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.

Blog Break

Well, it’s been a while.

I didn’t really know what to write. After my aunt died, I felt like any other writing would be trite.

I also feel like I’m on a merry go round, thinking about the same things all the time.

So how about this, to get back into the swing of things. How about a general update of what we have been Doing. Then, maybe next post, we’ll get around to what we have been Being.

Abraham freaking loves to be outside. He reaches and whines (yes, whines at 9 months…what can I do about that?) for the door and giggles when we go outside. He is content to run walk errands all over West Reading in his stroller (taking off his hat and laughing whenever he remembers he is wearing a hat), get carried in the Ergo when I walk with the Mamas, or play at the park. For literally hours.

We celebrated David’s birthday. I bought him a book. We went out for pizza.

Abraham and Nathan helps Daddy open his present

It snows. In October. We were actually in New York, visiting David’s family, that weekend. They lost power in their home around 2pm, so we lit a fire and played Settlers of Catan all night. Grandpa made lasagna in the gas grill.

We didn't even have out winter coats!

And for Halloween, Abraham and I passed out candy on the porch for a little while before bedtime. I wore the Lasagna Suit (that I made for a Young Playwrights’ Festival of yore) and Abraham dressed up as a Chef. That lasted about 3 seconds.

The Chef Prepares...to take off his hat.

I’ve also been working on my play, making dinner, washing diapers and other stinky laundry, teaching a drama club at the Boys and Girls Club, getting ready to teach a drama club at Reading High, and finishing up a yoga class series. And trying to sleep and read for fun. Not to mention yoga and crafts.

More significant reflection coming soon.

The Saddest Day

It is Shabbat, and Yom Kippur. I have taken on Shabbat this year, baking Challah each week and lighting candles with my family, putting work aside for rest. Yom Kippur, which began at sundown, is the holiest and most solemn day of the Jewish year; it is literally the day of atonement, and over the years, I have tried to practice it as a day to really limit my connections to the outside world and focus on my relationship to Judaism and to God.

But tonight, after putting the baby to sleep and sitting here, waiting for David to come home, my heart and my mind are not on Shabbat or Yom Kippur. For the past week and a half, whenever I have a quiet moment, my heart and mind go to my Aunt Jan, who died just before Rosh HaShanah.

Abraham and I flew down to Pensacola to be with my family for her funeral, sitting Shiva (briefly) and for Rosh HaShanah. It was the saddest day I have ever experienced. With her passing, the world lost a kind, funny, generous, loving, inspiring woman.

She lived in Pensacola until I was 10, when she married Robert and moved to the mid-Atlantic to live with him. Rachel and I knew her best of all her nieces and nephews, spending the night with her at her apartment, visiting her at work, helping her set up various fundraisers. She loved work, she loved her family, she loved helping others.

I don’t know how long she had Lupus (no one talked about it to me when I was a child). She has been unwell for a long time. One summer in college, I was working at a theatre in Southern Virginia, and on my days off I would go visit Ga (as we called her, I couldn’t say Jan when I was a tot) and Uncle Robert. Even then she had doctor’s appointments with regularity, but she could drive, get her nails done (red, of course, to match her glasses), and go out for dinner.

She came to Pensacola to meet David when we visited. She came to our wedding in New York. She never had children of her own, and I think Rachel and I consider her a second mother as much as she considers us her own. It was important for her to be there for my special days, no matter how difficult it was for her to get there.

When Abraham was born, she was too sick to come for his bris, which I think broke her heart. I sent her photos as often as I could get to the computer, and answered all her questions about him.

In July she went to the hospital (at first, I wasn’t too worried, for she was always in and out of the hospital), but her doctor said he didn’t think she would be leaving. She moved to a Hospice care home shortly after. Hospice means the end, but she was determined to go home.

In September, David, Rachel, Abraham and I drove down to North Carolina to visit her. We knew it was to say goodbye, and she did too. Her greatest fear, as far as I could tell, was that she would be forgotten. I kept telling her there was no way, but she didn’t have children and wouldn’t have grandchildren. I promised her that Abraham would know who she was (I am so grateful we were able to visit her with him). I promised her I would say Kaddish for her.

She never complained about being in pain, although she was constantly in pain. When I called her on the phone, even a few weeks ago, she was so cheerful and chatty, even though she spent most of her time lying in bed. I am grateful that I was able to see her twice in the past year, once when I drove from PA to FL with mom when I was pregnant last October, and this trip in September. But I am so deeply saddened that I will not see her again. But that sadness is met with relief for her that she is no longer suffering.

Her life makes me question how and why the world works in the way it does. How can we say, as Jews, that G-d is just when someone so good suffers as she does? How can I say, as a yogi, that the seeds of her karma were planted over lifetimes and this time around just really sucked? How can I say as her niece, as someone who loved her, that anything in the universe makes any sense?

She got to hear Abraham say “Ga.” She will not be forgotten.

Up All Night

Oh man.

I love Will Arnett, who I will always think of as GOB from Arrested Development (the funniest show no longer on television).  And I love Maya Rudolph, especially in that movie, Away We Go. And The Blonde Lady is funny too.

They made a TV show about being a parent and working to much. And liking both parenting and working. And being a stay at home parent. And really wanting to go out with your partner and do fun things like drink to much and sing terrible karaoke (ok, David and I wouldn’t do that – we’d eat too many tacos and sing Sacred Harp Music, but you know).

Is it ok that I teared up at the end? I’ll blame it on breastfeeding hormones. This show is not super great, but really hits a nerve.

It reminded me of something a friend from my old congregation told me when I quit my job there. A previous employee, who had recently become a new mother, told him, “Women can have it all, just not at the same time.”

Have you seen the show? What do you think? Can women have it all? What does that even mean “it all”?

Safety

I’m in a bit of a bind.

I don’t know who reads this and how much I really want to say (I realize how annoying that is and I’m sorry), but I need to process a bit.

Here’s the thing. We’re Jewish (which you probably know) and belong to a congregation here in Reading. It has recently come to my attention that a non-Jew (who is married to a non-Jew) has joined the congregation and joined a committee that I also just joined. This person has threatened and bullied me and my family in the past and I do not feel safe. I would like to leave said congregation. And, of course, the committee.

This person is not the only reason, but more the carrot that tipped the scale. I prefer to practice Judaism in a different way that is practiced at this congregation. I want to raise my child in a different way. The people (otherwise) are lovely and the Rabbi is really wonderful. But this is my faith and my spiritual practice. I should like going and praying there, right? And I should feel safe.

The problem is, I don’t want to let the bully win. I want to be indifferent; this is what yoga teaches, to be indifferent toward vice. I don’t know what Judaism teaches. Note taken.

Perhaps I will speak to both Rabbis of both congregations in town to see what Judaism suggests I do. Am I prejudiced for not wanting a non-Jew in the congregation? Am I caving to a bully? Am I just doing what is best for me and my family by leaving? What would you do?

Sigh. Growing up kind of sucks sometimes.

UPDATE: With encouragement from my husband, I have decided to push through and stay. Two main reasons I am ok with this: First World Problems and Impermanence.

David recently showed me a video, a rap song called First World Problems. It is hilarious and a good reminder that people are dealing with real, life and death problems. This is not that (I hope).

AND, my yoga teacher once said (in response to me saying i wasn’t sleeping well due to having a tiny baby) “Impermanence, baby” and I think that rings true here. It is true with Abraham, who is growing up faster than I could have imagined. With this charming person (you can’t tell sarcasm on a blog, can you…?), it will pass. Someone will move on, perhaps the relationship will change for the better. Nothing is permanent.

 

Sh*t my mom says

My mom is visiting.

We are sitting up, I’m “working” and she is flipping through Dance Magazine. I pull out some Halavah from the fridge for munchies/dessert (moms get 2 desserts). She has some, loves it, damns me for introducing it to her.

Then she remembers another delicious treat she once had in Reading (of all places). It takes her a minute to think of it and then…

“Bobka! That SHIT is the BOMB!”

And then as I cracked up, she went on and on about how delicious it would be with coffee…how you can get it in chocolate or cinnamon…oh my….

Blessing

Last summer, my grandfather passed away. My sister, mom, and I drove out to Michigan, meeting my Dad who flew, to be with my grandmother and other family during the funeral and Shiva.

Now my grandmother, Leah Haller, has passed away too. My Dad went to visit her last week, and I’ve been wearing the opal ring she gave me for graduation ever since.

They always lived in Michigan, and I grew up in Florida, which means we saw them periodically. But I remember they would visit in March every year and get a condo on the beach. Rachel and I would toss cereal off the balcony and watch the seagulls circle to catch them in mid-air. We would buy kites to fly on the beach. We would drop our dolls from their balcony to see how fast they’d fall.

I visited them in Detroit several years ago, and I remember talking about politics and history from their nearly socialist perspective. They had a framed photo of FDR on their wall. They believed in what I believed in. They wanted the world to be a peaceful place.

Grandma was in a book club for a long time and would send me boxes of books after she read them (she would send Grandpa to the post office and he would always call to let me know it was on the way). I loved that. I have kept many of them even though I purged my novel collection.

We didn’t see them as much as my mom’s side of the family, but they were there for important things: my Bat Mitzvah, my wedding. Grandma was going to come visit in May for my birthday, meeting Abraham for the first time. But a few days before she went to the hospital with terrible pain in her abdomen. Soon after they told her why: colon cancer.

I will miss her voice, her thoughts, her love.

January 2010, David and I visited Grandma and Grandpa

Home Again and Back

It is strange to come home as an adult.

Abraham and I are visited my parents and family in Florida last week. It is, of course, always good to see everyone, but the place doesn’t feel like home anymore. That’s a sure sign I’m an adult. My home is where I live with my husband and children.

My parents no longer live in the house I grew up in or even the house I lived in after college. I don’t have a room here; Abraham and I are sleeping on Noah’s (my little brother who lives at home) mattress on the floor. That’s a sure sign I’m an adult; there is no physical place for me here.

Many of my best friends have moved away, and some of them have returned or live close by. I visited with them, met their children, heard about their love lives. Sort of like high school, but Abraham gave me a 7pm curfew. I never had a curfew in high school.

We flew down with my sister, who visited but for less time than we did. We flew back alone. And I was sick (103• fever when I got back to my house…). How I lived I don’t know. But I have no shame after lying around with Abraham on the nasty floor of the Atlanta airport during our layover.

Since we’ve been back to our home, I’ve been sick. First strep throat and now a killer cold. All I really want is to be back home with my mom, watching soap operas with her, playing cards, using that weird wooden lap desk to catch up on school work, and drink-eating lipton tea from a packet. But I can’t go back. Even if I put myself in the place and did all the things, I can’t go back.

Natural

Abraham was recently pictured on Natural Parents’ Network on their Wordless Wednesdays feature about food. After he was pictured and I shared the link with my family and friends, I wondered to myself if I am actually a natural parent. What does that really mean?

There is a long list of what it means to be a natural parent on their website.

I prepared to have a natural birth at a birth center, but I found on my due date that Abraham was breech, so we had a c-section and it wasn’t so bad.

We went around and around about the decision, but we circumsized Abraham because we are Jewish and that heritage is important to us, even though we still wrestle with our choice.

I nurse Abraham and intend to as long as we both are enjoying it, but I also supplement his nursing with formula to keep him on the right weight track.

He sleeps with us, but I’m looking forward to getting would love to get him to sleep on his own so I can have a little space and time back to myself.

I fed him food at 4.5 months old (which is a bit early) but he was full-body-lunging for it. I also give him food that is not organic or local. Local is preferred, but the child loves avocados, which aren’t exactly native to Pennsylvania.

I have 3 different baby carriers, all of which I love to use, but damn, it is nice to push him in a stroller in this hot weather.

We are vaccinating Abraham on a regular schedule. We feel it is our responsibility to him and to our community to ensure that diseases that have died out stay gone.

What is most true is that I hate all of these parenting labels. They are shortcuts, sure, but they are also pegboards. I never have enjoyed being pegged (though I think I’m pretty predictably peg-able…) in any position, especially being a mother.

So that’s it. I’m a mother. I’m a step mother. Those describe my relationships to my kids. That is all. Every choice I make as either is not because I’m a natural parent, a free-range parent, a whatever parent. It is just because I’m a parent and I’m always trying to do the right thing for each of my kids.