Melissa Anne Cohen

I’m pretty secure in my parenting abilities.  I’ve been doing this for a long time, babysitting for a good twenty five years, being an overly involved aunt for about fifteen, and a mother to my own children for nine years.  But there are times, like today, when I’m pretty convinced that I’m flat out awful at taking care of children, instilling manners and values and self control, and I’m just humiliated, mortified and feeling very much like I’d benefit from having a full time nanny to care for these kids. 

Sam had a birthday party today.  At three fifteen, which is right after school, and he didn’t want to go.  Unfortunately, I had already RSVP’d, bought a gift, and arranged to drive Jordyn to the party as well.  So not going wasn’t an option.  And Jessie came out of school in a wretched mood, she was angry and frustrated about not being allowed to sit in the front seat. 

So the deck was somewhat stacked against me.  But I drove down to Pump It Up, about a half hour away, with the kids fighting and arguing over snacks and Sam happily insisting that he wasn’t going to any party.  I pulled up in front of the building, and there were two other moms, getting their happy, contented children out of the car.  And my oldest two took the cue to go completely insane, screaming at each other.  I opened the van to get Jordyn out and unbuckle Julianna to take her inside to drop Jordyn off with me – and the screams… oh the screams.  I slammed the door quickly.  I started explaining to one of the other moms (one of the ones with happy, smiling, contented children) that I was going to drop off Jordyn, and her mother would be there soon to pick her up, and then I heard this ungodly screech emanating from my vehicle – because my two children had lost their minds screaming insanely at each other. 

It was just … mortifying.  I felt like the worst mother in the world, embarassed and horrified that my kids were behaving so badly.  I could NOT stop them from screaming at each other, short of taking them out of the car and duct taping their mouths shut (and dammit, I didn’t have any duct tape handy).

It wasn’t a fun ride home.  For any of us.  Because by the time I got back to the car, I was literally almost in tears, I was so embarassed.  Every other kid was thrilled to go to the party, delighted to see their friends, I couldn’t get my five year old out of the car.  And worse, my nine year old was a screeching disaster.

I’m tired tonight.  Tired and discouraged and desperately in need of a little break.  Bedtime is coming up soon, thank goodness. 
 

I converted to Judaism about three years ago. I think. It was before my youngest daughter was born, and she’ll be two in April. So about three years ago. My spiritual background is somewhat challenging to explain, because I’ve explored a lot of different spiritual paths. I was born into a nominally Catholic family. We attended CCD, and church, but I never really felt at home there. Catholicism is about faith, and I questioned. A lot. And by the time I was a teenager, I had really lost a lot of my faith. I was exploring New Age religions, and for a while, was very attracted to Wicca. But it had a lot of rules, and I was honestly never exactly sure how to cast a circle or call down the moon. It was at that point that I met my husband.

Marc was the first Jewish person I’d ever met. I knew literally nothing about the faith. Other than it was different from mine, whatever mine was. And Marc and I were one of those couples that from the moment we met, it was just a foregone conclusion that we were going to be together. It wasn’t that coming from a different spiritual path was going to stop us, it was something that we had to work out together. Because there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I loved this man, and that he loved me and we were going to raise a family together.

So we worked on it. We discussed and debated and agonized over it. We explored the different Jewish denominations, and have, at one time or another over considered joining a reform temple, a chabad synagogue and finally ended up at the conservative one that my husband grew up at. We’ve looked at religion and belief systems over and over again, and what we concluded was that we, as a family, were going to be Jewish. My husband was obviously always Jewish, and at least according to a liberal reform temple, so were my children, because he was. But I wasn’t sure that I would be.

Organized religion was intimidating to me. Still is, in a lot of ways. But the theology behind Judiasm is so beautiful and so true for me, that once I got past my initial resistance to joining any group, I found that it was a perfect fit. It was very easy for me to convert to Jewish beliefs, to worship according to Jewish tradition. In fact, in a lot of ways, it’s almost easier for me than it is for my husband sometimes. I have no history with it, I chose this lifestyle and making it a priority is a no brainer. Converting to Jewish culture is a bit harder. The food is different, the holidays are different, the customs are different. It doesn’t come as naturally. Keeping kosher is something I still struggle with, and I’m not even close to doing it the way I suppose I should.

But Shabbat is my favorite. It just is. It was the first thing that made me want to be Jewish, and still my favorite way to really celebrate my Judaism. No computer, no television. We’ll drive, but only to something that we are all doing together as a family. My husband and older children all attend services (my toddler and I usually stay home) and then the afternoon is filled with some sort of activity that we all share in. Sometimes it’s just hanging out at home, playing board games and building worlds out of barbies and army guys. Sometimes it’s a trip to the beach, or a museam, or over to a friend’s house for the afternoon.

My real favorite though is the night before. Friday night. I’m working at getting everyone to sit down together every night for dinner, but am not always successful. Friday night, though, I can always guarantee it. I make a big dinner, make homemade bread, sometimes it’s challah. Today I’m making just a standard white bread – off of the barefoot kitchen witch website, to show that I haven’t forgotten my roots :-). We light candles, saying the blessings in Hebrew and in English. My husband kisses me and we tell each other how much we love each other. We bless the children, one at a time, and pray for their peace and happiness. We thank God for the food in front of us, for bringing us to this day. And then we eat.

It’s a lovely little island in time, a whole night and day devoted to being grateful for all that we have. It’s the cornerstone of my family, it’s the highlight of our week.

Shabbat Shalom, everyone. Hope your Friday/Saturday is as lovely as mine is.

I’m relatively laid back about my parenting. I like to encourage my children to make their own choices when they can. I let them pick out their own clothes when they want to (although more often than not, they’re just as happy to have me do it). And for the most part, this works out really well. But both my younger two children have an affection for hats – and both are stubborn and insist on wearing the hat all the time. My son took a sun hat that I had bought for his older sister and wore it non-stop for three seasons. It was a little bucket hat, striped in bright rainbow colors and he flat out adored it. He wore it everywhere. And it was a little odd looking, but he was really happy about it, and I just let him go with it. I mean, it was a sun hat, it served a purpose. And he gave it up pretty willingly when it got cold and he needed a warmer winter hat. Now that he’s five, he’ll wear a hat if he has to, but is pretty much past the obsessive “I have to have my hat on all the time” phase.

My Julianna, though, I’m having a slightly harder time giving her free reign to choose her own headgear. And she’s way more passionate about her hat that her brother ever was. At first, she just loved one of my older daughter’s hand me down winter hats. It was pale pink and cute, and she wore it pretty constantly whenever we went out. Then she saw her older brother’s batman hats, and instantly dropped the pretty pink girly hat for a rough and tumble batman chapeau. She’s got a black and grey striped one, with the batman logo that she’ll wear in a pinch, if she can’t find the one she loves. But her absolute favorite is a black hat, with red flames along the edge and a red batman logo in the front.

She’s sleeping in it right now. The other day, we went to a party at our synagogue, and she spent the entire time running around wearing leggings, a cute t-shirt, the red and black batman hat and striped mittens. I can usually get her to take off the mittens, but the hat is pretty much on her head all the time. It’s not just for outdoor wear, it’s an integral part of any outfit, including pajamas. She wears it for nap and even to bed at night.

She’s a hat girl, and I wouldn’t change it. I love that she’s opinionated and passionate about her likes and dislikes. I’m just hoping that she’s open to a summer hat or she’s going to have a long, hot summer season.

I want to homeschool. A little bit, anyway. But I don’t. My kids don’t like going to school, but I’ve sent them both, and am already planning on sending my toddler off to preschool when she’s three or four. My kids are homebodies. They prefer to be at home, they prefer to be with me. For the most part, I’ve been at home with them. I worked part time when my oldest was two, until my son was born when she was three and a half. I did send my oldest to preschool, three days a week, and she loved it. She wasn’t incredibly anti-school, not really. She was always fine when she was there, it was leaving the house that was a struggle. Even now, in the third grade, she’s still the hardest to get out of the house in the mornings. Most of the time anyway…

Which is good transition to my discussion of my son, which is the real topic I was going for. He’s extremely attached to me, and has been from the beginning. He came out of the womb with separation anxiety, I’m not exaggerating. I remember distinctly the nurse wheeling him down to the nursery and hearing him scream because she had taken him away from me. He had colic and reflux, and he was incredibly, incredibly phobic about being in a social setting for a long time. So we didn’t do preschool. We attempted it, but it was literally so hard for him. He was miserable and at four, I just couldn’t see forcing him to go. He’s my boy, my buddy, and honestly, it was as hard for me to watch him go thru the separation as it was for him to go thru it.

But by the time kindergarten rolled around this last September, he was ready. In theory, anyway. The first week was utter misery for everyone but eventually he seemed to adjust. And in fact, he’s thriving. He’s gone from being a complete hermit to being comfortable and relaxed at school. I pick him up at the end of the day, and he’s running around and wrestling with the other kids, happy and confident. He’s actually still somewhat behind academically because the combination of no preschool, and then starting off where just walking thru the door was a challenge for him, he’s still playing catch up. So, as it turns out, we are homeschooling at home. He and I work together each afternoon, only for a little while, but I’ve already noticed a big change in his skills.

In the end, that’s why I don’t homeschool. I send my kids to school for socialization. I think that the benefits of being able to be comfortable in the world, to be able to be confident and secure, to trust that the world is a safe place and there is no reason to be so afraid of everything is as valuable a lesson as learning sight words and how to add and subtract. I can teach him how to read at home, but teaching him that he’s okay without me is something he can only learn if he’s without me.

All that being said, I can’t wait for summer vacation. Because, having learned that he’s okay without me will inevitably lead (as it should) to him wanting to be without me. Someday, his favorite spot won’t be at my side. Until then, I’m just going to keep living for the weekends and counting the minutes until pick up time at the end of the day.

Ahh – so Thursday was my snow day.  And Friday, I was in a pickle.  Because we’ve had an abnormally warm winter so far, and I’m somewhat spoiled by the fact that my husband has always done the snow removal (although to be fair, in the ten years we’ve been together, he’s rarely, if ever, done his own laundry).  It didn’t occur to me to shovel out my van.  Just never crossed my mind.  Marc had an early Friday (he left the house at six thirty), so he couldn’t drive the cherubs to school.  Fortunately my father in law said he’d do it.  So Friday was delightful in that I didn’t have to put on shoes at all. 

Friday afternoon, my husband’s ex called, asking if the girls were coming for Shabbat dinner.  We have a general, obvious policy that we love having the girls whenever and wherever we can, and getting them here for Shabbat dinner was extra lovely.  We pushed it a little later, so that Sarah could go to dance class, but then we had the nicest dinner.  I’m making a little extra effort lately to do Shabbat dinner every week, and the results are definitely paying off.  We didn’t have anything special, just chicken, rice and veggies, but it was nice to sit at the table with all five kids yelling and hollering and cutting up chicken for each other.   And then (this was the best part for me), I took Julie and a book and went into our bedroom.  She sat beside me and we watched Pat Pat and I read for an hour or two.  The older kids all watched big kid television in the living room with Marc.

Saturday, we had a bit of a problem when my Samilicious boy, who’s really trying so very hard to grow up so fast, lost his little mind when he wasn’t able to fully clean off Marc’s SUV to go to Hebrew school.  Sam’s super aware of wanting to be BIG in Marc’s eyes, and I think he was embarassed and upset with himself, and when Marc tried to assist (because really, the kid is only five, he can’t reach that high), he started sobbing and screaming and it was ugly.  It got worse, because Marc kept trying to fix it, and then ended up getting mad right along with Sam.  They were just making each other nuts, and finally I just sent Marc off to the synagogue and let Sam stay home. 

Nobody can make you crazier than your own child.  And God knows, I’ve been there.  Generally, it’s Jessie pushing my buttons, but I think that with Marc and Sam, it’s a similiar situation.  Because they are so alike, and so close, the level of emotion is so much higher.   They yelled at each other – and while I yell a lot, my kids are so used to me doing it, it doesn’t bother  them.  But when Daddy yells – forget it.  It’s got a major impact because it’s so rare. So Sam was kind of wrecked for a while, and sat on my lap for about an hour after Marc left.  I read for a while, Sam and Julie kept running to the living room, gathering books and bringing them back for me to read to them.  Then Sam brought his blocks into my bedroom and built with them while I put Jules down for a nap. 

Saturday afternoon, we went to a friend’s house to make some hamentashen.  They’re tricornered cookies with jam filling for the Jewish holiday of Purim – which is coming up on Wednesday.  It was a lovely afternoon.  Jessie was terrified of their dog, and even after she relaxed about it, was still extra cuddly and affectionate, sitting up on Marc’s lap so he could keep her safe.  I love watching the two of them together, Sam and Julie dote on their daddy, but Jessie is more reserved most of the time.  So it was extra nice for both of them. 

Sunday, we ended up attempting to go to a party at a sports type place, and Jessie hated it.  Running in bouncy houses, playing dodge ball – she couldn’t get out of there fast enough.  To be fair, she had told me she didn’t want to go, but I made her.  Because I like the mom, and I didn’t want her to blow off her friend’s party – but really, I shouldn’t have made her go.  I knew she’d hate it.  I’ll know for next time… because she was miserable there.   Sam ended up going to Jordyn’s for a playdate, Julie took a three hour nap, Jessie cleaned the living room, Marc went to Walmart and did the grocery shopping and I actually fell asleep for about forty five minutes along with the baby.  It was awesome – I LOVE a nap, but never actually get to take one. 

On a side note, Julianna calls me Mominy now.  Not sure why, but she’s tickled pink about it.

Baking.

That’s my plan.  It’s not a complicated one, and I’ll reap the benefits in the forms of sugar free chocolate cake for her diabetic daddy, corn muffins for her to enjoy and chocolate chip cookies for the boy child and baby. 

Jess is at the age where she’s pretty convinced that her brother was put on this earth to make her life miserable.  Despite evidence to the contrary, she persists in this belief system, and has concluded that the best way to respond is to make the child so miserable that he leaves.  Since he’s five, and as far as I can tell, baffled and confused by her reactions (because I’d say at least seventy to eighty percent of the time, he’s not even thinking of her), I don’t think he’s going anywhere.  But I do know that a full day home with them together is going to make me insane unless I keep her occupied. 

So we’re baking today.  Baking and some fingerpainting.  Perhaps some baths.  I like snow days.  I like the unhurried pace, the relaxed atmosphere.  When they aren’t trying to kill each other, my kids actually do play together very nicely.  They tend to break into two and one.  These days it’s  mostly the two little ones and Jessie off on her own, but occasionally, we’ll have the girls separate out and Sam will disappear into his room and immerse himself with army guys, blocks and fire engines. 

But I just have to complain.  Or comment, because I don’t even know that it’s complaining so much as just seeking sympathy.  Not that I’ll get any, really, because nobody ever comments.  Which sounds bitchy, I’m sorry. 

But man, by the end of the day, I’m freaking exhausted.  It’s unbelievably tiring sometimes.  There are parts of my day that are slow and calm, while Julianna naps.  It’s very peaceful.  But the mornings are insane, even making lunchs and picking up clothes ahead of time, it’s still a harried mess trying to get three kids dressed, fed and out the door. 

And pick up is ever more busy.  I usually wake Julie up from her nap and shove her into the car.  Then I drive to the school, fight for parking, get Julie out, walk super slowly to the school and wait for the cherubs.  Then I drop Sarah off at home, and bring my two home.  At least on Mondays and Fridays.  Tuesdays, I also pick up Caroline, and Wednesdays, I go to the Holden Library and then drop off Jessie and pick up Harrison.  Every other Thursday, Jess has Brownies. 

There’s homework and cooking and cleaning and childcare – and it’s busy, busy, busy.  Bathtime and homework and laundry, oh the laundry.  I’m never actually caught up on laundry, I’ve got most of a load to wash still, and two loads to fold and put away.  The dishes, the mess, the blocks, the paper.  The paper.  Sam is learning to write and add, and likes to do it as often as possible.  Jessie needs to sketch out her house plans, and details of Lala Land, and Julie just like scrawling on paper and presenting it to me gleefully.  I’ve constantly got paper and crayons all over the place. 

I’m tired.  Really, really tired.  My back hurts, my head hurts and I’d pay money for a quiet hour alone in a clean house with cool drink and a good book. 

It’s just bad policy.  Because I’ve discovered that whatever you are smug about will eventually become your problem. 

I never understood picky eaters.  I thought if a child was being picky, the best policy was to just ignore it.  Keep providing a balanced diet, and the kid will eventually eat.  A child won’t willingly starve.  There’s no reason to provide a special meal for a child, or to rush to provide supplements and vitamins.  It’s indulgent and teaching the child that they have every right to demand that their parents dance to their every whim. 

So why was I up peeling potatoes last night to make a single serving of mashed potatoes for Jessie? 

Because.  That’s why.  Because I was an idiot, and smug, and then I realized that my daughter, who’s always been very slender, is getting skinnier and skinnier.  And when I don’t have stuff for her to eat, she’ll just not eat.  There’s a very small list of items that she’ll eat, and an even smaller list of healthy food that she’ll eat and enjoy.  Chicken, tuna fish, some breakfast cereals.  She won’t eat bread, or yogurt, or cheese.  She’ll eat green beans, occasionally broccoli.  Loves mashed potatoes.  And will eat ice cream, cake or cookies like they’re manna from heaven.  Beans and hot dogs.  White rice.  Apples and peanut butter.   I think the point was driven home for me this past week, because she was with me for every meal.  And on several occasions, she’d end up skipping a meal because she didn’t like what was offered.  We’d go to an aunt’s house (I’ve got a lot of aunts, and we visited several this week) and she’d easily go all day without eating.  Because they offered perfectly reasonable food, food everyone else ate happily, but Jess didn’t like it.

So today I’m going out to buy multivitamins.  Which I’ve never done before, because my kids are good eaters.  My kids love fruit and vegetables, eat a healthy diet and had no need for supplements.  Because I was a good mom.  See how smug I was?  Now the only one who actually eats well is my toddler.   Sam eats more than Jessie does, but he’s dancing ever closer to the picky, picky stage, especially as he can see that Jessie is so finicky. 

I’m not sure how to handle this picky stage.  I really don’t want to cater to her dietary whims, but seriously – she’ll just skip a meal, or two.  And it doesn’t seem to bother her, and she’s skinny, skinny, skinny.  The doctor has always assured me that she’s super healthy, and not to worry, but she’s never been this picky before.  I’m going with vitamins and trying harder to make sure that I always have at least one thing at every meal that I know she’ll like.  And hope that this, like so many other stages, passes quickly.

It strikes me that there are a lot of just little details, none of which would constitute a whole post by itself, but all together, there are a bunch of little details I don’t want to forget…

Jessie – she’s officially an adolescent.  Okay, so she’s only nine, but I’ve noticed a huge increase in the drama and emotional freak outs.  And they’re more adult freak outs, she complains of me nagging her all the time, her clothes don’t look right, her hair isn’t perfect, her brother is making her nuts, etc.  She’s become obsessed with doing her nails – and also, oddly, drawing out pictures of her house that she’ll have one day.  She’s planning on four kids, Tziporah, Emma, Megan and Jackson, and spends what appears to me to be an excessive amount of time planning and decorating her imaginary house that she and her husband and four children will live in.  She’s also become excessively picky.  It’s not that she won’t eat, because if I give her one of four or five items (three of them are candy, cake and ice cream, the other two would be chicken and mashed potatos, wait she’ll eat tuna as well), she’ll eat and eat until she’s full.  But if I don’t have those things, she’s not eating.  Literally.  Just won’t eat.  And she’s SKINNY.  I’m legitimately concerned that she’s not eating enough.  It’s freaking me out…

Sam spent the night at his buddy Harrison’s house two nights ago.  My clingy, almost pathologically shy boy – voluntarily packed his bag and went off for the night at his friend’s house.  And then had to be dragged out sobbing the next afternoon, because he didn’t want to come home.   He’s doing very well with the homeschooling thing we’re doing.  Because he was behind in kindergarten (they really do need preschool), he needs to catch up in order to go on to first grade.  So we’re working at home every afternoon on letters and numbers.  He’s super motivated (because for every educational game we play, I give him a star – 10 stars and he gets a dollar to spend at the dollar store down the street), and I’m really impressed at how fast he’s picking it up.

Julianna – holy moly, is that kid cute.  She’s talking all the time, chattering away.  She’s still relatively easy to handle, although we’re rapidly approaching the terrible twos.  She’s opinionated and loud, making her thoughts and feelings abundantly clear.  She’s still obsessed with the Little Einsteins (Pat Pat, in our world) and asks for it 24/7.  She also sings all the time, and one the cutest songs is when she just sings different names – Mama, Yaya, Abby, Abby, Abby, Mama, Yaya, Yaya…. over and over again.  It’s like her version of My Favorite Things. 

My son is named after two of his grandfathers.  One on my side, one on my husband’s side.  And he misses them desperately.  Having never really met them, I’m constantly stunned at how intense his grief is over these men.  Marc’s grandfathers both passed away before I met him, and my grandfather died last year.  Sam didn’t really know him at all.  But he mourns for them, talks about his grandfathers a lot. 

It’s so hard to talk to him about it, because he’s just aching with grief and sadness.  Sometimes he’ll get really quiet, and then he’ll just say quietly “I just miss Grandpa Sam and Grandpa Bubbles and Grandpa Earl so much” and then start to cry, and it breaks my heart.   Because I miss him too – I loved my Grandpa.  He was the man in my life for a very long time, and I’ll always miss him.   On more than one occasion, both Marc and I have ended up crying right along with him.

I’ve tried to explain grief to Sam.  Tried to tell him that it’s okay to miss people we’ve lost, that missing them is a way of honoring them.  And that even though it’s hard, we just have to get thru it.  I give him tangible reminders to make him feel better, I’ve framed pictures of each of them and put them on his wall.  Marc’s grandfather was devoutly Jewish, so I tell him that when we celebrate Shabbat, we’re honoring him.  My grandfather loved nature and reading and playing chess, so I’ll pull out the chess board that my grandfather used to teach me chess and we play together.  I recently went to the library and took out bird watching books, and Sam’s outside right now, diligently bird watching with his best friend.   “See, Mama?  I’m watching the birds, just like Grandpa!”

Sam is such a tender, sweet kid.  His emotions are raw, there’s no artifice or defenses.  Whatever he’s feeling is right there.  I always say that nobody loves me like Sammy loves me, because it’s so intense and all encompassing.  And his grief is the same way.  He just misses them.  He knows that he’s lost something, but not having his great grandfathers in his life.  And while my heart breaks for him, I’m also in awe of his capacity to love, to grieve for men who would have adored their namesake.  And in the end, isn’t that an incredible testimony to how very much these men were loved?  How much of an impact they had, to be mourned three and four generations down the line?  I hope that my great great grandchildren think of me as often as my son thinks of his grandfathers.