Category: Life in General

Life in General, Motherhood

I can’t sleep with the door open!

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“I can only sleep with the door open, if you close it I’m never going to fall asleep!”

“I can’t fall asleep if the door is open, I’m so tired! I need the door closed!”

“No, it has to be open!”

“I finally got used to it closed!”

“No it needs to be open!”

“No it needs to be closed! The whole way!”

“It’s too dark!”

“It’s too light!”

I took a deep breath. I was done for the day.

Bedtime can do that to you.

They had all brushed their teeth so nicely as I watched so proudly, until my four year old made sure to autograph the mirror with the toothpaste. Something about the push down tab of the Aqua Fresh just begs for it…

Three year old had done his ritual of stepping into four year old’s negel vasser, and I made a mental note to email the French Twins and tell them I don’t appreciate their sense of humor.

“I need the door closed now!!”

I needed to get involved. My two big boys, 6 and 9 years old, were not going to figure this one out. And I needed them to go to sleep now!

I marched upstairs to their room, not quite sure how to resolve it. All I knew was that I was low on patience.

Who cares about the door? Just close your eyes and you won’t see if it’s open or closed! Stop driving each other crazy! You both woke up at 6 today and you need to go to sleep now! The next one to say a word will sleep on the couch tonight!

But I caught myself just before I launched into my mommy rhetoric.

I had a flashback. Me and my two sisters. We shared a room and we loved it. And we fought about the door. One wanted it wide open, one wanted it closed and I wanted it 3/4 closed. Not 1/2 way, it had to be 3/4, and I had a special way to measure.  And we argued. And we debated. For many, many nights. And despite all that, we are best friends.

I looked at my boy in amusement, still arguing about the door. How did they know that that’s what you’re supposed to argue about? Did they get the memo, bedtime rule #712: argue about the door until mom comes. Then continue arguing.

This wasn’t about them. This wasn’t about deliberately pushing my patience.

This was about the joys of siblings sharing a room.

It’s part of the growing experience. Part of the excitement of whispering at night to each other when you’re supposed to be sleeping, of waking up early and talking until it’s time to get out of bed. Of staring up at the ceiling and sharing your dreams of the night before.

It’s all part of the joys of siblings. And I didn’t want to steal it away from them.

So I used every last ounce of non existant energy to rationally resolve the issue.

And we came to a compromise. They were both happy. And so was I. Not because I came up with a clever solution, but because I had the presence of mind to see past the door.

I walked back downstairs, knowing full well that tomorrow night they’d have the same disagreement. And the next night. And the next. Just like I had done.

And I repeated to myself over and over again. It’s not them. They are doing nothing wrong.

It’s not the door.

It’s part of the childhood experience. Part of the learning to share and care for each other. Just like me and my sisters. 

In that context, I can hold on to my patience a few moments longer when I’m called in to referee.

I could hear them talking and laughing, making plans for the next day.

And I was relieved that I had caught myself in time.

 

Life in General, Motherhood

Mommy Survival Rule #3,721

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“Fight? Why would my kids fight? No, they don’t fight.”

Oh.

I kind of half smiled, sure it was a joke.

It wasn’t.

I was catching up with an old friend, a rare occasion considering where I live.

And like all good moms who catch up, we inevitably were talking about our kids.

And my comment about kids fighting obviously didn’t resonate with  my dear friend.

It was a light comment, a mix of mommy frustration and some humor. Nothing major, the type of thing moms groan about good naturedly and move on. The type where all you are looking for is a friendly “Oh yeah, I know what you mean!”

But apparently, her kids didn’t fight.

And my kids did.

They fight. They argue. They take things away from each other. They yell at each other. They tell on each other. They even call each other names.

And just when things are heated and I finally intervene and send them to two far opposite corners of the house indefinitely, they put up a fuss that they want to play together!

 Huh? Did I miss something? You guys were fighting! Remember, he wasn’t nice to you! What’s going on?

But they really do play so nicely together. They share their stuff with each other. They make wish lists together. They make shows together. They make plays together. They compliment each other. They cover for each other. They read each other books.

And I know they love each other. Only they express it differently at different times. Not always the way I would express it.

And in the rare occasion one isn’t home, the others kind of hang around, waiting for their missing sibling to return. They don’t want to start anything without each other.

But they do fight. And my friend’s kids don’t.

And then it struck me.

We’re all moms; we have a lot in common, but we sure have a lot of differences. Our kids are not all the same. Our schedules are not the same. Our stresses are not the same.

I thought about my life.

Given my homeschooling system, my kids are together 24/7.

Every day and every night.

They don’t each go off to their own classes each day, not see each other from 9-4.

They sit in the same room together even during school time. They have lunch together. They have recess together. They have snack together. They are ALWAYS together. They love it. And they have lots of opportunity to fight, too.

And my friend’s kids – they are away from each other from 8 – 5, and finally spend some time together from dinner to bedtime. Less hours, less fighting opportunity?

Either way, I learned an important lesson.

First, I established Mommy Survival Rule #3,721: Stop and think before starting a conversation with a fellow mom.

Think: Is this a good topic? Do I want validation or a different opinion? And if there’s a chance I won’t get what I need from the conversation, then switch topics before starting!

Don’t assume we all have the same approach! Don’t assume our kids are all the same!

And then I made a commitment.

A commitment to all my fellow moms out there: Before answering a question about kids, I will give a quick thought as to why the mom is asking it.

If she wants validation, I will find a way to give it! If she wants a different opinion, I’ll give it!

But I will not answer on a whim. It’s not always necessary to answer with what my kids do.

Like a recent conversation I had.

“My son is three, and he refuses to be toilet trained!”

Instinctive reaction: “Really? My kids were all toilet trained by two!” (Pat on the back supermom!)

After a moment’s thought: “It’s totally normal. I’ve heard of lots of kids who aren’t toilet trained till after 3!”

And if you’re kids don’t fight, well then, this post is not for you :).

 

 

 

Life in General, Motherhood

What type of mother am I anyway?

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“You’re such a calm mother. You don’t get all stressed out about your kids.”

Hmm, I had to think that over.

Was that a compliment or an insult? Does that mean I let my kids get away with whatever they want? Or does it mean I’m flexible? 

I wasn’t sure. But it did leave me wondering, what type of mother am I, anyway?

Did I choose to be a certain way, or did my kids choose it for me?

Am I the mother I dreamed of being, or the mother my kids dream of having?

I tried to think back to the mother I dreamed of being, the one I imagined before I met my adorable, mischievous, fun loving, energetic clan.

I thought about the socks. Yes, socks. They play a big role in my transition from the mother of my dreams, to the mother of my kids’ dreams.

I love when kids have socks and shirts that match. I love turquoise socks that match a turquoise tshirt of a little two year old; bright yellow socks that match perfectly with a three year old’s top. Whatever the color, I always had a thing for anything but black and white; I just liked it. And I knew how I’d dress my kids; I had all the colors for all the outfits. It just looked so neat and sharp.

And then I was blessed with kids. My oldest started walking. He got shoes. Hooray, now for sure the socks won’t fall off!

Apparently he didn’t like socks. And he would take them off and go barefoot whenever possible. And the oldest sure sets the tone for the rest of the kids.

My kids love to go barefoot.

The mother of my dreams despises when kids are barefoot; to me it looks like they belong in a third world country. It looks unkempt. Dirty. After all, I’m a city girl. We don’t go barefoot.

The kids got older. They still like to go barefoot. And as soon as we arrive anywhere, most of them have their socks and shoes off. There’s not a house we visit that doesn’t have a souvenir of our stay – a sock in some random size, found under the couch.

And the van. On my most recent cleaning, I found 7 single socks. Of course the rule is you must take your shoes and socks out of the van with you. But when I’m holding the baby in one hand, four bags in the other, trying to get my kids out before they detour to the front seat to test the horn…well, I’m not always remembering to remind them. And in the excitement of coming home, the socks stay behind.

And I realized my kids gave me a choice. Will you be the mother of your dreams or the mother of our dreams? Will you force us to be the way you like, or will you let us be the way we like? Will we have the talents that you want, or the talents that we want?

And sometimes it’s the former, and sometimes it’s the latter. I draw the line at safety!

They give me choices all day long.

But the socks have taught me a lesson.

I still don’t go in the backyard barefoot. But they can go.

I still can’t handle walking on a kitchen tile floor barefoot. But they can like it.

And they will have dirty feet. And I will be the mother of their dreams, who loves them more than silly mismatched socks.

So I simplified. Each child has a different color sock. Neutral colors that match everything. 3 and 4 year old have beige, 6 year old has brown etc They have lots of their color. And if one goes missing, it doesn’t drive me crazy because they all match up with each other. I look for ways to eliminate the stress. There’s a sock bucket in the garage so they can put their socks in there before they get lost in the unknown corners of the house. And a sock drawer in the laundry room where everyone can find their new socks.

And if letting go of the mother of my dreams is the solution, well then that’s the way I choose to go.

Although I still do sneak in a few argyle socks for Shabbos, at my own risk. And yesterday we were all in the car, ready to roll. My three year old was so proud, strapped in to his seat by himself and announced he even put on his socks and shoes. I glanced over my shoulder. One black and red argyle; one beige. I smiled.

Boy have I come a long way!

And when I see the kids pushing the couch across the room, a big no-no of the mother of my dreams, I take a deep breath. They’re giving me a choice. They know what’s ok and what’s not. But they’re challenging me; will I “play along:” and lose it or will I ignore it and not give them the negative attention?

In the mother of my dreams, I didn’t imagine a houseful of boys. I didn’t know what roughhousing really was. I didn’t know how high boys like to climb. I didn’t know what the boys’ version of fun was.

My kids have taught me. They’ve trained me.

And I discovered that you can’t necessarily have both ways and they don’t always overlap; I need to make choices.

Will I be the mother of my dreams, or the mother of my kids’ dreams?

No, I didn’t choose what type of mom I’d be. My kids did.

They made me the mother that I am. And they continue to do that every single day.

And the truth is, their version of the dream mom is way more realistic and practical than mine.

Life in General

Yesterday, we were all torches

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I watched the torches.

8 torches, with shining, radiant flames, parading down the street.

Parading through the streets of small town, America. The streets of a city with strong values. Secular values. Ethical values. Moral values. But not known for Jewish values.

But there they were. The torches raised up high. Held by the future of the Jewish people. The Jewish children.

They marched proudly, leading the procession. Followed by a truck, emblazoned with signs marking the Torah Dedication Ceremony. With live music, blaring Jewish melodies.

And there, flocked by the Jewish community, the Torah was proudly paraded through the city streets.

Under a majestic canopy.

Crowned with a magnificent silver headpiece.

Wrapped in a coat befitting royalty.

There, surrounded by joy and pride, was the Torah.

The Torah, the gift Hashem gave to the Jewish people. The very same Torah received at Mount Sinai, rewritten once again, for our community.

The joy was palpable. Cars slowed to watch the procession. History was being made, and you could feel it.

The crowd was so diverse; people of so many different beliefs, and some with no belief at all,  yet here we were one.

One people. One Community. One Torah.

And the torches burned proudly. Am Yisroel Chai!

How did it happen? How did we get to this day?

I was struck by that thought that almost every person in the crowd has an ancestor; one, two or three generations back, who was ready to sacrifice their life for the very same Torah. For mitzvos. For a relationship with Hashem.

They valued it and lived for it, and that’s why we still exist.

This is truly the hand of Hashem. A hand that cares for each and every one of us, a hand that holds us strong, even when we feel alone.

A hand that directed me and my family to Folsom, California, and who directs each member of this wonderful community.

And I watched my children, beaming with pride.

My 9 year old. He was a strong supporter of the Torah campaign. He had watched the numbers on the website banner go up with each donation, getting closer to our project goal.

At one point, he noticed we were $44 away from the next $100 mark. He was hooked. He was adamant. He wanted to participate.

He was so proud. He was so attached to the Torah. And despite his dreams of mega lego sets and other things important to a 9 year old, he begged to take $44 from his bank account and contribute. And he did. So proudly! And as the youngest donor, he was honored with dressing the Torah in its royal garb.

The joy on his face. His love for Torah was ablaze. His heart shined like one of the torches.

We were all torches yesterday, lighting up each step of the parade route with the love for Torah. Lighting up each step with a pride for our identity. For a pride deeper than anything else that exists. A pride from our core. Our very DNA.

Am Yisroel Chai!

And we danced in the parking lot. The women danced together. The men danced together. We danced for ourselves. We danced for the Torah. We danced for the joy of the moment.

But most of all, we danced for the future.

And I silently prayed that each person there would pack up some of the joy and pride in a box, take it home and keep it. Not as a relic of the past, but as an energy for the future.

Life in General

List Maker’s Paradise

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It’s my favorite time of year. The time when all list makers shine. It’s list lover’s paradise.

It’s the few weeks before Pesach.

Little Yellow Notepads fly off the shelves like hotcakes.

It’s before the work starts. The time when all you can do is make lists. And a lot of them. One for every room. One for every day. One for every child. One for every meal. The possibilities are endless! And I bask in the glory of making precise and comprehensive lists… before reality hits and I’m reminded that I’m the one who needs to complete the myriads of tasks that I came up with.

But I’m not thinking about that yet.

Let’s talk lists. The aim of the game is divide and conquer. Divide-into lists. And conquer-get it done one list at a time.

I start with the fun ones. I make a column for each of my kids on a fresh sheet of my newest Little Yellow Notepad, that thankfully Sam’s Club sells in bulk. 

First I scan the closets; I finally give the stuff a close look; white shirts with unidentifiable marks and spots are condemned; into the trash. When my son insists it’s a “perfectly good shirt that he loves to wear!” I nod pretending to understand and casually tuck it under my arm to escort it to the land of no return. Likewise for pants with knee holes. It’s high time someone invented steel kneed pants for boys! Next I record what they need; 2 pants, 3 short sleeved shirt for boy 1, 2 shirts and undershirts for boy 2, boys 3&4 insist on wearing each other’s clothes so I have no idea what they need. And girl- well truthfully, she needs nothing, but shopping sure isn’t fun without some pink or lace or frills stuck in; a new Pesach dress it is. And the baby, I mark down what he needs too. Eventually hand-me-downs get worn out! Yarmulkas, tzitzis, socks and shoes.

List one is done!

Next I look through my print out of all my recorded notes from last year. Menus! I scan last year’s stuff and draft up proposed menus for 10 holiday meals.

Next page, we are onto quantity. List of total of each type of food I will make. I count the total tentative guests, sleepover and for meals, and do some quick math. 14 pesach brownies. 8 potato kugels. You get the idea.

I’m on a roll!

My adrenalin is running, I’m in master list mode. Time to start the lists of all shopping lists. It takes only 12 stores to get all I need! Cleaning supplies, kitchen supplies, meat, fruits, vegetables and more. An hour later, I have 12 lists made!

Volunteer list; what will I need help when preparing the community Seder for 80 people. I come up with the tasks and how many helpers I will need.

And the fun is just starting. Time for the cleaning task list.

I divide the house into groups of what needs to be done. Nothing is insurmountable. All broken down to small tasks
I can do this!

I figure out what my house cleaner can do. No, we won’t be cleaning every shelf and drawer or the ceiling; no distraction by spring cleaning. Only pesach cleaning. That means cleaning all the areas we use, feel and touch.

And the lists continue. Peeling list. How much of every fruit and veggie needs to be peeled, cut, sliced or shredded.

Guest list. Email list and phone call list.

Revise the lists. Consolidate lists.

And then my favorite. Plugging it all into the calendar. A paper calendar; for some reason my phone one isn’t as productive. Probably because its so simple to switch it off and pretend there’s nothing to be done, unlike the Little Yellow Notepad that glares when it’s ignored.

All is in place. My lists are ready.

All is divided by day. It’s all small tasks, just on some days more of them than on others. But most importantly, when I get stressed out or overwhelmed, it’s very specific. I only stress about that day’s stuff. No worrying ahead of time, I have specific days to worry about specific stuff.

But even more importantly is that I won’t get distracted. Because the truth is, when we get distracted, that’s when the stress comes in. No experimenting with recipes that aren’t on my list. That’s for a calm day in July. No cleaning boxes of keepsakes and spending hours lost in memory lane, that’s for a different day in July.

I’m exhilarated. I’ve done my dividing and when my list tells me it’s time, I’ll start to conquer!

And it really works. For anything in life. Most things are overwhelming when we have no plan. A plan is the difference of getting to the goal intact or, well, not intact. I’m a big believer of the old saying “Failing to plan is planning to fail.” It proves true every time.

So whenever my list says GO! I will start my tasks, with a firm and positive goal. A goal to enjoy Pesach, and the route I take getting there.