Melissa Anne Cohen

Sam has spent all morning, literally all morning, playing with his army guys.  He sets them up, he knocks them all down, packs them all up into vehicles and travels into another room, sets them all up, knocks them down…  It’s fascinating, because at this age, Jessica’s very favorite thing in the whole wide world was playing with her princess figurines.  She had the whole compliment of Disney figures and would do the exact same thing.  Only princess-ish, instead of WWII-ish.

It made me think, because really, they are so similar.  And even though it’s a gorgeous day outside, neither one has any desire to be outside playing.  They like the fresh air, and they aren’t averse to activity, but are both perfectly happy, inside, puttering, reading, playing.  The television isn’t on (because while I won’t force them outside most of the time, I won’t let them watch tv during the day), so I don’t mind that they’re inside.  Which reminds me of me at their age – my mother was forever throwing us outside to play, and I hated it.  I’d sit somewhere under a tree and read… and it’s somehow surprising to me to realize that I have produced children who are not only just like each other, but also who are startlingly similar to myself at that age…

Not two kids and a baby – but three actual kids.  Julianna has passed that indefinable milestone, where she’s not a baby anymore.  She’s still a toddler, but more than that, she’s a kid.  It’s not that she’s walking, because she isn’t.  It’s not that she’s talking, because she’s still not really doing that either.  It’s that, more often than not, she’s able to be grouped in with the other two.  I feed them all together, they play together, she’s one of them now.  Even now, all three kids are busy in the living room.  Jessie is eating her cereal (on the couch, which she shouldn’t be doing) and commenting periodically on it.  Sam is puttering with his new army guys (God bless Savers, because I bought them for a dollar yesterday) and Jules is crawling around, playing with the remote (she flicked off the television earlier) and is very content.

It used to be that she always required attention.  She was either sleeping or in my arms, or I was carefully supervising her in someone else’s arms.  But now… she’s on her own, more and more.  She’s a big girl, she’s got opinions and wants and has no problem communicating her needs.

It’s an odd feeling, when suddenly you realize that your baby isn’t a baby anymore….

I was my grandfather’s favorite grandchild.  (Which, incidentally, is one of the reasons that I don’t get bogged down in worrying about whether or not my children’s grandparents have a favorite – I think it’s perfectly normal and wonderful – Jessie is, hands down, my MIL’s favorite and I think that it’s sweet and lovely for both of them.  They love all the kids, but Jess loves them more and they spend more time with her).  One of the things that my grandfather always, always did with me was play chess.  He had two gorgeous chess sets, one of them was engraved with his name on one side and mine on the other.  I didn’t get that set (long sad story) when he passed away, but I do have the other wooden set.

Sam LOVES playing chess with me.  He’s not yet five, and obviously far too young to be doing it on his own, but he really, really enjoys it.  We play every day when Julianna goes down for her nap, and thus far, I really play for both of us and let him win, but he’s learning, faster than I would have anticipated.

Every time I set up the chess set, I think of Grandpa and miss him a little more.  I’m so grateful for my relationship with him – and wish that Samuel Earl could have had that kind of bond with him.

I’m…. not easy to classify when it comes to spiritual belief.  Which I’m actually pretty happy about, I think that it’s better to have your own personal belief system as opposed to blindly following someone else’s.  My mother was Catholic when I was born, and I was a practicing Catholic until probably right around the time when my eleven year old cousin was diagnosed with liver cancer.  After that, I sort of drifted thru goddess worship, straight up Wicca, a little paganism, I explored tarot and have had more than my share of psychic readings.  I looked into Reiki, Axiotonal healing and am fluent in lots of alternative health treatments.  I was pretty convinced that I knew what was going on in the universe, was very clear on how I thought everything worked… and then had the rug pulled out from under me when I miscarried my twins.

It was a very unplanned pregnancy, but one that was so incredibly wanted.  And the loss at ten and eleven weeks of both babies was devastating to me.  I literally became a different person.  I no longer knew that the universe was a benovolent place, I was no longer even a little bit sure that everything happened for a reason.  I felt lost and alone and more scared than I had ever been.

It was then that I got pregnant with Jessica, and started to build a life with an observant Jewish man.  Judaism isn’t a stretch for me, theologically.  It’s based on the premise that there is one G-d, neither male nor female.  That humanity and G-d are in a partnership, and it’s our obligation to make the world a better place.  That Jews are commanded to perform mitzvahs (which truly doesn’t have an English translations – because it’s more than just good deeds, it’s more than charity, it’s more than lovingkindness – the best translation I can come up with is that it’s actions (not thoughts, but actual actions) that make the world a better place).  Jews are commanded to appreciate and value the world around us, there’s literally a blessing to be said for just about everything you do during the day.  It’s a very joyous, loving faith, but also one that demands a certain level of commitment from believers.  I don’t get to just sit back and let the world swirl around me, as a Jewish woman, my obligation is to make it a better place.

But I’m finding, that almost ten years after the miscarriage, eight years after becoming a mother, and three years after formally converting to Judaism, that’s there’s still this element of spiritual questioning that I have.  I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was the right decision to convert to Judaism, Jewish theology is so closely aligned with my own personal belief systems, and I believe profoundly in giving my children a strong spiritual base from which to explore their own beliefs.  Jewish culture, or at least Conservative Jewish culture, is still confusing to me.  I feel like an outsider at the synagogue.  While everyone there is very nice and kind, and my children are beloved there, I still feel…. a little outside of it all.

Maybe this is just a function of me.  Maybe that’s a part of my personality and anytime there’s a big group thing I tend to feel a little removed.  Maybe it’s worth exploring other synagogues in the area, see if I can find one that’s a little more… welcoming, respectful of all paths.  Maybe I need to re-start my own spiritual quest, find my own answers.  I don’t know.  I find, as my children get older, I feel a need to instill some part of my own traditions in their lives.  To show them what they’ve got from my side of the family – it’s not just Judaism, it’s Judaism and this whole other world where their grandmother can divert storms and arrange for parking spots at the mall.

I don’t have any of the answers anymore.  I don’t know anything for sure.  But I know that there’s a whole universe out there… and trying to understand it, trying to find our own higher purpose, is an eminently worthy goal.

of having a big family is watching them learn to take care of each other.  It’s not just that kids from bigger families are more independent because they have to do more for themselves (although I think that’s an element), they’re also much more likely (based on my extensive experience of both growing up in and raising a family of many children) to take care of each other.  I’m listening to Sam chatter away to Julie about how she’s a little kid and needs little bites, and he’s a big kid who takes bigger bites.  He’s correcting himself as he helps her eat her lunch – because my girl really only likes to eat when Marc is here, but is reluctantly agreeing to eat a little bit with her big brother.

I just realized that Father’s Day came and went and I didn’t think about my father once.  I thought a lot about my husband and wanting to make sure he had a good day.  I was grateful for my stepdad and my father in law, and happy that I got to see and spend time with both of them.  But my actual father?  I didn’t think of him once.  Now I feel guilty and aggravated that I can still feel guilty about not remembering a man on Father’s Day when he spent 20 plus years doing his level best to pretend that he wasn’t a father.

In other news… my kids and my husband and I had an absolutely fantabulous sort of day.  I’m just a tiny bit jealous of my kids – because I don’t have a great track record with this holiday, and my kids are going to grow up very differently…

(another non inclusive list in no real order….)
1.  He flat out adores his children.  Really, really.  We had an extremely unplanned pregnancy very soon after we got together (and an even more unplanned miscarriage) and from the very beginning, he was thrilled about having more kids.  Devastated after the miscarriage and just as focused on trying again as soon as we could.  He’d have more kids in a heartbeat, and is the main reason why Julianna probably isn’t going to be the youngest :-).  I’ve never seen a man who genuinely loves fatherhood as much as he does.
2.  He doesn’t reserve it for just his kids.  I can name several kids in the New England area who have blossomed under his love and attention.  He’s taken in kids that don’t have the paternal attention and made them feel safe and loved and valued.  He’s warm, loving, and truly happiest when there’s a whole bunch of little kids running around him.
3.  He’s never, ever, not once, ever complained about the mess left by the hordes of children playing here.
4.  He’s the best husband I’ve ever seen.  Objectively – 🙂 speaking, he’s just freaking awesome.  Loves me to bits, makes me feel beautiful and adored and valued.  He shows his daughters how they should be loved and his son how to treat a woman every day by his example.
5.  He’s a really, really good son.  No matter what, he loves his parents and does his best to honor them.
6.  He’s willing to change and learn.  He’s changed a lot, in the almost ten years we’ve been together, and is always willing to try something new or different.  He pays attention to what works, works to find solutions to problems that aren’t easily solvable.
7.  He creates traditions that have meaning and are fun.  My kids will grow up with great memories of Fight on the Bed, singing in the car, watching Christmas specials, lighting Shabbat candles and blessing the first blossom in the spring.
8.  He’s still the King of Dealing with Puke.  Absolute undisputed king.

I’m forever grateful that my children have a father like Marc.  I think it balances out, and I’ve got a knee jerk kind of belief in karma.  I didn’t have a father growing up, and while I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anything, because everything that happened got me here, and I really, really love my life – I think the fact that my children have a father like Marc, having them know, every single second, that they are loved and safe and adored is absolutely wonderful, and I appreciate having him so much more.  My kids have the best father in the world.  I can’t imagine doing this without him, and my only prayer, every night, is just for more of this life we’ve built together.

Jessica had her Author’s Tea yesterday – which is where all the little second graders invite their parents in for cake and cookies and they all read a selection from their “White Book.”  Which is a staggeringly obvious name of the book that they write in all year long.  They wrote a little autobiography, dedicated the book to someone they loved, and wrote throughout the year on a variety of topics.  Her autobiography is:

Hi, my name is Jessica Cohen.  My nickname is Jessie Bug Noodle.  I am 8 years old.  I was born on February 7, 2003. I have two older sisters, Lilli and Sarah.  My younger sister’s name is Julianna and I can’t forget my younger brother Sam.  My parents names are Melissa and Marc.

I like to read fantasy books but sometimes I like to read biographies.  I take dance lessons at Charlotte Klein Dance Studio.  I also like writing stories.

When I grow up, I want to teach preschool.  While the children are napping, I will write stories to read to them at story time.  My favorite color is purple.  Reading and writing are my favorite school subjects.  My favorite book is Butterflies in my Stomach.

It’s odd – because it’s just an undefined role.  Not a parent, not really.  But not nothing either.  I spent a LOT of time with my stepchildren, for a very long time, and yesterday, at the the bat mitzvah, it was clear that in the overall scheme of things, my presence was utterly unnecessary.  I did hold my sleeping one year old daughter thru most of it, and I was a nice pair of legs for my four year old to cling to.  I also took my eight year old into the ladies room and let her sob out her frustration when she melted down (sleepover the night before – perhaps not my wisest move).  But other than that, other than being there as the mother of the bat mitzvah’ed girl’s siblings, I was essentially … invisible.

I’m sort of struggling with that, I mean, obviously, the day isn’t about me.  And to be blunt, I’m NOT her mother.  I didn’t carry her for nine months, I didn’t walk the halls with her while she cried as an infant, or see her off for her first day at school.  I didn’t kiss her after vaccinations or set up playdates.  I know this – and I’ve always been very clear on not wanting to replace or supplant her actual, involved, loving mother.  But I have taught her how to braid challah, and how to make matzoh balls, how to change a diaper, how to soothe a crying baby and answered her questions about sex and relationships.  I help her dad to be a better parent, I encourage her relationship with her grandparents.  I’m not nothing.

You know I’m going to face this challenge again and again.  At the next bat mitzvah, at the graduations, at the weddings and with the grandchildren.  It’s normal, understandable, even.  I’m not the mother, after all.

But it’s hard to accept that there’s no middle ground.  There’s no place for me, not really.  I’m the mother of siblings in their lives, I guess, and that’s more than enough.  Or it should be.  I like my kids, and I’m satisfied with my role as their mom – I don’t need to be recognized as my stepchildren’s mother.  I’m not.  But still… it feels like I was ignored and left out, and I still feel a little hurt.

It’s so fast… I had stopped latching her into the seat a couple of months ago, but she still sat in the seat, and today – she actually pulled her little self up and stood up in the tub.

Where did my tiny baby go?  Suddenly I’ve got a toddler.  She’s not walking yet, so I can kind of pretend that she’s still a baby – but the reality is that she’s not a baby.  She’s a big girl.  And I’m mostly delighted, because she’s seriously awesome, but a tiny bit wistful…