When I was a little girl, my Aunt Ilene babysat me quite a bit. One of my earliest and dearest memories is when I stayed with her while my mother was in the hospital giving birth to my sister. I remember returning to my aunt's apartment building, and sitting down in the lobby to put on a beautiful, gold, sparkly, plastic pair of high-heels. I can hear the clip-clip-clip as we walk to the elevator, and I remember showing the shoes off to my grandma who was upstairs in the apartment.
My aunt and her family eventually moved out of Brooklyn to Long Island. We spent many a fun-filled weekend there, playing with my cousins and the other neighborhood kids. We loved my aunt, and knew she loved us. So it was only natural, when my father told us that he'd had an affair and that my parents were getting divorced, that I'd want to go be with Aunt Ilene.
Before my parents sat us down that June afternoon, we knew something strange was going on in our house. My mom had lost a lot of weight, and I worried that she was dying. When I found out why she lost the weight, I felt a great responsibility to be strong for her, and to be angry at my father on her behalf. I knew how much my mother loved me (a subject for a post of its own). But I knew I needed comforting, and I didn't feel I could ask that of her.
So my dad took me out to Suffolk county, and I spent a few days there, soaking in the love and hanging out. I'll never forget the first morning. My aunt had gone to the office, and called to check on me. She asked "what'd you have for breakfast?" When I answered "two Blow-pops," she responded "that's good." No- ohmygosh that's no good! You'd better eat something else! Just acceptance. And love.
I told both of these stories at my aunt's 60th birthday party this summer. I ended by saying that everyone needs an Aunt Ilene, who'll let them have Blow-pops for breakfast. The party was a surprise, and she was shocked to see my family and me there. I shared some memories that my sister emailed to me since she wasn't able to come to the party. I made it through my stories without tears, but couldn't read the last line of my sister's email through my tears.
This post inspired by today's post on Supersisters- a new blog by Jen Lemen and two of her equally amazing sisters.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Friday, September 05, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Always lurking
When my grandmother was a young girl, her mother died suddenly. She was only 39, dead of a heart attack. Her father was an alcoholic, whenever she talks about him the adjective involved is usually 'jerk'. She bounced from foster home to foster home until she was 18, and could live on her own.
At 39 my grandmother had a nervous breakdown. She wouldn't leave the house; neighbors did the shopping and made sure the three children got to school. I know she was treated with medication, but I'm not sure what would have been used at that time (about 1959). My father was 13 years old and has no memory whatsoever of this time. My aunts, both younger than him, cannot believe he doesn't remember anything about this time in their lives. I asked my first therapist about it, and she felt it was totally normal for a boy of that age to have blocked the memory.
I don't know how long it took, but grandma did improve, and went on to live a very active life, despite the anxiety she lived with on a regular basis. She's always been busy, doing for others- baking, crafting, sewing, volunteering, caring for. I've always been in awe of her life of service, especially in light of her childhood.
I spoke to her last week; she often calls the office and knows she might catch my dad or me. She said she hadn't been feeling well lately. I thought she sounded stuffy so I asked if she'd had a cold. No, she said, I've been having terrible anxiety and panic attacks. She asked if I knew about her breakdown. She told me that when she was 39 she thought that she would die, since her mother died at 39. Recently more of her friends are dying, and she also heard from a friend whose daughter died after a long battle with cancer. She's feeling anxious about dying.
She did go see her doctor, and has found some relief from the medicines he prescribed her. I believe she's been on anti-anxiety medications for a very long time, but I don't know what she takes, and I don't know what the doctor gave her recently.
I vowed to myself that I would make sure to call her at least once a week. I spoke to her yesterday. She says she's coming along; she was going to have her hair done and then going to play mah jong, which she'd skipped last week. She still doesn't feel up to doing everything she usually does, but she's resisting the urge to hide out, and forcing herself to get out of the house and do things.
It breaks my heart that she's struggling so. I wish I could run up to NY and wrap my arms around her. She moved from San Diego back to NY, to be closer to family, about two years ago. She's been so happy. It's scary to know that anxiety can lay you low, even when you take care of yourself, even when you know you have anxiety. It can sneak up on you and leave you paralyzed before you even know what is happening. I don't think I've fully accepted that yet. I sort of have my fingers crossed that my current medication will last for a long time, that I'll continue to use and develop productive coping strategies, and never be laid low again. But that is probably just a dream.
It's going to be ok, grandma. You've beaten back this beast before, and I know you can do it again.
At 39 my grandmother had a nervous breakdown. She wouldn't leave the house; neighbors did the shopping and made sure the three children got to school. I know she was treated with medication, but I'm not sure what would have been used at that time (about 1959). My father was 13 years old and has no memory whatsoever of this time. My aunts, both younger than him, cannot believe he doesn't remember anything about this time in their lives. I asked my first therapist about it, and she felt it was totally normal for a boy of that age to have blocked the memory.
I don't know how long it took, but grandma did improve, and went on to live a very active life, despite the anxiety she lived with on a regular basis. She's always been busy, doing for others- baking, crafting, sewing, volunteering, caring for. I've always been in awe of her life of service, especially in light of her childhood.
I spoke to her last week; she often calls the office and knows she might catch my dad or me. She said she hadn't been feeling well lately. I thought she sounded stuffy so I asked if she'd had a cold. No, she said, I've been having terrible anxiety and panic attacks. She asked if I knew about her breakdown. She told me that when she was 39 she thought that she would die, since her mother died at 39. Recently more of her friends are dying, and she also heard from a friend whose daughter died after a long battle with cancer. She's feeling anxious about dying.
She did go see her doctor, and has found some relief from the medicines he prescribed her. I believe she's been on anti-anxiety medications for a very long time, but I don't know what she takes, and I don't know what the doctor gave her recently.
I vowed to myself that I would make sure to call her at least once a week. I spoke to her yesterday. She says she's coming along; she was going to have her hair done and then going to play mah jong, which she'd skipped last week. She still doesn't feel up to doing everything she usually does, but she's resisting the urge to hide out, and forcing herself to get out of the house and do things.
It breaks my heart that she's struggling so. I wish I could run up to NY and wrap my arms around her. She moved from San Diego back to NY, to be closer to family, about two years ago. She's been so happy. It's scary to know that anxiety can lay you low, even when you take care of yourself, even when you know you have anxiety. It can sneak up on you and leave you paralyzed before you even know what is happening. I don't think I've fully accepted that yet. I sort of have my fingers crossed that my current medication will last for a long time, that I'll continue to use and develop productive coping strategies, and never be laid low again. But that is probably just a dream.
It's going to be ok, grandma. You've beaten back this beast before, and I know you can do it again.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Nine Years
Happy Birthday my sweet boy. It's nine years since I met you, nine years that you've been teaching me. Can't wait to see where else you and I will go on this path of motherhood/son-hood.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
My Heart is Full
Yesterday was the last day of school, and I spent a wonderful morning there. The school holds an awards program for 3rd, 4th, and 5th grades. Although I don't have a 5th grader, I had tears in my eyes as the principal said goodbye to them.
It was such a wonderful morning. My heart was full to bursting all day. Yes, I am proud of Sam for his accomplishments and the recognition he got from his teachers. More than that though, I am just full of love for our school, our teachers, and the wonderful, warm community that makes up our school. It was fabulous hearing about the successes the 5th graders had this year--one won a statewide essay contest, another won a statewide music competition, one young person has had straight A's since Kindergarten. I was so proud of them, their families, and their teachers.
After the awards assembly Sam's teacher invited parents back of to the classroom where he handed out class awards and spoke a few heartfelt words about each child. He is such a wonderful man, and it was great hearing him talk about each child and give them a hug. All of the children at our school hope that they will have him for third grade. I believe it is because they know that he genuinely enjoys and respects children. He loves his job, he's enthusiastic about teaching, and he helps his students be enthusiastic about reading. He got choked up when he was talking about Sam, and more than ever I wished that Sam could somehow stay in his class for another year. I know that Sam will be in a new classroom come August, and that there will be more adventures, learning, and love no matter who his teacher is.
In the afternoon I went to Maya's class luau. The kids were adorable, and the boys especially had a great time dancing. My sweet girl is so proud to be moving on to first grade. She's really grown a lot, and learned so very much. Tonight she came to me quietly crying; she was crying for her teacher, she misses her already. She sat on my lap and typed out an email to her.
It's been a fantastic school year. We're going to do a lot of fun stuff this summer, and then we'll be back at school ready for new experiences, challenges, and learning opportunities.
It was such a wonderful morning. My heart was full to bursting all day. Yes, I am proud of Sam for his accomplishments and the recognition he got from his teachers. More than that though, I am just full of love for our school, our teachers, and the wonderful, warm community that makes up our school. It was fabulous hearing about the successes the 5th graders had this year--one won a statewide essay contest, another won a statewide music competition, one young person has had straight A's since Kindergarten. I was so proud of them, their families, and their teachers.
After the awards assembly Sam's teacher invited parents back of to the classroom where he handed out class awards and spoke a few heartfelt words about each child. He is such a wonderful man, and it was great hearing him talk about each child and give them a hug. All of the children at our school hope that they will have him for third grade. I believe it is because they know that he genuinely enjoys and respects children. He loves his job, he's enthusiastic about teaching, and he helps his students be enthusiastic about reading. He got choked up when he was talking about Sam, and more than ever I wished that Sam could somehow stay in his class for another year. I know that Sam will be in a new classroom come August, and that there will be more adventures, learning, and love no matter who his teacher is.
In the afternoon I went to Maya's class luau. The kids were adorable, and the boys especially had a great time dancing. My sweet girl is so proud to be moving on to first grade. She's really grown a lot, and learned so very much. Tonight she came to me quietly crying; she was crying for her teacher, she misses her already. She sat on my lap and typed out an email to her.
It's been a fantastic school year. We're going to do a lot of fun stuff this summer, and then we'll be back at school ready for new experiences, challenges, and learning opportunities.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Through Maya's Eyes
We spent Mother's Day at Epcot. Maya carried my Rebel most of the day. She took a lot of flower shots (just like mom!), but these two are my favorite's. Erik and I don't often make it into a picture together. The closeup of my bag was her idea, and I just love it.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Accentuate the Positive
This morning we were all a bit rough around the edges. Sam hasn't been to school since Friday; apparently he forgot the morning routine. Finally they were deposited at school- after having returned home for the forgotten guitar, and I was on my way to weight watchers.
As I settle in for the meeting and some much needed encouragement on the weight loss front, my phone rings. It is Erik, who simply said "I just had to check on our most important team member." Whoosh! All that morning roughness gone! Weight gain blues gone! I think this one call, these words, will be cherished even more than any gift the family might give me on Sunday.
As I settle in for the meeting and some much needed encouragement on the weight loss front, my phone rings. It is Erik, who simply said "I just had to check on our most important team member." Whoosh! All that morning roughness gone! Weight gain blues gone! I think this one call, these words, will be cherished even more than any gift the family might give me on Sunday.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Proof is in the Pudding Cooking
As I mentioned on my photo blog, what a week it's been. Last weekend I was away on a business meeting. I returned late on Sunday evening, too late to read to the children before bed. Monday was generally like any other day after a trip, me scrambling to catch up on laundry, work, and to get things in order for the week ahead.
I checked our voice mail, and heard my mother-in-law saying that my father-in-law had had a stroke on Monday morning. I tried to reach my husband, but he wasn't in his office and he'd forgotten his cell phone at home. He eventually called, as he was going to stop at the grocery store on the way home. I told him to skip the store and come home, that his mother called, and his father was in the hospital. Obviously there would be no 'getting back to normal' this week.
I'm done transitioning off of paxil and onto zoloft. I am really, really grateful that I was done switching before now. It has been so much easier to handle. Of course in any family emergency I would do what needed to be done. But it would have been immeasurably harder on me to have my husband gone for most of the week. It is hard to describe how I can tell that the new medication is helping. For one, even in genuinely stressful situations, I'm not having the physical symptoms that I was having in the last few months even at the highest strength of paxil. No more heart pounding like a herd of horses. No more trouble feeling like I'm getting enough air, no more weird tingly sensation in my arms. But it's more than that. When the kids do or say something that is upsetting to me, I don't immediately flip out and start thinking "omgomg the sky is falling." I can think internally, "hmm, that is really annoying. I don't like it. But, it isn't the end of the world." and react accordingly. And more than that, I'm not reacting, I'm responding.
The other thing I noticed is that in the last year, give or take a few months, there have been recipes that I've thought, gee, I'd like to make that, but then not done a thing to accomplish that. I have made more new recipes in the last three weeks than I probably made all of last year. There's a lot of elements to this seemingly small thing. I'm committed to Weight Watchers. I know that I need to plan ahead in order to succeed. I need to plan ahead even more when my husband is away. We've also been trying to plan meals in order to shop more effectively and less expensively. Where the medicine comes in is my ability to actually follow through on these things. Yeah, I'm crossing my fingers that the medicine will continue to be this effective for a long, long time. I try to drown out the fact that I posted about recovering in October, only to end up feeling just as poorly as I did before that recovery, if not worse. I do think I understand myself and my disorder even more than I did in October, so I'll be keeping a close eye on how things are going, and hopefully won't let things get to the point they were last summer.
So for now, the proof is in the cooking.
I checked our voice mail, and heard my mother-in-law saying that my father-in-law had had a stroke on Monday morning. I tried to reach my husband, but he wasn't in his office and he'd forgotten his cell phone at home. He eventually called, as he was going to stop at the grocery store on the way home. I told him to skip the store and come home, that his mother called, and his father was in the hospital. Obviously there would be no 'getting back to normal' this week.
I'm done transitioning off of paxil and onto zoloft. I am really, really grateful that I was done switching before now. It has been so much easier to handle. Of course in any family emergency I would do what needed to be done. But it would have been immeasurably harder on me to have my husband gone for most of the week. It is hard to describe how I can tell that the new medication is helping. For one, even in genuinely stressful situations, I'm not having the physical symptoms that I was having in the last few months even at the highest strength of paxil. No more heart pounding like a herd of horses. No more trouble feeling like I'm getting enough air, no more weird tingly sensation in my arms. But it's more than that. When the kids do or say something that is upsetting to me, I don't immediately flip out and start thinking "omgomg the sky is falling." I can think internally, "hmm, that is really annoying. I don't like it. But, it isn't the end of the world." and react accordingly. And more than that, I'm not reacting, I'm responding.
The other thing I noticed is that in the last year, give or take a few months, there have been recipes that I've thought, gee, I'd like to make that, but then not done a thing to accomplish that. I have made more new recipes in the last three weeks than I probably made all of last year. There's a lot of elements to this seemingly small thing. I'm committed to Weight Watchers. I know that I need to plan ahead in order to succeed. I need to plan ahead even more when my husband is away. We've also been trying to plan meals in order to shop more effectively and less expensively. Where the medicine comes in is my ability to actually follow through on these things. Yeah, I'm crossing my fingers that the medicine will continue to be this effective for a long, long time. I try to drown out the fact that I posted about recovering in October, only to end up feeling just as poorly as I did before that recovery, if not worse. I do think I understand myself and my disorder even more than I did in October, so I'll be keeping a close eye on how things are going, and hopefully won't let things get to the point they were last summer.
So for now, the proof is in the cooking.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Love Thursday
My sister and her son visited this week. The kids are totally in love with him, and he is equally smitten with them. Two of his favorite words are Maya and Sam.
More Love Thursday at Shutter Sisters
Everyone had a great time at the playground on Tuesday afternoon. Lots more photos of teh cuteness here.
We're so looking forward to visiting them in one month!More Love Thursday at Shutter Sisters
Friday, February 01, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
'No' is always a loss
I listened to a tele-seminar with Pam Leo today. She made such a simple, yet deeply profound, statement: 'No' is always a loss.
It nearly gave me shivers as I sat absorbing the sentiment. I've always been afraid of asking for things, afraid of that no. It prevented me not just from asking my parents for something ($3 for the Barbie townhouse at a school rummage sale or to go halvsies on a trip to Europe in high school- which my sister asked for and got! *) but also from asking a salesperson if they have an item in my size, where the bathrooms are, or asking the librarian where to find a certain book. Thankfully I've pushed past a lot of this, and forced myself to ask for books or where the bathroom is. But I'm still so afraid of 'no' that there are times I give in to the resistance that wells up in me, and walk away without that new pair of shorts.
Pam Leo's philosophy is that we (in the US anyhow) spend so much time telling children that their feelings are wrong. Acknowledging feelings doesn't mean that we need to give in to a child's every whim. Acknowledging feelings means that we can empathize with them over their grief at hearing 'No.' I know how much my parents love me, and I think I came from a very loving family. Yet, we did have some trouble with emotions. And I don't think mine were recognized, not even when it should have been apparent to my parents that something was wrong/not right (hello anxiety!). I know I was often told "Oh, stop it, it's not that bad" and other similar things. My feelings weren't heard. My little griefs weren't acknowledged. I am finding myself getting twisted up in my words-I'm not trying to lay blame at my parent's feet. I'm not trying to say "Oh, poor me." I'm not sure if I can reclaim that moment of clarity I felt when I heard her say "'No' is always a loss."
*I hold no resentment against my sister for asking to go to Italy with Mrs.Percoco. Heck, she asked, and she received. I never even mentioned it at home, I mean, the answer was going to be no, right? I remember so clearly, that day in the car with my mom, when she asked me why I never asked to go on a trip with Mrs.P and Latin class. I sucked my breath in, tried not to cry. I couldn't believe it would have been possible.
It nearly gave me shivers as I sat absorbing the sentiment. I've always been afraid of asking for things, afraid of that no. It prevented me not just from asking my parents for something ($3 for the Barbie townhouse at a school rummage sale or to go halvsies on a trip to Europe in high school- which my sister asked for and got! *) but also from asking a salesperson if they have an item in my size, where the bathrooms are, or asking the librarian where to find a certain book. Thankfully I've pushed past a lot of this, and forced myself to ask for books or where the bathroom is. But I'm still so afraid of 'no' that there are times I give in to the resistance that wells up in me, and walk away without that new pair of shorts.
Pam Leo's philosophy is that we (in the US anyhow) spend so much time telling children that their feelings are wrong. Acknowledging feelings doesn't mean that we need to give in to a child's every whim. Acknowledging feelings means that we can empathize with them over their grief at hearing 'No.' I know how much my parents love me, and I think I came from a very loving family. Yet, we did have some trouble with emotions. And I don't think mine were recognized, not even when it should have been apparent to my parents that something was wrong/not right (hello anxiety!). I know I was often told "Oh, stop it, it's not that bad" and other similar things. My feelings weren't heard. My little griefs weren't acknowledged. I am finding myself getting twisted up in my words-I'm not trying to lay blame at my parent's feet. I'm not trying to say "Oh, poor me." I'm not sure if I can reclaim that moment of clarity I felt when I heard her say "'No' is always a loss."
*I hold no resentment against my sister for asking to go to Italy with Mrs.Percoco. Heck, she asked, and she received. I never even mentioned it at home, I mean, the answer was going to be no, right? I remember so clearly, that day in the car with my mom, when she asked me why I never asked to go on a trip with Mrs.P and Latin class. I sucked my breath in, tried not to cry. I couldn't believe it would have been possible.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
A Sporting Tradition
When I close my eyes I can still see the yellow wallpaper in the kitchen of our Brooklyn apartment. The brown velour cover and bolsters on the daybed (although in those days I think we called it the high riser), and oh, what's this? Dad's watching tv, yelling, jumping up and down. I think I was in second grade, and I wanted to know what exactly my dad was so worked up about. It was football. He grabbed some paper, and explained that each team had four tries to go ten yards. There were x's and o's, but mostly there was being with dad and getting in on the excitement.
I love watching sports. Nearly any sport- pretty much everything except boxing. Living in Florida makes it hard to watch my favorite NY teams on tv (Mets, Giants, Islanders, Knicks) unless they are playing a Florida team or are on the game of the week. Having kids has also really reduced my game viewing time! Sometimes they'll watch a little with me, but mostly they want me to get up and c'mon! Come play! Help me! Feed me! And all that pesky laundry and other stuff. So I don't watch as often or as much as I'd like to.
But today, today, the Giants were playing in the playoffs. Just as last week, I was going to see this game dammit! We had Hebrew school this morning, then a birthday party to attend. Maya and I returned home just after the game began. I had a terrible headache, so half watched, half rested in my bed. We finished dinner just as the game was getting tense- Dallas had gone ahead by a field goal. The Giants came back with a touchdown, and suddenly there were only four minutes left in the game. There were some close calls, but the defense shut the Cowboys down on a drive. The Giants got the ball back, had a pathetically short series (dudes, you were supposed to be keeping the ball, running the clock down!). 31 seconds left. My stomach in knots. The kids come join us to watch the end. Damn, a big gain for Dallas. A penalty for them on the next first down. Yeah! And then, their qb launches the ball, it soars towards the end zone. Oh please oh please, don't let him catch it. No touchdown, no touchdown. YES!!! A Giant defender catches the ball in the endzone. interception! Six seconds left. Game over. Giants win! Oh my gosh- kids laughing- Mom has been jumping up and down since Big Blue's interception, shouting yes, yes, yes!
As you might have guessed, reading all of my never ending analysis of myself, I am not the most light-hearted or spontaneous person around. And yet, sports can bring me there. My kids didn't want me to stop jumping. I should have told them to cross their fingers that the Giants keep winning. That will keep me jumping.
I love watching sports. Nearly any sport- pretty much everything except boxing. Living in Florida makes it hard to watch my favorite NY teams on tv (Mets, Giants, Islanders, Knicks) unless they are playing a Florida team or are on the game of the week. Having kids has also really reduced my game viewing time! Sometimes they'll watch a little with me, but mostly they want me to get up and c'mon! Come play! Help me! Feed me! And all that pesky laundry and other stuff. So I don't watch as often or as much as I'd like to.
But today, today, the Giants were playing in the playoffs. Just as last week, I was going to see this game dammit! We had Hebrew school this morning, then a birthday party to attend. Maya and I returned home just after the game began. I had a terrible headache, so half watched, half rested in my bed. We finished dinner just as the game was getting tense- Dallas had gone ahead by a field goal. The Giants came back with a touchdown, and suddenly there were only four minutes left in the game. There were some close calls, but the defense shut the Cowboys down on a drive. The Giants got the ball back, had a pathetically short series (dudes, you were supposed to be keeping the ball, running the clock down!). 31 seconds left. My stomach in knots. The kids come join us to watch the end. Damn, a big gain for Dallas. A penalty for them on the next first down. Yeah! And then, their qb launches the ball, it soars towards the end zone. Oh please oh please, don't let him catch it. No touchdown, no touchdown. YES!!! A Giant defender catches the ball in the endzone. interception! Six seconds left. Game over. Giants win! Oh my gosh- kids laughing- Mom has been jumping up and down since Big Blue's interception, shouting yes, yes, yes!
As you might have guessed, reading all of my never ending analysis of myself, I am not the most light-hearted or spontaneous person around. And yet, sports can bring me there. My kids didn't want me to stop jumping. I should have told them to cross their fingers that the Giants keep winning. That will keep me jumping.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Wowie Wow Wow!
We might be visiting my sister, nephew, and brother-in-law in Bratislava for spring break! I'm so excited- we have got to work this out!
Fortunately I'm feeling less worried about one of the most confusing parts, getting the kids passports. We can actually take them to apply in the two towns closest to us; I thought we might have to coordinate going to a bigger city (both parents need to be present, yada yada etc.). Woohoo!
From what my sister has shared, it is truly a beautiful city.
Fortunately I'm feeling less worried about one of the most confusing parts, getting the kids passports. We can actually take them to apply in the two towns closest to us; I thought we might have to coordinate going to a bigger city (both parents need to be present, yada yada etc.). Woohoo!
From what my sister has shared, it is truly a beautiful city.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Breaking the news to Grandma and Grandpa
Conversation between Maya and my in-laws (who are not Jewish) at Busch Gardens this weekend:
Maya: Grandpa, do you believe in Santa?
Grandpa: Oh yes!
Maya: Well, I don't. I mean, how could he be real, of course he's pretend.
Grandpa: silence
Repeat with Grandma inserted for Grandpa, and you have that convo as well.
I didn't catch their faces after this discussion, but I do wonder what they thought of it. They have three children, each with children of their own. My kids are the only ones being raised with a faith tradition. As church goers themselves, I think they are happy that my children have a religion and that which religion they have is not an issue. It was just hilarious that they answered Yes! so heartily when she asked them as they surely assumed she also believed in Santa.
I did tell my son that Santa was pretend around the same age, but hadn't gotten around to telling Maya yet. She came to this conclusion on her own. I do propagate the idea of the Tooth Fairy, I'm not opposed to imaginary folks at all. I just know how much SANTA is out there, including in books read daily at Kindergarten, that I just wanted them to know that Santa is a part of someone else's tradition.
For the curious, we take part in Christmas stuff at my in-law's home, and do hang a few ornaments around our own house. When Erik and I were first living together/married we did have a little tree. I love to bake, and there have been many years that I've made a buche de noel for dessert at my il's home. I love all of the craftinesss and foods of Christmas, and I (we) enjoy taking part with Erik's family.
Maya: Grandpa, do you believe in Santa?
Grandpa: Oh yes!
Maya: Well, I don't. I mean, how could he be real, of course he's pretend.
Grandpa: silence
Repeat with Grandma inserted for Grandpa, and you have that convo as well.
I didn't catch their faces after this discussion, but I do wonder what they thought of it. They have three children, each with children of their own. My kids are the only ones being raised with a faith tradition. As church goers themselves, I think they are happy that my children have a religion and that which religion they have is not an issue. It was just hilarious that they answered Yes! so heartily when she asked them as they surely assumed she also believed in Santa.
I did tell my son that Santa was pretend around the same age, but hadn't gotten around to telling Maya yet. She came to this conclusion on her own. I do propagate the idea of the Tooth Fairy, I'm not opposed to imaginary folks at all. I just know how much SANTA is out there, including in books read daily at Kindergarten, that I just wanted them to know that Santa is a part of someone else's tradition.
For the curious, we take part in Christmas stuff at my in-law's home, and do hang a few ornaments around our own house. When Erik and I were first living together/married we did have a little tree. I love to bake, and there have been many years that I've made a buche de noel for dessert at my il's home. I love all of the craftinesss and foods of Christmas, and I (we) enjoy taking part with Erik's family.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Rough Day
I always have a hard time on travel days. I don't really know why- I guess the stress of making sure everything is packed, everyone is ready, and getting out the door make me a bit more fragile than usual.
Today I sort of crumbled before my own eyes. The kids' clothing was all together, most of mine was out, and I got a breastfeeding call. As I was helping the mom, Maya came in a number of times telling me that she was done with her lunch. She has a terrible time waiting for me to be finished talking, or to realize that not every little thing she wants to tell me is urgent. I hated asking the mom to hold on a minute, especially when the important thing Maya had to tell me was that she didn't want to finish her yogurt, but could she please have some pecan pie. *imagine woman with steam coming out her nose and ears here* So I decide to finish the call while locked in the bathroom. Only we've somehow been disconnected. I try to call her back and get some weird message about only being able to make calls in my exchange. Huh? I never did get through to her, although she left a voice mail for me. I am hoping to get back to her again on Friday or Monday.
After that the kids were getting cabin fever, each one pushing the other's buttons, and then chasing each other around the house. Not good for a woman already hanging on by a thread. I was pretty much useless till Erik got home.
Earlier in the day I noticed that I was feeling butterflies in my stomach but not really knowing what they were about. I should have taken a xanax or ativan then; by the time Erik was home I felt I was on the way to a panic attack. Instead of talking to me about it, or seeing what I needed to do to calm down, he went about packing. I understand that he's definitely a do-er, so to him, getting us packed and on the road was the solution. I just needed a hug though.
I took an ativan and slept most of the ride to my in-law's. I was not myself at dinner or afterwards (escaped to bedroom), but I'm hoping a good night's sleep will do me good, and I can have a nice weekend.
I'm logging off and finishing the Yiddish Policeman's Union!
Today I sort of crumbled before my own eyes. The kids' clothing was all together, most of mine was out, and I got a breastfeeding call. As I was helping the mom, Maya came in a number of times telling me that she was done with her lunch. She has a terrible time waiting for me to be finished talking, or to realize that not every little thing she wants to tell me is urgent. I hated asking the mom to hold on a minute, especially when the important thing Maya had to tell me was that she didn't want to finish her yogurt, but could she please have some pecan pie. *imagine woman with steam coming out her nose and ears here* So I decide to finish the call while locked in the bathroom. Only we've somehow been disconnected. I try to call her back and get some weird message about only being able to make calls in my exchange. Huh? I never did get through to her, although she left a voice mail for me. I am hoping to get back to her again on Friday or Monday.
After that the kids were getting cabin fever, each one pushing the other's buttons, and then chasing each other around the house. Not good for a woman already hanging on by a thread. I was pretty much useless till Erik got home.
Earlier in the day I noticed that I was feeling butterflies in my stomach but not really knowing what they were about. I should have taken a xanax or ativan then; by the time Erik was home I felt I was on the way to a panic attack. Instead of talking to me about it, or seeing what I needed to do to calm down, he went about packing. I understand that he's definitely a do-er, so to him, getting us packed and on the road was the solution. I just needed a hug though.
I took an ativan and slept most of the ride to my in-law's. I was not myself at dinner or afterwards (escaped to bedroom), but I'm hoping a good night's sleep will do me good, and I can have a nice weekend.
I'm logging off and finishing the Yiddish Policeman's Union!
Monday, November 12, 2007
Remembering
My paternal grandfather had one arm and one stump. "Stumpy," as he called it, was endlessly fascinating to us. I remember tenderly putting a bandaid on the end of the stump on more than one occasion as a kid.
Eventually I learned that Grandpa's arm no longer needed bandaids, since the amputation happened long before I was born. Grandpa lost his arm on Okinawa, in April of 1945. Grandpa's injury is a huge part of family lore, as he was very fortunate to make it back to the US at all. And without Grandpa, there'd be no Dad, no me, no sister.
Grandpa was on an army pickup truck getting ready to move. He'd loaned something to a friend, but volunteered to get off the truck to go and get it since his friend forgot to bring it with him. Someone else took the seat that Grandpa had, the seat against the driver's side of the cab. When Grandpa returned, he sat elsewhere in the back of the pickup. Moments later, shots were fired at the vehicle from the sky. The soldier who took my grandfather's seat was killed instantly.
Grandpa knew he'd been hit badly. He called a friend over, and asked him to remove his jacket (somehow he was on the ground at this point, I'm not sure if he was 'blown' out or if he somehow climbed down). When he did, his right arm came off with his jacket. His friend ran away at the sight, and my grandfather never knew what became of him. Another soldier came along and tied a tourniquet on his arm.
Besides losing his right arm, his elbow in his left arm was completely destroyed. It remained bent at an oddly crooked angle for the rest of his life. His legs were pockmarked from bullets that were never removed. The medical staff didn't believe he'd live, but somehow he kept surviving another day.
He was in a hospital on Guam. When they still weren't sure he was going to make it, they sent another wounded soldier on a ship back to the US. That ship was sunk on route to Hawaii. Eventually he made it to Hawaii, then the US, where he boarded a train going back east. He remembers the people in the Midwest who'd come to the train station because they knew returning vets were on the train. They'd cheer and send homemade goodies onto the train for them.
Eventually he was treated at Walter Reed, and then spent some time recovering in Virginia. My Grandma came down from Brooklyn, where she was living with her in-laws. She became pregnant with my father while Grandpa was recuperating :)
I have a copy of the telegram the army sent as well as two letters that an Army chaplain wrote on behalf of Grandpa. The last time I saw my Grandpa my son was about 1.5 years old. Grandpa had a feeling I might not see him again, since we were living in Florida and he in California. He told me to make sure I told my children about what he'd been through. I've shared his story, my old photocopies, and ration books my grandmother gave me. I've shown them the Purple Heart. One day I hope they'll want to hear his story in his own words, via a tape recording my Dad made.
I never realized that my grandfather would be considered 'disabled' until I was in college. He did just about everything, without the aid of a prosthetic arm. He had one at first, but never found it comfortable. The grandkids would shake their heads at photos of him with two arms- it looked so strange to us!
I hear about the young amputees coming back from Iraq. I know that they are fortunate to receive much more advanced medical care in the field than Grandpa did, not to mention robotic prostheses. And yet, I fear that many of them will be worse off than he was. Many of them have also sufferred traumatic brain injuries.
I don't know their names, but I hold them in my heart. I pray that they can go on and have as full a life as my grandfather did.
Eventually I learned that Grandpa's arm no longer needed bandaids, since the amputation happened long before I was born. Grandpa lost his arm on Okinawa, in April of 1945. Grandpa's injury is a huge part of family lore, as he was very fortunate to make it back to the US at all. And without Grandpa, there'd be no Dad, no me, no sister.
Grandpa was on an army pickup truck getting ready to move. He'd loaned something to a friend, but volunteered to get off the truck to go and get it since his friend forgot to bring it with him. Someone else took the seat that Grandpa had, the seat against the driver's side of the cab. When Grandpa returned, he sat elsewhere in the back of the pickup. Moments later, shots were fired at the vehicle from the sky. The soldier who took my grandfather's seat was killed instantly.
Grandpa knew he'd been hit badly. He called a friend over, and asked him to remove his jacket (somehow he was on the ground at this point, I'm not sure if he was 'blown' out or if he somehow climbed down). When he did, his right arm came off with his jacket. His friend ran away at the sight, and my grandfather never knew what became of him. Another soldier came along and tied a tourniquet on his arm.
Besides losing his right arm, his elbow in his left arm was completely destroyed. It remained bent at an oddly crooked angle for the rest of his life. His legs were pockmarked from bullets that were never removed. The medical staff didn't believe he'd live, but somehow he kept surviving another day.
He was in a hospital on Guam. When they still weren't sure he was going to make it, they sent another wounded soldier on a ship back to the US. That ship was sunk on route to Hawaii. Eventually he made it to Hawaii, then the US, where he boarded a train going back east. He remembers the people in the Midwest who'd come to the train station because they knew returning vets were on the train. They'd cheer and send homemade goodies onto the train for them.
Eventually he was treated at Walter Reed, and then spent some time recovering in Virginia. My Grandma came down from Brooklyn, where she was living with her in-laws. She became pregnant with my father while Grandpa was recuperating :)
I have a copy of the telegram the army sent as well as two letters that an Army chaplain wrote on behalf of Grandpa. The last time I saw my Grandpa my son was about 1.5 years old. Grandpa had a feeling I might not see him again, since we were living in Florida and he in California. He told me to make sure I told my children about what he'd been through. I've shared his story, my old photocopies, and ration books my grandmother gave me. I've shown them the Purple Heart. One day I hope they'll want to hear his story in his own words, via a tape recording my Dad made.
I never realized that my grandfather would be considered 'disabled' until I was in college. He did just about everything, without the aid of a prosthetic arm. He had one at first, but never found it comfortable. The grandkids would shake their heads at photos of him with two arms- it looked so strange to us!
I hear about the young amputees coming back from Iraq. I know that they are fortunate to receive much more advanced medical care in the field than Grandpa did, not to mention robotic prostheses. And yet, I fear that many of them will be worse off than he was. Many of them have also sufferred traumatic brain injuries.
I don't know their names, but I hold them in my heart. I pray that they can go on and have as full a life as my grandfather did.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Before and After
Before, my father was my hero.
After, my self shrunk inward when hugging him goodbye after a visit.
Before, I knew my father loved me and would rather tell him almost anything to avoid fighting with my mother.
After, I understood how much my mother loved me.
Before, we were watching General Hospital, looking forward to the summer ahead.
After, I felt as though someone had flung me headlong into a slab of cold marble. The next morning my ceaseless crying made it look like maggots ringed my eyes.
Post-confession, post-divorce, post-childhood--things are different now. Neither Before nor After. I can hug my father again. He's no longer my hero. I've long stopped trying to engage him in endless verbal battles in order to get him to say "You're right. I was wrong. I made a mistake."
No, those words never came. And they never will. I'm as ok with that as I can be. My heart has healed, and the scar tissue protects that tender spot. Sometimes something gets through, and the tears flow. I still mourn the family I lost, or should I say I mourn the idea of the family I thought I had.
After, my self shrunk inward when hugging him goodbye after a visit.
Before, I knew my father loved me and would rather tell him almost anything to avoid fighting with my mother.
After, I understood how much my mother loved me.
Before, we were watching General Hospital, looking forward to the summer ahead.
After, I felt as though someone had flung me headlong into a slab of cold marble. The next morning my ceaseless crying made it look like maggots ringed my eyes.
Post-confession, post-divorce, post-childhood--things are different now. Neither Before nor After. I can hug my father again. He's no longer my hero. I've long stopped trying to engage him in endless verbal battles in order to get him to say "You're right. I was wrong. I made a mistake."
No, those words never came. And they never will. I'm as ok with that as I can be. My heart has healed, and the scar tissue protects that tender spot. Sometimes something gets through, and the tears flow. I still mourn the family I lost, or should I say I mourn the idea of the family I thought I had.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Dear Sister
Dear Sister-
You moved about a week ago. All this week on my way to work I'd reach for the phone to give you a call. Then I'd realize that you were on the other side of the Atlantic, starting your new adventure.
I miss you terribly, but that feeling is small in comparison to the joy I feel at knowing that you and your sweet boy are together again with your husband. I've been in awe of your strength during this challenging year.
I'm grateful for those snippets of conversation we have on gmail chat, and I know we'll have even more fun connecting via Skype. I swear, I'll install it after I get home from this trip.
The kids miss you and their cousin, but they are asking when we can visit. We'll be saving our pennies!
Love, your Sister
You moved about a week ago. All this week on my way to work I'd reach for the phone to give you a call. Then I'd realize that you were on the other side of the Atlantic, starting your new adventure.
I miss you terribly, but that feeling is small in comparison to the joy I feel at knowing that you and your sweet boy are together again with your husband. I've been in awe of your strength during this challenging year.
I'm grateful for those snippets of conversation we have on gmail chat, and I know we'll have even more fun connecting via Skype. I swear, I'll install it after I get home from this trip.
The kids miss you and their cousin, but they are asking when we can visit. We'll be saving our pennies!
Love, your Sister
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The Problem with Perfectionism
Yesterday I baked and cooked and baked some more for Rosh Hashanah. I was vaguely anxious all day, hoping I'd get everything done on time. A few times I noticed my anxiety, and tried to calm myself. What was I so worried about? No guests were coming, this was simply a meal for our family.
By the time we sat down I had a headache and was all worked up. The chicken wasn't done yet, it was already 7 pm, the kids' bedtime was already weighing on me (they don't have today off), and then Sam started complaining about the texture of the butternut squash--normally his favorite vegetable.
Then the voices started- see, why do you try so hard, it never turns out how you wanted it anyway? What's wrong with you--should have gotten the chicken cooking earlier (never mind that you were at Maya's dance class)? What kind of a parent are you that your kids don't just eat their food without a litany of complaints?
And it occurred to me--when you are a perfectionist you really don't allow yourself to enjoy a damn thing! You're filled with anticipatory worry about all the things that could go wrong, and then when anything ends up differing from your vision of perfection you are upset at your perceived failure.
Every year at Rosh Hashanah I pray for G_d to help me to live a happy life. I'm so envious of those who seem to have happiness come to them so easily. I pray that this will be the year that I will learn to stop shooting myself in the foot, that this will be the year that I will be a patient mother, a loving, non-critical spouse, and that I will do the things that I know (in theory) will help with my rampant anxiety. And so often I am feeling like a failure even before the end of the first full day of the new year.
By the time we sat down I had a headache and was all worked up. The chicken wasn't done yet, it was already 7 pm, the kids' bedtime was already weighing on me (they don't have today off), and then Sam started complaining about the texture of the butternut squash--normally his favorite vegetable.
Then the voices started- see, why do you try so hard, it never turns out how you wanted it anyway? What's wrong with you--should have gotten the chicken cooking earlier (never mind that you were at Maya's dance class)? What kind of a parent are you that your kids don't just eat their food without a litany of complaints?
And it occurred to me--when you are a perfectionist you really don't allow yourself to enjoy a damn thing! You're filled with anticipatory worry about all the things that could go wrong, and then when anything ends up differing from your vision of perfection you are upset at your perceived failure.
Every year at Rosh Hashanah I pray for G_d to help me to live a happy life. I'm so envious of those who seem to have happiness come to them so easily. I pray that this will be the year that I will learn to stop shooting myself in the foot, that this will be the year that I will be a patient mother, a loving, non-critical spouse, and that I will do the things that I know (in theory) will help with my rampant anxiety. And so often I am feeling like a failure even before the end of the first full day of the new year.
Monday, August 20, 2007
More Love
My sister's husband is from Uzbekistan. His sister and her two children came to the US to visit my sister and her son (her husband is working out of the country right now). Sam and Halima had exchanged a few letters as pen pals, with my sister translating. And when my sister and her husband lived across the street from them in Tashkent, Halima and Muhammed got to know my kids via pictures and movies. When my sister visited us she'd bring pictures and movies of them. So, when we knew that Halima and Muhammed were coming to visit, we knew we had to get up to see them somehow. We squeezed in a visit last weekend.
We had a wonderful time. Although it was their first time meeting, the kids felt like they already knew each other. It was so cool seeing them figure out how to communicate even though we don't speak Karakalpak and they don't speak much English.
In other highlights Sam was thrilled to finally see an R2-D2 mailbox!
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