Mystery Woman

Instant Love

2012-02-08T11:45:00.000-05:00

I look back at photos from when my kids were little, and it seems like a lifetime ago.

My presence is just as necessary to my kids these days as it was when I was getting up in middle of the night. It is still emotionally and intellectually demanding to have these people in my life – children whose world has become so complex – children who have reached an age where their heartbreaks can no longer be repaired with a hug.

But I miss those days. The days of endlessly pushing a child on a swing. Of rereading One Fish Two Fish for the millionth time. Of tantrums and spilled milk.

Sometimes, I'd give anything to return to those days.

Maybe that's why we are given grandchildren.

As I hold this beautiful new baby, I am filled with such happiness and love. She turns my heart upside down and gives me so much joy that it brings a lump to my throat and makes my heart want to burst. And I could wish for nothing more at this moment in time.

Instant love.

It takes me back to the time when I held my own babies, looking into their eyes with wonder and awe.

Once again, I can live through the joy of watching a baby grow. I have been given a second chance to experience that first step…those first words…that first tooth - this time with more wisdom and experience.

I received the blessing of life and love and so much sunshine. And I'm so grateful.

Welcome, my sweet little granddaughter, to the world and to my heart.

Miracles

2011-12-27T11:50:00.001-05:00

Chanukah doesn't go by in my home without a discussion of the Bais Yosef's question.

The Bais Yosef asks, since the untainted flask contained enough oil to burn for one day, nothing miraculous happened on that first day. The miracle was only the following seven days. So why is Chanukah celebrated for eight days?

I sit near my friend at the Bar Mitzvah. Her baby is with her. He always is - it's hard to find someone to stay with him. As always, the conversation revolves around him. His doctors and therapies, his surgeries, his progress, his needs. And her guilt. What she could have done...what she should have done.

She is tired. And sad. And overwhelmed. And so alone. She waited so long for this baby, and she just wants him to be okay. Is that so much to ask?

But he's not okay. And he never will be. There will be progress, hopefully, but he will never be okay. And some days, that is too much for her to bear.

I play with him while we talk. He's so sweet. He looks at me with big, blue eyes, and smiles. He's almost two, but he looks about half that age. And as I listen to her, I hear strength beneath the pain. She tells me that she was told that before a person is born, he is shown his entire life, with all its challenges, and he agrees to it all. She agreed to this challenge. She knew, and she agreed. And, more importantly, he agreed. He agreed to be born with these special needs. And, somehow, that is a comfort to her.

I went to visit my sister and her new baby in the hospital. He is alert and beautiful and so cute. And he's healthy. And I am aware of how much there is to be grateful for. I know that there is so much that can go wrong, and I understand how miraculous it is when everything is right.

Every year, my children offer new answers to the Bais Yosef's question. But my favorite answer is so simple.

We celebrate for eight days to teach us that even natural events take place only because Hashem wants them to. The burning of oil is no less miraculous than would be the burning of water. The first day's lighting is to remind us that even the normal burning of oil is a miracle.

Even natural events are miraculous.

When Children Die

2011-12-07T13:25:00.000-05:00

I was in eighth grade when I discovered that children die. I must have known before, but I didn't really know. It was something that happened somewhere. Not here. Not to anyone I knew.

The girl who sat behind me in class came home one day with a headache, and fell into a coma. She died a few days later. I couldn't accept it. Children don't die. Children shouldn't die.

But they do.

And as I grow older, I become more familiar with death. People die. Children die. They die suddenly. They die because of illnesses or accidents or murder. Sweet, innocent children. And I can't accept it. I can't understand it.

And I cry. I cry for them. I cry for their mothers and fathers. I can't even begin to imagine their agony, but I cry because I share their sadness.

But I can't accept it. And I don't understand it.

My sister's kitchen window overlooks a cemetery. A baby cemetery. So many little gravestones marking tiny graves. I don't look out the window when I'm there. In my mind, looking is some sort of acceptance. And I don't want to accept it.

Last week, I was asked to do a tahara. I rarely decline when I'm called for a tahara. But this time it was for an eight year old little girl. I didn't do it. I couldn't. I couldn't deal with it. Little girls shouldn't die.

I want to understand why this little girl died. Why all those little girls and boys died. I need to understand.

Someone once told me, in Heaven there are no questions. All our questions will be answered when we get there, and we will understand everything that we were not able to understand down here.

But I am not rushing to get there.

I don't understand, but I am not in a rush to understand. For now, I will try to accept that what Hashem does is good.

Even if I can't understand.

A Mother's Worry

2011-10-31T13:00:00.000-04:00

The phone call shook me up.

My little boy walks home from school. Himself. It was hard for me to let go again after the horrific events of this summer. But he is old enough to do it, he is ready for it, and it's what he wants. So, despite my uneasiness, I understood that this was the right thing.

The woman on the phone introduced herself. She saw my little boy standing on a street corner looking confused and she offered her help. She described where they were, and my heart stopped.

It was a spot so many of us became familiar with as we watched Leiby Kletzky, lost and alone, finally walk off with a monster.

It's a confusing corner. My little boy was ok. He would have figured it out on his own. He was never in any real danger.

But I couldn't stop shaking.

From the moment my first child was born, I promised myself that I'd keep him safe. I'd protect my children forever. I'd shield them from life's harshness.

I can't do that, of course.

But I can worry.

I worry when they leave the house in the morning. I worry about them crossing the streets. I worry when I see cars speeding around a corner. I take a mental count of all my children when I hear a siren or a short stop. I worry if one of them looks pale. I worry about them making friends. I worry about shidduchim.

And then they grow older, and they move out on their own.

And I still worry.

My son and daughter-in-law came for Succos. I love seeing them. I love seeing my son in this new role, and I love seeing how happy they are.

My daughter-in-law was not feeling well one morning, and we had a bit of a scare. She was ok, but I worried for the rest of Yom Tov.

One of Chava's punishments is tzaar gidul banim – the pain of raising children. She will be tired and stressed and overworked. There will be the daily pressures and the inevitable crises.

But it's deeper than that. Her curse is her mother love. She will spend all her days worrying about her children. There is pain in that love.

But along with the pain, there is beauty. It is a unique love.

I realized that I will never stop worrying.

My children will grow up and leave home. There will be new people joining our family. And every new family member is another person to worry about.

And another person to love.

Shidduch Tumult

2011-08-15T14:41:00.001-04:00

The photos in Hamodia intrigued me, and I scanned them carefully, hoping to see my son. I found the concept of chavrusa tumult fascinating. The photos show thousands of boys milling about outside of the yeshiva, and somehow, by the end of the week, most of those boys are paired up with a chavrusa.

The system is pretty simple. Anyone in need of a chavrusa participates. If Chaim needs a chavrusa, he would talk to several people and describe what he's looking for. Someone he approaches might have a suggestion for him. So if, say, Shimon was suggested, he'd seek him out, they'd talk for a bit, and decide if they are right for each other. If they are, a match is made. If not, Chaim would move on and try again, until he finds the right match.

Kind of like speed dating.

I'm sure others before me have suggested shidduch tumults. But, of course, that can never happen. We can't have the boys and girls milling about on the streets of Lakewood now, can we?

There's another way to go about this, though. We can have the thousands of boys and thousands of girls in need of shidduchim milling about - separately. And then the parents would be the ones asking the questions, listening to suggestions and talking to any potential matches. Give me five minutes with a boy, and I can tell whether he's a good possibility - or not even in the ballpark.

I'm not sure what would happen when we find one, or even several, good possibilities. Realistically, we can't get the boy and the girl to talk for a few minutes, although I like that idea. We'd probably have to give the names we have to a shadchan and then go the regular route.

So what do we gain? For the boys and their parents, probably not very much. But for the girls, a lot.

Anyone with sons in shidduchim knows how often the phone rings. They know about the lists of girls. They don't need any changes in the system. The system will work for them.

But for anyone with daughters in shidduchim, the experience is usually very different. The phone doesn't ring as often, and when it does, you can't imagine how anyone could have come up with something so wrong. When an appropriate suggestion finally does come up, your daughter becomes a name on someone's list.

And that's the problem.

A shadchan once called me with a name that sounded promising. I asked her to talk to the boy's parents first, and I will do my research if they are interested. They were not. There was some issue they couldn't get past.

Several weeks later, the shadchan called me back. They changed their minds. They're interested now.

I was confused, and wondered about the issue.

Apparently, it was no longer an issue for them. The mother had seen my daughter somewhere and she liked what she saw. My daughter went from being a name on the list - on paper - to being a real, live person. And suddenly, those minor "issues" didn't matter anymore.

And that is why a shidduch tumult seems like such a good idea.

It would be kind of like the cattle sales, where a mother comes to a wedding to check out a girl, only this would be like some mass cattle sale, with hundreds of mothers participating.

Can this actually work? Probably not.

Would I want it to work?

I don't know.

Just a short while ago, I objected to sending a picture of my daughter to a shadchan. I caved on that one. And then I even allowed the cattle sale. Now this?

I guess I'm not desperate enough yet...

The Forty Challah Bakers

2011-07-26T10:55:00.002-04:00

There are two sides to the segulos debate. There are the firm believers in the effectiveness of segulos, those who believe in their mystical, magical power. And there are those who deny their validity, and will not participate in any segulah events.

I am somewhere in the middle. The sources of many of our commonly practiced segulos are found in seforim and go back hundreds of years. I have no problem with those. But there seems to be new segulos every day, with no known source, and I'm skeptical.

So when a friend called me late Thursday and asked me to join a group of 40 challah bakers, I agreed because she needed that favor from me. But I was worried. I hoped I wasn't ruining anything by not fully believing in what I was going to do.

I'd heard about the 40 challah bakers segulah. Each of the 40 women would make the bracha on the challah in their own homes, usually for the refuah shleima, or some sort of yeshua, for a specific person.

This was a new twist to that segulah. This time, all 40 women would get together in one person's home, bringing their own dough, and taking challah together.

I prepared my dough in the morning, and drove to the address I was given. I parked nearby, and sat in the car for several moments, watching women stream towards the house, lugging huge towel covered bowls of dough. I wasn't quite sure that there was any merit to what I was about to do, but the sight moved me.

We began by lighting candles. The woman who organized this gathering spoke for a few minutes. She spoke about her passion for the mitzvah of challah baking, and how she took that passion to another level. She spoke a little bit about the woman in whose merit we were doing this. She is a young mother battling cancer. She recently had to be put on a respirator, and her prognosis seemed bleak.

We took turns taking challah and reciting the bracha aloud, with everyone answering amen. The first woman broke down halfway through her bracha. Women sobbed openly. Something stirred inside me.

Then we said Tehillim. The entire Tehillim was divided between the 40 women, so that the entire sefer was completed.

I looked around me. I don't know if the number 40 has any meaning, but there is power in numbers - whatever the number is. All these women left their homes on a busy Friday morning - on the hottest day of the year - to daven for a woman most of them do not even know...to beg Hashem to spare her...to plead with Hashem on behalf of the children who still desperately need their mother. The emotion was palpable. I don't know what we were accomplishing. But it was powerful.

I heard the next day that the woman we davened for was taken off the respirator late Friday afternoon.

Coincidence?

I don't know. Maybe.

Am I sold? Did I join the ranks of the firm believers?

No. I'm still a skeptic. I still believe in the power of tefillah over the power of segulos. I am still curious about the sources, and wonder where these segulos were 20 years ago.

Would I do it again?

Absolutely. In a heartbeat.

Moving On

2011-07-18T11:41:00.006-04:00

I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, Leiby is there...walking home by himself, happy and carefree as only a young child can be...and then so scared when he realizes he is lost. I feel his fear, and my heart hurts.

I force myself to think about something else. I don't want my mind to go any further. I don't want to imagine what he must have felt later. I try to think happy thoughts. But everything leads back to the same thing.

And somehow, in my half asleep/ half awake state, that little boy becomes my little boy, and I am jolted awake, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

I close my eyes, and I visualize how "he fought back a little bit", according to the killer's confession. I see him struggling, fighting for his life, and of everything I read, that is what causes me the most anguish, and I am tormented by nightmares. I can't bear to think about that sweet little boy's terror and feeling of helplessness. And I can't sleep.

I get up and go to my little boy's room. I kiss him gently, careful not to wake him. And I'm grateful that he's safe in his bed.

I think about Leiby's mother. How is a mother supposed to go on after this? How can she cope with the pain? How will life ever return to normal?

I can't sleep. I am afraid to close my eyes. I am sad.

And yet...this morning I smiled.

I don't remember what it was that made me smile. But it bothered me. How can I smile? How was I able to forget for that moment...and smile?

And I know that I will smile again tomorrow. Laugh, even. All of us will. The pain will dull...the memories will fade. Time heals. Life will go on. That is the way of the world.

And I'm sad.

Why?

2011-07-13T10:53:00.001-04:00

I woke my little boy up this morning, and I had to tell him the news.

How do you tell a child something like this? How do you explain it? How do you even understand it?

My son walked out of the same camp building on Monday, at the same time as Leiby. Maybe he even walked in the same direction. My son came home. Someone else's little boy did not.

I'm a mother. I can't possibly feel the indescribable pain his parents must be suffering. But I can't stop crying. He's our child. We're one family, and their pain is our pain.

I want an explanation. I need to understand. Why, Hashem...why?

Perhaps there is a reason. Maybe I'm just too spiritually weak to understand. Maybe I don't want to understand. Maybe I don't want to hear that there can be something positive in this kind of horror - that I am merely seeing things from my small perspective, and I am unaware of a larger picture, of why this might be necessary.

I drove my son to camp this morning. As I will do every morning for the rest of the summer. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. He's old enough to walk. He's ready for that little bit of independence. I don't want to hover. I want to raise a secure child. I want to prepare him for adulthood, and keeping him tied to me is probably not the best way to achieve that. But I'm going to be selfish now. I'm scared. It could have been him. It could have been anyone.

I just have to believe that ultimately what Hashem does is good. Even if my small mind can't comprehend it.

So I wait. I wait for the day, some day in the future, when my questions will be answered. When my human mind will understand and appreciate. And meanwhile...I struggle.

If Only

2011-06-29T11:33:00.001-04:00

I met her for the first time shortly after I got married. She was old - late eighties or early nineties - and she suffered from senility. But she had a wonderful sense of humor and she was smart, and I liked her a lot.

She'd ask me my name every time I saw her, as though we were being introduced for the first time. And she'd make the same comment and give me the same compliment every time. She seemed so happy when I had my first child. She asked me his name and how much he weighed. She held him and rocked him and sang to him. And then she asked me his name again, and how much he weighed. And then again a few minutes later.

She couldn't remember what happened yesterday. But she remembered what happened seventy years ago.

I heard about Yankel almost as soon as I met her. And every time I visited her. It was just bits and pieces each time and it was hard to make out the complete story. Yankel was the man she could have - or should have - married. I don't know why she didn't. I don't know if she spent her life regretting her decision. Her family seemed embarrassed by it and were reluctant to fill in the details. But I was drawn to the romance and so saddened by the longing in her voice.

She married someone else - the person she'd ultimately spend the next seventy years with. They raised a large family, and, at least from her family's point of view, she had a good and happy life.

But at the end of her life, she never forgot Yankel.

Years later, I remember this woman. And I remember Yankel. And what saddens me most is the regret...how she lived the last years of her life regretting what could have been.

Sometimes I find myself doing the same thing. I look back at my life - at things that happened, things I've been through - and I wish I could relive it. I wish I could go back and do things differently. I wish I knew then what I know today. I could have saved myself so much heartache...so much pain.

But I don't want to be a ninety year old woman, looking back at my life with regrets.

I couldn't have done things differently. Everything happened the way it was meant to. The decisions I made and all that I've been through contributed to the person I became. My life experience is a part of me. A part of who I am.

And I don't regret that.

Moonlight

2011-06-21T12:10:00.001-04:00

Moonlight is gone. And my heart is aching.

I'm not a big fan of animals. I can tolerate them - at the zoo or on a leash, but I don't find them cute or cuddly. My kids always knew not to bring home so much as a goldfish, and other than some passing phases, they mostly accepted that and inherited my distrust of anything on four legs.

Well...except for my little boy. He plays by different rules. And he loves animals.

A couple of months ago, he brought home a goldfish. I went on my well rehearsed rant about how this is a people house, and only humans live here...and how we don't have the right equipment or the know-how and it'll die and then what are we going to do with it.

And then I let it stay - to my other kids' surprise and my little boy's delight.

It lived for about a week. And when it died, I felt sad. For my little boy, mostly. But also for the loss of something that became a part of my home.

Two weeks later, I was introduced to Moonlight. My little boy was walking home from school, when he passed a grocery. Apparently, a mama cat living in the store, had some kitties, and the grocer was giving them away. My little boy happily carried one home, never stopping to wonder about what his mother might think.

While I am somewhat prepared to deal with the occasional carnival goldfish, nothing in my parenting experience prepared me for this.

My little boy cried and pleaded.

"I need to take care of her." He looked up at me through tear filled eyes. "She doesn't have a mother!"

I watched my little boy as he held her protectively against him, and I let her stay.

We settled her comfortably in the back yard, in a house my little boy built with his friends. He spent every spare minute out there with Moonlight, feeding her, holding her, playing with her, and I privately hoped she'd wander off one day soon and join some family of stray cats somewhere.

I'm not sure how or when it happened, but at some point, Moonlight began to occupy some space in my heart and mind. Just a tiny space, at first. I'd drive down the block at night, and worry about her wandering into the street and getting hurt. I'd hear a kitten crying, and wonder if it's Moonlight, and hope she's okay. I'd see her curled up in the driveway, under the wheels of a car, and I'd call my little boy to come and put her somewhere safe.

The worry was for Moonlight, too, but it was mostly for my little boy. He loved his kitten. And I loved how it brought out a sweet, gentle, nurturing side of him.

Moonlight lived in our yard for about a month. And then she disappeared.

We combed the neighborhood, looking for her. I knocked on doors. I talked to anyone who might have some information. We suspect that the crazy cat lady at the corner took her. But there's no way to verify it, and it's unlikely that she'd return her.

So Moonlight is gone now. And my little boy is heartbroken.

A tiny part of me is relieved. But most of me is mourning along with my little boy. I don't like cats, but I love my little boy. And his heart is broken.

Bursting With Pride

2011-06-06T12:15:00.003-04:00

My anonymity is very important to me, and I go to great lengths to protect it. My real life friends do not know I have a blog, and my blog friends know me only as Mystery Woman.

So when something significant happens in my life, something that may give some clues to my identity, I won't share it here, or I'll wait some time before I do.

But...I'm bursting.

And I can trust you, O Internet, not to make any connections between the real me and the blogger me, right?

So...please allow me to share a personal moment here.

My little girl is valedictorian!

I am so very proud.

It is an acknowledgment of her efforts and accomplishments, her middos and her maturity, and a recognition of the sweet, good-hearted human being she is.

And it's just another reminder of how my life as a mother is an answered prayer...a dream come true, and one of the greatest pleasures that exists.

This is what it must feel like to kvell.

I am blessed.

Unity In Diversity

2011-05-31T09:43:00.001-04:00

I am raising my children in Boro Park - a community that evokes strong feelings in many people. It's a neighborhood that is touted as the epitome of chessed, and maligned for its rudeness and unfriendliness.

There are great benefits to living where we do. My children are growing up surrounded by people whose homes are similar to ours, who dress the way we do, and who share our values.

But there are also drawbacks. Living all your life with people who are just like you puts you at risk of developing an intolerance of people's differences, of contrasting and judging.

It's not what I wanted for my children. I wanted them to learn to see past the clothing. To notice each person's special value. To appreciate the differences. And I was determined to teach them.

It wasn't quite as easy as I thought it would be. They were used to seeing everyone wearing identical yarmulkas and similar clothing, and anyone who dared to be different was suspect. Stripes on a man's shirt set him apart. He was less frum. And I wanted them to understand the misconception.

Some of my kids were able to grasp it pretty quickly. Others took a bit longer.

My daughter was in high school, when we went to the mall one evening to shop for shoes. A man was sitting at the side, waiting, while his wife tried on one pair of shoes after another. He was dressed in a colored polo and a suede yarmulka, an open sefer on his lap, learning while he waited for his wife.

Here was a lesson to be taught, and I grabbed the opportunity.

"Look," I whispered to my daughter, "look at that man. Does it make any difference that he isn't wearing a black hat and a white shirt?"

My daughter was impressed. She understood my point. But she didn't quite get it. In her mind, this was a rare exception.

It wasn't until a little while later that she was finally able to really appreciate what I'd been trying so hard to get her to see. She switched to a different camp that summer - a camp that attracted girls from a variety of backgrounds and communities. Her close friends, from different states, were just as frum as she was. Maybe more so. And meeting their parents on visiting day, looking decidedy un-Boro Park, was incredibly eye-opening.

Recently, an Ami Magazine article about Brisk featured a picture of the Brisker Rav with two sons. In the picture, one of his sons, R' Dovid Soloveitchik, is wearing a light gray suit and matching gray fedora, a common enough mode of dress at the time the photo was taken.

"It used to be that one could wear a light gray hat and still be considered choshuv, I guess," my daughter said. "When did that change? And why?

Why, indeed.

The giving of the Torah took place in the month of Sivan—the third month. In fact, the figure three is a constant motif in everything connected with the giving of the Torah.

Why the number three? Surely the Torah was intended to be unique and to reveal the oneness of Hashem. The number one is what we would have expected.

The giving of the Torah in the third month teaches us that Torah values diversity and individuality.

The purpose of the giving of the Torah was indeed unity. But true unity is when a person recognizes the One in the many.

When he perceives unity in the midst of diversity.

Letting Go

2011-05-19T13:09:00.001-04:00

It was a beautiful Chol Hamoed morning, which was quickly turning into afternoon, as we spent hours on the phone deciding how to spend our day. We were in our late teens, getting ready to take our first tentative steps into the real world - too grown up for rides and amusement parks, but not quite ready to give them up. We finally settled on a trip to Astroland, where we'd hold on to our childhood for just a little bit longer.

The park was crowded and the lines were long as I waited for my turn on the water flume. I watched a family climb into a boat, and I smiled in anticipation as I saw the boat begin its plunge, its occupants screaming in delight, their arms waving in the air.

And then I watched in horror as the boat suddenly flipped over, spilling all who were in it into the water and onto the tracks. I watched in a haze as they stood up, blood running down their faces. All around me, people were screaming and running to help, while I stood frozen, numb, unable to move.

I never talked about what I saw. I couldn't. I just wanted to bury it somewhere deep inside me and never think about it again. And I was successful - during the day. At night, the images haunted me, robbing me of my sleep. Every time I'd close my eyes, the scene would replay itself in slow motion. For weeks - maybe months - I was afraid of going to sleep. Afraid of the flashbacks and the nightmares.

And I promised myself that when I'd have children, I wouldn't allow them on these rides. I'd protect them.

Years passed. I got married and had children. And I didn't keep my promise.

My little boy's day camp sent a DVD of last summer along with the camp application. He happily relived the excitement of camp as he watched the video. He showed me the carnival and the magic show and the trips. He was thrilled every time he caught sight of himself. And then he showed me the major trip.

My older boys are more cautious, but my little boy is fearless. There is no ride big enough or wild enough to scare him. He'd try anything. Until now, I naively believed that the height requirements would keep him from riding all but the tamest of rides. Apparently, he'd grown past those requirements a while ago. I was uneasy as he showed me the rides he'd been on and told me about the new amusement park they'd be going to this summer, with even bigger and better rides. But I put aside my anxiety and smiled as I shared his excitement.

I made a promise to myself many years ago, but it is a promise that would be unfair to my children. I may be uncomfortable with some of the things they do, but I can't let my fears deprive them of a normal childhood.

Sometimes letting go takes more strength than holding on.

I can't always protect them. I need to let go...to let them fly....and let Hashem take over.

The Ultimate Matchmaker

2011-05-14T22:07:00.000-04:00

As the baby of the family, my little boy is not always very responsible. He's carefree and doesn't worry about details. He is not taken very seriously by his older siblings and is immature in some ways.

But he's smart and sophisticated. He has an incredibly mature sense of humor and a keen understanding of some adult issues.

His faith is so pure and innocent, I can only dream of having that level of emunah. He's taught me some profound lessons, and I sometimes wonder who is raising whom.

My little boy comes home every Friday with a 'question of the week'. It's a voluntary assignment, and anyone who has the correct answer on Sunday is entered into a raffle. The rebbe gives the boys some sources, tells them which seforim to use and where to look for the answer. But, even with that, the questions are difficult, and usually only a few boys will have the answer on Sunday.

My son refuses any offers of assistance. He wants to do this himself. He sits at the table surrounded by seforim, squinting through his glasses, searching for the answer. Sometimes he finds it easily, and sometimes he struggles with it for a long time, but the satisfaction and pride he feels in his achievement makes it all worthwhile.

Every week, my little boy comes to school on Sunday with the answer, and every week he is entered in the raffle, but his name is never drawn. I worry that he will become discouraged - that he will lose his motivation. But he doesn't seem bothered by it, and I wonder about that.

This week, the question was exceptionally difficult, and it took him the better part of the afternoon to find the answer. That Sunday there were only two boys with the correct answer. Only two boys to be entered in the raffle that was going to be drawn the next day.

I was apprehensive. He was not.

"A raffle for just two boys?" I asked, concerned. "But...that's not really fair, is it?"

"Sure it's fair." He seemed surprised by my question. "Whoever wins...it's min hashamayim. It's not really any different than when there are twenty boys in the raffle. It's all min hashamayim."

Having a child in shidduchim consumes an enormous amount of time and energy. As parents, we network, we talk to shadchanim, we follow up on suggestions, we call references. And we worry, of course.

And then, every once in a while, we are reminded that we are not in control.

My daughter's friend was called as a reference. She was asked a question about my daughter, and not being quite sure of the answer, she made some assumptions, and she got it all wrong. I was upset. What if she ruined my daughter's chances at this shidduch because of her inaccurate response? What if they decide against it based on that erroneous information?

I thought about calling the next person on the reference list and making sure she knows the answer so that she can clear it up if she is called. I thought about calling a mutual acquaintance and having her repair whatever damage may have been done. I thought about asking the shadchan to clear up the misinformation.

And then I let it go.

It's all min hashamayim.

When it sometimes seems difficult or frustrating, when the phone doesn't ring as often we'd like, when we're being portrayed all wrong...it's min hashamayim. All of it.

We can do our hishtadlus. We can daven. But when all is said and done, the ultimate goal is beyond our ability to reach on our own. We are not in charge. It is a wish which only Hashem can grant.

It's min hashamayim.

May the ultimate Matchmaker grant our wishes.

Last Kindness

2011-04-06T12:32:00.000-04:00

I'm already in bed when the call comes. I'm needed for a taharah. It's been a long day. I'm tired. But I get up, get dressed and join the two other women at the funeral home.

Erev Sukkos. The decorations are up. The food is ready. There is still a lot to do, but everything is proceeding on schedule. It is well past noon when I get the call. The funeral home, this time, is some distance away, and I know that I will be out of the house for two or three hours. I hesitate for a fraction of a second. And then I go.

It's the night of Tisha B'av. There is a levaya scheduled for the morning, and the taharah needs to be done before then. I realize that my day will be starting a lot earlier than I would have liked. But I don't even hesitate. It seems fitting, somehow, to begin the day with this.

I'm the type of person who feels faint at the sight of blood. I look away when my kids get their shots or have blood drawn. I'm squeamish. I don't deal well with unpleasant smells or sights. And death scares me. So I am hard-pressed to come up with an explanation for why I decided that this was something I could do. But I do know why I continue to do it. Why, despite my responsibilities to my family, a full time job, and my very busy schedule, I rarely decline an opportunity to perform a taharah.

There are some obvious benefits, of course. It has made me appreciate life so very much more. I can no longer take life, good health and the absence of physical suffering for granted. I am reminded of what it means to be alive and of what really matters when we are no longer. I have been taught that the limited time we have in this world is really all we have to do what must be done. To prepare for what really matters and what really counts.

And sometimes there are unexpected lessons.

I am not usually available during working hours, so I was not present at Thursday morning's taharah. Later that day, chevra kaddisha members were frantically summoned to an emergency taharah. I've rushed to taharahs before that had to be completed quickly in time for the levaya. They were urgent, but they didn't qualify as emergencies, and I wondered about what was causing this panic.

I heard the story later.

The morning taharah was being sent for burial to Israel. The family was going along, and the levaya was scheduled for Friday morning. The women who performed that taharah placed the body in a special box, and it was taken to the airport for the Thursday evening flight.

The El Al security people opened the box and as they passed the metal detector wand over the body, a pacemaker caused it to beep. The family was puzzled. Their mother had no pacemaker.

After some investigation, the mistake was discovered. There was, indeed, a pacemaker. But this was not the body that was supposed to be flown to Israel.

It was a terrible embarrassment to the chevra kaddisha, and a tremendous inconvenience to the family. The emergency taharah was done as quickly as possible, but they missed the flight. The family flew with the body after Shabbos, and the levaya was postponed to Sunday.

But the story could have had a tragic ending. In the best case scenario, the switch would have been discovered when the second taharah was done - probably after the levaya and the burial. In the worst case, the mistake would never have been discovered.

I don't know why this had to happen. I don't know why the family was meant to go through this aggravation. But I do know that there was a plan. The pacemaker did its job while the woman was alive. And it still had a purpose to serve after she died.

Show Me Your Hand

2011-03-15T12:50:00.002-04:00

I'm a coward.

I didn't look at the Itamar massacre pictures.

I understand that the family wanted to make these pictures public...wanted the world to see. And maybe I owe it to them and to the victims and to everyone else who risks their lives to live where they do, to look at the pictures. To understand the brutality and mourn along with them.

But I can't bring myself to do it.

I am heartbroken just hearing about it. I am so deeply shaken by the images in my mind. The three month old baby, stabbed in the heart, his hands curled into tiny fists. The twelve year old little girl, coming home to this horror. The trauma she will live with for the rest of her life. The parents and the innocent children, their throats slashed. The pain and grief of the surviving children.

Aren't we the wrong audience for these disturbing images? Shouldn't these pictures be seen by those who trust that there is some sort of heaven for the decapitation of a baby? For those who believe in sacrificing an innocent child to cure all the world's ills? For those who imagine that the slaughter of a tiny baby is a fitting punishment for...for anything?

When I was in school, we learned about what the world will be like when Moshiach comes, and what will happen before his arrival. We were taught about a climactic battle instigated by Gog and Magog, and even as a young child, that terrified me. Today, I understand that there is so much about this battle that we don't know. We do not know whether this battle will be a physical or spiritual battle, or even whether it has already occurred or not. But when something horrific happens...something I can't fathom...the old fears resurface. If these are the birthpangs of Moshiach, am I ready for him? Will I ever be?

Help me to make sense of this. Help me with my utter lack of understanding.

The hamantasch symbolizes the nature of the Purim miracle. The outside is just plain dough. The true flavor is concealed inside.

Our lives are the same. Sometimes it seems as though there is no system in place...no direction to this cold and harsh universe. Things happen that seem haphazard and random. But this is not true. There is a system. But it is hidden. Below the surface, there is a Hand and a Heart that directs the universe.

We do not get to see this Hand often. Purim is one day when it was shown...when we glimpsed what lies beyond the outer shell. Purim reminds us that nothing is random.

May we see open miracles...the Hand and the Heart...very soon.

Separation Anxiety

2011-03-08T14:15:00.002-05:00

My big girl looks up as I am leaving the house.

"You're wearing those shoes?"

I am. Obviously.

"You can't wear those," she tells me.

I look down at the offending shoes. They're nice. Really. But they're flat. Not the kind of flats I'd wear every day to work. They're dressy. And I'm pretty sure she never objected when I wore them to a Bar Mitzvah or a Shabbos kiddush.

"You can't wear flats to a wedding." She's adamant.

"But this isn't a fancy wedding," I explain. "And it's late. And I'm cold. And tired. I don't feel like wearing heels."

She's not convinced.

"Besides," I add, "I'm an old lady."

"Yeah," she says, "but no one knows that."

I change my shoes.

I wonder...what do people do when they are not blessed with daughters? What did I do before my daughter was old enough? Who else can be trusted to give an honest answer to, "Do I look fat in this"?

And, suddenly, a terrifying thought crosses my mind. What will I do when my daughter gets married? How will I be trusted with the daunting task of choosing my own clothes? How will I make difficult decisions like what color lipstick to wear or when it's ok to wear boots? Am I doomed to a life of nerdy sweaters and unsuitable footwear?

I'm not ready for my daughter to get married, I realize. I'm not ready for her to leave home!

Something must be done, and I am resolved to do it. I will be independent. I will learn to part with my live-in fashion consultant, and I will allow my daughter to marry.

I drive to the mall, putting my thoughts into action. I stride confidently from store to store. And then I see it. I try it on, scrutinize my reflection in the mirror, and I buy it. All by myself.

I pull the sweater out of the bag when I get home, and proudly show it to my daughter.

She doesn't like it. I can tell.

But it's ok. This will take some time, I know. I just need more practice. Soon...soon...I can let her date.

I wore the sweater to work last week, and when I got home, my daughter gave me the once-over.

"I like your sweater." She seemed completely oblivious to my bewilderment. "Do you think I can borrow it?"

"But you didn't like it when I bought it!" Could it be that I'd misinterpreted her reaction?

"Oh, I changed my mind," she said lightly.

Yes! I can do this! I can select my own clothes, and they will not be nerdy. I can determine when black tights season begins and ends. I can decide which dress is appropriate for any occasion. And maybe, after careful deliberation, I can figure out which shoes to wear. Myself.

And...my daughter can get married now. I am ready!

My Child, My Teacher

2011-02-24T14:10:00.001-05:00

"Hit him back," I tell my little boy. "If he fights with you, just hit him back."

It's all wrong. It's not what I'm supposed to be telling him. It's not what the parenting books say. But someone is picking fights with him, and I know he won't stop as long as my little boy allows it. As long as he doesn't do anything to defend himself.

"I don't fight," he says.

"You're not fighting. He is. You're just defending yourself. Just kick him when he comes near you. Just to keep him away."

It's sounding all wrong. The parenting experts would be horrified.

"I can't kick him," he says quietly. "I'm afraid I'm going to hurt him."

"But...but...he's hurting you!"

"I can't," he says again. "I can't hurt people."

I look at him, as though seeing him for the first time.

I can't hurt people....

I hug him. And I am ashamed of myself.

There are moments when a seemingly insignificant incident reveals a profound insight about a person's character. This is one of those moments.

I learned who my little boy is. I learned something about his deepest self. I learned that not only do I love him, but I admire and respect him. I learned that there is so much he can teach me. I learned that he is not only my child, but also my teacher.

My little boy is growing up. Today he is a child with a sensitive soul. A child who can't hurt people. A child I am so proud of. With Hashem's help, he will grow to be a sensitive adult. An adult who will not hurt people. An adult I will be proud to know.

Do it your way, my little boy. I am honored to be your mother.

My Daughter, the Cow

2011-02-17T16:08:00.000-05:00

A shadchan is on the phone. He has some basic questions, and I answer them all. I'm feeling good. This is a well known shadchan, and he sought me out. As he should. My daughter is a great girl, and he's lucky to have her on his list. He wants her resume, and I promise to email it to him as soon as I'm off the phone.

Then he asks for a picture.

"A picture?" I ask, naively. "What for?"

"Some people ask for one."

That's pretty standard, apparently. At least according to him. But...a picture? What does a picture tell you? She's a human being, and one would think that should make it different than a cattle sale. There's so much more to her than what the picture would show. It just doesn't feel right to me. And I tell him that.

"I have nothing to hide," I say. "My daughter is beautiful, and anyone you ask about her would say that. It just seems so degrading. If someone insists on a picture, let me know, and maybe I'll send one then. But I'd like to know who's asking."

He understands. I don't send the picture.

And I never hear from him again.

It is now a year later, and a shadchan is on the phone.

"Does your daughter have any weddings coming up soon?"

I'm not sure. I'd need to check with her. And I'm wondering why a shadchan would want to know that.

"Remember I suggested a name a while ago?"

I do remember. It had sounded like a good idea, but I learned a lot in the last year. I'm smarter now. I want the boys' parents to do their research first, and if it sounds good to them, I'll look into it. I told that to the shadchan then, and when several weeks passed without hearing from her, I assumed it went where so many other shidduch suggestions go.

But she's on the phone now...so maybe not. I allow myself to hope for a minute.

"They're still dragging their feet," she tells me. "I want them to take a look at her at a wedding or something. I think that might help."

Take a look at her...

If the picture idea sounded bad to me, this should be sounding even worse. Take a look at her... Like an appraisal. Or an evaluation. This is sounding more and more like a cattle sale.

I hate it.

But...I learned a lot in the last year.

I ask my daughter about upcoming weddings. She seems to be running out to weddings and all the time. I'm sure there's something.

There isn't. Not for the next month.

"There must be something! What about a vort?"

Nothing.

"Chinese auction?" I'm sounding desperate.

I call the shadchan back. I tell her about the wedding coming up in a month, but I promise to call her if anything comes up sooner than that.

So the mother of this boy will be joining the other women who stand around the edges of the room, watching the single girls dance. They will analyze and assess and inspect, and then make a judgment. If a girl strikes their fancy, they will find out who she is. It will be no different than any other wedding, really. Just another cattle sale.

I hereby invite all of you out there to this wedding next month - no formal invitation necessary. Come take a look at the single girls. My daughter is the pretty one in the black dress. It's elegant and stylish, but not too trendy. Completely tzniusdik, but not nerdy. I can show you some pictures, so you recognize her. Just come and look at her. Please.

I learned a lot in the last year.

Pain

2011-02-11T12:06:00.001-05:00

"They went without me."

My little girl looks so confused. And so, so hurt.

Things would work themselves out, I know. She'd be ok. But right now she is in so much pain, and it breaks my heart.

I also know that this will not be the last time she feels hurt. There will be more pain in her life. I want so much to protect her. I want so much to erase the anguish I see in her eyes. I want her to never feel the hurt she's feeling now. But there isn't much I can do. I can listen to her and hold her, but I can't take it away.

She'll get through it. She'll heal. Her heart will be scarred, but she'll emerge stronger than before.

There is a knock at the door. A woman stands there. She is going from house to house, and she's asking for money. I'm not sure how it happens, but before I know it, she's sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee, unburdening her heart. I listen to her tales of abusive husband, troubled kids and poverty, and my heart breaks. There isn't much I can do to help her. But when she leaves, her steps seem lighter. And my heart is heavier.

I am waiting on line at the pharmacy today. A woman behind me comments on the price of cigarettes.

"I quit in 1973," she says. "Cigarettes were 65 cents a pack back then."

I make some polite sounds.

"I quit cold turkey," she continues. "It was hard. I cried a lot."

And then she starts to talk. She talks about some of her troubles...some of the things she's been through. The pain...the misery...the sorrow...the heartache.

I listen, and then I leave the store. And I take some of her pain with me.

So much pain. So much suffering. It's everywhere. It almost seems as though no one is immune.

And every time I listen to it, some of it remains with me.

I know there is a reason for it. I know there is a purpose. I know as well as anyone else how pain makes us grow...how it strengthens us...how it makes us better people. I know all that.

But I can't take it anymore.

It's enough already.

No more. Please.

Immortality

2011-02-01T12:56:00.001-05:00

I am in the hospital awaiting the birth of my firstborn. The pain is intense. No one prepared me for this. I knew there would be pain, but I didn't really know. How could I know? How could I even imagine this agony?

My baby is not yet ready to be born. I am told to walk around for about an hour. I walk a few feet, stopping every few minutes as a spasm of pain rips through my body, and I collapse into the nearest chair. An hour… I can't bear an hour of this.

"I want to go home." The words come out in a choked sob.

My husband looks concerned.

"Home?" He seems confused. "Do you want to have the baby at home?"

"No." My voice is hoarse. I have no strength to explain. "I changed my mind. I just wanna go home. I changed my mind about this. Just take me home, please."

We stay. It's a boy. A beautiful, healthy boy. We name him after my grandfather – the first great grandson named after him.

Recently, my husband and I are honored with kvatter. The baby is my nephew. I hold him close, and look into his eyes. He looks back at me, his gaze calm and steady. He is beautiful. I give him a quick kiss and hand him to my husband.

His name is announced. He is named after my grandfather, another great grandchild joining the many who now bear his name.

A relative of mine passed away last week. He was a good person. And too young to die. I listen to his wife and daughters talk about him. There is so much to say…so many stories…so much good…so many lives he's touched. I blink away my tears. I have so many questions. He was so young.

I look at his daughters, and I know that they will name children after him, and their children will name children after him. They will be proud and honored to carry his name. His memory will endure.

I did two taharas one night this week. The first one is difficult and we are shorthanded. It takes longer than usual. When we are done, I am tired. But I feel good. We prepare for the second. I ask for the Jewish name. No one knows it. There is no family to ask.

I am sad. Sad for this woman who lived 98 years, but died alone. Sad that she left no one…no one to sit shivah for her, no one to remember her, no one to eternalize her memory, no one to carry her name.

And suddenly, it is very important to me that I make my mark on this world, somehow…that I touch lives…that I make my children proud to perpetuate my name. That I am remembered.

I have a lot of work ahead of me, and I have no idea how much time I have to achieve that goal.

But I am ready to start.

Supply and Demand

2011-01-12T16:20:00.000-05:00

"Leah's parents are getting really desperate," my daughter tells me.

Desperate? Leah is my daughter's age - definitely not old enough to be "desperate".

"Why?" I ask.

"Because everyone is saying no to them."

Leah is a great girl, I know. Her father is a rebbe in a small yeshiva, so they don't have a lot of money. But he works hard, taking on extra tutoring jobs at night, and they are willing to support their daughter. And that's what it's all about, isn't it?

Apparently not.

"Her grandparents are divorced."

Grandparents?? How does that affect who she is...what kind of wife or mother she'll be? No one would turn her down for that.

But they would. And they do.

Binah Magazine published a supplement several weeks ago, titled Seamstress of Souls, Legacy of Bais Yaakov. It was a tribute to Sarah Schenirer. In it, there is an interview with Rebbetzin Kirzner, daughter of Rebbetzin Vichna Kaplan, and principal of Bais Yaakov High School in Brooklyn.

The interviewer asks about the accomplishments of Bais Yaakov in America. She answers proudly. She talks about the feedback she gets from Bais Yaakov graduates years later....about how they credit Bais Yaakov for the direction they took when building their families.

And then she says:

"Nowadays, shadchanim blame Bais Yaakov for making it difficult for a boy who is working to find a shidduch! An increasing number of graduates move to Lakewood or Eretz Yisroel and opt for a long-term kollel life."

She seems incredulous. Someone actually blames Bais Yaakov for this tremendous accomplishment!

It's beautiful, really. Sarah Schenirer's vision has become a reality...Bais Yaakov students all over keeping the mesorah alive.

But I am going to join those shadchanim. And I'm going to take it a step further.

Hundreds, maybe thousands, of Bais Yaakov girls graduate every year and enter the world of shidduchim. Learning boys are very much in demand. And in a competitive market, prices are determined by supply and demand.

And the price is high.

If your father doesn't earn a lot of money...if you use plastic dishes...if your grandparents are divorced, you don't stand a chance.

But unlike the law of supply and demand, where the higher the price of a good, the less people will demand that good, learning boys remain as much in demand as ever.

And the price keeps rising.

I am becoming increasingly frustrated with this system. I'm so tired of it.

But I'm going to keep going along with it...giving in to it.

Because I raised a Bais Yaakov girl.

On My Blogiversary

2011-01-04T11:30:00.001-05:00

I'm pleased to report that my blog is one year old today!

Taking the time to share my thoughts and feelings taught me a lot about myself and about blogging. I'd like to reflect on some of the things I've learned this year.

I learned to write when I feel inspired and not to wonder about whether or not people will like it. Sometimes I'll pour my heart into a post, and it falls flat. And then I'll write an ordinary post, and it explodes. It amazes me which posts take off and which ones don't.

I learned that the only foolproof way to keep from being discovered is to never blog at all. So, since I was unmasked, I blog under the assumption that I'll be discovered one day.

I learned that people connect with people, not just with words. I prefer to be anonymous, but when I write, I do allow the real me to come through. Sometimes more than I'm completely comfortable with…but all real.

I learned that writing can ease emotional pain. The world doesn't stop for my grief. But I like the idea that I can have a little corner to myself where I can write what is in my heart.

I learned that bloggers are a community. We are here for each other. I know that there are some people I can always count on to let me know that someone out there is reading and appreciating my blog. It's what motivates me to continue sharing my joys, my worries and my hopes.

I value every person who takes time out of their day to stop by my blog. And I am grateful to those of you who take the extra moment to leave a comment. It is because of you that I'm still here.

Random Thoughts...

2010-12-27T13:40:00.001-05:00

...while watching the wedding video:

1. You were there, and very much aware of everything that was happening. But there is still so much you either missed or can't remember.

2. Taking pictures is tedious and boring. But later, you'll be so happy you did it.

3. Like everything else in life, the night passes too quickly.

4. Watching yourself on video is not fun. It's much more fun watching everyone else.

5. Every person who makes the effort to show up is appreciated. (Although sometimes you don't actually remember that they were there until you see them on video.)

6. It's easier to remember those who wished you mazel tov during the kabbalas panim than those who came during the dancing.

7. If you're feeling uncomfortable while the video camera is focusing on your table, and you pretend to be looking at your phone, you will actually look like you're feeling awkward, and not like you just got a really important text. Just wave and say mazel tov.

8. Those people who take that opportunity to give long speeches to the video camera - no one gets to hear it. We just watch your lips move while we listen to some background music. Just wave and say mazel tov.

9. If someone you love can't be there, even if there are hundreds of other people there and so much going on, you'll notice and miss them.

10. Surprisingly, there is not that much more color on the women's side than on the men's. It's mostly black and white on either side, except for an occasional splash of color, which is probably the out-of-town relative.

11. A wedding is really exciting, but it's only one night. The real fun starts afterwards.

12. There are so many single friends of the kallah, and so many single friends of the chosson. Can't we match them up?

13. None of those single friends of the chosson are good enough for the chosson's sister, apparently.

14. If you spend your night avoiding the camera, you may succeed in not being caught on video, but you miss out on all the fun.

15. It is possible to be so happy and so sad at the same time.

16. Being at your child's wedding is one of the most powerful moments you will ever experience.

17. Sometimes, during your most powerful moment, you will not shed a tear.

18. The men seem to be having a lot more fun than the women.

19. They should really give the chosson a thinner glass to break under the chuppah.

20. I am so, so blessed.

Boro Park

2010-12-13T14:21:00.002-05:00

I'm from Boro Park.

I love it here.

It's where I grew up, where I got married, and where I'm raising my children.

It's where I chose to raise my children.

I know all the stereotypes. Boro Parkers are loud and aggressive. They are impolite and inconsiderate. They are unfriendly and rude and arrogant.

And they do not say "Good Shabbos".

True, the chesed here is unparalleled. Even the staunchest out-of-towners would grudgingly admit to that. But that doesn't really say anything about Boro Parkers. It doesn't say anything about the individuals. Chesed, after all, does not equal middos. Chesed doesn't compensate for the lack of civility, the offensive behavior and the rudeness. Right?

I know a very different Boro Park.

It's a lot of people living in a small place. It's crowded. And rushed. It's New York. People here think and behave a bit faster than they do in more laid back areas.

But I know the people. I know the individuals.

I know the woman who noticed when my little boy seemed lost. I know how she didn't wait for him to reach out for help...how she understood that he was too proud to admit he couldn't find his way home...and how she helped him out, with his dignity intact.

I know the man who, while walking home from shul, met a guest of ours who couldn't find our house. I know how he wasn't able to help him, but he invited him to eat with his family instead.

I know my son who noticed the elderly man living near his yeshiva who likes to come daven with the yeshiva's minyan. I know how my son goes to this man's house 3 times every Shabbos to walk him to the yeshiva. I know how he helps him to his place and makes sure he's comfortable and has everything he needs.

I know the woman who knocked on my car window asking if I was going in her direction. I wasn't, but I took her there anyway. I know how thankful she was...as though I drove her across the country instead of just four blocks.

I know the boys who wait at street corners in the cold, hoping for a ride. And I know the people who stop to offer it to them.

I know hundreds of these people. Boro Parkers...all of them.

If you ask us for directions, we won't bond with you. We may not ask you where you're from or why you're here. But we'll stop what we're doing and help you out.

We've gotten a bad rap. And people come here with an opinion...a preconceived notion.

If you expect people to be rude, you will see only rude people. But if you expect people to be nice, you will notice them, too.

Come to Boro Park with a more open mind. Expect people to be nice, patient and caring about others. See what happens. And let me know.

Oh...and say "Good Shabbos".

To quote Wayne Dyer, "If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change".

Battle Scars

2010-11-22T13:45:00.001-05:00

"...And so Hakodosh Baruch Hu chooses a particular couple who will draw such a neshama down to this world. The neshama departs from the kisei hakovod and is immediately placed in an environment in which it is at home - an environment which is heavenly in nature, for an isha me'uberes carries within herself not only a child, but an entire Gan Eden as well.....

However, those special neshamos of which we have spoken above cannot bear to separate themselves from Gan Eden and sully themselves by entering this world of gashmius. And so they are spared from undergoing this discomfort and are returned to the lap of their Father in shamayim, having fulfilled their mission by leaving the heichal haneshamos, thus bringing Moshiach closer.

And what of the mother who had suffered, hoped, and in the end was so disappointed?

She is of flesh and blood and her feelings are understandable. However, in loftier moments - in moments when her wisdom can overcome her emotions - then she can free herself of her earthly thoughts and join in the elation enjoyed by her neshama. Then she will become possessed by a feeling of true joy - the joy of a wealthy man who takes reckoning of all his business endeavors and sees that the profits far outweigh the expenses.

She has merited to have as her guest a pure, holy neshama, accompanied by heavenly light, heavenly malachim and a heavenly Torah. Hakodosh Baruch Hu has chosen her guf to be the bais midrash of this neshama. And when this neshama leaves her, something of the kedusha that entered her will remain, and will not leave her for the rest of her life.

She was zoche to bring Moshiach's arrival closer by offering a sacrifice for this purpose. She is left with no mother's compensation; what she has endured has been for Moshiach's sake alone. She has served as a loyal soldier, not as a worker who awaits immediate payment. She has served with the loyalty of a soldier who is ready to suffer wounds in battle, if necessary, solely for the glory of the king.

Was it all worth it?" *

I lay on the stretcher, consumed by the ache in my heart. I don't want to be here. I barely register the needle in my arm, as I drift into blessed oblivion...as I embrace the blessed release of sleep...numbing the desperate ache inside me.

And when I am awakened, my baby is gone.

It was a normal, uneventful pregnancy, and we eagerly awaited the birth of our child. We looked forward to our baby's upcoming arrival with joyful anticipation. We wondered whether it would be a boy or a girl..we speculated as to who it would look like...and we talked about who he/she would be named for.

And then, at a routine 16 week checkup, there was no heartbeat. My baby was no longer living.

I cried there in the doctor's office. I cried when I got home. And I cried the next morning at the hospital.

And then I was okay.

I got up, brushed myself off and moved on. I had other children to take care of. A miscarriage is pretty common, after all.

But I wasn't okay, really. Not inside. There was a very alive and real baby inside of me. A baby who died.

For a long time, I'd keep track of how old my baby would have been...should have been...and every time I'd see a child that age, it hurt.

Eventually, the hurt faded. It never disappeared, but it was replaced by a dull ache that settled somewhere deep inside me. I rarely thought about it. And when I did, it was just a fleeting thought. A tiny pinprick of pain.

But sometimes, during the time of year when we would have been celebrating another birthday, I think about it.

I wonder what this child would have been like. I wonder if he would have looked like any of his siblings. I wonder if he would have been quiet or outgoing. I wonder about how he would have changed the family dynamics. I wonder...but I'll never know.

But I do know that he would have had a place in my heart.

He would have been loved.

"Was it all worth it?

In painful moments when disappointment sets in and normal human feelings dominate one's mood, there may be one answer. However, when holiness breaks through, when the seichel of the neshama speaks and the joy of the Jewish soul bursts forth, then there is an answer of an entirely different nature. The answer is accompanied by the chimes of triumph, with the joy of the victor, with the deep-seated satisfaction of one who has earned something of immeasurable value...." *

I've suffered a loss. The ache never really goes away. There is no joy in that...for me. But there is acceptance. It's how it was meant to be.

And I've grown through it. I've learned the depth of sorrow. I've learned that life is incredibly precious, and that every moment shared together should be enjoyed. It's given me increased sensitivity.

There are no chimes of triumph. But I've brought Moshiach's arrival closer.

And that is a comfort.

*Excerpted from a letter written by R' Moshe Wolfson and translated by Rav Shimon Finkelman.
For a copy of the full letter, email me.

Half a Mama

2010-11-10T14:10:00.000-05:00

"You're going to drive her??" She stared at me in utter disbelief.

My little girl was frantic. She had a science test to study for, and she couldn't find her notebook. I wasn't really worried. I knew she'd do well on the test anyway. But she was distraught. After a thorough search, I concluded that it definitely was not in the house. So at 8:30 PM, I agreed to drive her back to school to see if it was there.

My big girl was incredulous.

"I would never have dreamed of asking you to do that at her age. You would have told me that it's my responsibility to make sure I have it, and if you drive me, I wouldn't learn that."

She's right.

Sometimes, it seems like I have two sets of kids.

The older set was born when I was younger. I stayed home to raise them. I had more time, more energy and more flexibility. I took them to the playground and I read them books. Bedtime was firm, and there was no snacking before dinner. And...if they left their notebook in school, well...how would they learn to take responsibility if I was always fixing their mistakes?

The younger set has an older mother. I have a lot more patience and tolerance. And so much more appreciation for every moment. I'm more aware of the swift passage of time. I know how fast they grow up, and I savor every minute.

With age also comes wisdom. I learned that some things are not worth getting worked up about. I learned to choose my battles.

But I don't have as much time to spend with them as I'd like, and I don't have the energy I used to have. I'm tired. Bedtime is not a concept they are familiar with. There's a lot happening around the house at night, and they want to be a part of it. So I make a lame attempt at getting them into bed, and then I go to sleep and hope they do the same sometime soon. If they want something and I can't think of any reason not to get it for them, I will. My little girl has too many pairs of shoes, and my little boy has too many books and toys. And...if they leave their notebooks in school, I'll drive them there to get it.

My older kids call me on it all the time.

"We were never allowed to do that."

"You never let us take that much snack to school every day."

"You're spoiling him."

Maybe I am.

I look at my older kids. They are mature and responsible. They are sensible and trustworthy adults and near-adults. They are everything I'd hoped they'd become. And I wonder if I am making a mistake in the way I am raising the younger set. Maybe they need me to be the kind of mother I was to their older siblings. Maybe I should be sticking to a method that has been tested and proven to be effective. Tried-and-true.

But maybe they were given to me at this age because this is the kind of parenting they need. Maybe not every child is meant to be parented in the same way.

Or...maybe I am aware of what I am unable to provide, and I am trying to create some sort of balance. Trying to make it up to them in some way, maybe.

Which brings to mind a story I read about a Rebbetzin in Meah Shearim whose married daughter came to visit and watched as her mother gave her much younger sister a potato chip.

"Mama," she cried, "when I grew up, I had to wash six floors in order to earn a half of a potato chip!"

"When you were little," the Rebbetzin replied, "you had a whole Mama, so Hashem knew it was enough for you to have half a potato chip. Now, 25 years later, your sister has half a Mama, so Hashem provided her with a whole potato chip."

More Mama, less potato chip.

Less Mama....more potato chip.

Mixed Emotions

2010-10-25T10:16:00.000-04:00

It's over.

The weeks of preparation and anticipation. The whirwind of shopping and gown fittings. The anxiety and the excitement. It's all behind us now. Gone...in a blur of music and dancing and five course meals. Just a fleeting moment in time. Gone too fast.

I watch my son and his new wife. They are so perfect for each other. So....complete.

I am so incredibly happy.

And I cry.

I cry because this is what I've prayed for and hoped for.
I cry because this is the fulfillment of my dreams.
I cry because I know how difficult it can be to find one's soulmate, and I'm so thankful that he found his.
I cry because I know how right they are for each other, and I am grateful for that certainty.
I cry because my heart is full.

And I cry because there's a hole in my heart.

My oldest has just left home, and a big chunk of my heart is severed.

I miss him.

My children are growing older. As am I.

I miss tripping over the Lego pieces.
I miss the crayon marks on the walls.
I miss the sand in their shoes.
I miss the patter of little feet.
I miss rocking them to sleep.
I miss the teething and the sleepless nights.

Even the sleepless nights.

I'm at a different stage now, and I'm not sure I'm ready to be here.

I cry because time passes too quickly. Because I can't hold on to the moments.

My big boy is now a married man - ready to begin a new life. Ready to build a home. Ready to face life's challenges.

And I worry.

I have traveled down many of life's paths. I've stared challenges in the face. Some days were wonderful. Some days weren't easy. But I cannot imagine watching my child confront the challenges that life throws at him. I can't imagine how I would be able to bear watching him face a devastating difficulty.

I cry for his future happiness.

I am so unbelievably happy. And I cry.

I cry because I am a mother.

Because of the joys and the sorrows, the laughter and the tears, the fears and the worries, the hopes and dreams, the sweet....and the bittersweet.

There's nothing like being a mother.

Nothing.

I am so blessed.

To My Big Boy

2010-09-21T15:01:00.000-04:00

You are about to leave home. About to start a life of your own.

I've waited for this since the day you were born.

My heart is so full, that it aches. I am so unbelievably happy. Yet...there is a twinge of sadness.

I'm not unhappy about where you are going. I wouldn't want it any other way. You are going to where you are supposed to be, together with your future wife. To the life you are building together. But I will no longer be a part of the many moments of your life.

It's not like you ever really leave. A child is always in his mother's heart and mind.

But you will be missed.

I remember holding you...my first child....in your first moments of life.

Where have the years flown?

Where has the little boy gone?

Has the time really come?

Yom Kippur just passed. I davened for each of my children. I davened for all their personal needs. I worried about what is ordained for the coming year.

But my thoughts were especially with you.

I thought about everything that happened since last Yom Kippur. I thought about the monumental change in your life. And I davened for you and your kallah. For your new home. And for the children who will hopefully fill it.

I thank Hashem for allowing me to raise you and care for you, and for giving me such joy in watching you grow up to be the special person you are today.

My heart is full.

I wish for you so many things....so many blessings...so much good.

I wish for you only goodness. Only the very best of everything.

And I wish you and your wonderful, sweet kallah...your future wife...a life of true happiness. A life in which you will see the fulfillment of all your heart's desires.

Mazel tov to my dear, dear son.

Global Positioning

2010-09-07T09:43:00.000-04:00

"Merge onto US 9 South," my GPS-lady intoned.

"No," I said. "I'm not doing that. That doesn't make any sense."

I forced my car towards the Garden State Parkway, despite her cries of "Recalculating". She really wanted me to take the 9, but I knew better. I knew that she had it wrong this time.

My daughter looked worried.

I cruised along, ignoring every attempt by my GPS to get me off the Parkway and back onto the 9. I closed my ears to that horrible word.

"Can you believe her?" I asked my daughter. "Can you believe how stubborn she is? I'm already on the Garden State. Why can't she just give in and let me stay here? Why does she keep trying to get me off of here and back on the 9? Where are her brains??"

"She doesn't have any," my daughter calmly reminded me. "No brains. Only voice."

I thought of the story I'd read about some driver who blindly followed the computerized voice, and crashed into a river or something. I will not be one of those motorists who turn their brains off when they turn their GPS systems on. It's not that I can't follow the GPS. I'm just positive I know a better route.

"In .5 miles, exit on the right…"

I was momentarily confused. I looked around, dazed. Was this the exit I needed to take to get the Outerbridge Crossing? I was no longer quite as sure as I'd been before. And I had 30 seconds to figure it out.

I took the exit.

And I found myself on Route 9. She beat me this time. My sense of direction, never very strong, left me completely. I sat back and let her lead me. I let go. The trip took double the time it should have, but I made it home.

I may not always like where she takes me, but when I'm hopelessly lost, she brings me back home.

There is a peculiar serenity in that knowledge. I don't necessarily appreciate her advice, and I don't always listen, but there is a sense of trust. No matter how frustrated I am...no matter how annoyed...there remains that faith in her.

Perhaps, some day, my GPS-lady and I will learn to work together. Maybe we can just start this relationship over.

We are approaching Rosh Hashanah. Reflecting on the past year, I find that I've made plenty of bad decisions. I've traveled roads that led to nowhere, and exited roads that were to lead to my destination.

And sometimes, I've been hopelessly lost.

But I know, if I listen to His voice, He will always lead me back home.

My life is in Hashem's hands. I may not always like what He does. But I like the feeling that He's running the show. I like letting go.

This year, I think I'll make a greater effort to stay on course. I will trust Him.

Maybe we can just start this relationship over.

To my readers and fellow bloggers:

May Hashem grant you all a year full of bracha and hatzlacha, mazal, good health, only simchos, and everything you ask for in your tefillos.

To all of you searching for your soulmates, may you find each other SOON. (This is my blog. I can say whatever I want. Iy"h by all of you! :P)

Kesiva V'chasima Tova.

Take Care Of My Little Boy

2010-08-24T13:25:00.003-04:00

"Macaroni for lunch again today, huh?" I teased. "I see the ketchup all over your shirt."

He looked down.

"That's not ketchup. It's blood."

I blinked hard, and looked again. It was blood. Splattered all over his little shirt.

"What happened?"

"My Rebbe hit me."

He said it so matter-of-factly, it took a moment to register. Just like that....'My Rebbe hit me.' Like, 'I tripped on my shoelace'. Like it was some normal, everyday occurrence. And if I didn't have the physical evidence, I would never have known what happened.

I sat down with him and listened.

The Rebbe slapped him on his face. Hard. Then he slapped him again. And again.

And again.

At some point, his hand made contact with my little boy's nose. The gushing blood finally stopped him.

I was stunned. Shaken. And angry. I looked at my little boy, and my heart twisted inside me.

I went to see the principal the next morning. He met my concerns with doubt, half-heartedly defending the Rebbe, and tried to dismiss me.

When I left the office, I knew that the Rebbe won't touch my kid again. I was able to protect my son, but I couldn't protect any of the other little boys.

I didn't hear the rest of the story until months later. How the Rebbe quickly ushered my son out of the classroom, stopped the bleeding, and tried plying him with candy.

And how he lost all respect for his Rebbe – not because of the slap, but because of what happened next.

The principal walked by and questioned the Rebbe. In front of my son and 25 second graders watching and listening through the open classroom door, he told the principal that another boy hit my son. My son was 7 years old. Too young to stand up for himself, but old enough to be deeply scarred by that experience. It taught him a lesson that no 7 year old should have to learn.

Ten years later, I don't think my son ever fully forgave that Rebbe. He is left with an intense dislike of the man entrusted with molding precious souls. A man who abused that sacred trust. A man who used his power to relieve his frustrations.

"I'm so excited for Yeshiva," my little boy tells me this morning.

"What are you most excited about?"

"My Rebbe."

Oh.

I had heard a little bit about this Rebbe. He had some issues with discipline, and he was incredibly boring. He had a wonderful Rebbe this past year, and I was concerned about the transition.

Apparently, my little boy had none of those reservations.

"He gives out fake dollars when you know the Gemara, and you can buy seforim with them. He's such a good Rebbe."

"Oh…good!" Maybe this would work out better than I'd anticipated.

"He hurts."

He hurts. There it was again…that same matter-of-fact tone of voice. As though this is an expected component to growing up and going to school.

I've come a long way since the blood on the shirt incident. I'm not that young, meek mother I was back then. No one has the right to lay a hand on my kid. No one hurts my son.

I will protect my little boy.

To my little boy's Rebbe:

Look at my son in the classroom when you teach him. Look into his eyes and see how hard he tries…how eager he is to please. See how your disappointment in him…your frustration…reaches into his soul and breaks his heart. See how it hardens into the foundation of his character.

I see it. I see it all. And I am angry every time I watch his self esteem crumbling.

Do you know how sweet he is…my son?

If you looked into his eyes, would you hurt him? If you loved him, would you?

Is it worth a life? A future?

I don't ask you to love my son as I do. But please….look into his eyes. While your expectations may not change, the way you respond to him might.

Take care of my little boy.

Unmasked

2010-08-04T15:30:00.008-04:00

I'd been reading blogs for a few years when I decided to start one of my own. And so, one morning, the first post went up. It was a strange sensation to write, and then click on that orange button that said, "Publish Post". With that click, I was putting my thoughts out to the world. I was giving permission for people to peek into my brain and read my diary. I had no particular desire for anyone to know it was coming from me, and why should they care, anyway? I'm just.....me. I'm not a writer. I'm not well known. I'm just a woman who likes getting stuff off her chest.

I checked my blog later in the day, and noticed that three people had commented. I sat there, utterly amazed. Three people read my blog! The next day, there were a few more. It was a good feeling.

We've all been there, us bloggers. We know that feeling of watching a blog grow and how good it feels to have someone pay attention.

I think most people who maintain blogs are doing it for some of the same reasons I do. They like the idea of a place where a record of our existence is kept - a house with an always open door, where people can check on you, compare notes with you and tell you what they think. Sometimes that house is messy. In real life, we wouldn't invite any passing strangers into these situations, but the remove of the Internet makes it seem ok.

There are no deep secrets revealed in my blog. But because the house is sometimes messy, I'm not comfortable with a real-life person coming inside. Being a nameless mystery feels safe...there is a security to being anonymous, and I did not want to give that up.

Apparently, I wasn't as anonymous as I believed.

I broke what is probably the number one rule of anonymous blogging - change the details. There are a wealth of details you can modify in a story without losing the essence of it, and I probably should have taken those liberties. I didn't. Someone read a post, and guessed who I am.

For one fleeting moment, I thought about closing my blog. I won't do that. But something does change when you become a real person, rather than an anonymous web site. In my real life, I choose which parts of me I want to put on display. I make sure the house is neat and clean before I invite anyone in. I worry about what people think.

As long as my blog was anonymous, I didn't have to do that. I didn't worry that people's perceptions will change based on something they read. I didn't worry about being judged based on my beliefs, my style, my perspectives, or any of a hundred other things that people judge.

I now have a couple of options. Stop caring about what other people think or discontinue the unfiltered honesty.

I won't do either. I'm going to keep blogging. Anonymously. And it may be more difficult to be as open as I'd like, but I still want the freedom to share my thoughts...to have a place where I am always allowed to write about how I feel without sweeping up first.

To my identifier: Thank you for respecting my privacy. Thank you for not judging me based on things you read on my blog...for not predicating your opinion of me on my messy house.

To everyone else, I will remain,

Yours always,

Mystery Woman

Undercover

2010-07-26T15:12:00.000-04:00

I'd seen the ads. I probably shook my head and thought, This will never take off. Crazy...

I was wrong.

I spent Shabbos in an ultra chassidish neighborhood. It was very hot and humid, and I was sitting outside, seeking some respite from the frigid air inside, and watching people walk by - the men in their shtreimels, bekeshes and knickers, the women in dark suits and sensible shoes, some with hats over their wigs, but most with heads completely swathed.

A woman passed, wheeling a double stroller, several children clinging to the handlebar. She was wearing a coat. I blinked, unsure if my eyes were playing tricks. No, it was definitely a coat. Odd, I thought. Maybe she didn't feel like getting dressed, and figured it would be easier to just throw a coat over her robe. Odd...

I saw it again a few minutes later. And then again. And my brain finally registered a connection between what I was seeing and the ads I saw months ago.

These were summer coats. An oxymoron, seemingly.

The purpose, according to the ad, was tznius. Women walking to Shul on Shabbos, or to a wedding, dressed in clothing that might attract the attention of men. Ideally, those clothing should be covered by something simple and loose. In the winter, this is not an issue. In the summer, it is. Hence, "summer" coats.

I couldn't understand it when I saw the ad, and I understood it even less now, in the 98° heat. Whose idea was this? I wanted to know. Was it a man who decided to add another restriction, or a woman who wanted to take tznius to another level? Is this what tznius really means? After all, there's nothing attracting about whatever they were wearing under their coats. Black suits, mostly. And not very form fitting, I assumed.

My boys came out of the house then, on their way to Shul, in their bekeshes and hats. Not very different than the summer coats, really. But, somehow, this didn't bother me in the same way. Maybe because I am used to this. Maybe because this is something that's been done for generations. Maybe because wherever I am in frumkeit is "normal", while anything more is fanatic and anything less is "modern". Surely, there are plenty of people who are aghast at the sight of a fur hat in the summer, or even just stockings and long sleeves.

Maybe I was just seeing this all wrong.

Maybe these women were taking the concept of tznius further than I ever could. In their way, they are keeping private what should be kept private, thus enhancing the special intimacy between husband and wife. It's their way of maintaining respect for the body. Beautiful, really.

Another coat clad woman walked by, interrupting my thoughts. My daughter, sitting with me, seemed upset.

"There's nothing feminine about her," she said. "Long, shapeless coat concealing any hint of a figure, no hair...just a face. With no makeup.

"Is this what Hashem wants?"

I had no answer. I don't know the answer.

Is it?

Birthdays

2010-07-19T13:02:00.001-04:00

Ever notice how kids count their age in quarter years?

Three and a quarter, three and a half, three and three quarters. Every quarter year older is cause for celebration. It's like they don't have much age to speak of, so they'll say anything that makes it more impressive.

By the time they reach their teens, they're no longer counting in fractions. But a week after their fifteenth birthday, they're almost 16. And then almost 17.

We parents do it, too. Worse. We count in months. Until a year, it's all we have. But we keep going.

"How old is your son?"

"Thirty two months."

Then we have to wait while the person we're talking to does the math in his head. If he cares.

At some point, we start counting in decades.

"How old are you?"

"I'm in my thirties."

And then people stop asking. We keep having birthdays, only they're not so much fun anymore.

I don't look forward to birthdays. At each birthday, I start counting..tallying. Having a new number that I suddenly "am" gets me looking at other numbers. And the math is never good.

New age: 29

Number of years left: 40? Maybe 50?

Number of productive years left? Years that I can make a difference to this world...change this world in some way: Umm....20?

Scary.

A relative of mine lives near a cemetery. I look out over her fence, and read the gravestones.

1823-1887

Just a blip on the radar.

Who was she? Does anyone know she existed? She was born...she lived a full life, presumably...she loved...she had children, maybe. And then she was gone.

Does anyone remember us when we're gone? Our children do. Maybe our grandchildren. But after that...two hundred years later....does our existence matter to anyone? Will anyone know we lived? Will anyone care?

Celebrating a birthday means celebrating your life, its importance and its impact on the world around you. It means believing that you can make a profound difference and impact on our world. No person alive, no person who has ever lived, no person who shall ever live, can fulfill your specific role.

Pass the birthday cake, please.

Till Death Do Us Part

2010-07-13T11:00:00.002-04:00

"My daughter is back home," she told me, her voice surprisingly strong. "She's going to get divorced.

I stared at her, stunned.

I hadn't seen her daughter very much since she'd gotten married almost a year ago. She was a very young bride...sweet, soft spoken and innocent.

She stood beside her mother now, her expression hard to read. But she seemed more mature...older...her innocence gone.

"Baruch Hashem. We're so happy. It's bitter and sweet. We're sad because she had to go through all this pain, but we're happy that she got out now."

Her daughter nodded in agreement.

And then it all came out. The months of abuse - physical, sexual and emotional. How she didn't tell anyone, hoping she could fix it herself. The people she approached for help, who did not understand the severity of the situation. How she finally left him, and called her parents.

And the stories... So many stories...so much pain. It was as though, after so many months of being silent, the floodgates were open, and she couldn't stop talking.

There were tears in my eyes as I listened. Tears for her...but also for her mother, who only just discovered how much her daughter suffered in the past year. And she wasn't there to help her. I don't begin to fathom that anguish. I can't imagine the guilt she must be feeling.

"It was meant to be," she said. "This is the person I was meant to marry. Hashem meant for me to endure this year of misery. I don't understand it now, but I have no questions."

I was awed by her faith. I marveled at her ability to see this experience as predestined...to feel so much misery, yet remain so strong.

"The Rebbe was so excited about this shidduch," her mother continued, referring to the Rebbe of the chassidic group to which they and the family of the chosson belong.

"We knew this was right," she said sadly. "We had no doubts."

I searched her face, looking for some sign of uncertainty. I wondered how they reconciled what, to me, seemed so inconsistent.

For a moment, my belief in Rebbes was shaken. But their trust never wavered.

"Hashem temporarily clouded his vision. This had to happen. It was bashert."

I wanted to hear more. I needed to hear that there were signs that they ignored, obvious things they overlooked, some way they could have known before....anything to assure me that this could never happen to me...that somehow I am in control.

There was nothing. There was no way to know. And no one is immune.

I had a long talk with my daughter that night.

I'm not sure what the lesson is here...not even sure there is a lesson. But I want her to be more aware. I want her to know that sometimes people are not as they appear. I want her to be able to recognize evil. I want her to understand that sometimes we need help....that there are things we cannot deal with on our own.

And I want her to know...always...that I'm here when she needs me.

Summer's Empty Nest

2010-07-06T16:20:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make.

My kids are away at camp, and I'm enjoying their absence.

The days before their departure were a flurry of activity...shopping, labeling, packing duffel bags, arranging logistics and watching their confidence and delight as they headed off.

And then they were gone, and the world was suddenly very, very quiet. A nice quiet. The relieved quiet of a job well done.

Summer's empty nest.

When my little boy was four years old, I sent him to day camp for the first time.

And I cried.

My brain knew that this was the best place for him to be at this stage of his life. But my heart felt that he was so young and vulnerable...that he still needed his home and the pampering that only a mother can give.

My brain understood that he would be reaching towards independence in a warm environment...that I must let go so he can develop fully. But my heart insisted that I can, and should, be a full part of that development.

My stomach was tied up in a knot of anxiety.

My baby was moving into the next huge phase of his life....without me.

I've come a long way since then.

Make no mistake. I'm crazy about my kids. I love having them around. I love the noise and the laughter...their contagious joy and love of life.

And I love sending them away.

I don't have that pit-of-the-stomach sadness that they're off for good, and I know I'm not ready for that.

I do, however, love the temporary break. I'm thrilled at not having to pick up after them, keep tabs on them and nag them to make their beds or put away their clothes. I'm looking forward to the slower pace...less laundry...less cooking...more time. For me.

I can take my time getting home from work. I can catch up with old friends. I can read the paper or do my nails. I can go for long walks or read some books.

Or I can just do nothing.

I will enjoy my summer with a more relaxed attitude and carefree mindset.

And I'll be ready for them when they come back home.

When There Are No Words

2010-07-01T10:30:00.003-04:00

The birthday party is winding down. My big girl is opening the gifts, and then the mothers will be arriving to take their little girls home.

I had carefully coached her in advance on proper gift receiving etiquette, and she is doing great, dutifully stopping between each one to say thank you.

She picks up a brightly wrapped box. A little girl bounces excitedly in her seat, her pink hair ribbon matching the rhythm, and I assume she is the giver of this gift.

My big girl tears the paper, and I hold my breath.

It is a game we already own.

I look at her intently, willing her to read my mind.

"Say thank you. Just...say...thank you..."

"We already have this game," she says, in obvious disappointment.

The little girl looks crestfallen, her pink ribbon drooping.

My big girl looks up and catches my eye. A look of comprehension dawns on her little face.

She smiles brightly.

"The one we have is missing some pieces. I'm so happy we have a new one now.

I exhale. The pink ribbon perks up, the little girl beams. My big girl looks pleased. I am relieved. And proud.

My big girl is learning about saying thank you...not just as an automatic response. She is beginning to understand the emotion behind the sentiment.

. . .

Sometimes saying "thank you" just doesn't seem to cut it. Sometimes someone does something so...big, so....overwhelming...that the simple words that are available are not adequate.

How can I just say those overused words, when I need them to carry the deepest meaning, yet they sound just the same as when they are tossed out frivolously by anyone?

How do I express sincere gratitude when I do not know any words that adequately convey those emotions?

Sometimes there are no words to express the gratefulness I feel in my heart.

But words are necessary.

So I am left with a heartfelt "Thank you".

It's not enough, but it's all I have.

Thank you.

Meant For Each Other

2010-06-15T13:00:00.000-04:00

My friend is very frustrated with her bluetooth. And her phone. They just won't sync. She brings them together, the phone searches for its trusted device...and although it's right there, they can't find each other. Or won't.

She doesn't give up. She puts them nose to nose, trying to get them to recognize their match.

It doesn't work.

You can't force love.

I don't have that problem with my bluetooth. I don't use it a lot. Most of the time, it's buried deep inside my pocketbook, with the power off. And I carry my phone in my hand. They need to be separated. Because as soon as Bluetooth sees Phone, it springs to life.

I do what I can to sever the relationship. I go into my phone settings, find bluetooth settings, and make sure that's turned off. I double check the power on Bluetooth. It's off. I put Bluetooth in the little pocket, and carefully zip it shut. Phone goes into a separate pocket. Done. I feel victorious. And evil. And a bit guilty. Kinda like the way I felt when my daughter made friends with a girl I didn't like, and I did whatever I could to keep them apart.

It worked for my daughter. It doesn't work now. A call comes in, and sparks fly.

I check all the settings again. I'm not taking any chances. Bluetooth gets zipped into my pocketbook. I sling my pocketbook over my right shoulder, and Phone goes into my left coat pocket. I don't even feel bad anymore. I smile, smug.

The phone rings. I reach into my pocket, secure in the knowledge that Phone and I now understand each other. I press talk, and say hello. There's no one there. My confidence wavers. I glance at the screen. The call continues, with Bluetooth and Phone united.

That's when I know they are destined to be together.

I use my bluetooth all the time now.

They're meant for each other. And nothing I do will keep them apart.

It is said that ever since Hashem created the world, He has been kept busy making shidduchim. And that making a good match is as hard as Kriyas Yam Suf. Forty days before a child is born a voice is heard: this person is destined for that one. Somehow our bashert, the person destined for us, waits for us.

I've waited for this moment. Who would be special enough? Who would be the one? It seemed like a search for a needle in a haystack would be simpler.

We hit some bumps along the way, but we are not running the world ourselves. The Master of all souls, the Matcher of all matches guided us, wondrously orchestrating this all.

My son is engaged.

She is sweet and warm and smart and beautiful...and perfect for him. Their souls are partners, matching halves of a single whole.

They are meant for each other.

Like Bluetooth and Phone.

To Love And Protect

2010-06-01T11:10:00.001-04:00

I'm a mother. I have a fundamental instinct to protect my children from pain. In the course of their lives, I've soothed, encouraged, held, hugged and protected my little ones through the bumps and bruises associated with living. My love for them is a protective cloak guarding them from the many perils that threaten to harm them as they walk this journey of life.

There have been moments...holding a crying boy whose feelings have been hurt by another child, watching a sad girl trying to heal after a broken friendship...when I am overcome by a powerful, physical instinct to protect and fight for my child.

My daughter is in 7th grade - the year of G.O. elections. In her school, one girl is nominated from each of the 7th grade classes to run for G.O. President. The class votes, but the teachers make the final decision.

Elections took place last week. My daughter was really excited, having been obsessed with this since 5th grade. She felt that her chances of being chosen were pretty good. She had all the qualities needed and fit all the necessary qualifications.

I agreed, of course. I was sure she'd get plenty of votes, and I knew that her teachers recognized her talents and abilities. But I cautioned her during the week that if she was not chosen, she shouldn't be too disappointed. There are close to 30 girls in her class, several of whom would be good choices.

I waited with baited breath the day the results were to be announced. She came home, downcast.

"Who won?" I asked, my heart in my throat.

"Miriam."

Oh.

"I don't mind that I didn't win," she said. "But this was not done fairly. Miriam got only one vote. The head of G.O. is her aunt, and her sisters and cousins are always chosen."

My mother bear instinct kicked in. This was an outrage. How could they do this? How could they lead these girls to believe that their talents and hard work would earn them a chance at winning? How could they instill hope, when no one ever really had any chance?

I didn't want my daughter to suffer. I didn't want her to feel any pain. I would fix this.

I didn't, of course. I hugged her, I listened to her, I empathized. But then I let it go. I know that life is not easy. If I always pave the way, and continually make things easier for my children, I will create adults who are not able to deal with the real world.

My son is no longer a child. He's had his share of childhood disappointments. He's weathered his adolescence, gotten through his teens, and has grown into a mature and serious adult. Dealing with the real world.

And in the real world, I can't protect him.

I see his pain...I watch him suffer. It tears my heart apart. And there's nothing I can do to take his pain away. That protective cloak I naively believed could shield him from every trauma lies crumpled on the floor at my feet.

Motherhood brings out exceptional strength in me. No task is too small or sacrifice too great. In my mind's eye, I can see myself jumping in front of an oncoming train to save their lives. In my imagination, I can always save the day.

But when my son is suffering more pain than he ever has before, I can't protect him. All I can offer is a hand to hold as he walks the road that lies before him.

It's not enough...

A Rebbe and His Chassid

2010-05-24T17:00:00.002-04:00

At a wayside inn, a dozen chassidic merchants were warming themselves at the fire. The group included men from towns and villages across Russia and Poland, all traveling to the great annual fair at Leipzig. The conversation soon turned to the greatness of their rebbes, as each extoled the virtues of his master.
One by one, the chassidim told stories about the miraculous powers of their rebbes. One told how for fifteen years he and his wife had yearned for a child, until they received a blessing from their rebbe: within a year, they were cradling their newborn son in their arms. A second told of how his rebbe had neutralized the Jew-hating, pogrom-inciting priest in their village, while a third related how his rebbe's blessing and special instructions had brought home his wayward son. And so they passed the hours, recounting the wonders performed by their holy mentors.
Finally, they all turned to the one chassid who had listened in silence to their stories. "Let's hear something about your rebbe."
The chassid said: "I deal in lumber, and several years ago I was offered a forest for sale. The price was high, but the opportunities were even greater -- there was talk of a railroad to be constructed, raising the demand for and profitability of the local lumber. As I do with all major decisions in my life, I consulted with my Rebbe. He advised me to buy the forest.
"The purchase ruined me. The railroad project fell through and I was left with a basically worthless forest. I lost my entire fortune and was cast heavily into debt."
After a lengthy pause, one of the listeners asked, "And then? What happened?"
"Nothing," said the chassid. "I am still struggling to feed my family and repay my debts."
"So what's the miracle?" they all asked.
"That my relationship with the Rebbe has nothing to do with his wonder-working powers. That I continue to follow his directives in every area of my life. The miracle is that I am still his chassid."

I envy people with this kind of faith. I envy them every time I have to make a difficult decision. These are people who leave full responsibility for every important decision in their lives to someone they trust so completely...someone they believe lives in a world beyond ours.

These are true chassidim.

I've always believed that there are leaders who are worthy of that kind of reverence. I believe that there are Rebbes who have some sort of Divine Inspiration...a kind of prophecy, maybe. A higher vision. I don't know exactly what it is, but it doesn't really matter to their followers. A true chassid is willing to hear what their Rebbe says, and to accept it unhesitatingly. There are no questions. No doubts.

It seems so easy, in a way. Someone takes the crushing weight off your shoulders. He tells you what to do. He guides you. And he is someone who sees deeper than ordinary human beings, with a clarity that goes beyond ordinary intuition. So easy...

It's not. I discovered that today.

During the year my son spent in Israel, he formed an attachment to a specific chassidic group. He davened there as often as he could, and he has tremendous respect for the Rebbe.

We had a monumental decision to make. We spoke to our Rav and followed his advice. We spent hours on the phone. And we arrived at a decision. We would go ahead. But before we do, we agreed to seek a bracha from this Rebbe. A mere formality, I thought. It was what my son wanted.

We didn't get it. There was no bracha. The Rebbe said no.

I want to believe that the Rebbe sees something I cannot see. I want to feel relief...to know that we were just saved from making the biggest mistake of our lives. I want to know with certainty that this is the right decision. The only decision. I want to believe.

But I don't. My heart is not at peace.

I am not a true chassid.

Decisions

2010-05-13T16:54:00.000-04:00

My little boy is on the phone. He sounds upset. Something's wrong.

"I lost my yarmulka," he said, his voice breaking. "And today is picture day."

My heart sinks. I'm busy at work. It's the end of the week, and there are so many things I need to finish before I leave today. And I walked to work today.

I stall.

"Well...what are you wearing now?" I ask.

"Nothing. My hand."

"I'm sure they have something in the office," I suggest hopefully.

"They do, but it's so big it almost covers my eyes." He's near tears.

Argh.

Twenty minutes to his yeshiva if I walk fast. Twenty minutes back. Plus some time to stop at a store and get a new yarmulka.

"Can you do something?" He asks plaintively.

Of course I can.

It's so easy when they're nine years old.

But then they grow up. And they enter the world of shidduchim.

The amount of parental involvement in a shidduch differs among the different communities.

In the chassidic community, the parents choose the child's spouse. The child has veto power, but that is rarely exercised. The children trust that their parents know what is best for them, and have the maturity and life experience necessary to make this decision.

In the yeshivish community, parents are involved. They look for the best mate, ask a lot of questions, and gather information. But the decisions are left to the children. Boys and girls go out and see if they are compatible. If a shidduch doesn't work out, the parents go to the next in line. Dating a number of potential mates is the norm.

I am somewhere between the chassidic community and the yeshivish community. My children will 'date' and spend time with a potential to see if they are compatible. The number of dates will be more than in the chassidic community, but a lot less than the yeshivish. The decision is not completely up to the parents. But by the time boy meets girl, most of the work, as far as background, family, personality, goals, etc., is done. It's a match on paper, and now it's up to them to decide.

Sounds simple enough.

But sometimes things don't follow the script. Sometimes, you find what seems to be a perfect match, they go out, and then some new information comes to light.

In the chassidic community, the parents would make a decision. They would seriously consider the issue, maybe take their child's feelings into account to some extent, but at the end, the decision is theirs.

In the yeshivish community, once they've gone out several times, the parents will have input, but the ultimate decision would most likely be the child's.

Where I am, things are not as well defined.

We have a decision to make. My son's opinion will tremendously affect the final decision, but the burden rests on us, his parents. It is the most agonizing, gut wrenching decision I've ever had to make.

What to do? What to do?

It was so much easier when he was nine...

Second Chances

2010-04-28T10:50:00.000-04:00

Today is Pesach Sheni. The origin of this semi-holiday is quite fascinating. On the first anniversary of Yetzias Mitzraim, while all the Jews were occupied with preparing their lambs for the annual Korban Pesach, Moshe was approached by a small group of Jews who were ritually impure and thus excluded from offering, or partaking of, the Pesach offering. They weren't satisfied with their "exemption" from this mitzvah. "Why should we be deprived?" they exclaimed. "We, too, want to experience the spiritual freedom gained by participating in the service!" Moshe agreed to convey their grievance to the Almighty, and incredibly, the heartfelt wishes of this small group caused G-d to add a mitzvah to the Torah. Hashem instructed that from that year and onwards all those who weren't capable of offering the Korban Pesach in its proper time on the 14th of Nisan, due to impurity or distance from the Temple, should offer it exactly one month later, on the 14th of Iyar. The day thus represents a "second chance".

It's never too late. There's always a second chance.

Is there….really?

My big boy was 5. Maybe 6. He woke up one morning in pain, his left cheek swollen. It was a Friday, and I remember thinking about the bad timing. There's never a good time for something like this, but that day was particularly inconvenient. Maybe I was really busy…maybe I had a lot planned….maybe I hadn't done any of my Shabbos preparation…I don't remember. I also don't remember what arrangements I made for the other kids. But, somehow, we ended up at the dentist, who referred us to an oral surgeon. His tooth had to come out.

So many years later, I still feel a pang when I think about that episode. I was asked to remain in the waiting room, while a nurse whisked my son away. He was taken into a room where the surgery was to take place. He was given general anesthesia, the tooth was removed, and he was brought out to a cubicle to rest before going home. Only then was I able to be with him.

He went in there all by himself. He was given the anesthesia…and I wasn't there to hold his hand…to reassure him….to make sure he knew he was not alone. And I wasn't there when he awoke. How did I allow that to happen? How could I not insist on accompanying him until the drugs take effect? How did I let him go through that all by himself? He must have been so scared. He had to be. He was so little.

I wonder if this experience scarred him in any way. I wonder if he even remembers.

He seemed ok. He didn't cry. I hugged him before he went in, and he smiled at me. He seemed so mature. He seemed older than his five years. He always did. He was the oldest of three, at the time, and I'm not sure I realized just how little he really was. He was my big boy then, just as he is now. But he was really only a baby.

My youngest is 9. My relationship with him is so different than it ever was with my big boy. He's my baby, and that's how I relate to him. I wish I can go back and let my big boy be a baby for a little bit longer. He was a big boy too soon. Did I spend enough time with him? Did I expect too much from him? Did he grow up too fast…and did that harm him in any way?

I can't go back and redo any of it. There's no second chance.

Is that what is meant when we talk about a second chance? Is it the ability to be transported to a previous point in time and do it the right way this time? Is it the opportunity to fix all our mistakes? Would I even want to do that? Would I want to live my life all over again so that I can do things differently? And…if I lived my life again…would I do things differently?

He's still my big boy. Still mature and responsible. He's an adult now, but he still needs me. He still needs my time. He still needs my advice. He still needs my love. And I'm going to make sure he gets that. I can't go back in time and fix my "mistakes", but it's comforting to know that those mistakes, and the consequences, can be springboards for growth and change.

I'm grateful for my Pesach Sheini.

The Blink Of An Eye

2010-04-15T13:34:00.000-04:00

I am outside talking to a neighbor. She is in her late 50's. An empty nester.

I look at her, try to focus on what she's saying, but my mind is somewhere else. I am looking through her...seeing her in a way I've never seen her before. I am seeing her 20 years ago...young and busy, lively house full of kids...wiping runny noses, picking up toys.

And I'm sad.

Strangely, I don't think she is sad. She seems happy enough...content with her life.

But I can't shake the sadness.

I walk to work, and I see an elderly couple, arms linked, walking slowly and with difficulty. I watch them. They were a young couple once...not so very long ago. Did they raise a family? Were they happy? I want to know. I need to know. I need to know if their lives just passed them by so quickly that they are wondering where the time went. I need to know if they are mourning the passage of time....their loss of youth.

I'm sad.

For them, too. But mostly for me.

I do Taharas. Sobering work. But never sad. The women are generally old, have lived a full life, and I am preparing them for their meeting with their Maker. It's work that puts things in perspective...puts life in perspective. It reminds one of what is important, of where we are all going some day, and what we take with us. It's beautiful...and holy. But not sad.

I did one last night. I work quietly...my mind going to a place that is becoming very familiar to me. When did this woman stop being a young mother and become the frail woman I see before me? At what point was she no longer needed? When did the transformation take place? Did it happen slowly....or did she suddenly find herself there one day?

I continue my work.

But I'm sad.

How long before I find myself in that place? How much more time? How long before my roles change from mother...or wife...or whatever I am today....to...to what? I depend on these roles to identify myself...even to myself. When will they no longer apply? And...when that happens...who will I be?

Within ten years, I may have an empty nest.

Ten years....

I think back to ten years ago. In some ways, those years seem to have flown by. And every year seems to pass faster than the year before.

I'm almost there. And that thought makes me so sad.

I wish I could freeze time. I'm happy with where I am today. I'm happy now. I want to stay here for a little bit longer. I'm not ready to move on.

I just want more time.

More On Shidduchim...

2010-03-22T10:25:00.001-04:00

My last post, apparently, touched a raw nerve for a lot of people, and the comments came swiftly.

A part of me was thrilled (Yay....someone's reading my blog!). But the bigger part of me did not like being attacked. I guess this is negative attention, kind of. Better than no attention at all? I'm not sure...

But all those comments did get me thinking about some of the issues discussed in the comments, and about the whole shidduch system, and I'd like to share some of those thoughts, and get some opinions.

First thought was triggered by a comment by Bored Jewish Guy.

Most guys, even in the stricter chasidish circles, know what they like or don't like in a girl well before they're old enough to get married.

My first thought when reading that was, "Nah...not my son. It may be difficult for someone like BJG to understand, but my son and his friends really have very little, if any, exposure to girls."

But a few days later a very minor incident made me realize I was wrong.

My kids came up with an idea for a shidduch (her friend to his friend), which I thought was actually good, and I was going to possibly suggest it. In the meantime, my son texted his friend, saying he had an idea for a shidduch for him.

The first question his friend asked was, "Is she pretty?" I did a double take.

"That's a normal, natural question," my son said, in his friend's defense.

Sure it is. Of course. But....when did my son grow up??

So that was a reality check for me. You were right, BJG.

Second thought is in connection to my post title. I chose it because it is one of those "crazy" shidduch questions that some people ask, and I was making a point. But...to be completely honest...although it's not a question I'd ask, I don't think it's as crazy as it seems.

Suppose my son was raised in a home where the Shabbos table was always set, with china, glasses, silver and pretty tablecloths, and he marries someone who grew up in a home where they just put a pile of plastic cups and some napkins in the middle of the table, and then used disposable plates. Neither method is right or wrong. It's just different. And sometimes different can cause some conflict. Not because of the plastic. But because the plastic is usually indicative of the way many other things in the home are done...the way that home is run. I'm not saying it's an insurmountable conflict. I'm saying that it's something to take into account.

Third thought is a question that came to mind because of the reaction my post engendered.

I wonder if the reaction would have been the same if I would have written about money instead of looks.

Before you beat up on me, let me explain where I am on the money issue.

My son would like to learn full time for about two or three years. Obviously, he wants to marry someone who could appreciate that, wants the same thing, and is willing to work hard to help him realize that. During that time, rent and bills will have to be paid. If his wife has a job that covers that...great. If not, the money has to come from somewhere. I don't have it. So money definitely plays some part in the decision.

But I understand that while the support coming from the girl's parents lasts for a couple of years, he will live with this woman forever. And in those cases where the support lasts longer, there are almost always strings attached. So while money does play some part, it only plays a small part.

I am also very familiar with the other side of the coin. I also have a daughter in shidduchim. I've lost count of how many shidduchim fell apart because I am not able to support her. She wants to marry someone who is learning, is willing to support him, and is able to do so. But most parents of boys in shidduchim want money, whether or not they have it themselves. It's an entitlement.

So here's my question:

What if I would have said, someone suggested a shidduch for my son, but the girl's family does not have a lot of money, and would not be able to support them for whatever amount of time he wants to learn? What if I had two suggestions, both equal in every way, but one has money and one does not...and I'd choose to go with the wealthy girl? Would the uproar be the same?

China or Plastic?

2010-03-04T13:47:00.002-05:00

My sister calls me with a shidduch suggestion for my big boy.

I love those kinds...the ones that come from someone who knows my kids well, and also knows the person they are suggesting. The usual calls are from people who don't know either one of us, and are just matching random boys and girls, based on what they wear, or something equally inconsequential.

She tells me the girl's name and whatever she knows about her. Sounds good. I'm ready to look into this.

I go find my big girl. She's a wealth of information. She knows so many of the girls that are suggested, and if she doesn't, she knows someone who does.

She looks doubtful.

"She's not skinny," she says.

"Well, is she fat?"

"No...not fat... Just a little chunky. Like Chany," she says, referring to one of her cousins, "but shorter."

Hmmm...

I shoot my sister a text. "She's not skinny."

"Is she fat?"

"No. Like Chany, but shorter. Probably like a size 8."

Her response comes quickly. All Caps. "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND??? SINCE WHEN IS 8 FAT?? DO YOU GO BY THOSE STANDARDS?"

Um...no...

But...

I have no answer. I DON'T go by those standards. I'm right there with those who decry the invasive, superficial, nonsensical questions asked by some mothers...the kind of mother who only wants a size 2 for her son.

But...but...

But now it's my son. I look at the list of suggestions I have for him. Some great girls on that list. Including, possibly, the size 8. I don't know yet, because I haven't given her a chance.

I text my sister.

"If you had two girls you were looking into...both really great girls...one is pretty and thin, the other...a bit chunky, maybe...what would you do?"

"Ok. I hear you."

I felt a bit better. For about a minute.

What is wrong with me? This isn't me. I don't ask the sort of questions that are typically asked. I don't even ask for pictures. I'm the one who tossed the shidduch resume from the girl who put her dress size(size 2) right up there after her name and age.

I know I'm being ridiculous. My brain knows it. I'm disgusted with myself.

I know that this poor girl just fell a few notches down my list. I know it...and I'm powerless to do anything to change it.

I'm no better than the rest of them.

What's next? Dishes? Tablecloths???

Shame on me...

Masks

2010-02-25T11:30:00.000-05:00

They stared at him in horrified fascination.

It was a hot, summer Shabbos afternoon. The streets were unusually quiet.

We were invited out for the morning meal, and were on our way home, when we saw him.

He was standing, huddled in the shadows of the building, wearing a shtreimel and bekeshe. Smoking.

My children stood there, eyes bulging, mouths hanging open. Here, before them, was such blatant chillul Shabbos, by someone who looked so...so...FRUM, and they couldn't make sense of it.

"But...but...he looks frum," my daughter said, clearly upset. "Why does he dress like that if that's not what he really is?"

Here was a teaching moment.

"I'm sure he IS frum," I said. "We can't judge him. He may be completely frum in every other way, but this is his yetzer hara. This is the one thing he struggles with."

They weren't buying it.

"WE look frum, don't we?" I continued. "But do we always do everything we should? We know that speaking lashon hara is pretty bad...but we do it anyway sometimes. Right? Even though we KNOW it's wrong. Even when we are reminded AS we're saying it. But we're still frum, aren't we?"

We are. They understood. I did my job.

But I'm not sure I quite believed it myself.

I'm frum.

Life for me is so simple. My religion tells me what to do and what not to do, and gives me all the answers.

I wish.

Externally, I look frum. I dress the part. I make brachos and bentch. I keep Shabbos and kosher. I send my kids to all the right schools.

On the outside, I'm frum.

But I'm wearing a mask.

Not the kind we put on during Purim...the kind that hides our physical characteristics. I'm talking about the kind of mask that conceals the essence of who I am.

Because inside, I am struggling. Life feels like a battleground. I am in a constant battle against my own selfishness and desires.

And I don't always win the battle.

Sometimes I surrender. I feel too weak to fight. I do things I know I shouldn't, and don't do things I should. Again and again.

So...who am I?

Am I that frum woman you see when you look at me...the one who covers her hair and wears long sleeves? The one who blends in so easily with all the other frum women in Shul? Or am I a different person under the mask? Someone who sometimes gives in to her yetzer hara when no one is looking?

Am I frum?

Yes. I'm frum. That person who sometimes slips and gives in...that's not me. Sure, it's me playing the part. But it's not who I am. And I don't want to ever allow it to become who I am.

I struggle. I'm fighting the battle. The battlefield brings forth capabilities and potentials I didn't even know existed within myself.

It is this struggle which makes me strong.

Yes, I lose many battles. But for every one I lose, there are so many more that I win.

I will spend the rest of my life fighting these battles. And I will never win the war.

But I will keep fighting.

So...yes, I am frum.

Just like the man with the cigarette...

Even under the mask.

Happy Purim!

Hear Me Roar

2010-02-18T11:10:00.001-05:00

There's a bully on the school bus.

It happens all the time, I'm sure. We read about it...we hear about it...we feel sorry for the victims, and we can even find it in our hearts to feel sorry for the bullies. And as long as it doesn't directly affect us, we can sigh and move on.

But this time, it's my kid.

He comes off the bus, his young shoulders sagging. There's a fresh bruise on his forehead.

"What happened?" I ask, eyeing the bluish lump. "Did you fall?"

"No. A boy on the bus did it."

My little boy is perfect bully target. I can see that. While most boys his age enjoy running outside and kicking a ball around, he prefers sitting hunched over a thick book, head bent, glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. He's small. And he's not assertive. He won't fight back...probably doesn't even know how to.

I'm angry.

The bully is another mother's little boy. He may have low self esteem, or some behavioral issue, or something going on in his life... I don't know. I don't know what is causing the behavior.

And, frankly, I don't care.

He's hurting my son, displaying a cruelty unfathomable to me, and I can't find it in me to spare any sympathy for him.

"Why does he do it?" he asks, looking at me with such a wistful expression in his clear eyes. "I never did anything to him."

His expression is so sad, my heart is breaking into a million pieces. I choke back the tears. I don't have the answers.

I close my eyes, and I visualize the scene - my son on the floor of the school bus, pinned down by the much bigger boy, his head repeatedly pounded against the hard surface - and I am livid. My normally mild mannered self is gone; transformed into a tiger.

I call the school principal in the morning. He's not surprised. He makes a "deal" with the bully. If there are no complaints against him between now and Purim, he gets a special prize.

A prize? Prize?? Uh uh...not good enough for me. I am a tiger. I want blood.

My little boy seems satisfied. He doesn't want me to call the other mother, so I don't. Yet.

But I tell him, "If he hurts you again, I will go down to school, grab that kid by the collar and tell him, 'you touch my kid again....you even go near him...I will personally come down here and break your bones'."

He smiles and looks at me. He doesn't think I'm serious.

"What if he does do it again? Will you really beat him up?"

I smile back. "I just wanna scare him. He won't do it again if I scare him enough."

But...what if he does? Would I do it? Would I?? He's just a kid himself, and I'm a grown woman. Of course I wouldn't do that. Of course not!

But don't test me.

I'm a tiger.

Moments

2010-02-11T15:20:00.004-05:00

My baby is 9 today.

It happens so fast. One day they're throwing food off their high chairs and keeping you up all night, and the next day you're worrying about shidduchim.

Where does the time go?

What happens to the moments?

We're on a treadmill, racing to keep up with all the demands of raising our children, running the home, and holding down a job. We are so busy being a parent, and doing all the things that entails, that we have no time to stop and experience the moments that make it all worthwhile.

Last week my little boy was having a crisis. His class was having a siyum to celebrate completing the parsha. He promised to bring the soda, but he didn't tell me about it. He was crying because if he didn't bring the soda, he was facing what in his life would be considerable embarrassment and humiliation.

If this were just an ordinary soda, I could have possibly spared 5 or 10 minutes to run to the corner grocery. But this was a very specific soda. It would mean going to several stores some distance away, hoping that one might have what I was looking for. I just couldn't do it.

We were about to leave the house to catch the bus to school. I had to leave for work, and we were running late. But he was frantic.

We scurried down the stairs together, him still sniffling about what was going to happen at school, me rushing and hoping he wouldn't miss his bus, and feeling really bad for my sad little boy.

Just as I watched him get on the bus, I had this moment.

It was a crystal clear moment. I knew that work wasn't important. I was going to be late. I would go to the store...as many stores as it takes...and get him that soda. Then I would go to his school and bring it to him.

Later, during work, I began to berate myself for the choice I had made. What lesson am I teaching? He didn't tell me about the soda the day before. Shouldn't there be some consequence to that? Am I spoiling him? Did I do the right thing?

I believe I did. In fact, I am proud of myself for the choice I made.

Who needed me more at the moment? To whom was my attention more crucial? Who else would have gone out and taken care of what, in his little world, was so significant? Who would have even cared?

I began to notice dozens of moments every day.These were moments that had occurred hundreds of times before...mostly seemingly inconsequential things, like bruised feelings, a dream from last night, misplaced headbands. Moments where we sat and talked about their life or problems at school. Moments that happen every day...that I never give much thought to. Only now they were crucial moments.

Yes, my baby is 9. And my older ones already have one foot out the door. But my children still need me. And they will need me for many years to come. I am indispensable and irreplaceable.

And I want to hold on to those moments. I want to make the most of my time with them.

Because tomorrow they will be all grown up.

Can I Ask You A Question?

2010-02-04T10:30:00.003-05:00

"Excuse me...can I ask you a question?" I stop, momentarily confused. A question? Me? So I say yes because I don't want to be rude and I feel bad.

First mistake.

I stride through the mall, invincible. I've just scored a $79 sweater at Banana Republic for $29.99. I am thoroughly enjoying myself. But my time is almost up, and I'm working my way toward the exit, when my path is blocked by a pretty Israeli girl who wanted....needed....to ask me a question.

Apparently, "can I ask you a question" is a popular tactic used by kiosk sales people. You know...the ones that practically run you down as you walk by, and trap naive shoppers. But I didn't know it then. And I'm not one of those naive women, anyway. I'm a hard sell. I just walk by quickly while looking the other way.

"Can I see your hand?"

"Um...sure."

Second mistake.

I let my guard down. Just for a minute. Before I know it, I'm trapped with a handful of Dead Sea salt scrub. She tells me to follow her, and I do, because I'm not sure what choice I have with my hands full of that stuff.

Third mistake.

I have to admit...after the scrub and then the body butter, my hands feel great. Softer than ever. I want some of that. So I say, "It feels great, but what do you have for my face?"

Mistake number four.

The face peel, demonstrated on the inside of my arm, followed by the moisturizer is even better, if possible, than the body scrub. I've got to have this stuff. I absolutely need it.

"Ok...how much?"

"Well, normally, the scrub sells for $120. But you get a special JP (Jewish Price) only today. I'll give it to you for $80."

Gulp.

"BUT this jar lasts 8-12 months. You only need to use a little bit. And the body butter (also $80) is so thick. You won't find anything like it anywhere. One jar is a 12-18 month supply."

I do some quick mental calculations, while looking around. And right there, in plain view, is another moisturizer. Anti aging.

Mistake number five.

"You don't have wrinkles. But those lines on your forehead...they'll disappear. This one also lasts for 12-18 months. The other moisturizer is for day. This one's for night. I can make this $80, too. JP."

Hmm...let's see... $80 for the body scrub, $80 for each moisturizer, $80 for the body butter and $60 for the face peel. Total of $380. No way.

"No, I'm sorry. This stuff is great, but it's too much."

"I'll tell you what. Don't take the body butter. Just use your own lotion. It's fine. I'll give you the face peel for the crazy price of $40. If you buy the body scrub ($80) and the face peel, I'll throw in both moisturizers for $80."

"I'll take it."

I walk to my car, rationalizing.

I've spent $20 on moisturizers before. And how long do they last? A couple of months? These were $40. I actually got a great deal.

Yeah...but what about all the other stuff...?

The face peel? It's amazing. It's almost like a facial. And the whole bottle cost less than one facial! And besides...I deserve it!

But you just spent $200. You know what you could have done with that?

Yeah. I know.

By the time I reach my car, the lump in my throat has settled permanently in the pit of my stomach. Two hundred dollars.... Ouch.

But I learned an important lesson.

When I go to the mall, I go to shop for things I want. I'm sure the mall kiosk people think they can convince me that I want what they're peddling. But I can assure you.

They will fail.

Because I am smart. And frugal. If it's not on my list, I'm not buying it.

I will turn my head, or pretend to talk on the phone, or pretend to be listening to whatever my daughter is rambling on about, or pretend I'm looking for a store, or pretend I'm looking for my keys.

I am shrewd.

It's three and a half weeks later. I can almost see the bottom of the scrub jar. The stuff is great. Really. I absolutely love it. But I'm about 3/4 way through and it's barely a month.

Sure I deserve it. I also deserve a diamond necklace. But I'm not going out to buy one anytime soon. And when this is gone, I won't go back and get more.

Well....maybe just the scrub.

And the face peel.

To those guys that hire the sales people at the Dead Sea products kiosk, on the slim chance you're reading this....hang on to Avital. She's good.

On A Prayer

2010-01-27T15:45:00.000-05:00

I pick up my siddur, kiss it reverently, and begin to daven. I close my eyes and connect with my beloved Father in Heaven. I love the experience. I love the opportunity to connect with Hashem, leaving all life's distractions behind.

I'm lying.

I don't look forward to davening. In fact, I dread it.

Davening is a challenge for me. I have trouble focusing, clearing my mind, and getting to a place where I can concentrate. I can't let go of the million things I need to do, and take the time to just daven.

And I'm bored.

There. I said it.

When I was a kid, I loved davening. I loved the singing...the chanting out loud with the whole class... There was such joy in it. Such passion.

I knew to Whom I was praying and what it was I was praying for. I had a clear focus and I genuinely felt a connection when I davened...an emotional connection.

Slowly, that disappeared. At some point, davening became a task...a chore. I no longer felt that solace - the comfort - I once felt when praying. I still davened, of course. But it became...mechanical.

I'd stand there, recite the prayers, and even comprehend most of them. I'd say the words, stand when I was supposed to stand and bow when I was supposed to bow. But the whole thing became more of a familiar ritual than a direct connection to a Higher Power. The words were there...the motions were there...it was all there - except for the emotion.

And I still davened.

I said the words, most just stumbling carelessly out of my mouth amidst thoughts of appointments I needed to arrange, deadlines at work, and laundry waiting to be folded.

After a while, I began to become....bored with davening.

It's been quite a while since I davened.

Well, that's not really true. I talk to Hashem all the time. (Please...please...find me a parking spot...) I daven at home on Shabbos, so I can be a role model to my daughters. And I actually enjoy davening the few times a year that I go to shul.

But the enthusiasm wore off. The emotion is gone.

And so, I find it difficult to work up the necessary feeling to daven. Sometimes I still go through the motions, but the emotional impact has been lost to me for a long time.

I miss it.

Sigh.

When Bad Things Happen....

2010-01-20T10:40:00.001-05:00

Everything Hashem does is for the good, right?

When we suffer, the pain is for our benefit. We don't necessarily see it or understand it, but we believe it to be so. Pain strengthens us. It's a good thing. So we are told.

We are told that eventually we will come to realize that, even though the pain itself was so difficult to endure, it will have had a positive outcome. We will comprehend that the tears and pain were there for our benefit.

Sure.

How can something so negative be for our benefit?

When we are in pain or going through a difficulty, though it is extremely horrible, if we can survive that crisis, we often find deep within ourselves a source of strength that we never knew existed. Challenges, unfortunately, strengthen us to become stronger, and often, wiser.

How true.

The person I was before enduring my life's challenges is someone that the me of today would hardly recognize.

She was a sincerely good person, kept up with lots of friends, and followed all the rules with an innocence that I almost envy.

The me of today is working towards pushing forward in my spiritual growth, and hopes to someday reach the place I once was. But I know that when it happens, it will be on a very different level. Growth that comes through struggle is very different than spirituality that is just there, just because it always was.

And I do struggle. I'm not proud of some of the things I do or don't do...but I know that those things do not define who I am.

The me of today does not have as many friends. Some disappeared because they couldn't relate to suffering, and didn't know how to respond. And some....I drifted away from. Suddenly, my life was so different from theirs....my perspective was so different...we just didn't have anything in common anymore.

But the me of today enjoys my own company. I can go places alone, without feeling awkward...without feeling that I need someone at my side. I have a confidence...and a maturity...I never had before.

And I'm strong. I know that life comes with challenges..with pain....with suffering...and I can face them head on, and get through it even stronger than I was before.

I am more complete. More at peace with who I am.

I like the me of today.

Despite....or maybe because of...the fact that I'm so imperfect.

A man once came to the Maggid of Mezeritch with a question.

"The Talmud tells us," asked the man, "that 'A person is supposed to bless G-d for the bad just as he blesses Him for the good.' How is this humanly possible? Had our sages said that one must accept without complaint or bitterness whatever is ordained from Heaven -- this I can understand. I can even accept that, ultimately, everything is for the good. But how can a person be as grateful for his troubles as he is for his joys?"

The Maggid replied: "To find an answer to your question, you must go see my disciple, Reb Zusha of Anipoli. Only he can help you in this matter."

Reb Zusha received his guest warmly. The visitor decided to observe Reb Zusha's conduct before posing his question. Before long, he concluded that his host truly exemplified the Talmudic dictum which so puzzled him. He couldn't think of anyone who suffered more hardship in his life than did Reb Zusha: a frightful pauper, there was never enough to eat in Reb Zusha's home, and his family was beset with all sorts of afflictions and illnesses. Yet Reb Zusha was always good-humored and cheerful, and constantly expressing his gratitude to the Almighty for all His kindness.

But what was is his secret? How does he do it? The visitor finally decided to pose his question.

"What is your question?" asked Reb Zusha.

The visitor repeated what he had asked of the Maggid. "You raise a good point," said Reb Zusha, after thinking the matter through. "But why did our Rebbe send you to me? How would I know? He should have sent you to someone who has experienced suffering..."

I don't even attempt to reach that level. But I have reached a place where I can be thankful for the suffering.

If I had the choice, would I go through this again....knowing what I know today? Knowing how much I would grow and mature? Knowing that it would make me a stronger person and a better parent? Knowing that I would become kinder and more sensitive to other people's needs? Knowing that, at the end of it all, I'd be more secure in who I am...in who I became?

No....probably not. But I wasn't given the choice.

And I'm grateful.

The Power Behind The Desk

2010-01-14T15:20:00.003-05:00

Life was different back then. Simpler, maybe. Better? I don't know...

Teachers taught. They weren't armed with the abundance of research available today, and there was not as much awareness of the psychology behind the job. But a good teacher knew instinctively that she held the future of this classroom full of girls in her hands, and she played a role in shaping these personalities.

Self esteem...

Are babies born with it? That independent toddler, declaring he can do it himself, with no doubt in the world that he can....that self confidence..the self esteem....does it last? When does he turn into an adolescent with low self esteem? When does he lose it? How does that happen? And....who is responsible?

Some of my early school years are just a blur in my memory. I vaguely remember bits and pieces of some years, and I draw a complete blank trying to remember others.

But Kindergarten stands out clearly. I loved school. It was where I shone. I got to leave my ordinariness at home, and I revelled in the teacher's love and admiration. We were taking our first baby steps into the wonderful world of the written word, and I couldn't get enough. While my friends were struggling with finding words that rhyme with 'at', I was effortlessly composing a long list of words that delighted my teacher. (It was years before I understood why she and my father shared a good laugh over 'brat', just one of the words on my list, when he came to pick me up from school that day.) I was in my element, and I relished it.

I was so proud of myself. I was smart! I was lovable!

People who are important to kids have a great effect on the development of self esteem in those kids. The messages that children get about their teachers' feelings toward them can have a profound effect on them. It can set the stage for success...or failure.

Third grade stands out in my memory, too.

I hated Morah L. Hated her. It was such a strange, unfamiliar sensation, and it took some time before I was able to identify it.

I started the school year with my new pencil case, happy and excited to be back. The year began ordinarily enough. But something was wrong. Something so puzzling was happening, and my 8 year old mind could not comprehend it or make any sense of it.

Morah L. didn't like me. I just knew it...felt it so strongly that there was no room for doubt. I continued doing whatever it is that third graders do, and tried not to focus on it. Afternoons, when we had our English classes, were still great, and it wasn't hard to get by the mornings when I had something to look forward to.

But things grew steadily worse.

First, my seat was moved to the back of the classroom. Then...was it only my imagination?...my raised hand was ignored, and I would often be skipped over when every girl would have a chance to read or answer questions. Once, another girl made Morah aware of the fact that I was skipped over, and she said, "That's fine. She won't know it anyway".

I stopped caring...stopped trying. I spent the year daydreaming and doodling in the margins of my Navi.

I was stupid. I couldn't keep up with the rest of the class. I was ugly. I didn't deserve to be liked.

Teachers today are taught the importance of accepting students as individuals, as people of infinite worth and value, as human beings worthy of the utmost respect.

But do they understand it? Do they understand the significance...the magnitude? Do they really know it? Do they comprehend the profound effect that they have over their students' sense of self worth and ability to succeed?

I gradually figured out that my brain worked fine for my English studies, but I wasn't bright enough to keep up with the Hebrew classes. And I didn't bother trying. I went through the next few years of school excelling in English, and mediocre, at best, in Hebrew. I got through elementary school, but the enjoyment was gone. The spark was extinguished.

It was a long time before I was able to forgive the teacher who, I felt, stole something so precious from me, and almost as long before I was able to reclaim that which I lost.

Kids are not born feeling good or bad about themselves. They learn this from what happens to them.

What an awesome responsibility!

I Believe

2010-01-07T14:12:00.000-05:00

There's an Abie Rotenberg song called "Conversations in the Womb". I love the song. It's about twins in the womb discussing whether or not there's life after birth. One twin believes that there is a world to come, where we will stand up straight. The other is convinced that life, as we know it now, is all there is.

There are many variations to that analogy.

The believing fetus arguing that, although we don't know exactly what life after birth will be like, we do believe that it exists...while the nonbeliever insists that, since no one has ever returned from there to tell us what it's like, he, as well as most fetuses, doesn't believe in it. Logic dictates that life ends at birth, and until then, we live in total darkness...

The believer talking about a "mother" who nourishes us and takes care of us...who we finally get to see in the next life..and the nonbeliever scoffing at the notion of a Higher Being...

The message is the same. We believe in life after death...in a World to Come. We believe in G-d. The life we are living now is as temporary as the nine months in the womb. It seems to us mortal humans that this is all there is because that is the reality that is available to our senses. That is what logic dictates. But we know the truth. We have an abiding faith in a world beyond the grave. We cherish our unshakeable conviction in life after death. We believe.

But....do we?

Do we?

One night, years ago, when my kids were babies, I looked up at the sky, and for one split second, I saw something...felt something...I'd never felt before or since. The sky was so vast...and I, so small...that, for the first time in my life, I believed that there was more to life than I could see. I always knew it, of course, but this was different. I saw Someone pulling the strings. I glimpsed something so...enormous...so awesome...that it took my breath away. The sheer immensity of the universe was staggering. And I was able to see how insignificant I am in the grand scheme of things. I am just one tiny part of this infinite universe, which was in existence thousands of years before I was alive, and will continue to exist long after I'm gone. At that moment, I knew Hashem exists, and He is running the world. I just KNEW.

That fleeting moment had a profound effect on me. Suddenly, things that seemed so important before became...silly. My priorities shifted completely. Clothing? Shoes? Furniture? How meaningless! How insignificant! Life was so much more than that. I was above that.

But then...the moment passed...life went on....and I quickly forgot.

But every so often, I get a tiny reminder. Something that recalls that feeling, if only for a moment.

The other day, my little boy and I were waiting for his school bus, and he said, "My Rebbe said that Hashem created whole worlds before this one, and then He destroyed them. I wonder if they had a Torah that tells their story."

Wow.

I believe.

I do.

I think I do.

I really, really want to.

Would You Do It?

2010-01-04T12:59:00.000-05:00

When I was little, I believed that if you look into the mirror at exactly midnight (or was it chatzos?), you'll see the man you're going to some day marry. There may have been more to it. Maybe there was something you had to say...or do... I can't remember. But that is what I -we - believed.

I wanted to look...I really, really did. I wanted to know. But I never actually got up and went to the bathroom mirror at midnight. I didn't really want to know. I was scared. And at the age of 8 or 9, at least during the period of time when this was the topic of the day for the little girls at school, I struggled with it.

As I grew older, I'd often wonder, if I were given the chance to glimpse my life 5 or 10 years hence, would I do it. Would I want to see. Would I want to know. I pondered the question many times over the years, and it was the subject of numerous late night, preteen, deep, philosophical discussions.

My thoughts on the subject still fluctuated as a more mature teenager. Sometimes I felt that if something bad was destined to happen, I would not want to know about it years in advance. I'd want to live my life, each day, without that burden. Other times, I was sure that I would want to know...to be prepared...so that when the time comes, I'd be able to deal with it in the best possible way.

I haven't thought about this question in years. I'm a grown woman. Life happened. There were so many good things....things that make me smile when I look back at them...things I'm so grateful for.... And so many not so good things.

And I'm glad I was never given the opportunity to see any of it. I'm glad I never had to struggle with that decision.

If I had the chance, today, to get a peek at my life as it will look in 5 years, I'd turn it down. I don't want to see. I want to assume that everything will be perfect, and I will be blissfully happy.

And I want to live my life today as though that were the truth.