Melissa Anne Cohen

I’m back!  I took a week or so off from blogging and writing, not intentionally, really.  Part of it was that I had all the kids home for vacation, so things were crazy and hectic.  But a bigger part of it was that I had just finished taking a book proposal class and needed some time to think about it.

I finished my book proposal, and got as far as finding an agent or two that I wanted to send it to.  But I wanted to pause for a minute, catch my breath, and think about what I wanted from the book.  And what I wanted for myself, going forward.  How big do I want the blog to get, how much of a platform am I comfortable with, what exactly are my dreams and goals.

I’m not certain what the answers are yet.  But I feel refreshed and ready to pick it up again.   I love to write, and more than loving to write, I really need to write.  It’s how I process stuff, it’s how I think about things.  And I need to have it read.  There’s something incredibly satisfying to me when someone reads what I wrote and likes it.  But I’m not comfortable putting so much of myself out there, in a huge public sort of way, so I’m going to slow it down, stop putting all this pressure on myself to build an audience and expand the platform.  I’m going to focus on that which I do well, and that which I know I love doing.  Blogging for me, for MassMoms and InterfaithFamily.com.  I’m going to investigate freelance writing, actually getting paid for some of this stuff would be fabulous.  I’ve had a couple of pieces published.  Let’s look into getting some more.

And my book.  I love my book, not that it’s much more than a pretty proposal right now, but I think it has potential to be something wonderful.  It’s about my spiritual journey thus far, how I came to be comfortable and then enthusiastic about Judaism, and how I was able to convert while still feeling as though I didn’t have abandon who I am.  It’s a big book for me, it’s a topic I’ve been writing about since I met Marc, and I’m definitely going to continue working on that as well.

It’s hard for me to be ambitious.  I’m not sure why, I think part of it is transitioning from full time motherhood – I have been so focused for the past decade on having babies that thinking about what I want, for me, for my professional life, is literally something I’m not used to doing.  And even as I write that, I can hear Julianna starting to yell at her sister, and Jessie starting to get aggravated with her.  Which reinforces why it’s hard to focus on myself at times.  Is it just me?  Are there other moms out there that struggle to find time and space to think about themselves?

It’s hard for me.   For a whole bunch of different reasons – one of which I’m pretty sure is because I had my kids late (compared to my siblings – I was 29, with three younger siblings and nine nieces and nephews before Jessica was born).  I had also been the family babysitter for my mother’s younger siblings.  There were four or five of my younger cousins (I’m the second oldest of 23 grandchildren) that I was enormously close to.  So I had spent probably fifteen years or so having to give kids back to their parents, hearing them cry when I left and not being able to do anything about it.

I always wanted to be a mother, for as long as I could remember.  I mothered everyone and everything I could.  It’s family lore that I was my siblings’ second mother, I started babysitting at ten, and still do it today.  I took my cousins overnight when they were toddlers and I was in my teens.  When I had nieces and nephews of my own, I took them as often I as I could.

It’s no real surprise that my kids would be especially attached to me.  Kids have always liked me.  I like them.  And I like my kids more than I’ve ever liked anyone :-).   I want them with me.  Sending them to school or dropping them off with people isn’t my favorite.  My default is to want them with me.  Even when I’m so tired of refereeing between Jessie and Sam and I think if Julie asks to nurse one more time, I’m going to cry, I still would rather they be with me than not.

BUT – they need to feel safe without me.  They need to feel like their whole world is bigger than me, and in order for that to happen, I need to give them time without me.  Sam, in particular, has really struggled with it.  And I think I’ve trained myself to meet that need, to be there all the time, in hopes that when he feels comfortable, it’ll be easier for him. I worried, a lot, that Sam’s separation issues were my fault.  But then I had Julie, and she was just such a vastly different personality that I was able to see that kids are who they are from the very beginning. As much as I tend to blame myself for everything with the kids, there’s only so much of it that I can really claim.

Julie just came into the world delighted with everyone, convinced that everyone is her friend.  I didn’t do that, it’s just who she is.  And Sam’s determination that the world is better when I’m at his side is just a part of his personality as well.

I’ve noticed, over the past few weeks or so, that Julie has become increasingly shy.  More reluctant to engage with people, more likely to hide behind me when people talk to her.  Because that’s a major shift from where she was before, I wanted to try and find ways to make her more comfortable, so I asked people to start taking her without me.  She’s literally with me, all the time.  Becky, my mother, Marc, etc.  I joined the local gym, not really because I wanted to work out, but because it was an easy reason for me to get out of the house and leave her with Marc on the weekends. I left her with my mother yesterday and took the older kids hiking, and she had a wonderful time.  I’m even thinking that I could leave her with my mother for a few hours a week and take the laptop somewhere and actually get some uninterrupted writing time on my book.

I dropped her off with my mother yesterday, and took the older two to Purgatory Chasm for hiking with Becky.  I was dreading it so much, as much as I intellectually knew it was the right decision.  The kids really wanted to go, it’s not safe to bring a little one to Purgatory, and there’s literally nobody else I trust more than my mother with my kids.   Marc, of course, but he was working.

And Julie was fine.   More than fine.  She waved me off happily enough, and had a fabulous time with her Grammy.  They fed ducks, visited cousins, went shopping, and she was sunshiney happy the whole time.  Burst into tears when she saw me and immediately crawled into my lap and nursed for a bit, but she had fun.

– Sam is kind of in a unique position as the only boy among all the girls.  I wonder how that’ll impact him throughout his life.  We spent yesterday at the zoo, with five Cohen girls and one Cohen boy.  He stands out because he’s the youngest (Julie is so much younger than the girls that she also stands out) but he also stands out because he’s the lone boy in the middle of all that estrogen.

– Speaking of estrogen, we had a 14 year old, two 11 year olds, and a 10 year old girl.  Adolescence run amok, there were tears, hurt feelings, frantic running and playing like they were afraid we’d tell them they were too old to go on the swings.  It’s a completely different experience, going to the zoo with that many older kids.

– I love that we have the Cohen Girls.  I love that it’s a group of girls who are sisters and best friends and mortal enemies all rolled into one.  I especially love that one of the Cohen Girls is actually a Chambers – Glennys is down for the week from North Conway, and it feels like my family is complete again.

– I don’t like having two cars.  Yes, it makes my life a thousand times easier, it makes Marc’s life a zillion times easier.  But I miss driving with him, I miss the long conversations we’d have together with all the kids in the backseat.  I was lonely driving home, especially when the two kids riding with me fell asleep ten minutes into the hour long drive.

– Julie is growing up as the much adored mascot of this family.  She’s so absolutely convinced of her place in the world and completely secure and content about it.  I envy her sometimes – wouldn’t that be a cool way to grow up?  A big older brother she adores (confession – I wanted an older brother in the WORST way when I was younger), and three (sometimes four) older, gorgeous sisters that are so much older she won’t feel the need to compete with them?  I think she’s got the best birth placement in the bunch….

– Jessie is so grown up and beautiful… I still can’t quite believe it.  I’m not stunned that Sam is almost seven.  I’m not even (that much) thrown off about Julie turning three – because I’ve already adapted to Jessica being that age.  You know what I mean?  But the mere fact that Jessie is ten still takes me by surprise.

Julianna isn’t a baby.  Not really.  She’s a few weeks away from turning three years old, but if you ask her, she’s still a baby.  She watches “baby shows” and likes “baby books.”  She also (and this is what inspired this post) likes her “baby potty.”  She’s been potty trained for a long time, we started with potty training soon after her second birthday.  I never thought she’s actually do it, I thought I’d just get her a potty and let her get used to it.  She loved the whole idea of it, and potty trained really, really fast.

She was easily a year ahead of her her brother and sister, in terms of when they were reliably potty trained.  She was good to go, day and night, by mid-September, and I honestly can’t remember the last time she had an accident.  Sounds great, right?  BUT – she’s only ever gone on her little pink potty.  She’ll use other kids’ potties, if we happen to be at someone’s house and they happen to have a potty training toddler (which happens more often than you’d think).  But sitting on the big toilet is completely an anathema to her.  She’s horrified at the suggestion of it.

It works, kind of.  She’s like a camel, with amazing bladder control.  She can easily hold it for a few hours or so.  Sometimes longer.  If we’re going to be out all day, I’ll usually tote along the little pink potty, but it’s only for a while, say half a day max, I’ll just have her go first and trust that she’ll be okay.  I always have an extra outfit in my bag for her, but I’ve never actually needed it.

But really – she’s got to move on.  Jessie never used a little potty, my girl potty trained herself after I gave up, and just started sitting on the toilet on her own.  Sam moved over to the big potty pretty quickly too, within a week or two, I think.  But Julie is adamant, babies don’t go on the big potty, and she’s a baby.  I bought her a little Minnie Mouse toilet seat that sits on the toilet, and she’s amused by it.  It’s got Minnie on it, so she likes it, but the thought that she’s supposed to use it is crazy.  As she explained to me today, babies don’t sit on the big potty.  I pointed out that Mama couldn’t use Minnie, Minnie was just for babies, but you could tell that she thought I was an idiot.  She politely told me that she’d still be using her pink potty and then left the room.  Leaving me to wonder if she’d still be using the little pink potty for the rest of her life….

It’s the “baby” thing that confuses me, honestly.  Most kids seem to WANT to be big kids – and there’s very little about this girl that would make you think of a baby.  She’s fully verbal, completely potty trained (pink potty obsession aside), drinks from a cup, feeds herself neatly.  She can clean up after herself, tattle on her siblings, and has memorized several books (leading the uninformed to believe that she can read).  But she’s still nursing, and I think that’s what’s really driving the “baby” desire.  Babies nurse, and she’s not willing to give up that title and the privileges that go along with it.  I’m not sure where she got that impression, I nursed Sam until he was closer to four, so while I’m more than ready for Julie to be done with nursing, it’s not like I’m pushing for her to wean anytime soon.  It’s not even like she’s nursing all that much anymore.  She really only nurses when she’s ready for sleep – or if she’s really emotionally stressed out.  Which doesn’t happen all that often, so it’s not unusual for her to go all day without it, especially because the nap is becoming more and more a thing of the past.

But for now, I’m happy with my “baby.”  Even though she’s not a baby, and she and I both know that.  She’s a big girl, and getting ever bigger every day.  And maybe someday soon, she’ll actually use the Minnie toilet seat… and if not, well, she’s a skinny kid.   I bet her little butt will fit on that training potty for a long time to come.

I’m so excited to be a part of the Ultimate Blog Party!  My name is Melissa, and I’m a happily married mom of three, and stepmom of two.  My stepdaughters are Lilli (14) and Sarah (12).  My daughter Jessica is ten, my son Sam is 6 and my baby girl is turning three (insert dramatic sob here because calling her “my baby” is starting to sound a little silly) at the end of the month.

I’ve been blogging for several years, and recently moved from a blogspot blog over to my own website.  I’m in the process of writing a book about my conversion to Judaism, and am alternately thrilled and anxiety ridden about it.

I write about parenting and marriage and religion.  Mostly, I write about my life, and the way I see it.  I’m a mom who reads too much, my living room is always a disaster, I’m a great baker, but a terrible cook.   When I’m not writing, I’m usually folding laundry or unloading the dishwasher (because really, it feels like that’s all I do sometimes).

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I still remember this night so clearly – and am profoundly grateful, after reading about this week from last April, that we haven’t experienced the hell that is the stomach flu again…

There’s something magical about nighttime parenting.  Something elemental and bare bones about it, when it’s the middle of the night, and your child is sick.  When the bed is covered in vomit, and the baby is sobbing in confusion and misery and the only thing to do, the only thing to do is be the mom, in the best and most real sense.

It was two thirty in the morning, and Day Six (or is it Seven?) of one of my kids dealing with the stomach flu.  I’ve scrubbed down the car seat more times than I can count, washed so much laundry that I legitimately fear I’ll never catch up again.  I’ve got mixing bowls strategically placed all over the house, just in case the urge to throw up hits and they can’t get to the potty quick enough.  I’ve only actually been puked on a couple of times, and  have grown inordinately proud of my five year old’s ability to run for a bucket.  But my baby, my tiny little almost two year old – she doesn’t know to reach for a bucket, and while she’s incredibly verbal, she didn’t have the words to tell me before she threw up all over the bed.  All over me.  All over her.

After a few minutes when she sobbed and retched and I rubbed her back and tried hard to keep it from getting on the king size comforter (the one too big to wash in my machine), it was over.  I stripped us both, grabbing my husband’s t-shirt and some old sweats for me, and carrying her into the living room.  I riffled thru the clean laundry basket for new jammies for her, and settled down on the couch in the dark living room.  She was still whimpering, half asleep, horrified and confused.  I snuggled her down in a blanket and nursed her.  Grateful, because at two years old, she’s still nursing and I knew that it would calm her down and she’d be able to keep breastmilk down even if she couldn’t keep down the chicken and broccoli I’d fed her for dinner.

It was just the two of us.  The birds were starting to sing outside, and the room was dark enough so I couldn’t see the clutter of toys and books on the floor.  I was able to justbe for a while.  To hold my baby girl when she was sick, when the only thing in the world that would make her world right was to be right here, in my arms, with her long eyelashes casting shadows on her cheek and her big, big eyes looking up at me.  That, right there, that moment, that’s what makes me grateful for the middle of the night puke-fests of parenting.  Sure, it’s messy and today, I can’t drink enough coffee to keep my eyes all the way open – but I know that last night is a night that I’ll remember when she’s five years old and tells me I’m the worst mother in the world, and when she’s nine and rolling her eyes at me when she thinks I’m not looking.  I’ll remember when it was just she and I, a dark night, with birds chirping and big, big eyes gazing up at me.

Yom HaShoah starts on Sunday night and ends on Monday at sundown.

I haven’t taught the kids about the Holocaust yet.  Other than in the most general of terms – they know about WWII, and they know that Hitler and the Nazis were terrible, terrible people, and they did awful things to the Jews.  They even know that a lot of Jewish people died during the war, and that’s part of why Jews are such a minority.

But the details… yeah, I can barely bring myself to think about them, how do I talk about them with my kids?  And by kids, you know I mean Jessica, as Sam is still too young for any detailed discussion of it.

I wonder how old I was when I read the Diary of Anne Frank.  Junior high?  I feel like I remember some sort of presentation down in the cafeteria.  But junior high was fifth through eighth grade in Maynard.  I’m guessing it was seventh or eighth grade.

Jessie and I were talking earlier on the way to her slumber party, and I told her that she was going to be going to the religious school class on it on Monday.  She knows about the Holocaust, but really has no idea.  She asked if it was as bad as 9/11.  Worse, I said.  It was much worse.  Then she asked what they did all day in the concentration camps, and I really stumbled over my answer.  I don’t even know exactly what I said… something about it being like a prison, and that it was horrible beyond words.  I started to think about the pictures I’ve seen, and actually started to say that people starved, and then I stopped.  Remembered that she’s only ten.

I don’t know that I’m old enough to really understand the Holocaust.  Are you ever really?  And if you aren’t – then when do I tell her?  How do you tell your child what happened?  This was her family.  If we had been alive then, and living in Germany, it would have been us.  That’s terrifying – and for a sensitive kid, for any kid, hell, for any adult, that’s … I don’t have words.

We’ll light the candle together on Sunday night, and we’ll talk a little about it.  General terms, avoiding any graphic descriptions, and reassure her, and her brother and sister, that we live today in America, and that we’re safe.   And we’ll tell her, and her brother and sister when they’re old enough, that they have a special obligation to remember, to make the world better, in whatever way they can.   To make the world a place where the Holocaust never happens again.

It’s my new catch phrase.  I use it whenever one of the kids starts to go a little nuts.  Freaking out over a ponytail is my latest example.  This morning was going great, everyone was up and happy and content.  Sam got dressed, ate, did everything he was supposed to do with a smile, Julianna even managed to haul herself out of bed early and got dressed super fast so she could come drive them to school.  Jessica Mary, my angel girl, had gotten up super early and was bopping around her room, completely content.  I took the younger two out to the car, and was in the middle of buckling in the baby when Jessie came roaring out of the house, hair all over the place and sobbing with rage and frustration that she couldn’t get a ponytail to work.

Knowing that Sam will lose his mind if he’s late, I told Julie to get into her seat and shut the car door.  Then I guided Jessie in the house, speaking calmly and trying to diffuse the emotion.  I pulled her hair into a quick pony, and then walked her back out, still completely ignoring the fact that she’s still crying and devastated that her hair is too short and she “just doesn’t know what to DO.”

Once we got in the car (Sammy had buckled Julie in) and got on the way, I finally got Jessie to calm down.  And then we had a discussion the whole way into school about how each of us has our own craziness – things that make no rational sense to anyone else, but make us go nuts.   It’s important to recognize the crazy – understand that it’s got power to make us miserable but also that it’s just crazy, it’s not real and it’s not rational, and we should try and not let it make us insane.

My new rules are to recognize the crazy, keep it at home (special rule for my Sammy, who likes to let the crazy out wherever), and not give it so much power.    It’s okay to have your mind scream that your hair is horrible, but you need to step back and remember that you had days you hated your hair even before your haircut, and that if everyone else is telling you that you look beautiful, then maybe it’s just the crazy talking.  It’s okay to panic because you’re late for school, but if the worst thing that happens is that you get a late slip so that when you’re marked absent, it can be corrected – then maybe it’s just the crazy talking again.