Reflections

As is the custom at the end of a year and the beginning of a new one, I’ve been reflecting. Really, tonight is no different from any other night. Tomorrow, Abraham will wake me up around 7 or 7:30 if I’m lucky. I’ll make some breakfast for the kids. We’ll play, chat, read. I’ll say no, change diapers, and smile. Hopefully a lot.

But, why not take advantage of a free, structured reflection?

I don’t think I could characterize this year as a whole. I barely remember last winter. Or spring.

What I do remember is that this is the year that I finally feel like Reading is home. David and I have been married for 4 years, and being the virtuous, old fashioned folks we are, I didn’t move in until after our wedding. I was still commuting back to the Lehigh Valley for work and yoga (although that isn’t over, just diminished).  But now, I work fully in our area. If it weren’t for the hills, I could ride my bike everywhere I work (or if I weren’t such a wimpy bike-rider {I can’t call myself a cyclist, that’s how wimpy I am, although I do have toe-clips [thanks, Husband]}). I teach in the city, the suburbs, and our Temple. I write in the in-between times. And I am the Artistic Director of a Theater Company. (For more info, or if you want to share your hard-earned money with us).

But work alone, even theater, isn’t enough to make a place feel like home. That takes friends. I had my family; David is my dearest friend, but a husband-friend is different from a friend-friend. I have people I can call to stay with Abraham when my temperature drops in the night and I need to go to the emergency room (That was weird and scary, but it went away. Maybe it was a migraine?). I have people who will come over for lunch and talk theater while Abraham builds trains. I have people who walk in the house without knocking because they know they are always welcome. I have people.

It is hard to live in a city without family nearby. We have worked hard to create a network of people we love and trust, and I think we finally have that. And that is home. That is our family.

In 2006, before I went to Israel, a piece of song came to me. I’m not really sure how to describe it, but it just popped into my head: I go so I can return home. At the time, it was deeply meaningful for me related to my travel to Israel. I never had the intention of making Israel my home, but being there helped me find what was important to me, Jewishly and otherwise, and when I came back, I was better able to make my place my home.

Now, it carries a different meaning. I, for some strange reason, despite being a bit shy, have continually put myself in new places where I didn’t know anyone else (or very few people): summer camp, a new middle school in 8th grade, college, moving to Bethlehem, and most recently moving to Reading. I knew David, but otherwise I was starting from scratch. “I go” – I had become comfortable in Bethlehem, in my communities there, but I knew I needed a change, I needed to go. “So I can return home” – I knew this time would come, though I sometimes doubted it, and I am so grateful that it has.

2012 was the year of home. What was it for you?

The Pull

I just pulled up Howlround.com, a online theater journal, to get the link for an article to post on my theater company’s page, when whose little photo did I see by an article but my very favorite professor.

I may have cried a little as I read it. In part because she is so bright and articulate, and reading this reminds me of why I loved college and the constant artistic inspiration and mentorship.

But mostly, I cried because I really fucking love theater.

I love to make theater, I love to see (good) theater, I love to talk and think about theater. I love to teach theater to kids, and I love to teach kids through theater. I love to write for theater.

I also love that she was able to use a discussion of theater to digest her experience. I want to make theater that digests experiences. I want to make theater that makes people think and feel, that puts people on the inside and the outside of an experience at the same time.

In this small town, I am finding people who want to do the same thing. It is a slow process, but the surprise that a neighbor worked in theater for years and wants to join the company or that members in the community want to see our show and give us their support moves me every day.

Now I’m all fired up, but I have to get ready for bed. I’m looking forward to tomorrow.

Challah

There are so many things I want to write about, but at the end of the day, I usually just want to rip out my contact and sleep.

But.

It was just Rosh HaShanah, the Jewish New Year. This time between the new year and Yom Kippur, the day of Atonement, always get me thinking. We are taught that the book of life is open over this time and on Yom Kippur it is sealed for the upcoming year. I take this as a metaphor, and instead think of myself as an open book, wondering what to write on the empty pages for the upcoming year.

Last year, I decided to take on the ritual of making (and eating, of course) Challah on Fridays for Shabbat. I was able to most Shabbats. In addition to just making (and eating) Challah, we actually celebrated Shabbat. We made a nice dinner, we lit the candles and blessed the wine. We sat together as a family (which we do during the week too, but it felt a little different). I was honored to share my Challah with our congregation’s students cantor when we had him for dinner.

In my open-book-ness, I was thinking about this Challah making ritual. When I began, I made the Challah with Abraham in the sling, putting him down for a rare moment to put the Challah in the oven and take it out again. Now, he helps with the egg wash and sesame seed sprinkle, he dutifully watches the Challah in the oven, and he eagerly lights the candles and sticks his fingers in the “wine” (which is what we call grape juice, which is what the kids have in PA) so he can get to the Challah.

I’m always trying to get back to the feeling of being Jewish that I felt at Camp. Though I cried many tears of homesickness while I was there, I cried many tears of camp-sickness upon my return home. I credit camp with my commitment and continued interest in being Jewish. I can’t wait for Abraham to go to camp. For me, making Challah is a little like camp. It is experiencing being Jewish, experiencing being part of a long line of people (women) who have made Challah and a long line of families who have delighted in eating it.

So I’m wondering, what do I add now, what will I write in my book for this new year. We have been talking about taking on the practice of Havdalah, the ending of Shabbat. We haven’t because we don’t have a set (spice box, braided candle, wine glass…). But that is a cop out. We’ll just do it. And I bet with the frame of Challah and Havdalah, we will be more aware of Shabbat in general. Maybe this will be the year that we all learn to step back, turn off, and truly relax.

L’Shanah Tovah!

Wean-ee

So, after a lot of stress and love, Abraham weaned himself. A week after his 18 month-iversary, he pulled my shirt back over my breast when I offered it to him before nap. And again before bed. And again the next morning. And then I didn’t offer. And he didn’t ask.

It is bittersweet, but mostly sweet. We ended our nursing relationship on his terms, which, I believe, is the best way to nurse at all. It was for him, not me. I just received the benefit of hours of sweet baby time.

The only bitterness is selfish. I wanted to be a person who nursed a 3 year old. I believe in that, and I wanted to live it. I also wanted to hear what he called nursing. His (older) nursing friends say “Milks” or “Mommy Juice” or something, and I was curious to hear what he’d say. These things are not big deals at all.

He still puts his hand on my breast when he is tired or upset, which is sweet. I see it as part of the weaning process. He started his life inside of me, and he is slowly making his way away. I hope I can be present for him but let him find his own way.

Toddlers

Abraham busted his lip for the first time. He’s had skinned knees and assorted bruises, but today there was blood (only a little) and tears (many). He only runs from place to place, which means that busted lips are bound to happen.

I keep thinking about writing a post like “How to Fly with a Toddler” or “How To Avoid Tantrums (Most of the Time)” but I don’t think I need to. There are tons of bloggers doing that well already, and I don’t know that my readership (small, but mighty!) is looking for that. I don’t know that I want to be an “expert” about toddler-ness.

Which makes me think: why do I have this blog? What do I want to say publicly, to friends, family, and a few strangers?

I’m sort of a blogging toddler. I have been writing for about 2 years (ish), off and on. I used to keep a private journal. I kept a blog when I went to Thailand. Now I sort of bumble along, bumping into ideas, busting my lip when I post something possibly inappropriate, pointing out what makes me laugh or cry. Like a toddler, I want your attention and your feedback. Like a toddler, I want to know that you are there beside me, even if I’m just exploring for myself.

I don’t really have an agenda. It’s just a little space to play.

Why do you blog? Why don’t you blog? Let’s have a chat in the comments!

Weird

My stepdaughter thinks we are weird. We = her dad and me. Mostly him, because he was at the school, doing a science demo in her brother’s class, and he stopped by her lunch period to sit with her. With his guitar.

His presence there was clearly the Worst Thing Ever. She literally kicked him out. Poor dad was puzzled because at home she is affectionate and very trusting of him. They often have long, serious conversations while I make fart sounds for the little boys.

I get it. She’s in 4th grade and the popular girls are in her class. And they saw her and her dad (with said guitar) in the lunch room. Totally weird.

My mind went to 7th grade when I had 3 friends, a girl who went to a different school, and two boys. I don’t know what it was about me, but the girls were mean. I suppose I was an easy target. I was a late bloomer, a bit naive, a dedicated student.

One morning, I wore a new hooded sweatshirt (a Chanukah present from a cool store in the mall) to school. It had multicolored stripes. I felt very grown up for my 12 years. As I was waiting outside for the bell to ring, The Most Popular Girl walked up to me. I though she was going to tell me how cool my shirt was. Score.

Nope. She told me never to wear it again. She already had it, and I knew that when I bought it, and how dare I wear it to school. What if we had dressed alike. How embarrassing. And she stomped off, laughing with her friends.

That is my memory of it. I don’t really remember much about 6th and 7th grade. My mom says I cried most days after school from one horrible incident with the Popular Girls or another.

It is kind of pathetic, but I still worry about my friends. It is difficult for me to see my friendships clearly. There were times in middle school where I was close enough to popular to be invited to birthday parties and to the mall. But something would happen, I have no idea what, and I wasn’t good enough any more.

I’m an adult now with a husband, children, a house. I don’t worry about wearing the same clothes as anyone, but I still don’t feel confident in my friendships. Thanks, a lot, Bitches.

I can see, looking back, that the way I dealt with them is the same way I deal with impossible people now. I wonder if that is just Me or if I can really change my reactions, change my flight into a fight.

I wonder how my life would be different if I hadn’t experienced that bullying in middle school. Would I have pushed myself in a different direction without fear of rejection? Would I still be trying to shape myself into someone else to fit in?

I wonder how to help my step daughter. She is quiet, studious, pretty. Will she have the courage to stand up for her love of math and science? Will she be able to find a group of friends that she likes and that like her?

Being a girl is hard.

Something good

Abraham sits on the floor with a wooden spoon, 2 small mixing bowls, and an empty gallon jug of milk. He stirs the spoon around the bowl, picks up the milk jug and pours it into the bowl, puts it down, reclaims his spoon and finishes mixing. He is completely focused and completely open to play. (Now he puts the milk jug in the drawer of baking things).

This creative-drama teaching-mama couldn’t be prouder.

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Bubby, my maternal grandmother, swears she was the first one to play pretend with me, sitting on her porch, “eating” ice cream. Did that event lead to who I have become? Will Abraham carry the memory (probably not consciously) of this free play and continue to play as a child, teenager, and adult? I don’t even mean in the theatre, I mean in his whole life.

(now he is trying to balance the milk jug upside down in the other bowl)

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I see him working so hard, playing so hard. I observe him, narrate what he does, add in objects to compliment his play. But then it is time for a diaper change and he screams, throws his head back, and tries to escape my evil clutches.

And I think to myself, I must do this too. In what parts of my own life do I rear my head back and try to escape?

And I think he and I have the same reasons: lack of control. When we play, we are free. But then we have to change the diaper and leave the comfort of freedom behind.

It is so hard to be a baby. So easy too. I’m so grateful for the time to see him struggle and see him be free.

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Jeans

I remembered something!

Ok – I LOVE shopping at Thrift Stores. Also consignment shops, but Thrift Stores really have my heart and mind. And I buy used clothing almost exclusively (socks…underwear….).

I have many reasons, including: I don’t like spending lots of money on things, especially clothes; I believe in reuse and try to live that belief; I like the search and the find!; and more…

But.

I don’t know if it is really working out for me on all fronts. I did just score a great fall jacket from the Goodwill Outlet (giant tables of random clothes and things to sort through), and I find board books in great condition for 47¢ for Abraham on a regular basis. But…the Butt. I need a good pair of jeans and I can’t find them.

I’ve been thinking that maybe it is worth it to spend the money on a pair (or two? now I’m getting really indulgent) of jeans that fit me and that I really like. I’ve probably spent as much money on mediocre jeans as I could have on a pair that actually fit. And the time I’ve spent searching…

And I don’t like the idea of buying clothing brand new, especially when there are so many decent pairs of jeans at Goodwill, waiting for me to hem/belt/wear with a big shirt so no one sees my butt crack when I sit on the floor. But I will wear them to the end. I have a pair that I bought new in 2005. Still wearing them, faded and with holes in the knees. Maybe next summer they will be shorts.

I mentioned this to my mom (who loves shopping) and she was delighted. She even offered to go with me and buy me a pair.

Not big, dramatic, life-changing stuff here, but it feels like an adult thing to do. To spend money on the right thing rather than being thrifty and trying to make the wrong thing work. And for me, that is a big deal. I’m an adult. Thank, Jeans.

Emptiness

Throughout the day, I have great ideas for blog posts: a story from NPR might inspire a mental rant that would be provocative to share, a personal reflection could bring dynamic comment conversation, an article might spark new insights for all of us (and possibly more articles…).

But then I do all the things (care for Abraham, care for everyone else, care for the house, care for any work on my plate) and then…my brain is empty. I can’t remember what I wanted to write about. It’s gone.

Isn’t this why I practice yoga? Yogascittavritti nirodhah. Yoga is the cessation of the fluctuations of the mind. Yoga is when the thoughts stop. And here I am, thoughts stopped.

But I don’t think that is what they really meant.

How is it that I could once wake up early, practice yoga, work all day teaching and creating theatre, go home for big conversations with roommates or yoga classes or craft projects, read a novel for fun, and then sleep peacefully? Now, I don’t do half of that in a day, but I struggle to remember to make a phone call to get my oil changed or to pick up a book at the end of the day.

I know, I know…I have an infant, don’t be so hard on myself. I’m not being hard on myself. I want to read, craft, create art, and practice yoga. And that is just solo projects. I want to spend time with my husband, talk to my far away friends (and close by friends!) and family.

But at the end of the day, I plop down at the kitchen table and mull over…facebook. Over pinterest. Over things don’t deepen my days. No offense to facebook.

But my brain is empty.  I don’t have the motivation to close Whitey (yes, my computer is named Whitey. He’s white. What would you name him?) and pick up my book/craft project/script. By 9 or 10pm, I’m not able to start a meaningful yoga practice.

So…what do you do? How do you, friends and readers, motivate yourself to do the things you love? That just sounds ridiculous – if I love them, why is it effort?

And please don’t tell me not to worry about it right now. I am not worrying, but I want to be a great mom for Abraham, a great wife for David, a great step-mom for Zoe and Nathan and I can’t if I’m not feeling like myself. You know?

Am I just writing in circles?

Best Supporting Actor

I am a sensitive person, perhaps oversensitive. I get upset for my family members when they are mistreated. I take it personally. It burns me up, consuming my mind, as I try to understand the logic or rationale behind someone else’s actions.

The other night, as I was angrily nursing Abraham to sleep (angry at a situation, not my precious nursling), I had a possibly life changing realization. Something I have known but finally sunk in.

It isn’t about me.

Do you ever watch a movie or read a book and feel like you are the main character? This happens to me a lot, I feel like I take on the emotional life of the main character. (Side note: I once took an empathy test, an online test to see if you have Asperger’s syndrome (I don’t) and I scored way above normal on empathy.) I think this is happening to me in real life too. I’m taking on someone else’s anger. I’m letting myself be hurt by actions that were not meant for me.

I have become the supporting actor in my own movie. My life isn’t about me.

That sounds strange to say, maybe even depressing, but after a moment, I found it to be freeing. My job here, in the movie now, is to support, is to let someone else’s story shine.

I had my chance (David said, when I had accomplished my career goal of acting professionally and burned out at 28, that I hit my mid-life crisis.) – I have had my dream job, I have travelled to amazing places and had great adventures, I have pursued my passions, I am experiencing true love.

As a mother to an infant, it is hard impossible to keep the starring role. A friend told me, after I quit my job (one of them…) after I realized I couldn’t keep up with it and a baby, that “Women could have it all, just not at the same time.” Maybe that isn’t true for everyone, but it is for me. I thought I could do all things, be all things, all at the same time. But I can’t. And it is ok. It is even really good for me to learn that lesson. Abraham needs me now in a way he never will again. I want to enjoy it, not rush through it.

As a step-mother, I definitely don’t have the starring role. Step-parenting is a supporting position. Again, it is ok. The kids need supportive adults in their lives. I am not their mom, but I am one of their parents, and I try to be present for them without being pushy. I’m waiting stage left in case they need me.

As a stay-at-home wife, I’m a supporting actor too. I’m obviously contributing to the family, taking care of keeping the house clean, full of food (sometimes even cooked food!), comfortable, and alive. Not literally, but you know…functioning for all of us. David comes home from work and talks to me about interesting physics he figured out (and that I don’t really understand), and I tell him how much dog hair I vacuumed up and the cute thing Abraham did that day. Not exactly world changing stuff from me, but if I weren’t doing it, our family’s world would be very different.

I’ve been reflecting on my personality lately, and I don’t even know if I am main character material. I am shy. I don’t like talking to people I don’t know. I don’t really like talking on the phone to anyone (except my family). I have passion, but not ambition. I am a quiet leader, preferring to lead by example than to rally the masses. This is not necessarily the make up of a main character.

I keep telling myself that in 5 years, Abraham will go to school and I can be a person again. I can begin to take my time rather than stealing it. I can really practice yoga again, make theatre, engage in my community. Until then, I’ll be here when you need me.