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.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
DC Tourism for Toddlers
I had been planning to write this post about Touring DC with children for months, but after the sad and senseless, horrible shooting at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum on June 9, I wasn't sure now was the time for it.
In the end, I'd like to help keep the Ima Shalom blog going, and this post is what I have. I will only add that I am very glad my very pregnant friend who works at the museum is okay, and that this city is a good place to be a Jew, despite what happened two days ago.
For the past year or so we've been poorer than dirt. We couldn't afford any big trips. Heck, I could only do nearly-full time child care. So we pretended to be tourists in our own city twice a week. Here are some of our favorites, and all are fun for toddlers, too.
1. The U.S. Botanic Gardens and Conservatory: I have never in my life smelled anything as good as the Conservatory. Don't know if it was the complete rain forest inside or the cinnamon and allspice trees, the orchid room, or what. And if that's not enough for you, its blue tile fountains inside, and the sand box, fountains, play house and other objects of childhood desire, in the very center atrium, kept my girl occupied until she fell over with fatigue. At which point we put her in the stroller and strolled through the botanic gardens outside.
2. The Smithsonian National Air and Space Museumwill also keep a girl entertained for hours. We could hardly pull her out of the cockpits of all the cool planes. It's very hands on, considering how expensive all that stuff is. To be honest, the escalators are also entertaining for kids. But big people could fall for the homemade planes--complete with instructions. You could probably build one yourself if you had enough plastic wrap and a spare lawnmower engine.
3. The great thing about the American History Museum is that the Spark! lab (for older toddlers) and the Invention at Play lab (for kids, with play area for babies and young toddlers) are right next to Julia Child's kitchen. So when you're done looking at Dorothy's ruby slippers and Jerry Seinfeld's puffy pirate shirt upstairs, the fun can continue for everyone downstairs.
4. The Natural History Museum is such a no-brainer, I can't believe I'm writing it. So's the Zoo.
5. But if you get to the stunning Sackler and Freer Galleries which house Asian art, and if there are two of you, one of you can enjoy the art while the other douses herself and the kid in one of the two outdoor fountain/gardens. But seriously, my girl loved the Islamic art--lots of animals on pottery, even elephants. And the Sackler gift shop is incredible for kids stuff. Think about it, all the cool toys are made in Japan anyway.
Then we scoot over to the Carousel on the Mall. There may be better carousels, though this one is terrific. But what I like about it is that when the ride is over and the girl is crying that she doesn't want to get off, they give you a STICKER as you exit! How brilliant is that?
6. We also loved the Aquatic Gardensin Kenilworth. It was an easy metro ride, though people do drive. The Kenilworth Park is next to the gardens, but we ran out of time. Imagine DC before civil engineers--yep, virgin swamp, folks. But we got to see a real live beaver in the wild building his dam. (Beavers chew very loudly.) My girl loved running up and down the boardwalk and looking at the pretty flowers and chasing ducks. I wouldn't recommend it on a hot day, though. It is a swamp, and is pretty humid.
7. The only item on this list that is not free is Dumbarton Oaks in Georgetown. It's $8 for adults and $5 for kids, and by "kids," they mean ages 2 and up (though it's free in the winter; very limited hours). But it's worth it. These are among my favorite gardens in the USA. The terraces are dreamy, the first orangerie in the USA (which, incidentally, smells almost as good as the conservatory) is adorable, the swimming pool is like something out of The Great Gatsby, but with less depression and booze. There is an amphitheater that makes clever use of a reflecting pool, a rose garden. Something is always in bloom. The daughter took off running in sheer bliss and didn't stop for two hours.
8. I'm not going to mention the Building Museum. You can find it yourself. But it's my secret. So don't go. I mean, it's got a free playroom with every fabulous toy connected to construction and building in it (The building zone). The interior is stunning, and the indoor fountain is tantalizing to the kids, but so far no one has fallen in. It's got the best gift shop for adults in the city, if you like architecture themed houseware, which I do.
We also did the Cherry Blossom Festival and Tidal basin, which the girl slept through.
The National Sculpture garden, which we got in trouble for because the girl broke free and tried to play tea party in the Lichtenstein house. Also, it frustrated her that the birds she tried to feed kept running away from her.
The Hirschorn fountain, in my opinion, looks like the blow hole of a whale, and is, therefore, really cool. I like the design of the museum itself, but never quite got into any of the exhibits there. Stay with the fountain.
What are your favorites?
In the end, I'd like to help keep the Ima Shalom blog going, and this post is what I have. I will only add that I am very glad my very pregnant friend who works at the museum is okay, and that this city is a good place to be a Jew, despite what happened two days ago.
For the past year or so we've been poorer than dirt. We couldn't afford any big trips. Heck, I could only do nearly-full time child care. So we pretended to be tourists in our own city twice a week. Here are some of our favorites, and all are fun for toddlers, too.
1. The U.S. Botanic Gardens and Conservatory: I have never in my life smelled anything as good as the Conservatory. Don't know if it was the complete rain forest inside or the cinnamon and allspice trees, the orchid room, or what. And if that's not enough for you, its blue tile fountains inside, and the sand box, fountains, play house and other objects of childhood desire, in the very center atrium, kept my girl occupied until she fell over with fatigue. At which point we put her in the stroller and strolled through the botanic gardens outside.
2. The Smithsonian National Air and Space Museumwill also keep a girl entertained for hours. We could hardly pull her out of the cockpits of all the cool planes. It's very hands on, considering how expensive all that stuff is. To be honest, the escalators are also entertaining for kids. But big people could fall for the homemade planes--complete with instructions. You could probably build one yourself if you had enough plastic wrap and a spare lawnmower engine.
3. The great thing about the American History Museum is that the Spark! lab (for older toddlers) and the Invention at Play lab (for kids, with play area for babies and young toddlers) are right next to Julia Child's kitchen. So when you're done looking at Dorothy's ruby slippers and Jerry Seinfeld's puffy pirate shirt upstairs, the fun can continue for everyone downstairs.
4. The Natural History Museum is such a no-brainer, I can't believe I'm writing it. So's the Zoo.
5. But if you get to the stunning Sackler and Freer Galleries which house Asian art, and if there are two of you, one of you can enjoy the art while the other douses herself and the kid in one of the two outdoor fountain/gardens. But seriously, my girl loved the Islamic art--lots of animals on pottery, even elephants. And the Sackler gift shop is incredible for kids stuff. Think about it, all the cool toys are made in Japan anyway.
Then we scoot over to the Carousel on the Mall. There may be better carousels, though this one is terrific. But what I like about it is that when the ride is over and the girl is crying that she doesn't want to get off, they give you a STICKER as you exit! How brilliant is that?
6. We also loved the Aquatic Gardensin Kenilworth. It was an easy metro ride, though people do drive. The Kenilworth Park is next to the gardens, but we ran out of time. Imagine DC before civil engineers--yep, virgin swamp, folks. But we got to see a real live beaver in the wild building his dam. (Beavers chew very loudly.) My girl loved running up and down the boardwalk and looking at the pretty flowers and chasing ducks. I wouldn't recommend it on a hot day, though. It is a swamp, and is pretty humid.
7. The only item on this list that is not free is Dumbarton Oaks in Georgetown. It's $8 for adults and $5 for kids, and by "kids," they mean ages 2 and up (though it's free in the winter; very limited hours). But it's worth it. These are among my favorite gardens in the USA. The terraces are dreamy, the first orangerie in the USA (which, incidentally, smells almost as good as the conservatory) is adorable, the swimming pool is like something out of The Great Gatsby, but with less depression and booze. There is an amphitheater that makes clever use of a reflecting pool, a rose garden. Something is always in bloom. The daughter took off running in sheer bliss and didn't stop for two hours.
8. I'm not going to mention the Building Museum. You can find it yourself. But it's my secret. So don't go. I mean, it's got a free playroom with every fabulous toy connected to construction and building in it (The building zone). The interior is stunning, and the indoor fountain is tantalizing to the kids, but so far no one has fallen in. It's got the best gift shop for adults in the city, if you like architecture themed houseware, which I do.
We also did the Cherry Blossom Festival and Tidal basin, which the girl slept through.
The National Sculpture garden, which we got in trouble for because the girl broke free and tried to play tea party in the Lichtenstein house. Also, it frustrated her that the birds she tried to feed kept running away from her.
The Hirschorn fountain, in my opinion, looks like the blow hole of a whale, and is, therefore, really cool. I like the design of the museum itself, but never quite got into any of the exhibits there. Stay with the fountain.
What are your favorites?
Friday, June 05, 2009
May it Please the Court
I've spent a lot of time in court this past week. Erev Shavuot was the custody trial for my daughter, and this week I had jury duty. There are certainly things more terrifying for a parent than going to trial for custody, visitation, and (for me less important) child support. But I'd humbly suggest that trial be ranked right up there.
The idea of strangers (judge) and near-strangers (babydaddy) having any say in the matter of the child I raised alone from birth is, to say the least, anxiety inducing. I had hoped to avoid this scenario by hiring the best and most ethical attorney in the area eight months ago. But after we had to resort to suing for custody, it was out of my hands to some extent. This is what we had to do to enable us to move to Israel and marry our guy.
It's not that I don't want Babydaddy in my daughter's life. It's obviously important for her to know that her biological father loves her and wants to be with her. It's important for her to know him. I am just concerned that 1. it be as positive (and un-traumatic) an experience as possible and 2. it not allow anyone to micromanage my life as I had good reason to fear, given the kinds of details Babydaddy wanted control over.
After nearly two months of mediation with mediators and attorneys, which cost me at least my entire month's salary each month, Babydaddy and his attorney sat on our agreement for a month. We got a response from them a day before the trial. Their response (a counter offer), I was surprised to see, contained bits that were actually unconstitutional (violations of free speech), as well as radically unworkable visitation schedules. While I was obligated to return to the States with my daughter for periods of time that were at least twice as many days a year as he had seen her in the 2 1/2 years of her life so far combined, he did not obligate himself to visit us at all.
I had to think long and hard--what was my motivation here? First, I wanted to avoid the split-custody things that children of divorced parents must, unfortunately, endure. I did not want my daughter to have a winter home and a summer home. She's had only one home so far, and I didn't see why this had to change. Especially given the amount of child support Babydaddy decided he wanted to pay once we went to Israel. It was financially unfeasible for me. Especially given he's never spent more than 8 hours at a time with her, and that was always on shabbat, while he stayed with others, as a guest.
But was I acting from anger? From hurt that all this time I've done all the work alone, and now he likes coming in and spending shabbat and vacation with my girl, when neither of us can work anyway? Did I think he was skipping the meal and just coming by for dessert? Yes, I did. And it's something that we had to work through.
So the night before the trial, after I put my girl to bed, I phoned Babydaddy and we worked till 1:30 am, focusing on the points of greatest contention. We got through the first page--visitation. That, for me, was the biggie anyway. Now I would accompany my daughter to the States for 21 days a year, including travel time. And Babydaddy wanted this in two trips. He could come see us in Israel for as long as he wanted, but in the town in which we lived.
Then I woke earlier, typed up our new agreement , brought it to my attorney who looked it over. Then I called Babydaddy as he was en route and we worked out one more issue. We typed that up. Whatever we didn't agree on, I wrote as it had been in our original offer.
My attorney and I met him and his attorney in the courtroom, and they agreed to everything but custody. Since Babydaddy had not paid child support until that week, I was losing the arrears leverage that I'd wanted to use to avoid going to trial for custody. But I signed an agreement on visitation and child support, just to keep visitation as easy on my daughter and me as I could.
We went to trial for custody. Our district is one of the few who privilege father's rights; our judge is known for an extreme reluctance to grant anything but joint custody. But here's where the attorney comes in. My attorney has a reputation for being guided by ideals and ethics, rather than cash (He's older and got a reputation. He can afford it). He simply won't take you on if he doesn't think you're acting with the best intentions, and he doesn't take you to court unless he thinks you can win.
In the end, we didn't need to go to trial. The judge told us how she was going to rule before we began to speak. I got full physical custody and joint legal custody with final decision making power, which is, in practice, the exact same thing as full legal custody. I just have to take his arguments into consideration when making an important decision. Something I'd want to do anyway.
After a week in court, I can say this--it's a crazy system. I don't understand how it works, and often it doesn't, I guess. It does seem to bring out the worst in people. But it also has the potential to bring out the best. And frankly, I don't see an alternative. (Although, as a potential juror, I can see how a professional, trained jury would be better than a regular ol' me type).
That being said, I never want to go through it again.
The idea of strangers (judge) and near-strangers (babydaddy) having any say in the matter of the child I raised alone from birth is, to say the least, anxiety inducing. I had hoped to avoid this scenario by hiring the best and most ethical attorney in the area eight months ago. But after we had to resort to suing for custody, it was out of my hands to some extent. This is what we had to do to enable us to move to Israel and marry our guy.
It's not that I don't want Babydaddy in my daughter's life. It's obviously important for her to know that her biological father loves her and wants to be with her. It's important for her to know him. I am just concerned that 1. it be as positive (and un-traumatic) an experience as possible and 2. it not allow anyone to micromanage my life as I had good reason to fear, given the kinds of details Babydaddy wanted control over.
After nearly two months of mediation with mediators and attorneys, which cost me at least my entire month's salary each month, Babydaddy and his attorney sat on our agreement for a month. We got a response from them a day before the trial. Their response (a counter offer), I was surprised to see, contained bits that were actually unconstitutional (violations of free speech), as well as radically unworkable visitation schedules. While I was obligated to return to the States with my daughter for periods of time that were at least twice as many days a year as he had seen her in the 2 1/2 years of her life so far combined, he did not obligate himself to visit us at all.
I had to think long and hard--what was my motivation here? First, I wanted to avoid the split-custody things that children of divorced parents must, unfortunately, endure. I did not want my daughter to have a winter home and a summer home. She's had only one home so far, and I didn't see why this had to change. Especially given the amount of child support Babydaddy decided he wanted to pay once we went to Israel. It was financially unfeasible for me. Especially given he's never spent more than 8 hours at a time with her, and that was always on shabbat, while he stayed with others, as a guest.
But was I acting from anger? From hurt that all this time I've done all the work alone, and now he likes coming in and spending shabbat and vacation with my girl, when neither of us can work anyway? Did I think he was skipping the meal and just coming by for dessert? Yes, I did. And it's something that we had to work through.
So the night before the trial, after I put my girl to bed, I phoned Babydaddy and we worked till 1:30 am, focusing on the points of greatest contention. We got through the first page--visitation. That, for me, was the biggie anyway. Now I would accompany my daughter to the States for 21 days a year, including travel time. And Babydaddy wanted this in two trips. He could come see us in Israel for as long as he wanted, but in the town in which we lived.
Then I woke earlier, typed up our new agreement , brought it to my attorney who looked it over. Then I called Babydaddy as he was en route and we worked out one more issue. We typed that up. Whatever we didn't agree on, I wrote as it had been in our original offer.
My attorney and I met him and his attorney in the courtroom, and they agreed to everything but custody. Since Babydaddy had not paid child support until that week, I was losing the arrears leverage that I'd wanted to use to avoid going to trial for custody. But I signed an agreement on visitation and child support, just to keep visitation as easy on my daughter and me as I could.
We went to trial for custody. Our district is one of the few who privilege father's rights; our judge is known for an extreme reluctance to grant anything but joint custody. But here's where the attorney comes in. My attorney has a reputation for being guided by ideals and ethics, rather than cash (He's older and got a reputation. He can afford it). He simply won't take you on if he doesn't think you're acting with the best intentions, and he doesn't take you to court unless he thinks you can win.
In the end, we didn't need to go to trial. The judge told us how she was going to rule before we began to speak. I got full physical custody and joint legal custody with final decision making power, which is, in practice, the exact same thing as full legal custody. I just have to take his arguments into consideration when making an important decision. Something I'd want to do anyway.
After a week in court, I can say this--it's a crazy system. I don't understand how it works, and often it doesn't, I guess. It does seem to bring out the worst in people. But it also has the potential to bring out the best. And frankly, I don't see an alternative. (Although, as a potential juror, I can see how a professional, trained jury would be better than a regular ol' me type).
That being said, I never want to go through it again.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Day School Debate
I signed up for some local suburban Jewish listserves recently--mostly to hawk my Jewish Music Festival in their little suburban inboxes. My intention was to use it when I needed it, but before I knew it I was sucked in...reading it, following the debate raging hotly in my inbox.
The issue? The cost--and possible unsustainability--of the Jewish Day school model. Gluckel recently pointed out an editorial in the NY Jewish Week that explores the same question.
It's a difficult conversation for many--if not most--Jews trying to live a committed Jewish life. Jewish life is by definition not easy. If Kosher food became (hah!) prohibitively expensive, would we eat traif? If synagogue membership became exorbitant would we stop praying with a minyan? No...we find workarounds, support systems, we find a way to make Jewish life work, and even flourish, despite the difficulties and the cost.
But day school seems to be an intractable problem. They've become unaffordable to all but the most wealthy, and in these "difficult economic times" family after family that were just barely making it work before are seeking scholarships in record numbers. And that sky-high tuition is just barely covering the needs of the schools--the teachers are not in BMWs, the schools aren't pocketing massive surpluses...it's just that somehow, along the way, it just became that expensive to give a child a good-quality Jewish and secular education.
So how did it happen? Was it when we started demanding world-class teachers and facilities for our children? When we started trying to make our children as prepared for Harvard as they were for Yeshiva? Are we asking too much from our day schools when we ask them to be top-notch Jewish schools AND match and exceed the best that the private and public school system has to offer? Or is this really what we need to live and succeed as modern Jews in America?
We all struggle with the public school question. I myself went to public school for the first 8 years of school and it wasn't a bad experience for me. But I will say that despite the fact that there were lots of Jews in my school most of my friends weren't Jewish. That I learned countless Christmas carols and have fond memories of decorating trees and dying Easter eggs. And that at least one girl that I counted as a best friend was probably a little curious about my horns.
What do we lose when we send our children to public school? A body of knowledge, to be sure, but also a way of life. Within just a year of being at a Schechter school I had stopped dating non-Jews, by two years I had stopped eating traif meat. And that was with very little explicit pressure from my teachers and peers. My day school--an average one in most ways--showed me how--and maybe even why--to be Jewish.
These kind of influences on our children can be gained in other ways--in after-school programs, from mentors and tutors, in youth groups and summer camps (perhaps the brightest possibility) but can anything really compensate for the loss of year-round immersion? I'm not so sure.
And so I face down the cost, kind of frightened. Two years ago I figured that God--in the guise of the kindness of richer people--would provide. But now I'm not so sure. And age 5 doesn't look so far off.
But hey, I know this guy promising 200% returns on my investments....
The issue? The cost--and possible unsustainability--of the Jewish Day school model. Gluckel recently pointed out an editorial in the NY Jewish Week that explores the same question.
It's a difficult conversation for many--if not most--Jews trying to live a committed Jewish life. Jewish life is by definition not easy. If Kosher food became (hah!) prohibitively expensive, would we eat traif? If synagogue membership became exorbitant would we stop praying with a minyan? No...we find workarounds, support systems, we find a way to make Jewish life work, and even flourish, despite the difficulties and the cost.
But day school seems to be an intractable problem. They've become unaffordable to all but the most wealthy, and in these "difficult economic times" family after family that were just barely making it work before are seeking scholarships in record numbers. And that sky-high tuition is just barely covering the needs of the schools--the teachers are not in BMWs, the schools aren't pocketing massive surpluses...it's just that somehow, along the way, it just became that expensive to give a child a good-quality Jewish and secular education.
So how did it happen? Was it when we started demanding world-class teachers and facilities for our children? When we started trying to make our children as prepared for Harvard as they were for Yeshiva? Are we asking too much from our day schools when we ask them to be top-notch Jewish schools AND match and exceed the best that the private and public school system has to offer? Or is this really what we need to live and succeed as modern Jews in America?
We all struggle with the public school question. I myself went to public school for the first 8 years of school and it wasn't a bad experience for me. But I will say that despite the fact that there were lots of Jews in my school most of my friends weren't Jewish. That I learned countless Christmas carols and have fond memories of decorating trees and dying Easter eggs. And that at least one girl that I counted as a best friend was probably a little curious about my horns.
What do we lose when we send our children to public school? A body of knowledge, to be sure, but also a way of life. Within just a year of being at a Schechter school I had stopped dating non-Jews, by two years I had stopped eating traif meat. And that was with very little explicit pressure from my teachers and peers. My day school--an average one in most ways--showed me how--and maybe even why--to be Jewish.
These kind of influences on our children can be gained in other ways--in after-school programs, from mentors and tutors, in youth groups and summer camps (perhaps the brightest possibility) but can anything really compensate for the loss of year-round immersion? I'm not so sure.
And so I face down the cost, kind of frightened. Two years ago I figured that God--in the guise of the kindness of richer people--would provide. But now I'm not so sure. And age 5 doesn't look so far off.
But hey, I know this guy promising 200% returns on my investments....
Sunday, May 10, 2009
What do Jewish mothers look like?
The Jewish Women’s Archive has initiated a new community photo project on Flickr.com, called “Jewish Mothers: The Way We Were, The Way We Are.”
Please help build the collection by contributing photos of yourself or another Jewish mother (literal or metaphorical) in your life.
The photo can show a Jewish mother, now or in the past, in any context:
· Mothers at home or at work
· Mothers in the family and in the community
· Mothers of different generations and family constellations
· Formal portraits or candid snapshots
It's up to you. How would you like to represent Jewish mothers?
Happy Mother’s Day!
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Mother's Day reflection, with thanks to Henrietta Szold
Cross-posted at Jewesses With Attitude
Frankly, I’m too burnt out by a day spent with my children to offer much in the way of my own reflections on Mother’s Day. So instead I will share the words of Henrietta Szold to fellow Zionist activist Jessie Sampter on August 23, 1917:
“Deep down in the bottom of my heart I have always held that I should have had children, many children. It is only in rearing children that minute service piled on minute service counts. In my life, details have confused the issue; they have not gone to make a harmonious and productive whole. In a mother’s life, ability to lose one’s identity in details is the great thing for the future of mankind.”
Now, the cynic in me, the exhausted mother in me, responds, “Well, of course someone without children would think that. The grass is always greener, etc.” Or, “Great, yet another celebration of women’s sacrifice of themselves for the ‘future of mankind.’” But there’s also something about these words that rings true to my experience.
Please understand that I am in no way arguing that motherhood is the only worthwhile contribution one can make to society. And I certainly disagree with Szold’s claim that the details of her life’s work didn’t add up to a “harmonious and productive whole.” But I do relate to her sense that in motherhood the mundane tasks and minute details are often more rewarding – relentless, yes, but rewarding – than in other aspects of everyday life. So I’m taking some comfort in Szold’s words; when I feel mired in the frantic day-to-day struggle of balancing work/kids/marriage/myself, they remind me of the bigger picture.
At the same time, this quotation reminds me that there are many ways to be a mother. Though she never had children of her own, Szold was considered a mother to thousands because of her tireless work leading Youth Aliya, which saved eleven thousand children from the Nazis by bringing them to Palestine.
Happy Mother’s Day. May you catch a glimpse of that elusive “harmonious and productive whole.”
Monday, May 04, 2009
Sleep
Well, here I am again. Thanks to all for your warm replies and agreement that we're not alone as mothers in this mess called life.
I noticed that sleep, or lack thereof, hit somewhat of a chord. I would continue this sentence, but I'm falling asleep. No, just kidding. No, just kidding, I am falling asleep, but I can continue to type!
I get between 5-6 hours of sleep on most nights. It just isn't enough. I have a 4 year old who goes to bed about 8:30-9ish and wakes up at about 7:30-8. And I know that you are saying what I should be saying....that is definitely enough to get your 7+ hours of sleep a night. Add to that the fact that I know I'm increasingly paranoid about life in general and many things specifically when I get too few hours of sleep, and that I'm mean and grouchy and jumped up on caffeine, and that I don't eat properly and well, the cycle keeps going.
So what is stopping us??
What's stopping me is that I LIKE ME TIME. No child, no husband, no dishes, no cooking for tomorrow, no sorting/folding laundry, no paying bills or calling friends or making playdates or writing thank you notes or checking email or finishing up the work I was supposed to do at the office. I like to be alone. And the only time I can do it is after everyone goes to bed and the day is done. I want to sit with a cup of tea and read the New Yorker or just fool around on Facebook or watch stupid TV. I want to be alone in the quiet. And that generally has to be done after 11pm. Or even after midnight. And I'm a nightowl, for sure. I get my best work done between midnight and 2am!
What is keeping you awake?
I noticed that sleep, or lack thereof, hit somewhat of a chord. I would continue this sentence, but I'm falling asleep. No, just kidding. No, just kidding, I am falling asleep, but I can continue to type!
I get between 5-6 hours of sleep on most nights. It just isn't enough. I have a 4 year old who goes to bed about 8:30-9ish and wakes up at about 7:30-8. And I know that you are saying what I should be saying....that is definitely enough to get your 7+ hours of sleep a night. Add to that the fact that I know I'm increasingly paranoid about life in general and many things specifically when I get too few hours of sleep, and that I'm mean and grouchy and jumped up on caffeine, and that I don't eat properly and well, the cycle keeps going.
So what is stopping us??
What's stopping me is that I LIKE ME TIME. No child, no husband, no dishes, no cooking for tomorrow, no sorting/folding laundry, no paying bills or calling friends or making playdates or writing thank you notes or checking email or finishing up the work I was supposed to do at the office. I like to be alone. And the only time I can do it is after everyone goes to bed and the day is done. I want to sit with a cup of tea and read the New Yorker or just fool around on Facebook or watch stupid TV. I want to be alone in the quiet. And that generally has to be done after 11pm. Or even after midnight. And I'm a nightowl, for sure. I get my best work done between midnight and 2am!
What is keeping you awake?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Where have all the Imahot gone?
I for one am hiding.
I feel lots of guilt for not posting, but it is certainly a significantly smaller and less significant kind of guilt than the guilt I feel on a daily and even minute to minute basis about all the rest of the stuff in my life. What would life be without some all consuming guilt?
Case in point. I fell asleep with my darling boy tonight. After we said the Shema, he went played with his babydoll in bed for a while, and I went straight to sleep. In his bed. Woke up half an hour later because my not so darling husband was poking my foot to try to wake me up. I missed doing the dishes, cleaning up from dinner, finishing my work for the night, and now I'm wide awake at nearly 11pm knowing that I'll be pulling another late nighter to get ready for the rest of real life.
I definitely can't handle it all. Won't even pretend about it. Whoever said that you could be a supermom didn't have a cape and was just totally wrong. I work full time, have a small child, and do a million other things I totally should have said no to because I'm a sucker and I like to try harder than "anyone else."
My bellyaching doesn't make for good blog posts. Neither does the challenge to my marriage and my waning physical and emotional stamina because of my lack of sleep and inability to focus on any one particular thing. So crazy that I ended up in the hospital a few weeks ago with a GI something that had STRESS written all over it.
Plus, damn it, I got a REALLY bad haircut a few weeks ago and my hair looks awful. My toenails look great, though, because I snuck out of work early (packed my flipflops, it was totally premeditated) and went and got a pedicure. I am not feeling that I'm at my (as Betty Crocker would say) moist, delicious best.
So I'll stop typing and try to go to bed by 11:30pm. Maybe I won't be so paranoid tomorrow and will have some time to write more. Or maybe not. Maybe I'll need a manicure instead!
I feel lots of guilt for not posting, but it is certainly a significantly smaller and less significant kind of guilt than the guilt I feel on a daily and even minute to minute basis about all the rest of the stuff in my life. What would life be without some all consuming guilt?
Case in point. I fell asleep with my darling boy tonight. After we said the Shema, he went played with his babydoll in bed for a while, and I went straight to sleep. In his bed. Woke up half an hour later because my not so darling husband was poking my foot to try to wake me up. I missed doing the dishes, cleaning up from dinner, finishing my work for the night, and now I'm wide awake at nearly 11pm knowing that I'll be pulling another late nighter to get ready for the rest of real life.
I definitely can't handle it all. Won't even pretend about it. Whoever said that you could be a supermom didn't have a cape and was just totally wrong. I work full time, have a small child, and do a million other things I totally should have said no to because I'm a sucker and I like to try harder than "anyone else."
My bellyaching doesn't make for good blog posts. Neither does the challenge to my marriage and my waning physical and emotional stamina because of my lack of sleep and inability to focus on any one particular thing. So crazy that I ended up in the hospital a few weeks ago with a GI something that had STRESS written all over it.
Plus, damn it, I got a REALLY bad haircut a few weeks ago and my hair looks awful. My toenails look great, though, because I snuck out of work early (packed my flipflops, it was totally premeditated) and went and got a pedicure. I am not feeling that I'm at my (as Betty Crocker would say) moist, delicious best.
So I'll stop typing and try to go to bed by 11:30pm. Maybe I won't be so paranoid tomorrow and will have some time to write more. Or maybe not. Maybe I'll need a manicure instead!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Party on the Potty
Every day, many, many times a day, my girl is showered with applause, hugs and kisses. She has received by mail a package of frilly underpants from Grandpa-Grandma. A friend hand-delivered two miniature rabbis reclining upon a pair of groschen, along with a pink and white necklace. She is permitted to eat bamba and cookies and to drink juice boxes while completely naked.
I figure it will be easier to teach her that normally we don't eat and drink our favorite delicacies on the potty than it is to potty train in the first place.
Anyway, my mother's method of training little boys by having them "water the flowers" wouldn't work in the downtown apartment we've got.
And so it goes. It's life altering. It's cosmic.
And I get a kick out of how excited and happy this little-big activity makes her. She's so proud of herself she can't stand it.
She stops neighbors coming and going through the apartment building to inform them that she went on the potty today. She greets complete strangers in elevators, on trains, with information about her potty, and inquires whether they, too, go potty and wear big girl panties.
I'm not worried about spoiling her. The other day we brought home a big box of hand-me-down clothing. After examining a few of the pretty dresses together, my girl paused--you could see all the gears turning in her mind--then suddenly exclaimed, "It's my birthday!" Then she sang happy birthday to herself out loud a few times, waving her "birthday dresses" around.
Don't you wish we could save up all this credit for when such useful activities aren't so exciting anymore? I'd like to cash my potty-training treats in right now for a nice pair of shoes or a bouquet of flowers, a day the beach...
We're starting to slack off now that she's becoming regular. Now she can have a juice box the first time she goes. Then we clap and hug. Soon, I guess, we'll stop even clapping. I'd like to hold on to the hugs for a little while longer, though.
I figure it will be easier to teach her that normally we don't eat and drink our favorite delicacies on the potty than it is to potty train in the first place.
Anyway, my mother's method of training little boys by having them "water the flowers" wouldn't work in the downtown apartment we've got.
And so it goes. It's life altering. It's cosmic.
And I get a kick out of how excited and happy this little-big activity makes her. She's so proud of herself she can't stand it.
She stops neighbors coming and going through the apartment building to inform them that she went on the potty today. She greets complete strangers in elevators, on trains, with information about her potty, and inquires whether they, too, go potty and wear big girl panties.
I'm not worried about spoiling her. The other day we brought home a big box of hand-me-down clothing. After examining a few of the pretty dresses together, my girl paused--you could see all the gears turning in her mind--then suddenly exclaimed, "It's my birthday!" Then she sang happy birthday to herself out loud a few times, waving her "birthday dresses" around.
Don't you wish we could save up all this credit for when such useful activities aren't so exciting anymore? I'd like to cash my potty-training treats in right now for a nice pair of shoes or a bouquet of flowers, a day the beach...
We're starting to slack off now that she's becoming regular. Now she can have a juice box the first time she goes. Then we clap and hug. Soon, I guess, we'll stop even clapping. I'd like to hold on to the hugs for a little while longer, though.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Post-Pesach
This was a terrific Pesach!
I usually like Pesach anyway. Since I'm a vegetarian and I don't like processed foods, it's usually a cleansing time. A salad and vegetables and fish time. I've usually got much more energy and am happier, as a result.
But this Pesach was even better than usual, even though I turned my kitchen fleischig in honor of my baby carnivore. Breaking out in horrible hives as an allergic reaction to detergents and spring--certainly not an auspicious beginning. But my lovely love took over the bulk of the cleaning and prep. The near-freezing temperatures and rain weren't so fun, but it meant I got to stay home and read books with my girl (among them our rabbi's manuscript, the blank back pages of which my girl "decorated for the rabbi.")
I know it's not good to let your child draw during chag. But it bought me some precious quiet (and after last week with ear infections and screaming, I needed it). It was gefilte fish for the brain. For instance, did you know that the Shema originally contained the ten commandments? That, in some circles, the first Pope, Simon Peter, is attributed with writing the Nishmat col hai? I didn't.
The reading/drawing technique also allowed me to cuddle and converse with my daughter for at least two hours each day.
As for the second days: At first I thought it was a disaster that the Dean of our college at the university where I teach invited an Irish poet to my graduate class--during second days of Pesach. But I invited the students and the poet over for dinner. It was amazing. The poet, a single mother of a nine-year-old, had never had an encounter with Judaism. I'm pretty sure she's drafting a poem about gefilte fish as I write, and she flies back to Ireland. Imagine serving people who are excited about matzah ball soup. The two Jewish students in class were happy. The conversation was charged, since the poet writes quite a bit about the encounter between Christianity and Paganism in her native West Kerry.
My love rolled with it all pretty well. Since he's accustomed to having the entire time of Pesach off in Israel, I know it was stressful for him to have to accommodate my work schedule and the unusual touches I added to a normal celebration. But it worked pretty well. And that's good enough for me.
I usually like Pesach anyway. Since I'm a vegetarian and I don't like processed foods, it's usually a cleansing time. A salad and vegetables and fish time. I've usually got much more energy and am happier, as a result.
But this Pesach was even better than usual, even though I turned my kitchen fleischig in honor of my baby carnivore. Breaking out in horrible hives as an allergic reaction to detergents and spring--certainly not an auspicious beginning. But my lovely love took over the bulk of the cleaning and prep. The near-freezing temperatures and rain weren't so fun, but it meant I got to stay home and read books with my girl (among them our rabbi's manuscript, the blank back pages of which my girl "decorated for the rabbi.")
I know it's not good to let your child draw during chag. But it bought me some precious quiet (and after last week with ear infections and screaming, I needed it). It was gefilte fish for the brain. For instance, did you know that the Shema originally contained the ten commandments? That, in some circles, the first Pope, Simon Peter, is attributed with writing the Nishmat col hai? I didn't.
The reading/drawing technique also allowed me to cuddle and converse with my daughter for at least two hours each day.
As for the second days: At first I thought it was a disaster that the Dean of our college at the university where I teach invited an Irish poet to my graduate class--during second days of Pesach. But I invited the students and the poet over for dinner. It was amazing. The poet, a single mother of a nine-year-old, had never had an encounter with Judaism. I'm pretty sure she's drafting a poem about gefilte fish as I write, and she flies back to Ireland. Imagine serving people who are excited about matzah ball soup. The two Jewish students in class were happy. The conversation was charged, since the poet writes quite a bit about the encounter between Christianity and Paganism in her native West Kerry.
My love rolled with it all pretty well. Since he's accustomed to having the entire time of Pesach off in Israel, I know it was stressful for him to have to accommodate my work schedule and the unusual touches I added to a normal celebration. But it worked pretty well. And that's good enough for me.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
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).
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).
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Feminine Mystique, 21st century style
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.
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.
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.)
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