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!

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.

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”?

Woman

My good friend, the Incredible Exploding Head, just wrote a great piece about being a Woman. Mostly having to do with being a Mother vs. Not. She got me thinking about my own mother-ness.

I had a rough day. I’ve had a rough series of days. I shouldn’t: I have a sweet, funny baby who is very easy going, a devoted and kind husband, a comfortable home, some interesting work. Even friends. In town. Nearby!

But I have very little time that is my own. Which I expected when I decided to have a baby. But I didn’t realize how intense it would be to be needed all the time.

I think of myself as an introvert and an extrovert. I usually feel shy, not quite knowing what to say, but at the same time, wanting to be with people. I used to (wait, I still do) work/write at a cafe, not in my home office (what home office – ha!). I like taking classes. I like sitting in audiences. I don’t really like talking in front of people (acting is different…).

The introvert part of me needs alone time to reboot. A 7 minute shower every morning isn’t enough.

Most people don’t talk about this part of being a mother. The part where you stop being you.

I keep thinking to myself, when Abraham goes to school, I will practice yoga for real. I will start a theatre company. I will read books quickly. I will be me again.

This is a terrible approach. I am me. I am the same person who wanted to have a baby in the first place. If I put myself on the shelf (sorry for that rhyme), how can I be a good mother, dare I say my ideal mother, for Abraham? How can I be a good wife, step mother, friend, anything? Much less artist, teacher, leader…

I feel terrible every time I leave Abraham with a babysitter or even David, because I love leaving. I love going to the coffee shop with my laptop and writing. I love going to the yoga studio and teaching. I love meeting my friend for lunch and brainstorming theatre ideas for the company we want to get off the ground.

Which is not to say that I don’t love being with him. I do. I do so much. I love watching him discover the world. I love that when he cries a little, it shocks me because I think of him as a person not really a baby. I love watching him eat, sleep, poop, laugh, read…everything. But I love it most when I feel most like myself. Which is when I spend some time taking care of my, not him, not David, not anyone else.

I wish I could do both and not feel bad about either.

So, like the Head, who got my brain going in the first place (Head, you are so good at that. I miss you!),  I want to make the next part of my like pretty fucking cool. In Reading, PA.

I’ve got to figure out how to start.