Book Review Continued: "Group"

The second aspect of the book that I noted . . . 

It's not like Tate came from an abusive home. Her parents were solid Catholic Texans. There was no fighting. She mentions her siblings in passing, and they seem to be fine, married and settled. 

But Tate's upbringing did leave a mark. She was a tween when she witnessed a horrific accident, and her parents did not know how to deal with it. They told her to buck up, to put on a happy face, to power through. At some point the school sent her to a therapist who was not a good fit, and she lied to her parents after one session that she was good to go. They were happy. 

It made me think of Thomas Boyce's dandelion and orchid theory. Some children come into this world mentally and emotionally sturdy. No matter what life throws at them they can cheerfully trundle along. (A neighbor once said about Luke, "You could send him to public school no problem." Yeah, total dandelion.) 

But other children are more sensitive. They need more support, more nurturing, more attention. If they don't get that from their caretakers, they flounder. If they do, they flourish, becoming ever more than a dandelion can. 

My thought on this was—besides for the belief that Tate is an orchid, and many messages given consciously or unconsciously to her by her parents and teachers left deep marks—that what if it doesn't have to be so extreme? What if there is a plant that falls between a dandelion and an orchid? (My botany is not proficient, so I don't have an example there.)

Life is rarely black and white—it's not like children are either one thing or the other. Some kids can be more sensitive in some ways, and less sensitive in others.  

Chanoch l'naar al pi daarko—it's a toughie. Parents can do everything "right," and the kids will still end up on a therapist's couch complaining about their upbringing. 

Ben is too small for me to be worried too much right now. He's content with regular meals, a good night's sleep, and reading the same book on a loop (I'm going mad). I'm curious as to what he is, but I think it's neither dandelion nor orchid. I have to be in tune for when his personal sensitivities pop up, so I can be ready to accommodate them.

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. 

To Be

Shabbos was drawing to a close. I had coaxed Ben to eat his supper, belting out zemiros to keep him content. I changed him into the new pajamas I had managed to snatch in the madhouse that was Costco, the beautiful shade of blue contrasting with his tanned feet.

The day had been warm and humid, but a pleasant breeze had begun to whisper through the trees, the sun no longer glaring as it slid lower in the sky. I decided to give Ben his pre-bed bottle outside in the fresh air. (He would spend the whole day outdoors if he could.)

The moment was perfect. 

Ben removed the almost-empty bottle from his mouth and emitted an dainty burp. 

I smiled at him adoringly. 

Then there was geyser of white liquid shooting out of him. I was hit! It was followed by his dinner, Greek yogurt, compote, and chia seed pudding, all still very recognizable, but now smelling distinctly of vomit. 

He blinked innocently, while I remained frozen for a few seconds in shock. I was dripping in projectile. 

Han and I then stripped the poor stinking fellow, who seemed oddly unperturbed at losing all his stomach contents. It did not go well when I tried to force some Pedialyte down his throat; he is surprisingly strong for a baby.

I then bundled him into bed, worrying at his refusal to drink, and spent the night tiptoeing in repeatedly to check on his breathing. 

I wondered—it had been a perfect moment. But I couldn't keep that moment? Seriously? The moment had to be literally puked all over? 

I then remembered "Bikeish Yaakov leshev b'shalva." All Yaakov wanted was to live a life of peace. But that's not what this life is about. Peace is for the next world. Here, we must suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. 

Well, I suppose I could handle a stomach bug.

I called my sister in a panic on Motzei Shabbos; she poo-pooed my worries. And he was bright-eyed by morning, ready for another perfect moment.   

Maman vs. Anyu

I had been given Bringing Up Bébé: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting by Pamela Druckerman when Ben was born, and only managed to read it recently. 

I should have read it earlier—I could have possibly taught him how to sleep through the night without crying it out. But besides for that, I found the rest of the book to be awfully familiar. 

Like, well, my own upbringing, although Ma was no Frenchwoman. Han easily explained why: Ma was European. Druckerman often differentiates between "English-speaking" and the French, but Britain is the land of scary nannies. I don't think the UKers let their kids run amok either. 

I laughed when I read of the technique known as "les gros yeux" or "the big eyes." Ma was a master at that. Druckerman mentions the Dr. Spock of France (Françoise Dolto) and that others, such as the Hungarian Magda Gerber, echo her beliefs. I doubt Ma was channeling the teachings of a parenting specialist, even if she was Hungarian. Babi must have been the same, except I only associate her as a chuckling grandmother who would whip out the kokosh cake whenever we came by. 

Apparently the French expect mothers to be back to their pre-baby weight at three months post-partum. Hell no. 

Excellent. I'll stick with Ma's methods.   

The Shame Continues

As my readership may recall (if I still have any, that is), singles get a lot of soul-destroying feedback. You aren't doing this right, your personality is sort of eh, and because you didn't go to summer camp when you were 12, you are therefore single. 

But then, the magical time arrives when one's soulmate FINALLY shows up, and you can dance off into the sunset while cackling, "In yo FACES!!!"

There is, for the first time in a decade, the blissful sound of NOTHING. No one has anything to say to you beyond, "Hello." Oh, it is wonderful. So wonderful. 

Then Ben was born, our blissful squishy baby, the offspring we were waiting for. 

But then they came back. They found me again. 

"He doesn't sleep through the night? At his age? When my baby was three hours old, I programmed him to sleep for 24 hours straight." 

"His diaper leaked and you don't have a change of clothes? I don't go anywhere, not even to the mailbox, without three backup outfits." 

"Do you read to him enough? I started my baby on advanced poetry by six months." 

I've discovered I've started to self-flagellate in advance, just in case. "I'm so terrible, I resort to Cheerios as most of his snacks. While I'm at it, he doesn't sleep through the night yet and so he would be better off in foster care as I am therefore an incompetent caregiver."

Maybe because Ma's not here to reassure me that I'm doing an ok job keeping him alive, but I find myself succumbing to all the comments,  doubting my efforts. 

Damn. I thought I was done with this. 

To all the lovely singles who are badgered by everyone: Tune them out. Because they are a fact of life, along with death and taxes. 

We Worry

Everyone in my family is understandably swoony over Ben, especially the little girls who wrestle with each other over the right to look at him. 

What is disconcerting, however, is how nobody seems to trust me with him. 

Luke: 

 

"WHAT IS HE CHEWING ON?!?!" 

"It's a piece of apple. And I'm sitting right here." 

"Oh. Phew." 

Ta: 

"He's going to swallow the pacifier! Also, you're holding him too much." 

Sister: 

"He's hot" or "He's cold." 

Other brother: 

"The blanket is too close to his nose." 

What I find confusing is that these people left their kids with me when they went on vacation. It's because they left their kids with me when they went on vacation that I actually somewhat know what I'm doing. 

Hey, I gave them back their children in one piece, right? 

I know their constant admonitions means that they care. But there's only so much a relatively capable mother can take. 

Luke: 

"WHAT'S HE CHEWING ON?!?!" 

"Dear God, you left your kids with me without a backward glace, they survived, and now you question my ability to keep him alive?!?!" 

Sheepish Luke. 

Ta walks in. 

"WHAT'S HE CHEWING ON?!?!" 

I give up.

There Goes That Fantasy

When I entered my teens, Ma introduced me to the next level of "literature": Regency romances. 

The authors were typically Joan Smith, Carola Dunn, Fiona Hill. Georgette Heyer here and there, but she used a lot of annoying exclamation points and was rather antisemitic.  The books were usually about a mousey girl who for some unknown reason catches the fancy of a strapping, handsome marquis (he always had a title, rarely a mere Mr.), or about a spirited young woman of striking beauty but was too anticonvention for her own good who for some unknown reason catches the fancy of a strapping, handsome marquis. 

I gobbled them up like tater tots. They were my main form of entertainment for years, until I branched out into medieval romances as well. Cough. 

In the last decade or so, I've left them behind, preferring historical novels of other topics. But I still watch the Austen adaptations with glee. 

My sister-in-law and I swap books, and she excitedly handed me "A Murder in Time" by Julie McElwain. It's about a female FBI agent who gets sucked into a vortex and ends up in Regency England. 

However, she is not familiar with Austen's work, and finds the restrictions on women to be simply ridiculous.  Seeing the era through her eyes, you do realize that she's right. The romance is gone. So while all the language of those books I once enjoyed are there, the limitations women faced, the hardscrabble existence of the other 99% of humanity that wasn't landed gentry, the misconceptions on science and medicine, has sort of removed the glow from those tales. 

It's like when I read "Longbourn" by Jo Baker, and however considerate Lizzy is depicted in "Pride and Prejudice," maids were not granted that consideration. While most women believe they would have been Emma in another life, chances are they would have had the job of scrubbing her boots for a pittance. 

When I was a teenager, "Ever After" was one of my favorite movies. Spirited girl wins heart of prince! Yay! Then I began to read Sharon Kay Penman's novels about the British monarchy, and it became quite clear that princes did not marry for love. They married for political reasons, and had mistresses for love. I think I read somewhere once that character of Danielle was actually based on a mistress of a royal Henri. Being a royal mistress was actually  a great position so had Danielle been offered that, she would have been thrilled. All those scenes of Marguerite angling to become princess is all the more laughable because she would have known that's never. Ever. Gonna. Happen. 

I can't rewatch "Ever After" again knowing that. 

There are times in life when fantasies are fun and helpful. But then you grow out of them, finding you don't need them anymore. 

But I still anthropomorphize toys. Hmm.

For Cuteness!

A number of months ago, there was an article in the NY Times that niggled at me. And niggled at me. And niggled at me. 

I have found the only way to deal with the niggles is to write about it. 

The article, by Pagan Kennedy, was called "Why You Want to Eat This Baby Up: It’s Science." She begins by describing how since childhood, she never wanted to have children, to the horror of everyone. 

She just doesn't find babies cute, she claims. According to her, that's the only reason a woman would want to have a child. 

Like, for reals?

The only reason why people have children is because they're cute?

What I never quite understood about those who profess no desire to besmirch their comfortable existences with demanding little humans is this: we were ALL children once. Our parents besmirched their comfortable existences to create and raise you. 

Additionally, how long are we cute? Not very long, in the grand scheme of things. Many babies enter the world colicky and crabby. Babies leak from every orifice. As Han's friend joked, "Babies begin smiling when we're about to chuck 'em out a window." Cuteness is for survival. 

But why do we have kids? As Jews, we know why. Heritage, mesorah, passing on the flame, etc. etc. The cuteness is just a perk. 

Art vs. Supper

Today's culture puts little value on home life. Domesticity can be dully repetitive (as my Babi would joke, "You want supper again? I fed you yesterday!"), and for some, a barrier to more "lofty" achievements.

 

In my case, home life was always more appealing than anything else, work or vacation included (vacation, to me, is as much work as work). I've feel fulfilled when chasing after kinfauna. I find the noise of something substantial clattering up the vacuum hose oddly satisfying. And, weirdly, I don't mind doing dishes.

 

Yet these necessary and endless tasks can get "in the way" of "art," according to the standard narrative. As Bookends asked, "Are Domestic Responsibilities at Odds With Becoming a Great Artist?" The question was answered by Siddhartha Deb, a single father, and Dana Stevens, a mommy.

 

Deb argues that standard employment is not considered a barrier to art, only dish washing, because the latter is uncompensated and so, therefore, "unproductive."

Yet the reality is that art and domestic work are both likely to go uncompensated or poorly compensated, and under such circumstances, both have to be approached with love and rigor to be done well. In that sense, great art and domestic responsibilities are as like each other as my elaborate meal plans are like the chapter outlines of my maximalist novel.

Stevens provides examples of recognized authors who did not have children, and even gave credit to their art for that fact; however, she also lists those who did have children and succeeded. She also points out that many abandoned their families in the pursuit of "art" and did not become well-known.

. . . with time, my romantic vision of the uncluttered life of the pure artist has gotten agreeably cluttered by life itself.

She simply concludes that an artist must be more driven, that's all, in order to create, and that shows their devotion. No worries.

 

Yiyun Li reviewed Deborah Levy's book "The Cost of Living," as Levy describes her writing while also extremely busy with everyday life. The stereotypical artist escapes from the responsibilities of the mundane life, but does that make their work any better without those "distractions"? Levy's books were critically recognized, even with the millstones of everyday hanging about her neck.

 

For my own preferences, I prefer reading stories of "real life," of characters navigating the everyday, the mundane, and trying to figure out the best choices to make. In general, facing reality head-on instead of avoiding the inevitable is my jam. I don't find artists who abandon their families to float without care at all appealing; that art, in my opinion, is worthless.

 

It can be done.



Let Girls Be Girls Any Way

When I was a kid, I officially did not want to be a "girlie girl." The books I read always had boyish heroines who played sports and climbed trees. I actually suck at sports—Ma despaired of my inability to catch a ball, unlike her—and I didn't really understand the need to climb a tree. 

Also, to my detriment, I had a weakness for Barbies—but I will contend that to this day, I have an aversion for the color pink. 

I tried my best to be a tomboy in every other way, which meant wearing my brothers' outgrown sweatshirts as casual attire. I was so lame. 

I refused to wear makeup to Luke's wedding, when I was 15. That would definitely make me a girly girl! Although my gown was magnificent and I had flowers in my hair and sparkling jewelry. Eye pencil drew my imaginary, arbitrary line. 

At some point, I stopped fighting. Sephora was calling to me. Clothing that fit was calling to me. Pretty shoes were calling to me. 

I was reminded of my evolution by this article, "Like Tomboys and Hate Girlie Girls? That's Sexist." The author, a feminist that also used to eschew "girlieness," now finds herself stumped by a 6-year-old that loves pink, Barbies, and froo-froos. She realized that by welcoming her older daughter's tomboyish tendencies, she was still valuing masculinity over femininity. 

Via AlexandraJustineChapman

Additionally, there are plenty of (straight) men who have what could be considered feminine qualities (like a fondness for hand cream), for which they have been mocked. 

As the author, Lisa Davis, explains, makeup is not about being alluring to men. If anything, the majority of my dates found my Face horrific. Rather, it is a "fun and creative form of self-expression."

Especially since the arrival of a number of "girlie girl" nieces, as well as others who are not, I've comprehended there is no right or wrong way to be a girl. As long as "like, whateverrrrrrr" is not part of their lexicon.

Too Above, Too Beyond

I've become rather attached to a Jewish cooking group on social media. They've been very helpful, really. While the majority of posted recipes do not pass my self-defined "healthy" criteria, they've provided plenty of inspiration and options. 

As the "fun" parshios have swung back, the feed is cluttered now with women posting their "parsha desserts." Cakes covered in blue fondant and animal crackers. Rainbow blondies. Star cookies. Some breathtakingly elaborate. 

Group members tend to post what they made, which can give others much-needed ideas when they're tired of making the same chicken for supper three nights in a row. But there was some backlash to all the parsha postings, to the point that the administrator gave everyone a scolding. If you don't want to make it, then don't make it!, she said. That doesn't mean you have to be snarky and disapproving!  

Am I the sort of gal who'll spend my Friday carefully crafting a "mabul cake"? (I still don't know what that is). No. Not me. 

I do think it's an excellent idea to get children excited about the parsha. However. However: 

I'm pretty stressed on Fridays. I pride myself in not overdoing things, but after hitting the stories at 7:30, cleaning chicken, and praying I don't burn the broccoli again, I can get pretty busy. I'm also unwilling to do certain things, like stay up past my bedtime, to make a special something for Shabbos that, chances are, will not get the reception I was expecting for so much effort. 

Cooking for Shabbos can be overwhelming. When one is overwhelmed, one can get . . . testy. Maybe a little yell-y. So if any wife, mother, or daughter lost it because of the complicated desserts that are being made in the name of Torah, IT WASN'T WORTH IT. Because no matter how "ooh, aah" that confection is, people would rather not get their heads taken off. 

 

So if all of those mothers made multi-colored challahs with a smile on their faces and a song in their hearts, kol ha'kavod! You are amazing. But if one cross word was uttered, one irritated look flashed, because they took on more than they should have—

It missed the point. Buy the cookies instead.  

A Thorny Topic

I suppose our grandparents, if they saw our lives today as things were in the 1940s, would have had a good laugh: specifically, in regard to the struggle to maintain a healthy weight.  

My long-time readers would be familiar with my "Battle of the Bulge" series, in which I detailed my own experiences losing weight as well as articles discussing the science of weight loss. 

But I'll be frank. There are times when I wish this wasn't a constant monkey on my back. That I didn't have to analyze and catalogue and monitor. So I would have a day or two of "hedonism" (by my usual standards), when I stubbornly insist I don't care, I've had enough, to heck with it. Then I loathe myself for my lack of control, that it wasn't worth it, and I'm back on the straight and narrow. 

Until I'm invited out for Shabbos, and my hosts coax me to please try this and that, and I want to be a good guest. Then I taste something really yummy and chances are it's really yummy for no good reason, but I still have multiple helpings (I'm a social eater. Haven't hammered that out of me yet. Anyone got any tips?). 

Sigh. 

We've all seen the thin women casually licking an ice cream and wondering, "How does she do it?" But we don't know the rest of her life. Maybe she throws it out when it begins to melt. Maybe she's one of those people who only feel a need to nibble "when hungry" (what's that like?) 

Weight is a very thorny topic. While it's not acceptable anymore to mock different races or cultures, sitcoms still feel free to laugh at fatness. Obesity carries with it a host of risk factors, but goal weights tend to have to do less with health than with aesthetics (I am guilty of this too). 

Taffy Brodesser-Akner's article on "Losing It" describes the contradictory messages with despair. Since she was a teenager, she has tried every diet known, faddy and dangerous and otherwise. The culture has changed now, where it is no longer p.c. to tout diets for weight loss, rather lifestyle changes for health and wellness. 

But who are we kidding: It's still about weight, just jazzed up in a new outfit. 

Kathy DeVos approaches "The Problem with Body Positivity" as an overweight woman. She was a member of the body positivity movement until she was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. She realized that while "fatphobia" is unfair, there are still health ramifications to weight. Her daughter, without her knowledge, chose to go on an unhealthy "diet" as she thought that was her only option. 

DeVos knows the topic is more nuanced than she originally thought. Fat shaming is cruel, as racism and sexism is cruel, but the flip side of the latter two are that there is no negativism associated with others. But there are negatives to obesity. 

The problem with today’s version of body positivity is that it refuses to acknowledge that no one approach is right for every person. One teenager might grow up to be healthy at any weight, and another might end up in the hospital. It left my own daughter afraid to approach me about a topic on which I have both personal experience and expertise. It left me feeling that I couldn’t voice the rational concerns I have about diabetes.

I was the “wrong” kind of body positive because I’d been forced to admit that there could be serious health consequences to fatness.

I was the wrong kind of mother because I felt I should support my daughter’s weight-loss goals instead of talking her out of them. . . 

I’m still trying to get it right. But I’ve come to feel that loving yourself and desiring to change yourself are two sentiments that should be able to peacefully coexist.

That sentiment is not unique to weight loss. That belief is what every Jew carries around every day: "For me the world was created" along with "I am but dust and ashes." 

We know how to carry seemingly contradictory messages together. "On the other hand" is a game every Jew plays.

I personally like it when I'm the weight I would prefer. But I've had a gain that refused to go away (like it usually does), much to my alarm. I was beating myself up about it, but then remembered the article by Sridhar Pappu regarding "Dad Bod." 

We do all come in different sizes and shapes. And those sizes can be affected by age. This is not a matter of unhealthy weight gain; it's five pounds. Five dinky pounds that refuse to leave. We can't claim it's a matter of health when it's really about aesthetics. In that case, obsessing over it can prevent one from focusing on other areas that requires improvement, like watching what comes out of my mouth. 

This is a thorny topic indeed.   

The Vicarious Life

Am I citing The Crown too much? I probably am. Can't stop now, though. 

In "Paterfamilias," young Prince Charles is being sent to school. Elizabeth would like to send him to Eton, but Philip is adamant that he be sent to his alma mater in Scotland, Gordonstoun. 

Philip's mission is that Charles "toughens up." 

We then flashback to Philip's time there (and his family's connections to the Nazis, cough). He did not arrive happy either. It's freezing. The showers are freezing. There's a lot of physical labor. 

But after a family tragedy hits, the school provides a framework for him to survive. 

However, Charles is not his father. He did not find his time up north a fulfilling experience—more like hell—and sent his sons to Eton. 

Parents can have difficulty separating themselves from their children. They had a good time in camp; their children should go to camp. They liked sports; their children should like sports. They are content with their life as they know it; their children should too. 

But while children may be of their parents, they are not only their parents. They are also their grandparents, their great-grandparents, their great-great-grandparents, and so forth. Chances are there are a lot of different potential personalities bubbling in that cauldron of DNA. 

Dr. Chris Kaposey's "We Chose Our Child" describes his and his wife's decision to keep their Down Syndrome baby and not abort, despite their both being pro-choice.  

Why is there such reluctance to have children with Down syndrome? One explanation shows up repeatedly when parents recount the early days after receiving their child’s diagnosis. They feel a sense of loss because they no longer dream that their child will get married, go to college or start a family of their own one day — in other words, that they will not meet the conventional expectations for the perfect middle-class life.

However: 

Why do we have children at all? Most parents would agree that it is not only so that they can replicate a conventional arc of a successful middle-class life: college, marriage, real estate, grandchildren. If those are the reasons to abort fetuses with Down syndrome, they seem disappointing — they are either self-centered or empty in their narrow-minded conventionality. Aaron will probably not become a veterinarian, and that’s O.K. Childhood dreams often harmlessly go unrealized. He could still get a different job working with animals, and that would make him happy.

Children, in general, often choose to live different lives than their parents would wish. With a Down Syndrome baby, that's obvious from the get-go. With other kids, it may take a parent a few more decades to realize that. 

Like I heard from Dr. Shefali Tsabary, children are not extensions of ourselves, to lead the lives we wish for them. Then every Jewish boy would go to medical school. Children must be simply accepted and loved, as they are. 

P'ru U'r'vu

"Get married to someone who isn't tall," she said before I even had a chance to say that I wasn't in the market for height. "Then you'll at least have kids. Before you know it, you'll be 30." 

I was 23 at the time. I have to say, I am very, very happy I rolled my eyes at her "advice."

Women worry a lot about their "biological clock," especially single women. If "declining fertility" wasn't terrifying enough, then there are those gloomy "predictions" regarding birth defects. 

Luke recently discovered Adam Ruins Everything, and I must say he is refreshingly soothing. (Check out his video on expiration dates and low-fat foods.) 

Come to think of it, regarding people I know, the myths don't apply. Babi had a miscarriage during her first marriage, pre-war; post-Holocaust, she married again at 32, and swiftly proceeded to have children, including twins at the age of 38 (that was without medical intervention. Don't think they had that in her Hungarian town). 

Fertility issues and birth defects aren't a guarantee of age, at least not to what I've heard in real life. 

So, single ladies and "elderly" newlyweds? Leave it up to God. From what I hear, He doesn't outsource this job to anyone else.

The Mundane is Sacred

This is the opposite of escapist reading. Knausgaard plunges you into the material world, not just with his choice of subjects — apples, adders, tin cans, faces — but in the telling. He narrates and philosophizes as he empties the dishwasher, boils macaroni, combs lice from a child’s hair. A whole entry is sparked when a daughter loses a tooth and gives it to him — it’s not her first, and thus has no drama for her anymore. Knausgaard is left holding it and wondering why we stop marveling at loose teeth, why we stop marveling at the world. This becomes the central preoccupation of the book: to restore our sense of awe, to render the world again strange and full of magic, from loose teeth to rubber boots to hardened pieces of chewing gum (“which with their grey color, hemispherical shape and many little indentations resemble shrunken brains”).

Parul Sehgal is reviewing Knausgaard's book "Autumn." I suppose it can become tiresome, after a while, consciously viewing our everyday surroundings with awe. 

Yet as the world spins its wheels as busy, busy, busy—we forget why we are so busy to begin with. We neglect the quality of life we are supposedly seeking. My neighborhood has burst into annual bloom, and most of the blossoms only remain but a few short days. Gazing upon such short-lived beauty soothes the soul. It would be to our benefit to actively seek out all forms of wonder.

In one scene, Knausgaard’s daughter throws up on him on the subway: “The stench filled my nostrils, and vomit was dripping slowly off my jacket, but it was neither disgusting nor uncomfortable, on the contrary I found it refreshing. The reason was simple: I loved her, and the force of that love allows nothing to stand in its way, neither the ugly, nor the unpleasant, nor the disgusting, nor the horrific.” 

We cannot selectively love. A person is composed of many parts, and as we cannot selectively numb emotions within, picking and choosing what aspects we love in another is not possible. When a girl says, "I want to be loved for who I am," she must acknowledge that she also has annoying parts, as does her future significant other. 

Children, especially, like Knausgaard's barfing baby—the love must be unconditional. They are also sources of an ever-flowing vat of wonder. 

Wajahat Ali was preparing for hajj, yet the demands as father of two small children were interfering with his mindset.

I recently complained to my wife about how our kids’ sleep schedule (or lack thereof) was stealing the time I needed to be truly ready for this moment. I immediately felt guilty. It occurred to me that I had to think of these frazzled pretravel days — and all of our days — differently.

After all, what’s the point of saying, “Here I am,” when you’re not present at home? What’s the point of seeing the Kaaba if you can’t appreciate the miracle that is two manic munchkins running around after midnight?

. . . part of me believes I still have a chance to do it right — starting before I leave. That means watching another “Paw Patrol” episode with patience instead of resentment, and bringing renewed energy to being the kind of dad who will return to kids who have actually missed him.

. . . I hope to return to my family in Virginia, see a bag of soiled, affordable diapers in the trash near the doorstep, hear the voices of babies who are gearing up for another all-nighter, and smile, grateful to be home.

The mundane does not interfere with the sacred. The mundane is the sacred.  

It's a Long Chol HaMoed

Long time readers know that I am a serious aunt. I've been in the trenches. I've been up at night with babies, been barfed and **** on, and read Harry Potter until I thought my throat would never be moist again. 

But reading a child a book can be a lovely experience, providing one overcomes one's initial reluctance. Kids will do anything to be read a book. It's the best form of bribery that doesn't involve cavities (candy), next-day exhaustion (later bedtime), or screen addiction (tv). 

Mallia Wollian reminded me of this with "How to Read Aloud to Children." When the babies were old enough to be read to, I recalled the pitiful effort my siblings expended when they read to me. They would utilize flat monotones only, and rattle along at high speed. Plus there was always some form of quid-pro-quo. It wasn't enjoyable. Luckily I picked up reading skills quickly enough so I didn't have to rely on them. 

When I read to kids? The first time Han saw me smothered beneath children, holding up a Berenstain Bears so everyone could see the pictures, he cracked up. I go slowly and clearly. I do voices. I use inflection and nuance. 

Sometimes they do have to beg me, of which I am not proud. Then when I have that warm, trusting weight on my lap, eager to hear my take on Farmer Ben's southern accent . . . like I said, it's lovely. 

What Comes First

"You have to put the husband first," she said firmly. 

She was not Ayelet Waldman, but a frum married woman of 60. For those who do not recall, Waldman was vilified a number of years ago for her Modern Love piece in which she rather bluntly informed the world that she loved her children, but was in love with her husband. 

Meaning: He came first in her affections and focus. 

She could have spared herself some vitriol, I believe, if she eased into the topic rather than bulldozing into it. Because I do think she has a valid point. 

Parenting—or is it mothering?—has taken on a competitive edge. Movies joke about obsessed soccer moms and terrifying PTA meetings, but the example doesn't have to be so extreme. 

I have been around children. A lot. At a recent Shabbos meal, I was able to tell from the decibel of kvetching emanating from the crib that the toddler could go back to sleep, so take a seat, soft-hearted Zeidy. 

Adults forget what their needs and wants were as children. Kids, when small, are usually not so complicated. Consistency is key: solid bedtime, healthful meals, and knowing exactly what they can and cannot do, and definitely affection. I would go further that they crave united, cheerful parents. 

I remember the episode of Oprah where Waldman was sandbagged by furious mothers, who were the opposite extreme. They spent hours frosting cupcakes for Little League, their husbands vague memories. Do kids want frosted cupcakes for Little League? Not really. And if they do, they certainly would rather do without if their parents will fight over it. 

I wouldn't say, "The husband comes first," but "The marriage comes first." I have heard of adults being bitter because their parents had miserable marriages or torturous divorces; have you ever heard anyone complain that their parents had a wonderfully close relationship? 

Her piece ends off: 

And if my children resent having been moons rather than the sun? If they berate me for not having loved them enough? If they call me a bad mother?

I will tell them that I wish for them a love like I have for their father. I will tell them that they are my children, and they deserve both to love and be loved like that. I will tell them to settle for nothing less than what they saw when they looked at me, looking at him.

That sounds pretty awesome to me.

Laws of Creativity

I know all the lyrics to the extended theme song of "Pinky and the Brain." 

. . . This twilight campaign, 

Is easy to explain: 

To prove their mousey worth, 

They'll overthrow the Earth, 

The Pinky, 

The Pinky and the Brain Brain Brain Brain Brain Brain Brain Brain BRAIN!

NARF! 

And I didn't even google them beforehand.

For us elderly people, "Animaniacs" was our childhood, chock-full of fabulous segments: "Katie Ka-Boom," "Buttons and Mindy," "Slappy Squirrel," and, of course, "Pinky and the Brain." Then P&B got a show in their own right. 

Consider my delight that it got a "Letter of Recommendation," by Jonah Weiner. Brilliantly, he connects the show's predictable format to a concept I found inherently Jewish. 

To explain: P&B, for those who know, has the same setup, episode after episode: 

1) "Pinky, are you pondering what I'm pondering?" 

2) Elaborate, insane scheme goes awry; 

3) "What we do every night, Pinky: Try to take over the world!" 

And yet, as Weiner elaborates, there is genius insanity in-between, despite abiding to a limited frame. Pinky's befuddled responses to pondering were so hysterical I would be in stitches ("I think so, Brain, but me and Pippi Longstocking—I mean, what would the children look like?") Brain's elaborate plots were so complex and calculated to exploit mundane human weaknesses that you wondered if the writers were high. 

Weiner is saying that constraint allows for wacky creativity. And is that not the Jews? 

We have waaaaay more rules and regulations, yet a multitude of sects flourish with individuality, never mind the individuals within the individuality. Then there are those who do their own Judaic thang without an identifying sect. If anything, a life free of restriction results in the boringly repetitive. Hedonism is same-old, same-old. 

TGIF

• "The 8 Health Habits Experts Say You Need in Your 20s";

• "The Urban Avenger vs. William";  and 

Mesorah

For many of us veterans of the frum school system, "funny" or "bizarre" stories of misinformed educators abound. Like when they misquoted sources or outright invented halacha to validate personal chumras. 

When I returned home at night, there was often casual deprogramming following these incidents. "Ma, Ma! My morah said that—" "Ta, Ta! My morah said that—" Between the two of them I managed to emerge 12th grade pitying, as opposed to resenting, my teachers. Bless them, but to grant themselves security for their wobbly nerves they drew lines where none were needed. 

Mesorah was the go-to at home. Mesorah is everything. Hey, if we got it, why not stick with it? There is a comforting security when you do what your grandfather did, knowing he did what his grandfather did. 

Jacob blessing the children of Joseph, Rembrandt

There is always room for improvements in halacha, of course. Yet showing the kinfauna how it's done by us is first and foremost. Then we can turn to the newly available old texts. (According to the Maharam M'Rutenburg, we "have to" bring in the newspaper on Shabbos. Really.) 

Wajahat Ali mentioned us folk in his article about raising Muslim kids today.  

One potential route in producing “superior Muslims” is to follow the model of Orthodox Jewish Americans and invest tremendous resources and time to create enclosed schools or home schooling co-ops for our communities.

The "superior Muslims" comment was from his friend: 

Hina Khan-Mukhtar, a mother of three in the Bay Area, said the only way is for us to transform into “Super-Muslims,” minus the cape. “In America, you can’t be a mediocre Muslim,” she said. “You have to be the best of the best, and you have to show your kids that you have a ‘superior product’ that you are offering them. There are so many ‘-isms’ calling for their attention and for their loyalty — individualism, atheism, materialism, extremism. Islam needs to trump them all.”

That means parents really have to bring their a-game. While we do send our kids to private schools, but I made it out sane and informed only because of my parents.

Unfortunately for my children, I excel in mediocrity. This Ramadan, I opened my fasts at home with a date and some takeout food. I usually prayed Maghrib, the evening prayer, by myself in the family room. My wife, a full-time doctor, supermom and pregnant with our second child at the time, did her best to join me, but her schedule left her exhausted.

Ali explains how the available options for Muslim community life don't quite fulfill him and his wife. Yet they want their children to be as attached to Islam as they are.

We’re trying to retain so much of the good we inherited from our parents, throw away the rotten parts and improvise along the way. .  . The sources we don’t trust: shady, unqualified imams and right-wing religious material published overseas.

Instead, we’re turning to our peers and our collective best judgment as well as centuries-old traditions.

At home, my wife and I now deliberately pray in front of the kids. I prostrate toward Mecca and recite the Arabic verses out loud.

Ali adores the Islam he was raised with (his mesorah), yet knows it won't survive with misinformation (morahs with an agenda). When kids find out that something isn't true about one thing, they start questioning the whole enterprise. Luckily my folks were always on call to clarify and explain.    

Elisheva Shira, elishira.com

The Sh'ma says so, flat out: "You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house and when you walk by the way and when you lie down and when you rise up." Parents gots to be constantly talking about it. 

Two weeks ago, during my night prayers, my son came up next to me, bowed and turned his head and smiled. There is no compulsion in religion, nor should there be. It’s up to him and Nusayba to embrace or reject the faith and our traditions. My job is only to plant the seeds with care.