Ten

Ten.

 It has a lot of meaning 

The Ten Commandments

The Ten Plagues

Ten months to a school year.

A Decade.

Girls of mine,

You have been in my life for ten years.

I adore you from moment to moment more and more.

The babies you were and the girls that your are.

I wish you challenges because they will make you stronger

Heartbreak because it will make you wiser 

Great love , wonderful friends, a career, motherhood, all

I have raised you to Judaism, Zionism, Feminism.

I hope you are independent, happy, healthy, loved.

Thank you for making me a mom. For making me grow up. For making me care about someone more than myself.

Always and forever

Ima

Not for the Faint of Heart

http://www.andbabymakes2.co.il

Two days before Leil haseder, the Passover Big Event and I am finished for the evening.  My dishes are down from the attic, my food is purchased, and the house is cleaned.  Tomorrow begins the race against time and the nonstop cooking.

My girls watched tonight as I poured boiling water on all surfaces, cleaned the refrigerator again, and left the fires burning on the stove.  They asked why and of course I explained.  While Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are the two holidays which I most connect with my father, Passover is an estrogen filled event.  

My mother, grandmother and savta all figure prominently.  My sister and I too have strong supporting roles.  I cannot think of Pesach without the smell of gribenes frying, my mother cooking, and my grandmother issuing orders (oops! directions) from the table.  

The Manishevitz white matzah cartons hauled up from the basement with all the dishes and utensils; all of which have a story; the wooden chopping bowl and chopper for the charoset, which has been my annual contribution since I can remember, the cast iron grinder that weighs a ton that belonged to my mother’s grandmother; the one that locked onto the countertop and ground the chicken livers for the chopped liver, all the crystal wine goblets which also belonged to my mother’s grandmother, and especially, the one with etched grapes on it which was “mine” every year.

Pesach is my favorite time of year; the change of weather to spring, the nearness of summer and vacation, the birth of new flowers, leaves, and just the newness of it.  Changing the house over was always exciting for me.

Seven years ago, I decided that if I could do twins on my own, I could take on Seder.  The first couple of years we ordered food.  About four years ago, my mom and I took over the cooking.   My mom and I are very different in the kitchen: I am neat, organized and fast.  She is slow, methodical, makes an absolute mess and her food is amazing.  No matter how perfect it is, she always finds fault with it.  I am a decent cook, slightly above average even, but I don’t have the time or patience to spend the day in the kitchen.  Everything is tasty but not like her food.  Like they say on the cooking shows you can taste her love and passion in every bite. 

She isn’t here this year.  They aren’t coming.  This is the third time in my life that I am alone on Pesach.  No matter how many people will be here (twelve) no matter how much they mean to me (a lot), no matter how many sedarim we’ve all done together (seven) they’re not my parents.  While I know my girls will continue with our traditions, it just isn’t the same without them.  Hearing those stories all through my childhood has instilled in me a sense of tradition and family and continuity.  I will do my best to share the stories with my kids but I don’t have the treasures and the artifacts to back them up.  The chopping bowl is probably somewhere in my mom’s basement still as might be the grinder.  But it isn’t the same as taking it out and using it.  “My” wine glass broke and my new wine glass isn’t the same.  Without Bubby and Saba it will be nice but not HOME.

This holiday, reminds me of my trek through motherhood.  It is hard.  There is a lot of work and a lot of cooking, cleaning, preparing, changing, sorting, and repeat.  But that is part of what makes it so special.  That you get to the other side.  That you’ve created something that is impossible to recreate: memories.  This is what I believe is what I give my kids in addition to love, hugs, nurturing and education.  I give them a past, a context, a story and memories for life.  My childhood memories of holidays with our family are a tremendous gift and give me strength and hope.  Our seder is very important to me because it gives them that; something to remember for a lifetime. 

 I am just so sad my parents aren’t going to be here to enjoy it with us and the girls won’t be able to share it with them this year.

Wishing you all a beautiful, meaningful and memory laden seder.  Chag sameach

You Deserve Better

http://www.andbabymakes2.co.il

How many of us have said this to a heartbroken friend? How many have heard this from our girlfriends, moms, shrinks?

“Oh honey! He’s a jerk!” you deserve better…

I have spent the better part of my adulthood saying this or being told this. However, here I am. Still alone. By myself. And ….?

Where has it gotten me all this deserve-ment. Entitlement? Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’ve gotten the best there is and that is all I deserve. Or maybe what we deserve and what we get aren’t necessarily the same. Maybe “you deserve what you have” is more the more appropriate statement. Maybe “make it work” is a better phrase.

Maybe all those women who waited for better are still waiting…and don’t look as good, aren’t as thin, are past child bearing … Maybe this sounds sexist (Trump-y) but seriously…aren’t all of us over 40 women and maybe even over 50 women thinking this? Feeling this?
maybe I should have…. ??

Don’t misunderstand me: I have it all. I say this and mean this and believe it. I believe I am blessed and that G-d takes care of me.  But, I am alone. It is the one piece of the puzzle that I haven’t been able to complete (successfully). 

I have definitely grown and evolved. I have gained life experience and wisdom. I have done the work; alone, in therapy, in my outlooks and attitude.  And yet… this part doesn’t ever seem to change.  If I am tough, if I am go with the flow, if I’m patient, understanding, or hard assed. The person who is before me is always the same person.  It doesn’t seem to matter if he is Israeli or American, religious or charedi or completely non-observant, Ashkenazi or Sephardi.  He is invariably the same man.

It is unclear to me how this keeps happening. Maybe it’s just bad luck, maybe as a colleague said the other day there are simply more women than men, maybe at this age “what’s left” is fucked up.  I cannot believe that this is my fate.  I believe in creating fate.  I remember going to real estate seminars when I was still in the business and speakers said things like “imagine what you want; a boat, apartment, trip to Europe and then figure out how you can make the money to pay for it”.  This is my philosophy. If you will it it will come.  But every time I will it either the recycled crazies come back or new ones come to fill their place. And the drama and insanity begin again.

My friends tell me I crave the drama.  Maybe they’re right.  I don’t think I crave drama.  I am supremely happy in my drama free existence without a man…until I can’t take the alone anymore…and then the drama begins again.  I wish I knew why. I wish I could change it. I am not willing to accept that my life in this area is over and that I will never have real love again…but…

The Mad (Black) Hatter

I realized tonite that I have a very long history with the mad black hatters.

My first encounter was in 7^th grade.  We were living in Los Angeles and I developed a huge crush on my rebbe, the first black hatter.  He wasn’t mad, or at least (thank GD) he didn’t do anything mad.  If anything he did a lot of good.  He introduced me to my first friend, his cousins, in Chicago, when my parents made the very traumatic announcement that we were moving back there.

Then there was the mad black hatter when I was in high school.  I must say he is probably my first true love and very first broken heart.  He dumped me in a “Dear John” letter. The “Dear John” letter I received while back in LA working at a day camp with my former friends.  That same summer, or maybe the next one, I met my cousins friend: the soon to be mad black hatter.  He dumped me after his new found rabbi told him he shouldn’t talk to me even though I was the reason he got involved with the religious movement in the first place. 

Then my first boyfriend, while studying a pretty religious seminary in Jerusalem.  He, the first boyfriend told me he’d never live in the US and he would never be religious, I actually dumped him. But one year later, while home for Rosh Hashana I got a letter…no no no, NOT a dear John letter.  No, this was a “you are the reason my life has changed for the best” letter. My Israel living non US living ex bf was now studying in a very happy place in the Old City.  And thanks to me he found religion….and his soon to be American born Chasidic originated wife….. Need I mention that he lived for a spell (several years) in the US?!

This mad black hatter literally wears a black hat a black (by now white?) beard, has grandchildren, and still some 25 years later, is in touch with me.

As you see, my history with them is not made of happy endings…

SO, here it is, the eve of Yom Kippur and I am still thinking about the man I wrote about in my last post.  Yup! You guessed it! ANOTHER mad black hatter. 

Why do I keep going back to them? Especially when, those who know me in real life know I don’t look like them…but I do talk like them, sometimes and I definitely do believe like them in some ways.  My friend Sarah has said over the years” You can take the girl out of the Michlala but you can’t take the Michlala out of the girl”.  That is to say, I grew up there in that place in my “formative years”.  It had a huge impact on my life and my family’s life.  I was very happy for a very long time in that world.  I never intended to leave it for good.  But it is not easy dancing at two weddings at once and I really am a better fit to the life and community I am in.  But the mad black hatter world still pulls at me.

At synagogue on Friday nite, the rabbi spoke about Yom Kippur and the different ways to look at repentawww.andbabymakes2.comnce.  He essentially said he doesn’t look at it like that but rather, in another interpretation as the Ultimate Day of Love: we go to the mikva, wear white, fast, and “walk down the aisle”.  These are all symbols of a wedding, the ultimate day of love. We are trying to cleave to our Maker and we want Him to cleave to us.  But, all you therapists out there, in order to have a healthy relationship we need to know who we are.  Only when we know who we are can we expect to have a healthier relationship, so too, in the rabbi’s speech with God.

So I say, on this Eve of Yom Kippur.  I need to know who I am: I am a modern woman who lives in a very hot climate so I dress for it. Who also only wears skirts, who doesn’t drive on Shabat or fast on 9Av. I believe with all my being in Gd, in the Torah, in the Land of Israel and the Jewish people.  I believe that my sleeves don’t define me but I love that my girls only wear skirts.  I love that I daven in an egalitarian minyan but have no need for it nor do I participate in it actively.

I believe that I can fall in love with a mad black hatter even though I don’t want to live that life…completely.  I believe that many have fallen in love with me but not enough to take a non-cookie cutter woman as their wife.

So I stand before God knowing who I am believing He knows who I am and that with His help I will find the one who I know and accept and who knows and accepts me.

Wishing you all a gut gbencht yor a shana tova and a happy healthy new year.

The Confused (Wo)Man

The Confused (Wo)Man

I had a very brief, I don’t know what to call it, with someone.  It was over before it started.  It is like a million other moments I have had with other men. Except…this one is different.

Something about me attracts them to me.  The Confused Man.  He was either born that way, became that way, or is post trauma: dead wife or ex-wife at this stage of my life, but earlier, it was much less defined.  At twenty, and then thirty, and then again at forty, most of the confused men who entered my life hadn’t yet married. 

I have a history with them.  I really thought after my last two plus year Confused Man that I had finally rid myself…but no… apparently they find me, like birds migrating or bees to honey. 

The other part of My Confused Men is that they confuse my extra sturdy door with a revolving door.  They think that even though they’ve stomped on my heart it is perfectly okay to come back for round two or three.

Some don’t come back for more but stay in touch.  My first ex-boyfriend, who became orthodox because of me and is now chareidi, contacts me regularly. Thirty five years later. He is a grandfather several times over.  He isn’t the only one but certainly the longest.

Back to the latest Confused Man: He and I didn’t understand each other.  He made assumptions about me based on how I look, speak, and dress.  I too made those assumptions about him. It turns out we were both wrong.  BUT, it only lasted a minute.  He tried. I tried.  I set a boundary, a hard limit, not to be crossed.  He didn’t like my terms. I didn’t like what he was offering.  I saved myself, my self -respect and protected my heart from being broken.  I also saved thousands on the shrink bill.

The good news all the thousands I have already spent have gone to good use.  The bad news, here I am, still alone, lonely and looking for you…Are you there?! Will we ever meet?

The Confused (Wo)Man

The Confused (Wo)Man

I had a very brief, I don’t know what to call it, with someone.  It was over before it started.  It is like a million other moments I have had with other men. Except…this one is different.

Something about me attracts them to me.  The Confused Man.  He was either born that way, became that way, or is post trauma: dead wife or ex-wife at this stage of my life, but earlier, it was much less defined.  At twenty, and then thirty, and then again at forty, most of the confused men who entered my life hadn’t yet married. 

I have a history with them.  I really thought after my last two plus year Confused Man that I had finally rid myself…but no… apparently they find me, like birds migrating or bees to honey. 

The other part of My Confused Men is that they confuse my extra sturdy door with a revolving door.  They think that even though they’ve stomped on my heart it is perfectly okay to come back for round two or three.

Some don’t come back for more but stay in touch.  My first ex-boyfriend, who became orthodox because of me and is now chareidi, contacts me regularly. Thirty five years later. He is a grandfather several times over.  He isn’t the only one but certainly the longest.

Back to the latest Confused Man: He and I didn’t understand each other.  He made assumptions about me based on how I look, speak, and dress.  I too made those assumptions about him. It turns out we were both wrong.  BUT, it only lasted a minute.  He tried. I tried.  I set a boundary, a hard limit, not to be crossed.  He didn’t like my terms. I didn’t like what he was offering.  I saved myself, my self -respect and protected my heart from being broken.  I also saved thousands on the shrink bill.

The good news all the thousands I have already spent have gone to good use.  The bad news, here I am, still alone, lonely and looking for you…Are you there?! Will we ever meet?

Petty Pity

There was a time which lasted pretty much from the time I was about five until, well, now, where I loved to buy things. Not anything, but fancy expensive designer things.  My love of all things fancy and expensive started under the care and tutelage of my Gramma Jeanne and my favorite and much admired Auntie Susie. 

Most children, then and now, would climb on jungle gyms in the park or slide down metal slides that would burn your tush on hot summer days… The parks always smelled like weird metal. I hated that smell. I hated looking up at the electric poles; I hated swinging,  sliding and climbing…

Gramma Jeanne would take me to the Saks children’s department. It smelled nice and fancy.  I could slide winding banister or run down the wide winding staircase with lavender carpet. I felt like That Girl or Doris Day singing Que sera sera (FUCK I’m old!!!).  It was magical and I felt like a princess.  I would run through the racks of beautiful clothes.

When I was older, I would go with my aunt to Neiman’s before EVERYONE shopped there. Or to the Style Shoppe in Highland Park a kiddie boutique… Again this is before everyone knew or could afford designer clothes. I felt cool grownup and like a princess.

When I was older still, in high school, my aunt would give me her Armani, Gucci and Sonia Rykiel hand me downs. 

When I was older than that, and started working and then married and living in New York, I was in the best fashion playground ever.  Then I also had enough income to afford at least some of it and usually on sale.  It made me feel good.

Petty I know. It is trivial, silly, truly unimportant and meaningless.  I remember buying my first Cadillac and my first Prada bag as momentous occasions. Silly, I know, trivial and possibly JAPy.

I learned before the girls were born that I had too much…You (Gila and Sarah G) are most likely rolling your eyes.  But I liked what I had.  Then I was packing to move back to Israel and I saw how much I had and how meaningless it was and is.

Fast forward March, 2016.  I haven’t bought designer anything for a long time. If anything  I am throwing it out;  its old, faded, frayed, and torn.  I feel like I’m throwing away pieces of myself.  I love my life, my job, my children my friends.  But sometimes, especially lately, I am struck by the Sisyphus like existence I have; laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning, folding packing picking up straightening cooking, working and all over again. Constantly, every day, all day. With no break.

I was talking to a professor of mine yesterday and she made the “kiss of death” statement. “Well I’m like a single mother, my husband is always working.” REALLY!!!??? SERIOUSLY??!! Is he bringing a second salary? Is he a shoulder? A comfort? A bedmate? A partner? I don’t have any of that and I am really at my breaking point.

Two years ago, at this time of year my dad and I had a heart to heart.  He told me that I don’t take care of myself.  I didn’t feel that way.  The shopper, manicured girl, who prided herself on having spa-ed all over the country and in part of the world, didn’t take care of herself? The world traveler? Season ticket holder to the Bulls, White Sox, Kentuckey Derby? Lyric Opera? Chicago Symphony? Habima? How could he say that? I was very happy and content.  I still am but now I am ragged, exhausted and lonely..terribly lonely. But so busy and tired. 

I feel the same and yet terribly different.

It might be a phase.  It’s also the beginning of the end of the school year.  I don’t know. I need a change.

I thought today how wonderful a day at Bergdorf’s could be. Going shopping and then to the seventh floor restaurant and ordering an iceberg salad with blue cheese dressing, an order of fries. New clothes, a manicure/pedicure… and then I threw another load in the washing machine…