So today as Mira and Eli were finishing up their snack of Ritz Crackers he announced that he needed to talk to God for a minute.
"God," Eli said.
Silence.
"Why don't you just go ahead and say what you need to say," I suggested. Eli didn't seem totally clear yet that this was going to be a one-sided conversation. Eli continued.
"Did you know that Yesterday you made a rainbow?"
More silence.
At the risk of being a giant a cliche I have to say that this is the most profound prayer I've ever heard in my life.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
the rebbitzen
You would think that with all of the scary books that I have been reading lately this one would not have been the one that killed me.
I read that damn Motherless Mothers book, the Joan Didion, even the one where the main character dies of a glioblastoma stage 4 brain tumor. Nothing. All of these books literary and lyrical, designed especially to make someone like me cry. I appreciated them as art. I learned from them. But I plowed on through, dry-eyed.
But, I can tell you right now I am putting down "The Rabbi's Wife." I am throwing it against the wall as hard as I can, listening for the satisfying clunk. It's not a book designed to make a person cry, certainly I'm sure the author did not intend to ignite any type of fury in her reader. It's an academic study for goodness sake. But it may just be the most heart-wrenching thing that I've ever read.
The author, Shuly Rubin Schwartz, is herself a rabbi's wife. She presents a history. She highlights certain American women throughout the twentieth century who personify to her what it means to be a rebbetzin. One of her recurring themes is that they type of woman who was attracted towards marrying a rabbi was often a fierce intellectual herself. The type of person who liked immersing themselves in books, in study, debate. Women who were passionate about Judaism. Usually women who were the most knowledgeable, fluent in Hebrew, at home in the synagogue. Often they were the daughters of rabbis, and had they been born at a different time, they may have chosen the rabbinate as a profession for themselves.
In other words, Mom. Now I know that she did love being a rebbitzen. I don't know much about it, but I know that she did not unequivocally love her role. She did not love all of the "hosting" elements, nor the constant scrutiny. Most of the women portrayed in the book did not. But how they loved having a chance to shine intellectually. To use their roles to fulfill their own needs to teach and lead and learn and grow. They founded the sisterhood. They taught adult education classes. They wrote articles, books. They were proud of who they were, proud to be the shining female stars of the Jewish world.
Did mom feel this way? She was obviously attracted to Dad because of his mind. There was nothing more exciting to her than intellectual prowess. And, as we all know Mom was fiercely attached to Judaism. It was perhaps her greatest passion in life. Of course she married a rabbi, of course she was a rebbetzin.
But did she love it? Did being a rebbetzin do for her what it could have, what it should have? I don't see how it could have. She never got to really fulfill this dream, did she? With all of the moving, the affairs? Did she ever experience even one drop of the satisfaction that she deserved from being the rabbi's wife? I'm afraid that she didn't. And this is a terrible tragedy. This book reminds me of everything that my mother never had. It is so incredibly sad.
Ironically, I feel like I did get to watch Mom move into that rebbetzin role, although it was several years after the divorce. At Beth Shalom she was on the board, the chair of the ritual committee. She was instrumental in getting that synagogue to include the "imahot" into the amidah. She read Torah, led services, and taught adult education courses. She was invited to participate and help lead a Shabbat afternoon women's study group for the intellectual elite of the congregation. She wrote articles for the Jewish newspaper criticizing the Orthodox synagogue who asked her to remove the tallit she had taken to wearing during services. She got a tremendous amount of satisfaction from her leadership role at Beth Shalom. She was the rebbetzin without the rabbi.
But now I wonder, did she do all of this because she wanted to? And did she want to because she never had the chance to be the rebbetzin that she could have been? This is why I am no longer reading this book. These questions hurt too much.
I read that damn Motherless Mothers book, the Joan Didion, even the one where the main character dies of a glioblastoma stage 4 brain tumor. Nothing. All of these books literary and lyrical, designed especially to make someone like me cry. I appreciated them as art. I learned from them. But I plowed on through, dry-eyed.
But, I can tell you right now I am putting down "The Rabbi's Wife." I am throwing it against the wall as hard as I can, listening for the satisfying clunk. It's not a book designed to make a person cry, certainly I'm sure the author did not intend to ignite any type of fury in her reader. It's an academic study for goodness sake. But it may just be the most heart-wrenching thing that I've ever read.
The author, Shuly Rubin Schwartz, is herself a rabbi's wife. She presents a history. She highlights certain American women throughout the twentieth century who personify to her what it means to be a rebbetzin. One of her recurring themes is that they type of woman who was attracted towards marrying a rabbi was often a fierce intellectual herself. The type of person who liked immersing themselves in books, in study, debate. Women who were passionate about Judaism. Usually women who were the most knowledgeable, fluent in Hebrew, at home in the synagogue. Often they were the daughters of rabbis, and had they been born at a different time, they may have chosen the rabbinate as a profession for themselves.
In other words, Mom. Now I know that she did love being a rebbitzen. I don't know much about it, but I know that she did not unequivocally love her role. She did not love all of the "hosting" elements, nor the constant scrutiny. Most of the women portrayed in the book did not. But how they loved having a chance to shine intellectually. To use their roles to fulfill their own needs to teach and lead and learn and grow. They founded the sisterhood. They taught adult education classes. They wrote articles, books. They were proud of who they were, proud to be the shining female stars of the Jewish world.
Did mom feel this way? She was obviously attracted to Dad because of his mind. There was nothing more exciting to her than intellectual prowess. And, as we all know Mom was fiercely attached to Judaism. It was perhaps her greatest passion in life. Of course she married a rabbi, of course she was a rebbetzin.
But did she love it? Did being a rebbetzin do for her what it could have, what it should have? I don't see how it could have. She never got to really fulfill this dream, did she? With all of the moving, the affairs? Did she ever experience even one drop of the satisfaction that she deserved from being the rabbi's wife? I'm afraid that she didn't. And this is a terrible tragedy. This book reminds me of everything that my mother never had. It is so incredibly sad.
Ironically, I feel like I did get to watch Mom move into that rebbetzin role, although it was several years after the divorce. At Beth Shalom she was on the board, the chair of the ritual committee. She was instrumental in getting that synagogue to include the "imahot" into the amidah. She read Torah, led services, and taught adult education courses. She was invited to participate and help lead a Shabbat afternoon women's study group for the intellectual elite of the congregation. She wrote articles for the Jewish newspaper criticizing the Orthodox synagogue who asked her to remove the tallit she had taken to wearing during services. She got a tremendous amount of satisfaction from her leadership role at Beth Shalom. She was the rebbetzin without the rabbi.
But now I wonder, did she do all of this because she wanted to? And did she want to because she never had the chance to be the rebbetzin that she could have been? This is why I am no longer reading this book. These questions hurt too much.
Monday, May 5, 2008
lost in time
This whole "time" thing: you know; people are born, they are little kids, they are teenagers, they are adults, parents, grandparents, they die, that, all of it has gotten really confusing lately.
When Ben(jamin!) and Ilan were here I just so confused! Who were these half-adult people bunking in Eli's room? Were they Hadara and Eytan? No, they are real grown-ups now. I'm not sure how that happened but it did. They are the first pair of people that I ever watched go from Baby to adulthood. It's astonishing. Shocking, really. But now Ben and Ilan are apparently going to do it too. They are going to grow up, become adults. It used to be that Hadara and Eytan were like a different species from me. They were babies, I was a kid. They were kids, I was an adult. But then they caught up. Now we are pretty much the same. But Benjamin and Ilan! Come on, five minutes ago they were babies. I didn't know that it could happen again. That it keeps happening. But you should see their feet, they are bigger than mine. Also, you can talk to them, it is like talking to very bright and interesting adults. They still seem younger than me but the difference is getting blury,shrinking.
So the really scary thing that you are all telling me is that this is going to happen to Mira and Eli too. It seems beyond belief. Yet there they were, just a week ago playing with their cousins in the same way that we used to play with Benjamin and Ilan; Hadara and Eytan. A pair of children who will not stay that way. Even though these two are mine.
Then of course there are all of the people who are dead and for once I do not mean my parents. They should not be dead. It's the generation before them. They are all gone. Every one of them. The shift is almost surely complete. There are three distinct generations in our family, (except for Jeff's grandma) and we are firmly in the middle. So strange!
I get lost a lot. I almost never really know where I am going. But I didn't know that you could get lost in time. It's just the same as getting lost in space, but scarier.
When Ben(jamin!) and Ilan were here I just so confused! Who were these half-adult people bunking in Eli's room? Were they Hadara and Eytan? No, they are real grown-ups now. I'm not sure how that happened but it did. They are the first pair of people that I ever watched go from Baby to adulthood. It's astonishing. Shocking, really. But now Ben and Ilan are apparently going to do it too. They are going to grow up, become adults. It used to be that Hadara and Eytan were like a different species from me. They were babies, I was a kid. They were kids, I was an adult. But then they caught up. Now we are pretty much the same. But Benjamin and Ilan! Come on, five minutes ago they were babies. I didn't know that it could happen again. That it keeps happening. But you should see their feet, they are bigger than mine. Also, you can talk to them, it is like talking to very bright and interesting adults. They still seem younger than me but the difference is getting blury,shrinking.
So the really scary thing that you are all telling me is that this is going to happen to Mira and Eli too. It seems beyond belief. Yet there they were, just a week ago playing with their cousins in the same way that we used to play with Benjamin and Ilan; Hadara and Eytan. A pair of children who will not stay that way. Even though these two are mine.
Then of course there are all of the people who are dead and for once I do not mean my parents. They should not be dead. It's the generation before them. They are all gone. Every one of them. The shift is almost surely complete. There are three distinct generations in our family, (except for Jeff's grandma) and we are firmly in the middle. So strange!
I get lost a lot. I almost never really know where I am going. But I didn't know that you could get lost in time. It's just the same as getting lost in space, but scarier.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
seders
For the past few years it seems like Seders are not real. They are more of an attempt to step into a memory. Now I know that that is actually the point of a seder, but come on. We are not reliving the Exodus here. We are not really trying to. No one is. We should probably just finally get rid of that part.
Instead we are trying to step back into the time when Seders were real. Before everyone died. The seders that we attended the most frequently in our lives. We don't do a very good job though of recreating those seders. We are in different homes with different people around us. We, who were the kids, have found ourselves to be the people we had no idea we could ever become. The Parents! There is one generation above us now, only one.
I used to feel like I had to have at least one blood relative with me at every Seder to make it real. One person who knew the same tunes that I did. Last year though I realized that at least for the foreseeable future I will always have two. Now that they are more people than ideas I am struck by the fact the Eli and Mira are my relatives. They don't know my tunes but I know theirs. We are building this whole this up anew.
We are good at creating traditions in our house, but I worry that we are not so good at holding on to old ones. Mostly this is my fault. My tendency is to throw everything away. To cast away the nuggets of beauty with the garbage. And mostly this is okay. But at a Seder you need a little dirty water to wade in.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Pesach
"Uh oh" I thought when I saw her browsing through the Kosher for Passover section of Albertsons. Marjorie Schneider. One of the nicest parents at Shir Tikvah.
I had run away from that job completely. I tried to take only my books, my friendship with Jennifer, and our babysitter Ilana when I left but you don't always get to choose. Especially in Portland. Especially around Passover if you go to Albertsons. Everyone at Shir Tikvah was nice and tried to be supportive when I decided to leave. It is a congregation of nice people. Marjorie was possibly the nicest.
She gave me a hug when she saw me. "We miss you!" she proclaimed her blond curls bouncing. Marjorie is young and pretty. "We are fine but we still miss you. On the first day of Sunday School we were told that from now on the kids should bring their own snack from home. This is when I knew you were really gone. You nurtured all of us, you were our mom."
"This is why you miss me?" I thought incredulously. "I was their mom?!"
I knew what she was saying though, and this is why I left that job. I couldn't be their collective Jewish mother. They loved the tidbits of Judaism that I fed them on teeny spoons. They gobbled them like the sugar coated goodies that they were. But this is neither the way that I teach nor the way that I feel about Judaism. My Judaism is more maror than charoset. It is the bitter herbs that I crave. It is also, by the way, not the way that I parent. In running away from that job I was running towards a more authentic version of myself.
As I usually do, when I run into someone that I think I don't want to see, I began to relax into the conversation. I remembered how much I truly like Marjorie and inquired about her family. We began to seem like allies trying to maneuver our way through the pre-Passover chaos at Albertsons and through life. In a different setting we would be friends.
Passover does this to me. More so than the High Holidays it seems to me a season for taking stock. Clearing out what you can no longer stomach to make room for freedom. I am surely not meant to be the Director of Congregational Learning at Shir Tikvah. Leaving that job was a modest Exodus for me. The bigger ones have yet to take place. But, slowly, the waters are gathering.
It is so much easier to see what doesn't fit than what does. Leaving for me is not hard. But my sense of direction is so easily muddled. Both in metaphor and in my real life. journeys are the hardest part. I know where I don't want to be but getting to the place that I am going feels next to impossible. Maps don't help. Clear written instructions are better but no one is offering them. Yet now there is a quiet song in my head, a raking away of old leaves that is revealing a small clearing. And maybe this is Passover.
I had run away from that job completely. I tried to take only my books, my friendship with Jennifer, and our babysitter Ilana when I left but you don't always get to choose. Especially in Portland. Especially around Passover if you go to Albertsons. Everyone at Shir Tikvah was nice and tried to be supportive when I decided to leave. It is a congregation of nice people. Marjorie was possibly the nicest.
She gave me a hug when she saw me. "We miss you!" she proclaimed her blond curls bouncing. Marjorie is young and pretty. "We are fine but we still miss you. On the first day of Sunday School we were told that from now on the kids should bring their own snack from home. This is when I knew you were really gone. You nurtured all of us, you were our mom."
"This is why you miss me?" I thought incredulously. "I was their mom?!"
I knew what she was saying though, and this is why I left that job. I couldn't be their collective Jewish mother. They loved the tidbits of Judaism that I fed them on teeny spoons. They gobbled them like the sugar coated goodies that they were. But this is neither the way that I teach nor the way that I feel about Judaism. My Judaism is more maror than charoset. It is the bitter herbs that I crave. It is also, by the way, not the way that I parent. In running away from that job I was running towards a more authentic version of myself.
As I usually do, when I run into someone that I think I don't want to see, I began to relax into the conversation. I remembered how much I truly like Marjorie and inquired about her family. We began to seem like allies trying to maneuver our way through the pre-Passover chaos at Albertsons and through life. In a different setting we would be friends.
Passover does this to me. More so than the High Holidays it seems to me a season for taking stock. Clearing out what you can no longer stomach to make room for freedom. I am surely not meant to be the Director of Congregational Learning at Shir Tikvah. Leaving that job was a modest Exodus for me. The bigger ones have yet to take place. But, slowly, the waters are gathering.
It is so much easier to see what doesn't fit than what does. Leaving for me is not hard. But my sense of direction is so easily muddled. Both in metaphor and in my real life. journeys are the hardest part. I know where I don't want to be but getting to the place that I am going feels next to impossible. Maps don't help. Clear written instructions are better but no one is offering them. Yet now there is a quiet song in my head, a raking away of old leaves that is revealing a small clearing. And maybe this is Passover.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
life, interrupted
I have always hated coming home.
How mom must have dreaded those return trips of mine! Most of my school vacations were spent with my dad. He lived, at various times, in Washington DC, Texas, LA, San Francisco, Ohio, Israel, and Chicago. Before each trip mom would help me pack. She would do my laundry several days before and urge me not to wear anything I might need for thr trip on the days leading up to it. She would drive me to the airport, help me get checked in, and leave me with the flight attendant who was in charge of "children traveling alone". She would kiss me goodbye and drive home by herself. I usually had a brand new book to read and a pack of gum. I loved this part of the trip. I could imagine the clothes tucked neatly in my suitcase waiting under the plane. Dad calling the airline and checking to see if my flight would arrive on time. I pictured what he would look like when he picked me up, his scratchy hug, his utter delight to have me back. I let mom drive away without a thought.
I spent most of my time on these trips with Jean. She wold take me with her on her errands and tell me stories about her family. Her mother was psychic and communicated with the dead. The first trip I took after Hadara was born Jean let me hold her right away. I helped change her diaper and stared at her for hours along with Jean. I felt fiercely protective of her. At night Dad would lie down with us on their bed and tickle Hadara and me. We ate pineapple and watched James Bond movies while Hadara slept. Jean and I would take her to gym class and sometimes meet Dad for lunch where we ordered grilled cheese or fish and chips. They never wanted anyone from the synagogue to see us eating hamburgers which is what mom and I always ordered when we out for lunch.
At various times Phil or Beth would live in the same city as dad. They would come over when I was visiting and take me to the movies or the beach. Phil and I tried one day to drive from the beach to the mountains. Beth would always claim at least one of my nights for a sleepover where we eat ice-cream and potato chips and talk about General Hospital or the books we were reading. On Friday nights Jean would make chicken, and brisket, and dessert. The food she cooked tasted spicier and fancier than moms. Mom only ever cooked one main course, although usually I liked hers better although she rarely made dessert. Everyone would drink their own can of soda and after dinner we would watch a movie.
The other thing that happened on these trips is that Dad or Jean would buy me anything that I wanted. New books, both popcorn and soda at the movies, when I was younger stickers galore, and really big life- sized stuffed animals. As I got older they bought me (in the same visit!) my first swatch watch and first pair of guess jeans. Life with Dad and Jean was paradise. They treated me like a princess. They made me feel beautiful, smart, funny, rich and positively adored. And then, no matter what, it would be time to go home.
I would start to dread leaving towards the end of each visit. I would sit in the back of the car and imagine that I could turn the clock back. Turn it back so it was the day that I was arriving rather than leaving. Dad always drove me to the airport by himself. He would try mightily to talk to me. We would talk about mom and how much still he loved her and respected her as a mother. He would tell me his fears and hopes for Phil and Beth. He reminded me that I was smart and talented and could would conquer the world. He tried so hard not to make me cry. When it was time to leave he would kiss me goodbye just like mom had. By then I would be crying for real. He would hand me to the flight attendant in charge and drive home alone just as mom had. His eyes were glassy his chin quivering when he turned away. I'm sure mom cried too. She must have saved her tears though for the car when she was alone.
I cried for most of the flight home. The flight attendants and other passengers would try to cheer me up with gum and chocolate. Eventually I would escape into the new book Jean would buy me on the last day of the visit. When I saw mom at the airport I would start to cry again. She hugged me but could offer me no comfort. She would suggest we go out for dinner, or shopping, but I didn't want those things from her. I wanted my dad. It took me a long time after each trip to stop mourning. I never wanted to go back to school or see any of my friends. I spent a lot of time in bed or on the couch watching tv or reading. Mom tried so hard but there was nothing she could do. After each one of those trips I had to come to grips again with the fact that my parents were divorced. I would never, never have what I most wanted which was both of them. I can't imagine how devastating all of this was for mom. She never showed me. Every ounce of the self that she showed me was her trying to cheer me up. Her concern was what would do it each time. As surely as it would come the depression would lift and mom and I would go back to our lives together.
It is still hard for me to return from vacations. I can't help but obsess about what I lose when I return home. I will never be the kind of person who can say "oh yeah the trip was great but I was ready to come home". I am never ready to come home. Even now. I am thrilled to be back with Jeff and Mira and Eli but a part of me is crying inside for the week in Mexico. The part of me that is still eight, and twelve, and fifteen is deathly afraid that real life can never be as good as vacation. That what we lose when we leave is so much greater that what we have at home. In this case I know with every fiber of my being that this is not the case. I have the best life in the whole world and for this I am truly, eternally grateful. But today is hard.
How mom must have dreaded those return trips of mine! Most of my school vacations were spent with my dad. He lived, at various times, in Washington DC, Texas, LA, San Francisco, Ohio, Israel, and Chicago. Before each trip mom would help me pack. She would do my laundry several days before and urge me not to wear anything I might need for thr trip on the days leading up to it. She would drive me to the airport, help me get checked in, and leave me with the flight attendant who was in charge of "children traveling alone". She would kiss me goodbye and drive home by herself. I usually had a brand new book to read and a pack of gum. I loved this part of the trip. I could imagine the clothes tucked neatly in my suitcase waiting under the plane. Dad calling the airline and checking to see if my flight would arrive on time. I pictured what he would look like when he picked me up, his scratchy hug, his utter delight to have me back. I let mom drive away without a thought.
I spent most of my time on these trips with Jean. She wold take me with her on her errands and tell me stories about her family. Her mother was psychic and communicated with the dead. The first trip I took after Hadara was born Jean let me hold her right away. I helped change her diaper and stared at her for hours along with Jean. I felt fiercely protective of her. At night Dad would lie down with us on their bed and tickle Hadara and me. We ate pineapple and watched James Bond movies while Hadara slept. Jean and I would take her to gym class and sometimes meet Dad for lunch where we ordered grilled cheese or fish and chips. They never wanted anyone from the synagogue to see us eating hamburgers which is what mom and I always ordered when we out for lunch.
At various times Phil or Beth would live in the same city as dad. They would come over when I was visiting and take me to the movies or the beach. Phil and I tried one day to drive from the beach to the mountains. Beth would always claim at least one of my nights for a sleepover where we eat ice-cream and potato chips and talk about General Hospital or the books we were reading. On Friday nights Jean would make chicken, and brisket, and dessert. The food she cooked tasted spicier and fancier than moms. Mom only ever cooked one main course, although usually I liked hers better although she rarely made dessert. Everyone would drink their own can of soda and after dinner we would watch a movie.
The other thing that happened on these trips is that Dad or Jean would buy me anything that I wanted. New books, both popcorn and soda at the movies, when I was younger stickers galore, and really big life- sized stuffed animals. As I got older they bought me (in the same visit!) my first swatch watch and first pair of guess jeans. Life with Dad and Jean was paradise. They treated me like a princess. They made me feel beautiful, smart, funny, rich and positively adored. And then, no matter what, it would be time to go home.
I would start to dread leaving towards the end of each visit. I would sit in the back of the car and imagine that I could turn the clock back. Turn it back so it was the day that I was arriving rather than leaving. Dad always drove me to the airport by himself. He would try mightily to talk to me. We would talk about mom and how much still he loved her and respected her as a mother. He would tell me his fears and hopes for Phil and Beth. He reminded me that I was smart and talented and could would conquer the world. He tried so hard not to make me cry. When it was time to leave he would kiss me goodbye just like mom had. By then I would be crying for real. He would hand me to the flight attendant in charge and drive home alone just as mom had. His eyes were glassy his chin quivering when he turned away. I'm sure mom cried too. She must have saved her tears though for the car when she was alone.
I cried for most of the flight home. The flight attendants and other passengers would try to cheer me up with gum and chocolate. Eventually I would escape into the new book Jean would buy me on the last day of the visit. When I saw mom at the airport I would start to cry again. She hugged me but could offer me no comfort. She would suggest we go out for dinner, or shopping, but I didn't want those things from her. I wanted my dad. It took me a long time after each trip to stop mourning. I never wanted to go back to school or see any of my friends. I spent a lot of time in bed or on the couch watching tv or reading. Mom tried so hard but there was nothing she could do. After each one of those trips I had to come to grips again with the fact that my parents were divorced. I would never, never have what I most wanted which was both of them. I can't imagine how devastating all of this was for mom. She never showed me. Every ounce of the self that she showed me was her trying to cheer me up. Her concern was what would do it each time. As surely as it would come the depression would lift and mom and I would go back to our lives together.
It is still hard for me to return from vacations. I can't help but obsess about what I lose when I return home. I will never be the kind of person who can say "oh yeah the trip was great but I was ready to come home". I am never ready to come home. Even now. I am thrilled to be back with Jeff and Mira and Eli but a part of me is crying inside for the week in Mexico. The part of me that is still eight, and twelve, and fifteen is deathly afraid that real life can never be as good as vacation. That what we lose when we leave is so much greater that what we have at home. In this case I know with every fiber of my being that this is not the case. I have the best life in the whole world and for this I am truly, eternally grateful. But today is hard.
Friday, March 28, 2008
spring break II
We finally made it to the park. We were having what in Portland we call a "sun-break". Really it was more of an "ice and snow -mix -windy -freezing" break but we had made it. The ultimate goal for Mira and Eli and me, our own mini spring-break, we were at the park.
Not only were we at the park but we had wheels! Ski-boot style roller-skates for Mira (from Target making them next to impossible to fasten) Dora the Explorer over-the-shoes skates for Eli made complete with matching knee and elbow pads ("did those used to be yours?" asked Mira's friend Elizabeth suspiciously when we ran into her) and, for me, bought in a frenzy to have to have some fun this week if it killed me, brand new roller blades. Last night Mira and I had tested out our new skates when Jeff got home from work. We skated around the park for an hour until our hands were numb and it started to rain/snow/ice again. We had the park to ourselves save for one lone skateboarder. We admired his jumps as we raced around giddy in our freedom. Happy to be together. Happy to be away from Eli whose constant crying this week was driving me to the breaking point. We felt light and free on our wheels. Mira and I generally have the exact same skills. We are good readers and great friends. We are terrible at any sport involving balls or competition and are strictly mediocre at math. We are excellent skaters.
Mira insisted on skating to the park. Eli tried on his skates at home and declared that I should put them on at the park where he would be sure "not to fall down and hurt myself". I packed up his skates and gear, Mira's shoes, goldfish, peanut-butter filled pretzels, juice-boxes, water, oh, and my skates, in one of reusable Trader-Joes's bags (the ones I always forget to bring to the grocery store) and we were off. Not only was it sunny but with some motion involved I could almost imagine shedding my winter coat or at least maybe losing my wool hat. Mira ran into yet another friend when we arrived (she is popular my daughter, and this is Portland where the rule is, well, you always run into someone you know) and was off. I stuck Eli's brown Merriled feet into the pinkish red Dora skate and buckled them. "But what if I fall down?"he asked in a voice that was a quiver of a whine. "You won't hurt yourself because your kneed pads and elbow pads will protect you" I replied tightening both around him. He stood up. He sat back down. "But what if I fall here?" pointing to his midsection? "Or here?" pointing to virtually every part of his body that wasn't covered by pad or helmet. "I hate skating here, I want to skate AT HOME!". Uh oh.
The Spring Break Eli was coming back. The one with the very bad cold who hadn't stopped whining or crying for the entire week. Eli had gone from an easy-going baby, to a loud and demanding toddler, and was only now emerging as a mostly mild-mannered and happy four year old. This week he was back to his two year old self. The one, where, when it was actually happening, Jeff and I agreed that we were done having children. The spring break Eli had two modes. Whiny and crying. "LETS GO HOME, IT'S BORING AT THE PARK" the tears were starting. I tried reasoning. "Just, stand up and try it, I'll hold your hand". "I WILL FALL DOWN!" People were starting to look at us. "How will you know if you don't stand up? Mira fell down yesterday. She just got up and started skating again. "NOOO!". "Well then, lets take off your skates and you can play at the park." "I HATE THE PARK, THE PARK IS BORING!". I walked away. He screamed. At this point every eye in the park was on me. I went to check on Mira happily skating and chatting with her friend. "Put on your skates Mommy" she urged me. I looked longingly at my Trader Joes bag which was next to my screaming miserable little boy. "Maybe now is not a good time for me to skate" I said walking back over to him.
He grabbed my leg, pulled me down to him. I took off his skates. I told him that I was going to skate with Mira for ten minutes while he played and then we were going to go home. I said this very logical and calm parenting bit with only the slightest quiver in my voice. He screamed louder. His face was red his nose and eyes streaming his arms gripping tightly around my leg. And then I felt it. The feeling started deep in the pit of my stomach and tried to move to my hands. I wanted to hit him. I forced the wave back down into my stomach. It felt like my insides were being pummeled. I stepped away from my child hands firmly at my side. I didn't do it but I had wanted to. I get it now, why people hit their children. The feeling was hard to resist. It comes from a place deep within. It is an instinct. In this case an instinct that is to be fought against but the fight takes all of your might. It's like fighting the urge to eat or sleep. It is that powerful.
When the urge had almost fully passed we collected a very reluctant and grumpy Mira and returned home. We all ate some chocolate at home and felt a little better. Eli and I took Mira to her piano lesson and he continued to whine and cry. I cried too. I was frustrated and tired and coming down with a cold. But I no longer wanted to hit him. That urge had blessedly passed. When we got home Jeff was home and like the terrific dad and person that he is he took over for me. I had a glass of wine and cooked dinner. I sat with my family while they ate. Jeff bathed the kids and put Eli to bed. I read to Mira. Life was back to ordinary.
The parenting stuff is still hard. Just when you think you are capable it turns around and bites you on the hand (literally). And then it stops again. It wakes up in the morning proud and surprised "I slept all night in underwear mommy!". It gives you a hug and reminds you why you sometimes have to fight your worst impulses. And then life goes on.
Not only were we at the park but we had wheels! Ski-boot style roller-skates for Mira (from Target making them next to impossible to fasten) Dora the Explorer over-the-shoes skates for Eli made complete with matching knee and elbow pads ("did those used to be yours?" asked Mira's friend Elizabeth suspiciously when we ran into her) and, for me, bought in a frenzy to have to have some fun this week if it killed me, brand new roller blades. Last night Mira and I had tested out our new skates when Jeff got home from work. We skated around the park for an hour until our hands were numb and it started to rain/snow/ice again. We had the park to ourselves save for one lone skateboarder. We admired his jumps as we raced around giddy in our freedom. Happy to be together. Happy to be away from Eli whose constant crying this week was driving me to the breaking point. We felt light and free on our wheels. Mira and I generally have the exact same skills. We are good readers and great friends. We are terrible at any sport involving balls or competition and are strictly mediocre at math. We are excellent skaters.
Mira insisted on skating to the park. Eli tried on his skates at home and declared that I should put them on at the park where he would be sure "not to fall down and hurt myself". I packed up his skates and gear, Mira's shoes, goldfish, peanut-butter filled pretzels, juice-boxes, water, oh, and my skates, in one of reusable Trader-Joes's bags (the ones I always forget to bring to the grocery store) and we were off. Not only was it sunny but with some motion involved I could almost imagine shedding my winter coat or at least maybe losing my wool hat. Mira ran into yet another friend when we arrived (she is popular my daughter, and this is Portland where the rule is, well, you always run into someone you know) and was off. I stuck Eli's brown Merriled feet into the pinkish red Dora skate and buckled them. "But what if I fall down?"he asked in a voice that was a quiver of a whine. "You won't hurt yourself because your kneed pads and elbow pads will protect you" I replied tightening both around him. He stood up. He sat back down. "But what if I fall here?" pointing to his midsection? "Or here?" pointing to virtually every part of his body that wasn't covered by pad or helmet. "I hate skating here, I want to skate AT HOME!". Uh oh.
The Spring Break Eli was coming back. The one with the very bad cold who hadn't stopped whining or crying for the entire week. Eli had gone from an easy-going baby, to a loud and demanding toddler, and was only now emerging as a mostly mild-mannered and happy four year old. This week he was back to his two year old self. The one, where, when it was actually happening, Jeff and I agreed that we were done having children. The spring break Eli had two modes. Whiny and crying. "LETS GO HOME, IT'S BORING AT THE PARK" the tears were starting. I tried reasoning. "Just, stand up and try it, I'll hold your hand". "I WILL FALL DOWN!" People were starting to look at us. "How will you know if you don't stand up? Mira fell down yesterday. She just got up and started skating again. "NOOO!". "Well then, lets take off your skates and you can play at the park." "I HATE THE PARK, THE PARK IS BORING!". I walked away. He screamed. At this point every eye in the park was on me. I went to check on Mira happily skating and chatting with her friend. "Put on your skates Mommy" she urged me. I looked longingly at my Trader Joes bag which was next to my screaming miserable little boy. "Maybe now is not a good time for me to skate" I said walking back over to him.
He grabbed my leg, pulled me down to him. I took off his skates. I told him that I was going to skate with Mira for ten minutes while he played and then we were going to go home. I said this very logical and calm parenting bit with only the slightest quiver in my voice. He screamed louder. His face was red his nose and eyes streaming his arms gripping tightly around my leg. And then I felt it. The feeling started deep in the pit of my stomach and tried to move to my hands. I wanted to hit him. I forced the wave back down into my stomach. It felt like my insides were being pummeled. I stepped away from my child hands firmly at my side. I didn't do it but I had wanted to. I get it now, why people hit their children. The feeling was hard to resist. It comes from a place deep within. It is an instinct. In this case an instinct that is to be fought against but the fight takes all of your might. It's like fighting the urge to eat or sleep. It is that powerful.
When the urge had almost fully passed we collected a very reluctant and grumpy Mira and returned home. We all ate some chocolate at home and felt a little better. Eli and I took Mira to her piano lesson and he continued to whine and cry. I cried too. I was frustrated and tired and coming down with a cold. But I no longer wanted to hit him. That urge had blessedly passed. When we got home Jeff was home and like the terrific dad and person that he is he took over for me. I had a glass of wine and cooked dinner. I sat with my family while they ate. Jeff bathed the kids and put Eli to bed. I read to Mira. Life was back to ordinary.
The parenting stuff is still hard. Just when you think you are capable it turns around and bites you on the hand (literally). And then it stops again. It wakes up in the morning proud and surprised "I slept all night in underwear mommy!". It gives you a hug and reminds you why you sometimes have to fight your worst impulses. And then life goes on.
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