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 Patient Baker

A number of months ago, I began to dabble in sourdough. I've already meddled with homemade sauerkraut, so this seemed the natural next step. 

The premise of sourdough is this: the commercial yeast we use today is a fairly new invention. Before then, "yeast" was simply flour and water that was left to ferment. Then it would be combined with more flour and water in order to make bread. 

That is why, in Mitzrayim, the Hebrews left in such a rush before their bread could rise—bread then needed a long time to rise. The first proof can take twelve hours. 

When one first starts to research, it can be quite daunting. There are words like "autolyse" and "levain" and "oven spring" and "open crumb."  There are calculated percentages for "hydration," down to specifics like "67%." I'm bad enough at math, that was almost enough to completely terrify me. 

I finally had enough with the overly complicated instructions, and decided to go about the simplest methods. It took three weeks, but I finally had a frothy jar of starter. I went with whole grain recipes only, as white flour tends to mess up my stomach. 

The results weren't technically pretty, but they were tasty (even Ben likes it!). It takes time and effort, of course. There's a method called "stretch and fold" when dealing with the dough, directions on how to "develop gluten" or something, then figuring out how to manipulate dough that tends to be very wet and blobby (I'm trying challah next. I'm going to rip my hair out). 

I've joined a number of sourdough groups for further tips to hone my nonexistent skills, as have other newbies who've decided to pick up the hobby now that they've been quarantined. 

Some people are adorable. "My starter is five days old, it's not bubbling, what's wrong?!?!?" Five days? I had to fuss over my initial starter for weeks before it would pass "the float test" (don't ask). 

Sourdough is an old world food. Instant yeast was developed as the world began to speed up. The old world was a slow world, when everything took forever and no one went anywhere. 

Fermentation reintroduced me to the concept of patience. Good things come to those who wait. I sort of learned that after dating for bloody forever, but sourdough helps to reinforce the message. 

I've noticed that the sourdough is easier on my digestion—my stomach feels good after the Shabbos meal, when beforehand it would grumble a bit. Sourdough ferments the flour, which breaks it down better; there's a theory that the instant yeast is the culprit for the modern epidemic of gluten intolerance. 

I froze my starter over Pesach, sticking it on the shelf in the freezer with the whole grain wraps and muffins, and now I'm coaxing it back to life. 

I had planned on making sourdough challah this week, but so far there's only a few sluggish bubbles. It's not ready yet. So I may have to wait until next week, and that's ok. I'm itching to try a new recipe, but one can't force things. It'll be ready when it's ready. 

I can't control that.  

Triggers

Han and I were taking a walk on one of these Shabbosim, pushing the stroller. We took a scenic route.

I saw a house, a beautiful house. "Oh my God," I said, as a sickening feeling took my stomach.

It came flooding back: It was during my single days. A shadchan had called. She asked me to visit her on Shabbos, before lunch, while she was visiting her parents. 

I carefully dressed that Shabbos morning, for yet another "interview." It was winter, or it was at least cold out. I arrived with a chilled nose. I was nervous and hopeful. 

I was embarrassed to be welcomed into a full house, her other married siblings having all come for some sort of family occasion. I want to say her father's birthday. I was ushered into a side room. 

I don't remember much of the conversation itself. I remember her expression, initially friendly, becoming stiffer and stiffer with disapproval. I remember leaving with that all-too-familiar sensation of hope turning to sludge, as I was yet again deemed "unworthy" by a stranger. 

Maya Angelou said, "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

Sometimes I see a person, and my insides freeze up. I don't remember what she said, but I remember how she made me feel. Many people (male and female) made me feel that way when I was single. Opening pleasantries. A shidduch suggestion. Then, for lack of a better term, the bitchy comments on my life choices or appearance or behavior. 

I'm sitting now typing this at my kitchen table with a baby babbling at my feet, with Han washing dishes. I've proved them wrong, obviously, not that they care. They met me, judged me, and dismissed me, without a second thought; those remarks haunted me. I questioned myself repeatedly, vacillating between self-faith and "But are they all wrong? Or am I the insane one?"

I know I'm being a broken record, that I've been harping about this constantly lately. I know the people who should be reading this probably aren't. But for those who are: 

1) If you have been hurt by such remarks, be strong. All that matters is that you are striving to be a good person and try to be kind to others. Whatever anyone else says is bull. 

2) If you have said such remarks for others "own good," shut up. There is no such thing. Don't be the messenger. They get shot. 

3) There is someone for everyone. I repeat, THERE IS SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE. 

 

4) Ice cream will always be there for you while you are hurting. Wallow in your pain, acknowledge your feelings. Then get up the next day and use your fury to vacuum like a boss.   

Alone But Not Alone

This Pesach will be a lonely holiday for many of us. It will be a long one as well, three days for us chutz l'aretz folk. 

For those who will have to be alone—as in alone alone—for Pesach, there is the concern that what sort of Seder could they possibly conduct? Ask the Mah Nishtana to oneself? Answer the questions oneself? 

Especially if one has happy memories of previous Sedarim surrounded by multitudes. Or at least one other person to share the experience with. 

A lot of our mitzvos have to be practiced in solitude nowadays. This isolation is a major adjustment for our communal programming. We are so used to Jewish practice along with our tribe that for some, it's akin to an identity crisis.

But I wonder: Have we forgotten the point? Sure, it's fun to do things with others—davening,  rituals, celebrations, meals, etc.—but the point of these practices isn't always the company.  It's service. Avodah. Which, in the end, is between Hashem and the individual.  

There is an article by Rabbi Pini Dunner that is circulating, telling over a story of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, as witnessed by Rabbi YY Jacobson. 

My Zeidy had been chummy with the Rebbe, and while not chassidish, he was quite the fan; this story confirms why. The Rebbe was an Eved Hashem. He could have a solitary Seder—by choice—because he saw it as a mitzvah, as opposed to a family dinner. 

Browsing through the Mishpacha Magazine website, I came across a story called "Night Light" by Michal Marcus, printed in 2016. The story is about a teenage girl who is feeling lost. Her parents have recently divorced; her mother is no longer frum, her father is tired and preoccupied,  her sister is newly married and wants to escape into her new life, her brother is away in yeshiva. There's only so many times she can knock on her friend's door. 

Shabbos now involves takeout and awkward silences with her father. Without the home-cooked meals, the warmth of family, the joyous flair, she struggles to hold on to Shabbos. 

The one person who is attuned to her predicament is her teacher, and after a disastrous Shabbos by her mother, she finds herself at her Morah's apartment.  

Her teacher lives alone, no family nearby. She explains to her student that she tried to get Shabbos right—while she didn't have the husband and kids yet, she could go to other homes and get it right there. But it still wasn't hitting the mark. 

She made Shabbos for herself. She felt odd busily preparing for one, eating for one, singing alone.

“And it hit me: Shabbos wasn’t about the challah and wine. It wasn’t about the husband and kids. It wasn’t even about zemiros. Shabbos was about Hashem. It was about His creation, all of it — including me. It was about all the beautiful things I enjoyed, and all the difficult ones I couldn’t understand. It was about finding the Source.”

She falls silent. The candle sputters. The room is draped in peace. “Once I realized that, it was fine having a meal alone. Do I wish my Shabbos was different? Of course. But the core I have. No one can take that away. Shabbos — all of life really — is just about the two of us: Hashem and me.”

This was the message the girl needed to hear. That even though there was no longer a happy, complete family, she still had Hashem, and Shabbos is their day together. 

Hashem redeemed all of us from Mitzrayim on Pesach. Pesach is not about the cute four-year-old lisping the Four Questions. It's an opportunity this year to dig deeper, to discover new insights, to reaffirm our connection Above, when we are cut off from those besides us.

Mach a Bracha

Until now, I have been somewhat out of the Jewish music loop. But when one's baby demands music, all the time, and Elmo is the devil incarnate (his cackling laugh, shiver), one becomes reacquainted rather quickly. 

My sappy hormones haven't tapered off yet, so I find myself clutching Ben and sniffling to "Ivri Anochi" ("It's so bee-yoo-tee-ful, waaaaah!")

But one of the videos that popped up in my YouTube viewing---"Mach a Bracha" by Shmueli Ungar---has given me food for thought (pun intended). 

For one thing, the video, in my opinion, is particularly well done, which is hard for a Jewish music video (we definitely have more limited budgets than the last "Idol" winner, let's not kid ourselves). 

Secondly, it's the message . . . 

Ma used to say, "Mach a bracha" when she would place a bowl of deliciousness on the table. 

Her father, my Zeidy, used to get upset by the standard Shabbos kiddush. People are standing around, he would note, barely keeping track of what they ate—was the right bracha said? Did they say a nuch bracha? 

A number of years ago, we were in a different shul for Shabbos for a simcha. Whilst at the kiddush, a teenage girl stopped next to us, seemingly looking at the wall. We turned, and noticed she was diligently saying "al hamichya" off of a beautiful glass display. 

Ma was so inspired by this, remembering her father's pet peeve, that she decided to have a similar one made for our shul. 

I'll be honest: Ben doesn't really let me daven (he always wakes up when I try to) and my regular nuch brachas have suffered as well. This video reminded me about the importance of brachas, how the one we recite once a year is no more exalted than the ones we make every day, the shahakols, asheir yatzars, al hamichyas.  

The beginning scene, where he's about to eat a mundane bowl of Rice Krispies, is an ideal example of how we use our brachas to turn all we do, even the most profane, into a great act of service. 

How the Other 99.9% Dates

Han doesn't have many Jewish co-workers. If they are Jewish, then chances are they aren't frum. 

It's a very friendly sort of office, the type where everyone sits down chummily for lunch and shares the details of their lives. 

One fellow, Adam, was relating to Han how he struggles with dating. He missed the boat, he said wryly, by not cultivating a girlfriend in college. Because outside of that setting, he can't seem to meet a special someone. 

To go to a bar, he explains, he would require a "wingman," as a lone man approaching women is considered creepy. All of his friends are in relationships, so no one is available to provide that service. The same creepiness factor is present in exercise classes. Dating apps are geared for women, and he hasn't had any success with them.  

Another co-worker, Sheri, is so gorgeous I have a crush on her. She's fit, beautiful, and has a dazzling smile. She keeps three dresses in her cubicle for her dates, often provided by app. She has to meet these guys, however, at a public location as they definitely cannot know where she lives until they have been vetted. But for all her awesomeness she's also struggling to find a partner. 

There's also a quirky fellow in the office. He has been an amazingly helpful friend to Han, but he's, well, as I said, quirky. However, he is engaged now, and you know how they met? 

A co-worker set them up. Meaning, a shidduch date. 

I have read in multiple frum publications and blogs how the shidduch system sucks, that if we could socialize organically we'd be better off, like how the gentiles roll. I have heard it said that "If I wasn't frum, I'd be married by now." But here's the thing: the frei and the non-Jews aren't meeting organically either. A lot of them have dating difficulties, and others are being set up by friends or family. 

I think that the shidduch system, as it is currently practiced, could use a few updated tweaks. I was forwarded a video by Toby Lieder, who suggested that instead of the bland and essentially uninformative paper profile, we start instead with the "talking profile," a video where the person's personality can be visibly conveyed. I like the idea in theory, although I would have been too chicken to do it. 

But these emailed profiles just aren't cutting it. Technology has made our world so much bigger, when once shadchaning was restricted to one's own social circle. Now suggestions are being summoned from all over the globe, from every hashkafa, and one cannot physically go out with all of them before suffering mental and physical collapse. They have to be more targeted. It should not be acceptable to call others "too picky" just because they did not consider a suggestion on point. 

Where was I? Oh, yes. Gentiles don't have it easier. That was my point. Dating, in general, sucks. 

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.

Happy Listening

I have to admit that I'm not the best of listeners. I am prone to waiting impatiently for the other person to stop speaking so I can finally talk. Or barrel over them completely. Cough. 

Reading "Talk Less. Listen More" was educating. This segment jumped out at me: 

You also want to avoid asking people personal and appraising questions like “What do you do for a living?” or “What part of town do you live in?” or “What school did you go to?” or “Are you married?” This line of questioning is not an honest attempt to get to know who you’re talking to so much as rank them in the social hierarchy. It’s more like an interrogation and, as a former C.I.A. agent told me, interrogation will get you information, but it won’t be credible or reliable.

In social situations, peppering people with judgmental questions is likely to shift the conversation into a superficial, self-promoting elevator pitch. In other words, the kinds of conversations that make you want to leave the party early and rush home to your dog.

Instead, ask about people’s interests. Try to find out what excites or aggravates them — their daily pleasures or what keeps them up at night. Ask about the last movie they saw or for the story behind a piece of jewelry they’re wearing. Also good are expansive questions, such as, “If you could spend a month anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

I never liked being asked what I do, and so don't usually ask that question. Because what people do for money rarely has to do with who they are. 

It reminds me of an episode of "Will & Grace," where the two go to a wedding. Will is tired of the faces people make when he tells them he's a lawyer, so he lies and says he's a professional tennis player. Another guest says, "Hey, you must know this guy, he's a professional tennis player too!" Will is sweating, but the guy covers for him. 

Will thanks him, and asks what is it really like to be a professional tennis player? The guy says, "I've no idea. I work for the IRS. You know how people respond to that? It's like, 'Hello, I've just killed my family.'" 

You see? 

But Han pointed out that walked up to a stranger and asking about their hobbies right off the bat would be weird. True, it was once done to me and I thought that was a bit presumptuous. We have to be a bit chummier than that before I start spilling my personal beans. 

Yet if someone asked me something innocuous, like, "I'm on the search for a good book. Have you liked anything recently?" or "Isn't this salmon delicious? I wonder what they put on it. Do you like cooking at all? I'm impossible with fish." It's less interrogation, more chatty.

TGIF

• Short-term memory and age.