The Wise Elder

Maggie Anton takes great fictional liberties in her Rashi's Daughters trilogy, but there is a depiction therein that I still think about, a year or so after reading it. 

Rashi came from a family of vintners, but he was away at yeshiva for many years before returning to the family home. His widowed mother ran the show.

He dutifully toils in the fields with the others, but in terms of agricultural strategy, his mother is the one with the experience. So if the rains came too early or too late, she knows what to do in order to salvage the crop. 

As Book 1: Yocheved, continues, Rashi's mother begins to suffer from cognitive decline. Yet even in dementia, the family still turn for her knowledge when it comes what to do with the grapes. Even when mentally disadvantaged, her experience is still sought after and respected. 

In a time when the science of agriculture—all of science, rather—stayed the same for hundreds of years, the wisdom of elders was valued and respected. They saw many years of bad weather, which would result in a bad harvest. Yet in their old ages, they would know what to do to at least make out the year with something rather than nothing. 

Yet as technology advanced to the point that the new becomes old in a matter of months, not centuries, that once valuable experience became obsolete. The reverence of the aged became scorn. 

I'm not elderly yet, but as I am almost 40, I'm noticing a shift. Younger people use unfamiliar slang that doesn't feel natural to me (I still say "awesome" and "dude"; I have no idea how to use "salty" organically except in terms of food). When I pass by 20-somethings on the street, I realize now I'm not their contemporary anymore. Han is just a few years older than me but other guys his age are marrying off children, while our oldest is six. 

I've become that crotchety complainer by weddings. "The music is too loud. Do you have ear plugs?" "This is how the kids are dancing nowadays? Shrieking and jumping? This isn't dancing!" "Can we leave yet?" 

I've also become aware how important life experience is. It's not the new features on the phone that matters. It's about learning from one's mistakes, doing better, being willing to recalibrate. It's about understanding what is important, what should be priorities. It's about the values we carry and try to pass on. It's about so much more than technology. 

I've already resigned myself to a future witnessing eye-rolls in response to whatever I say, but that'll just be the youth not getting it. 

Some More Trauma Talk

You'll have to bear with while I squeeze this topic to death; I was obsessed with this article when I first read it, and reread it more than once. 

To continue: 

Around the time the piece came out, Han was listening to Edith Eger's The Choice (he likes Audible). Edith Eger is a Hungarian survivor, but she didn't practice a particularly religious life; when she came to America, she tried to deny her experiences, attempting to make herself as American as possible (but I must say, her attempts to beat the Hungarian inflection from her speech was not successful). 

She didn't want to be identified as a survivor. Han noted that her experience must have been different from that of our grandparents, who dwelt in a religious community who were primarily survivors. My grandmother's idea of small talk was "So, where were you in the war?" 

I guess that's the logic of support groups. Being amongst other people who have also dealt with your experience can help us bear the burden. 

After first reading the article, I had felt this burning need to track down Brodesser-Akner and pour out to her my own story. She'll understand! And yet I know that sometimes sharing pain is not what some want to do. 

Rachel Goldberg-Polin wrote an article following Hersh's murder that, in essence, begs people to not approach her with their pain:

When my girls and I are having a moment walking, breathing and smiling, and someone stops us and starts crying, they are robbing us of a moment of respite from the horror we are digesting. When I am walking alone, with a hat, sunglasses and my head down, it is me saying, “Please, oh please, let me breathe for a moment without having to also carry your pain. Your pain is as real as mine, but I have no strength at the moment to carry yours too. I love you and am endlessly grateful for you loving Hersh. I love you for loving the hostage families. I love you for trying to help. But please, if you want to help me, let me go on walking. When you see me and our eyes cross paths, please, oh please, just smile and wave. My knees are buckling from all the wounds people are sharing. I am just not formidable and powerful enough. Not yet.” 

Sometimes we do have to sit with our discomfort, and gauge first whether others are willing to share that pain. People are often at different stages of their grief journey, and maybe they can't always go there.

Another comment to Brodesser-Akner was how sometimes in our need to fight the trauma, it can negatively overtake our lives. The commenter said that her mother also had a traumatic birthing experience, and became a focused advocate of home birth. Yet, her daughter said, her book writing and agenda so overtook all that her children were neglected. This reaction to her trauma may have seemed healthy—after all, she's fighting for change—but it in turn traumatized her children. 

We also have to be mindful of collateral damage, which can happen in numerous ways. 

The article ends off that Brodesser-Akner concludes with this awareness:

It happened. It will never not have happened . . . after all your attempts at healing—when you finally realize that you are forever changed—you can allow yourself to embrace your trauma. You survive what happened to you, then you survive your survival, and then the gift you're given is that you fall in love with your whole life, inextricable from the bad thing that happened to you. 

It's sort of like with people. We sometimes wish that a person in our life was a little less this and a little more that, but people are an entire being; you can't pick and choose what parts we want to keep and what parts not. 

It's not that the stories of our lives are stuck in only one point in time. Our grandparents accepted their experiences, but they didn't allow them to define their lives. It was but one year amongst many. 

I sometimes meet young, bright things, who haven't yet hit that inevitable bump in the road, and I know how small their perception of life is. Because knowing grief, I feel, gives me a more complete perception of the human experience. Before, it was narrow and shallow; now, while it may be more painful, it is more accurate and true.

The Very Ordue Continuation of Trauma

To preface, my kids go bonkers when I take out the laptop and gleefully try to push as many keys as possible. So yes, I know this is ridiculously late for a follow-up. 

After I read Brodesser-Akner's article—twice—I found myself sifting eagerly through the comment section. Did anyone else find this article mind-blowing? Please? 

This is still the internet, so some missed the point entirely. One had snippily typed that she had experienced the same unasked-for procedure during childbirth, as well as sexual assault, and in no way were they comparable. 

No one was saying they were comparable, moron. She was saying that trauma is trauma, and it's not a matter of what others consider valid and invalid. 

But most of the letters applauded the article, and some took it further. 

One commented a truth: That when Jack Teich was kidnapped, everyone agreed this was a very bad thing to the point the government mobilized to help. In the case of Brodesser-Akner's childbirth trauma, she was alone. Very few people believed her or validated her. Many probably—like the above commenter—belittled her experience as being "no big deal." That can certainly exacerbate the trauma into attendant feelings of shame.

"Sherry" posted that after she was traumatized, she was told by the therapist that she eventually consulted to talk about it as much as she could and cry as much as she wanted. However, the people around her were impatient: "It was so long ago. Why don't you get over it already?" She thought she was crazy. Then a chance encounter with a stranger who went through the same: "You will never get over it and they will never understand." 

That is what I learned after Ma died: If they haven't been through the same, people don't understand. They don't understand that grief leaves a permanent mark. 

I watched a clip on Meaningful Minute's Stories of Hope about a widow who remarried. She said that no one gets over grief; she will be talking about it for a long time. So if you want to be there for your friend in their time of need, you better be willing to listen to them talk about it forever. 

"Michael" posted that empathy is so important. For some people, they can't "choose" to move on. (I personally don't think people move on, I think they're just really good at compartmentalizing.) Support and kindness is the best that can be done.

Trauma is Trauma

Is anyone still here? 

I would perfectly understand if you've moved on. Obviously, I haven't been blogging.

It's not that I don't want to. It's that, to me, this annus horribilis has made my usual observations . . . petty. It has made most of the happenings in my life . . . inconsequential. 

How can I get upset about anything? How can I even write about anything, at all, when anything at all is so obviously trivial in the face of the suffering others have to bear? 

So even though I've had thoughts and observations, I couldn't bring myself to blog about them. It felt insensitive, for being too mundane. 

But then, a few months ago, "The Kidnapping I Can't Escape" by Taffy Brodesser-Akner was printed in the magazine section. I like her as a writer, and the article did not go where I thought it would. 

It begins with a retelling of a harrowing ordeal from 1974. Her neighbor, Jack Teich, was kidnapped from his driveway. During his nightmare, the kidnappers claimed they were for the Palestinian cause, but was later discovered to be a disgruntled ex-employee. Unbelievably, Jack was freed after the ransom was paid—which rarely occurs. 

As friends with his children, Akner thought of him as fine. He was fine, right? He went back to work. He went on with his life. He was fine.

Then the article shifts, much to the reader's puzzlement, as Akner describes the birth of her first child. I think every woman out there who has been in the same position of vulnerability and agony felt her experience. After hours of labor, the doctor performed a procedure on her—without her knowledge or consent—to speed up the process. 

When she returned home, she was a wreck. She describes, in excruciating detail, how she unspooled. Most assumed it was post-partum depression, but eventually another therapist informed her it was PTSD: she was traumatized. 

What followed then was shame. Other people go through trauma, she wondered, and they're fine. They're fine. How am I not fine, too? So she made sure that, at least, she appeared to be fine.

Then Akner was working on a novel, inspired in a way by her neighbor's kidnapping, and asked to meet him to discuss his experience. She didn't think anything of it; he was fine, after all, right? 

When she arrives, she sees how he carefully unlocks the door, then relocks it when she comes in. His property is under 24-hour security. Lights are always on. For the year after the kidnapping, he would go to work, but do no work. He couldn't focus. He wonders if he could have made a run for it into the woods next to his house, but then his family within would have been at the kidnappers' mercy.

Then Akner realized: Jack was not fine. Not remotely fine. Of course he wasn't fine. 

Tolstoy tells us that all happy families are alike and that each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. A few years ago, I wrote a different novel, my first novel, about divorce, which was inspired in part by the divorce stories of several people I know, and I came to the conclusion that, actually, all divorces are exactly alike. I tell you this because I’ve now come to understand the same thing about trauma: Happy, well-adjusted people are all different. The traumatized are exactly alike. I’m about to tell you a story that is nothing like a violent kidnapping — almost laughably so — but what I’ve learned over the years is that trauma is trauma. Something terrible happens, beyond what is in our own personal capacity to cope with, and the details don’t matter as much as the state we’re thrown into. Our bodies and brains have not evolved to reliably differentiate a rape at knife point from a job loss that threatens us with financial ruin or from the dismantling of our world by our parents’ divorce. It’s wrong, but explain that to your poor, battered autonomic nervous system.

Luke holds that we were all traumatized by 10/7. I had stupidly watched Instagram reels that motzei Shabbos, and sobbed for days following. I sobbed on the train platform while my brother muttered to me, "We're in public, Lea." 

I'm not claiming my experience was the same as those who went through hell, or live half-lives of terror while their sons are in battle. But pain is pain. One person's agony doesn't cancel out another's. 

This goes for other pain we may experience in life—not just a terrorist attack and subsequent war.

To be continued.

To Understand

I've been slowly (very slowly) working my way through "The Crown" (as an aside, not the point of this post, I'm finding the last season to be lace with annoying woke-ness, but anywho) and William is returning to school after Diana's death. 

This William is understandably pissed, particularly at Charles. Watching their awkward interactions, it occurred to me: 

Parents are usually able to guide their children through their formative years because they can recall their own youthful experiences to show that they have been there, too. 

But Charles hadn't lost a parent. So he's rather useless. He can't relate. He can't understand. It's not his fault; unless someone has been there, no one can. Yet William is young, in the public eye, and he's grappling with grief seemingly on his own. 

He rebuffs Charles' lame efforts, exuding angst. Until his grandfather Philip steps in. 

Philip had a tumultuous childhood. His family was driven out of Greece when he was a baby. His mother suffered from schizophrenia and was institutionalized at one point (she later protected a Jewish mother with two children during the war, and became a nun). His parents lived separately after that. He was raised by his sisters, one of whom died with her husband and children in a plane crash when he was 16. In short, he was no stranger to loss and upheaval. 

William listens to him—because Philip understands. 

Keeping in mind that "The Crown" is mostly fiction, the show humanizes the royals, showing that their lives are not as glamorous as we would think, and they are more relatable than we would have believed.

Any father or mother could find themselves in the position Charles was in—clueless how to parent a child who was thrust too young, too soon, into tragedy. 

It reminds me of the book, "It's OK You're Not OK," and the author states therein that she was a freaking grief counselor, but when her husband died suddenly in an accident, that was when she understood. And that her professional methodology until now was a load of crap. 

Sometimes it's not enough to put yourself in another's shoes. Sometimes you have to have had actually walked in the same path a bit to understand. 

This is also a PSA: If you can't understand, don't say anything.

The Multiverse?

TooYoungToTeach insisted that I read "Life After Life" by Kate Atkinson. Always up for new titles, I plucked it up from the library, only to be disappointed that a lot of it takes place in World War II. I don't like reading about World War II. Or World War 1. Or war in general. War is usually off the table for me. Unless it's by Bernard Cornwell. He does war so well. 

Anywho, the heroine of the book is Ursula, but she is an odd duck. For every time she dies, the clock spins backward to the original moment of her birth, over and over and over.

Some timelines continue with near identical repetition; others vary wildly. But we don't see how those timelines continue beyond her death; we are just hurtled back again to her first day on earth. 

What we see is that one small occurrence can alter so much—it's novelized butterfly effect, or "Sliding Doors." 

It made me wonder if the point was that we live in a potential multiverse, where infinite permutations of reality play out. In Ursula's case, some strictly involve her, others involve world events. Like, saaaaay, how would the world be different today if Hitler had been assassinated in 1930? He's also only one person. But his elimination would have altered EVERYTHING. 

I also continued to contemplate if Hashem is overseeing other realities, other planes of existence. But this quickly got far above my pay grade, and decided to quit before I gave myself a headache. 

I concluded that while there could technically be a reality where certain mistakes weren't made, where all is different, as Jews we also believe that reality is intentional. If something was supposed to happen, it does. There is only so much in our control; Ursula is mostly not the driver of her own life; she is swept hither and thither by circumstance. Bumping into the wrong man (multiple men), for instance, by seeming happenstance. 

While have times in our lives when hashgacha pratis is seemingly so clear, other times when we feel cast about in chaos. But is the chaos also intentional, except we just can't see it? 

Headache brewing. Best to leave it be.  

Own It

I've always carried with me a constant awareness of my childhood. Like when people say, "I don't like children," I'm surprised, because don't they remember they were a child once themselves?

So here I am, paying bills, running a household, pushing 40, and I don't feel quite like an adult. When did I get to be a grownup? I qualify? 

I came across this nugget by Maya Angelou: 

I am convinced that most people do not grow up . . . We marry and dare to have children and call that growing up. I think what we do is mostly grow old. We carry accumulations of years in our bodies, and on our faces, but generally our real selves, the children inside, are innocent and shy as magnolias. 

I realize now that I am the same age, if not older, than some of my childhood playmates' mothers. When I was ten, I gazed up at adults at being all-knowing, wise, and capable, but now that I'm there I see how childish behaviors can have a mighty grip on those who should technically know better. For some, adulthood does not necessarily bring on maturity.

There is something to be said for childhood innocence. But what about the wisdom we should be acquiring with age? Ma would sneer with disdain, "There is no fool like an old fool." She had little tolerance for those who should know better. Children can be excused their mistakes; adults should eventually acquire some common sense. 

I saw this quote the other day: 

Maturity is working through your trauma and not using it as a never ending excuse for poor behavior. — Ellis Anthony

Being an adult isn't just supporting oneself. It's self-awareness. It's reflection, as opposed to reacting. It's being able to have a conversation without being threatened that another has a different opinion, and being able to see their point of view. It's about taking ownership for your actions. 

Looking through Beraishis, a good many of the happenings therein is regarding personal accountability. Hashem forgives those who say, "I messed up." Whether the sin was against Him or another mortal, all is absolved. Not only that, there is even reward; because Yehuda took responsibility twice in the record, he becomes King of the nation.

I learned, relatively recently, that taking responsibility for my actions is less threatening that I thought it would be. I used to fight against when I was younger, that "It's not my fault," but even when it technically isn't (like Ben did something when I should have been overseeing his actions), it's still just better all around if I say, "It was my fault." 

 

And everyone, including me, can move on. 

Shhhhhhh

Be private. Travel and tell no one. Find a partner and tell no one. Live happily and tell no one. People ruin beautiful things.

I saw this on IG, and . . . well, this is something I can get behind. 

Social media has its pros, and lots of cons. I don't follow people whose whole purpose is to display their lives through the editing lens to the universe. I would fall for their bushwa so fast. 

I follow informative accounts instead, and if one bikini shot goes up, one gender reveal, I click unfollow. I should not be privy to something that should be private. 

But that's an extreme. Sometimes we share too much socially, to the people we consider our friends. 

There is something to be said for privacy. The quote above didn't say, "don't post it." It says, "tell no one." We like to think, "I can tell my friends. They'll be happy for me!" 

But maybe they won't. Would you? Some people can carry that generosity of spirit and be truly happy for someone else's good fortune, but even then, they could still be struggling with jealousy. 

After I had Anakin, it was with a sinking heart that I texted a friend, who I haven't seen in years but still sporadically keep up with, the news. She was married before me and still does not have children, and I know she longs for them. She had to be told, but I could not, and did not, expect her to be happy for me. She had managed to be gracious by Ben's birth, sending a gift and attending the bris, but this time, she did not respond to my text. I understood. 

When I was still single, I attended many vorts and weddings of those younger than me. When I received the news that my cousin's daughter was engaged, I angrily stomped to that vort, slapped a smile on my face by the door, then went in and gushed mazel tov to the giddy 20-year-old. It was bad enough I was being pitied; I didn't want to appear pitiable.

Then, when I got engaged to Han, I felt no need to announce it anywhere. 

It's very hard to be happy for someone else, especially when they acquired their blessings with seemingly little effort. The quote finishes off, "People ruin beautiful things." Others ruin things out of envy, out of sadness. No need to put a stumbling block in their path.

The blessings we have are for us alone. Bracha comes to quiet, private places. In this age of oversharing, perhaps we should become reacquainted with discretion. 

And They Don't Stop Coming

A few weeks ago, during Post-Pesach Recovery, I took Anakin out for a walk while Ben was (finally) back in school. The forecast had said sun and 66 degrees; it was already midday, but it was still cloudy, damp, and chilly. 

I had already put Anakin in thermals that morning, which I then topped with a fleece jacket. I then tucked around him his plush microfiber blanket. 

I debated whether to find his booties, but figured the blanket would be enough. He happily propped one foot on the stroller bar, his toes wiggling in the fresh air. He sighed contentedly. 

Of course, after emerging from a frantic supermarket, we were accosted by an unknown woman, perhaps 70 or so. 

"Look!" she cried dramatically. "He's lost his socks!" 

I invented passive-aggressive, lady. Two can play that game. 

"Why, so he did," I mildly replied.

She looked up sharply into my face, and laughed. Got me, it acknowledged. She continued on her way, but not without a parting shot over her shoulder, "I'm cold just looking at him!"  

In order to prevent anymore commentary, I tucked the blanket again around Anakin, who then kicked it off in annoyance. He wanted his feet free. 

I fretted a little on the way home, double-checking my logic to keep his toes exposed. Not 10 minutes later the sun suddenly exploded into view, sweltering us all. 

It's comments like these (she is not the first biddy to make a passive-aggressive comment about my children's lack of footwear) that invariably makes me recall my single days. 

Comments are diabolical. 

There I would be, dating. I was trying. I was analyzing. I was coming to conclusions on a regular basis on what I needed. And I would be satisfied with my decisions. (While being a nervous wreck who lost 5 lbs from anxiety alone—side perk!)

Then a complete stranger would mosey into my midst, and not knowing anything about me, nothing at all, would dismiss me for being "picky." Then it wouldn't be enough to simply deride me mentally, they also had to make some sort of verbal dig (can we go back to just judging people behind their backs? Please?). 

Those comments would send me into a free fall. 

Maybe I am being unreasonable? Maybe it is my fault? Maybe, maybe, maybe? 

There is a pattern to these "concerned citizens," in that their comments, they believe, are "for the greater good." But are they, really? There is also a distinct streak of glee in their voices when they told/tell me off, that joy of finding someone to belittle.

Logically, I knew that Anakin was perfectly fine in 55 degrees beneath his thermals, fleece, and microfiber (while wondering why hands are "allowed" to be exposed to the elements, while feet are not), but a comment from a rando still had me questioning if I was fussing sufficiently over my offspring.

Since comments are here to stay, perhaps it's time for me to grow a thicker skin. 

Easier said than done. 

Endure

I've FINALLY started reading Dara Horn's People Love Dead Jews (which should be on every curriculum everywhere) and she mentions Sholom Aleichem's Tevye the Milkman (also a "fun" read).

Her point is that Jewish-themed novels don't contain the typical "ephiphany" that other novels expect. For instance, Tevye experiences horrific hardship, but stays the same. "He endures," she says. 

After Ma died, my sister and I started talking. A lot. We were in this unfamiliar milieu, and we were stumbling through it together. We did have a number of epiphanies between us . . . and a number of conversational threads that go nowhere. 

One topic is the mistaken belief that hardship = betterment. Meaning, that if a person has gone through pain, then they "must" also be kinder, more empathetic, more generous. 

Or . . . that struggle merely strengthens their selfishness. 

Or . . . they simply stay the same. 

When Ma got sick, the one word on my mind was "endure." To get through it. To not fall apart, because I can't fall apart right now. There was no thought of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" (not true, btw) It was survival. I don't need to be stronger or better on the other side. I just need to be strong enough right now. 

I have known many Holocaust survivors in my time, and I think it is a mistake that they are always viewed in context of "the war." That they were the people they were because of "the war." That was certainly my childish perspective.

But they were people like any other. Maybe the war changed them. Maybe it didn't.

And, as Dara Horn says, there is something to be said for enduring. Jews endure. We stay the same, for the most part, over the centuries and persecutions. 

Enduring is enough.   

In Case You Needed Reminding—Cause I Did

Wow. It's been a while. But hey, Pesach prep is FUN, right? (Demented laughter.) In all seriousness, I do the bare minimum, no deep cleaning anything, and I'm all for being checked into a sanitarium to have pity on my poor nerves. 

So, let's get into whatever bugaboo is . . . bugging me now. 

I have cousins who live across the world. Not close cousins, second cousins, or something, maybe, but close enough that we're friends on social media. The mother is my relative, and she lives a lifestyle very different from mine.

Her feed is . . . stunning. Stylish. Glamorous. She's as slender as a rake. I don't think I've seen her wearing the same ensemble twice. She's constantly at bars with her friends for someone's birthday, her tanned arm raising a champagne glass. There are the magnificent views from a magnificent home, and I still don't know if it's her abode or an AirBNB. Her kids are beautiful and talented. 

Despite the fact that I've posted repeatedly that social media cannot be trusted, it's very hard to distrust what's right in front of you. I don't have an imagination—I can't write fiction—so I fall for it. That's why I don't follow anyone, usually, who claims to have a wonderful life—because I can't prove that they are human like the rest of us. 

But I have to follow my cousin, obviously, and I fell for it. 

Then one night, I was scrolling through her feed to find a specific photo to show my father. And then I saw it, a comment a friend of hers left on yet another gushy birthday post: 

"Happy Birthday! You've had a tough couple of years, so I wish you have a much better year to come." 

*Needle scratch*

Come say what now?

It's always disorienting as you mentally spin a 180. 

The bombardment of fabulosity still continues. But now I see it with a little more context. 

We are all human, and none of us live perfect lives.

All Are Welcome

This article by Channah Cohen is on point. 

When I was single, I didn't fit. 

There was no place for me. I was a third wheel. My parents were invited out a lot for Shabbos meals, and we hosted in return, but my parents' contemporaries were in their 60s. I had a great time socializing with them—I've always gotten along better with the older cohort—but I wasn't supposed to be there, right? I was supposed to be in my newly-married apartment or starter house with two kids. 

We do say that in Judaism, the center is the home. A mommy, a totty, and children. That is also how we see others, as one half of a couple.

We are not quite sure what to do with the lone individual, who has no spouse, no children, who may or may not be tagging along with her mother or father. They are not in the same place as tuition, carpools, and frozen chicken nuggets. 

In my singlehood my accomplishments didn't matter, all that mattered was that I was single. Full stop. Nothing to see here. 

Mind you, once you do join the realm of nighttime feedings, it's not like anyone hands you a trophy. A mob of mothers don't rush you when you go to the park. You are just another someone, but a someone that can be categorized, as opposed to an indeterminate hmmm. 

But is our world any different than the world at large? Not really. Secular books and movies all have a similar theme, how being single is a shameful aberration, how a wedding invitation can strike such fear in singles' hearts that they pay an actor or escort to be their plus one. 

Society, in general, likes paired couples. They like people neatly matched up. They like rugrats running around and destroying store displays. (No, wait, they don't, then everyone tells you what a bad parent you are.)

So when the single woman in the article says she'll leave the community because she doesn't have a home, does she believe a home awaits her on the other side? What is this home? Is it that erroneous assumption that since the dating pool in the secular world is larger, she'll be able to score a man—and the accompanying home—with ease? Han has the most stunning co-worker who is single, and she's trying very very hard to find a man. It's not like the gentile world boasts a better rate for marriage and happiness than ours does. 

But our community has to do better. Yet when people say "things have to change"—well, easier said than done. Some behaviors are so ingrained that it's hard to undo them. To my horror, I found myself glancing at the stomach of a woman who had been married for a bit. I could have kicked myself for that automatic eye flick. 

I remember the time I was in a different area for yuntif, and attended shul. I was politely ignored by the other shul goers, no matter how I smiled and tried. But the girl ahead of me, an obvious BT in training (her clothing was way to casual for yuntif and she wasn't familiar with a siddur) was mobbed following davening, meal invitations being warmly offered from all sides. 

How come we can we warm and welcoming to BTs, but the FFB singles get short shrift? 

So we can be welcoming. We just have to widen our scope a little.  

Understanding Vs. Empathy

I've been thinking a lot about the importance of personal experience versus detached observation. 

Example: Before Ma died, I was always awkward in a shiva house. I didn't really know what to say, what to do, and I'm sure my nervousness was obvious. 

Now? I'm part of the club. A shiva call, no sweat! Because, at least, the other person on that low chair knows that I know what it's like. I went to a shiva call for a relative, who had died suddenly. His children were already part of the tribe, repeating the stupidity that other callers came and spewed at them. 

It makes a difference, that shared understanding. 

Take the obvious one, "older singlehood." No matter how much those who married young say they understand, on some level they don't. Heck, I wouldn't have had! If I married at 21 I would have sadly shaken my head at the obviously picky catch who just can't let go of her unreasonable expectations. 

This applies in a multitude of areas.  

Take this one. It's a running joke how militant Ashkenazim can be over baby names. (I say Ashkenazim because Sephardim have a protocol to follow, while we do not.) 

Han and I are big believers in heritage, and we both consider it a great privilege to name our children after our grandparents (both Ben and Anakin are). But some new parents are affronted at any such expectation. "It's my child. How could my parents or in-laws expect me to use their choice of name? How dare they interfere!" 

What those new parents are missing is that they still have their own parents. They don't understand the toll of grief, and how a name can become so important to the one struggling with loss. For them, the name can be a comfort, a balm, to know their beloved's name will continue. 

So I've been concluding that it is impossible to truly understand another's painful journey unless we're in it, too. Empathy goes some distance, but we still don't speak the same lingo.

Tread carefully. And try not to judge too harshly.

Human Error

Recently, I made a pretty bad mistake. 

What was particularly frustrating was that this was the second time I've made this mistake. I had thought at the first incident that, at least, I would never make this mistake again. Well, there goes that theory. 

There are, BH, no epic, lasting consequences. But I have still been berating myself while Han insists that it's ok, to err is human. It could have been worse. Okely-dokely.

His logic was not sufficient for me. I was furious at myself for my carelessness, finding myself unworthy. 

This led me to ponder the nature of mistakes altogether, and whilst in bed, my thoughts unspooling, I had a vague image in my mind of Ben, one day, making a mistake, and what my response would be. 

My imaginary, future self said, "Even the avos made mistakes." 

That jolted me. Wait. Even the avos made mistakes. 

The avos and the imahos. Then Moshe, Aharon, Miriam, Dovid, etc. But they were still beloved by Hashem, and our icons.

While some believe that every action of our foreparents was perfection, I follow the school of many a rabbi that our ancestors were actually quite human, and prone to human error. 

There is a difference between aveiros and mistakes. But they did make boo-boos, which did have long-term consequences. 

They did the best they could at the time. It's easy to look back 2,500 years and nitpick, but I think that's not the point.

We are given the gift of teshuva and mechila in order to rectify our mistakes. Judaism doesn't demand perfection. It knows that's beyond each of us. But what about our gedolim? Some counter. They were perfection! 

Really? How do you know that? Biographers cannot be that honest, because any sort of attribution of humanity on our modern-day sages is considered slanderous (see the banning of "The Making of a Gadol," which Luke gleefully acquired before the price shot through the roof). 

Think a minute. If the ancients messed up, is it so improbable that the contemporaries have, too? 

I recall an interaction I had, close to 20 years ago, when I first started college. A classmate had discovered I was an observant Jew, and breathlessly asked "what happens" if I, say, mistakenly eat non-kosher. 

I shrugged. "Well, what can you do?"

She was puzzled. What did she expect? I would get struck by lightning? Dragged before a tribunal and flogged? 

We are expected to do our best. Even if our best can seem mediocre to others. But our best is our best.  

Information Overload

Trying to stay on top of what's new and happening in the skincare/makeup velt, I'm getting bombarded with social media terminology. 

First: "Slugging." Slugging is when the skin needs some loving downtime, and after applying moisturizer and somesuch, a layer of thick jelly, like Vaseline, is shmeared on top to seal everything in. 

Sounds icky. 

Second: "Skin cycling." This is when instead of applying certain products nightly, there is a rotation instead, to allow for "repair." 

Thirdly: "Gritting." I gotta say, I'm taken with this one, except I don't have the time/energy/patience to properly see it through. It's the idea that oily buildup on the skin will only dissolve with another oil, so if one were to massage the face for 20 minutes with a cleansing oil or regular oil, blackheads and pore-clogging gunk will eventually float up to the surface. 

Sounds like witchcraft. 

I also follow a number of dermatologists, who thankfully clarify what makes sense and what doesn't, as a lot of the people peddling these methods aren't exactly professionals. 

There is a lot of information out there. There are accounts for weight loss advocating no carbs, all carbs, only fruits, all foods but with intuition. There are recipes galore and the developers are constantly "obsessed" with their creations. There are sleep training accounts and anti-sleep training accounts. Then there's the ones with the best way to keep your home clean. The baby-lead weaning ones really freak me out, because I am not making my baby three course meals three times a day. I don't eat that well!

There is a barfing barrage of information spewing out there, and they can't all be right. 

Some of it I read and think, "Sounds ok in theory, but it doesn't work for me." Take the new trend of "gentle parenting." It's all about validating your children's feelings but still guiding them to better behavior. This new way involves so much talking. I kinda prefer Ma's European way of doing things: The Look. Done. 

That's not to say that just because it isn't for me that it's not for anyone else. Meaning: we all have to do what works for us. I am not into charcuterie boards (I can barely pronounce the word correctly) but I am into making my own tomato sauce (from tomato paste, it takes quicker than you think). We each choose our own patchke.

So don't take everyone so seriously. It may work for them, and not for you.

"Indian Matchmaking" Reactions III

Rejection. It sucks. 

It's also a large part of dating, whether one is the rejector or the rejectee. Either way, it's not pleasant. 

In my dating years, I was beyond stressed about rejecting someone. For the most part, I could tell off the bat that it wasn't shayach and felt no need to go on a second date. It wasn't until I found out from my dating kinfauna that there is an "obligatory" two-date minimum, to which I respond, "Whah?" 

I had thought, that if I knew this wasn't going anywhere, why raise someone else's hopes up needlessly with another date? Because here's the thing: there is no way to make rejection better. A "no" after two dates isn't more palatable than a "no" after one. I'm saying this from the other side, that rejection sucks, plain and simple. 

On the show, there were two examples of people who were both in the position of rejector and rejectee: Nadia and Vinesh. 

Nadia had been seeing Shekar, who is considered to be a nice, steady guy. But then Vishal walks into a mixer, and well . . . let's just say Vishal is striking. He's tall, gorgeous, and has the same cheerful energy Nadia is known for. But he's seven years younger than her.

So Nadia starts claiming that Shekar didn't seem to be that interested, and calls him to break up with him. She even tells him that she felt like he was "rejecting" her. Shekar seems blindsided, and denies it, but ultimately accepts her decision with grace. He then hangs up the phone and cries. 

Nadia is then bouncing along with Vishal, happy as a clam, until he flies out to see her. She is looking at him with excitement and expectation. He does not look at her the same way. He then proceeds to break up with her. 

Nadia, stunned, does not accept his decision gracefully. She snaps and snarls. Initially, I was taken with her sassiness. But then recalled: she rejected Shekar, and hoped he would take it ok. Yet when she is rejected, the claws come out. 

Well well. 

Then there is Vinesh. Vinesh is cheerful, loud, and jokes a lot (his jokes are not always funny). He is first matched with Mosum, who matches his energy, but she's not so focused on appearances. Vinesh asks her for her number after they meet, but then tells the screen that he asked for it to be polite, that he does not intend to date her (he does know that Mosum will hear this, right? This is international programming). 

Later, he's set up Meena, who, dare I say it, is smokin'. From her perfectly blown hair, fake lashes, and low cut cleavage, she is striking. But it's obvious that she does not appreciate Vinesh's humor. Vinesh, smitten with her looks, proclaims that the date went well, while Meena thinks otherwise. 

When told that Meena felt "friendship rather than romance" (this is the show code for "no way Jose"), Vinesh looks stricken. It takes him a few minutes to recover. 

It seems, for both these people, it's perfectly reasonable to be the rejector. After all, if it's not meant to be, if they're not feeling it, they just gotta be honest, y'know? They don't give the other people much thought. But when they're being rejected . . . it's a whole other ball game. REJECTION SUCKS. 

Rejection, in all forms, sucks. It sucks when you try to talk to someone new and they scurry away from you. It sucks when you apply to a school and they don't accept you. It sucks when your credit card gets rejected. It just sucks, overall. 

There are some people who so don't want to reject someone else that they just marry them. That really could have been me, if there wasn't a shadchan to do my dirty work. I would not have survived to have a happy union if I had to tell someone directly "I like you like a friend." 

So while there are times when rejection is necessary, please remember: try to be as kind as possible.

All May Be Well, But . . .

I follow @iwassupposedtohaveababy on Instagram, even though, B'H, that is not my concern. But I feel a vague sort of kinship to women who waited years for something that others seemed to have attained with ease. 

(Disclaimer: I am in no way comparing my situation to that for those struggling with infertility.) 

I did a little googling on the creator of the account, who expresses raw emotion at times, even posting reels of herself crying. So I was surprised to learn that she had, B'H, overcome her infertility struggles and B'H has a bouncing family. 

Initially, I was confused—if she has her children, why does she still carry such sadness? 

But then I remembered: 

"All's well that ends well" isn't quite true. You read this blog, hearing me still complain about my single years, how I was treated, how much it hurt, and maybe some of you wonder, "She's married now, she has kids, maybe she should let it go"? 

It's not so easy to let go of pain. 

I was once venting to my sister about relatives who live in a bustling, interconnected community, and how they had never attempted to set me up, even though they had tried for other people. 

She said, puzzled, "But you're married now. To Han. Who isn't even from their area. So it all worked out anyway." 

"That's not the point. When I was in it, when I was desperate for a suggestion, when the phone wasn't ringing . . . it hurt when they would gush about a shidduch they were trying for someone else, and not for me. Never for me." 

When I see the people who insulted me in the past, it's hard to get over what they thought of me then. Do they find me acceptable now that I'm married? Maybe. Well, I don't care, and would prefer not to interact with you, buh-byeeeeee. 

For those who have experienced pregnancy loss, people (including me) can mistakenly believe that with the arrival of other children, the previous ones were simply "replaced." But she lost a child. The child may not have been viable, the child may never have drawn breath, but that child was still loved, cherished . . . and lost. Those children cannot be replaced, anymore than my mother could be replaced with a stepmother. People are not interchangeable.

Commentators

I'm going to confess something to you now. This secret is so heinous that you must keep it to yourselves. 

You'll keep shtum, right? I can count on my peeps. 

Here goes. 

I've decided not to sleep train Anakin. 

Was I being a wee bit dramatic? Perhaps. But deciding to or not to do something with one's offspring can unleash a torrent of unsolicited comments. 

And I've discovered that the root of all evil in this world is just that: comments. 

I mean, anything is up for criticism. Like, anything. And some of these comments can wreak quite a lot of havoc. 

Over 20 years ago, by my brother's vort, someone sniffed to my sister, "Well, I'm surprised your mother took someone from that seminary." Sure, that was just what my anxiety-ridden mother needed to hear.

At a Shabbos meal that my sister-in-law hosted maybe ten years ago, she served "sweet chicken," a dish Ma had discovered that had become a fast family favorite. It calls for dipping chicken cutlets in a batter and lightly frying, then smothering it in a sauce and finishing it in the oven. 

When a guest commented on its deliciousness, my sister-in-law explained how it's made. "Oh," the guest delicately laughed, "I couldn't make that, it's too much of a patchke." 

My sister-in-law blanched. She prides herself in not patchke-ing. (What is bizarre about comments about these if that someone expends more effort in cooking, she finds herself on the defensive?) 

"I don't like to patchke either—but the kids eat it all up—I don't make it that often—" 

I'm trying to remember if she ever made it again. 

Someone lobbed a comment like that at me recently, and I did not like it. I felt initially belittled, then annoyed. Because I'm doing that work, you're not, and yet I'm made to feel stupid?

L'havdil elef havdulos, tv shows have a recurring premise that I do not like. The protagonist is humming along, happy with her choices, when someone makes a comment. Suddenly she's reevaluating EVERYTHING, and makes a drastic change to her life, simply because of a comment. 

Back to Anakin. 

So why am I not sleep training him? 

Quite frankly, it never worked with Ben. I sleep-trained—rather, I attempted to sleep-train him—because "everyone" made it sound like a given, rather than an option. 

 It was a flaming train wreck. 

He's a determined chap when he wants to be, and he howled every night. I would wait outside his door, waiting for him to taper off, only to be awoken in the night when he would stay conscious for hours, chattering away. 

The final straw was a few months after his second birthday. He had gotten to the point where he would reluctantly lie down when I put him in his crib, but suddenly he started standing and crying. It was going on for weeks. I got frustrated with him, and even lost my temper once. In my desperation, I asked a mommy group, and a few suggested an ear infection. 

It was an ear infection. 

He was in pain and unable to express it. It took a few weeks for the antibiotics to work, followed by another bout of teething. 

I gave up. 

I started cuddling with him at night until he falls asleep. That time in bed helps to soothe any daytime "difficulties." 

When Anakin turned 4 months old, meaning he was old enough to be sleep trained, I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't want to do it again, especially since it didn't achieve anything the first time around. 

I prowled online. Apparently, sleep-training is NOT a requirement for successful parenting. It is an OPTION. 

My friend, for instance, sleep-trained her oldest and it worked fabulously for her. Her daughter loves her crib, loves her sleep. 

For some mothers, getting their full night's sleep is necessary in order to function. In my case, listening to my baby cry for hours on end shredded my nerves. When I was younger and tougher, I heartlessly let my nieces and nephews bawl in the crib. But they went back to their parents in a night or two. I can't listen it to it for months. 

It actually assuages my anxiety when I am "allowed" to respond to my baby. That's my choice for my peace of mind. Others may choose otherwise, and power to them. I'm not saying my choice has to be everyone's choice. 

But I don't want to be put on the defensive. So I lie or evade. "How does he sleep? Like a baby." There are many ways to teich that statement.  

It's a big world out there. There isn't only one way of doing things. We can find all the sources we want in order to validate our choices, but it shouldn't be required. So people shouldn't feel a need to comment, and everyone should trust themselves and their choices. 

Know Thy Limits

My sister and I were discussing boundaries. Not necessarily between ourselves, but the concept, and its importance. 

I noted that boundaries are also different from person to person. What I find difficult, for instance, is simple for someone else, and vice versa. 

For example, when I was still in elementary and high school, Ma HATED to have to take me there or fetch me home. She HATED it. I don't know why. If it was mid-term season, there was NO WAY she was going to come pick me up, even if I would have to wait around school for another four hours for the bus. I sheepishly asked for rides home instead.  

If she ever HAD to take me, like if the bus didn't show, she grumbled and complained the whole trip as though it was my fault. 

I never found out why she hated it so much. But she was entitled. We all have tasks that we'd rather not do.

It has become my gauge that when deciding whether to do something or not, I think, will I be resentful for doing this? 

For instance, in my teen and single years I was called upon to babysit the kinfauna. A lot. And I usually didn't mind. No one even asked me; they called Ma and she said I would. 

But one time, I had a bad cold. You know how colds can be; innocent, but you feel like death and just want to sleep in your own bed after glugging down some Nyquil. Additionally, I was in college and had two finals the next morning. For the first time ever, I nervously called up the sibling in question and said I couldn't come. They were shocked, and annoyed. They eventually understood. I think. 

In recent years, there is another factor: Will this make me more impatient with Ben?

Ben's school PTA posted a bake sale right before Shavuos, and asked people to contribute their homemade yummies. Initially I was excited; I like to bake! Then I stopped myself. I couldn't bake for the sale. It was two days before yuntif, I still had to do my food shopping/cooking, and with two littles, it takes twice as long. I didn't have time to bake something, fuss over it with glazes and such, and then drop it off to boot. 

So even though I wanted to, I didn't do it. For the sake of my family I must take on only what I can handle at this current life stage. One day I'll be able to leisurely bake for the PTA. But not now.  

Now, my job is to stay somewhat operational.  

Don't Put On a Happy Face

While I have gotten somewhat used to the sleep deprivation, there are some days I'm so wiped I can barely walk. Throw in some humidity, some blazing sun, and I'm just about to keel over. 

I picked up Ben from school, and true to our routine, took him to the park (I hate the park. There's no shade). That done, I was trudging home, pushing the double stroller. I was so tired that my eyes closed and I took I few blissful steps half asleep. 

I was jolted out of my stupor as a neighbor bellowed from his car, "Smile, Mommy!" as he drove by. 

If I had the energy, I would have howled and leapt for his throat. 

The next day, he met Han in the gym, and began to lecture him. "I saw your wife yesterday, and she looked absolutely miserable. How can she be miserable when she's so lucky, she's a mother!?" 

Han explained I had had a rather rough night with Anakin, but he kept at it. I am not allowed to ever be looking unhappy because I, thank God, have children, despite being geriatric. 

This neighbor can be rather clueless, so I don't expect much from him. But this anecdote serves to illustrate the concept of "toxic positivity," also known as "spiritual bypassing." It's the idea that any sort of negativity in life can be overcome by simply focusing on the good. 

One meme I've found annoying is one that insists that we all must be suffused with gratitude because we have working limbs. Meaning, I am never allowed to be upset about anything because I can walk. 

Don't get me wrong. I'm very happy I can walk. I'm very happy I can talk. I'm very happy about a bazillion things in my life. But Judaism permits holding two opposing emotions at once. It is not a contradiction. I can be happy to be a mother, but I can also be miserably exhausted and resent being awoken six times in one night. 

I made this mistake when Ma died. I thought I was being noble, and frum, by telling myself that I accept Hashem's will, so I'm fine! So fine! Until a year later when I found myself crying while making supper. She has been dead for five years, and while I can accept Hashem's will I am still very very sad. I am surprised how sad I can be. Contrary to popular sayings, time doesn't heal all wounds. 

I've been following a lot of parenting gurus, and one message they repeatedly intone is to teach children that all feelings are okay, but all behavior is not. 

We are able to feel many emotions at once. Those feelings must be processed, not denied. 

(BTW, most people don't walk down the street smiling to themselves. That makes you look like a serial killer.)