This week marked the 46th anniversary of the publication of The Feminine Mystique – the groundbreaking book by Betty Friedan that helped spark the modern women’s movement. In identifying “the problem that had no name” – educated women unfulfilled by their lives as suburban housewives – she pointed out that this problem was not one of individual women suffering from neurosis but the result of a larger social structure that idealized domesticity and didn’t allow women to seek fulfillment in other ways.
As I sit here writing, I’m watching the clock to see how many more minutes until my kids’ nap time is over and I need to shut the computer. And frankly, though I am so grateful for the numerous ways that feminism has transformed American society, these days I am keenly feeling the incompleteness of this revolution.
The “problem that has no name” has morphed into several problems, with various names: “the myth of the superwoman” and “the second shift” among them. Take me, for example: an urban working mom with two kids, a husband, a PhD, a mortgage, and a senior position (albeit 4/5th time) in a challenging job. I was raised to expect I would have all these things, and yet juggling them is much harder than I ever expected. Something’s got to give.
What gives? Well, my ambition, for one, seems to have taken a hit. The egalitarian ideals that we wrote into our ketubah, for another, remain hanging on our wall, behind glass.
Sometimes my husband and I joke about how we really need a wife to make our lives feel more manageable; sometimes we say we really need a servant. The apparent interchangeability of the two makes me shudder. And I've noticed, in this Obama age of change, that my friends who have ascended to the most impressive jobs are almost entirely either men with stay at home wives or single women.
Don’t get me wrong. I love being a mother. It’s by far the most meaningful and rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. And I’ve made choices – had the luxury to make choices, really – about my priorities, choosing, for example, to work outside of the home, but not full-time.
But it’s not all about choices. There are still structural inequalities that define the options. In today’s world, where two incomes are necessary to live a middle-class life, where nuclear families live in their own little, inefficient units without much help from extended family, where child care for toddlers costs as much as college tuition, where you're lucky if you get any paid maternity leave, where men still generally earn more than women, where the average working woman spends more hours per week on domestic duties than housewives did in the 1950s… we don’t choose freely.
My female friends and I talk about these issues frequently, usually at the playground. Sometimes the tone is joking and ironic, wondering how we ended up here. Sometimes it’s despairing. We all read The Feminine Mystique. We know that the personal is political. And yet we don’t know how to move beyond the playground conversation. We don’t know what the next step is, how to make change in our own lives or in the wider society, how to spark the next feminist revolution. And anyway, nap time is over.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Big Family Fun
We just got back from a long weekend at my family's house. Chamudi loves these visits--he talks about them for days before and weeks afterward. They expand his mind and his heart.
For better or worse, we live hundreds of miles away from any immediate family. Most of the time our "family" consists of Ima, Abba and Chamudi. But every few months we pack up the car and join the clan and become part of something much larger.
My sister has five kids. They're all beautiful and sweet and they love Chamudi, especially now that he's talking and running and able to keep up with their nonstop fun and games. Chamudi is beside himself with excitement when he's with them, and more and more our visits are all about making sure the cousins get to play as much as possible. It's amazing to watch a whole new generation of kids in our family, and to see a child of my own take his place mong them.
Chamudi's also learning a lot about family relationships. Chamudi senses that they are complex, and he's constantly trying to work it out. The fact that Doda is also someone's Mama and that Savta and Saba are also Mom and Dad is tricky. And then there are those pictures on the wall--the ones that Chamudi is sure are Ima but are really Savta, and the ones of Ima when she was a Chamudi. All hints of a family history that far precedes--but also includes--my little boy.
Now we're back in our little apartment, with our little family. I'm happy to be home and unpacking. But I'm also reminded of how much Chamudi gains from being part of a the ganse mishpacha, and that I should probably make the trip a little more often.
For better or worse, we live hundreds of miles away from any immediate family. Most of the time our "family" consists of Ima, Abba and Chamudi. But every few months we pack up the car and join the clan and become part of something much larger.
My sister has five kids. They're all beautiful and sweet and they love Chamudi, especially now that he's talking and running and able to keep up with their nonstop fun and games. Chamudi is beside himself with excitement when he's with them, and more and more our visits are all about making sure the cousins get to play as much as possible. It's amazing to watch a whole new generation of kids in our family, and to see a child of my own take his place mong them.
Chamudi's also learning a lot about family relationships. Chamudi senses that they are complex, and he's constantly trying to work it out. The fact that Doda is also someone's Mama and that Savta and Saba are also Mom and Dad is tricky. And then there are those pictures on the wall--the ones that Chamudi is sure are Ima but are really Savta, and the ones of Ima when she was a Chamudi. All hints of a family history that far precedes--but also includes--my little boy.
Now we're back in our little apartment, with our little family. I'm happy to be home and unpacking. But I'm also reminded of how much Chamudi gains from being part of a the ganse mishpacha, and that I should probably make the trip a little more often.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
where is my creativity?
I have always prided myself on being creative. When I was little, my best friend and I would spend hours making up games to play. We required no summer camp, parental intervention, video games, etc. We lived on our imaginations. One time we recorded that entire Grease movie - on a little tape recorder. Another time, we wrote a book for her sister about the perils of tattle telling.
We even recorded our own pop song - Pay You Back, which bore an eery resemblance to She Bop, by Cyndi Lauper.
I always thought that this would translate beautifully into my parenting. And maybe it will. At this point, I admit that I am disappointed in my lack of creativity when it comes to interacting with my children. Where are the funky arts and crafts projects? the parsha skits? the silly games?
Now I realize that my kids are only 4 and 2. I didn't even meet this friend until I was 11! Still, I feel like even at this stage, I should be somehow be more creative. More imagination. Less TV.
I try to keep in mind that my own parents were pretty uncreative when it came to interacting with me. They pretty much left me to my own devices.
My job as I see it, is to give my kids the resources and space to grow their own imaginations.
Nonetheless, I still feel a bit boring.
We even recorded our own pop song - Pay You Back, which bore an eery resemblance to She Bop, by Cyndi Lauper.
I always thought that this would translate beautifully into my parenting. And maybe it will. At this point, I admit that I am disappointed in my lack of creativity when it comes to interacting with my children. Where are the funky arts and crafts projects? the parsha skits? the silly games?
Now I realize that my kids are only 4 and 2. I didn't even meet this friend until I was 11! Still, I feel like even at this stage, I should be somehow be more creative. More imagination. Less TV.
I try to keep in mind that my own parents were pretty uncreative when it came to interacting with me. They pretty much left me to my own devices.
My job as I see it, is to give my kids the resources and space to grow their own imaginations.
Nonetheless, I still feel a bit boring.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Three-Ring Circus
In the first ring you’ve got the little miss. She’s just finished “davening,” which involves placing my watch on her forehead, wrapping a shirt around her wrist, and rocking back and forth. Now she wants, simultaneously, her “moshu” (pacifier) her “daddymilk” (chocolate milk, in honor of her friend’s daddy) and to “brush the teeth.” I am fully aware that such wishes wreck the parallel structure of a sentence. I’m also pretty certain the kid has got a rather heavy oral fixation.
We depart from the eschatological perspective that would allow all three to happen simultaneously, and accomplish them chronologically. And it occurs to me that the phrase “three-ring circus” is redundant.
It’s my lucky day: after reading 10 books, the girl wants to play “sweep the kitchen,” and she’s also amenable to helping me put dishes away. In her babydoll stroller I discover the missing sippycup lid, the missing kiddish cup, my string of pearls, and a letter from my mother. I’m able to make pizza dough in between tasks (we did, after all, wake up at 6 am). Normally I like finishing one task before beginning another. For example, I prefer to empty the dustpan before rolling pizza dough. But today I do what I can.
It’s my morning “off,” which means I have no baby sitter while I prep for class. I must teach a graduate class in the evening (the second ring). And today little miss is coming to campus with me. Our normal Tuesday evening babysitter, our love, has been gone for nearly two weeks seeking clarity, or deciding whether the custody suit, the unemployment and, finally, the current hiring freeze in Israeli universities is going to be too much for him (ring 3, or is it ring three squared? Can you square a ring? oh will the circle be unbroken?)
By 10 am, little miss falls asleep from sheer exhaustion on my back in the ergo as I’m rolling pizza dough. I prep for class in my apron with flour all over the table and tomato sauce spattered. 40 minutes later it's done. And that’s about it for the nap today. My daughter sleeps like Thomas Edison did. About 4 hours every 24 hour cycle.
But her timing is perfect. The people we nanny share with have phoned and are coming over for pizza. They leave an hour or so later, and it’s time to play clean up.
Office hours are held in the presence of little miss, who has decided she wants to “work” too, by which she means press the keys on my laptop. Last time she did that I couldn’t reformat my screen and had to have professional help. Laptop is shut.
The arching of the back. The roar far too mighty to belong to a 22 lb girl-child.
The profuse apologies to colleagues currently holding office hours.
Are there trumpets and flowers falling from the sky? No, it’s just the lovely graduate student, who used to be a kindergarten teacher. She plops down on her stomach and draws pictures with my child using the washable markers she brought with her. I can go sola to class.
The assignment was to translate Rilke’s Duino elegy #1. The one that begins “Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels hierarchies?”
Who, indeed? And Rilke didn’t even have children.
We depart from the eschatological perspective that would allow all three to happen simultaneously, and accomplish them chronologically. And it occurs to me that the phrase “three-ring circus” is redundant.
It’s my lucky day: after reading 10 books, the girl wants to play “sweep the kitchen,” and she’s also amenable to helping me put dishes away. In her babydoll stroller I discover the missing sippycup lid, the missing kiddish cup, my string of pearls, and a letter from my mother. I’m able to make pizza dough in between tasks (we did, after all, wake up at 6 am). Normally I like finishing one task before beginning another. For example, I prefer to empty the dustpan before rolling pizza dough. But today I do what I can.
It’s my morning “off,” which means I have no baby sitter while I prep for class. I must teach a graduate class in the evening (the second ring). And today little miss is coming to campus with me. Our normal Tuesday evening babysitter, our love, has been gone for nearly two weeks seeking clarity, or deciding whether the custody suit, the unemployment and, finally, the current hiring freeze in Israeli universities is going to be too much for him (ring 3, or is it ring three squared? Can you square a ring? oh will the circle be unbroken?)
By 10 am, little miss falls asleep from sheer exhaustion on my back in the ergo as I’m rolling pizza dough. I prep for class in my apron with flour all over the table and tomato sauce spattered. 40 minutes later it's done. And that’s about it for the nap today. My daughter sleeps like Thomas Edison did. About 4 hours every 24 hour cycle.
But her timing is perfect. The people we nanny share with have phoned and are coming over for pizza. They leave an hour or so later, and it’s time to play clean up.
Office hours are held in the presence of little miss, who has decided she wants to “work” too, by which she means press the keys on my laptop. Last time she did that I couldn’t reformat my screen and had to have professional help. Laptop is shut.
The arching of the back. The roar far too mighty to belong to a 22 lb girl-child.
The profuse apologies to colleagues currently holding office hours.
Are there trumpets and flowers falling from the sky? No, it’s just the lovely graduate student, who used to be a kindergarten teacher. She plops down on her stomach and draws pictures with my child using the washable markers she brought with her. I can go sola to class.
The assignment was to translate Rilke’s Duino elegy #1. The one that begins “Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels hierarchies?”
Who, indeed? And Rilke didn’t even have children.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Go To Sleep Already
It's past 9pm and Chamudi is in bed, quiet but not yet sleeping. I'm pretty excited--this is EARLY for him to be settled down.
Herein lies the problem. Most of my friends have their kids in bed by 7pm. The wild ones have them there by 8. But not us.
The problem really started when Chamudi began school in November. Now that I'm not paying by the hour I leave the house a little more slowly in the morning and get home later in the day. We're home by 6, pull together dinner, sit down and have a nice family meal and then start playing with blocks, trains, books, whatever.
Before you know it, it's 7:30pm. And Chamudi doesn't want to to take a bath, or get his jammies on, or read a book. He wants to stay awake. And the truth is, we want to spend more time with him. We miss him.
So we dawdle. And comment idly on the tie. And completely fail to lay down the law.
Somewhere around 8 or 8:30pm one of us summons the grown-up-ness to start the bedtime routine. If we're lucky lights are out by 8:45.
Then begins the massive stall. Water. Music. Tuck in. Tuck in again. And so on. We try to ignore him, but we're softies--both of us. And have I mentioned that we miss him?
I am completely embarrassed to say that it is not unusual for our toddler son to drift off to sleep at 10pm. Fortunately for him he's also able to sleep in (not one of those up with the sunrise kids). Most mornings he sleeps until 7:30 or 8--and he still gets a good nap midday.
He doesn't seem that much worse for the wear. So what's the harm?
One of the biggest downsides is that he's pretty much ceased going to synagogue in the morning with Abba. Up until 2 years old he was basically a regular at morning minyan and daf yomi--which was surely a hassle for Abba but also an amazing experience for them both.
For another thing, our grown-up time--to get housework done, or watch tv, or just be with each other--has pretty much been confined to the hour or so between Chamudi's bedtime and mine.
We do the calming routine thing. But no routine in the world will convince a toddler that he wants to go to sleep when really, he doesn't. And while I may be able to make him go to school, or put on his jacket or say please, nobody but nobody can make him go to sleep.
Maybe if we can just start waking him up and pushing him out earlier in the morning he'll naturally gravitate towards the earlier bedtime. But it'll take a few weeks of purposely starving him of sleep--a tough sell for everyone involved. Assuming it even works.
So there you go. Our dirty secret: we're bedtime failures.
Herein lies the problem. Most of my friends have their kids in bed by 7pm. The wild ones have them there by 8. But not us.
The problem really started when Chamudi began school in November. Now that I'm not paying by the hour I leave the house a little more slowly in the morning and get home later in the day. We're home by 6, pull together dinner, sit down and have a nice family meal and then start playing with blocks, trains, books, whatever.
Before you know it, it's 7:30pm. And Chamudi doesn't want to to take a bath, or get his jammies on, or read a book. He wants to stay awake. And the truth is, we want to spend more time with him. We miss him.
So we dawdle. And comment idly on the tie. And completely fail to lay down the law.
Somewhere around 8 or 8:30pm one of us summons the grown-up-ness to start the bedtime routine. If we're lucky lights are out by 8:45.
Then begins the massive stall. Water. Music. Tuck in. Tuck in again. And so on. We try to ignore him, but we're softies--both of us. And have I mentioned that we miss him?
I am completely embarrassed to say that it is not unusual for our toddler son to drift off to sleep at 10pm. Fortunately for him he's also able to sleep in (not one of those up with the sunrise kids). Most mornings he sleeps until 7:30 or 8--and he still gets a good nap midday.
He doesn't seem that much worse for the wear. So what's the harm?
One of the biggest downsides is that he's pretty much ceased going to synagogue in the morning with Abba. Up until 2 years old he was basically a regular at morning minyan and daf yomi--which was surely a hassle for Abba but also an amazing experience for them both.
For another thing, our grown-up time--to get housework done, or watch tv, or just be with each other--has pretty much been confined to the hour or so between Chamudi's bedtime and mine.
We do the calming routine thing. But no routine in the world will convince a toddler that he wants to go to sleep when really, he doesn't. And while I may be able to make him go to school, or put on his jacket or say please, nobody but nobody can make him go to sleep.
Maybe if we can just start waking him up and pushing him out earlier in the morning he'll naturally gravitate towards the earlier bedtime. But it'll take a few weeks of purposely starving him of sleep--a tough sell for everyone involved. Assuming it even works.
So there you go. Our dirty secret: we're bedtime failures.
Monday, February 02, 2009
To Facebook or not to Facebook, that is the question...
I am a social being.
I love shmoozing (my husband complains that he can't ever get me out of shul - at least on the Shabbatot when I actually make it there).
I love big Shabbat meals, parties, reunions, all of that stuff.
I also love knowing what people are up to. Whenever I see a friend, I need to know not only how they are, but how anyone we know in common is doing. I love people information (not necessarily gossip, but some might classify it as such). I want to hear that the people I love, or once loved, or like, or maybe even just peripherally know, are doing well. I want to know where they live, if they are married, kids, work, EVERYTHING.
So "why?", one might ask, "why have you not joined Facebook?".
Well, there are a couple of reasons,
I'm sure I'll eventually give in to the pressure (even my parents have joined), but for now, I'm happy to stay a little bit anonymous on-line, and I will hopefully keep up my shmoozing off-line.
I love shmoozing (my husband complains that he can't ever get me out of shul - at least on the Shabbatot when I actually make it there).
I love big Shabbat meals, parties, reunions, all of that stuff.
I also love knowing what people are up to. Whenever I see a friend, I need to know not only how they are, but how anyone we know in common is doing. I love people information (not necessarily gossip, but some might classify it as such). I want to hear that the people I love, or once loved, or like, or maybe even just peripherally know, are doing well. I want to know where they live, if they are married, kids, work, EVERYTHING.
So "why?", one might ask, "why have you not joined Facebook?".
Well, there are a couple of reasons,
- I am afraid that people won't friend me. Close friends say that's ridiculous, but I still fear not being friended. I remember almost everyone I have ever met- from grade school, through Israel trips and college. What if they all don't remember me?
- I am a stay-at-home-mother. Many days I love what I do and I am proud that I do it. Some days I don't, and I'm not. Yeled and Yalda are my lives right now. They are the most interesting things in my world. I'm not really convinced that anyone really wants updates of my life on a regular basis- doctor visits, school runs, Mommy and Me, I just don't feel that exciting right now. Comfortable, boring, simple....yes! Exciting, not so much.
- This is where I can get myself in trouble- I also feel somewhat apologetic that I'm a SAHM. I know that I shouldn't, but I do. It can be somewhat embarrassing that I have an Ivy-league degree, a law degree, and that I used to work at a top ten law firm, and now- I'm "just at home with the kids".
I'm sure I'll eventually give in to the pressure (even my parents have joined), but for now, I'm happy to stay a little bit anonymous on-line, and I will hopefully keep up my shmoozing off-line.
Pakistan Juice
My just turned two-year old copies everything - and I mean EVERYTHING - her big brother says and does. No matter how absurd. Today in the car, they were both acting silly as always, and he started asking for "Pakistan Juice." And whaddaya know it? She starts asking for Pakistan Juice. My husband returned recently from a trip to Pakistan, which is how I think the word came into his head. So I spent the ride passing back cup after cup of imaginary P. J.
This past week, we celebrated her second birthday. My son demonstrated one of his first signs of attention jealosy! For once, his sister was the main event and all eyes were on her. He adjusted remarkably and surprisingly well to her entrance into the world and for the most part, has loved sharing the attention. But truthfully, the vast majority of the time, he is the king and she, his loyal subject.
My little girl just loved the party, and surprised me by how into she really was. But I also think it was good for my son to watch that and experience a role reversal of sorts.
After a minor meltdown, he got it together and settled down for a piece of cake and apple juice.
(I ran out of Pakistan juice.)
This past week, we celebrated her second birthday. My son demonstrated one of his first signs of attention jealosy! For once, his sister was the main event and all eyes were on her. He adjusted remarkably and surprisingly well to her entrance into the world and for the most part, has loved sharing the attention. But truthfully, the vast majority of the time, he is the king and she, his loyal subject.
My little girl just loved the party, and surprised me by how into she really was. But I also think it was good for my son to watch that and experience a role reversal of sorts.
After a minor meltdown, he got it together and settled down for a piece of cake and apple juice.
(I ran out of Pakistan juice.)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
I'd Really Rather Not
I like Facebook. It's turned out to be a great way to remember the names of the really nice people in shul who grab my child before she tumbles down the stairs, and arrest her wrist in mid-swing, as she’s about the toss a handful of cheerios from the balcony of the women’s section onto the bima.
You got your face. You got your name. And I’ve got a horrible memory for names, made worse by chronic sleep deprivation. (You’d think a two-year-old would be sleeping through the night).
I created my file for networking reasons—I do poetry, for Pete’s sake, and need all the help I can get. Plus, with a child, I can't attend the local poets' "drink and walk" sessions in which we talk shop over beers. But it’s really fun catching up with those fantastic beings I thought I’d lost forever in the act of perpetual moving, producing a child, and becoming a productive member of the labor force.
But the recent craze, “Twenty-five Things About Myself” has left me cold. The idea is that someone lists 25 things about themselves that you may or may not already know, then they "tag" 25 people who are invited to read the list, and create their own lists.
It's sweet to be among that person's top 25 choices. But I'd REALLY rather not.
I don’t know why I’d rather lecture naked than make a list of twenty-five things about myself and post them. It’s not like I’m particularly secretive or private.
The lists I have read have been thought provoking and heart warming. A colleague who has survived severe abuse (thing #6) is trying to decide whether to adopt a mixed-race child or to give birth to one using a sperm donor because her mixed-race partner has adopted a mixed-race child (thing #8). Her parents converted to Judaism (thing #3) and she grew up as a racial minority (thing #7).
I’m glad she posted that list. It’s a lot to think about; it raises all sorts of questions and challenges me to re-examine my idea of living ethically in the world. Obviously, I wish she and I could talk about these issues in person over coffee, rather than having me discover them on Facebook. But I’m glad I know them anyway.
Some of the twenty-five things people post are frivolous. I don’t particularly care what your first pet was called,what your favorite color was when you were twelve and what your favorite junk food is. But in the course of a physical conversation, a chatty person will say lots of things that you can pay attention to or tune out. At least on Facebook I can skim.
I guess it just seems weird to me to list 25 things, taken totally out of context. Yes, it seems incredibly self-aggrandizing. Yes, I’ve lived about 10 different lives so far, and it’s weird for me to reveal personal things to people I’ve friended for professional reasons—different kinds of relationships warrant different levels of intimacy.
But reading over my friend’s 25-things note about race, abuse, adoption, something really strikes me. This particular friend is really centered, really at peace with herself and incredibly comfortable in her own skin. There is nothing she would hide from shame, or even to save the feelings of those who have hurt her (surely some of her family members would cringe at her revelation of family abuse?) It must be incredible to live like that. She’s my hero.
But I still think it’s more fun, sexier, more exciting to discover someone bit by bit than to have them tell you 25 things all at once.
You got your face. You got your name. And I’ve got a horrible memory for names, made worse by chronic sleep deprivation. (You’d think a two-year-old would be sleeping through the night).
I created my file for networking reasons—I do poetry, for Pete’s sake, and need all the help I can get. Plus, with a child, I can't attend the local poets' "drink and walk" sessions in which we talk shop over beers. But it’s really fun catching up with those fantastic beings I thought I’d lost forever in the act of perpetual moving, producing a child, and becoming a productive member of the labor force.
But the recent craze, “Twenty-five Things About Myself” has left me cold. The idea is that someone lists 25 things about themselves that you may or may not already know, then they "tag" 25 people who are invited to read the list, and create their own lists.
It's sweet to be among that person's top 25 choices. But I'd REALLY rather not.
I don’t know why I’d rather lecture naked than make a list of twenty-five things about myself and post them. It’s not like I’m particularly secretive or private.
The lists I have read have been thought provoking and heart warming. A colleague who has survived severe abuse (thing #6) is trying to decide whether to adopt a mixed-race child or to give birth to one using a sperm donor because her mixed-race partner has adopted a mixed-race child (thing #8). Her parents converted to Judaism (thing #3) and she grew up as a racial minority (thing #7).
I’m glad she posted that list. It’s a lot to think about; it raises all sorts of questions and challenges me to re-examine my idea of living ethically in the world. Obviously, I wish she and I could talk about these issues in person over coffee, rather than having me discover them on Facebook. But I’m glad I know them anyway.
Some of the twenty-five things people post are frivolous. I don’t particularly care what your first pet was called,what your favorite color was when you were twelve and what your favorite junk food is. But in the course of a physical conversation, a chatty person will say lots of things that you can pay attention to or tune out. At least on Facebook I can skim.
I guess it just seems weird to me to list 25 things, taken totally out of context. Yes, it seems incredibly self-aggrandizing. Yes, I’ve lived about 10 different lives so far, and it’s weird for me to reveal personal things to people I’ve friended for professional reasons—different kinds of relationships warrant different levels of intimacy.
But reading over my friend’s 25-things note about race, abuse, adoption, something really strikes me. This particular friend is really centered, really at peace with herself and incredibly comfortable in her own skin. There is nothing she would hide from shame, or even to save the feelings of those who have hurt her (surely some of her family members would cringe at her revelation of family abuse?) It must be incredible to live like that. She’s my hero.
But I still think it’s more fun, sexier, more exciting to discover someone bit by bit than to have them tell you 25 things all at once.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Hap Birt
Well on Friday we will celebrate my Little Prince’s half birthday. Yup. He will be half a year old. Six months, is how most people will say it. I was really hoping to do something very very special to commemorate the day. My goal was to give him the gift of thank you note completion.
While he was still in the hospital my husband and I picked out thank you notes. We were so proud of the name that we agonized for months over that we found a website that made cards which would proudly display both his Hebrew name and English name (in a lovely shade of the orange, which in my opinion is the new blue). We spent hours adjusting the footprints that we chose to adorn said names properly and we called the printer just to make sure that our vision would come to fruition appropriately.
That was when he was in the hospital.
Now thankfully he was not in the hospital too long and we got to take him home. The thank you notes came in a week after that. And the meals and presents stopped coming in a month after that.
But I kept a list right by the fancy silver box they arrived in. I was going to be on those notes like white on rice. But you know, I did just have a baby so I did get a little break. First I said, I’ll write them once he gets on more of a schedule. Then I said, I’ll write them when he sleeps through the night. Then I said, well maybe once he goes to bed a little earlier and I have enough energy.
But nope. Just as he grew and grew so did the excuses. I was blaming everything from needing to spend more quiet time with my husband to catching up on all the Grey’s Anatomy I missed out on to just not wanting to write notes when I was on my 3rd gin and tonic of the day (it got a little stressful around 4 months or so). And about a month ago I decided that etiquette allowed me until his half birthday to complete the thank you notes without looking like a complete ingrate.
Well it’s a month later and still no notes.
Darn you passing time!
I guess part of my problem is that I like to make the notes personal and special. I am just not the generic:
Dear X,
Thank you so much for the beautiful _____. It sure is special! I can’t wait to use it/ grow into it/ be able to eat it soon!
Love, Prince Peanut
type.
But my valiant procrastination efforts have also made this hard because now he’s actually outgrown some of the things he has gotten so I am finding myself writing notes in the past tense which is just awkward.
Dear Aunt Joan,
Thank you so much for the sassy Michigan hat. It looked really great on me for a few days but now that my head is the size of a cantaloupe I have moved on to knit caps so I don’t outgrow them every week or so. I hope to meet you soon!
Love,
Mighty Muffin Man
I also am having issues coming up with appropriate ways to thank people for monetary gifts. Those were great but I always feel the need to tell the sender what the gift was spent on.
Dear Rich Uncle Todd,
Thank you so much for the generous present! Mommy and Daddy really wish they could have saved that money for my college education but instead had to spend it on Mommy’s lavish 30th birthday party so she wouldn’t have a nervous breakdown and abandon me.
Hope to spend a summer at one of your lovely vacation homes soon!
Love,
The Boy Child
Six months doesn’t seem like so long. It was not as bad when I made the 350 guests at my wedding wait for thank you notes. Then 6 months after I received the gifts I was still married and we were still using the bread maker/tablecloth/ coffee maker and since I was only 21 I could spend the money on furniture and that made for a lovely thank you message.
But in Baby Land 6 months is a long time! In that time he has tripled his birth weight and learned to laugh and smile and roll over and almost sit and eat solid foods and develop a fantastically annoying case of separation anxiety.
And it’s all extra nifty because he came early and wasn’t even supposed to be doing all the neato 6 month old tricks until March.
Wait wait…does that mean I have until March?
While he was still in the hospital my husband and I picked out thank you notes. We were so proud of the name that we agonized for months over that we found a website that made cards which would proudly display both his Hebrew name and English name (in a lovely shade of the orange, which in my opinion is the new blue). We spent hours adjusting the footprints that we chose to adorn said names properly and we called the printer just to make sure that our vision would come to fruition appropriately.
That was when he was in the hospital.
Now thankfully he was not in the hospital too long and we got to take him home. The thank you notes came in a week after that. And the meals and presents stopped coming in a month after that.
But I kept a list right by the fancy silver box they arrived in. I was going to be on those notes like white on rice. But you know, I did just have a baby so I did get a little break. First I said, I’ll write them once he gets on more of a schedule. Then I said, I’ll write them when he sleeps through the night. Then I said, well maybe once he goes to bed a little earlier and I have enough energy.
But nope. Just as he grew and grew so did the excuses. I was blaming everything from needing to spend more quiet time with my husband to catching up on all the Grey’s Anatomy I missed out on to just not wanting to write notes when I was on my 3rd gin and tonic of the day (it got a little stressful around 4 months or so). And about a month ago I decided that etiquette allowed me until his half birthday to complete the thank you notes without looking like a complete ingrate.
Well it’s a month later and still no notes.
Darn you passing time!
I guess part of my problem is that I like to make the notes personal and special. I am just not the generic:
Dear X,
Thank you so much for the beautiful _____. It sure is special! I can’t wait to use it/ grow into it/ be able to eat it soon!
Love, Prince Peanut
type.
But my valiant procrastination efforts have also made this hard because now he’s actually outgrown some of the things he has gotten so I am finding myself writing notes in the past tense which is just awkward.
Dear Aunt Joan,
Thank you so much for the sassy Michigan hat. It looked really great on me for a few days but now that my head is the size of a cantaloupe I have moved on to knit caps so I don’t outgrow them every week or so. I hope to meet you soon!
Love,
Mighty Muffin Man
I also am having issues coming up with appropriate ways to thank people for monetary gifts. Those were great but I always feel the need to tell the sender what the gift was spent on.
Dear Rich Uncle Todd,
Thank you so much for the generous present! Mommy and Daddy really wish they could have saved that money for my college education but instead had to spend it on Mommy’s lavish 30th birthday party so she wouldn’t have a nervous breakdown and abandon me.
Hope to spend a summer at one of your lovely vacation homes soon!
Love,
The Boy Child
Six months doesn’t seem like so long. It was not as bad when I made the 350 guests at my wedding wait for thank you notes. Then 6 months after I received the gifts I was still married and we were still using the bread maker/tablecloth/ coffee maker and since I was only 21 I could spend the money on furniture and that made for a lovely thank you message.
But in Baby Land 6 months is a long time! In that time he has tripled his birth weight and learned to laugh and smile and roll over and almost sit and eat solid foods and develop a fantastically annoying case of separation anxiety.
And it’s all extra nifty because he came early and wasn’t even supposed to be doing all the neato 6 month old tricks until March.
Wait wait…does that mean I have until March?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Cold and Colder
Snow is coating the ground here in Washington DC and though my thoughts should be on warm things I'm just too excited about two dessert recipes I recently discovered. One is the ultimate in convenience and kosher chic, the other should appeal to the Martha Stewart and/or Earth Mother in you.
NY times columnist Mark Bittman (aka the minimalist) always has something interesting to say, but recently he rocked my pareve world with this sorbet recipe that uses silken tofu:
Super-Simple Sorbet
I discovered the second recipe after googling around for a while for a faux "Mr. Yogato" recipe. Those delicious $5 bowls of sweet-tart happiness always make me feel like a sucker for paying someone else to freeze my yogurt. This recipe from the great blog 101 Cookbooks just about does the trick (though my kitchen's selection of toppings will never rival Mr. Yogato's).
Frozen Yogurt Recipe
By David Lebovitz, adapted by Heidi Swanson
NY times columnist Mark Bittman (aka the minimalist) always has something interesting to say, but recently he rocked my pareve world with this sorbet recipe that uses silken tofu:
1 pound frozen strawberries or other fruit
1/2 cup yogurt, crème fraîche or silken tofu
1/4 cup sugar, more or less.
1. Put all the ingredients in a food processor container along with a couple of tablespoons of water. Process until just puréed and creamy, stopping to scrape down the sides of the bowl as needed. If the fruit does not break down completely, add a little more water through the feed tube, a tablespoon or two at a time, being careful not to over-process or the sorbet will liquefy.
2. Serve immediately or freeze it for later; if serving later, allow 10 to 15 minutes for sorbet to soften at room temperature.
Yield: At least 4 servings.
I discovered the second recipe after googling around for a while for a faux "Mr. Yogato" recipe. Those delicious $5 bowls of sweet-tart happiness always make me feel like a sucker for paying someone else to freeze my yogurt. This recipe from the great blog 101 Cookbooks just about does the trick (though my kitchen's selection of toppings will never rival Mr. Yogato's).
Frozen Yogurt Recipe
By David Lebovitz, adapted by Heidi Swanson
3 cups strained yogurt (see below) or Greek-style yogurt
2/3 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract (optional)
Mix together the yogurt, sugar, and vanilla (if using). Stir until the sugar is completely dissolved. Refrigerate 1 hour.
Freeze in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions.
To make 1 cup of strained yogurt, line a mesh strainer with a few layers of cheese cloth. then scrape 16 ounces or 2 cups of whole-milk plain yogurt into the cheesecloth [I used low-fat, with good results]. Gather the ends and fold them over the yogurt, then refrigerate for at least 6 hours. So, for the above recipe start with and strain 6 cups of yogurt.
Makes about 1 quart.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Inauguration Reflection
Watching the inauguration, it was difficult not to be awed by how civilized the whole thing was. I don't know why this year more than any, I was struck by just how smooth and peaceful the transfer of power was. Both the Obamas and the Bush's acted with remarkable grace towards each other.
I couldn't help but reflect on the many places in our world where changes of power lead to extreme and brutal violence.
Neither Bush nor Obama are blessed with superhuman powers of calm and dignity. A respected system is set in place for them - and they merely followed this set pattern - perhaps a little better than most.
As a parent, my natural potential to lose my cool or remain calm is not significantly greater or weaker than most. This year's inauguration reminded me of the importance of establishing patterns and systems in the home that help to guard against outbursts of anger and impatience. And it's harder to establish those systems on our own - without the help of lawmakers and judges. Still establishing patterns such as prioritizing rest, not over-programming, asking for help, and taking time to reflect can help our family guard against the temptation to lose it when the kids drive me crazy.
I couldn't help but reflect on the many places in our world where changes of power lead to extreme and brutal violence.
Neither Bush nor Obama are blessed with superhuman powers of calm and dignity. A respected system is set in place for them - and they merely followed this set pattern - perhaps a little better than most.
As a parent, my natural potential to lose my cool or remain calm is not significantly greater or weaker than most. This year's inauguration reminded me of the importance of establishing patterns and systems in the home that help to guard against outbursts of anger and impatience. And it's harder to establish those systems on our own - without the help of lawmakers and judges. Still establishing patterns such as prioritizing rest, not over-programming, asking for help, and taking time to reflect can help our family guard against the temptation to lose it when the kids drive me crazy.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Lexomatic Reading Freak (the Two-year-old edition)
Our household is weird. We don't have a television. No reason. Just never got around to it. Besides, we get lots of invitations for such spectator sports and national bonding moments as the Inauguration (our apartment, twelve blocks from the White House, was wasted on us this year), the Super Bowl, and, of course, the Oscars.
But for quotidian entertainment, we read. My baby’s reading tastes have been changing so gradually over the course of the year that we’ve turned over most of the rather extensive library already. You see, the theme of our baby shower was books!
Here’s a brief list of current favorites. By favorites, we mean the books we MUST read at least once a day, or every other day.
1. When the Moon Smiled by Peter Horacek.
In general, Czech and Slovak illustrators are among my favorite on earth. This lovely bedtime book features a moon who does not smile because the animals on the farm aren’t behaving themselves. The ones who are supposed to be awake at night go to sleep, and the ones who are supposed to be asleep are awake, You can imagine the fun we have with it when the girl acts out what each animal does, the sounds it makes. We like to stop in mid-action and fall suddenly to sleep. The cut-out stars are fun to stick your fingers in, and the colors are breath taking.
2. The Big Orange Spot by D. Manus Pinkwater
This one was given to us at said baby shower. The message is probably too sophisticated for her—the “neat street” gets all funky as people start to paint their houses to resemble their dreams. But if you summarize some of the dialogue, the houses themselves are really fun to look at. Luckily, we have a toy alligator, a toy elephant, and other props to help us act out the fun.
3. Curious George by H. A. Rey
Again, slightly sophisticated (I don’t think she understands what “curious” means), but my girl adores this little monkey.
4. ABC books. We have Elmo and Richard Scarry
Though she likes the Scarry illustrations, they’re a little abstract at this point (we don’t juggle or talk about jack o’lanterns all that much). But she can proudly sing her ABCs all the way to L, at which point she starts mixing up the letters in adorable combinations, of course.
5. Ruff! Ruff! Where’s Scruff? by Sarah Weeks and David A. Carter
The pleasure here is the pop-up book, with the muddy dog, Scruff, hiding very cleverly behind various other farm animals. Really a cute and very smart book. And it’s fun before bathtime.
6. The Big Red Barn & The Runaway Bunny by Margaret Wise Brown
The girl is obsessed with animals. The first is sweet. The second is fun to play. We run away and catch one another, and it keeps us going for a long time.
7. How the Mole Got His Pockets by Eduard Petiska and Zdenek Miler
Another Czech illustrator. This one is hard to find in the USA, but once you do, you can supplement it with youtube video clips of various Mole adventures. Especially moving is the Mole and the Swallow and the Mole and the Snowman. But the Pockets book takes you through the entire process of making clothes. You start with flax plants, go to spinning (spiders help here) and weaving (the ants), you dye the fabric and cut and sew, and viola! Pockets!
8. In the Hebrew language category there are four.
Bo Elai Parpar Nekhmad by Fania Bergstein. It features scenes from a kibbutz, and some of the photos features songs we like to sing, like "Ha auto shelanu." It was originally published in 1945.
9. Vayhi erev, also by Fania Bergstein, is about a little girl who wants to tell the chickens good night, but gets into all kinds of trouble. It's also a mid-century book. Very sweet.
10. Ayn Arayot Ka-Ele by Ami Rubenger, (2005).
She likes this one much more than I do.
11. My favorite favorite of all is Yom Shel Tom by Rinat Hoffer. It's got lovely folding half-pages, and it's full of little surprise.
I’d love to hear what you read because, frankly, I’ve already memorized these the first thousand times we read them.
Read on!
But for quotidian entertainment, we read. My baby’s reading tastes have been changing so gradually over the course of the year that we’ve turned over most of the rather extensive library already. You see, the theme of our baby shower was books!
Here’s a brief list of current favorites. By favorites, we mean the books we MUST read at least once a day, or every other day.
1. When the Moon Smiled by Peter Horacek.
In general, Czech and Slovak illustrators are among my favorite on earth. This lovely bedtime book features a moon who does not smile because the animals on the farm aren’t behaving themselves. The ones who are supposed to be awake at night go to sleep, and the ones who are supposed to be asleep are awake, You can imagine the fun we have with it when the girl acts out what each animal does, the sounds it makes. We like to stop in mid-action and fall suddenly to sleep. The cut-out stars are fun to stick your fingers in, and the colors are breath taking.
2. The Big Orange Spot by D. Manus Pinkwater
This one was given to us at said baby shower. The message is probably too sophisticated for her—the “neat street” gets all funky as people start to paint their houses to resemble their dreams. But if you summarize some of the dialogue, the houses themselves are really fun to look at. Luckily, we have a toy alligator, a toy elephant, and other props to help us act out the fun.
3. Curious George by H. A. Rey
Again, slightly sophisticated (I don’t think she understands what “curious” means), but my girl adores this little monkey.
4. ABC books. We have Elmo and Richard Scarry
Though she likes the Scarry illustrations, they’re a little abstract at this point (we don’t juggle or talk about jack o’lanterns all that much). But she can proudly sing her ABCs all the way to L, at which point she starts mixing up the letters in adorable combinations, of course.
5. Ruff! Ruff! Where’s Scruff? by Sarah Weeks and David A. Carter
The pleasure here is the pop-up book, with the muddy dog, Scruff, hiding very cleverly behind various other farm animals. Really a cute and very smart book. And it’s fun before bathtime.
6. The Big Red Barn & The Runaway Bunny by Margaret Wise Brown
The girl is obsessed with animals. The first is sweet. The second is fun to play. We run away and catch one another, and it keeps us going for a long time.
7. How the Mole Got His Pockets by Eduard Petiska and Zdenek Miler
Another Czech illustrator. This one is hard to find in the USA, but once you do, you can supplement it with youtube video clips of various Mole adventures. Especially moving is the Mole and the Swallow and the Mole and the Snowman. But the Pockets book takes you through the entire process of making clothes. You start with flax plants, go to spinning (spiders help here) and weaving (the ants), you dye the fabric and cut and sew, and viola! Pockets!
8. In the Hebrew language category there are four.
Bo Elai Parpar Nekhmad by Fania Bergstein. It features scenes from a kibbutz, and some of the photos features songs we like to sing, like "Ha auto shelanu." It was originally published in 1945.
9. Vayhi erev, also by Fania Bergstein, is about a little girl who wants to tell the chickens good night, but gets into all kinds of trouble. It's also a mid-century book. Very sweet.
10. Ayn Arayot Ka-Ele by Ami Rubenger, (2005).
She likes this one much more than I do.
11. My favorite favorite of all is Yom Shel Tom by Rinat Hoffer. It's got lovely folding half-pages, and it's full of little surprise.
I’d love to hear what you read because, frankly, I’ve already memorized these the first thousand times we read them.
Read on!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Obama!
Happy Inauguration Day!
DC is crazy--lots of traffic and drunk people and patriots--but it's fun to be in the center of the action...even if we did watch the inauguration from the warmth of a friend's apartment.
Like everyone else I feel excited about a fresh start, putting the damaging politics of the last eight years behind us. I'm hopeful that President Obama's administration can accomplish real change--or at least healing--and I think it's so important that President Obama stressed the importance of each of our contributions. I was touched that he mentioned parents in the same sentence as firemen.
Somehow I never noticed the swearing in ceremony is quite religious--Christian mostly, though the minister include a surpise Shma Yisrael and only mentioned Jesus a few times. As much as I tend to cringe at the blurring of the lines between church and state I couldn't help but approve. Because the national crises run so deep, and the responsibility over life and death so awesome, that perhaps only a person who is deeply humbled by his place in the universe and profoundly touched by the beauty and potential of creation can lead our country effectively at this time.
President Obama, b'ezrat hashem, with God's help, and with the support of all who believe in you, may you go from strength to strength.
DC is crazy--lots of traffic and drunk people and patriots--but it's fun to be in the center of the action...even if we did watch the inauguration from the warmth of a friend's apartment.
Like everyone else I feel excited about a fresh start, putting the damaging politics of the last eight years behind us. I'm hopeful that President Obama's administration can accomplish real change--or at least healing--and I think it's so important that President Obama stressed the importance of each of our contributions. I was touched that he mentioned parents in the same sentence as firemen.
Somehow I never noticed the swearing in ceremony is quite religious--Christian mostly, though the minister include a surpise Shma Yisrael and only mentioned Jesus a few times. As much as I tend to cringe at the blurring of the lines between church and state I couldn't help but approve. Because the national crises run so deep, and the responsibility over life and death so awesome, that perhaps only a person who is deeply humbled by his place in the universe and profoundly touched by the beauty and potential of creation can lead our country effectively at this time.
President Obama, b'ezrat hashem, with God's help, and with the support of all who believe in you, may you go from strength to strength.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Gender Bender
This evening, my son announced that he was having difficulty pooping. You must be constipated, I said. Yes, I'm very complicated, he replied.
How true.
When I first found out that he was a he (after he was born), I admit I worried a little that I would not be able to connect. I am a fairly girlie girl. Would I be able to get into fire trucks, race cars, football, etc? A friend at the time said to me, maybe this boy will be the type you can share all your feminine interests with (books, movies, etc.)
Little did I know how right she would turn out to be. My son has never really gotten into typical boy stuff. His interests have always been more gender neutral and quirky (vacuums, haircuts, musical instruments are a few examples). But lately, he seems to be developing a more intense interest in "girl stuff." (princesses, dresses, the color pink, etc.) He has always shown an intense appreciation for beauty and it seems that now he wants to be more of a participant than an observer.
I admit that this makes me a bit uncomfortable at times. When we left the shoe store last week , he expressed some disappointment that he did not get pink shoes like his sister. I explained that it was too late - we had already purchased the shoes, which he seemed to like at the time. But truthfully, I would not have had the guts to be buy him the pink shoes from the girls section. It's just too much for me - and ultimately, I think, somewhat irresponsible. For what it's worth, he lives in a extremely color-coded gender world right now. I can try to neutralize it, but it's really hard go cross over completely. I think I will switch to Zappos for the time being.
I do allow him to dress up in girls clothes in the context of play and even to wear my pink scarf and hat to school. I am trying to give him room to experiment and explore while at the same time make more of an effort to show him that it's also fun and exciting and special to be a boy - even if sports and superheroes aren't his thing right now.
The experience is also challenging me to revisit some of my behavior towards my daughter as well. It is easier than I thought it would be to have a little too much fun dressing her up in cute outfits and gushing over how adorable she looks in them. It takes a certain discipline for me to tone that down - and I think it's really important for everyone (especially her!) that I do.
I find it difficult to be in the present with this - to not let my anxieties about the future get in the way. I am anxious, for example, that he will be teased at school. But I try to remind myself that no one is teasing him now. And even if they do, he will have the strength to get through it and the wisdom to grow from it.
I hope that I will learn how to be as supportive and helpful to him as I can as he continues on the journey.
How true.
When I first found out that he was a he (after he was born), I admit I worried a little that I would not be able to connect. I am a fairly girlie girl. Would I be able to get into fire trucks, race cars, football, etc? A friend at the time said to me, maybe this boy will be the type you can share all your feminine interests with (books, movies, etc.)
Little did I know how right she would turn out to be. My son has never really gotten into typical boy stuff. His interests have always been more gender neutral and quirky (vacuums, haircuts, musical instruments are a few examples). But lately, he seems to be developing a more intense interest in "girl stuff." (princesses, dresses, the color pink, etc.) He has always shown an intense appreciation for beauty and it seems that now he wants to be more of a participant than an observer.
I admit that this makes me a bit uncomfortable at times. When we left the shoe store last week , he expressed some disappointment that he did not get pink shoes like his sister. I explained that it was too late - we had already purchased the shoes, which he seemed to like at the time. But truthfully, I would not have had the guts to be buy him the pink shoes from the girls section. It's just too much for me - and ultimately, I think, somewhat irresponsible. For what it's worth, he lives in a extremely color-coded gender world right now. I can try to neutralize it, but it's really hard go cross over completely. I think I will switch to Zappos for the time being.
I do allow him to dress up in girls clothes in the context of play and even to wear my pink scarf and hat to school. I am trying to give him room to experiment and explore while at the same time make more of an effort to show him that it's also fun and exciting and special to be a boy - even if sports and superheroes aren't his thing right now.
The experience is also challenging me to revisit some of my behavior towards my daughter as well. It is easier than I thought it would be to have a little too much fun dressing her up in cute outfits and gushing over how adorable she looks in them. It takes a certain discipline for me to tone that down - and I think it's really important for everyone (especially her!) that I do.
I find it difficult to be in the present with this - to not let my anxieties about the future get in the way. I am anxious, for example, that he will be teased at school. But I try to remind myself that no one is teasing him now. And even if they do, he will have the strength to get through it and the wisdom to grow from it.
I hope that I will learn how to be as supportive and helpful to him as I can as he continues on the journey.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Odd-Woman-Out
When I was nearing the end of my pregnancy, and for those first three weeks of my daughter’s life, before I had to go back to work, I was just like everyone else, more or less. I was a woman who had just given birth. And that’s all. Like many other women, I spent my waking hours with my shirt unbuttoned feeding the girl. Or trying to get her to burp. I spent my sleeping hours awake, feeding the girl or walking up and down stairs with a screaming colicky bundle, patting her back, or whatever it took, to quiet her down. Like everyone else.
I’d never felt so much woman solidarity was when I was in my ninth month of pregnancy. Everyone from the post-office clerks to the checkers in the grocery store would smile and tell me about their kids. They’d guess the baby’s gender by the shape of my belly. Some even produced detailed horoscopes. The people on the bus talked to me and gave me their seats. The stream of pedestrian traffic individuated itself as random people smiled and talked to me in passing. Even the crowds in a couple of sweaty concerts took the mama in stride: “rock on.”
Babies are the common denominators of humanity.
A goodly portion of half the population has given birth, and the rest know someone who has. And everyone was once a baby. My body may have become a bizarre and ponderous formation I did not recognize, but I was just like everyone else.
But this past week was another story.
This past week I was the odd-woman-out.
Or rather, I felt how my difference caused discomfort and inconvenience to a greater community. For the first time.
What kind of person has to serve papers to Babydaddy in conjunction with her daughter’s birthday party? For reasons I won't go into here, I had no choice. The couple with whom I hosted the party was so uncomfortable with the idea we had to resort to more chancy tactics.
Justice was served out of sight and off-property,in a manner not unlike a Sopranos episode I’m proud to say no one else realized what happened, except the guy who got served. But I'm still queasy.
This week my place of employment was hiring. I sat through brilliant candidate talks that left me speechless. But I was too tired to ask intelligent questions. What does it mean to “queer the generative literary systems”? I'm not sure, but I suspect it’s too late for me to start thinking about doing that now.
Nope, I’m not like everyone else. Not like that nice family who shared my daughter’s birthday. Not like my nice family of birth. Not like my childless colleagues, or male colleagues with children and wives.
Not this week, at least.
Oh, well.
I’d never felt so much woman solidarity was when I was in my ninth month of pregnancy. Everyone from the post-office clerks to the checkers in the grocery store would smile and tell me about their kids. They’d guess the baby’s gender by the shape of my belly. Some even produced detailed horoscopes. The people on the bus talked to me and gave me their seats. The stream of pedestrian traffic individuated itself as random people smiled and talked to me in passing. Even the crowds in a couple of sweaty concerts took the mama in stride: “rock on.”
Babies are the common denominators of humanity.
A goodly portion of half the population has given birth, and the rest know someone who has. And everyone was once a baby. My body may have become a bizarre and ponderous formation I did not recognize, but I was just like everyone else.
But this past week was another story.
This past week I was the odd-woman-out.
Or rather, I felt how my difference caused discomfort and inconvenience to a greater community. For the first time.
What kind of person has to serve papers to Babydaddy in conjunction with her daughter’s birthday party? For reasons I won't go into here, I had no choice. The couple with whom I hosted the party was so uncomfortable with the idea we had to resort to more chancy tactics.
Justice was served out of sight and off-property,in a manner not unlike a Sopranos episode I’m proud to say no one else realized what happened, except the guy who got served. But I'm still queasy.
This week my place of employment was hiring. I sat through brilliant candidate talks that left me speechless. But I was too tired to ask intelligent questions. What does it mean to “queer the generative literary systems”? I'm not sure, but I suspect it’s too late for me to start thinking about doing that now.
Nope, I’m not like everyone else. Not like that nice family who shared my daughter’s birthday. Not like my nice family of birth. Not like my childless colleagues, or male colleagues with children and wives.
Not this week, at least.
Oh, well.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Nidah? I Hahdly Even Know Ya!
When my husband and I got married we registered for 6 pages worth of stuff. Hundreds of household items, everything you could think of from crystal to striped roll pillows to a grilled cheese maker. But we did not register for sheets. No siree Bob.
We had an orthodox wedding and we shockingly had purchased a queen sized bed. Oh the drama. We didn’t register for our scandalous queen sheets so we wouldn’t shame my family. Some Jews are so judgmental (you know who you are) and since we weren’t so into the whole “we can only be pure if we do the whole Donna Reed beds pushed together thing” we just left that off our list.
But one cat, one dog, one daughter and one son later man oh man do I wish we frum’ed out and got the big bed...or rather two small beds pushed together to form one large bed.
We used to be so strict about the bed. It was our sanctuary. Our romantic hideaway. We had candles around and high thread count sheets. And the girl was never allowed in our special love nest. Even when she was a baby we would fight through the sleepiness and rock her to sleep in her room. It’s not like we didn’t share, we just had rules- she loved snuggling with us in the bed after the sun came up, would enjoy hearing stories on my pillow before bed time and don’t even get me started on the crazy games of tent she would play under said high quality sheets. But the nighttime was not the right time for her.
I am not sure what changed. Well I know what changed. First we decided to get the dog on anti-anxiety medication, so now rather than sleeping UNDER the bed she sleeps ON TOP of it. Which is fine and healthier for her self esteem and all but man, 60lbs of dog laying upon your toes sort of cuts off circulation around 3am or so. And then of course the cat got threatened by that, so he moved from the end of the bed to right on my pillow. And while I do find purring in my ear sexy, it is done most effectively without Meow Mix breath.
Then of course there is the whole added life form. He certainly drained our energy levels. Thanks to him, we simply do not have the physical or emotional strength to get up and give our Queen snuggles in her bed if she awakes from a bad dream, so she plops on in with us. And if the boy sleeps until 8am and she wakes up at 5:30am then we sure as heck aren’t going to do something silly like play with her and chance waking him, so into the playroom-formerly-known-as-sanctuary she goes.
The same thing goes with the new man in town. We really try to keep him in his crib, but the other night he woke up with a cold and after a few attempts to settle him in his bed we just brought him in with us. And then of course all his crying woke up the lady in our lives so she joined us (which was what the bringing him in our bed was supposed to avoid). Thankfully the dog was there because I was able to prop my one foot that no longer fit in the bed on top her snout to maintain some sense of balance.
So here is what hasn’t changed, my husband and me. We are still annoyingly lovey dovey. We spoon so hard that his arm tends to cramp when we somehow manage to get more than 6 hours of sleep straight in a single night. And while nowadays leaving candles about can be a bit of a fire hazard, we did get a mini fridge for our room that holds not only the morning’s bottle but the evening’s bottle of wine as well.
So maybe even if we don’t think there is ever a time of any month of any year where a husband shouldn’t be allowed to spoon his wife (forking is a different matter) or give her a hug or I don’t know, accept water from a cup she has poured into (gotta love the Yeshiva) maybe we should just do the twin push. That way we can give the kids one of the beds and we can have our bed-and sleep in it too.
We had an orthodox wedding and we shockingly had purchased a queen sized bed. Oh the drama. We didn’t register for our scandalous queen sheets so we wouldn’t shame my family. Some Jews are so judgmental (you know who you are) and since we weren’t so into the whole “we can only be pure if we do the whole Donna Reed beds pushed together thing” we just left that off our list.
But one cat, one dog, one daughter and one son later man oh man do I wish we frum’ed out and got the big bed...or rather two small beds pushed together to form one large bed.
We used to be so strict about the bed. It was our sanctuary. Our romantic hideaway. We had candles around and high thread count sheets. And the girl was never allowed in our special love nest. Even when she was a baby we would fight through the sleepiness and rock her to sleep in her room. It’s not like we didn’t share, we just had rules- she loved snuggling with us in the bed after the sun came up, would enjoy hearing stories on my pillow before bed time and don’t even get me started on the crazy games of tent she would play under said high quality sheets. But the nighttime was not the right time for her.
I am not sure what changed. Well I know what changed. First we decided to get the dog on anti-anxiety medication, so now rather than sleeping UNDER the bed she sleeps ON TOP of it. Which is fine and healthier for her self esteem and all but man, 60lbs of dog laying upon your toes sort of cuts off circulation around 3am or so. And then of course the cat got threatened by that, so he moved from the end of the bed to right on my pillow. And while I do find purring in my ear sexy, it is done most effectively without Meow Mix breath.
Then of course there is the whole added life form. He certainly drained our energy levels. Thanks to him, we simply do not have the physical or emotional strength to get up and give our Queen snuggles in her bed if she awakes from a bad dream, so she plops on in with us. And if the boy sleeps until 8am and she wakes up at 5:30am then we sure as heck aren’t going to do something silly like play with her and chance waking him, so into the playroom-formerly-known-as-sanctuary she goes.
The same thing goes with the new man in town. We really try to keep him in his crib, but the other night he woke up with a cold and after a few attempts to settle him in his bed we just brought him in with us. And then of course all his crying woke up the lady in our lives so she joined us (which was what the bringing him in our bed was supposed to avoid). Thankfully the dog was there because I was able to prop my one foot that no longer fit in the bed on top her snout to maintain some sense of balance.
So here is what hasn’t changed, my husband and me. We are still annoyingly lovey dovey. We spoon so hard that his arm tends to cramp when we somehow manage to get more than 6 hours of sleep straight in a single night. And while nowadays leaving candles about can be a bit of a fire hazard, we did get a mini fridge for our room that holds not only the morning’s bottle but the evening’s bottle of wine as well.
So maybe even if we don’t think there is ever a time of any month of any year where a husband shouldn’t be allowed to spoon his wife (forking is a different matter) or give her a hug or I don’t know, accept water from a cup she has poured into (gotta love the Yeshiva) maybe we should just do the twin push. That way we can give the kids one of the beds and we can have our bed-and sleep in it too.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
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...
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...
A Taste of Vacation
It's almost seven in the morning and I'm about to go away to a conference for two days--the longest I've ever been away from Chamudi continuously. Of course he chose last night to get a stomach virus...he was up from 3 to just a little past 5:30 and now has thankfully drifted off to sleep so he doesn't have to see me leave. I can't imagine how upset he'll be when he wakes up, though--all he wants when he's sick is Ima--and the guilt is already getting me.
Following Maya's theme of the healing powers of chocolate, I wanted to share with you the most wonderful chocolate chip cookie recipe, which I found on the back of the Hershey's chocolate chip bag. Over vacation Chamudi and I whipped up a batch to bring to Savta and had a great time of it, measuring and mixing (with our hands) and eating cookie upon cookie and making a big mess of ourselves. I could have done that forever.
So here it is, a taste of vacation:
Hershey's Classic Milk Chocolate Chip Cookies
1 cup (2 sticks) butter
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 eggs
2-1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 cups HERSHEYS milk chocolate chips
1. Heat oven to 375 degrees F.
2. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar and vanilla in large bowl with mixer [or clean hands!] until creamy. Add eggs; beat well. Stir together flour, baking soda and salt; gradually add to butter mixture, beating until well blended. Stir in chocolate chips.
3. Drop by teaspoons onto ungreased cookie sheet. Bake 8-10 minutes until lightly brown. Cool slightly; remove from cookie sheet onto wire rack. Cool completely. About 5 dozen cookies.
Following Maya's theme of the healing powers of chocolate, I wanted to share with you the most wonderful chocolate chip cookie recipe, which I found on the back of the Hershey's chocolate chip bag. Over vacation Chamudi and I whipped up a batch to bring to Savta and had a great time of it, measuring and mixing (with our hands) and eating cookie upon cookie and making a big mess of ourselves. I could have done that forever.
So here it is, a taste of vacation:
Hershey's Classic Milk Chocolate Chip Cookies
1 cup (2 sticks) butter
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 eggs
2-1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 cups HERSHEYS milk chocolate chips
1. Heat oven to 375 degrees F.
2. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar and vanilla in large bowl with mixer [or clean hands!] until creamy. Add eggs; beat well. Stir together flour, baking soda and salt; gradually add to butter mixture, beating until well blended. Stir in chocolate chips.
3. Drop by teaspoons onto ungreased cookie sheet. Bake 8-10 minutes until lightly brown. Cool slightly; remove from cookie sheet onto wire rack. Cool completely. About 5 dozen cookies.
Monday, January 12, 2009
My Friend
I am grateful for this is blog (and have missed contributing) partly because it is a space for me to write down things my children say that I want to always remember.
At least once a day, my 4-year old son tells me that we are good friends. "We're very good friends, aren't we Mommy," he'll say. Or when we walk to shul together he'll hold my hand and say, "Isn't it nice to walk together mommy? We're good friends." And every morning we snuggle for a few minutes and he comments, "You're my friend."
It's a big counter-intuitive (I'm supposed to be his mommy, right, not his buddy), but I've found that the friend language is also useful in terms of discipline. I find that the more I use the friend language, the more respectful he is and the more likely he is to listen to to my instructions gracefully.
Don't get me wrong. There are PLENTY of times when this does not work. Mainly because it is hard to switch into "affectionate friend mode" when I am frustrated at his behavior. And because when he is misbehaving, often the my stern voice gets me a lot farther.
But when we start the day talking about our friendship and when I remind him throughout the day how happy I am that we are friends, then he is less likely to be difficult.
What a good friend!
At least once a day, my 4-year old son tells me that we are good friends. "We're very good friends, aren't we Mommy," he'll say. Or when we walk to shul together he'll hold my hand and say, "Isn't it nice to walk together mommy? We're good friends." And every morning we snuggle for a few minutes and he comments, "You're my friend."
It's a big counter-intuitive (I'm supposed to be his mommy, right, not his buddy), but I've found that the friend language is also useful in terms of discipline. I find that the more I use the friend language, the more respectful he is and the more likely he is to listen to to my instructions gracefully.
Don't get me wrong. There are PLENTY of times when this does not work. Mainly because it is hard to switch into "affectionate friend mode" when I am frustrated at his behavior. And because when he is misbehaving, often the my stern voice gets me a lot farther.
But when we start the day talking about our friendship and when I remind him throughout the day how happy I am that we are friends, then he is less likely to be difficult.
What a good friend!
Friday, January 09, 2009
Dark Chocolate Mousse!
Tonight I am hosting Babydaddy and his new girlfriend (who, I hope to G-d, is fertile) for Shabbat dinner. I'm not that nice. I'm just working all day and don't want to miss seeing my baby after 5 pm. And I also don't want the little miss taken out in the freezing weather in the middle of the night. This is a man I'm currently suing for custody. This is a custody case requesting that I be permitted to take my baby into a country at war. We won't even go into the war. I did that last post.
All I can say is, Mousse!
This mousse won't bring world peace, and it probably won't even make you a better person. But it will sure make you feel better. One little bite fills you with unreasonable joy. It can be parev, depending on the chocolate you use.
Dark Chocolate Mousse
Ingredients
12 oz. semi-sweet or bitter sweet chocolate. I use ghiradelli.
6 eggs, separated
1 tsp. instant coffee (dry crystals--elite coffee works well because it's fine, and who really wants to drink the stuff anyway?)
1-2 tsp. Chocolate liquor (or really anything you have on hand).
Separate eggs. Place the yolks in a bowl with the liquor.
Beat the whites until stiff
Melt chocolate with the coffee crystals in a double broiler. DO NOT allow even a drop of water on the chocolate. Do not overheat the chocolate. Melt, and then turn the heat off.
Pour the chocolate into the yolk mixture and beat vigorously.
Fold the whites into the chocolate.
Refrigerate and let set for at least 4 hours. It's better if you leave it overnight. It really just improves with age, up to about 3 days.
All I can say is, Mousse!
This mousse won't bring world peace, and it probably won't even make you a better person. But it will sure make you feel better. One little bite fills you with unreasonable joy. It can be parev, depending on the chocolate you use.
Dark Chocolate Mousse
Ingredients
12 oz. semi-sweet or bitter sweet chocolate. I use ghiradelli.
6 eggs, separated
1 tsp. instant coffee (dry crystals--elite coffee works well because it's fine, and who really wants to drink the stuff anyway?)
1-2 tsp. Chocolate liquor (or really anything you have on hand).
Separate eggs. Place the yolks in a bowl with the liquor.
Beat the whites until stiff
Melt chocolate with the coffee crystals in a double broiler. DO NOT allow even a drop of water on the chocolate. Do not overheat the chocolate. Melt, and then turn the heat off.
Pour the chocolate into the yolk mixture and beat vigorously.
Fold the whites into the chocolate.
Refrigerate and let set for at least 4 hours. It's better if you leave it overnight. It really just improves with age, up to about 3 days.
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