I have one hour to rest. So what am I doing on the internet? I don't know... Sometimes I think I get more from writing out my thoughts than from sleeping. No. I love sleeping. But by the time I settle in and start drifting off, one of my kids will wake up. It's one of Murphy's laws.
So while I have you, I thought I would tell you a little bit about what it's been like at Farm Shmarm. It's beautiful. Lonely. Scary. Serene. Boring. Exciting. Intense. And at times, a bit dull. Yep. It is beautiful. Unbelievably beautiful. The sky stretches out so far and fills with popcorn clouds and passing storms. It doesn't just go gray during a storm. It gets dark. Then a bright patch of blue appears. Then a downpour. Followed by the most refreshing mist. It's intoxicating. The air, oh you get drunk on the air. Fresh and crisp. Then warm and full of spring and distant cows. There is a never ending chorus of birds serenading us. So many different sounds. Bull frogs and chirping bugs. Wind. Wind blowing grass. Wind blowing trees. Moos. Whinnies. I love it!
And there is so much to discover. Birds with babies hatching from their eggs. Tadpoles bobbing for bugs. Fish that are easy to catch and yummy to eat. Wild flowers... So many different flowers. Spit bugs. Crazy dragonflies.
But I'm pretty sure you guys don't read my blog to fulfill your nature quota. No, this is about my experience of life. So here's the rest. My baby still doesn't sleep through the night and I am EXHAUSTED! We have no routine, so we end up spending much of our days in pajamas and eating breakfast like foods four or five times a day. My oldest son is still pushing all my buttons. When he isn't fishing, he wants me to entertain him. When I want a little help trying to set up our house, I get a firm, NO. Between six, when my kids wake up, and around nine, when I finally get the last one to bed, I am on. Always on. If I'm not changing a diaper, nursing, or pulling the next choking hazard out of my baby's mouth, I am trying to get my oldest to stop climbing on the unpacked boxes and crushing the contents inside. Meanwhile, my toddler daughter is getting ignored and into all kinds of trouble.
Did I mention that I don't really get cellular service? I can't call anyone when I just need an adult to talk to. But more importantly, I can't call the poison control center when she eats I don't know how much fluoride toothpaste. Since there is a quite a lot smeared in hair, and more in the bathtub with the fish my son caught and didn't throw back, I can only hope it wasn't too much. In moment of panic, I ran into my room to get a head covering so I could throw all my kids in the car (sleeping baby included) and drive to a place with a signal. G-d really took care of me in that moment, because when I grabbed my phone, a signal appeared and held just long enough for me to call my father, the M.D., and learn that a glass of milk will work. Thank you G-d, (and Dad) for sparing the pain of driving to the hospital and insisting they pump my two-year-old's stomach!
I'm starting to get used to the bugs. Okay, no I'm not. I look down before I sit, and every time I feel a little tickle on my leg, I jump. I don't actually mind bugs. Or to be more specific, I don't mind insects. But arachnids creep the hell out of me, and they are plentiful!
Out there by myself, I feel how vulnerable I am. I have been with my husband since I was 16. In fact, here's a little back story for you...
I went to an alternative hippie democratic school called Sudbury Valley School in Framingham, MA. One day my husband shows up to check the school out. He steps out of his yellow VW bus, wearing light blue cords, a baseball cap, with beautiful brown curls, down to his shoulders, bouncing behind him. I took one look at him and said, "I want to marry that guy." And so I did.
Anyway, though I give him a hard time for many things, not romancing me, not getting my ridiculously funny sense of humor, never learning to cook anything besides scrambled eggs... I don't give him enough credit for how amazingly safe I feel with him. Always have. And out on the farm, without phone service, or a neighbor to run to, I feel so vulnerable.
One night, after the kids went to bed, I sat on the back porch and looked out over the cow ranch next door. It's a hundred acres, and the house is too far away to see the people living in it. But since it was dark I could make out a fire and something putting out a lot of sparks. They either had sparklers going or were welding something. At first I just enjoy the sight. And then irrational fear creeps over me and I start imagining that they discovered a family of Jews moved next door and they are building a furnace to continue the Final Solution.
So I start making escape plans, wondering how, if my children are all asleep, I am going to carry them away to safety before the mob with pitchforks breaks through our crappy windows. Yes, I know that this is not going to happen. And I am telling myself that there are probably little innocent children dancing on a warm spring night, with sparklers. And yet the anxiety won't disappear. I am an inadequate mother. I cannot protect my children.
Which leads me to my children, my faith, myself. Because I often feel I am an inadequate mother in so many ways, and because my faith in G-d is not nearly as strong as I wish, and because my faith in my children is shamefully low, I worry. I worry that I will make a fatal mistake, turn around for too long, and find one dead, G-d forbid. I worry that if I don't give them good middot now (attributes) they will grow up to be sociopaths. I worry that if they don't turn out perfect, everyone will point at me and say, "This was all your fault. You really should have..."
And so instead of leaving them in the hands of a community, school, family and friends, I bring them up to a farm, in the middle of nowhere, and try desperately to give them a good life. Am I swimming against the tide? If I doubt what I'm doing, and don't walk around with all the conviction in the world that what I am doing is absolutely right, will everyone stop having faith in me? Will I stop having faith in me?
Tomorrow night is Shavout. Lately I have felt that I don't relate to the Torah as handed to me by the OU. I don't connect with the outer expression of halacha, when I feel the inner is oft overlooked and ignored. I want to receive the Torah as Hashem is giving it to me. I want to let go of my preconceived ideas of what Torah is, and experience it anew. While I will still hold to halacha, I let go of the premise that a good Jew dresses modestly and raises her children to be talmedei chachmim. No, There is not one definition of a good Jew. Because Hashem wants something very specific from me. And I am going to try and silence all the judgment voices in my head, so I can actually hear what that is.
Starting today, I am going to try to reach out to Hashem. I want to talk to Him more often. I want to hand my worries and anxieties to Him, and relax in the safety of being a child of G-d. I want to use my energy to love with joy, not fear. It takes so much energy to be afraid all the time. And one thing G-d didn't give me was a lot of energy. So my new mantra will now be, Relax into Love. Relax into Love. Relax into Love.
Chag Sameach!
1. No spiders near my bed tonight
2. Going to see my husband tonight!
3. This beautiful Pittsburgh community
4. Torah
5. Going back to the farm relaxed in Love
Friday, May 25, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Shame
Shame. It fills you. Eats you. Sucks the life force out of you. Leaves you wallowing in so much disgust and self loathing you are powerless to break free. I rarely talk in 'you' terms, but that's how you know how hard this is for me.
I feel so much shame right now. All this traveling and transition has stirred a lot of dirt from the bottom of my pot. Ugly dirt. Dirt I never had the courage to acknowledge. But now it has been rubbed in my face and the consequences of not looking at it are worse than the fear.
My six year old son is hurting. He is in an unstable, insecure environment. He doesn't have his father around. His mother is struggling hard to keep it together. So he's doing what he does best. He's acting out. Really acting out. Throwing the kind of fits you can't walk away from, because he follows you from room to room. Yelling. Poking. Kicking. Throwing. Threatening. Saying the things he knows will hurt me most. And he does this because he knows what will happen. If I can't walk away, I can't compose myself, step back, breathe. I can't control myself. He knows this. He knows my breaking point. I can't even lock myself in a room because there are no locks on the doors here. He knows this. And so he pushes and pushes until I break. And when I do, he can finally relax.
I'm not the bad one, he can now say. She is.
Yes. I am. In those moments, I am the bad one. The out of control one. The child. I am the one deserving of all the punishment he's been giving me. So it all works out.
It is a sick, terrible cycle. It is a cycle that can only be broken with a slow and massive effort. It can only be broken with a force of love so strong it breaks us both.
So here comes my shame.
Do I love him enough? A parent is not supposed to ask this question. I am supposed to love my child so fiercely. I am supposed to see in him what no one else sees. When the world judges him, I am supposed to stand up and say, no, you just don't know him like I do.
And yet, the words that come to mind are, if you only knew...
As a young teenager I remember my mother and sisters talking about motherhood. They were discussing how inherently maternal they all were. 'But not Tovah. She's just not the mommy type.'
This little comment, forgotten by all present, except me, planted a deep seed of doubt. Is it true? Am I not going to be a good mother? Should I not have kids? Is there something about me that me makes me incapable of that kind of love?
Years later, I am the first one in the family to get married. I am the youngest of three sisters. I am the first to have children. And I have three. They tell me what a great job I'm doing. They tell me that they now look up to me. They even ask me parenting advice from time to time. But underneath it all is a doubt that I am the real deal. That I'm actually capable of doing any of this. That it's not all just a show, and no one has peeked behind my curtain yet and revealed me for the fraud I am.
I can wave the fact that I'm disorganized. Plenty of 'real' mothers are. And sure, I kind of suck as a housekeeper. But I mean, we can't all get our thrills from the perfect platter and ironed sheets. And I'm not even formally educated. But really, educated mothers are fairly recent in the history of mankind.
But the one thing I am supposed to be able to boast, as all mothers before me, is how much I love my children. And yet I find myself constantly wishing he were just a little different. A little less... Him. And the good things about him are so amazing. I do see that. His stubbornness is such a strong show of his perseverance. His enthusiasm is infectious. His inner glow, is brighter than any child I have ever seen.
And yet. I keep trying to change him. I don't trust him to turn out ok. I feel like if I don't intervene at every possible opportunity, he will become unlikable. That's so awful. First, why do I care who likes him? And second, even if no one else does, I should. And often I do. But sometimes I don't. And lately that sometimes is happening more frequently than the often. And that is not ok.
So here's where I try to take positive action through perspective. If I can't accept him for who he is, chances are I'm not accepting myself. And the more self acceptance I can embrace, the more I can let him be him, and embrace the fullnes of who he is. And chances are, if I can accept myself, he'll have a much easier time accepting himself. And the more I accept him for who he is, the more I will be able to appreciate and love all that makes him, him.
And my first step towards self acceptance is airing my shame. Not many things exist in a vacuum. Shame thrives on it. So I am stepping out. Reaching out to you, my readers. Not looking for your acceptance, just your presence. Be a witness to my shame and help me transform it into a chance to experience humility, growth, and a place of connection to any who have ever experienced anything similar. Many times I have experienced the pain of feeling I am not enough. Not beautiful enough. Sexy enough. Smart enough. Experienced enough. Wise enough. Funny enough. Talented enough. Calm enough. Patient enough. It goes on. But never has the pain been so acute as to when I feel I can't love enough.
This weekend I turned thirty. I'm ready to enter this fourth decade as a time of acceptance. I am what I am and what that is, is forever changing. I await with a broken, and therefore open, heart.
1. Breathing
2. Reflection
3. The hospitality of family (so amazing!)
4. The sun rising again tomorrow.
5. The yellow lillies on the table
6. My daughter's accident free day
7. A forum to share myself
I feel so much shame right now. All this traveling and transition has stirred a lot of dirt from the bottom of my pot. Ugly dirt. Dirt I never had the courage to acknowledge. But now it has been rubbed in my face and the consequences of not looking at it are worse than the fear.
My six year old son is hurting. He is in an unstable, insecure environment. He doesn't have his father around. His mother is struggling hard to keep it together. So he's doing what he does best. He's acting out. Really acting out. Throwing the kind of fits you can't walk away from, because he follows you from room to room. Yelling. Poking. Kicking. Throwing. Threatening. Saying the things he knows will hurt me most. And he does this because he knows what will happen. If I can't walk away, I can't compose myself, step back, breathe. I can't control myself. He knows this. He knows my breaking point. I can't even lock myself in a room because there are no locks on the doors here. He knows this. And so he pushes and pushes until I break. And when I do, he can finally relax.
I'm not the bad one, he can now say. She is.
Yes. I am. In those moments, I am the bad one. The out of control one. The child. I am the one deserving of all the punishment he's been giving me. So it all works out.
It is a sick, terrible cycle. It is a cycle that can only be broken with a slow and massive effort. It can only be broken with a force of love so strong it breaks us both.
So here comes my shame.
Do I love him enough? A parent is not supposed to ask this question. I am supposed to love my child so fiercely. I am supposed to see in him what no one else sees. When the world judges him, I am supposed to stand up and say, no, you just don't know him like I do.
And yet, the words that come to mind are, if you only knew...
As a young teenager I remember my mother and sisters talking about motherhood. They were discussing how inherently maternal they all were. 'But not Tovah. She's just not the mommy type.'
This little comment, forgotten by all present, except me, planted a deep seed of doubt. Is it true? Am I not going to be a good mother? Should I not have kids? Is there something about me that me makes me incapable of that kind of love?
Years later, I am the first one in the family to get married. I am the youngest of three sisters. I am the first to have children. And I have three. They tell me what a great job I'm doing. They tell me that they now look up to me. They even ask me parenting advice from time to time. But underneath it all is a doubt that I am the real deal. That I'm actually capable of doing any of this. That it's not all just a show, and no one has peeked behind my curtain yet and revealed me for the fraud I am.
I can wave the fact that I'm disorganized. Plenty of 'real' mothers are. And sure, I kind of suck as a housekeeper. But I mean, we can't all get our thrills from the perfect platter and ironed sheets. And I'm not even formally educated. But really, educated mothers are fairly recent in the history of mankind.
But the one thing I am supposed to be able to boast, as all mothers before me, is how much I love my children. And yet I find myself constantly wishing he were just a little different. A little less... Him. And the good things about him are so amazing. I do see that. His stubbornness is such a strong show of his perseverance. His enthusiasm is infectious. His inner glow, is brighter than any child I have ever seen.
And yet. I keep trying to change him. I don't trust him to turn out ok. I feel like if I don't intervene at every possible opportunity, he will become unlikable. That's so awful. First, why do I care who likes him? And second, even if no one else does, I should. And often I do. But sometimes I don't. And lately that sometimes is happening more frequently than the often. And that is not ok.
So here's where I try to take positive action through perspective. If I can't accept him for who he is, chances are I'm not accepting myself. And the more self acceptance I can embrace, the more I can let him be him, and embrace the fullnes of who he is. And chances are, if I can accept myself, he'll have a much easier time accepting himself. And the more I accept him for who he is, the more I will be able to appreciate and love all that makes him, him.
And my first step towards self acceptance is airing my shame. Not many things exist in a vacuum. Shame thrives on it. So I am stepping out. Reaching out to you, my readers. Not looking for your acceptance, just your presence. Be a witness to my shame and help me transform it into a chance to experience humility, growth, and a place of connection to any who have ever experienced anything similar. Many times I have experienced the pain of feeling I am not enough. Not beautiful enough. Sexy enough. Smart enough. Experienced enough. Wise enough. Funny enough. Talented enough. Calm enough. Patient enough. It goes on. But never has the pain been so acute as to when I feel I can't love enough.
This weekend I turned thirty. I'm ready to enter this fourth decade as a time of acceptance. I am what I am and what that is, is forever changing. I await with a broken, and therefore open, heart.
1. Breathing
2. Reflection
3. The hospitality of family (so amazing!)
4. The sun rising again tomorrow.
5. The yellow lillies on the table
6. My daughter's accident free day
7. A forum to share myself
Friday, May 11, 2012
Holy Sh*t...What a Ride!
Hello all. It's been a little while since I have been here. It's nice to be back. As you know I am basically couch surfing with my three kiddos while my husband fixes our house. For a few days I am back in Pittsburgh, and it is so overwhelming to be here. Visiting my husband, but not really having him as my husband, sucks. I could be more poetic, but I think this more clearly expresses my thoughts. Seeing everybody, that is also hard. I want time with each person, but time is my most valuable commodity right now. Everyone asks me how it's going, and it's all I can do to not cry and fall apart. I am tired. Spread thin. Ungrounded. Overwhelmed. My children, even more so. And I'm supposed to be the one to hold it together for them. They need some stability, and right now I'm the only constant in their lives.
Of course, when I share this I get mixed results. "Oh hon, I'm so sorry." "Are you sure this is what you really want to do?" "Well, you knew it would be hard." Labor is hard, but no one ever says to the pushing mama, well, you knew it would be hard. Because in that moment she just needs support. "You're almost there!" "You're doing great!" "Soon you will have your child (dream) and it will all be worth it!" "You are so brave." These are the things that feel supportive to me. Also, my wonderful aunt, with whom I'm currently staying, just brought me a steaming plate of rice and lentil loaf with steamed veggies. That's about as supportive as they come!
I've spent more time in the car these past weeks, than I have in a really long time. Turns out me and the kids are pretty good travelers together. Once we get where we're going things tend to fall apart. But on the road things flow. On the last long drive we listened to a book on CD called something like "The Twenty Nine days of Giving." It's a beautiful memoir by a woman who, two months after her wedding, was diagnosed with MS at the young age of 32. Her life quickly unraveled and her health plummeted. When things were particularly bad, she called one of her spiritual healer friends and was given advice to give 29 gifts in 29 days. Sometimes it was money, but more often than not, it was a tissue to a crying friend, a flower to a stranger on the street. A phone call to someone who needed it. By learning to give consciously, she opened her heart to the vast abundance in her life, lived in gratitude, and received more than she could imagine.
Very moving. And inspiring. I wanted to take on the 29 day giving challenge. There is a whole website dedicated to it now. Because right now in my life I feel I am living in a place of scarcity. No money, no stability, no time, no energy. I want to live in abundance. But I wasn't quite sure how I could start giving gifts, when I haven't had much contact with people. Especially if I bite the bullet and move to the farm with the kids. No husband, no friends, and really nobody, because I don't plan on going anywhere besides the supermarket.
Then I gave my first conscious gift. I stayed at my Mother-in-laws last week and was giving my kids a bath. Absentmindedly I began tickling my sons back with my fingertips. "Ooh mama, that feels good." He loves having his back tickled or scratched. I stop and say to myself, 'This is my gift to him.' And suddenly I am not just a mom doing what a mom is supposed to do. I am someone who is giving. I am a giver. And all the anger that had accumulated between us that day starts to dissolve. Because you can't consciously give to someone while you are mad at them. I love him a little more now, not from what he could do for me, but for what I could do for him. And in all my depletion, I still have something to give. I feel gratitude.
Life is constantly giving me opportunities to give. I just need to open my eyes and give from my heart. Give without grudge. Without resentment. Without expectation. It always bothered me that in my family, there was this code about giving. It was: If I give to you, I want to be acknowledged. And if you don't then I don't want to give to you in the future. If there was no thank you card, there were bad feelings. And though I see nothing wrong with a thank card or call, I do resent the expectation. It means that I can't thank with my heart. It takes away my chance to give.
So this is my new task, to begin consciously giving. As a mother I am giving all the time. But doing it with an open heart, without expectation, without duty or resentment, brings so much more joy to the task. Perhaps, when I know I will have 29 days of internet service, I will sign up for the giving challenge. But, for now, you will all be my witnesses as I look for opportunities to give.
By the way, Shabbos is my 30th birthday. Yep, I have a few more hours to proclaim loudly that I AM STILL IN MY TWENTIES DAMMIT! And even though life is almost unbearable, not to mention scary, full of unknowns and completely deprived of a good night's rest, I have a lot to be grateful for. Before I turned thirty I have met and married my husband, birthed and raised three unbelievable children, withstood and made it through enormous challenges, found a dream, went for it. Not bad, eh?
I saw this quote and loved it:
Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting "Holy Shit...What a ride!"
1. An hours break to write this
2. Shabbos is almost here
3. I'm going to see my hubby
4. The support of family and friends
5. Lentil and rice loaf
6. G-d
Of course, when I share this I get mixed results. "Oh hon, I'm so sorry." "Are you sure this is what you really want to do?" "Well, you knew it would be hard." Labor is hard, but no one ever says to the pushing mama, well, you knew it would be hard. Because in that moment she just needs support. "You're almost there!" "You're doing great!" "Soon you will have your child (dream) and it will all be worth it!" "You are so brave." These are the things that feel supportive to me. Also, my wonderful aunt, with whom I'm currently staying, just brought me a steaming plate of rice and lentil loaf with steamed veggies. That's about as supportive as they come!
I've spent more time in the car these past weeks, than I have in a really long time. Turns out me and the kids are pretty good travelers together. Once we get where we're going things tend to fall apart. But on the road things flow. On the last long drive we listened to a book on CD called something like "The Twenty Nine days of Giving." It's a beautiful memoir by a woman who, two months after her wedding, was diagnosed with MS at the young age of 32. Her life quickly unraveled and her health plummeted. When things were particularly bad, she called one of her spiritual healer friends and was given advice to give 29 gifts in 29 days. Sometimes it was money, but more often than not, it was a tissue to a crying friend, a flower to a stranger on the street. A phone call to someone who needed it. By learning to give consciously, she opened her heart to the vast abundance in her life, lived in gratitude, and received more than she could imagine.
Very moving. And inspiring. I wanted to take on the 29 day giving challenge. There is a whole website dedicated to it now. Because right now in my life I feel I am living in a place of scarcity. No money, no stability, no time, no energy. I want to live in abundance. But I wasn't quite sure how I could start giving gifts, when I haven't had much contact with people. Especially if I bite the bullet and move to the farm with the kids. No husband, no friends, and really nobody, because I don't plan on going anywhere besides the supermarket.
Then I gave my first conscious gift. I stayed at my Mother-in-laws last week and was giving my kids a bath. Absentmindedly I began tickling my sons back with my fingertips. "Ooh mama, that feels good." He loves having his back tickled or scratched. I stop and say to myself, 'This is my gift to him.' And suddenly I am not just a mom doing what a mom is supposed to do. I am someone who is giving. I am a giver. And all the anger that had accumulated between us that day starts to dissolve. Because you can't consciously give to someone while you are mad at them. I love him a little more now, not from what he could do for me, but for what I could do for him. And in all my depletion, I still have something to give. I feel gratitude.
Life is constantly giving me opportunities to give. I just need to open my eyes and give from my heart. Give without grudge. Without resentment. Without expectation. It always bothered me that in my family, there was this code about giving. It was: If I give to you, I want to be acknowledged. And if you don't then I don't want to give to you in the future. If there was no thank you card, there were bad feelings. And though I see nothing wrong with a thank card or call, I do resent the expectation. It means that I can't thank with my heart. It takes away my chance to give.
So this is my new task, to begin consciously giving. As a mother I am giving all the time. But doing it with an open heart, without expectation, without duty or resentment, brings so much more joy to the task. Perhaps, when I know I will have 29 days of internet service, I will sign up for the giving challenge. But, for now, you will all be my witnesses as I look for opportunities to give.
By the way, Shabbos is my 30th birthday. Yep, I have a few more hours to proclaim loudly that I AM STILL IN MY TWENTIES DAMMIT! And even though life is almost unbearable, not to mention scary, full of unknowns and completely deprived of a good night's rest, I have a lot to be grateful for. Before I turned thirty I have met and married my husband, birthed and raised three unbelievable children, withstood and made it through enormous challenges, found a dream, went for it. Not bad, eh?
I saw this quote and loved it:
Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting "Holy Shit...What a ride!"
1. An hours break to write this
2. Shabbos is almost here
3. I'm going to see my hubby
4. The support of family and friends
5. Lentil and rice loaf
6. G-d
Friday, April 27, 2012
Birthing My New Life
Holy Sh*t! I just opened up my blog page to write this blog, and the format is new. It showed me how many page views I've had. The number is over 2130! No joke. I think this may be the closest I have ever come to being famous. I'll try not to let it go to my head. I still feel like I can connect with all you little people. Hehe.
Well, that was not how I was planning on starting this blog. It was going to be a lot more dignified. Something like this:
My new life has begun.
Sounds serious, no? Grave. Um, no. Not grave. Hopeful? Anticipatory? Exciting? Meaningful? I don't know. It is what it is. It is my life.
My husband is still in Pittsburgh, working by day, working by night. I don't know how he does it. He is drywalling, painting, fixing, sanding, smoothing, readying our house to sell. In the meantime, The three kids and I have to be out of the house. So... we can go to our farm, where there is no heat, and still unpacking left to do. Or we can go somewhere else. I didn't feel ready to move in without my husband, so I choice option 'b'. I packed three kids, 8 books on cd, and a ton of food into our car and drove to Ithaca. Side note: I've never driven more than two hours by myself, let alone with three kids. We left at 9:15 in the morning, (which is kind of amazing, because all the laundry was still all mixed up in the baskets and I had yet to pack), and we drove to Ithaca. We arrived just before 6pm. There were many bathroom stops. Many. We drove through rain, sleet, snow and a little bit of hail. And you know what? I never got in a bad mood. I sang songs, listened to kids books on cd, talked, drove. You know what that makes me? The heroine in my own story. Not the kind that gets rescued. Heroine, as in female hero. Yep, I am my own hero.
But now we are here in Ithaca and I'm turning more into the antagonist of this fairy tale. I am short-tempered, under-slept, over-stretched and bitchy. Seriously bitchy. I hate it. I hate the sound of my voice as I bark at the kids. I hate not laughing with them, or even at them. I hate the scowl imprinted on my face. And yet, I have done nothing to change it. My kids are driving me crazy. I never get to feel like I'm off duty. The weather is not great. I don't have the energy to entertain or be creative with helping them to entertain themselves. And my friends are not here. No one to call and say, 'For the love of G-d, take my kids before I kill them!'
And now it's erev Shabbos. Which means 25 hours of pure mommy entertainment. No movies, no leapfrog, no science center, no library. Just mommy. I wish I could just change my name sometimes. Then when they start asking for mommy, I can answer, 'I have no idea to whom you are referring.' And then they'll ask me what 'whom' and 'referring' means. And I'll answer, 'Why are all you short people talking to me?' Then I'll indignantly walk away.
This is the adventure of my life. This is the beginning. We bought a farm. We are leaving the city, moving to the country, raising our children with fresh air, sheep and stars. And, temporarily, I have lost the excitement of the moment. I have forgotten that this is what we are doing. I am not on a short trip, visiting my sister, and being a single mom. I am starting a farm. This is just step one. The first baby step on the journey. And when I can see it that way, that every moment is a step on my journey towards pioneering a new life, well, then this step, however arduous and bothersome it may be, is a step towards that. And it gives this moment meaning. Suffering with meaning is so different from suffering without. A man passing a kidney stone is suffering without meaning. A woman birthing a baby is suffering with meaning. I am not passing a stone, I am birthing my life.
People, I need you to remind me of this when I bitch.
I AM BIRTHING MY LIFE.
I AM BIRTHING MY LIFE.
I AM BIRTHING MY LIFE.
PUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay. I am feeling better now. *Big deep breath taken now.
Thanks guys, I needed that.
1. Moments of clarity
2. Being a Hero
3. Having a place to go when I can't be home
4. My niece (seriously one of the cutest things ever to grace this planet)
5. Finding 20 minutes to write this blog
6. 2130 page views!!!
Monday, April 23, 2012
Going With the Flow
Lately it seems that most of what I say to my son is criticism. I tell him to stop doing this, chill out, think about what you're doing, what are you thinking! I hate the sound of it as it comes out of my mouth. Yet I can't help myself. He pushes and pushes. He finds my triggers and drills in. So I decided to find my triggers too. Hey, knowing is half the battle, right?
Agendas. When I have an agenda I get triggered when things don't stay on course. Now that my life is crazy, unscripted and unpredictable I decided to take on a new mantra, Go with the Flow. Yep, stop trying to plan everything, and feel out the moment. Be flexible.
So the pencil-written plan was to spend the night at the farm with kiddos and then drive onto sister's. But Hashem had other plans. 6-8 inches of snow. We don't have a working furnace, so I thought freezing my children's tushies isn't a good start to the trip. Okay, going with the flow. I am staying at my mother-in-law's. Just for the night.
So how did it go? Bedtime became a battle. My boy had an emotional fit and I tried to be rational. When I'm tired (which is pretty much always) I go into super rational, you can't argue with me I've got logic on my side, mode. Well let me tell you how well that works with an emotional child. Epic fail.
We end up with a ridiculous sleeping arrangement of me in a room with the two little, light sleepers. And needy older child alone. So what happens? After much struggle, get them all to bed. 9:30, middle girl gets out of bed and joins us downstairs. Still going with the flow. Only, on the TV is a show called Game of Thrones. I wasn't really watching, I was trying to list our house on the Internet, and then I realize she's about to see a near rape scene. "Cover her eyes!"
Not going well. Okay, get her to bed. With me. Ugh. I am NOT a co-sleeper. I can barely share my bed with my husband, let alone my twisting turning daughter.
Midnight, big boy is in my room, saying he's ready to wake up, ready to eat something. No freaking way. I whisper yell at him to GET OUT! before he wakes the little ones. I'm sure that feels good to hear.
He's back in at 3am with more complaints. "I should've slept in this room with you, mama." No Shit! I tried like he'll to get him to sleep in my room but he fought back like a demon.
5am. Baby wakes to nurse. This wakes sleeping two year-old. Ever tried to get one of those back to sleep? Ha!
The flow sucks. So now, Lion King on the TV. I think The Flow always heads downstream to the TV, no?
And I'm dreading the rest of my day, week, but trying not to anticipate. That just creates anxiety. But here's what I think about the flow:
If you just go with the flow, you are pushed wherever the current takes you. That can be under water. And while some are good at holding their breath, I am not. So what I need is a boat. I can still flow with the current, but I won't go under. Perhaps I could even get an oar and steer around the rocks.
One question: how do you build a boat when you're already floating in a river? Every child, every dinner, every mortgage payment make the waters run faster, add more rapids. And I'm supposes to build a boat?!
To get beyond ridiculous building this metaphor, I think I have to grab whatever driftwood I find and start tying them together. Experience, friends, family, nuggets of wisdom, faith in G-d, these will be my building materials. But it ain't gonna be easy.
I'm so tired right now that the keys are blurring, so this is me signing off.
One announcement before I go. Yehudis has provided us with a kickass name for the farm... Matovu Farms.
And we'll be the Farm Shmarm Community.
1. The Lion King
2. Socks (My feet get really cold)
3. The Lion King (sorry I'm really tired)
Agendas. When I have an agenda I get triggered when things don't stay on course. Now that my life is crazy, unscripted and unpredictable I decided to take on a new mantra, Go with the Flow. Yep, stop trying to plan everything, and feel out the moment. Be flexible.
So the pencil-written plan was to spend the night at the farm with kiddos and then drive onto sister's. But Hashem had other plans. 6-8 inches of snow. We don't have a working furnace, so I thought freezing my children's tushies isn't a good start to the trip. Okay, going with the flow. I am staying at my mother-in-law's. Just for the night.
So how did it go? Bedtime became a battle. My boy had an emotional fit and I tried to be rational. When I'm tired (which is pretty much always) I go into super rational, you can't argue with me I've got logic on my side, mode. Well let me tell you how well that works with an emotional child. Epic fail.
We end up with a ridiculous sleeping arrangement of me in a room with the two little, light sleepers. And needy older child alone. So what happens? After much struggle, get them all to bed. 9:30, middle girl gets out of bed and joins us downstairs. Still going with the flow. Only, on the TV is a show called Game of Thrones. I wasn't really watching, I was trying to list our house on the Internet, and then I realize she's about to see a near rape scene. "Cover her eyes!"
Not going well. Okay, get her to bed. With me. Ugh. I am NOT a co-sleeper. I can barely share my bed with my husband, let alone my twisting turning daughter.
Midnight, big boy is in my room, saying he's ready to wake up, ready to eat something. No freaking way. I whisper yell at him to GET OUT! before he wakes the little ones. I'm sure that feels good to hear.
He's back in at 3am with more complaints. "I should've slept in this room with you, mama." No Shit! I tried like he'll to get him to sleep in my room but he fought back like a demon.
5am. Baby wakes to nurse. This wakes sleeping two year-old. Ever tried to get one of those back to sleep? Ha!
The flow sucks. So now, Lion King on the TV. I think The Flow always heads downstream to the TV, no?
And I'm dreading the rest of my day, week, but trying not to anticipate. That just creates anxiety. But here's what I think about the flow:
If you just go with the flow, you are pushed wherever the current takes you. That can be under water. And while some are good at holding their breath, I am not. So what I need is a boat. I can still flow with the current, but I won't go under. Perhaps I could even get an oar and steer around the rocks.
One question: how do you build a boat when you're already floating in a river? Every child, every dinner, every mortgage payment make the waters run faster, add more rapids. And I'm supposes to build a boat?!
To get beyond ridiculous building this metaphor, I think I have to grab whatever driftwood I find and start tying them together. Experience, friends, family, nuggets of wisdom, faith in G-d, these will be my building materials. But it ain't gonna be easy.
I'm so tired right now that the keys are blurring, so this is me signing off.
One announcement before I go. Yehudis has provided us with a kickass name for the farm... Matovu Farms.
And we'll be the Farm Shmarm Community.
1. The Lion King
2. Socks (My feet get really cold)
3. The Lion King (sorry I'm really tired)
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Farm Shmarm
Well, I survived Pesach prep and the seders. Whew! I’m not sure my husband made it through my stress, freak-outs and bad moods without a little scarring. But we’re still here. And closer than ever to making our dreams reality!
All of our stuff is currently on our farm. That’s right people. We’re really doing it. We’re building a Torah centered, eco-friendly, holistic, sustainable, organic farming community. Did I miss any adjectives? Am I frightened? Hell yes. Of failure? Hell no. I will never look back on my life and regret trying and failing. I’m worried of quitting when it gets hard. I’m afraid of isolation. I’m afraid of losing my connection with Torah. I’m afraid I’ll kill my kids. (Social workers, that last bit was meant metaphorically. I’m very poetic, you know.)
But, life was not created fear free. I recognize my fear. And I move forward. And if you see me freak out, it’s because I’m freaking out with excitement and enthusiasm for my new life. Really. I mean it. Seriously.
I’ve been noticing how much other people’s reactions have influenced my feelings of being on the farm. A friend came up to visit and immediately told me she loved all the open space. And suddenly I do too. Suddenly I am so excited to be living somewhere with so much open space. Another said that he imagines that at night it must be so amazing to see the stars. And now I am imagining all my nights of laying on the grass, kids in bed, hubby beside me, gazing at the millions of stars twinkling above us.
Then someone mentions that since there are no trees around, it will get very hot in our new house. Someone else mentions how hard it will be to heat in the winter with all the big windows that I was loving until then. None of these are criticisms. But now I am hesitant, nervous. Worse, I am doubtful. “People aren’t going to want to visit if you only have composting toilets.” “Your kids will miss out on important socialization skills.” “People aren’t going to join your community if you hold so strongly to your ideals. You need to relax your guidelines and be more open. You can’t expect people to want what you want.” “I hope it works out and you don’t starve.”
Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! I want to tell all these people to SHUT UP! But really, they’re not saying anything wrong. It’s just that I have so much doubt that I keep locked inside. When I hear these things, the doubt starts to seep out, and get everything soggy. My starry nights are now rainy. My sheep are sick. My kids are cold and social nightmares. We are alone. Totally alone. My walls of optimism are as thin as the crappy fake drywall in our new house and doubt is leaking out of every pipe. Really. My husband spent all day there today, trying to fix the leaky plumbing.
I feel so fragile.
And yet.
On I go.
I guess if I could ask people one thing, it would be to support me. Emotionally hold me. Trust me when I say that I am not naïve to any of the concerns or criticisms brought up. I am not putting my fingers in my ears and humming when people are expressing their doubt. I have that doubt too. I am seeped, leaking all over with doubt. So right now I just want to be encouraged. Because it is okay to fail. But it’s not okay to give up before I try.
All that said, you are all invited to my farm! (I know that there are only 13 followers of this blog, so that’s not such a huge statement. But someday, when our farm is awesome and famous and the coolest thing around, people will google me and find my blog, read this one, and know that they are invited.)
But what I need from you all is suggestions. What do we name the place? So far we call it The Farm. But I think we’ll need something better than that. I want to call it Farm Shmarm. Yep, you heard me. Farm Shmarm. We’re Jewish, we have a sense of humor and we don’t take ourselves too seriously. Farm Shmarm. Most people I tell that to thinks it’s a horrible idea to name the farm that. Whatever. They obviously take themselves too seriously.
So I’m opening it up. What do you think we should call it?
The much needed GoodList is back!
1. I made it through Pesach cleaning!!!
2. I’m going to visit my sis soon
3. I got all three kiddos to bed
4. Farm Shmarm
5. My daughter’s spiky hair in the bath
6. Eating at my aunt’s when I just can’t fathom making dinner
7. My hard working hubby
Monday, February 27, 2012
Da Bomb!
I just wrote a long blog that was basically a pity party in essay form. Poor me, why can’t I get to the depth of the holiday without dealing with all the ‘superficial’ aspects of the day. Why haven’t I been invited to 50 seudahs. Aren’t I cool? Wouldn’t everyone jump at the chance to have the ‘interesting’ Kinderlehrer’s? Blah blah blah.
Yeah, well, I’m done with that. You know why? Someone I love and admire called me the ‘bomb-diggity.’ Yeah, that’s right. I am the bomb-diggity! I haven’t even heard that phrase since the 90’s and all I can do is smile. And giggle. This friend is someone I would have written off as too good for me. She is someone I would have placed on a pedestal, and then slowly torn down in my head, because I couldn’t stand that she was so perfect. Then I got to know her.
It was so simple. I just asked her to be my friend. Not exactly in those words. But I gave her a chance to be human. And she took it. And my life is forever enriched because of it. And this friend, this perfect friend, guess what… She doesn’t wash her sheets often. And you know what? The immense joy and self acceptance that her dirty little secret has given me is invaluable. Because now I can be me. And she thinks that me, my dirty sheets, and my gross bathrooms, and all the dishes in my sink, not to mention, my insecurity, vulnerability, weirdness, and desperate need for connection, all that—it’s the bomb-diggity.
And so this Purim, I am going in costume. I am going to be the bomb-diggity. I will wear my awesomeness and own it. I will smile at those who don’t smile at me, because that’s what bomb-diggity people do. I will walk into your homes with my half-assed mishloach manot in a badly decorated paper bag, and give it to you like I’m giving you a golden basket with magic beans and a bottle of Kosher Crystal. And you will say, “Man, I just got a gift from the bomb-diggity. I guess that makes me a little bomb-diggity too!" And then you’ll notice my son’s pillowcase costume and say, “Gee, honey, that is a great costume!” Because we want him to feel like he’s the bomb-diggity too, even if his costume is lame.
And then I think we should have a bomb-diggity dance party where we do dance moves like 'the sprinkler' to Micheal Jackson’s Thriller. And if anyone can break-dance, well, I am personally inviting you to this awesome soiree. (I had to call my sister to figure out how to spell soiree.) Now she's the bomb-diggity too.
And just writing this bomb-diggity blog is making my day so much better! I invite you all to bomb-diggity up your days simply by using the words bomb-diggity in every other sentence. Seriously. It rolls off your tongue and makes you smile. And whomever you say it to will definitely smile and then there will be more bomb-diggity smiles on this earth.
So have a bomb-diggity day and spread your bomb-diggityness all over and be your bomb-diggity awesome selves.
Love,
The Bomb-Diggity
1. Being the bomb-diggity
2. Now knowing how to spell soiree
3. Laughing
4. Finally getting some sleep
5. My sister, who is the bomb-diggity and knows how to spell soiree, and asked me to type this
6. MC Hammer pants. Just because
7. Obscure 90's references
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