Me as a Mommy

When I was a kid, as much as I could recall, I played by myself. Luke, if he was feeling tolerant, would play with me here and there, but for the most part I was content with my Barbies. 

Having other girls over wasn't so much fun, for me. They wanted to do their storylines, and they weren't nice enough to my toys. There was definitely an accidental decapitation at some point, never by my hands. 

But other children say things to their parents like "play with me." Ben won't play by himself with toys unless he's engaged by an adult, but I find it rather burdensome. I usually need that time to take care of other matters or I'll be, frankly, bored out of my mind. I'd rather read him books with the funny voices. 

Ma never played with me. She didn't play with her grandchildren, unless they were old enough to to play cards or rummikub. I doubt she played with my siblings. So I don't see it as a necessary level of proper mommying that I MUST play with my child. 

Edan Lepucki states quite firmly in her Letter of Recommendation Don't Play With Your Kids.

I can’t say that my approach is right for everyone. I know that it resonates for me in part because of how I was raised. I have no memories of my parents playing with me. . .

This isn’t a complaint; it’s gratitude. They may not be a part of these memories, but they weren’t absent either. They were on the edges — there but not there. My parents allowed me private worlds of my own creation, and they respected them.

Ma was always THERE. I knew she was around, ready for me whenever I surfaced. She was happy; I was happy. I didn't need to interact with her every minute of the day to know that she was present. I just needed her THERE. 

It took some time, but I’ve realized I can’t be every kind of mother. I can only be one. I can only be theirs.

I liked this ending. I thought the world of singlehood was judgy, but the world of mommyhood is as well. This antisocial year has been quite pleasant for me, and now the comments are beginning to seep in all over again. 

Ben only wears shoes when he has to, a quirk I understand, and when I'm pushing him in the stroller I let his toes breathe. One day, an old woman hobbling by turns to him and coos, "Where's your shoes?" meaning "Does your mother not realize that you are not wearing shoes?" Accuse me to my face, lady. Leave the baby out of it. 

I am Ben's mother, and I will choose what sort of mother I will be. I can't be everyone, or else I wouldn't be me. Different situations will come up and I will have to choose as I go along. Things I claimed "I would never do"—well, chances are, I'll be doing them. 

The same way I couldn't be the sort of woman shadchanim and the community and the peanut gallery demanded, I married as the person I chose to be. I can only succeed going forward by continuing to be the same. 

Choose Life

I got a taste of Steven Johnson's new book, A Short History of Living Longer, with the article written by him printed in the NY Times Magazine about How Humanity Gave Itself an Extra Life. 

A century ago, humanity's life expectancy was half it is now. HALF. To provide some examples, approximately 25% of children died before reaching their first birthday, 50% by their fifth. 

So, what changed? Scientific discoveries, bit by bit, here and there, and applied by governments programs, made life possible. Take, for example, the realization that cholera was not spread via miasma in the air, but rather infected water. That lead to the chlorination of the water supply, which, today, is seen as evil. Or how milk used to be a killer of children, and pasteurization was resisted by the public until Nathan Straus (of Macy's), who had buried two children himself, used PR and discounts to make pasteurized milk sexy. 

The article (and I'm sure the book) continues to list all the developments that we consider to be givens in our society. Jon Stewart was recently being interviewed, and he was comparing the current pandemic with the Spanish flu crisis a century ago. A hundred years ago, they were saying what we are saying today: "Wear a mask and wash your hands." Nothing else has changed? The advice is the same? Well, yes. What's true is true. 

Steven Pinker reviewed Johnson's book, and his tone becomes positively irate at those who today discount these great advances that guaranteed life—like vaccines. When I brought Ben in to the doctor for the first time, he suspiciously asked me what's my opinion of vaccines. "My mother had whooping cough as a baby in Hungary," I said. "I believe in vaccines." There is a family photo of her following her recovery, and her scrawniness would frighten me. 

Quite frankly, in my opinion, people have been getting vaccinated for quite some time, and what we have gained has been the blessing that people live. I read an interesting article in the Wall Street Journal about how in 1957, an "Asian flu" arose that targeted the young generation. Back then, there was less bureaucracy between the government and the drug companies, and in three months a vaccine rolled out, everyone took it, and the deadly threat was gone. 

Because of people's reluctance to get the vaccine, covid is not going away. If anything, it's morphing into deadlier variants. I've read a number of articles about how since today's culture, that prizes the rights of the individual over the many, we lack the unified outlook that enabled us to beat the bad guys in WWII. Herd immunity cannot set in if people refuse to get vaccinated. It means covid will stay present and deadly. 

The year Ben was born, measles arose yet again, as many, including those in our community, chose not to vaccinate their children. I was nervous to take him into certain public areas, because he was too young to be vaccinated. I felt like I was exposing him to danger, because others would not protect their own. 

Life. It's all that matters. Vaccines have made that possible. Let's not demonize them. 

The Frummies Fight Back

Social media has been having hysterics over My Unorthodox Life—and it even had a moment when it had a conversation in my family. 

I have a relative who was in Bais Yaakov of Monsey with Julia, and she didn't even realize who she was until I told her. When I read online that Julia is 50, then read elsewhere that she had attended BYM, and I knew my relative is the same age, I texted her: 

Me: Did you go to high school with a Talia Leibov? 

Relative: Yes

Me: She's Julia Haart. My Unorthodox Life

Relative: WHAT? I thought it was a chassidish girl! 

Because if she had been chassidish, like Deborah Feldman of the original Unorthodox, then there wouldn't have been so much of a backlash. We know there are more extreme forms of chassidus, and the general Jewish public couldn't really know, for sure, what her upbringing had been like (although there were some who said they knew her in the past and it wasn't the way she made it out to be). 

However, in the case of Haart, her former classmates—like my relative—can vociferously claim that she is out-and-out lying about plenty. 

I have chosen not to see the show to preserve my equilibrium, but my relative was stunned what Haart claimed. For instance, even if her parents chose not to have a tv or newspapers, Haart definitely had classmates—like my relative—who did. Her classmates's parents were professionals: doctors, lawyers, accountants, nurses, teachers, etc. Her own mother was a math teacher. Her classmates—like my relative—went to college. My relative attended the local community college, RCC, and from there to CUNY. She wasn't a rebel, "defying her culture to get an education." That was the mainstream thing to do. 

Besides for the fact that Julia decided to manipulate her observant past for ratings, I find it disturbing that any sort of caring mother would exploit her teenagers in such a manner to gain the fame that she obviously craves. She attempts to reframe this irresponsibility by claiming to be a feminist warrior, fighting for the rights of oppressed women (eye roll). Even if her children agreed, they are certainly not old enough to understand the repercussions of becoming recognizable across the world. The internet can be cruel. 

As the counterperspective is exploding over social media—since Haart was not chassidish, her former compatriots are quite familiar with the medium—a counter-counterperspective has erupted as well, saying that "this is her story," that just because everyone else has a grand time being frum that doesn't mean she didn't feel squelched. 

But the problem with that argument is that Haart does not differentiate between her home life and the frum community she was in. She watched tv in her friends houses, she met their professional parents. Her parents were baalei teshuva, and she probably remembered her previous life quite well and was very possibly less than thrilled with the life decision they made, but that has no bearing on her misstated claims of how "everyone" is.

"The outside world" she keeps referring to is not known as "the outside world" to most frummies. We interact with it freely, choosing the elements we like and passing on the elements we don't. 

The rest of the world likes to think observant Jews have no exposure to secular society, because if we did, why the hell would we be religious? Religious "nutters" like us, poor things, don't realize how good they could have it—bacon! Free love! Short shorts!—if only they knew! 

The idea that observant Jews are employed in Manhattan firms, go to the movies, and post selfies of themselves on Instagram, and are still frum is a bit confusing to them. For Haart to say, "My parents decided to become religious when I was 10 and we joined a rather pleasant middle-of-the-road community who were observant and yet still got home delivery of the New York Times": YAWN. No one's interested in a show like that. They want the freak factor. 

The reason why #myorthodoxlife is staging a loud backlash is not just because of Haart; it's because Jews have seen an uptick in antisemitic attacks, and we really don't need anymore bad publicity. It's nothing new; the majority of the world doesn't like us. But we—like every other individual—has a voice, thanks to social media. We don't have to wait politely for a newspaper to be willing to publish our point of view. Alexa Fleksher created enough of a buzz that even Netflix noticed.

But as the success of Shtisel has shown, "the outside world" is just as content with seeing how the religious roll, even if they never choose to leave. I've watched shows about all sorts of different cultures and found them fascinating. Shidduch dating? They would have a field day! 

Haart's playing it wrong, fighting against her youngest's religiosity. She should embrace it. That's what the people want to see. 

Ah, to be CLEAN

I am currently without a favorite cleanser. 

My former favorite—and it is perhaps still, my favorite in my heart—was the Giovanni D:TOX System Purifying Facial Cleanser. It was a flattering shade of black from the activated charcoal. 

A few months ago, the bathroom sink was giving us problems. Han happens to be handy, and took off the bottom of the pipe. What slid out was horrifying. A solid, gloppy mass of—black. Uh oh. 

Han did a little research, and discovered that activated charcoal is not water soluble. Meaning, it does not dissolve merrily away in water, but apparently forms an actual mass in the pipes. Yaaaaaaay. 

The two cleansers that I purchased so far are pleasant, but they don't do the job of actually cleansing my face. I would wipe it off in the towel afterward, only to have the towel turn beige from cc cream. Ew. 

Until I can find a competent cleanser, I need a backup to ensure I'm actually going to bed with a clean face. So I bought in Costco (it was on sale!) Neutrogena Ultra-Soft Makeup Remover Wipes, which take everything off (I use their eye makeup remover for the eye area—I don't like to rub my eyes with wipes). 

One can see on the wipe that it gets everything. I do cleanse again, to remove any residue, and then I cream up accordingly.

The Fault in Our Tznius

I've been working my way through Naomi Novick's Temeraire series. It's of the fantasy genre, taking place during the Napoleonic Wars. Novick's premise is this: What if history took place just as it did, but with dragons? 

What makes the series stand out, in my opinion, is Novick's ability to grasp the language and sensibilities of the time; the tone is practically Austenian. It doesn't always make it an easy read, but it can still be an arresting one. 

There was one scene in Book 3: Black Powder War that made me laugh. Temeraire—the dragon—and his crew are traveling across the world, and have currently stopped in Istanbul. The are currently the "guests" of the Sultan, meaning they cannot leave the compound. Since they have been traveling heavily thus far, the dearth of female companionship has been keenly felt by some of the crew. 

Two of these fellows are excited to see, out the window, a woman! Mind you, she is wearing six layers of shapeless robes, and her head and face is veiled, revealing only her eyes, but the men fight over the spy-glass to be able to get a better look, and even try to wolf-whistle. 

For all they know, she could be as old and shapeless as their mother. But men are . . . men. 

It made me think of our community's irritating emphasis on tznius. Don't get me wrong, I think tznius is important—but not the current translation of tznius, which focuses on wardrobe, as opposed to behavior and comportment. The rabbanim in the Gemara were tzniusdik—in the bathroom. Do we even know what that means? 

My mind then jumped to the story of Dina. In school, we were always told the story of Dina in judgemental tones, that it was "her fault" for "going out." In the pasuk, it says that "Dina went out to see the daughters of the land." 

We were told Dina should have stayed in the tent. Wow, what a fun life for a teenager, to be stuck indoors all day with four older women (and no Netflix!). Would any of us quietly accept such an existence? The text says, quite simply, that she wanted to meet other girls, her contemporaries. She wasn't trying to invite male attention. But a privileged young man, the prince of the land, abused his position and took her.

That was how the world was then. It was not so different until, well, recently. It has nothing to do with how women dress. Dina, I'm sure, looked pretty close to the woman described in Novick's book—all robes and veil. But that didn't stop Shchem. 

When teachers would awkwardly approach the topic of tznius, using phrases like "attractive, but not attracting," frankly, it is all subjective. My own judgement is painfully biased. I have that embarrassing default that if anyone is dressed "more" than I, then they must be "overdoing it," while if anyone dresses "less," their values are in the toilet. It's all relative. 

And when a matter is as relative as that, there is no point in making it an issue, when halacha has much less shades of gray. We should be focusing there. Keeping our mouths, our speech, tznius, is a far loftier goal.

My Lessening Sweet Tooth

I think one of the first indications I was becoming "old" was when I began to consider some recipes too sweet. 

I used to take a lot of pride in my love of sugar. "Oh, I need my sugar," I would say, and even when I no longer consumed it on weekdays I would still profess my love for it. 

Don't get me wrong, I still like a hit of sweet every now and then, but I've been experimenting with cutting back on sugar in recipes, and I've been amazed how low I can go. 

Take the beloved family bundtcake, which calls for 2 cups of sugar. I read somewhere that one can take off one quarter of the sugar called for in a recipe with no ill effects, and it was a success with 1.5 cups. Then, what they hey, I cut it down further to 1.25. Still excellent. 1 cup did not turn out so good, so I've been sticking with 1.25 cups of sugar. It still tastes really sweet to me, and Ben loves it. 

Then the strawberry fluff (the recipe I posted back in 2014, so freakin' long ago, has been heavily modified since, so I owe an updated one) calls for 1 cup of sugar. I went down to 3/4 cup. Then 1/2 cup. It's so good with a 1/2 cup, I'm not kidding! Half the sugar, and it's excellent! 

I make Busy in Brooklyn's blueberry apple crisp nearly every Shabbos. It calls for 1/2 cup of sugar, but I don't put any in. That's right. I've found if I cover the crisp and bake it for a long time—90 minutes to 2 hours—the fruits caramelize to such an extent that it tastes sugar sweet. (I also halved the oil.)  

And so it goes. I've been cutting back on sugar in recipes left and right and I've been amazed how the results are still plenty sweet. Our sweet registers are really unnecessarily high. 

I'm not claiming that cutting back on sugar automatically makes a dessert "healthy"—but it is certainly "not as bad" as the full amount called for. 

Sugar is a part of our lives. The people need sweet! But we don't have to be SO sweet. (I was watching Sugar Rush with my nieces and I nearly barfed. I'm so old.)  

Experimentation can be daunting, I know. But give it a try. See what happens. Or better yet, if anyone notices.

For Five Minutes, Own the World

There is a store I don't like to go into. The owner is a grump, and snaps at me. 

I would usually just take my business elsewhere, but only his establishment offers the service that I require. So I unwillingly enter. 

The other day, as I girded my loins for crabbiness, I was surprised to discover that the owner was, in fact, almost pleasant. I was shocked. 

Then I went, "Ooooooooh, of course." 

With mask restrictions mostly lifted, I've begun applying the Face again, as much as Ben allows. Five Minute Face: cc cream, undereye concealer, mascara, blush, lipstick (in this case, red). 

I've forgotten the lovely customer service I get when I'm thus painted. It makes so many interactions easier.