Melissa Anne Cohen

My kids are sick. Vomit everywhere, and it’s one of those situations that make me profoundly grateful to have a partner. Being raised by a single parent, I’m achingly aware of how hard it is to parent alone, and consistently surprised, even after nine years of raising children together, how very NICE it is to have a buddy. Someone to clean the puke when you’re cleaning the kids. Someone to disinfect the floor when you’re changing a sleepy, sobbing, sick girl. Someone to bring you coffee when the sick child is asleep on top of you. 


Marriage is made up of many things. There’s a sense of friendship, genuine camaraderie. My husband is really a fun guy to be around, his mind is fast and his sense of humor is infectious. There’s a shared intellectual bend to us – we both are geared more intellectually, we like to read and debate and think – we follow politics and argue religious theory for fun. There’s a sense of passion, a physical attraction that’s always there too. But I think the key to our marriage, what makes our marriage better than most, is that we’re on the same team. We have the same goals, we’re walking the same path. We live dramatically different lives, in so many ways. He’s out of the house five days a week, and I’m at home taking care of kids. We are incredibly different in other ways too – he’s much more structured, more organized and a lot goofier than I am. But he’s my best friend, and my partner, and after the past three days of being puked on, I’m incredibly aware of how blessed I am to have him, to be able to share this life, these kids (puke and all) with him. 

My kids don’t throw up.  As a rule.  They just don’t.  Colds, sure.  Allergies like you wouldn’t believe, the two older ones cough and sneeze their way thru the spring and fall.  But throwing up (with the exception of vomit from excessive coughing and post-nasal drip in the middle of the night) is so rare.   Which is why I’m just not used to this – maybe it it happened more often, I wouldn’t feel like I’d been run over with a truck.

Poor Sammy starting complaining of an upset stomach yesterday.  I thought it was just stress, it was the end of April vacation, maybe  there was some anxiety around going back to school.  Plus Glennys was leaving too – that always messes him up.  But no, he really was sick, and starting seriously throwing up around dinner time.  And kept puking, including one notable time when he missed his little bucket he’d been carrying around with him and projectile vomited all over me.  He threw up every couple of hours last night – and I don’t think  I really slept at all.   Every time I’d start to doze off, he’d start Jessie woke up around four thirty or five, and threw up all over herself and the bathroom.  Thank goodness for Marc, because at that point, I was so incredibly exhausted that I couldn’t face it.  I took care of Jessie and Marc bleached the bathroom.

Sam seems much better this morning.  He’s been up for an hour and a half, and is, thus far, keeping down ginger ale.  He’s bopping around, playing with Julie and seems to be much better.  Jessica Mary is still sleeping, and I’m in no rush to wake her.  Julianna, thank goodness, seems to be fine.  She’s still nursing, and I’m so grateful for that.  Because I know that she either won’t get sick at all, or if she does, it’ll be so much less intense because I can keep her hydrated so much easier.  She’s more likely to be able to tolerate breastmilk than anything else.

Friday was Earth Day at the Ecotarium, and I loved it.   I brought my three, plus two extra on the theory that if you’re going to the Eco, you should always bring extras.  We bought our first membership to the Ecotarium nine years ago, and it’s completely, completely worth it.  With a large family, by the time we’ve gone twice, the membership has more than paid for itself.   Plus you get in free at a bunch of other museums, like the Childrens Museum and the Science Museum in Boston.

We had just a lovely, lovely day there.  The kids had a blast, playing on the playground, checking out the new games exhibit, and hanging out up in the Mt. Washington exhibit on the first floor.  The Hurricane Tube was a huge hit.  I had packed a picnic lunch, and found a quiet spot in the cafeteria to eat with everyone.  After everyone was done, I nursed Julianna to sleep and laid her in the carriage (which she had refused to ride in while awake) and then was able to just wheel her around following the kids.  We went on the loop trail around the  pond, when I discovered that it’s definitely NOT carriage friendly.   So then I was left with a dilemma – we were about a third of the way around, and I had a ten year old, two nine year olds and a five year old.  Should I make them all come back with me, because I can’t supervise them or do I trust that they’ll trek around the pond and be fine?  I weighed the options, and erred on the side of letting them go.  I was babysitting at ten, and I would be within shouting distance the whole time.

They emerged on the other side, delighted and proud of themselves.  And we timed it perfectly, because Julie woke up just as they came up the path.  We went back inside, wandered around a little more and then headed home.

All in all, an awesome day at the Eco.  The weather was ideal, the kids were perfectly behaved, and Julianna got a great nap.  It was the perfect ending to a really, really great April vacation.

We spent the whole week busy, busy, busy – and yet I’m having a hard time articulating what we did.  There were baths given, meals cooked, naps taken and playgrounds visited.  We saw cousins and aunts and grandmothers, and mostly spent the entire week outside.

Sam had a tick in his ear.  It had been there overnight, and I just thought it was a little cut.  Today, I tried to touch it and LITTLE LEGS CAME OUT.  I was horrified, obviously, and it was one of those moments when you wish like hell that someone else was here to handle but have to reluctantly admit to yourself that you are the mama and you have to handle it.  Bugs.  I hate bugs.  But I was the grown up, and finally just had to hold him down, kicking and screaming and scrape it out of his ear.  I got the whole thing, and flushed it.  Then Marc came home (a little late in the game, but he was working) and treated it with hydrogen peroxide and then some antibiotic ointment.

Jessie and Sam both have killer allergies, Jessie more so than Sam, but they’ve both been coughing and sneezing non-stop.  I gave them both some zyrtek this morning, and they are SO much better.  Jessie actually came home after our trip to the park and curled up in bed and slept for three hours.  I don’t  know if it was the allergy meds themselves, or just that she finally could breathe enough to sleep.

Julianna Ruth has LOVED having everyone home for the week.  It’s her favorite, and she’s been so cute.  I mean, she’s cute anyway – but now that she’s talking, it’s just awesome.  She’s got this little head of curls, and big, big eyes.  And she’s just delighted by everything.  Unless she’s not.  There’s no middle ground with this kid – she’s either passionately thrilled or bitterly upset.  She’d oddly stubborn about clothes, still hates a bath and loves her daddy.

Not that we’re interfaith, technically.  I did convert to Judaism – we’re all of the same faith.  BUT – and it’s a big but, in my opinion, we are different.  Marc is very devout, especially around keeping kosher for Passover.  And I am not.  At best, I really enjoy the seders (when I can actually participate, which is rare, because I always seem to have a fussy child demanding attention), and I’d be great if we were just incorporating a lot more matzoh into everyone’s diet) but following rules is hard for me.  Especially when the rules don’t make sense to me.

I’m not a rule breaker by nature.  I’m not a rebel in most regards, but I don’t like doing something just because. And having to keep kosher for Passover isn’t something I’d ever choose to do on my own.  Marc does, but I don’t mind that.  Marc’s an adult, and I respect his spiritual beliefs.  As I know he respects mine.  The hard part comes with the kids.

There are certainly ways in which my childhood differs dramatically from that of my children.  And some of those ways are wonderful – I love that my kids have two loving committed parents.  And they have a much stronger religious identity than I did at that age.  I was always sort of spiritually inclined, but we were haphazardly Catholic, with a lot of pagan, new age stuff mixed in.  I belonged to the Church of Melissa – and it worked for me.  My mother is very spiritual, but I always felt as though my spiritual beliefs were mine – they were self-directed.  She encouraged me to ask questions, to think and read and make up my own mind. My kids are growing up Jewish – and that’s completely, completely different.

For some, converting to Judaism is like coming home.  It’s a framework for belief, it’s a sense of belonging to something bigger than themselves.  For me, it was different.  I already had a belief system, I had already kind of figured out for myself how I thought the universe worked, and I’m good with it.  Judaism is a good fit for me, the belief in one deity, the immediate connection to the Divine, the obligation to make the world a better place, the sense of wanting to elevate common, every day things to a sacred level.  I love Judaism – but I don’t follow all of the 613 commandments.  I don’t even think I’m supposed to – I think that blind adherence to the rules is not admirable.

So what do I do with two (and soon to be three) kids who want to keep kosher for Passover?  How do I honor that, and not cry with sadness and frustration because they are growing up with this vastly different way of looking at things?  How do I not feel alienated and different from my children, and how do I reconcile that in such a way that I can give them what they want and need from me – which is approval and respect and admiration for their own fiercely held beliefs, even when I don’t agree with them?

I do it – and I think I do it well.  I say the right things, and because I’m with them all the time, it’s really me doing it.   Marc approved hugely of it, and is thrilled that his kids want to do this, and thinks it’s vital that we support them – but it’s me doing all the meal prep and planning, and packing lunches and dealing with snack requests.  And this was a LONG Passover week for me.  Because Jessie is getting older and more definite about things, and Sam is old enough now to understand and want to do it too.

I’ll keep doing it, because they need that.  They need my support and approval – but I’m profoundly grateful that Passover is over.

This is what Julie has been telling me all morning.  We’re having the “Irish Seder” tomorrow night and the only turkey I could find is frozen solid.  So I tossed it into the tub and Julie is flat out delighted by it.  Of course, she’s always happy when someone OTHER than her is taking a bath, so I guess it’s to be expected.

In other news… all is well in my little world.  House is sort of, kind of clean.  If your standards are low, and fortunately, mine are.  If the dishes are done, and the amount of clean laundry outweighs the amount of dirty, I’m good.  Bonus points if at least one of the major rooms is swept/vacuumed.

No major plans for April vacation… Glennys will be down for the week (a fact that is bringing my children enormous amounts of joy) and I’m just planning a lovely week where I don’t have to force anyone to go to school.  Re: school – no decision has been made as to what to do with the boy child.  I don’t want him to stay back, I feel like he’s socially ready, probably still a little academically behind, but we can work with that.  His main problem is separating from me, and he’s getting better.  Argh… I’m not going to rehash this right now – I can feel my mind starting to go in circles again about it.  I’m just taking a wait and see attitude.  It’s only April.

During Passover, observant Jews aren’t supposed to eat bread.  Or pasta.  Or cereal.  And Marc keeps kosher for Passover, and oddly enough, so do my kids.

I love Passover, it’s one of my favorite Jewish holidays, but I don’t love keeping kosher for Passover.  I really don’t like matzoh, which is the staple of our diet this week.  I think part of it is that I don’t like being told NOT to do something, and part of it is my own issues around converting to Judaism.  It’s critical to me that formally converting to Judaism be an addition to my life, not a subtraction.  And forcing myself to give something up just feels WRONG to me.   I love the Seders, I enjoy a little matzoh with mexican cheese and salsa.  I love me some matzoh ball soup.  But I know that left to my own devices, I’d observe Passover by adding matzoh into my diet, and not by subtracting anything with grain.

But I do it, because (and I’m baffled by this) my kids seem to really enjoy it.  They love the restrictions, they love the specialness of the whole thing.   I honor that – I respect their right to make choices about how observant they want to be.  Without ever forcing the issue, they just seem to really enjoy the restrictions.  If it was a problem, I’d be yanking out the ramen noodles and mac and cheese and cheerios, but they seem delighted about it.
 
So I’m keeping kosher for Passover.  There’s a whole lot of matzoh going on over here these days, Jessie is taking matzoh and peanut butter to school for lunch, Sam is eating matzoh brie like it’s going out of style and Julie’s go-to snack is matzoh pizza.  Meanwhile, I’m just counting the days until it’s over, and making secret plans to sneak out for chinese food by myself.

I blame myself.  For pretty much all of it.  To be fair, I also give myself credit when things are going well.  When the kids are well behaved, healthy, happy.  But when there are problems – I’m pretty sure it’s all my fault.    Case in point, my little Samilicious Boy.  His teacher is recommending that we hold him back for an extra year of kindergarten and I’m horrified.  Can’t stop trying to figure out where I messed up, where did I go wrong?  I feel bitterly betrayed by the attachment parenting movement – which assured me over and over again that if I held him when he cried, if I nursed him until he was ready to stop, if I co-slept and loved him and nurtured him – he’d grow into a confident, secure kid.  But I did all of those things, and his teacher wants to hold him back because she fears he’s too fragile to handle the pressure of first grade.  How did I manage to screw up so badly?  Why can my five year old not hack it like his friends?

So, you see, I blame myself.  Maybe I did baby him.  That’s what my family is going to think.  They told me not to nurse him that long.  But I thought it was the right thing.  I still kind of think that it was, and given that I’m currently still nursing his almost two year old sister with no plans on stopping, I guess I must still think it was.  Because there’s a part of me that thinks that kids just are who they are.  And Sam’s not fragile, he’s just stubborn and determined and incredibly introverted.  He’s smart and kind and so, so sweet – and I think he’ll do just fine in first grade.

I think yesterday was a bad day, and to base a decision on his future ability to handle first grade on his behavior yesterday exclusively is not the right way to go.  I’m leaning strongly to pushing him ahead.  Academically, he can handle it, socially, he’s already advanced so much from where he was eight months ago at the start of the school year.

We’ll wait and see.  I googled yesterday – and found nothing really helpful.  It appears as though studies have shown that holding them back a year isn’t really that beneficial, and that more and more kids are being “redshirted”, and started a year late.  He’s vaguely on the young side, he’ll graduate at seventeen if we don’t hold him back.   But then I also read that retaining them for academic reasons is discouraged, but if a kid is being held back for confidence or school readiness, then that’s a kid who would really benefit from the extra year.

I don’t know what to do.  And because I don’t know – I’m super easily swayed one way or another.  I read one article assuring me that it’s not a good idea, and I’m convinced.  I talk to a friend who thinks I should hold him back, give him an extra year, and I waver.  I talked to his Hebrew school teacher who said to push him ahead, but make sure he’s got structured activities all summer, I talked to another friend who’s also a teacher and she said to push him ahead.  I’m all baffled and confused – leaning towards moving him up, but not fully convinced that it’s the right thing.   And either way – I still feel guilty.

Okay – so it was a three day weekend.  Four day, as Sam had been home sick last Thursday.  And the weekend was filled with seders and late nights, so he’s still somewhat sleep deprived.  So maybe I should have seen it  coming.  But I didn’t.

He absolutely lost it this morning at drop off.  Hysterical sobbing, refusing to get out of the van, it was awful.  I made him go – there was no good reason for him not to.  He had gotten a solid eleven hours of sleep last night, he wasn’t sick – he needed to go.  But I feel like the worst mother in the world.  He’s so little, and why am I teaching him that I’ll just drive away when he’s sobbing and miserable and desperate for a hug?

I think sometimes that I was scarred by the attachment parenting literature I read so much of.   Too many descriptions of how crying it out is just teaching your infant that you won’t be there for them.  He’s almost six years old, he’s at school with familiar teachers and I’m not abandoning him.   I’m not.  Right?

I know he’s fine now.  I know that.  I know that his teacher will hug him and love him and that he needs the time with kids his own age, and with adults that he can trust other than me.  I know that he’s grown up so much this year, become so much more confident and happy and self assured.  I know that.  So why can’t I get the image of his little sobbing face out of my mind?  Why do I keep reliving it?  I counted to three to get him out of the car, and was totally unsympathetic – any sympathy from me would have made it worse.  So I dragged him out of the car and passed him off to the teacher and then sat in the van and sobbed.  The secretary gestured for me to go, so I drove back home, and called to make sure that he was okay.

He is.  I’m not, but he is.

Parenting doesn’t get any easier.  When they get bigger.  I mean, it gets a little less labor intensive – but mentally – it’s just as hard.  Harder.  Because their wants are not their needs.  It’s not easy to know what’s the right thing to do.  And even harder to guess.  Is it right to send him to school?  Is it wrong to shelter him?  Given the choice, Sam would stay home 24/7.   I have to push him out of the nest a little, just to show him that the world is a good place and that he’s safe and loved and secure.

I know he’s better off at school, I can see the difference in him.  He’s voluntarily going to playdates, he’s chatting with relatives and enjoying time with other people.  He’s exposed to new ideas and new things, and that’s awesome for him.  But this morning was horrible, and I feel like the worst mother in the world.

This is the Passover of many Seders.  We’ve had three so far, and I’m weary of plagues and prophets.  Today, we threw Easter into the mix and the kids are gorging themselves on chocolate.  Which, combined with a bedtime last night of eleven-ish, is going to make for an extra fun afternoon 🙁

In other news… Julianna has learned to say her name.  She self identifies as Julianna, which is interesting, as all three of my kids have nicknames and the other two always went by those names.  Jessie will tell you her name is Jessica, but that didn’t start until she started school, and Sam still self identifies as Sammy.  But Jules is clear that her name is Julianna.  Not Julie.  Or Crabbianna, which is, often, what I call her.