine kids make a meal out of a pound of pasta and a can of tomato sauce. I’m sure she’d agree that while it’s a nice, sensible thing to do, it falls short of magical.

Yesterday morning, I managed to get myself and both kids from pajamas to dressed, shod, and out the door in 20 minutes.* I remembered to bring the diaper bag, which was only half-packed when the 20 minutes began, and booster seat, too.

Aren’t you impressed?! I even washed my face and brushed my teeth!

* For those of you who have witnessed the entire Tired family attempting to decamp from the car, I think you’ll agree that there was probably some sort of divine intervention of which I was not aware.

We were going to the brit milah of a baby born on Tisha b’Av; according to tradition (although actual sources are hard to come by), the Messiah will be born on the 9th of Av. As the mohel joked to the parents, “We’re expecting great things from your son. Forget Harvard, forget Yale–Moshiach!” 

As usual, I have had a hard time getting down all I wanted to say about this without feeling like I am doing too much explaining. I can clarify based on your questions.

Today is the first day of the Hebrew month of Av.

The month begins in sorrow. The first nine days of the month are a time of national mourning for the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash and the city of Jerusalem–the first by the Babylonians, the second by the Romans–on the 9th of Av (Tisha b’Av). Tisha b’Av is a fast day, a full night and day, the only one with the same ”soul afflictions” of Yom Kippur: food, drink, washing/anointing oneself, marital relations, and wearing leather shoes.

We are told to “diminish our joy” as Av enters. Haircuts are not permitted. There are restrictions on laundry, and purchases of new clothes must be put off. Weddings cannot be held. Concerts, movies, and parties are nixed. Bathing for pleasure–swimming* or jacuzzis or long, luxurious baths–are not allowed either. Meat and wine, associated with both festive occasions and temple sacrifices, are reserved solely for Shabbat meals.

The “Nine Days” are considered an inauspicious time. Business deals between religious people wait for the following week; people wouldn’t close on a house, buy a car, or make another significant purchase. Travel abroad, except to Israel, is deferred. 

As superstitious as it all seems, events that have been catastrophic for Jews have often been set into motion on Tisha b’Av: the First Crusade in 1095-96; the expulsion of the Jews from England in 1290; the transports from the Warsaw Ghetto to Treblinka in 1942.

On Tisha b’Av, our behavior is a reflection of mourning. We sit on the floor or on low benches, barefoot or in socks, slippers, or uncushioned sneakers. We read Eichah, the Book of Lamentations, bereft over the loss of the holy city. I always blow it–usually before I even make it into bed (with no pillow) that night–but people are not supposed to greet one another on Tisha b’Av, as part of the mourning pose.

I have to admit, though, that in the midst of all the sadness, I feel strangely hopeful. (Despite entreaties for a rebuilt Jerusalem, which are part of everyday prayers, such a thing would be so radically different from the religion I experience now.) Although the physical structure that really was the glue for the Jewish people was destroyed (twice!), somehow the “remnant” survived. Physically and spiritually. And adapted to changing times, mores, and locations. Judaism, for all its head-banging argumentativeness, is thoughtful. Instead of dismissing, say, reproductive technology as “not for us,” some rabbis have engaged themselves into the smallest process details, adjusting and stretching ideas and thoughts into new shapes, but always with an eye on Halacha. We are, of course, adjured to “live by” the laws, with all the messiness, the arguments, the family, and the LIFE that the living entails.

After Tisha b’Av, the rest of the month is for consolation as we set our course for the spiritual test of the Days of Awe, Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, just two months from today.

* Most Jewish summer camps will continue swimming instruction (except on Tisha b’Av itself); knowing how to swim is actually mentioned in the Talmud as a critical life skill that parents are expected to teach their children.

Shavuot is, in my opinion, the least stressful of the major religious holidays.

On Pesach, there is the cleaning the chametz stress. This was stressful when it was just the two of us and we never, ever, ever had food in the bedrooms. Now there are four of us and I’ve found Cheerios in every room and most of the closets. So we pretend we don’t own our apartment for a week and move in with Taxman’s parents instead.*

On Sukkot, there is the stress of moving meals with small people outside, plus the eating in rainy/cold weather factor.

On Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, there’s the Praying For Your Very Soul For The Next Year stress. (With the added bonus for me on Yom Kippur of trying to nurse people and not pass out from dehydration by 3 pm.)

Shavuot doesn’t have the bells and whistles of all that. You don’t have to get high on oven cleaner prepare weeks in advance. You don’t have to spend your kids’ inheritance school tuition to buy a lemon citron.**

But in its quiet way it is the pinnacle of the year, a commemoration of the revelation of the Torah at Mount Sinai. There is a widely observed tradition to stay up all night learning Torah, as if waiting for our own personal revelations. I am really not an all-nighter kind of girl–never did it, even in college, because I just become a total zombie at around 3 in the morning–I’ve only stayed up and gone to the accompanying dawn prayer service (usually at around 4:45) one time.

In the life of a religious Jew, the Torah is that from which everything flows. Sometimes it’s subtle, sometimes not. It informs aspects of food, clothing, shelter, morals, ethics, calendar, prayer, timekeeping, living, and art. So celebrating its inception, as it were, isn’t a minor thing.

Where was I? Oh, right. Cheesecake.

Traditionally, Shabbat and holiday meals are meat-based. I suppose this goes all the way back to the times of the Beit Hamikdash, when there were cow/sheep/bird offerings on the altar on those days, some of which were then eaten. (Probably a lot of people Taxman grew up with would be horrified to know that his wife has made him eat tofu fried rice for Shabbat lunch.) There is the understanding that things like meat and fish add festivity to the meal, so should be included on joyful occasions.

So why is Shavuot the exception? (For some people it isn’t–they have a small dairy meal, reset the table, and an hour later have a meat meal. Or have dairy meals at night and meat meals at lunch.)

There are a few explanations. First, that when the Torah arrived hot off the press from Mount Sinai, including the laws surrounding food and ritual slaughter, everyone realized their pots were treif (not kosher). It would take time to kasher their cooking implements (i.e. make them acceptable for use again), so for the celebration people turned to food that did not require cooking, like cheese, instead of using the meat meals that had been prepared in advance. As a bonus, one of three times in the Torah that the injuction of cooking meat and milk together appears, it is in the same verse (Exodus 34:26) that describes bikkurim, bringing the first fruits of the season to the Beit Hamikdash as a tithe–this, as I alluded to here–was done on Shavuot.

Another explanation is that up until the giving of the Torah, people hadn’t been eating dairy products at all because of a strict interpretation of the Noachide laws–namely that taking the milk of an animal was equivalent to taking its limb. (I personally find this explanation a bit of a stretch.)

The most poetic reasoning is from a verse in Song of Songs, where the words of the Torah (according to allegorical explanations of the Song of Songs that compare the relationship of Israel–the people–and G-d to that of a bride and groom) are compared to milk and honey.

If words of Torah = milk and sweetness, surely there can’t be a better way to express that in pastry than cheesecake. (Although cheese blintzes from a little patisserie in Ramat Gan, down the block from my brother-in-law’s in-laws, definitely can give a good cheesecake a run for its money.) Or brownies made with sweet butter. Or lemon bars with a buttery crust.

One might argue that since the Torah is a year-round presence, dairy meals should be as well. But I can picture Taxman’s grandmother’s face blanching before me (she’s almost 95 and has had a lifelong love affair with salami-and-eggs–if a meal doesn’t have meat, it’s not worth eating, so much), so I’ll float that theory another time.

* It’s not quite this easy. Maybe I’ll explain next Pesach.

** I am still beyond sad that the comments to this particular post are no longer with it. It was fun. Click on the link to see a really old pic of the kids. Some day I will figure out exactly how to post photos on WordPress so you can see them now.

In my continuing quest to aid in the understanding of Judaism through the use of pastry, I bring you Shavuot. The “Feast of Weeks,” seven weeks after Passover. Important spiritually because it is the celebration associated with receiving the Torah (therefore also called The Feast of Tabernacles, although not by any Jew I know). Important agriculturally (more so in the past) because it is the holiday where the first fruits of the harvest were brought to the Beit Hamikdash.

The food most closely associated with Shavuot (at least in modern times) is cheesecake. There is a reason for this. 

Unfortunately, I gravely miscalculated all the cooking and assorted errands I had to do. At this hour the cooking is mostly done (somehow I managed to do it with the kids underfoot for part–let’s just say I was not a nice mommy yesterday), but there are three loads of laundry to be folded. And we’re having lunch guests tomorrow, so leaving all the clean clothes piled on the love seat isn’t really a great idea.

So the explanation of cheesecake–and blintzes–will have to wait until Friday.

I’ve reached an age (32) and a point in my time as an Orthodox Jew (13 years, give or take) that I’ve  seen and/or taken part in most religious rituals: weddings, funerals, bar/bat mitzvahs, brissim (ritual circumcisions), and others that are even more obscure.*

But I had never seen an upsherin before yesterday.

An upsherin is a minhag (custom), not a “law” or “decree” established by the Torah or later halachic authorities. From the Yiddish word “to cut off,” it refers to a boy’s first haircut, at age three or into their third year. Why three? The Torah compares human beings to trees in several places, and according to the Torah trees must be untouched (no fruit can be harvested) for their first three growing seasons.

Upsherin is traditionally a boy’s induction into the world of Torah learning–it is customary to present him with a plastic-coated Hebrew alphabet, honey dripped on the letters, so that learning is sweet for him–and into more adult dress. After the haircut he is presented with a kipah (headcovering) and, if he is potty-trained, tzitzit. 

Upsherin is common among certain sects of Ultra-Orthodoxy, particularly those with a Chassidish bent.** In those communities, toddler boys with hair past their shoulders is an everyday sight. In modern Orthodox circles, I have a feeling it may be on the upswing now that gender boundaries aren’t quite as firm as they were when we were growing up–if parents can deal with a couple of years of their little boy being called a girl, there’s no harm. Several little boys in Miss M’s class have long hair, and I expect by the time the next school year begins (there are a lot of summer birthdays) they will have had the traditional haircuts.

One of her schoolmates had his upsherin yesterday, and his parents thoughtfully invited the whole class. There was a barbeque and general merriment; the celebrants had borrowed the house and grounds of friends who live in a swanky part of the neighborhood (million dollar homes), so there was a swingset, trampoline, and sandbox on-site. I’m still surprised Miss M deigned to leave!

When the haircut began, there were songs of celebration, accompanied by guitar and drums (the family is very musical). E’s parents spoke about him and upsherin representing another step of independence for him, the beginning of a time when he would really begin to become an individual. There was a hard-boiled egg with blessings from the Torah written on its shell for him to eat during the cutting. The traditional honeyed letters were presented but pretty much ignored.

E’s mom gathered most of his long brown curls into a ponytail–an inch or two too short for Locks of Love, it was destined for Zichron Menachem, probably to make payos (the long ”side curls” associated with Orthodox dress) for Israeli children with cancer–and cut it with tears in her eyes. “Just in case you thought it was easier than a bris,” she informed the crowd, “it’s not.” Family members stepped forward to take small snips, adding change to a tzedakah (charity) box that E was holding. “Not too much,” his mom warned. “Someone’s coming later to give him a real haircut.”

Then there was cake and more merriment. More sandbox time for Miss M. More socializing for us. A nice afternoon.

I can’t stop thinking about E’s mom, though. Although it was a joyous occasion, it must have been so hard to cut that ponytail. Miss M’s hair looked exceptionally good at the party–she had had a bath right before, so it fell around her in bouncy red-gold ringlets a la Shirley Temple–and I know I would have been distraught at the thought of losing it.*** She’s getting independent enough without the visual reminder.

* Pidyon ha-ben, kapparot, birkat kohanim, burning chametz, etc. The list is endless very, very long. Very.

** Taxman is of German-Jewish descent, which is about as non-Chassidish in mindset as you can get and still be from Europe. So he had never seen one either.

*** Hell, I can’t even bring myself to take her for a trim. What if someone ruins those amazing curls? I’m not vain about my own hair anymore because I cover it, so hers has completely taken over in my headspace. It’s infinitely more fabulous than mine ever was, though.

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.