OK, I Take It Back

 Al tiftach peh l'Satan. 

I've found he has impeccable timing. 

Keeping in mind my prior post, announcing that I am not working on myself right now, thank you very much, I was, just yesterday, thrust into a situation in which I would have to work on myself. 

A week before Rosh HaShana, I was tested. It was definitely a test. 

But I'm not sure on what subject. 

Nor do I know what the right answer was. 

Did I pass? I have no idea. Could I have done more? Should have done less? Who knows? 

There are times in life when it is clear what the "right" thing to do is. But more often, it's murky. On the one hand . . . on the second hand . . . on the fifteenth hand . . .  

It's a miracle I sleep at all. 

I suppose I have to be reminded from time to time (or often) not to get smug about anything. Because it's always when I've decided to relax in some way, whether it be mentally, spiritually, emotionally, physically, something comes flying at me like a bat outta hell to get me to wake up. 

Maybe that's what my test was? A friendly reminder? Hm.

In any case, a goodly year to all. 

Oh, and while I have you, please give this shiur by Rabbi Joey Haber a try. I managed to squeeze him in while driving to an appointment, and he's da bomb. This one is excellent, too. 

No "Growth" For Me

I've been wondering if I should feel like a "bad Jew." 

I don't mean pork, obviously. I mean in that once I had kids I've been in, as my friend describes, "survival mode." All day, all night, it's about keeping my offspring alive and somewhat content. It's a full time job.  

The shiurim I used to listen to have fallen to the wayside. When can I listen to them? How could I even hear them, with two loud babies? 

Even my reading material—when I finally get a chance to read, I need something light and escapist. I spend all day tending to the needs of two self-centered creatures; when I get the chance, I want my mind to unspool, not get worked up about my failings. 

Then I saw a reel on IG from a frum woman who feels exhausted from the constant emphasis on "growth" (I personally hate that word; I've always associated them with tumors). Are we ever permitted to just . . . be?

It's not like I'm twiddling my thumbs. I spend my days telling myself not to lose it with Ben, not to lose it with Ben, not to lose it with Ben, only to lose it with Ben. He's testing boundaries right and left, and it's testing my temper. 

It's not like I feel guilty. I come from European stock, which means they find the highest value in mothers killing themselves for the next generation, without demanding more.

Elul is a conversation of dun-dun-DUN!!!, but I don't care. I don't have the energy to care. I'm tapped out. 

Because it's technically 24/7 chessed, people. I've already resigned myself that Ben will marry a girl who can't stand me and they'll rarely visit. 

I know, I know, seek professional help.

I think that many of us have a lot on our plates. Some of us are caregivers, part of the sandwich generation to boot. They are asking God for assistance just to get through the day, and can't spare a thought to spiritual improvement. 

In a funny twist, I find that I'm in a better frame of mind on the Yomim Noraim than I used to. Pre-motherhood: Invariably, at davening, someone would bring their kids, make a racket, disturb my prayer, and make me so angry I knew I failed the divine test. For the last few years I've been home, in pajamas, davening sporadically, taking care of my offspring, but calm and mellow and exuding peace and love to all humankind (sort of). 

Last year my sister-in-law told me, "I've turned into you!" Now that her youngest is old enough she's started going to back to shul on Rosh HaShana/Yom Kippur, only to be driven mad by the antics of children. 

"The munching of the chips—the popping of those sensory toys—I just can't—" 

Maybe it's best that I'm home, doing mundane things on a sacred day. But the work is sacred to, in its own way.

Who Am I?

I would think, that at my age, I would know myself by now. I mean, I'm me, right, so if I don't know myself, who will? (That sounds rather Pirkei Avos-y.)

But then I surprise myself. 

So, long story. 

Ma used to be finicky about certain things. She couldn't stand to wear her sheitel over three hours. Sunglasses were carefully selected, as she would feel the weight on her nose. Stockings? Torture. Whenever she walked in the door, her shoes were removed immediately. She even drove with one shoe kicked off.

Then a granddaughter cropped up who, from toddlerhood, couldn't stand socks and shoes. We once took her to a restaurant, where she matter-of-factly removed her footwear, handed them to Ma, and spent the meal happily barefoot. 

"Sensory," her older sister explained, about 12 herself at the time. 

It was the first time I had heard the term. I'm a child of the '80s, where EI and all that jazz wasn't a "thing." People just . . . had different quirks. Oh, so funny, the two-year-old can't stand shoes! Ha ha! 

In my case, for instance, I can't stand having hair resting on my neck. It really really bugs me. That's why I opted for high ponies while I was single. Once I got sheitels it became clear why Ma couldn't stand them. They're so oppressive! When I actually don my wig (which is rarely) I count down the three hours until I've reached my limit. (Han is very sad I wear it so rarely. Tough.)

I was once discussing it with Han, how I can't function when hair is on my neck. 

"You're sensory," he said, in a casual, but-of-course tone.

I stared at him.

I remained mute as the realization hit. I'm sensory. Like my mother before me. 

I had heard the term before. But I never connected it to me. Sure, Ma was sensory. But me, too? 

It's not a major epiphany. But I went from "Oh, I can't stand having hair on my neck" to "I'm sensory, I can't wear a wig every day." "Sensory" gives a validity to personal preferences, rather than my being a pitchetch. 

I'm 36, and now I've figured out that I'm sensory. Nice to meet you. 

I wonder what traits I'll figure out when I'm 40.