Paradise Lost

I’ve never been a big fan of the so-called holiday season — which is really the Christmas season with also-rans Chanuka and Kwanzaa.  I don’t like the commercialism, I don’t like the false equivalency of Chanuka with Christmas, and I could positively go bananas from the electronic wallpaper that takes Christmas carols (music I actually like) and makes it obnoxious both by its ubiquity and by some truly appalling arrangements.

I’m a little bit grinchy, I’m a little bit rock & roll.

I’m finding other triggers as well, unique to our new situation.

The other day, on what I look at as my last gasp of air before Bill hits the retail peak season, during which time he will be working much longer hours and more days per week, I took a long-neglected gift card from a silly store I’d never otherwise shop at and parlayed it into free Chanuka gifts for my kids.  The bad news is that it required me to go to a ritzy Boston mall, something I haven’t done in — well, you know.

As I passed Neiman-Marcus, Jimmy Choo, Williams-Sonoma, and all the rest, I was struck by the notion that I may never again be able to make an impulse purchase, just for pleasure.  I don’t think I was ever that consumerist, but I did like to wander among the kitchen gadgets and the leather boots.  Now I don’t even take the kids to the coffee shop on a rainy day.  I feel as if I live in a society I no longer belong to.  I see people shopping — just looking at and buying stuff — and I feel alienated and resentful.

I shudder to think how much I must have given rise to that feeling in others, back when I could spend money freely.

There is a woman at my synagogue who, as far as I can tell, doesn’t work either for pay or for tikkun olam.  She’s probably in her late 40s or early 50s and able-bodied.  She plays guitar, keeps house, does crafts, and plays with model trains.  I’m not kidding.  She married (relatively) late in life — it’s a second marriage for her husband — a guy who is very well off.  They go out to eat frequently, travel in luxury, and go to cultural or sports events every week.  And she tells me about all of it.  As in, “P— really outdid himself this time; we slummed it at the Ritz for the first night of our trip, then went to this luxury resort villa for a week, where all we did was eat great food and sit by the pool.”  Sometimes I feel so dispirited in conversation with her; she seems immune to my hints that it’s not that pleasant for me to hear about her luxurious life.  (I once referred to myself half-jokingly as Cinderella during one of her particularly ostentatious monologues.)  Never once has she offered to come over and keep me company with the kids, or cook a meal for us, or help out in anyway.  Not that I expect people to offer help as a matter of course, but I guess I resent both the insensitivity and the disparity that gives it life.

Same deal with another person I know who told me how her husband flew her to Portugal for their 7th anniversary, and oh, didn’t Bill and I have an anniversary recently?  (Yes we did, and thanks to our lovely friend Jennifer, we went to the movies together on a Friday afternoon.  Even had popcorn.)

I am definitely on the outside looking in a lot now.  I wasn’t totally comfortable being on the inside, but I now must admit that the outside is worse.  If I ever have the chance again, I will enjoy every trip to the coffee shop.

Lost

Yesterday I found myself lost.  Not geographically but (ugh) existentially.

At my church job, I sat in the choir loft (alto section, hmpf) and listened to one of the more experienced priests — a man who every week brings deeper meaning to the word doddering — intone his homily, and I thought, Nope, this is not where I belong.

In the early afternoon, we were invited to a party at the home of some friends, a wonderful family.  They always throw great parties with plentiful, delicious food and cheerful company.  I was in a sour mood, disengaged, and I thought, Nope, this is not where I belong.

The Temple sisterhood organized an outing for a selection from the Boston Jewish Film Festival at a theatre close to my home, and I booked a ticket.  Many of them were going to tea afterward at the Sri Lankan teahouse around the corner, but I didn’t even entertain the notion of dropping the eighteen bucks, on top of the price of the movie ticket.  The movie, Camera Obscura, was stunning, but the theatre was already quite full when I arrived and I didn’t see anyone I knew.  I ended up sitting alone, and while I thoroughly enjoyed the film itself, I thought, Nope, this is not where I belong.

I sometimes go through these periods where I feel like I’m not quite synching up with the world around me, like I’m waiting at the wrong track for my train and wondering why the hell it hasn’t arrived yet.

Long time, no me

I haven’t been writing much at all lately.  I’m sort of feeling stuck with the writing, as with so many things.  I frequently have the feeling of treading water.  The days are busy and mainly good, but I scarcely have or take the time to crystallize my thoughts.  I brush three sets of teeth, run from one thing to another, pack the snack buckets, get people where they need to be mainly on time, wash the clothes, make soup for sick friends, wash dishes upon dishes upon dishes, hug and kiss the sweet boys.  I’m not saying it’s not a good life — far from it! — but it often feels too easy for my creative self to disappear into the background.

In general I am managing the day-to-day stuff pretty well (messy house aside).  But sometimes I feel like I’m not all here, like even when I am talking to adults and the kids are not needing my attention (it happens, rarely) I am just not fully present and relaxed.  I worry that my kids are going to grow up thinking that adults are these husks of humanity, bent only on task-completion and watch-consulting.  I worry that the adults I talk to can’t find or feel who I am because some core essence is missing in action.  I worry that this baseline stressiness is going to start feeling normal.  Maybe it already has.

Unvoiced

I have the laryngitis that seems to be going around.  Yesterday I had a little bit of hoarseness; today I am completely silent.  I suppose it’s kind of comical to see me open my mouth to speak and have nothing come out but a faint whistle.  Nonetheless, I would not mind a return to talkability.

I have to say, though, I have amazing friends, two of whom came this morning (in shifts) to play with Gideon.  (I made Bill call around to see if anyone could help.)

Poor child just doesn’t get it.  He keeps telling me to stop, as if yelling at me will magically make me able to speak again!  And he keeps asking me questions when we’re together, yelling them louder and louder when I try to gasp out an answer that he can’t hear!

Naturally Bill has to work late tonight.  And naturally we are expecting houseguests tomorrow.  At least it’s my parents, who theoretically will be interested in helping out.

I would like very much to have my voice back by Sunday, so that I can earn my paltry salary at church this weekend.

It’s amazing how much depends on the ability to speak.

A pun in two parts

Several months ago, the boys and I had a good laugh over Gideon’s having mispronounced sesame as Stephanie.  As in, “Ima, I want some soba doodles [sic] and Stephanie seeds.”

No mention had been made of it in the intervening months, but this morning as I was trying yet another shortcut to avoid traffic on the way to Akiva’s school, I turned on the street where Stephanie used to live, and without missing a beat, Akiva said, “Sesame Street!”

Done list

Part of our Shabbat ritual is an homage to the Eshet Chayil reading (“A woman of valor…”), wherein Bill thanks and praises me (in English) for my contributions to the family’s well-being.  Sometimes it feels as if my life now consists of doing invisible things.  The things I do are mostly necessary, if not essential, and yet only if they aren’t done are they noticed.  I’m not complaining (not right now, anyway) but as a person who gets a certain charge from having others notice my work (applause, anyone?) it can be disorienting not to get credit for the specifics of what I do.  It’s not that Bill doesn’t appreciate my efforts — he does, and encourages the kids to do the same, and builds it into our weekly ritual — but that he doesn’t necessarily perceive them.

Every now and then I contemplate writing out a list of what I’ve done on a given day, just to see it in black (or whatever color pen I can find!) and white.  Partly it’s to notice my accomplishments, and partly it’s to notice the sweet stuff that happens during the day.  Inspired by Stacy but feeling more prosaic, I made my done list for yesterday:

• woke up at 6:45
• started a load of laundry
• got Akiva to school by 8
• picked up a prescription
• took Gideon to the park
• started a second load of laundry
• went with Gideon to the Asian grocery
• went with Gideon to the bank
• went with Gideon back to the Asian grocery (yep, cash only!)
• took Gideon home and gave him lunch
• took Gideon upstairs for a (too-short) nap
• hung one load of laundry out to dry, put the other in the machine
• made and ate my lunch
• made a batch of crusty rolls for dinner
• made mango & sweet sticky rice for dessert
• washed lunch & food prep dishes with Gideon in the backpack
• folded a load of laundry with Gideon in the backpack
• read some truck books on the couch with Gideon
• preset all the pots I’d need for dinner, salted the pasta water, etc.
• picked up Akiva at school
• saved us from a needless argument by acknowledging the coolness of a playground we passed, even as I declined to stop there
• went to the farm to get our CSA
• picked raspberries with the boys (included in this week’s farm share: what a treat!)
• played and chatted with another mother and her two sons, also lingering in the raspberry patch
• took the boys home and got them and all our gear into the house peacefully
• made and served dinner to the kids
• learned some new Hebrew words from Akiva
• served dinner to Bill when he got home
• changed over both beds to winter sheets & blankets while Bill got the kids ready for bed
• nursed Gideon to sleep
• snuggled Akiva to sleep, after singing Birkat Hamazon with him in the bed
• made enough challah dough for three round challot (one for us, one each for the friends who were going to help Bill build the sukkah today)
• soaked black-eyed peas for today’s lunch
• soaked chickpeas for Sunday’s sukkah party
• washed more dishes
• put the warm weather bedding back up in the attic
• went to bed around 11, thanks to Gideon needing nursing

Me and mine

A couple of weeks ago, Gideon discovered his shadow.  We were walking side by side in the morning sunshine, when he started weaving this way and that.  The moment of recognition came quickly: “What’s that, Ima?”  I introduced him to his shadow and watched in delight as he tried to scoop it up, hug it, and race with it.  (Guess who won!)

That night at my spiritual direction group, I mentioned that encounter as a potential spiritual access point for me, and the group leader suggested I write a prayer or blessing about the moment.

Here’s my attempt:

Blessed the One who shows a boy his shadow.

Blessed the One who shows a mother her child.

Thanks and blessings to G-d, who divides and unites our selves.

Keep going, keep going

The kindergarten adjustment continues.  Akiva loves his school and is learning like mad.  He comes home with stories and questions and Hebrew words and songs and surprises.  (He liked Israeli dancing, now there’s a surprise.) Sometimes he shocks me with his solicitude and helpfulness.  Sometimes he shocks me with how dreadful he can be.

He’s trying stuff on.

It’s a long school day, and we are all adjusting gradually to this new dynamic.  Gideon is bereft to be without his constant companion of the summer, but he is glad to have more of me.  Akiva is thrilled to have so much activity, but he misses having close, cozy time with me.  I am glad to have a chance to get to know Gideon — glad to have the mornings for walking where he wants to walk and reading what he wants to read, but I miss Akiva all those long hours he is away.  I am glad to see Akiva learning and growing in ways I could not facilitate for him at home, but I don’t like being so much on a schedule.  I feel like I’m constantly watching the clock and pushing the kids on from what we’re doing to whatever’s next.  (And it’s not like we’re going to ballet, soccer, and all the rest.  This is just — kids, it’s time to leave the schoolyard park because we need to pick up the farm share and get home to make dinner.)

And I miss seeing more of the best of Akiva.  I used to feel like as his mother I had the privilege of seeing both the best and the worst of him.  Now, because his time at home is so short and because he comes home tired, I feel like I am still seeing the worst of him but not as much of the best.  He, too, is stressed about not having as much time and leisure at home: he told me at Monkey Time tonight that he wanted to have some homeschool days, even though he loves JCDS.  I think what he means is that he wants more relaxed time with me.  There is just not enough time for us to go to the library and read, or listen to music together, or go to the park and play on the swings.

Today at the farm, we had a taste of that: there’s a wooden swing on a tree there, and the boys took turns swinging butterfly-style on my lap.  It was the highlight of my day.

I’m sure it doesn’t help that I have a terrible lingering cold (2 weeks and counting), but then again I wonder if the cold is the cause or the effect.  Is my being sick making it hard for me to adjust to the fuller schedule, or is the fuller schedule making me sick?

I wonder how mothers with older (or more) children manage to stay close to their kids.  Do you get used to the rushing around, so that it becomes routine?  That seems like it can cut two ways: that the routine gets grooved so you can find more breathing space within it, or that the rushing around becomes the new groove.  The former I regard as tolerable; the latter not so much.

Kindergarten, first day

Today was the big day, and when our alarm rang at 6 a.m. (who thought I’d need an alarm ever again?) Akiva fairly leapt out of bed.  The anxiety of the last several days was nowhere in evidence; he just wanted to get the show on the road.  He got dressed and ready without argument (who has hidden my child and when is he coming back?) and after some hugs, we were out the door when we planned to be.

We got to school, and there was a klezmer band playing music on the front steps.  The head of school and some other administrators were on hand to welcome the students (back) to school.  Once inside, Akiva was a little shy, but the staff and other parents handled it as I would have hoped.  No pressure to perform or conform, just friendly greetings and kindness.  We went to his classroom, and there were several activities to get the kids used to the room, etc.  All fine.  Morning meeting with songs and a story.  All fine.  Schmooze time and exploring the classroom even more.  All fine.

There is a bathtub in the classroom:

On the first day at JCDS, there’s an all-school assembly (more singing) after classroom orientation, and that’s where things started to be not so fine.  About a third of the way through this program, Akiva started to get a little misty.  Gradually the mist gave way to crying, laying his head in my lap, and, eventually, bawling.  By the time I got him back to his classroom to say goodbye, he was sobbing so hard he couldn’t speak.

I loved the way the teachers and other staff handled this situation.  Nobody said, “OK, stop crying.  It’s time for Ima to go.”  One of the classroom aides came to talk to us and tried to help him get calm.  When he was calm(er) and it felt like a reasonable time to leave, she suggested that he could push me out the door and then race to the window and wave to me as I walked to the car.  We tried that plan, blew each other kisses through the window, and then I went on my way.

He is a sensitive soul, my elder son, and I anticipated that he’d have some discomfort with the adjustment to kindergarten.  He doesn’t tend to look forward to new experiences without some semblance of fear, or even dread.  In the past few weeks, he’s been worried about things he doesn’t usually mention, like thieves and monsters and crazy basilisk chickens.  He’s been asking if he could be homeschooled through college, and if he and I could live together forever.  So I didn’t expect the day to be easy — but holding my firstborn while he wailed that he didn’t want to go to school was an experience I won’t soon absorb.

I stopped to chat with some friends in the parking lot and shed a few tears of my own, and by the time I got home, there was a message on my voice mail from one of Akiva’s teachers, saying that he’d settled into the routine after about ten minutes with the same aide and was doing fine.

When I picked him up, he was all smiles and full of stories of the day’s adventures, as well as questions about tomorrow.

Summer…never enough time to do all the nothing you want

Is it really September?  It seems to me in retrospect that my project for the summer was to cultivate the ability to be peacefully, joyfully, consciously home with both boys.  Just as I’m starting to feel successful in that endeavor, it’s time for Akiva to begin kindergarten.  He will have his first day at JCDS on Wednesday, and we are both a little at odds with the coming new reality.

We’ve had wonderful adventures these past few weeks, my sons and I.  We’ve gone to the (fantastic) instrument petting zoo at the Longy School of Music.  We’ve worked in our garden and made a few things grow.  (Precious few, alas, but I still have hopes for the tomatoes and a few cucumbers and carrots.) We’ve gone on picnics and play dates and visits to splash parks.  We’ve reconnected with old friends and made new ones.  We’ve eaten herbs straight from the ground wherever we could find them.  (My children have a thing for chives!)  We’ve gone for rain walks and free outdoor theatre.

I, meanwhile, have started to mellow, started to understand more about how to be a stay-at-home mother.  I’ve become more flexible about time, more interruptible, more willing to delegate, more capable of including the children in a task even if it ends up taking longer.  I’ve gotten better at cultivating a team feeling between the two boys rather than arbitrating their disputes from on high.  I’ve gotten more comfortable with the loose ends and the interruptions and the spills and bumps.

We’ve traveled to visit both sides of the family and lived to tell the tale.

It’s been a good summer, and not just in the “learning experience” kind of way.

Now the days are starting to shorten, and we are heading into yet more unknown territory.  Akiva is anxious about school, and I am starting to mourn, in anticipation, the loss of a kind of intimacy between us, the sweetness of long lazy chats while I cook and Gideon naps.  He’s going to be a busy, grown-up boy, for better and worse.