Category: Life in General

I hate my couch.

Truthfully, it’s not the end of the world to hate your couch.

But here’s the problem with my couch.

It’s less than a year old. And I chose it.

And I hate it.

The old couches were looking like they needed a bit of an upgrade, and when they marked their tenth birthday, I started scouting for new ones.

Going into a store to browse is something of the past – and the distant future. Online shopping is way less traumatic than having all the kids traipsing through a furniture store.

And so I scouted. And browsed. And searched. And narrowed down my options.

I pride myself in being an experienced mom of boys, so there were two criteria for my new dream couches. 1. All the cushions had to be attached. (If you only have daughters and can’t figure out why, let’s just stay in a boy’s life, anything not attached to its source is meant to be used as a sports ball of any type.)

2. It had to be a dark color. So that I would not get aggravated with every mark and spill.

And no fabric. Genuine leather or faux leather doesn’t bother me, as long as it can be wiped down.

Pretty easy to please.

I found just the couch I wanted. L-shaped with plenty of space, dark color, cushions attached. I was ready to make the big purchase.

I read the fine print and the big print, up and down, and all the reviews. I got my husband’s approval of the couch and I was good to go.

The couch was delivered on a Friday.

The delivery guys set it up and left.

And before I could even sit down to appreciate it, one of my boys was holding a cushion in his hands.

And then another.

And then gleeful shouting.

And the reality sank in.

The. Cushions. Were. Not. Attached.

Six big brown cushions, to make towers and forts and slides and sleds. All the things of my nightmares, all the things of their dreams.  All the things me, the experienced mother of boys, was so confident about avoiding.

I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry.

I definitely wanted to cry.

The kids were having a blast.

This can’t be happening!

Visions of the next ten years flashed through my mind, threatening, warning, reminding, and repeating to leave the pillows on the couch.

NO! NO! NO!

I found my phone and a quiet corner to call my husband.

“They’re not attached!!” I yelled into the phone.

He wasn’t quite as alarmed as I was, but did voice his surprise, considering the couch description we had seen.

I had to calm down and come up with a plan.

I had to think rationally.

I had to make a reasonable consequence for taking the pillows off the couch.

No Shabbos party for a year?

No, too impractical.

No videos for three years?

No, too harsh.

The squeals and laughs from the other room were interrupting my brainstorming.

After a few more minutes, I had it. Something not too drastic but drastic enough. Something they’d care to lose and was realistic to implement.

I let the kids have a few more minutes of fun and then called an emergency meeting.

In my most serious voice I told the kids that I was establishing a new rule.

No one was allowed to take the pillows off the couch.

The couch is for sitting.

The trampoline is for jumping and the slide outside is for sliding, the climbing dome for climbing.

The couch pillows are for sitting only.

And anyone who would be caught taking the pillows off would lose computer time for three weeks.

They all nodded seriously.

I had a fleeting feeling that it would be ok.

But it didn’t last long.

It took less than an hour till the first kid came to report that someone had taken the pillows off.

And apparently my toddler hadn’t been impressed with the consequence either.

I don’t know what I was thinking, but it really was not a good plan. Because really, if the pillows are not attached, then kids, by definition, will take them off.

I couldn’t keep up. I had lost, royally.

I started avoiding going into the living room and pretending not to see, so that I wouldn’t have to add another three weeks to  the already 5 months computer time that some of the kids had lost, (which I knew about because one of my other kids was counting, because he loves to keep a tally).

And the kids pretended not to remember what I had told them and not to notice that I wasn’t seeing on purpose.

I emailed the company and begged, TAKE IT BACK!! This was false advertising!

They couldn’t do that but offered me a steep discount.

I took it, but that helped my aggravation for only  a few more days.

I hated the couch. I hated seeing six cushions spread across the living room.

It was time to make a decision.

Instead of giving my kids 3 choices, I gave it to myself.

Choice 1: Spend the next 10 years, until we get another couch, being the official Couch Police.

Choice 2: Get rid of the couch.

Choice 3: Figure out a way to not be so bothered by the couch.

I had tried Choice 1 and I really didn’t like it as a career.

Choice 2 wasn’t an option because the couches were only a few weeks old; I couldn’t toss them and just buy new ones.

I was left with Choice 3, which was easier said than done.

Try as I could, the sight of the cushions on the floor was driving me crazy. But I wasn’t ready to give up. I had to figure out a way to deal with it.

And then I thought of it. The 80/20 rule. It fit here perfectly.

I was spending 80% of my energy on something that had less than 20% of importance to my life.

And that didn’t make any sense.

Ok, I hated the couch. Couch cushions on the floor might be a pet peeve of mine, but it did not deserve 80% of my energy.

With a house full of boys, there’s no end to the things I can react to and deplete my energy in no time.

I would make the 80/20 rule my measuring stick.

Sure, I would still remind them to pick up the pillows, put them back and tell them not to make towers.

Sometimes.

And sometimes, or many times, I would ignore it.

But I would keep the bulk of my energy for where I can make positive changes in them as people, and not just in their typical kid behavior.

I would reserve 80% of my energy for where the dividends would be a lot greater than a 20% impact on our family.

And really, that goes for every area in life. Sometimes we put in 80% effort and yield only 20% results and sometimes 20% effort brings the 80% we so badly need.

It was time to re-evaluate what was important. And couch pillows just doesn’t make the list.

 

This week, for the very first time, I got a call from Gallup doing a study on something or other in America.I declined to participate, but it got me thinking. Coming off election season, it seems all everyone is doing all day is taking polls.

So I figured I’d hop on the bandwagon and do a little study on my own too. Only this one won’t cost us any of tax payer’s money..

The goal of this poll, just like Gallup, is “to deliver relevant, timely, and visionary research on what (children) around the world think and feel. Using impeccable data and behavioral indicators that are vital to strategic plans,” I present to you the Gallup-ing Poll.

To emphasize, all the children in this study are being brought up under the same guidance, environment, rules and adult love and care. Therefore, we cannot say that any of the results are based on the environment, surrounding, exposure or anything of the like. And the results are astounding – see for yourself!

4 out of 7 children, between the ages of 2 – 12, born to the same mother, will put their shoes in their cubby where they are supposed to, while 3 out of 7 will not.

2 out of 8 children will get ready for bed the first time they are told, 1 out of 8 will need to be told 3 times and 5 out of 8 will need to be led by the hand.

And yes, just to reiterate, they are all born to the same mother, raised in the same house with the same rules

2 out of 2 children, between ages 2-3, will prefer to write on the wall than on a sheet of paper.

7 out of 8 children will prefer not to clean up their spot at the table after mealtimes.

4 out of 8 children will need to be told twice, and 3 out of 7 will need to be threatened before clearing their spot.

1 out of 8 children will naturally put their clothing in the hamper.

4 out of 8 children will slurp their spaghetti and ketchup so that it sprays red spots all over the kitchen.

2 out of 8 children will wear their food by the time the meal is over.

2 out of 8 children can wear their clothes for two days straight and it will still be as good as new.

1 out of 8 children needs new shoes every 6 weeks, while 2 out of 8 children can wear their shoes for a year straight and still get more use out of them.

5 out of 8, raised with the same rules, will dump their dirty clothes in any spot they so wish.

1 out of 8 children will only need to be told twice, and then will pick up their clothes and put it in the hamper.

1 out of 8 children will always clean their spot and tidy up around them and leave no trace of their mess.

2 out of 2 children, between the ages of 2-3, enjoy painting toothpaste on the bathroom mirror.

0 out of 2 children, between the ages of 2-3, will put the caps back on the markers they are using.

1 out of 1 newly toilet trained child will enjoy pulling a roll of toilet paper as far as it can go.

2 out of 7 children going to school will misbehave and be sent out of class.

1 out of 7 children will not want to go to school.

4 out of 7 children will love going to school every day.

2 out of 7 children who go to school will get dressed the moment they wake up.

3 out of 7 children will wait until 2 minutes before it’s time to leave, and then get dressed.

And there will always be 1 out of 7 children who will start to get dressed 2 minutes after we were supposed to leave.

3 out of 7 children will do homework on their own.

1 out of 7 children will not do homework, ever.

4 out of 8 children look forward to bath/shower night.

2 out of 8 children only want to shower in the morning.

2 out of 8 shower prefer not to shower at all.

2 out of 8 children wear their socks and shoes from the moment they wake up until bedtime.

4 out of 8 children will put on their socks only when they are ready to leave the house.

1 out of 8 children will prefer to go barefoot, both inside and outside.

3 out of 8 children love to read.

2 out of 8 children love to bake.

1 out of 8 children will help in the kitchen when asked.

1 out of 8 children will ask to help.

4 out of 8 children prefer not to help at all.

The conclusion:

8 out of 8 children, growing up in identical environments, will each grow and blossom at their own pace. Each will have their own personality and will not conform to those around them.

Treat each child like their own world. And my fellow parents, let’s stop blaming ourselves for every time one of our children doesn’t act the way we want them to.

Have you ever played Jenga? It’s a pretty neat little game, but I never realized that being a mom includes being really good at Jenga. Real life Jenga.

In case you’re not familiar, Jenga is that game with small wooden rectangles that you stack very cautiously and sometimes seemingly precariously, and then hold your breath that they don’t all topple over… And just as you slowly get that last piece at the top of the tower in place, the toddler or crawling baby will happen to whiz right into it, knocking the tower in every direction and causing screams and cries from all those involved. And then for the next two weeks, these Jenga rectangles will show up in every corner of the house, downstairs and upstairs, garage, kitchen and bathtub. At first you will collect them and put them back in the cool cylinder Jenga container, but at a certain point – depending on the type of day you are having – you will throw them in the garbage.

At least that’s the version of Jenga we play here in my house.

The real version includes very carefully pulling out random rectangles without the tower crashing to the ground.

Being a mom means constantly trying to stack all your to-dos and to-gos – cleaning, organizing, laundry, dentist, doctors, well visit and sick visit appointments; snacks, meals and a million other things – in a very organized, neat and sometimes seemingly precarious stack, like the most delicate of puzzles, so that everyone gets to the right places at the right time on the right day. It takes lots of planning and most days the meticulously laid plans work like a charm.

But that’s not the art of mastering being a mom.

The real art is when your carefully crafted Jenga plans come crashing down – and you don’t crash with it. You stay calm, cool and collected. You don’t get angry or frustrated, just like I tell my kids to act when their tower is destroyed.

I had Thursday planned out perfectly.

Drop the middle division of kids off at 9:30. Two youngest stay with me and we will zip back over, in only 20 minutes, to pick up the oldest division. We will head on over to the doctor, only 10 minutes away, for flu shots. Take them back to their online school classes. I’ll be home by 11 or 11:15, give the toddler an early lunch and then he will go for his three hour nap. I’ll get the baby settled and then ahh…the things I will do. It’s the first short Friday of the year tomorrow and I will do it right – getting in lots of Shabbos cooking on Thursday. I will catch up on emails waiting to be sent. Various other odds and ends that are waiting since Monday and now it’s Thursday. The perfect Jenga creation.

As we are leaving the doctor’s office, I get a phone call. Preschool is calling to say it looks like my 3 year old has pink eye. I’m in the doctor’s office. What better place to be. Except for the fact that he’s not there with me. Preschool has a policy of mom-pick-up-child-immediately if there is a suspicion of pink eye.

I describe it to my doctor who says he can’t diagnose without seeing it. Fair enough.

I feel my carefully stacked Jenga blocks being slowly pulled out…my tower is starting to shake ever so slightly.

I take the kids back to where they were studying and off we go, back to preschool, with a strong sense of déjà vu. I pick up my 3 year old and start heading to the doctor yet again. Seems way to familiar.

The baby seems to be hungry, of course. I know that by the sound of his newbornish baby cry filling the car for the whole 20 minute drive.

My nerves are getting a little frayed…this was not in my plans today!

The doctor looks at my 3 year old – whose eyes look great and have cleared up. Just like that.

He can go back to school. It is not pink eye. The doctor offers me a prescription for eye drops, should pink eye decide to surface over the weekend.

I’m already 2 hours behind schedule..and I’m hungry. I didn’t take food or my water bottle with me.

I want to go home. I can’t bear to think of going the 20 minutes back to preschool for the third time in one morning. I figure it’s more worthwhile to head to Target to fill the prescription for just in case,and then head home.

And anyways, when your day is messed up, Target is always a good solution.

I head to Target, get the baby with his car seat into the shopping cart, toddler in the front seat and three year old walking.

But the baby insists on reminding me he is a newborn and newborns don’t like Target.

So I carry the baby in one arm, pull the cart with the other, that now houses the empty infant seat and the toddler and my three year old.

And did I mention I have no food or drink.

My Jenga tower is slowly crashing to the ground.

The 10 minute wait for the prescription to be filled took 30 minutes. I waited at the Pharmacy, to hungry to do my usual Target stroll through all the different sections. I just wanted to get home.

We finally head to the car.

I pull into the garage 3three and half hours after I had planned, and there’s less than two hours left before having to start my pickups.

My Jenga blocks are everywhere. I don’t even want to check my to do list and my carefully laid plans. And hungry mommies are not happy mommies.

So I haven’t quite mastered my game of Jenga. I’m still working on it.

One of our greatest Shabbos afternoon pastimes is looking at old photo albums. I am a bit obsessive about printing and album-ing all my pictures – but come Shabbos afternoon, it’s all worth it. True, there’s four albums of my oldest child from ages 0-6 months, and the next four albums span 2 years, but there’s more than enough photos of everyone.

Today we looked at our most recent summer albums. OK, I admit it. We did end up going on a #memoriesthatlastalifetime trip this past summer. The pictures prove it. One of them is my favorite. A real pat-on-the-back picture perfect moment.

We are on a boat. My husband is driving. The kids are sitting with their life jackets on, broad smiles on their faces. The water in the background is sparkling blue. The mountains are pristine. The sky is spectacular. It is truly perfect.

Only I know what is not in the picture.

Here’s what really happened:

We took a three day getaway – up to South Lake Tahoe. Unbeknownst to us, there seems to have been a bee problem there this past summer. For those who are worried about bees becoming extinct, go visit Lake Tahoe. That’s where they are hanging out. I mean ALL the bees of the world. At least that’s what it felt like to me.

I know, I should be more grateful to the bees. From my limited research (and ignorance), I know we owe much of our life and survival to bees. But I still hate them. Apparently my kids inherited that particular gene.

And there they were, ruining our trip. On day number three, we were going to head home in the afternoon and decided to take the kids on a boat ride.

We pull up to the marina and get out of the van. And there they are. A gazillion bees. My kids start screaming and run in all directions, pushing and shoving to get back into the van.

My husband goes off to rent the boat and me the brave one convinces the kids to get out.

“Just keep walking, they won’t touch you if you keep walking!” I keep reminding them.

And I hope my theory is true.

We make our way to the marina. They have these tents made of netting set up along the sand for people to wait in, to keep safe from the bees. Causing quite a commotion, we all push our way through the little zipper opening, me trying to act like an adult and the kids acting like kids, hoping to stay safe from the bees.

We zip that thing shut as if we are escaping from the scariest of monsters. The bees buzz furiously all around the zipper to no avail; we are safe. For now at least.

The kids are freaking out and I want to go home too. Only the almost-two year old is enjoying himself, pouring sand over his head.

My husband heads towards us with the life jackets and it’s time to go. Everyone starts panicking all over again.

I know we are making #memoriesthatlastalifetime, but not the ones I had in mind.

He motions to us to come get the life jackets. The kids refuse to come out. I try to get them out but it’s pretty hard when I myself want to stay in the safety of our cozy little mesh tent.

I open the zipper and direct the kids to get out and just head to the boat.

And then things really get hectic.

Half the kids run down the dock – not very safely at all – simultaneously haphazardly putting on their life jackets.

I’m trying to get the little one strapped into the carriage while the bees buzz all over.

One of the kids start screaming from a bee sting.

And one is rooted to his spot screaming at the top of his lungs because the bees are all around him.

I concentrate very hard on ignoring the stares from all across the marina, as I can only imagine what a spectacle this is. And if it was someone else’s nutty family, I would think it it was hilarious. Maybe even inconspicuously take a video of the scene.

But I don’t have that luxury; it’s my crew and I have to get moving.

I’m shouting from the dock for my rooted-to-the-spot five year old to come, the guy from the rental is dealing with the bee sting, my husband is getting the kids settled on the boat while they scream they want to go home and the toddler in the carriage starts yelling too.

I don’t know how, but miraculously we all safely get onto our little boat and speed off to the middle of the lake, where as promised, the bees are gone.

We relax and take picture perfect photos and each kid has a chance to steer the boat. Bluest of skies, bluest of waters, it is picturesque. The stuff that photos are made of.

I admit, sometimes as I scroll through my Facebook feed,I wish other people’s photos would just whisper and tell us what really went on.

Now looking at the pictures, printed and safely displayed in my albums, I marvel at how perfect it looks. What great memories we made. The kids talk about our trip non stop, and how much fun it was. And I quietly sigh with relief that pictures can’t talk after all.

When my 12th grade teacher concluded her class on CPR & First Aid and spoke briefly about Labor & Delivery, she asked who planned to have an epidural. I raised my hand.
Not that I knew much about it; knowing that it took away pain was enough info for me.

And when she described how long the needle of the epidural shot is, she again asked who planned to have one anyway. I raised my hand again.

She described some pros and cons and then asked the same question once again, it was me and only one other girl who still raised our hands.

And although it wasn’t a decision I had to make just then, it was already a firm decision for me. I knew there was nothing that could talk me out of it. But it did kind of bother me that the teacher was pushing a pain-filled birthing experience.

Fast forward 5 years, and there I was sitting in my childbirth classes and the instructor went through all the tips and methods of breathing, and she once again described that long needle…and asked who would take it. My hand shot up. I didn’t care the size of the needle; I knew what I needed to know. I’d heard freak stories on all types of births, with and without the Epidural.  I knew my strengths, I knew my weaknesses; and opting for the hard way was not my thing.I was determined to go with the Epidural.

When the time finally came, I tried the breathing first. For about 5 seconds. And I sat on the great birthing ball for a grand total of 38 seconds. It was not for me. I went back to plan A – Epidural. And I thankfully had the most wonderful, exhilarating experience, truly enjoying every moment of the miracle called childbirth.

Fast forward to birth number three. By the time I get to the hospital, even I know I’m further along than I want to be. And although I know I want an epidural, I also know that it may be too late. I’m 9 centimeters.

And so for those who want to go without pain meds, it’s a dream birth. But for me, it’s terrible. Barely 30 minutes later, baby boy is welcomed to the world. Only I don’t feel all that excited. I feel like a wounded animal, lying alone in the forest, moaning and groaning for help. Sure, there’s plenty of people in the room. And everything went without a hitch, Boruch Hashem. I am grateful for that. But it doesn’t replace the feeling of alone-ness and beaten that fills my entire being.

I didn’t get my Epidural. 

The nurse offers me the baby. Unlike my two previous births, I do not want to hold the baby. I can’t deal with that yet. I need to deal with myself. And I feel emotionally defeated.

They wheel me to my room, as I’m paraded down the halls I can’t help wondering, where’s the confetti? The trumpets? The whistles and marching bands? Do you guys KNOW what I just went through?? But I am not a hero. I’m just another mom doing what moms do.

I settle in my room, feed the baby and start to calm down.

My labor coach pokes her head in the room a little later, glowing with pride at how well I did.

“It was amazing! How do you feel?”

And I’ll never forget the response that I blurted out, or the look on her face after I said it.

“I feel like an idiot.”

That was the absolute truth.

“I feel like an idiot because I know there’s an easier way to do this.”

I know I could’ve gotten to the hospital earlier. I wanted to. I should have. It was circumstances out of my control that made me walk in so far into labor.

And I promise myself that I will never ever wait that long again.

With pregnancy number 4, my greatest anxiety was that I would not miss my Epidural

And as soon as contractions began, I was in the car, en route to the hospital. Before I even said my name, I informed them to call the anesthesiologist. I made it sound urgent; that I have quick labors and need it now. And 20 minutes later, on the dot, the guy was there. Only after that incredible sensation of the pain dissipating filled my being did I finally relax and let go of all my resentment from the previous birth.

Fast forward to just two months ago. It’s five days before my due date. And I feel that feeling. The feeling you wonder if you’ll remember what it feels like when you feel it again.

It’s a contraction.

But I’m too tired, not today. I know I was dreaming of being early…but I’m too tired right then.

I go to sleep hoping it’ll go away. Not just because I’m tired, but also because I’m determined to get all my kids well visits done before the new baby arrives. And there’s one appointment left for the following day.

The next day goes as planned, and I watch the clock; I need to get this appointment in! It’s the most obsessive form of nesting and I know it.  

And that feeling comes back. And of course I decide I’m not sure it’s a contraction.

And so I do what we all do these days when we turn off our own brain and rely on an outside source; I whip out my phone and type in: what do contractions feel like.

It took  about 10 seconds to get back to my senses; hello, you know what they feel like!! You’ve gone through this 7 times before, you know it’s contractions!

But I can make it to the appointment…and even a quick detour to Nordstrom Rack because I must get my daughter shoes before I have a baby. I’m not sure why, but I must.

Somewhere between the shoe section and the bathroom, I realize this is real. I need to get home.

And my need-to-get-an-Epidural anxiety kicks in.

That’s when I know I’m really in labor.

It’s barely an hour later that I walk into the hospital and march straight to the nurse’s station.

“I’m in labor and I need an epidural.”

They kind of half smirk at each other, and ask for my name. I hand over my ID and again announce that they should call the anesthesiologist. Images of the birth almost 9 years earlier flash before me and I become more persistent. So I casually tell them that this is birth #8 and things move quite quickly..

Ok, I exaggerated a bit on the quickly part… But for good reason – I needed my Epidural!

It did the trick – they started working in fast forward mode. They say they can’t call him till they get me signed in. I remind them how quickly things move.

When he comes, I give the anesthesiologist the warmest welcome, like he’s a long lost friend.

When he jokingly says you can always name a kid after me, I agree it’s a great idea.

And within in a few minutes, I’m relaxed. Time for my labor nap.

Turns out things weren’t so quick…I gave birth 5 hours later. But that was fine by me. I got my Epidural.

Whenever anyone starts telling me about the beauty of a pain-filled Epidural free birth, I have to interrupt. I did it both ways. You can not tell me how beautiful the pain feels. It didn’t feel that way for me.

So my fellow moms, let’s stop convincing people to feel what we felt. The world is filled with good-intentioned people trying to tell moms what their experiences will be.
But there’s a problem with that – you can’t sell someone an experience. We can’t tell people what to experience; we can provide facts and suggestions and pros and cons; but we must never offer our experience. 

This is all my own personal experience. Now you create your own one.