Melissa Anne Cohen

Easter is not a big deal to me.  I have a lot more issues in December, because Christmas is such a big holiday and Hanukkah is such a minor Jewish one.  But in the spring – Passover is one of my favorite Jewish holidays and Easter has always been less significant.  I think this year it’s particularly difficult to get excited about Easter because of the timing.  Passover starts on Friday night and we’ve got big Seders on Friday and Saturday and then doing Easter the next day just seems… like overkill.  Like it’s too much. Like it’s unnecessary.  I dislike it in December too – when Hanukkah and Christmas are too close together.  As someone who celebrates the Jewish  holidays because I’m, you know, Jewish, and the other holidays because I grew up, you know, not Jewish – it’s always a struggle to do justice to both.

So why bother with Easter at all?  Good question, and one that I’ve pondered a couple of times.  Because I am Jewish, and absolutely going to celebrate Hanukkah and Passover.  But there’s a part of me that really needs for Judaism to be an addition to my life, and not represent a subtraction.  I want my spirituality to fit into my life, not to represent things that I have to give up and lose.  And it’s critical to me that my children know and celebrate their whole heritage – and only half of that heritage is Jewish.

It’s tough to explain – because while I’m content and satisfied with my religious choices, and secure in the knowledge that my children are Jewish, that Marc and I are specifically raising a Jewish family and living a Jewish life, I’m also not ashamed of the fact that my family of orgin is mostly Irish Catholic pagan witches.  I like that reality.  I don’t want to lose that.  I don’t want my kids to feel ashamed that they don’t have a Bubbie who makes gefilte fish and chopped liver. I want them to love that they a Grammy and a Dzidzi who decorate for Easter and hide eggs and give them way too much candy every year.

And they do – I know the conflict is more in my head than in theirs.   They’re fine with bringing macaroons and chocolate matzoh to the Easter celebrations, and believe firmly that the Easter bunny will drop off baskets here on Sunday morning.  They know they’re Jewish, they know they celebrate my family’s holidays because one of the tenets (one of the Commandments, really) is to honor your parents, and that’s what Mama does.  We celebrate the holidays because it’s what my mother wants.  It’s what my grandmother would want, if she was still alive.  Not that they celebrate Christian holidays, but that they know, down deep on a level they’d never question, that they are connected to generations past.  That they are part of a larger family – and they are blessed to belong to two extended families.  One that celebrates Passover and one that celebrates Easter.

And nail clippers under the couch.  I also store scissors in the drawer next to the stove and a hair brush in my knitting bag.  Not necessarily on purpose, more that I’ve noticed that that is where they’ve ended up, and make the deliberate choice to keep them there.  The sharpie markers in the freezer – I have actually managed to collect all of them and put them in the freezer after noticing that the yellow one had someone made it in there and still functioned perfectly well.  It strikes me a great storage spot, high enough up so that none of the kids can find it, and easy enough to access if I decide I need it.

My organizational skills are somewhat haphazard.  I feel as though I’m sort of organized, I haven’t lost any of the children, and can almost always locate my keys and sunglasses.  I did have to drive the kids to school today barefoot because I couldn’t find my shoes, but that’s rare.

It drives my husband nuts, the way I keep things organized.  He’s the exact opposite of me.  There’s very little he keeps track of, but what he does keep track of is always meticulously put back where it belongs.  His dresser drawers are organized to a scary degree, in my opinion, and I think it’s a little disturbing to be able to recite from memory exactly where you put the peanut butter.   For me, it’s enough that the socks are washed and dried.  In a basket, or in a drawer.  I gave up sorting socks a couple of months ago, and have successfully taught the children that mismatched socks are the preferred choice.  Only boring people match their socks.  At least that’s what I tell them.  Jessie is a little less likely to believe it, but even she’s flexible enough to wing it.  I don’t think Sam even notices.

I know vaguely where almost everything is.  And that’s a lot of stuff.  I have three children, two of which are major hoarders, and a ridiculous amount of stuff floats around this house.  I can sort of tell you where most of it is.  Most of the time.  It’s not perfect, for example, I’m still not sure where Julie’s red hat went.  And Jessie’s American Girl had a brush that went missing about two weeks ago, I still can’t locate that.

My system isn’t perfect.  Case in point, my feet were freaking FREEZING this morning on the drive to school.  But I have to give myself points and credit for keeping track of as much as I do.  Three kids, three outfits, three lunchboxes (yes, I know Julie doesn’t need one, but when I tried to convince her of that fact, I lost – now she gets a lunchbox just like the two older kids).  Three coats, three pairs of socks, six shoes.  All of that, and only half a cup of coffee.  That’s impressive.

So I’m not going to feel bad anymore about my lack of organization.  Because really, you can’t compare being able to keep track of five things the way my husband does (keys, wallet, phone, shoes, and peanut butter) and the fifteen thousand things that I’m sort of keeping track of, a little bit.  And when all else fails, at least I know where the sharpies are.

Sammy lost his first tooth on Thursday.  And I cried.  Just a little, because it’s such a major milestone.  His whole smile is different now, and I can’t get used to it.  His tooth had been loose for a while, so we knew it was coming, and as luck would have it, he swallowed it while eating an apple.  It was an occasion of great joy, he was ecstatic, so proud of himself, and only a little freaked out about accidentally swallowing the tooth.

When Jessie lost her first two teeth, it was fairly traumatic.  She had broken her wrist the week before, and had gotten very used to using her mouth as a tool.   She was getting ready for bed, and her shirt got stuck on her wrist, so she grabbed it with her teeth and ripped both her bottom two teeth out.   She came tearing out of her room, hysterically screaming, half naked and dripping blood.  There wasn’t time to get misty.  But this time, I was very aware of what a milestone it was, losing the first tooth.  He’s not a baby anymore, he hasn’t been for a while, and sometimes I still get wistful.  It’s not any easier, watching your second baby grow up.  I thought it would be, for some reason.  I don’t know why it surprises me.  But I find myself watching him more and more, marveling at how very fast he’s grown up.  He still seems so little to me, at times.  But then he’ll do something or say something and I’ll realize that he’s actually so much bigger than he was, and it makes me a little… not sad, just…wistful.

Moving on… Our tooth fairies work a little differently than most families.  Because we’re a step family as well, my daughter was very familiar with the workings of the tooth fairy.  And one of my stepdaughters had benefitted hugely by a dark room, and mother and a grandmother who both slipped what they thought was a dollar under her pillow.  When she woke up and found $40, she was delighted – and the expectation was set for Jessie to profit hugely when she lost TWO teeth at once.  Not having $80 to spare – and being honestly a bit thrown off at having to follow someone else’s guidance, I quickly made up a story about Marigold.  She was OUR tooth fairy, and she was very smart, and knew that Jessie was very smart as well.  So she only gives out one dollar per tooth, but she also writes a detailed note, and gives a new book with each tooth.  A book, a buck, and a note.

But Marigold was clearly a tooth fairy tailored to Jessica.  Sam was a different child, and required a different tooth fairy.  So now we’ve got a family of tooth fairies.  Marigold is Jessica’s and Sam’s is Marigold’s younger brother Eaglefeather.   He’s not as touchy feely as Marigold, more wise, and all knowing.  It’s a different tone in his notes, because Marc writes his notes.  I don’t really like giving up the note writing, but (reluctantly) acknowledge that Marc should be able to be a tooth fairy too.  And I can always console myself with trying to come up with a name for Eaglefeather’s little sister, because I’ve got a soon to be two year old who will one day lose her first tooth.   And I just hope that it’s as happy an occasion as her older brother’s was, and not nearly as bloody and hysteric-inducing as her older sister’s.

I’m not sure I did this on purpose, in fact, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.  But, as it happens sometimes, I managed to create a tradition that my kids adore and look forward to every year.  It’s the Passover Posters.

Having converted to Judaism, I brought a lot of non-Jews to the Seder table, so to speak.  Marc loves a big traditional seder, but his extended family does not.  Since I wanted to keep celebrating with the extended family, and still honor his desire to celebrate the holiday the way he wanted – I devised the Irish Seder several years ago.  I think this is our fifth annual one, and I call it the Irish Seder because, well, I’m Irish.  So as to keep the expectations low – I had never made charoset (which is now my favorite Passover food) or a brisket, I qualified it.  It’s not a Jewish seder, it’s an Irish one.

Each year, it’s gotten a little bigger, as we’ve invited more and more friends, more and more of my side of the family.  It’s now one of the bigger parties we throw (and that’s saying a lot, given that we seem to throw a lot of parties).  Last year, I suggested that the kids make decorations to hang on the wall, explaining the ten plagues, the four questions, etc.  And this year – the kids are so excited about it.  Jessie is working on her third or fourth poster, and Sam is gleefully doing his first.  Last year, he couldn’t be bothered, but this year, he’s all into it.

Jessie’s posters are thoughtful and well designed.  Her posters are all Exodus themed, whereas Sam’s are more just generally Jewish.  For some reason, he’s all about Hanukkah, so his poster has latkes and menorahs, and oddly enough, he wanted to put on a Baby Jesus for his best friend Glennys.  He’s got some lice and blood and a couple of frogs thrown on there too.

They LOVE making these posters.  It’s completely absorbing to them, they’ve already devoted hours to them.  And Passover is still more than a week away.

I mean, I’m glad they know about brushing their teeth, and that cupcakes aren’t healthy and that chewing with your mouth open is bad idea.  But there are other things – little things that make life more fun – that I’m really glad I’ve been able to instill in my kids.

I’m not an overly materialistic person.  I don’t have expensive furnishings around the house.  All of my furniture is second hand or hand me down.  I even stopped buying books after my oldest daughter was born and I realized that I feed my book addiction for free at the library.  But I do have a hard core inability to say no when people try to give me stuff, and I have three children who are incredible pack rats.  Although calling Julie a packrat at this point does seem unfair.  So just the two children who are hoarders.

And my place is LITTLE.  Living room/dining room/kitchen and three bedrooms.  So it’s not ridiculously little, but it feels that way because it’s crowded and cluttered and all the time messy.  Because there’s no storage or playroom.  I clean it constantly, so it’s not dirty, the floors are done, laundry washed, dishes done, etc – but there are always toys and books and dishes cluttered all over the place.

I’m in the middle of putting away groceries, rearranging Jessie’s room, rearranging the dining room and  wondering if I should rearrange the living room.  I’m feeling VERY overwhelmed and choosing to blog instead of finishing one of these projects.  Which is self-defeating, I know that, but still… here we are.

I’m wondering what to do with the clutter.  The kids are gone during the day – should I just gradually get rid of their stuff when they aren’t looking?  I don’t know they’d notice, they’re not really into stuff either – they just hate getting rid of it.  For example, I’ve got one of those big plastic toy buckets, I bet I could get rid of the whole thing and they’d never notice.  And books – I think I went a little overboard on books.  I’m a reader, I love to read.  But while I’m much better about not getting books for me and just going to the library, I’ve obviously just switched to now getting books for KIDS and having them all over the place.  I get away with it because they’re all hand me down books – people love to pass on their books, and I never say no.  I can’t get rid of books, right?  I mean, that would be ridiculous.  What kind of mother gets rid of books???  But there’s a nagging voice inside me that says that there’s about thirty times more books than my kids actually want to read – perhaps cutting down would be a good move?

Okay, maybe I’m a hoarder too.  Because the thought of getting rid of books makes me itchy.  But there’s too much STUFF here.

I was on the phone last night with my cousin Becky, and Julianna was in the living room with a new toy.  The older two kids were in there with her, insisting on playing with her, and they weren’t doing it the way Julie thought they should and she let loose with this screech.  Becky was horrified (because to most people, it sounded like someone just ripped off her arm) and I explained that no, that was just Julie’s preferred method of communication these days.  She’s relatively mild mannered, but don’t cross her.  Because she’ll kill you.  Becky asked what happened to my peaceful, happy, relaxed baby girl, and I sighed and explained that the other two had ruined her.

And I was kidding.  Only a little bit.  Because the fact is that Julianna is the youngest of five (or three, depending on the day) and if she hadn’t developed the skill to stand up for herself, she’d be completely mowed down by them.  Each one of her older siblings love and adore her, and want very much for her to do what they’d like her to do.  Whether it’s to perform in the dance they are choreographing, or sing the song that they’re trying to teach her, or spin around in a circle to impress their friends… realizing that Julianna is a person in her own right, deserving of respect and dignity and honor is a major step for the kids.  For a long  time, she’s been their plaything – she was so obviously delighted in her older siblings, and still knocks herself out to please them.  But she’s also becoming a much stronger willed character these days.

She’s adamant about most things, picks out her own clothes, objects strenuously to a bath, and is still insisting on wearing her batman hat just about everywhere.

When did camisoles become appropriate daytime wear for nine year olds?  Is it just me?  Jessie has several adorable tops someone had given her as hand-me-downs- but they’re camisoles.  Built in little girl bra, spaghetti straps with adjustable bra strap in the back.  And she wants desperately to wear them like shirts, and everyone else seems to think they’re perfectly acceptable as a top.

I didn’t (and don’t) put my girls in bikinis.   I never really thought about it as a policy, I just always seems to gravitate to one piece suits.  And I’m frustrated that I even have to think about this – why should I be debating whether or not an outfit is too provocative?  I don’t debate this for my son, it just never comes up.  But with Jessie, she’s so tall and thin…  skirts fit her in the waist long after they’ve become too short for her to wear.

Is it just me?  I don’t know if I’m just being weirdly prudish about girls clothes, I never really got into the whole “modesty” argument.  There’s a movement in orthodox Judaism that involves covering everything from the collarbone or elbows to the knees, I think.  I don’t think there is anything inherently wrong with showing your body.  So why does this make me so uncomfortable?

Some things are no brainers, I’m not going to buy either of the girls clothes with words on the butt, they’re not getting padded bikinis or shirts with trashy sayings across the front.  But that just struck me as common sense – I think they look trashy.  But these camisoles/tank tops are throwing me for a loop – because they’re pretty and everyone else wears them, but when I see them, I think that she’s wearing underwear.

There is just no reason why they need to wear what I always considered lingerie for summer shirt.  Tank tops are fine, bra strap backs are not.   Am I too strict?  Too controlling?   I wish I knew.  But for now, I’m just grateful that we were able to find a top she loved to wear instead this morning…

I feel… overwhelmed and exhausted.  Sam is still sick, hollering out every few minutes “I’m so… ill” and hasn’t eaten in two days.  Julie and Jessie are eating popsicles (I’m sure the sugar high will help with bedtime) and Marc just left to go back to work.  It feels like everyone in my life is dealing with huge, life altering problems and I’m sure I’m just picking up on everyone else’s stress.  Which is a crappy habit of mine, that never actually results in anything good.  Because not only are their problems more important than my reaction to them, when I get stressed and overwhelmed, I’m not as helpful when it comes to dealing with the problems.

In other news (this is an attempt to cheer myself up), Sam is getting better.  His fever isn’t as high, and even though he isn’t eating, he did get up and play for a while today and he’s doing a good job of staying hydrated.  And according to Marc, there’s scientific evidence (as opposed to my own anecdotal evidence) that loading kids up with sugar actually makes them tired because eventually they’ll crash.  And it is almost bedtime.  Mrs. Ring, Jessie’s teacher, told them all to be in bed by eight.  They could read or watch television, but she wanted them all in bed, lying down by eight and asleep by nine thirty.  And since Jess lives to please her teacher, she’s already planning on going to bed.

Got the call from the nurse today (and note to other moms who might move or get new cell phones – the secretary doesn’t necessarily update the nurse’s records with new numbers) and my poor boy sick.  Sick, sick, sick.  He was fine this morning, a little quiet, and said he wasn’t that hungry.  To be fair, now that I’m thinking of  it, he did say he didn’t feel good.  But he says that literally every morning, so I’ve just started to consider it his way of saying good morning.

Anyway – he’s home sick on my couch, pale as can be, with huge eyes and the sweetest little face.  Why do they seem so much younger when they’re sick?    We’ve been snuggling all afternoon.  Sam’s an affectionate kid, all three of mine are.  But as they get older, they’re less likely to crawl up onto my lap.  So as much as I hate seeing  him sick, I love that he wants nothing more than to lay down next to me.

In other news – Jessie is taking her first MCAS tests this week.  She’s nervous about it – in large part because the school is making her that way.   She’s terrified of being late on that day, and already geared up to freak out over the results.  Jessie never met an emotion she didn’t like, and after clearly getting the message the MCAS are a big deal, she’s fully prepared to panic.  I just keep reassuring her that she tests really well – because she DOES.  According the last set of standardized tests, she was reading at an eighth grade level and doing math that was well beyond her grade.  So I don’t worry too much about it, and try hard to keep her from worrying too much as well.

Julianna is STILL wearing the batman hat.  Pretty much all the time.  If she forgets, I don’t remind her, and today, she spent a good part of the day hatless.  But they she discovered it on the floor in the bedroom, and is now traisping around the living room in a tank top, frilly skirt, and a red and black wooly skullcap.   She’s becoming increasingly opinionated about her clothes.  The warmer weather means that her wardrobe just doubled, because I pulled out all the summer stuff – and suddenly she’s got choices.   Lots of choices.  And God help me if I attempt to dress her in an outfit that doesn’t suit her standards.  She’ll just sob, like her heart is broken.  And it’s not worth breaking her heart over clothes, so I let her pick out her own stuff for the most part.  So if you see me, wandering around with a batman hatted, mismatched little cherub, don’t judge me too harshly…