Author: littleyellownotepad

 The coast is clear.

I look both ways, making sure I won’t get caught.

One kid reading on the couch. One in the bathroom. Two playing UNO. Two playing lego. Baby asleep. It’s my big moment, I”m going to make my move.

I’m going to make a phone call.

I creep back to the kitchen, as inconspicuous as possible.

I dial the number. I start my call.

Kid-reading-on-the-couch slowly gravitates to the kitchen..it’s the perfect time to tell me all about the book he is reading. I make the one-minute motion, which he apparently chooses not to get. I mouth “Please wait till I’m off the phone,” but it’s not working.

The two lego-players come barreling in, needing a referee. “It’s my diamonds!” “No, it’s from my special pieces!” I give the one-minute motion. Nothing doing. I head to the garage, hoping to get a moment of quiet, and they all follow. UNO cards come raining down in my path; the game is over with no winner, only mischievous-looking faces. And the UNO-card rain dance is in full swing.

I motion, I whisper, I cover the mouth piece and beg for a moment to finish up…

“Come wipe me!” calls a little voice from the bathroom. And I hear that noise. The non-mistaken noise of the roll of toilet paper being unrolled as he waits…a roll that I know I put in only an hour ago.

“I’ll wipe you!” calls one of the Uno-dancers, making a beeline for the bathroom, something he knows will certainly get my immediate attention.

And then I hear it…the baby is crying. His 12 minute nap is done.

Can’t anyone see I’m trying to make a phonecall?!

I need to call her, but I have nothing to say.

It’s hard to believe it’s the same cousin that just four weeks ago, while visiting in NY, I bumped into while walking down the street and stood in the frigid NY weather catching up on two years of happenings. Babies, jobs, kids, stuff. There was so much to talk about, we could have stood there all day.

I saw her again the next week, together with lots of other cousins, and we all had plenty to share; cousins always have what to talk about.

And now, I have nothing to say.

I need to call her. My dear cousin, a few years younger than me, a beautiful mother of four and a dedicated wife, lost her equally young and beautiful husband.

He passed away suddenly, without any warning.

It’s tragic, it’s awful, it’s horrible.

It’s heartbreaking.

Small children without a father and a wife without her husband.

How oh how can such a thing happen?

What can I tell her?

I wish I can be there in person, but I am not able to get to New York this week.

I need to call her, but what can I tell her?

I can tell her nothing. But I need to call her anyway.

There are so many things I want to say.

I want to tell her this is all wrong.

I want to tell her this world is a crazy mess and we are all crying with her.

I want to tell her that I have not stopped thinking about her since the moment this happened.

I want to tell her my heart is shattered in pieces for her.

I want to tell her 30 year old tattys don’t pass away. This has to be a mistake.

But I won’t say any of that.

Because truthfully, there is nothing to say.

How can such a young husband, father, son and brother be taken away so suddenly?

How can his dear wife carry the pain?

I remember soon after they were married her and her husband joined us for Shabbos lunch.  I was the older cousin, married already for 3 years, and I was still living in New York.

Her husband Nadiv walked in and immediately picked up my 6 month old baby and wouldn’t put her down, something not so characteristic for a guy his age! And when she fell asleep, he insisted on continuing to hold her. And he didn’t put her down until he left.

He loved babies. He loved kids. He loved people and he loved life.

I have to call her.

To tell her everything by saying nothing.

I don’t understand Hashem’s ways.

We don’t understand Hashem’s ways.

We’re not supposed to. But sometimes I really wish I did.

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.

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.