This weekend has been ever so much better than last.  The good vibe began on Friday, when Timothy Jones, a friend from college days, came over to spend the afternoon and have dinner with us in advance of his performance as the baritone soloist in Handel’s Messiah with Boston Baroque.  I’ve known Timothy for nearly two decades, and he holds a special place in my heart.  We don’t see each other or speak often, but there is a rich vein of love and caring between us, and it was sheer delight to have him in our home and to introduce him to the boys.  He arrived in the afternoon and kept us company, sang a little, accompanied me a little on the piano while I sang, and helped me cook dinner.  Just at dinnertime, Bill arrived home, and we were joined by our friend Julia, for a tasty, festive Chanuka & Shabbat dinner.

Saturday morning the kids and I puttered around at home, making collages, playing in the living room, and listening to music, all with our particular flavor of chaos.  (Just in case you were picturing an orderly progression of activity rather than a jumble of everything at once.)  After I got Gideon to sleep (barely), my dear friend Jennifer came over with the intention of babysitting both kids so I could get a break.  I had planned on having a bang trim and then going off on my own (where I don’t know) but at some point Friday it hit me that Akiva has not had an uninterrupted minute of my time for many months, and that maybe having a little one-on-one with his old lady might be good for him.

It turned out to be good for both of us.  We went to the coffee shop, where I bought him a cookie.  Miraculously I had credit for a free drink on my coffee card (from before) so I used it for a large steamed hazelnut soy milk.  Akiva and I sat in the big comfy chairs and chatted about this & that. Once he finished his cookie, he looked a little sleepy, so I asked him if he wanted to snuggle with me on the coffee shop couch, which he did.  There’s a little corner of children’s books at this lovely neighborhood coffee shop, and he grabbed a couple and snuggled in while I read to him.  Although I might have liked to have that hour or so to myself, sharing it with Akiva really settled us both and renewed our closeness, which was somewhat frayed after last weekend’s drama.

We got back just in time to get dressed up and ready for our Temple’s Chanuka Dinner & Talent Show.  The boys helped me reassemble the living room — jumping on the couch isn’t just for Tom Cruise, I’ll have you know — and we got ourselves out the door with a relative minimum of grousing and craziness.  (Fine, the boys’ kippot were held on with butterfly clips.  So sue me.  They always take off their kippot within minutes of arriving at the synagogue anyway.)  I managed to rehearse for the talent show portion of the evening without the kids getting into too much trouble, and then we hung out waiting for Bill to arrive.

The organized part of the evening began with Havdalah, followed by candle-lighting (everyone brought their own menorah), dinner, talent show, singalong, and schmoozing.  Luckily I was first on the talent show, because the boys were starting to lose it.  Bill took them home after I sang, and then I stayed out with the grownups till I bloody well felt like coming home!  (I wanted to be sure the kids were tucked in so I didn’t undermine Bill’s autonomy.  Yeah, that’s it.)

This morning, I had my church job and Bill had to work, so our wonderful friend Nancy came over to watch the boys for the duration of my church commitment.  When I arrived home, they were well-fed, and Gideon was ready to go upstairs for a nap.  Resourceful Akiva stayed downstairs and used his new paints and sketch pads.

Once Gidi was asleep, Akiva and I hit the kitchen where we/I made, over the course of the afternoon, two loaves of oatmeal bread, two dozen doughnuts (a Chanuka tradition, my first attempt), a huge pot of applesauce, baked sweet potato fries, cranberry sauce, and wide noodles.  Most of which was served with the amazing brisket that Bill cooked up last night.  (All I had to do was microwave the meat!  What a husband!)

After we got the kids to bed tonight, I set to work packing up several cartons for my volunteer project, which this month included three boxes just of Christmas gifts and wrapping supplies.  I was touched by how many people made contributions to the toy drive — this is the first year I attempted to organize it and I use the term “organize” only because I don’t know of a word for “slap together with barely a brain cell to spare” — including some folk from my church job.  It’s good to know that even in hard times, people are still willing to share what they can.

I’ve been struggling lately with Shabbat.  Bill has been working on Saturdays, in order to take advantage of increased foot traffic in the store.  I can understand his desire to do this, but it has turned what’s supposed to be a day of rest and reconnection with family into something quite different and quite difficult.  The main trouble, I’d say, is that Gideon has a hard time napping when Akiva is around, even when Akiva does his best to contribute to a restful atmosphere at tuck-in time.  All it takes is one giggle, and the two boys get themselves and each other going.

This past Saturday was such an occasion, and I couldn’t get Gideon to sleep at midday, even though he (and I) badly needed that nap.  When I realized it wasn’t going to happen, I asked them to give me a little space so I could take a break.  I went downstairs and within the course of maybe ten minutes, they had emptied several file folders from my file drawer, scattered baby powder all over the bed, and torn pages from a beloved (out of print) book.

I lost it.  Lost it.

In a moment (a long moment) of sheer insanity, I screamed at the kids in some horrendously foul language, shaking my fists at them and stalking them from room to room.  I did not, thank G-d, touch them, but there was violence enough in my words and my feelings.  The combination of circumstances awoke a boiling rage, the likes of which I don’t remember feeling in a long long time.  Maybe ever.

In recounting this incident to other mothers, every single one — to a woman — has copped to doing the same thing.  Although my remorse is strong, it helps to know that I’m not the crazy one.  At least not the only crazy one.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!”

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

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:

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.