This probably isn't legal in America

I love, love this wildly verbal stage my nearly-three-year-old daughter is in.
But it’s sometimes pretty weird. Like the time she asked me, “do you know how much I love you, Ima?” No, how much? “Twenty dollars!”
Uh… okay, then. But let’s not mention it out and about. It sounds like I’m employed in the oldest profession.
[note to the reader: she did not get that from me. Except the “do you know how much I love you part.”]

She did ask me once why I had to go to work and (sob) leave her alone. And I explained we needed money so that we could buy food and clothes.
The next day she asked me if I was going to work to get some money, and when I said yes, she explained, “Ima, we have enough money today. Please don’t go to work.”

So what I’m getting in the verbal torrent is that my daughter is negotiating work and home life. Which isn’t really weird, since that’s what I’m doing now that we have childcare 5 days a week instead of 4.

My daughter’s favorite game is currently “I’m going to the office, I’ll pick you up when you wake up from your nap.” Which is sweet, because I'm an academic, and having "the office" to go to makes me sound like I have a job with lots of power and prestige. She’ll shut the door of whichever room I’m in, take my purse, and disappear. Then she’ll reenter the room and announce, “I’m back!” at which point I’m expected to run into her arms and give her a big hug.
Why is it that a child with such a short attention span can play the same game for, I don’t know, an hour straight?

Sometimes I act like she does when I drop her off from work, and I’ll beg, “don’t leeeeeave me!” and she gets a really concerned look on her face, and, with a tone of voice that mimics mine to a T, she will say, “I don’t want to, baby, but I have to go teach students.”

Of course, this is also the stage at which my daughter considers “why why why why why why why why why, why why why why why why whywhywhywhy” a legitimate conversation. Indeed, I asked her, “Darling, are you trying to drive me crazy?” and she answered “no, Ima, I’m trying to talk to you.”

Thank goodness for the Nobel Book of Answers. If 22 Nobel Prize winners can’t answer the questions my daughter is asking, then I can’t be expected to answer them either. She can answer them herself and get her own Nobel Prize.

Of course, sometimes she is trying to drive me crazy: Ima? Mami? Mima? Ima? Ima!!!!
And I’m like, “what? What? What? What? What? What?”
And she’s “Ima! Mima! Mami!”
So then I go, “light of my eyes, love of my life, my pride and joy, mi vida, mi cielo, mi amor,”
And she laughs and says, I’m not your cielo!”

But if you plan to use humor to derail the mind-boggling repetition, it’s important to get in there before your brain goes numb. Which is always a danger in my house.

What's Wrong with Being Sexy?

I’m sure all you hip and savvy folks recognize the “Spinal Tap” mocumentary quote that is my title. It’s the question posed by one of the members of heavy metal band when his PR person tells him that the album cover, a woman on all fours wearing lots of leather and a leash, is “sexist.”

Well I bring this up because I just took the Facebook Quiz, “What Kind of Mother Are You,” and got…… the “Sexy Mom.”

The description is pretty cool:

“You have a keen intuition when it comes to your kids, and often you know what they're thinking before they even say it. You know how to take control of situations in a cool and calm manner, which only adds to your alluring and sexy character. Your children find you hip and up-to-date, and it's quite easy for them to relate to you.”

What I couldn’t quite understand though is the photo representing the “SEXY MOM” that accompanied the description: a long, lean blonde wearing a bikini top, cowboy boots and hat, and a denim skirt that was apparently mauled by bears because it shows almost all of her long, tan thighs. Also, she’s arched over the back of a sexy little car (or a truck?) I guess they photo shopped the beer can out.

I’m pretty sure that sexy means you have decided that “life is what you make it,” (question #8, “what life lesson would you like your child to take away from you”), and you make of it something beautiful because you are strong and you persevere (question #7). You don’t wait for someone else to make your life for you.

Sexist is objectifying, dehumanizing.

At first the only explanation I can think of for the photo was terribly unflattering to the creators of this particular facebook quiz. That they lacked imagination. That the only image of female power they could come up with is expressed in terms of its erotic affect on men. This would mean the designers of the “what kind of mom are you” quiz were sexist. Or adolescent boys who were raised by Barbie Dolls (happy 50th birthday, Barbie).

Although I am bummed--I wanted a Rosie the Riveter picture for "sexy mom"--I soon put my "keenly intuitive" mind to work to figure out how this photo representative of someone who “knows how to take control of situations in a cool and calm manner.” And sure enough, I figured it out.

The woman in the photo must have taken her kids camping, and while they were all swimming, a bear comes up and eats her blouse, then starts to eat her long denim skirt. Obviously, that won’t do. How can you chop wood in just a bikini? And what if the bear goes after the children? So you obviously, calmly, step in, give the bear a pie that you baked (because baking pie is way sexier and more alluring than making casserole, goulash and lasagna (question #6, what dish do you most enjoy preparing). And besides, you’re a vegetarian and don’t eat half that stuff in the list anyway). Eventually, the bear calmly leaves. You assume a yoga pose to rid yourself of the bad energy (though, it has been noted earlier, I do NOT endorse yoga myself).


Now don't get me wrong. I don’t regret wasting time on the facebook quiz, since it’s apparently the price I pay for being “hip and up-to-date,” and it will allow my child to relate to me more easily.
Also, now I feel better knowing that reading to your child (question #3, “favorite activity”) is intimate, a “warm” home (question #5, “your home can best be described as”) is alluring. Potty training a child “when they are ready” (question #2) is certainly intuitive.

All these things are sexy, of course.

But I have to admit, if my kid ever EVER dresses like the woman in the photo, she’s totally grounded for life.

Unless, of course, a bear just ate her clothes while she was swimming. Or unless she’s a high profile model who’s got a bikini photo shoot. Or she’s acting in a mocumentary.

Having Fun when you're no fun at all

My daughter's Abba came in for the weekend last week, took my girl to the zoo, picked her up after shul next day and let her play all afternoon in the sandbox. Oh, she loved it. She loves hanging out with him. And I'm very glad it all seems to be working out. He might not be very into the nitty gritty, but he's a very loving playmate to her.

On the other hand, what has she done with me this last month? I've not been fun at all. After work we're in the garden. Then I'm cooking and feeding her, reading, going to bed. In the morning we snuggle and read, then back to the chores of getting us both ready and with food for the day.

You know what? She's the best. She has her own watering can, her own little shovel. She wears herself out pouring water (mainly on the footpath and not on the tomatoes, but who cares), carrying the can back and forth from the faucet to the garden. She digs until she's so dirty we have to strip her before we go inside.

At home she makes a game of playing cooking while I cook. We've got Ikea toy cookware, and I taped her hand-drawn oven knobs to the top of an empty shelf. That's her oven. I give her a couple of potatoes, a little water, and she's good to go. Then she stands at the sink and plays washing dishes. Should I feel bad that she loves her tiny broom? That she spends hours pushing around her babydoll stroller, even outside?

When I'm done, we paint pictures and read, dance and talk.

But I'm sorry that, even though I do everything around the home, the "everything" I do is so stereotypically gendered. Sure, I nail things, repair things. But on a day-to-day basis, it's the housework she sees and mimics. Well, everyone should know how to cook and clean for himself or herself, I guess.

We do talk about going to work. "I don't want you to go to work today, Ima," she says. Well, I explain, when I go to work I can get money so we can buy food and clothes. You will go to work one day, too, I tell her. What do you want to do when you go to work? "I want to do fun work when I go to work," she says. She's right.
The other day she asked me if I was going to work that day to get some money. Yes, I said. She told me not to go to work that day. We have enough money, she said.

In today's economy, I know I can't afford anything less than all I've got at work. But I know that my dearest girl is only going to be 2 1/2 once.

Weighty Matters

I'm not really a bitch. I'm just small, and right now I don't fit into my clothes.

Before I had my baby I was fine with myself. And I want to be back to my physical self, or at least some semblance of it. If for no other reason than I can't afford a new wardrobe right now. And if it takes me 45 minutes a day to find something I can fit into, I may as well be using that time at the gym.

Let's face it, we all give up a whole lot of ourselves to become mothers. And, speaking for myself, I hadn't exactly been planning on doing so when I got pregnant. Some of the stuff I gave up was good for me to have quit: the stress smoking, the indulging in, shall we say, "artistic" moods. But some of it I really miss: the social and cultural events, the extra hours it takes to excel at a job I love, the ability to take a nap or read a book when I want to, the serious running I used to do.

So I decided, let the crocheted striped salsa pants go, let the running go (for now), and the beer-and-poetry group,the social smoking (yes please) but I will NOT let my figure go. Superficial as it sounds. No way. Anyway, it's only about 10 lbs.

I'm doing weight watchers on line (no time for meetings), and for that I had to buy a scale.

It nearly stopped my heart when my baby stepped on it and then said, "now your turn," to me, then insisted on stepping on it again and again. The second morning after we acquired the scale, she asked me, "Ima, you gonna step with the scale now?"

Like many, many, many women my age, I was anorexic as a teenager. For me, it was from about the age of 12-20. I didn't even menstruate until I graduated from high school.
Yes, I learned it from my mother, the earliest memories of whom involve (besides hours of reading to me), two-week fasts, scales, and a rather sensible swearing off of all processed flour and sugar for fifteen years.

Sure, my mother was 19 when I was born. At 22 she gave birth to her third child. I must remember her when she was that age. It makes total sense she would have been concerned about her figure.

But I don't want to do this to my baby.

It's already bad enough that she plays "exercises" with her friends in the park (sit ups).

I think that, dependent as weight-watchers is on, well, weighing in, I won't do that part. I am making a concerted effort to sit down with my darling when she eats breakfast. But that is an effort. I have no television, so breakfast is my equivalent of sitting the child down in front of a dvd to buy myself 10 minutes.

I praise her gorgeous round tummy (and her manners, and her ability on the potty, and her helpfulness).
Luckily weight watchers is pretty normal eating. But I need to watch what I do and say in front the two-year-old audio/video recorder that is my daughter.

Maxed Out

The title refers to my capacity for having more children, not to my credit card, which I paid off and then shredded in August, thank you very much.

I adore my little girl. I leave work early, am dreadfully rude in my haste to catch buses and metros to get me home as quickly as possible--because every second counts, right? And when I’m home, my little wee one and I read and paint and dance and play, cook and sing, walk and slide. It’s not a question of love.

It’s like this: yesterday I spent the morning doing Pesakh shopping at Ikea with two friends who each have two children. Girls about my daughter’s age, and boys they still breastfeed. Who is the mother who lost a child during checkout? Who is the mother, who, upon having the child found for her, realized that she had also lost the child’s coat? And later, while lunching at Pita Plus, who was the mother who misjudged her daughter’s appetite and food preferences?

Why, moi, of course. The mother of one.

It’s not that I have more going on than they do, so I can’t say I was more distracted. My more fertile friends also balance work outside the home and childcare. And one of them has a husband who travels during the week, so she does the bulk of it alone. The other is remodeling the bathroom using contractors, and, well, need I say more?

Okay, I HAD just returned from a weekend with my parents in Texas, hanging with my daddy as he recovered from surgery (thank G-d) the colon cancer doesn’t’ seem to have spread). But it wasn’t like I was DOING anything. Since my parents went vegan to enhance their chances of remaining cancer-free (both of them are cancer survivors), I didn’t even have to worry about food and kashrut. I caught up on reading and chatting with my Dad, who was still very weak from surgery and hung out on the sofa.

And my girl? She played outside with her cousins, ages 2, 4 and 7, from the time the dew dried off the grass until the sun was about to set. All she needed from me was food, drink, potty/diaper stuff, and the occasional kiss to the booboo.

Hey, wait a minute…
No...

(And anyway, that doesn’t explain Ikea).

Derech Eretz

I just read this great article on good manners in the science section of the New York Times. Whhoooshh. It's by a pediatrician who recalls a particularly rude patient who bossed his mother around and generally was obnoxious. Oops, I hope I'm never that parent that gets talked about behind the pediatrician's doors. This week it would be the following: "Why isn't that child completely potty trained?"

The article quotes and frequently refers to Judith Martin's Miss Manners' Guide to Rearing Perfect Children. I think that the hook for me was the following:

I like Miss Manners’ approach because it lets a parent respect a child’s intellectual and emotional privacy: I’m not telling you to like your teacher; I’m telling you to treat her with courtesy. I’m not telling you that you can’t hate Tommy; I’m telling you that you can’t hit Tommy. Your feelings are your own private business; your behavior is public.
I have a four year old son. He never went through the terrible twos. There were no terrible threes and he's four now. I feel so lucky (I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M WRITING THIS DOWN, I'LL PROBABLY CURSE MYSELF) that I can barely contain myself. I'm sure there'll be some adolescent rebellion at some point, and I'll handle it very imperfectly when the time comes. No child is perfect (and no parent either) and just because my son takes after his two doormat, easygoing first born parents doesn't mean he won't lose it at some point.

My key to overcoming those terrible, tantrumy child episodes, however few and thankfully far between they've been in our house, is to remember that feelings are OK but not always necessary to share, but that behavior is public. Shall we remind some of our adult friends and maybe even our spouses about that?

I really love the part about respecting a child's intellectual and emotional privacy, though. Maybe we don't pay enough attention to what our kids are thinking, and how that contributes to their behavior. I think it is perfectly acceptable to be furious, and even sometimes to yell about being mad (for 36 year olds and 4 year olds) and grouse about being sad, but that hitting is never OK. I also think it is OK for a child to dislike a peer from school or shul...life is not a big playdate, and you don't have to have them over to play, you just have to suffer them politely. My mother in law seems to think you need to actually like everyone. It's even good, probably, to say that all feelings are OK, but that you just can't be rude. We all know that we don't like to spend time with those kids and parents who are OOC (out of control) but I don't always think about how my family might look or act toward others.

I remember years ago when I was a school administrator that I had to discipline a whole grade of boys who were rude, mean, and would physically intimidate others and especially the girls. So I worked and worked to craft lessons on derech eretz, "the way of the land," or the general rule of politeness and socially acceptable behavior...respect, or good manners. It was awful. I mean, I was not on my game, but they were just tough.They didn't get that it was important to treat each other with a modicum of respect, or even that Jewish tradition could have something to say about that. I never once thought of saying to them, "Jesus, it sucks to be a 5th grader. But what you gotta do is to remember that some things just can't be said out loud. It is perfectly cool to think them and even feel them, but you can't act on them. Just hold back. Being the bigger person,well, it feels damn good. And gets you points with the ones who really matter." Maybe acknowledging their feelings but requiring them to behave respectfully would have helped.

So I think I'm going to try this: have good manners. Both for me and for my son, and if we're lucky my husband too. Please and thank you always. A few others. Obviously no hitting--we're good with that--but life isn't one big play date. We might even tack on chewing with our mouths closed, shaking hands, saying excuse me when we fart, bless you when someone else sneezes and whoa--not interrupting! I guess I'm going to have to hold myself to the same standard...

What's Best for My Daughter

Tomorrow morning I was supposed to be sitting with my lawyer, discussing what is best for my daughter, and then drawing up something that Babydaddy and I could agree upon. If we were thinking about what was best for her today, it would be easy: it’s best for her to nap during the day, sleep on a regular schedule, get plenty of fruits and vegetables, read books, play outside, learn to pick up her toys, hug and be hugged, and laugh.

But how am I supposed to know what’s going to be best for her in 10 years? In 15? As anyone will tell you (and they frequently do tell me, especially Babydaddy) that it’s best for a child to have two parents that love her and are part of her life. Two weeks ago, when Babydaddy came down to discuss these issues with me, that’s what he said.

But it had been 8 weeks since he’d seen her. He wants to stay where he is and he see her every 6 weeks or so (because that’s all he has time for, he said). Is this being part of a child’s life? He realizes that he’s "not been prioritizing her right now, but it’s because she’s too young to need him yet.” Is this being part of her life?

He’s been thinking of moving here, so he can see her evenings during the week and sometime on weekends. Of course, he wants to find a wife first. I know that theoretically, this would be best for her. But this is the solution that freaks me out the most.

There’s nothing wrong with where I am. I have a great job, a great community and a great daughter. But staying here means I have just that: a job, a community where I can’t daven until my girl’s old enough to sit still during services, and a daughter.

As supportive as my university is, I have to continue my current schedule: up at 6, play with baby, give her to the nanny and work till 5, play, feed, clean, read with her till 7:30. Put her down to bed and work till midnight. Up at 6. At least until I get tenure.

What kind of life is that?

Obviously, if I take her to Israel, she’s really going to be far away from her Abba. But we’ll have travel funds (and the research need) to spend up to four months in the States every year. He says that longer periods of time are no so convenient for him as weekends. Do I stay here so he can see her 8 weekends a year? Or do I let her grow up with the man I want to marry and who wants to raise her as his own? A man who davens three times a day and teaches her what I don’t know.

She loves her Abba, though she hardly sees him. We’ve got photos of him, and when she sees a photo she says “Abba!” When he's here it seems as if he really loves her. It breaks my heart.

If it were just me, I’d go. My Jewish education is minimal. There I could learn for myself and for her; I’d live in a Jewish country; I’d have that support. I’d live in a place where everyone has children, and children are valued and loved by society. I’d have a job with half the teaching load, and a teaching load that was in my area of expertise.

In my current city, dogs are loved more than children. Honestly. I went walking with a friend and her dog, and for every one person who greeted my adorable child, 8 greeted her adorable pooch. And it wasn’t even a puppy!

How do I know what’s best for baby? How much do we have to take into account what’s best for Babydaddy?

The lawyer phoned tonight and said we would have to reschedule next week. Honestly, I’m relieved.

It's a Potty!

This week my little girl got a little blue potty.
She loves her potty.
She talks about what she has to do on the potty.
She sits on her potty for long periods of time,
“book” she says, and she retrieves them,
one after the other, reading each aloud
in her own language, while sitting on the potty.

Then every day this week she stands up and pees on the floor.
Or worse. On the floor.

So I guess she’s got the general concept:
you can do this without a diaper.
You know when you have to do it.
It involves a potty.

She’s just not connected the dots.

She's 19 months old. I didn’t really expect we’d pick up this skill from one day to the next.
Though, now that I think about it, she’s figured out how to work the CD player from one day to the next.

And she figured out the telephone (and had a 20 minute conversation with her grandmother
without me touching the phone once).

And she’s figured out how lights work and how to take off her shoes, how to climb in and out of her high chair and booster seat, what Ima keeps in her purse, that credit cards and money are fun to have.

The potty is far less abstract. It doesn’t involve computer chips or electricity, or nebulous concepts of supply and demand, interest rates, globalization, inflation and government subsidies.

Maybe the potty is simply too beautiful and glamorous to be utilitarian?
Like a dress I recently bought at an extremely discounted price?

Toddler Tisha B'Av

If mourning is stepping out of community, separating oneself from life for a while, so that slowly, gradually, you are able to reintegrate yourself, diminished from your loss, back into community and into life, then it is very difficult to mourn when you have a small child.

During Tisha B’ Av there is a strange sense of being both integrated in a communal mourning, and isolated in grief. Both at the same time. We do not greet one another, and we separate ourselves from the pleasure of company (at least I do, since I’m am a cranky and irritable faster). But we aren’t alone in our mourning. Everyone else is doing it too.

But this year was so…incongruous. Like most baby/toddlers, mine is happy happy happy all the time. And she insists that, when I am around her, I be happy, too. When I'm not she really loses it. She's fine when I take away dangerous toys, or say "no" to unhealthy but delicious food. She doesn't throw fits when she doesn't get her way. But she does throw fits when I'm not engaged in her good humor. And anyway, I can't stand greeting her little jokes and tricks with a heavy heart.

So while everyone else was commemorating the sacking of Jerusalem—and I’m always stuck on the image in Lamentations of the mothers and their dead infants–the destruction of the temple that has deprived us of a home for most of our history, I was swinging and sliding and climbing in the park.

I longed to be able to join in mourning, but my daughter is too young to understand.

Of course, I unplugged the CD player that she recently learned to operate, as I do on Shabbat. And, of course, I didn’t join her at mealtime. But otherwise, her day was no different than any other, since she doesn’t care what shoes I wear or if I put on makeup.

In the coolness of the afternoon, we walked through the community garden, and a nice woman who used to live in Egypt gave my girl all the raspberries she could pluck from the bush. She also snagged herself a few choice cherry tomatoes from another friendly gardener.

I don’t know if it’s because she and I have only one another, with my family far away, the fact I still breastfeed, or if all babies are almost telepathically in tune with their parents' moods.

I guess I just told myself that my mourning was physical, if not completely mental and spiritual—the lack of food and water creates a weird feeling. The senses shut down, my body feels fragile. And at the same time, I am so very grateful for this little life beside me, grateful that she is safe and alive, without a care in the world. This isn’t really what Tisha B’Av is for—developing a sense of gratitude, but maybe we’ll do better next year.

My Daughter's Secret Life

Last week as I got off the bus from work and walked home down the pleasant boulevard, the trees and the wind miraculously making the air cool, I remembered the babysitter mentioning how nice it was in mid-afternoon to take my girl for a walk there.

I like to imagine the people she meets without me—they are, perhaps, the same ones I meet, as I walk home. But they don’t know I’m her mother. Sometimes when I am walking with her, we run into children and parents who know her name, her age, and who begin talking to her.

Once she and I were coming back from the store, and I stopped in front of two babies and their nanny and said, “Hey, look at the babies!” and the nanny responded in Spanish, “Hi (my daughter’s name), where’s your playmate (playmate’s name)? Has your tooth come it yet?” Wow, it makes me happy to know she’s got such a rich and friendly life.

Obviously, I make sure I trust her babysitter/nanny. I make sure her world is as safe as I can make it. But beyond that, I know I gain nothing by worrying.

Besides, I love to think of her having a small part of the world that is hers without me. (Well, besides the cupboard in the kitchen). I like to see new expressions, hear new words she brings me like little treasures, exactly like when we’re at the beach and she brings me shells the waves drag to the shores.

Maybe it’s just that she’s going through a particularly sensitive period right now—the move back to the States—that makes me happy for her independence. She’s been very clingy recently, and several times a day I think of drastically cutting my hair because she uses it as a handle to pull herself up or as a rope to cling to me.

I like her little shows of independence.

Even if it means I have to strip her before I feed her and spread newspaper beneath her chair--I like to see her grab her spoon out of my hand and feed herself yogurt or tomato sauce, or soup, or whatever we’re eating at the time.

It’s in the independence that I see our closeness. Then I see that she wants to be with me, not just when she needs me, but also when she wants me with her.

When she wants to share with me what is hers, all hers, I want to laugh and cry at once. When I’m with her all the time, what choice does she have? But when she waits for me to come home, laughs, babbles, and shares…that’s amazing.

I just hope I can figure out a way to allow her to always want to share with me, to always feel she can. Even in the times I have to correct her because of it, as when she shows me that she’s put small pebbles in her mouth, and I stick my finger in there and take them out, or when she shows me my wallet that she’s just emptied, and I have to pull the coins from her clenched fists.

Zichrona L'Vracha

Today, my son pulled Harry the Dirty Dog off of his shelf to read. And I burst into tears.

For four happy years, I shared a 7x15 office with Barbara Katz. Happy years, because in spite of our overcrowding, and the fact that we both had faculties of nursery school and religious school teachers coming and going from this minuscule space, we developed a deep friendship. Our relationship was born out of a tiny impersonal space and grew out of a love for children and a love for books, a mutual annoyance with office and synagogue politics, exasperation with our disorganized colleagues, the death of two inlaws and a grandfather, a pregnancy and birth of a child, and a million other tiny routine things that brought us close. I used to say that if things didn't work out between me and my husband, I would marry Barbara. I hope her husband Michael, her college sweetheart, found that funny...

We fought with our husbands in the same space, whispering into the phone. She checked up on her 3 children by phone and email while I chatted with my parents and friends, and although we maintained our privacy, we grew to know intimate details of each others' lives. She was allergic to curry, I knew, because we used to order in soup together from a local takeout place that often had curried corn chowder. She regaled me with funny stories about her students, who loved her and called her by both her first and last names, stories so vivid and told with such vigor and joy that they could be nothing but the truth. She never minded that I pretended to be my own secretary (I didn't have one) and anonymously answered my own calls--in fact, she found it funny.

We were then separated, she to a lovely new office and me, still in our cubby hole, alone with my books and stuff. I longed for her and would find myself hanging out in her space, just to hear what she had to say about a ridiculous parent of a student, or help her figure out Microsoft Word. And a year went by, one where I needed lots of advice and help as I figured out how to make it as a new mother, and one where I craved her comfort and her ready laugh. Not 50 feet away, but she was still too far. I actually had to call her on the phone sometimes from my office!

Then, as summer was waning and we were wrapping up our August preparations for the new year, she went on vacation. And in the cab on the way to the airport, she had a seizure and was rushed to the hospital, where she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I don't think anyone imagined that she would recover. But she did, slowly, getting her confidence and movement back, after extensive surgery, wearing a cap or beautiful flowy scarf, and eventually returning to the work she loved so much. She managed the entire thing with the grace and courage that she managed everything else, and I know that she left an indelible impression on everyone with the way that she handled her own illness. And then, this past fall, she got sick again.

Barbara died on Sunday, leaving three beautiful children in their 20's who are suffering tremendously. Three children who will miss their mother every day forever, who feel cheated because she won't be there for them and celebrate their birthdays, dance at their weddings, and hold her grandchildren. And she left her husband, a man whose humor, wisdom and grace matches hers perfectly, a true partner, alone, with a broken heart. His eulogy was a love note to her, and I wish that she had heard it. But I am sure he told it to her every day, in other ways.

This tremendous woman, filled with a natural sense of humor that never offended and was always truly funny, who loved books and gave them as perfectly matched gifts to their recipients, who believed that children deserve to be nurtured and supported over learning their ABC's, who gave hugs to everyone, was my friend. She was genuine and not pretentious, loved wearing her art smock, kept a suit in a closet at work just in case she needed to look dressier, and loved bicycling (but not too much). A light in this world has gone out, and the entire world is darker and sadder for it.

I was not a good friend to her in the last months of her life. I didn't visit as I should have and didn't take my son over to visit so that she could have some joy in watching him read Harry the Dirty Dog or Amos and Boris, or any of her other favorites that she had given to him. I had my own crap going on. It is no excuse, but it is the truth. I was afraid. I was also losing my aunt, about whom I wrote often in this blog. It is something I will forever regret and I will not make the mistake of allowing it to happen again. I am angry with myself and ashamed of my own shortcomings. I didn't care for her the way that she would have for me.

When my grandfather died, Barbara made me soup. In fact, she would often bring me recipes she'd tried, and sometimes a sample. My two favorite soup recipes come from her, in fact. But more than soup, she taught me by example the comfort of a meal made for you at a time when you are just too stuck, to sad, too hurt (or even too filled with joy) to cook. I was proud to help organize a few months of meals for her family after she got sick the first time, and was glad to be able to help again when she got sick this fall. I am proud to have learned this from her, because it was such a deeply ingrained part of who she was, to support others in this way. Now, I make meals for others whenever I can, but I obviously prefer babies to death. Now, when I do it, I will make the conscious choice to do it in Barbara's memory.

But the most important thing that I learned from Barbara is how to be a good mother. She loved her children more than one could ever imagine having room in one's body and heart to love. She literally brimmed with love for them. But what she did the best as a mother was let her children be who they were, who they were born to be, who they wanted to be. Not to change them into someone else or force them to conform to some ideal. She did this for her many, many students as well, for the hundreds of children who were either her kids (in her class) or her kids (in her school), as they were all her children. Barbara believed that children were entitled to a childhood, not one filled with structured classes and playdates and learning to read and count by age 3, but one filled with the busyness of a toddler exploring on his own or a child lazily flipping through books, or a group of kids hanging out and exploring life on their own. She mothered us all, and was our favorite teacher.

I will miss her for the rest of my life, mostly every day, or whenever I watch parents and children or children and teachers interact. May her memory be a blessing to all who knew her.

Who's God?

At first I was just going to respond to Gluckel’s Sunday post, “Look Ima, there’s God.” I decided to write my own entry because the question of how we (and our children) come to know who God is dovetails with a small moment last night that, I hope, will be a turning point for me.

I don’t know how children come to know either.

Our rabbi’s drash on Vayera, brought up an interesting point about Hagar as a mother and a woman of faith. The reason she gave up in the desert when Abraham kicked her out of his household, though she had provisions, and though there was clearly a well nearby, was that how we relate to our God/gods determines how we relate to the world. If we deem God capricious, we are passive or we respond with aggression.

If this is true, then it seems to me that we naturally shape our children’s understanding of God based on how we behave and interact with the world. Of course, parental influence, though potent, isn’t fatal. I’m just saying.

My parents are people of profound faith. When our house exploded into flames 30 minutes after we’d left it, I and my 3 siblings began to cry, but my 31-year-old mother stopped us and said we were not allowed to shed a single tear because God had saved us, and she was so thankful.

Which brings me to what I hope is a turning point last night. What does it say about my perception of God that--I’m ashamed to say--I engage in lashon hara when I’m gripey?

Last night a friend took me to Target—we had to take my sleeping baby because we went after her bedtime. As we were leaving the store I noticed baby’s gorgeous faux zebra skin, monogrammed blanket (a present from my cousin) was missing.

My friend suggested I return to the store and look for it. I was exhausted and negative. “I’m sure someone took it.” It was probably the woman who had been shadowing me all evening in the baby clothes section, reaching over my baby to do price checks (instead of standing on the side) when I’d stepped away for a second.

Of course, you all know what happens next. At the last moment, I decide to return to the store. I don't even make it to the door when I see the blanket, folded and tucked protectively on the wall.

I vowed to my friend then and there I’d never speak negatively about anyone again. A blanket is a small, tiny thing. Much smaller than a house or a life. But suddenly, I was sick of being petty.

What will it teach my daughter about God if I am always judging and expecting people to judge me?

I’d been excusing my lashon hara with feelings of exhaustion and self pity. But I actually feel a lot better since I made my decision. Let it be God taking pity on my daughter and opening my eyes, as s/he did those of Hagar in the desert, so I can see the well (God’s work in the world, and maybe even my way through this book I have to write to get tenure at my job!)

Thanks for your post, Gluckel.

Raised by Gorillas? Unscheduled play time

It was 7:30 pm on Wed. and I was just getting around to eating lunch. So much for last week’s indignant telephone conversation with my Babydaddy—He wants me to supplement my
DHA intake. I say I eat very healthfully and don’t need supplements outside of the prenatal/lactating mother ones.

We all want the best for our children. The trick is, figuring out what “the best” means.

The need for good nutrition is pretty much a no-brainer. I try to balance my precarious bank account with my baby’s health. I liked the helpful piece in the Times about affordable ways to go organic.
I finally got a garden plot, which helps.




But Babydaddy and I often disagree about how much of the “extras” to give the girl. I’m a believer in just letting kids play. He’s more into the idea of activities. He wants me to take baby to sing-a-longs and exercise classes and all that.

It’s good he wants to be involved. I need to be more encouraging to him about that.

But part of my resistance is practical—there’s just one of me, and I’m not going to take away from research time or from me-and-baby time to run all over the city. If he were here, I’d compromise, and let him take her to some activities.

Part of it is philosophical. I’m pretty sure letting children explore on their own is the right thing to do.

I teach at a university—from what I’ve seen, over-scheduling and hovering causes more harm than good . And I think having children, and later, young men and women, pursue their own goals, not those of their parents, is a good thing.

A former student once thanked me for failing him. He wasn’t ready for university, but his parents insisted. Since he’d failed out, his parents withdrew financial support, and he was going to work in Spain. He was beaming with joy.

In the unlikely event that my child is a genius, it probably won’t hurt her to wait until she’s a little older to start on music, or art, whatever media it is through which she’ll rock the world.

I know my decisions about scheduled activities will involve lots of days like Wednesday, when I ate lunch at 7:30 pm: It’s a consequence of her world exploration. Plus teething again and preparing to walk.

Going to the zoo in bad weather, which I did out of desperation (she was a human tornado that day), turned out to be a great idea. The only drawback is the bad weather. But the zoo was pretty much ours.

The gorillas took my daughter in as one of their own. They played in front of her and pushed one another and made her laugh. I breastfed her in front of them. They didn’t mind.

Back at home I took baby to the foyer of our building and, fortified with new techniques learned from the gorillas, she climbed up and down the stairs and greeted the neighbors for an hour.

This is what we’ve signed on for—improvisation and learning from our surroundings instead of arranged activities.

I only hope a few other parents in my community believe as I do, so my child won’t feel like the odd-one-out when she’s older.

Taking Stock

Shana Tova, everyone!

So I’m trying to get together a mailing list for my publisher that’s due on Saturday, so I have to finish it now. My first book of my own poems is forthcoming, but because of budget cuts, we’ve all got to do a little guerilla marketing. I’ve spent the last two days combing through emails, university websites, and other directories, finding the names of anyone who knows me and might buy the book out of pity/sympathy/support/ curiosity/ enjoyment.

I also keep re-reading the book, since I can’t censor it, to make sure there’s nothing in it that would freak out my family—otherwise, they don’t go on the list. Which would be a pity because that’s about 50 people right there.

It’s humbling and beautiful work, after the tedium wears off. It's a good way to take stock of the year, remembering the people you love and admire. A great way to reconnect to old friends—so many have written and published their own gorgeous books, winning awards on the way.

And it’s challenging. I have to make sure I don’t compare my life to anyone else’s. I have to make sure my joy at others’ achievements isn’t tainted by feelings that I should have done more. Mine, after all, is a chapbook (less than 40 pages), not a full-length. Sometimes I feel supersensitive (well, duh, poet plus academic, plus sleep deprivation, of course I’m supersensitive).

My daughter, in comparison, has a lot to teach me about feeling good about myself and about being gracious. I’m amazed at how she never has a moment of self-doubt. We walk into a room and it’s like she’s telling everyone, “Thank you all so much for gathering together in order to greet me.” So full of joy and life! She smiles, waves, giggles.

She lets bigger kids take her toys and pacifier and poke her eyes (she has no hair, so they can’t pull it), and she doesn’t take offense.

And when she cries in frustration because she’s scooting backwards and she meant to go forwards, she’s so easy to placate. Smile at her and say, “wow! Look what you can do!” and she good-naturedly decides that backwards is where she’s just going to go right now.

I have a lot to learn from her!

I want to work on graceful confidence in the year to come. (And ask forgiveness of anyone my lack of grace has hurt).

What we talk about when we talk about feminism

My teammate’s thoughtful post, “What Wheels on the Bus Do You Sing,” has got me thinking about how I am going about raising a confident daughter. We usually resort to (or react from) our parents’ techniques, I suppose. Mine taught us by making us do chores.

According to the chores-based-feminist-upbringing (cbfu), feminism meant taking responsibility for one’s privileges and choices. If you want choice, you have to have knowledge and skill. It also meant not exploiting people by making them do your work for you. It also means not allowing yourself to be exploited. Even if social structures made such exploitation pretty easy, even expected.

My brothers and my sister and I were given the same chores. We all took turns with dishes, vacuuming, dusting, bathroom cleaning, mowing the lawn, gardening, garbage, window cleaning, and everything else.

We were also given the same opportunities. When I learned to drive, my father made sure I understood how a car engine worked. We even took one partially apart and put it back together. It goes without saying I learned to change the oil and the tires. Likewise, we all learned to sew.

Also, cbfa teaches that work is not inherently gendered; consequently gender played no role in our career choices. We understood that there are no inherently “feminist” or “anti-feminist” careers. My mother could be a stay-at-home feminist/seamstress/baker. The problem comes when you aren’t given a choice because of your gender.

According to cbfu, if you call yourself a feminist, but then expect women to serve you because you’re just “not that good at dishes” or cleaning or cooking, etc. and women inherently are, even if they’ve asked you for help, then you are not a feminist. The whole thing assumes that sometimes sensitivity calls for practical knowledge.

Yes, because women bear and breastfeed babies, there is some biological essentialism (one thinks of Monty Python’s trans-gendered Loretta in “The Life of Brian” who didn’t have a womb) but that shouldn’t breed thoughtlessness or insensitivity.

But now I’m in a totally new situation: it’s just me and my daughter. So I guess the concept of gendered work will be less relevant. I’d really love to hear from other parents about their practical strategies for raising confident daughters.