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.

Motherhood

I knew my house would be different

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I had it all worked out. My house would be different.

I eyed my new dinette set. I had carefully chosen the color pattern for the chairs; the greys and blues blended so softly. The texture was right, and it was easy to wipe clean too. The table matched so well, all carefully chosen for my new home.

And I vowed that my house would be different; in my house, kids would not color on the chairs. Or tables. Ever.

I’d make sure!

Baby number one arrives. All pens, markers and writing utensils are hidden, stowed in high cabinets. He turns one years old. I smile smugly. See, the chairs are still clean!

No pen is ever left in sight.

Little sister arrives. Then little brother. I’m smiling smugly. My table and chairs are still scribble free!

Little brother. Little brother. The house is filling up. So are the toy bins. And markers and pens are nowhere to be seen.

I’m chatting with one of my friends. Her kids love to draw. And I stop and think. Do my kids love to draw?

Yeah, of course.

Um, I think so.

Well, I don’t really know, because… well because every pen and marker is out of sight!

And suddenly my plans don’t sit so well. My house can be different. At the price of depriving my kids from their creativity.

Or my house can be the same. At the price of my kids experiencing the joys of coloring. And accepting that they will scribble on my table and chairs.

I take down a few markers. The light colored ones. A few papers. I carefully watch as they color and quickly collect the markers after. The table and chairs are still scribble free.

I have a small coloring table. That’s where we color.

But who am I fooling. They need to color. They want to draw. They need more space.

And I can’t get anything done, because I am busy playing policeman to the markers!

And I break my promise.

I buy a 100+ marker set. All sizes and colors. I buy a case of construction paper. I designate a drawer in my kitchen for colored paper, and I refill it constantly. My dinette table is drawing headquarters.

And they draw. And draw. To their hearts’ content.

They draw pictures of me. They draw pictures of my husband. They draw pictures of their siblings. They draw pictures of places we went and people we met. They draw things I can’t identify.

I get a glimpse into their little minds. Into how they view what goes on in our house. How they view me. How they view each other.

They play Hangman and Tic Tac Toe. They make word searches and mazes.

The table is always full of construction paper. The floor is scattered with markers.

And this morning, as my three year old carefully explains to me every detail of his picture that looks to me like a line with two dots, I have no regrets.

And my carefully selected dinette chairs? Well, they have some markings.

And my table? It has seen many scribbles. Some come off, some don’t.

And even the walls have seen a scribble or two. Or three.

My house is not different after all.

But I learned my lesson. Kids can’t thrive if they are not given the opportunity.

It was well worth the price.

Motherhood

I ran the marathon!

littleyellownotepad

marathon blog

I did it. I ran the marathon. No, not a 5k or 10k. I’d call it the gazillion-k, if not more.

I ran the Pesach marathon.

It starts off with weeks of training, slowly easing into it.

Warm ups. Looking through past notes. Checking old menus. Shopping lists.

Training gets a bit more intense; decisions need to be made. 10 holiday meal plans in place. Out of state orders need to be placed for on time delivery.

I’m feeling ready to start. I’ve got on my best running shoes. Ready to switch gears, get out there and run. House cleaning starts. Bedrooms done. Dining room. Living room. And then we are ready.

Let the real marathon begin!

Kitchen here we come. Counters, sink and stove. Refrigerator and freezer. Empty, clean, scrub. My cleaning help is working overtime, and so am I.

And in comes the Pesach stuff. Pots and pans. Cutlery and dishes. Big pots and bigger pots. And still bigger ones. The cooking is ready to begin.

Side dishes and main dishes. One chicken, two…three…twelve…thirteen. We stop counting. Brisket. Potatoes and more potatoes. We’re picking up speed!

Peeling and peeling vegetables. My trusty crew of dedicated volunteer peelers fill the house. Ten, twenty, thirty….sixty pounds of peeled potatoes later, we’re making headway. These guys are quick! The piles are growing. The marathon intensifies. The oven is working harder than ever, no rest for it, no rest for anyone.

The timer beeps, it’s reset, beeps, reset, no end in sight.

Where to store all this food?? The clock is ticking, it’s getting later. I want to go to sleep!

Refrigerators are full. Freezers are full. But the marathon is not over!

Onto the second leg, Seder is coming! Centerpieces. Salmon. Gefilte fish. And the carrots on top. Zroah. Eggs. Lettuce. Marror. Charoses. There’s enough work for everyone!

I’m coming around the bend…I’m panting, but I’m still running! I will make it, I will reach the finish line!

The waitress arrives. She loads her car and shleps the stuff over to Chabad, the place of the community Seder. I print out my in depth 4 page waitress manual and review it with her. Step by step. Help! There’s so many steps!

It will work out. It will all work out! It will all work out!

The kids need their new Pesach clothes. The house is flowing with white shirts. Plenty to go around. Four year old has the size 6, 6 year old has the size 4. Quick switch. Uh oh, 3 year old took his grape juice stained one. No, tonight we wear the clean, sparkling white shirts. Of course they’ll be full of grape juice at night’s end, but that’s irrelevant.

One thing left on the list. Whoops, forgot to plan what I should wear. I do a quick closet search and find just the right thing.

I look at the clock. An hour to Seder. I look at my speedy-quick drying nail polish on my night table. Do I dare?

Yes, I need to do it for myself. I grab the bottle before I can second guess myself, and say a silent prayer that it’s as speedy-quick-instantaneous drying as it promises.

The Seder is coming, we’re going to make it.

Everyone, in the car!

And the Seder is here.

I can see the finish line, there in the distance. I can feel the blisters on my feet. I can feel my aching muscles. But I will finish this marathon!

I scan the tables. Matzah, Seder plate, lettuce and more. Centerpieces. Sweet wine. Dry wine. Grape juice. Cups. It’s all in the right place.

I greet the guests. And the TV crew.

TV crew? Gulp, what are they doing there?

They have strict orders to film until the candles are lit; once the holiday starts, there will be no more filming. I smile, my most relaxed smile.

I sit down. 4 year old reaches for the Grape Juice. He’ll finish the bottle before we even start. I negotiate and work that one out.

The Seder starts. I lead the women in lighting candles. The air is rich with meaning and joy. Every seat is taken. The guests relax and warm up.

The night progresses. The marathon is too full of  enjoyment to notice we’re still running.

The crowd is happy. My kids are happy. My husband is running a great Seder. He’s calling up people to put on animal masks. The crowd is roaring with animal noises, as we relive the ten plagues.

I sit in my seat, taking it all in.

The finish line is even closer!

The crowd is alive. Standing on their chairs, singing Dayeinu! I feel the adrenalin rush, the type that hits as you near the end.

For serving dinner, I’m on call. We work our best to get the food out in the quickest, most efficient manner so that it stays hot and gets served quickly.

Mission accomplished. I can barely walk back to my seat, but mission accomplished!

More matzah. More singing. People are shmoozing. I hope some new friendships are formed.

And the night winds down, ending 10:30 precisely, as promised. I share a look with my husband. We made it!

As the crowd leaves with “L’shana Haba’ah B”Yerushalaim” (Next year in Jerusalem!) on their lips, I can feel the energy.

The energy of a nation, of a people so different yet so bound as one. We remember a nation of old, being led out of Egypt. And we relive it as the same nation, a nation with a bond so deep it can’t ever be destructed.

The crowd is so diverse. Some people I’ve never met, and some people I probably won’t see again for a long time. But it’s irrelevant. We are one. We share a past, we share a future, and tonight we shared the present.

The waitress is still working. I make a mental note to get her a nice gift after the holiday.

I gather the kids. The sweet little kids with grape juice stained clothing. They are happy, they enjoyed themselves. It’s written all over their shirts.

And we start the walk home. The 11PM – 1 mile walk home.

We start the trip, and suddenly I’m unsure if the finish line is behind us, or in front of us. Or maybe we are standing on it. Or maybe there isn’t one at all!

No, there is no finish line. This is the best marathon of all. The one that keeps on going.

Sure, some stretches are more intense than others. Certainly this time of year is one of the quicker paced-full on parts of it.

But thankfully, it’s not over.

Tomorrow night is another seder, but that one is hosted at our home, and with a much smaller crowd. Nothing major, compared to tonight.

I get home and collapse on the couch. Every muscle, nerve and tendon that I never knew existed is calling to me all at the same time.

Adrenalin is over. I need sleep. I’m empty of energy. But I’m full of warmth. Full of joy. Full of life.

Our house is full. Lots of family joining us for Pesach. Every last blanket, pillow, mattress and floor space that I own is being used. My heart is full.

It’s way past midnight, and the kids are having a ball. My 6 year old is still wearing his crocodile hat.

Eventually they’ll go to sleep. Probably after me. My husbands flat out on the playroom floor. Fast asleep.

We’ve given it our all. And before drifting off into a fitful sleep. I have thoughts of next year.

We’ll do it again. Of course we will. There’s no greater or more satisfying exhaustion than the Seder marathon.

And I know that all of us; each and every participant at the Seder tonight, and at all Seders across the world; we are all winners.

We are all in First Place.

P.S. After Pesach, we were able to watch the TV clip of the pre-Seder festivities. And when the camera zoomed in close on my speedy-quick-drying polished nails lighting the candles, I couldn’t help but smile to myself, I certainly had made the right choice! 🙂 

Click here to see the beautiful clip from KCRA, highlighting the Jewish power, faith and unity after tragedy.

Life in General

Yesterday, we were all torches

littleyellownotepad

siyum 2

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.