Welcome to Lacunaville.

It’s December again, time to be overwhelmed and exhausted.  Each year, December seems to outdo itself in its impact on me and my health, and I don’t mean that as a compliment.  Bill works insane hours between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I am left holding the fort, a fort which is harder to manage in this crazy time of year anyway.  (More singing jobs, more holiday events, more school things that require parent contributions, etc.)  The past two years, I got sick just before Christmas.  This year I decided to beat the rush.

It is December 16.  I have bronchitis, pneumonia, and a cold.  The trifecta.

The counterweight (and it is a huge one) is my amazing friends.  I have so far received homemade chicken soup, child care help, and a Shabbat dinner invitation.  Coming at me in the next few days: more child care help, a home-cooked dinner, and numerous good wishes, prayers, and continued offers of help.

My own prayer: that when I am in health I will be the kind of friend who merits the kind of friendship I receive.  It’s a tall order, but I will try.

My overriding feeling when going to synagogue in those days was one of alienation.  From lack of experience, I wasn’t familiar with the liturgy, and I was sure that everyone else knew just how to be.  But it wasn’t just about knowing when to stand up and sit down, when to mumble and when to be quiet — that I could fake pretty well — there was also a feeling that everyone else was having a holy experience and I wasn’t.  One time, while we were visiting friends in northern Michigan, we went to synagogue with them and although I was the same un-learned child there, I felt something.  I never forgot it.  It was this little clapboard synagogue, a small congregation with a passionate, soft-spoken Rabbi.  Something about it spoke my language.

Every now and then in my childhood, I’d overhear grownups talking about how they could go to Shabbat services anywhere in the world and feel like they were at home.  I longed for that experience.

I remember traveling in Europe during my college dropout months and visiting synagogues in various places, always with the same feeling:  This is not quite mine.

Eventually I found a Reform congregation that felt pretty good, and Bill and I joined.  This is the place where Bill converted, where our two sons were welcomed into the covenant, where our community of helpers was first grounded when we ran into financial trouble three years ago.  The clergy there is wonderful, the kindness of the people cannot be overstated, the programming is interesting.  And yet recently I have had some less-optimal experiences there.  Although I continue to adore the clergy, we’ve had some other personnel changes that have diminished the services for me, in particular the departure of an incredibly charismatic musician/youth educator a few years back.  The atmosphere in prayer is somewhat self-conscious: people don’t sing loudly, they don’t move around, they seem sometimes to be just trudging through the service as if by rote.  Also, I feel more and more that there is a mechitza between adults and children at this Temple.  I’ve been discouraged from attending certain things because I would have had my children along, even though I had arranged it such that they would be attended during the more “serious” bits and with me during the sit-around-and-sing bits.  I once got scolded by the custodian for allowing the boys to be in the library unattended, even though they were not doing anything wrong.

Meanwhile, with Akiva’s school, we’ve gone twice on retreat and found ourselves in the midst of a dynamic, musical, passionate Jewish life, the kind of Judaism that sings “yala lala la!” and breaks into spontaneous dancing.  I want more of that.

Today at Rosh Hashana services, I felt something I never expected to feel at my synagogue: an echo of my childhood alienation.  I wanted to experience Rosh Hashana as a day of searching and reflection but I didn’t.  The strongest part was doing Tashlich in the rain.  (Note to G-d: the sunshine just at the end was a nice touch.  Subtler than a rainbow, but still effective.)  The regular morning service carried with it a feeling of the dutiful.  I don’t want dutiful prayer anymore.  I want to sing out loud, and clap when the rhythm asks for it.  I want to move and be moved.

Time for some more purposeful shul shopping.

Once I let go of the beach idea, we became footloose and therefore much more at peace.  I aim to get us out of the house each day but no longer feel like it has to happen on schedule.

The kids and I have since been having great times at Ima Day Camp, year 3.  It took a while to find our groove, but now we’ve got it.  It helps that they are able to entertain themselves and each other much more than last year.  Akiva has been reading like a crazy, mad fiend, and Gideon is often content to play with his trucks or ride his tricycle.  I am grateful we live in a neighborhood where they can safely go outside together and ride bikes in the driveway or play in their garden (actually just a patch of dirt, which distinguishes it from my garden how??) or goof around with the next-door neighbor kids.  We’ve also been taking some outings — the Discovery Museums (with help from the Newton Library’s discount pass), Garden in the Woods, various libraries and parks, and of course the farm.

Thursday is farm day, and it’s become a joyous tradition.  In addition to collecting our farm share at the tent (which Bill earns for us by working at the farm on Friday mornings), we often have the pleasure of picking a component of the share from the fields.  After we’ve got our goodies, the boys start sampling.  Tomatoes, carrots, kale, radishes, beets.  They’ll taste just about anything.  There’s a tree swing across the way and we take turns pushing each other and riding butterfly-style.  If the weather is grotty, we go across the street to the Weston Library and read-slash-hoard books.  Eventually we head home, and I cook some of what we gathered.  It is bliss.

I guess we are beach dropouts.

Her death was unexpected and cruelly swift.  The kids were not with her when she died.  My younger niece had a birthday this past Monday.  My older niece threw her a surprise sleepover party at her (the elder’s) apartment Saturday night.  After fielding the call from the hospital, the big sister had the awful job of calling her little sister’s friends’ parents in the middle of the night, to ask them to pick up their kids.

If you’re of a mind to pray, please pray for those three shellshocked children.

The Passover tradition is to clean all chametz (leavened products) out of the kitchen, out of the house, out of the car, out of our lives.  The time between Purim and Passover is spent fulfilling this commandment.  Or procrastinating it.  Or arguing with it.  I’m mainly in the latter two clubs.  Partly that’s because I didn’t grow up in a traditionally observant home, and I literally don’t know how to clean chametz.  As with all things Jewish, there’s a way to do it –actually several — and they are all well-grounded in sacred texts and interpretations of sacred texts.  It seems entirely possible to swim for so long in this ocean of text and argument that Shavuot comes before you’ve figured out what the hell you’re doing.  Furthermore, there’s a whole raft of complicated points and counterpoints as to what exactly constitutes chametz.  And if something isn’t chametz but could possibly be confused with chametz, some people clean it out so that they don’t accidentally make a mistake.  (Although if you’ve cleaned out the proper chametz — according to your definition or tradition — what would there be to confuse it with?)

Why it might matter, though

The consequence of having chametz during Passover is not that G-d will exact punishment.  Rather it is that the person who has chametz will be separated from the community.  I interpret that to mean that the person who doesn’t clean out chametz might not be able to receive visitors, because the visitors would be uncomfortable in a chametzy house.  It’s not actually an all-or-nothing, but rather that the intersection of two families’ differing practices can be a hard place to be.  And worry about whether I’m kosher-enough-for-Passover can make me hesitant to invite the people I might want to invite.  That, too, is a way of being separated from the community.

You are what you…have?

As I understand it, the law is about not eating chametz.  The tradition is about not having chametz in one’s house.  Some people symbolically sell their chametz for the duration of Passover, so that even though it might remain in their home, it is considered someone else’s property and therefore not to be touched.  That’s all fine and good, but one year, my (non-Jewish) friend’s husband had surgery during Passover.  I wanted to cook a meal for them, something comforting, and I settled on soup and bread.  I didn’t eat the chametz but I was quite happy to prepare it for my friend, because I felt that was what would be most helpful in their situation.  I chose the mitzvah of bikkur cholim over the mitzvah of keeping Pesach, and I’m glad I did.

Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav taught, “True devotion consists mainly of simplicity and sincerity.  Pray much, study much Torah, do many good deeds, do not worry yourself with unnecessary restrictions.  Just follow the way of our forefathers.  ’The Torah was not given to the ministering angels.’”

The conclusion, for now

It’s no secret I’m not much for housework.  What I’m also realizing is that, at least for now, I’m more a spirit of the law kind of person than a letter of the law kind of person.  Every time I contemplated cleaning for Pesach, I asked myself what G-d wanted in my cupboards.  The answers always came back metaphorical.  I think G-d wants me to clean out fear, self-doubt, voluntary loneliness, hardness.  I think G-d wants my cupboards filled with kindness and generosity, with the energy to do good in the world.

If there are crumbs in the car and cheerios under the radiator, and I assure you there are, perhaps G-d won’t mind, as long as I keep pointing my broom toward the meanness and fear that hold me back from reaching out to the world and being of use in it.

Over those years, she became a beloved friend of our family, particularly after the boys were born.  She took special pleasure in their company and was unfailingly encouraging of me, as a mother and as a member of the community.  She always made it a point to tell me how glad she was to see me and the boys at synagogue, even on the days when the kids had difficulty behaving well.  Akiva was born within a week of Anita’s first great-grandchild, and we bonded over new-baby feelings, even as her Yael was far away.  I like to think it made it easier for her to bear the distance because she could watch Akiva grow and imagine Yael’s parallel progress.

She was an avid student, attending many adult-learning sessions at synagogue and participating in weekly Torah study.  Occasionally an illness or injury would keep her out for a week or two, and on her return she would always say, “I’m so glad to be here, thank G-d.” After she lost her eyesight a few years go, she still continued her full level of participation, even increasing it.  She attended Me’ah, a three-year course of advanced Jewish study, graduating at the age of 91.  Members of the community took turns recording the reading assignments for her so she could keep up, as well as studying alongside her to prepare for class.  All who did so talked about how much their time with her enriched their learning experience.  She had an active, searching mind to the very end.

Anita had the ability to crystallize important and complex moments into a few well-chosen words.  Just weeks before Akiva was born, we were on retreat with some other members of the congregation.  At Shabbat morning services, after the Torah reading, the Rabbi took several moments to pass the scrolls around, so that everyone present could take symbolic and spiritual ownership of the scriptures.  Because my belly was huge, I was a little off balance, so Bill stood behind me when my turn came, and together the two of us held the Torah scrolls.  Afterward, Anita commented movingly that she saw past and future mingle in that moment.

Anita was incredibly kind, always looking for a way to help others.  The first summer I had the boys at home with no backup, she noticed that I was struggling with them one day, and offered to babysit them at her apartment while I went out for a while.  She was, at the time, 91 years old and legally blind.  She was extraordinarily sweet with my kids, and very resourceful.  I’ve no doubt it would have been a great time for them, had I taken up her offer, but I didn’t want to bother her.  Just knowing that she cared enough to offer was enough encouragement for me to keep going.  Even when she was coping with serious challenges, she had a way of making me feel that my problems were important.  She never belittled or dismissed my worries, even the stupid ones.

After she lost her sight, members of the community practically fell over each other for the privilege of giving her rides to and from events.  We all knew that the ride would be filled with interesting conversation, reminiscences, wisdom, and kindness.  I remember hearing about her childhood during the Depression, including tips about growing your own tomatoes and getting the most out of every jar of jam.  I remember her recollection of how lost and rejected she felt when her daughter chose to go off the grid, after Anita and her late husband had made enormous efforts to provide their children with the economic opportunities they had lacked growing up — and how she eventually accepted her daughter’s decision and grew to respect her commitment.

Once Akiva started school, Gideon and I used to go pick up Anita and take her to visit other friends who were in nursing homes or other care facilities.  I would like you to think that I am some paragon of mitzvot for doing this, but really I relied on Anita to show me the way.  She knew how to keep the visit short and meaningful, making conversation and giving subtle, gracious cues when it was time to move along.  When I made a misstep, she covered my tracks.

A month or so ago, I had been scheduled to drive her to a class we took together, but because Akiva was home sick from school, I had to fall back on a substitute.  I called Anita to tell her to expect a different driver, and she said how much she would miss seeing me and was looking forward to the next time.  She called back a few days later to see if Akiva was feeling better.  We talked at some length, about taking care of our families, about the importance of community.  We expressed the hope of being together at synagogue soon.  I never saw her again.  Her last words to me were, “All my love and good wishes go with you.”

Likewise, I’m sure.

This morning the parish where I work was featured in a televised Mass, broadcast live at 7 a.m.  We had to be there at 6:30, so my day started early, with a drive in fresh snow through the streets of Boston and Beacon Hill, to the studios of Channel 7.  I passed the coffee shop where I often met my dearest girlfriend during the three years she lived here.  It’s a Fox News station now.  I drove down Charles Street and remembered a particularly delightful brunch and shopping day with another friend, with whom I’ve since fallen out, probably irreparably.  The snow dusting the Vendome Hotel Memorial on Commonwealth Avenue made it even more impossibly moving than usual.  I passed the St. Botolph Club, where I sang a memorable gig more than a decade ago.  I glimpsed a favorite sushi restaurant, where I haven’t been in four years.

In the many years since I’d last spent time in Boston by myself, so much has changed.  I now see my life as having different periods.  I am getting older; we all are, of course.  I’ve accumulated enough memories now that the involuntary slide show can now be divided into categories.  I wonder what I will call this phase.

P.M.  The future

Seven years ago tomorrow, my magnificent Akiva was born.  To encounter his intelligence, wit, soulfulness, and mischievous smile on a daily basis is truly a gift from heaven.  I love who he is now, and I am deliciously curious about how he is going to develop.

So both boys have the stomach bug.  It might be the 24 hour bug, it might be the five-day bug.  I’m not sure yet.  I’ll spare you the details.  Suffice to say, I’m in a really uncomfortable place.

Having sick kids is like being in a poorly-lighted labyrinth.  It’s impossible to know you’re out until you see the moonlight.  And even when you think you’re out of danger, you might still be headed right into the hedgerow.  When I realized last night that Akiva was sick (Gideon started Friday night and may or may not be better now) I felt pure dread about today.  I desperately didn’t want to be at home by myself with two sick kids.

The day has been a festival of television and napping.  The boys are taking turns watching the videos they have from the library and/or youtube videos.  Akiva has discovered The Flintstones, and Gideon watches only truck porn.  I have been on Facebook much of the day.  I like to think of myself as a resourceful and creative mother, and I pride myself on spending time with my boys, reading with them, playing games, talking, learning together.  Today, though, it’s all about survival.  And (G-d help me) if it’s the five-day bug, we’re all going to be so tired of the screen by the end of the week, we’ll be ready to scream!

The truth is I don’t want to look at how uncomfortable I feel, how afraid and small and out of control I feel.  I shudder to imagine the many ways my psyche would fall apart if I had (G-d forbid) an actual sick kid; that is, a kid with a serious medical problem.

I’m doing ok today.  I’m coping by masking, though, and that is an uncomfortable lesson.

Earlier this month, Hal Lanier, an old friend from my graduate school days died, from complications of an aortic aneurysm.  He was fifty.

There was a time when fifty sounded old, ancient to me.

Hal and I were friendly but not close in college and only kept in touch Facebook-style.  The depression his death dragged me into is more about me than about him, to be totally honest.  Actually it’s midlife crisis-y.  When I think of Hal as I knew him (extravagantly talented, charming, funny, irreverent) I also think of who I was in graduate school.  Those were the days when I really was a hippie cool chick.  I dressed colorfully (knee-length overalls decorated with jingle bells, anyone?), I sang with all my heart every time I took the stage, I laughed loudly and flirted artfully and wore crazy ribbons in my hair.  One day, Hal called me a vile seductress, and I’ve saved that phrase in my heart all this time.  I loved being that person, and I miss her.  I was young, attractive, and talented.  (In truth, maybe not that talented, but I was, a little bit.)  It felt like there were many, many adventures awaiting me.  Little did I know I’d look back at my college years and realize they were the most adventurous of my life.

I’ve often felt that I just don’t do enough for Gideon.  He is the classic second child, but also the victim of our change in circumstances.  When Akiva was little, it’s not just that was he the only child, but also that had two parents who were at leisure most of the time.  We went places together, read books, played music, etc.  Not so much with “enrichment” in the sense of classes and flash cards, but the universe of which he was the center was a rich one, and not just financially.  By the time Gideon emerged from the baby phase and began interacting a lot with us, we were stressed both by the “two children are so much harder than one” dynamic and by our new financial situation.  Instead of being able to read to him all the time, and take him to see interesting things, and sit and play with him for hours, I was on my own at home, trying to learn how to cook, clean (please try not to snicker), take care of the house, and all the myriad unnameable tasks that go with being an at-home mother.  Adding to my general sense of guilt is that the two boys’ natures are very different.  Akiva was not particularly interested in spending lots of time with me; Gideon would just as soon be glued to me all day and all night.

It’s recently dawned on me that my relationship with Gideon truly is a twenty-four hour affair, because he still nurses both day and night.  Nursing has always been very important to him and I’ve done my best to keep up.  Of course, it’s important to me, too, in that I aim as a parent to be in tune with my children’s needs.  But I’ve got to say, I’m just blinking tired.  I’ve hit the wall, and the name of that wall is I need some sleep.  I don’t do enough for Gideon in the daytime because there is no there there.

So I decided to night wean.  This is a hard decision for me because I can see how much nursing matters to Gideon.  I worry so much that I’m taking something away from him that he really needs, that his psyche is being damaged by this choice, that he will feel that his mother has abandoned him in some crucial way.  At the same time, I hope that by taking back my sleep I will be more present for him in the daytime.

The decision has seismic impact on our whole family.  Bill and I talked about it (but not enough) and had mixed signals about timing.  I wanted to take it slowly and have lots of conversations about his becoming a bigger boy and learning how to go back to sleep without nursing, etc.  I also wanted to include Akiva in the empathy chain — Gideon is going through a challenging time and needs extra loving from all of us.  Once the groundwork had been laid, Bill would sleep with him for a while and try to break the link between nursing and falling back asleep.  We discussed the possibility of allowing Gideon an extra truck video if he could go through the night without nursing, a tactic I regarded as an ace up the sleeve to be used as needed and sparingly.  However, Bill wanted to help me by moving the process along quickly, so he started basically the same night as I first mentioned it to Gideon — and told him right away about the video.

We’ve had three nights so far.  The first night, Bill caved and came to get me because he couldn’t stand the crying.  By the second night, Bill had done some research and was emotionally prepared, and it worked.  Not easily, but Gideon managed eventually to fall back asleep twice without nursing.  So of course, he woke up in the morning and demanded a video — which got Akiva all creased because he wanted extra privileges, too.  (Even though he was thrilled I spent the whole night with him, what he really wanted was to watch more TV.   Hmpf.)  Third night same as the second.

During the day, I am much more present with Gideon.  Which is good because he’s incredibly needy and clingy.  This morning as I prepared to take Akiva to school, he burst into tears and said, “Ima, please don’t leave!”  When I lie down with him for his nap, he holds onto me like I’m a life raft.  He hugs my leg while I’m cooking.

My mindset going into nursing was that I would let things wax and wane naturally.  That approach worked perfectly with Akiva — except now he says he regrets stopping at 16 months (Riiiiight) — but it’s clear that Gideon’s trajectory is completely different.  (Why I expected anything else is purely a sign of my own delusion.)

Change is hard.