Author: littleyellownotepad

Life in General

A tribute to my frozen and frazzled fellow moms on the East Coast

littleyellownotepad

bundled up

How cold can winter be?

The answer, I learned, is VERY.

While debating whether to do our family trip to NY in February or not, I have to honestly admit that I did not remember just how cold cold can be..

Or how many pieces of accessories each child would need to go out in that cold.

Well, we were in NY and ready to take a walk.

Instead of kids grabbing socks and shoes, or just Crocs, and hopping into the minivan, this was happening NY style.

 

“Ok everyone, we’re ready to leave, get your stuff!”

I take a deep breath. Here we go!

Put on baby’s hat.

Put on baby’s coat.

Strap baby into carriage.

Baby starts to scream.

 

Shh shh baby, we are leaving in a minute…

 

Put on 2 year olds hat.

Put on his coat.

He takes off his hat.

Put on his scarf.

He unzips his coat.

Put on his gloves.

Put on his hat again.

Re-zip coat.

Put on his boats.

Strap him in carriage.

 

Call the rest of the kids.

3 year old only has one glove.

7 year old can’t find his boots.

5 year old wants to just wear a sweater.

 

Deep breath.

It’s 10 degrees outside. It’s irrelevant if that’s with the wind chill or not; we need to get on our way.

 

I make a mental checklist.

10  year old has gloves, scarf, coat, boots.

I send nine year old to find her hat.

7 year old can not wear crocs, you need to find your boots.

Find 3 year olds other glove.

By now, 2 year old has kicked off his boots.

Baby is still crying.

Shh we’re leaving in a minute and you’ll fall asleep.

 

5 year old can’t find either glove.

He’ll keep his hands in his pockets.

Put two year old’s boots back on.

3 year old abandoned his scarf, he didn’t like it.

Put scarf back on.

Cover carriage with the carriage plastic, something people in California would think is abusive but east coasters count as a blessing.

Now 2 year old and baby cry together.

I want to join.

 

5 year old needs the bathroom.

Off comes hat, scarf, gloves, boots and coat.

3 year old wears one glove.

I instruct him to keep the other hand in his pocket.

7 year old got his boots.

5 year old is back and ready.

Ok, we’re going.

 

Whoops, what about me?

I’m in my slippers.

I find my boots.

And one glove.

I suppose the other glove went on a runaway together with three year old’s missing glove.

I don’t blame them.

 

I put on my coat. I know it’s freezing outside, but for some reason I’m sweating.

Scarf. Where’s my scarf.

Kids are getting impatient,

I see 3 year old taking off his scarf again,

No, we’re leaving!

 

We’re out the front door.

Bounce the carriage down the steps.

The brakes lock.

Open brakes, bounce another step.

The brakes lock.

I’m ready to scream.

Why did they put the brakes in such a ridiculous place?!

We make it down the steps.

Baby is asleep.

 

Wow, that only took 42 minutes to get out!

 

I think of the sunshine I left in California.

At least the kids are loving the snow.

I pass many other moms on the street.

And I have a newfound respect for these winter moms.

Who do this many times a day, everyday.

And I silently salute them all.

I make a promise right then and there to all my freezing, frazzles fellow moms:

When I get back home, I will not post on Facebook any pictures of sunny California until the last of the snow is gone.

It’s the least I can do.

Life in General

Libraries and little boys

littleyellownotepad

library

Libraries are not for little  boys.

I knew that.

But I was being a good Facebook mom and taking my five little boys to the library.

Maybe it was the sunny weather or maybe it was my good mood, but for some reason I believed all those who told me that the local library was a great place for kids.

It’s beautiful, special kids wing, it’s new and nice, there’s lots to do there…

So there we were, heading from the parking lot to the library, reviewing library etiquette on the way. My little boys nodded along, agreeing with it all.

The first red flag came when we passed the fountain out front. The type of fountain that makes the minds of little boys race, trying to figure out the quickest way they can somehow get wet. On their tippy-toes, desperately trying to reach up and into the water…

Still optimistic, I gathered them up and reminded them of our exciting plans of actually going into the library..

The second red flag followed too soon, when we had to cross through the adult section of the library in order to reach our destination.

And it was silent.

I mean deafeningly silent.

It hurt my ears, I had not heard such loud silence in years.

I shushed my five little boys and rushed them through the room lest one of them makes so much as a peep.

And I silently wondered; what would happen if someone made noise in a library? Who said you can’t read in noise? I mean, I manage just fine. After all, I can read a whole recipe without the sounds of crying, laughing, shouting, toy fire engines and garbage trucks even slightly distracting me! Or maybe that’s why every now and then I mess up a recipe and forget an ingredient or two…

We made it to our destination. And just as I carefully planned, the after school crowd hadn’t come yet and the preschool kids were taken home for naps already, so it was just me and five of my little boys.

And they sat down at the little table with the  activities, long enough for me to snap a pic and Whatsapp it to one of my doubting friends, to say, “See, it’s working out great!”

Five minutes later, it was still working! I settled in on one of the nice inviting couches. Baby is sleeping, rest of the boys are busy; wow, this just might be a relaxing afternoon. We should come here every day!

Except for the other couch. The large u-shaped couch that has a wide flat surface leading from the back of the couch to the window. That, to my kids’ eyes, is nothing short of a stage. Or walkway. Or runway.

Warning 1, 2 and 3 are issued.

We are not climbing. We do not climb in libraries. How about a book about trucks? Chickens? Cities? People? Anything?

Like I said, libraries are not for little boys. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t visited the library in 7 years…it was suddenly coming back to me.

And perhaps libraries should call in moms of boys to design the kids’ section. Before consulting any contractors, they need to make sure the room is boy proof. No ledges or edges, no poles, no slats – nothing that can be mistaken for a play structure.

So out we went, with the little boys trailing behind, wondering out loud why we were leaving.

And I reprimanded myself quite firmly, “You can not be angry at them! Little boys don’t belong in a library, why did you take them there in the first place?!”

And off we went, to the place where little boys belong.

To the park.

And they played and ran and jumped; climbed and swung on the swings and splashed in the drinking fountain; acting like normal little boys because that’s what I was allowing them to be.

I have to remind myself of my mantra more often; Don’t believe anything you see on Facebook.

Travel

Traveling light…just me and the baby!

littleyellownotepad

carseat

Flying cross country with just me and the baby? That’s practically as easy as traveling alone!

Of course, I didn’t feel that way when my oldest was born… it takes traveling with the whole family, 2 carriages, 3 carseats, 8 carry ons, 6 checked bags, 2 diaper bags, 3 food bags and a few other random pieces to make flying with just the baby seem easy.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t for a happy reason; I was going to visit my family after my grandfather’s passing. I wanted to go, I needed to go, and flying with just me and the five week old baby wasn’t so daunting at this point in life.

I was traveling light, after all; just the baby, the carseat, the Carseat Canopy and  J.J. Cole fleece lined cozy bundle-me to combat the frigid east coast weather, the Graco Click-Connect wheels for the carseat, my overstuffed diaper bag, my handbag that barely closed and weighed more than the baby, my Baby Bjorn in case I didn’t have a seat for the carseat on the plane and my carry-on. I was being gone for barely 48 hours, I didn’t need much.

I checked in at the counter, doing my best to elicit some motherly empathy from the representatives for this brave mom flying with the baby.

They weren’t all that empathetic.

Instead they told me that coming January 15, you can only take one carriage piece with you to the gate.

I looked at them blankly, pointing to my Click Connect-carseat contraption (the best thing since sliced bread).

“Yup, you can’t take those two pieces. Come January 15, you can only take one.”

Umm, someone obviously is a bit clueless about traveling with a baby.

“You mean either the carseat, or the carriage base?”

“Yup, ma’am, come January 15, you can’t take that with you to the gate, you have to check in one at check-in.”

I’m not sure which is worse; imagining wheeling the baby in the basket of the stroller because the carseat is checked in, or lugging the carseat across the whole airport in one hand, while wheeling my carry on in the other…

Someone either doesn’t know what they’re talking about, or this is the work of the Surgeon General who is out to make moms across the country lose their sanity.

I file away the info to google later, and continue on my way.

Security.

Although I know that the baby needs to come out of the carseat for security, I pretend I don’t. He’s in a deep sleep, can’t they see? Don’t they know you don’t wake up a baby when they finally fall asleep??

“Ma’am, you have to take the baby out.”

I think they’re talking to me.

I pretend they’re not.

He says it again.

Pretending is over.

“Ok, I’ll take him out, but only if you promise you’ll put him back to sleep after the carseat goes through.”

He chuckles. What do you know, a TSA agent with a sense of humor! But still he tells me no, he won’t put the baby back to sleep. I knew that. I just never give up trying to get out of it…

And time to take apart everything I stacked so well…off goes the handbag, the diaper bag, hoist up the carry on, take out the baby, hold baby and disconnect carseat from base with two fingers, lift it up with my pinky, click the base closed with another two fingers, clumsily pick it up and dump on the belt, still carrying the baby…

Only to walk through the metal detector and 30 seconds later reassemble it all back together, only this time the baby is not sleeping.

I don’t like going through security. It does not make me feel secure. It makes me crazy.

Off to the gate, still silently praying I’ll have that extra seat near me on the plane…I approach the desk…and there’s no seat for the carseat on the plane.

Oh there is a seat, if I want to buy one. No, I don’t want to buy one..

Baby Bjorn, here we come.

I’m not a big baby-carrier fan. I find them quite restricting and borderline claustrophobic. But Baby Bjorn it was. I started the strapping process, eight clicks in total, and baby was secure. I couldn’t breath, but that’s not relevant. Baby was comfortable. I could barely bend down to get the diaper bag and handbag on my shoulder. I felt more like a walking baggage rack than anything else. I leave the carseat at the door, and then stop. The Carseat Canopy and the bundle-me…it needs to come off if I ever want to see it again..

And so, velcro by velcro, I disconnect it alI and add the two pieces to my ensemble, somewhere between my elbow and my shoulder.

I make my way onto the plane. Of course, I’m in row 30…and so I try to pretend no one is staring at me as I make my way down the aisle, diaper bag tapping each person on the head.

I sit down and stay still, trying to figure out how I’ll manage the flight. It’s the first leg of the trip, only an hour until the stopover.

And this delightful stewardess, who is either clueless or also in cahoots with the surgeon general, says; “Oh ma’am, for takeoff you have to hold the baby, can’t keep him in there.”

I just stare at her, because now that I’m stuck in this carrier, I have no idea how to get out.

She’s so helpful.

“Just slide it over your head ma’am and you can hold him.”

She’s obviously never been inside a carrier; once those 8 clicks are clicked in place, it’s pretty much as a part of you as your head itself; there is certainly no sliding it over.

I smiled and thanked her for her sweet advice, with a “it’s not so simple” half laugh.

Only half a laugh, because I didn’t think it was all that funny.

And so I started unclicking.

1 click,  2 clicks, 3 clicks…held him, take off, 1 click, 2 clicks, 3 clicks…

I silently hope that the baby won’t have to nurse during this flight, because as experienced as I am, I couldn’t figure out how I’d do that.

And the flight went well, other than the fact that I couldn’t reach my food bag at my feet.

Off the plane and time to reassemble; click stroller base open with one hand, click in carseat, unstrap baby from carrier and breather again; on goes my bags in perfect order; I’m good at this by now.

Off to the the next flight; I make my way over to the ticket counter.

The guy looks up. He smiles; “I know what you want; let me check if there’s a seat.”

And Otto is my hero of the day, we get a seat! Actually, a whole row!

I settle on the plane, feeling as if I won the lottery.

Fewer things can make a mother happier than having an extra seat on the plane.

It’s good I traveled light; with a whole row to myself, there was room for everything.

Life in General

My Zaidy

littleyellownotepad

zaidy

I keep pressing backspace; whatever I write just doesn’t seem to come out right.

I’ll try again.

He was a giant of a man. He was larger than life. He cared for everyone.

It’s all true. But it doesn’t seem to really explain who Zaidy was. It sounds like just Anyone’s biography. And Zaidy was certainly not just Anyone.

So I’ll try yet again.

He was timeless. He was 90 but too young to leave us. He only saw the positive in everything and everyone. He made an impact on the life of thousands of people.

It sounds so cliche, but it’s all true! Yet, it’s still missing the heart of who Zaidy was.

He educated thousands of children in the Torah’s ways. He dedicated himself to reaching out to every Jewish person he came in contact with. He worked full time, every day of his life. He never retired and never got old.

It’s all Zaidy; every word of it.

But it still not capturing the life of Zaidy.

And the more I write, the more I realize that words alone will never suffice to describe my Zaidy; Zaidy isn’t someone you can just write about; Zaidy was life. And the words themselves are only half the picture.

And the other half are the memories I hold close to me.

The shared memories of me, my family and my relatives. The precious memories of love for all of us, never ending enthusiasm for anything we were telling him and patience for each one of us. And when I say “us”, thats a few hundred “us”, the lucky grandchildren.

He made each of us feel as though we were his only grandchild.

In my memories, Zaidy is full of life. Passionately sharing a word on the parsha. Enthusiastically telling us a story at the Shabbos table; every story he told felt as though he was there to witness it. On the way to some far out little city to find a lonely Jew who needs some motivation to pursue Judaism. Boarding a plane to yet another grandchild’s wedding. Holding yet another great grandchild, as Sandek of the bris. Listening to a three year old grandchild reciting his alef bais, glowing with pride. Patiently asking my children what they were learning in Chumash, so eager to hear their responses.

And glowing grandchildren lined up, waiting for his warm embrace.

Bubby and Zaidy were an inseparable pair; together they not only raised a large family, they raised a community and a generation. They lived for the same goals, aspired for the same dreams.

Yet Zaidy never sat back to marvel at what he accomplished – even though he had every right to! He only kept moving forward. His focus was the next generation; making sure they were educated and trusted to continue his holy work.

It’s so hard to share the memories properly, complete with their rich warmth and life. And I don’t think I ever can.

The other night we had a conference call with lots of cousins. And we shared memories. And we all felt it; we all knew Zaidy, and we felt the life of these memories.

And that’s where I know Zaidy will continue to live.

Pen and paper alone are not enough.

He will live with each one of us, his grandchildren.

And as the sadness sets in that Zaidy, our patriarch, our role model, our grandfather who was blessed to live until 90 without ever getting old is no longer with us, I know he will continue to live in all of us. All of us who know his life, who felt his warmth, and who still feel the love when we talk about him.

Zaidy will continue to live in how I live my life.

With his positive outlook on life; with his patience for every child; with his love for each one of his children, grandchild and great grandchildren; with his incredible ability to always see the good in everything; with his great respect and admiration for Bubby, with his determination to reach every Jew and share with them the joy of Judaism, with his passion for Torah and mitzvos; and with his acceptance of everyone, as they are. 

And I think I know the secret to how he was able to do all this; how he was able to be 90 but young, to get older without ever aging.

Turning 90 was but a mere detail of his active and busy life.

Because he never retired.

He never sat back, saying his work was complete and it’s time to relax. His life was not about himself, it was about everyone else.

When you have a life worth living, you never retire.

Motherhood

A piece of my heart is six hours away…

littleyellownotepad

heart-piec2

A piece of my heart is six hours away in a lovely campsite, enjoying a week of winter camp. On Monday I exchanged one part of my heart for another – I picked up my son and dropped off my daughter.

Over the week my big almost ten year old was in camp, I scanned every photo that was uploaded to the camp Facebook page, trying to get some information of how he was doing.

He’s smiling, he must be having a good time.

He’s huddled in his coat, oh he must be so cold, I should have sent warmer clothes.

They’re on a hike, I forgot to send him a cap, oh no! I hope he doesn’t get a sunburn.

I hope he remembered to put on sunscreen.

Good, he’s wearing a different shirt than yesterday. I hope he put the other one in the laundry bag, so it comes back home.with him.

They posted a video – a video!! I can get more than a one second glimpse!

He’s standing on his bench, singing along with the other kids. One second, two seconds. He sits down.

Why did he sit down? Maybe he’s homesick? Maybe his foot hurts? Maybe his new sneakers are bothering him?

Oh, he’s back standing.

I guess he just wanted to sit down!

And so the week goes on, until he can call. He calls! My heart feels closer to complete for a moment. But. I have a million questions!

Are you too hot with your coat?

Is it too cold, should we have gotten warmer clothes?

Are you homesick? Are the kids nice to you? Is your counselor nice?

Are your shoes comfortable? Did you take a shower? Are you happy? Are you sad?

But I prepared myself; I knew he’d have a short time to talk, and the worst feeling is hanging up and realizing I didn’t give my kid a chance to talk.

And so he called. And I quieted all my screaming questions and said, “So, what do you want to tell me about?”

And off he went, telling me about every and any activity, answering none of my unasked questions. So I listened, trying to read between the lines.

He sounds happy.

He’s not crying.

He has a lot to tell me.

And I have to accept that I will not get the answers to all my questions. Even though I’m his mother and I should know everything!

And the week passes, we pick up my big boy and drop off my big (but looks little to me) 8 year old girl for the greatest week yet. She meets her friends, some of whom she has only seen in online school over the computer. First she’s shy. They’re so excited to see her, she’s not really reciprocating.

Then I realize the problem; I need to leave. I can’t hang around. As long as I’m there, she won’t loosen up. So I casually disappear in the crowd, and watch her running across the camp grounds with her friends and a big chunk of my heart.

And I practice the speech I know so well by now.

She’ll be ok. She has her friends with her. There’s good staff. I trust the directors. She wanted to go to camp. She begged to go to camp. She wants to be here.

And we leave. She waves. I try to be the grown up; I wave and casually get in the car. As if I’m as fine with it as she is.

And I wait to see pictures.

She’s in lots of them. She’s smiling. waving. Cheering with her bunk. Working on a scrapbook. She’s sitting between two friends.

More pictures.

Oh no, she’s sitting in a different row than her friends. Maybe they got into a fight? Maybe she’s upset? Maybe they’re upset with her?

And a little voice of sanity reminds me – maybe she just wants to sit there!

And then the pictures of day two. I don’t know how she slept. What if she cried herself to sleep? Was she homesick? Maybe still is homesick?

Again I scan the pictures, looking for answers. Are her eyes red and puffy? No, she’s smiling. Hmm, is it a regular smile or a homesick smile?

I’m slowly making myself crazy!

I show my husband the photos.

“Great, she’s having a good time!” That’s it.

“You think it’s a real smile? Do her eyes look red? You think she cried last night?”

He shrugs, “Maybe, but that’s ok too.”

And for a moment I wish I was the father, not the mother; life is so simple!

But I know he’s right. It IS ok. It’s ok if she gets homesick or doesn’t sit near her friends. Even if she chooses not to participate in an activity. She needs to experience all that. It’s part of growing up.

She’ll call tomorrow. And I’m going to put my million unnecessary questions aside and listen to her talk. And I hope she won’t cry, because I’m not convinced I won’t join her if she does.

After all, I miss having my heart complete.