Melissa Anne Cohen

Okay, I admit it.  I don’t like forts.  I don’t like building them, and I don’t like it when they get built.  I like to think I’m a cool mom, but forts are my downfall.

I let them build them.  Because that’s what one does when you have six kids here on a rainy Thursday afternoon.  Even worse, I made them MOVE the fort after I realized that they had transformed my living room into a blanket covered disaster.  They then transitioned the entire thing over to the dining room, and spent the better part of an hour setting up this giant THING.  Using blankets and brooms, hair clips and then trying to tape it up.  I stopped Jessie before she broke out the duct tape.

And the entire time they were doing it, all I could think was about what a pain in neck it was, because, as it inevitably does, it deteriorated into a small battle because one girl wanted to play one way, and someone else wanted to play it a different way, and then Julie started to panic and cry because she thought she was trapped forever inside it and couldn’t figure out how to get out.

But it also made me think about childhood and working together and long afternoons with no homework and your siblings and best friends around.  So even though I hate it, and I’m still cleaning up the mess, long after the kids have all either gone home or lost interest and gone home – I’m still glad that they’re young enough to it.

I just got back from Sam’s end of the year celebration, and I cried thru most of it.  His little class, filled with his best friends, the boys that have formed such a big part of his identity, the girls who fluttered around him when he cried because he missed me, this little group of kids that are his peers and his buddies and his best friends, and they’re all up there, singing away together.   Sam’s grown up so much this year, and even though we did this exact same event last year (down to the same part in the same play) he seems so much more confident now.  He fits in so much better.  He’s in there with kids his own age, he’s not the littlest boy, afraid and in over his head.  He’s a great big almost seven year old boy, and I’m more proud of him than I can express.

I cry thru most events like this.  Jessie’s dance recital does the same thing to me.  I don’t know if it’s just that it’s concrete proof that the kids are not just mine, but individuals with their own identities and friends and projects.  It’s kind of a quintessential thing, performing for parents, it’s something I did when I was a kid, it’s something I used to go watch my cousins and nieces and nephews do the same thing.  And now, watching my own kids up there, and knowing what it took to get them there – the tears and the nerves and the anxiety and the struggles, I just end up sobbing thru every performance.

In other news – I still hate house hunting.  I want to find a place, that we love and that we can afford (which are not precisely matching up yet), and be able to move this summer.  The problem is that I keep falling in love with short sales, which can take FOREVER.  I don’t want to move in FOREVER.  I want to move in August.  September at the latest.   Which is a completely attainable goal, as long as we find the right place.

It’s estimated that nearly half of all Jewish marriages are ones in which one member of the couple is not Jewish.  While this raises all sorts of questions about the future survival of the Jewish people, what interested me most is the questions that were more personal in nature.  What does a marriage between people of different backgrounds look like?  If the decision is made to raise your children in one faith, or one tradition, who compromises what?  Can Judaism expand to include traditions of a different culture?  Is is possible to convert to what is certainly a religion, but also a tribe, and an ethnicity?  What does that conversion look like, and how does the family that results from it self-identify?  Becoming Jewish – How to Raise a Jewish Family When One of You Didn’t Start Out That Way explores those questions and offers some much needed guidance on what happens after the conversion,  and what raising a family with someone of a dramatically different culture and tradition is really like.

I started writing this book because when I started on my conversion journey, I couldn’t find answers to the questions that concerned me the most.  Not only about my spiritual journey, but also about how that would impact our children, and their identity as Jews but as as members of my own decidedly non-Jewish family.  If you are either Jewish, or not, how could they be a part of both traditions?  This is my story, and how we figured it out – but I’d love to incorporate stories of how others did it as well.

If you’d like to be a part of the project, please contact me at Melissa.Cohen0214@yahoo.com.  I’d love to talk more with you about it.

It’s first thing in the morning, and the birds and I are the only ones up. I like mornings like this, when the whole day is stretching out in front of me, and it appears as though I’ve got all the time in the world to get everything done. So much of the time, lately, I feel overwhelmed and rushed, pressured and stressed and BUSY. And even though today promises to be just as jam packed with activities – I’ve got shop for a birthday present for a party later this afternoon, hit two birthday parties between noon and three thirty, and then I think I volunteered to work at the Day of Play at Elm Park after that. Somewhere in there, I have to make 24 cupcakes for Sammy’s end of the year celebration tomorrow, and bathe all three kids, feed them, and shove them into bed early enough to make up for letting them stay up late last night with us watching Big Bang Theory reruns.

But for right now, things are calm. The laundry is running, the dishwasher is ready to go, I’ve got a hot cup of coffee and Julie is just starting to stir.

Summer is beckoning, I can feel it waiting for us. Long, quiet mornings, when everyone can sleep as late as they want and there’s no rush, rush, rush in the mornings. Barefoot days, when the kids live in bathing suits, sundresses and shorts. Days when I can wander to the park with the kids, up to visit my aunt in NH, cousin in Marlboro, or my parents down in Clinton. Playdates and trips to the pool, camping and popsicles, playing in the sprinkler and waiting for the ice cream truck. Nights spent watching the stars, fires at my parent’s house, roasting marshmallows and then bundling tired kids into the car for the ride home. I love summer.

My baby isn’t a baby anymore and my Jessie is still a little girl. Sam is going to be seven, which still blows my mind. I don’t have very many summers like this left. Next year, they’ll be eleven, eight and four. How much longer will Jessica be willing to have me direct her activities? How much longer do I have before Julie starts clamoring to go to summer camp?

So I’m relishing this morning, I’m sipping my coffee a little slower, and trying hard to pay attention to what’s going on around me. Because I know all too well how fast it goes, and how much I’ll miss it when it’s over.

I’m better.  Julie ended up crying herself to sleep (because really, sometimes you just have to let them go.  I don’t advocate CIO for infants or babies, or really, for toddler you can actually console, but that girl had reached the point where she was lying on the floor sobbing and yelling for me to go away – so I left her there for ten minutes, and finished cleaning the living room, then scooped her up against her will, laid her down, nursed her for two minutes and she was out like a light), and I was able to get dinner made.

Arlen came to get Jordyn and we had dinner, lit the Shabbat candles and it was… peaceful.  Relaxed.  Serene even. And now the house is in shambles, yet again, but all three of my kids are snuggled up together.  Jessica is reading to the other two, and everyone is happy.

These are the moments when I think I’m doing it right.  A nice counter balance to earlier. In the end, it always does calm down.  The insanity peaks and then… they chill.  Marc called, he’ll be home closer to nine thirty than ten thirty, which means that Julie, at least, will still be awake when he gets home.

The realtor emailed me, we’ve got a few more houses to go see tomorrow, and one of them might be perfect.  I’m trying to remind myself that there’s no pressure or time limit.  I’d like to be settled before the fall, but that’s four or five months away.  We’ve got time.  There’s no rush.    And really, the longer it takes, the more time I have before I have to pack.

So, for tonight, I’ll finish cleaning up.  Again.  And I’ll listen to Jessie reading to her little brother and sister, and then I’ll put them all into jammies, get teeth brushed, books read, and bodies down to bed.  And I’ll crawl into bed, and listen to Julie tell Marc about her day, and try very hard to remember how very lucky I am.  How much I’ll miss this, one day, when they’re all grown up and out of the house.  When my house is clean, and I’m not doing a load of laundry every day and running the dishwasher on a nearly constant basis.   Because it’s incredibly easy to get caught up in the monotony and the minutiae of all that goes along with raising kids.  But the challenge is to be able to look past the crumbs on the floor and the endless requests for more food, more drinks, more of everything.  More time, more attention.

It won’t last forever – which is both excellent and heartbreaking.  I should try harder to remember that when it’s so overwhelming that I get lost.

It’s not really writer’s block.  It’s more lack of inspiration, or even more likely, lack of time.  I’ve had extra kids here a lot this week, and I’ve been reading a lot more too.  It just seems as though everything is on hyper overdrive these days, and I’m feeling very pressured and stressed.

We’re house hunting.  A process I find incredibly stressful and heartbreaking and pressure filled.  I don’t like shopping  in general, and house hunting encapsulates everything I DON’T like about shopping and multiplies it by a thousand.  I don’t like spending money, I don’t like being picky and having to make a decision.  If I had a bunch of great choices, that’d be good – but I seem to have a lot of not so great choices and houses move so fast right now, we’ve already missed a lot of great ones because it took forever to get the financing figured out.  Even writing about it is stressing me out, I can feel myself getting more and more tense.  So I’m changing the subject.

Julianna is off today, she sobbed hysterically while I took a shower this morning and hasn’t noticably improved.  She’s not crying anymore but she’s fragile today, ready to dissolve into misery at the slightest inconvenience.  So we’re staying home, baking cookies and bread and I’m scheduling a really, really good nap in there.

I’m linking up with Five Question Friday (which is fun, because I like answering questions, but also helpful because I don’t have to come up with a blog topic) from fivecrookedhalos.blogspot.com

1. What is an acceptable age for girls to start dating?

I don’t think you should have a separate age for girls, in all honesty, I’d be a lot more afraid of Sam getting someone pregnant than one of the girls getting pregnant.  Not that dating = sexual activity, but… What is an acceptable age for dating, regardless of sex?  I don’t know.  The later, the better is what I’m thinking, but I’d rather not make a blanket policy.    I haven’t even thought of it yet, I’m more concerned with what age should I let Jessie have her own email or a facebook page, or a cell phone.

2. Do you think your kids should have summer homework?

I think there shouldn’t be any summer vacation at all.  With a child suffering from separation anxiety, three months to hang at home with me just makes September that much harder.   I’d rather sprinkle in a lot more three day weekends, maybe a week or two off every couple of months than to have that whole season off.  As much as I love having them home, September is so much harder than it should be because separating is so hard for Sam.

I’m actually going to be experimenting with homeschooling this summer.  Jessie needs to build some math confidence, and Sam typically has such a rough beginning, I figure if I can give him a head start into first grade, so much the better.

We’ll fit in some fun, day trips and mini-vacations, and with any luck, we’ll be moving into a new house this summer – but yeah, I’m in favor of summer homework.

3. Would you prefer to live without AC or heat?

Heat.  I’d rather be too warm than too cold.  I know it’s easier to just toss on a sweater or a blanket, but I’m happier barefoot, and hate wearing a coat.

That being said – we’re on Day 2 of a four day heat wave, and I’m profoundly grateful for the AC chugging away in my window.

4. What the worst thing about staying in a hotel? (Besides not being with your family)

I don’t stay in a hotel all that often – but I think the worst part of it is that’s it’s a new place and nobody sleeps all that well.  The last time we went away, I spent all night terrified that Julie was going to topple out of the bed.  I kept waking up and yanking her back towards me.

5. So, do your kids really get “104 days of summer vacation”? (Bonus points for those of you that get this reference!)

This summer, we’re barely getting two months because of all the snow days last winter.  But that’s an awesome show – we love Phineas and Ferb!

I read a lot. I’ve always been a reader, in fact, when I realized that the principal at my son’s preschool was my old life studies teacher from the eighth grade, he remembered me from twenty years ago strictly because I was the one with my nose in a book all the time. So it’s no real surprise that once I had kids, I was delighted to realize that there was a wealth of books that I had never thought to read before. Pregnancy books were my first indulgence, and I devoured them at a scary rate. I moved on to infancy, breastfeeding, attachment parenting, free range parenting, skinned knee parenting, books about why parenting was so hard, why the media tells us it’s so awful, why women should stay home, why women should work. I’ve read books on step parenting, sibling rivalry, on divorcing parents, on single parents. Potty training, sleep training, discipline techniques – I’ve probably read it.

Part of it is just that I like to read. Part of it is that it’s how I process things, I read all that I can, think about it, and generally then follow up with writing about it. Now that I’m thinking about it, parenting is really an incredibly literary thing for me.

Over the weekend, I read three very different books, with very different viewpoints. What I like most about them is they were all really thought provoking – so if you’re into that sort of thing, here’s some book recommendations…

What to Expect When No One’s Expecting – America’s Coming Demographic Disaster by Jonathan Last. If you’ve been concerned about population boom, don’t be. My newest concern is the population implosion. The book had a LOT of numbers and statistics and the main thing I took from it is that the whole world is big, bad trouble because nobody’s really having kids anymore. Fairly depressing, but also eye-opening. One caveat, the author is pretty open about being anti-abortion, and comes from a pretty conservative background.

Why Have Kids? A New Mom Explores the Truth About Parenting and Happiness by Jessica Valenti. I just found this depressing. Partly because the poor author seemed fairly unhappy about everything, and partly because she was also pretty adamant that everything about the way I’ve chosen to live my life is not only wrong for me, but also wrong for my children and society at large.

Both of the two books above referenced societal shifts – how we make individual decisions and don’t necessarily think of how society at large is making similar decisions, and how that will impact everyone’s future. I didn’t decide to have three kids because I wanted to replace Marc and I, plus have an extra, and I’m probably not going to have another to boost the population, but when fewer and fewer people are having fewer and fewer kids, it has huge implications that I never thought about. Making the decision to stay at home and raise children – it was the right decision for me, for my husband, and for my kids. But is it the right decision for the feminist movement, for the generations coming after me? Both books gave me a perspective that I hadn’t thought of before – always a huge bonus in a book.

The Gender Trap – Parents and the Pitfalls of Raising Boys and Girls by Emily W. Kane. I just started this, but so far, it’s pretty interesting. I’ve always thought my kids were sort of naturally falling into very typical gender roles, because I consciously tried to make sure that Jessie had trucks and balls and Sam had baby dolls – but I did gravitate towards girly clothes with flowers and lace for Jessie and Julie and wouldn’t have dressed Sam in a pink sleeper. I’m not sure that you can tease out nature versus nurture, especially as it relates to gender identity, but it’s interesting to think about.

After this – I’m switching over to some straight up escapist fiction – Sharon Shinn – her Thirteen Houses series is phenomenal, if you’re looking for some fiction recommendations.

It was what sold me on Judaism in the first place.  Shabbat represented family harmony, elevating common everyday things to a sacred level.  Taking a whole day, an evening and night and the whole next day to just appreciating what you have.  Preparing a big dinner, taking a quiet moment to light the candles and thank God for the food and the light and the family in front of you, spending the next day partially with community, and partly with just family… It was the first thing about Judaism that felt like it was mine, the first thing that made me feel like I wasn’t just doing it for someone else, this was what I wanted.  For me, for my husband, and for my kids.  It’s the foundation for me, it’s what keeps me grounded in Judaism.  I don’t speak Hebrew or Yiddish, the emphasis on the Torah is sometimes confusing to me – but Shabbat, Shabbat I understand.  Shabbat brings me back, week after week, to what I want most for my life.

So why is it so hard?

I think it’s a function of my life right now.  I’m essentially alone with all three kids all week long.  Marc works so much, and the hours are so brutal.  I’m achingly aware, all the time, of his absence and how much the kids miss him.  How much I miss him.  And how much EASIER it is when he’s home.  Just having another adult in the house, someone to answer the questions or pay attention or help with homework, even just someone to pour me a cup of coffee when I’m too busy to do it myself.

Friday night comes and goes, and he’s not here.  I’m trying to make an effort to at least light the candles with the kids, but last night’s dinner was beans and hot dogs.  I put Julie to bed, and then Jessie conked out on my bed next to her.  Sam was rocking and rolling until Marc came home around nine thirty or so.  He ended up falling asleep on the couch while poor Marc ate leftovers after everyone else was sleeping.

This morning – I was just irritated.  The house was in shambles, coffee wasn’t made.  Julie was up at the crack of dawn, followed almost immediately by the other two.  The kids were battling, Julie was exhausted and screaming, literally screaming whenever something didn’t go her way.  Nothing went her way.  And I yelled at Marc until he finally left the house just to escape.

I drove to the BI, in no mood for any kind of spiritual activities at all, but Julie loves it so I went.  Dragging a reluctant Sam, because he wanted to stay home and color.  Jessie had gone to my in-laws for a visit, so I just had the two little ones.  They did not behave in an exemplary fashion, and at one point, I had to lean over and hiss in Julie’s ear “If you don’t stop right now, we won’t come again.”  That’s right, I threatened to take away Shabbat if she couldn’t behave.  Stellar parenting right there.

As I was driving home, still aggravated and feeling put upon and stressed out, I grumbled to myself that I don’t like Shabbat.  I was thinking it’s too close to the work week, there’s too much stress and pressure and I need a day to decompress before I can really relax and appreciate my life.   But Julie piped up from the back about how much she LOVES Shabbat, she get to see Ellen and Aviva and Abi and Tali at the kids service, and challah and grape juice.  I thought for a minute or two, but even after that, I was still crabby and unpleasant.

Then I got a brief window of time, went out all by myself.  Marc took the kids and they let me go without too many tears.  For a brief period of time, I was able to just… be.  Just exist.  Do what I wanted, go where I wanted to go.  So I got take out chinese, and went to get books.  Of course.  And I felt better.

Maybe a whole day for Shabbat is just out of reach for me at this point.  Maybe all I can manage is a few minutes, here and there.  I did light the candles last night, and Julianna, oddly enough, can recite the blessings by herself.  I didn’t know that until last night.  And Jessica cleaned the house while I was gone earlier and had a tea party with Crabbianna to keep her occupied.  On my way back, I picked up Sam and brought him shopping with me, and we picked out dessert for tonight.

Maybe Shabbat is found in little pockets of time that I manage to cull out of my life these days, maybe I should try harder to find them during the week.  Moments like yesterday afternoon when Sammy sang on stage, and last night when my Jessie snuggled up next to me like she was a little girl and fell asleep that way.  Moments when Marc loves me despite the fact that I yelled at him until he left, rather than fight back with me, because clearly I was too irritable to have a rational discussion.

Maybe I need to rethink Shabbat.  Just a little.  Just for a while.  Because there’s opportunity for holiness everywhere, and gratitude and solace and harmony.  There are moments, every day, I just need to be more present and aware of them.  Maybe I need to focus more on trying to have a little of it every day, instead of resenting the fact that I can’t have a whole day of concentrated Shabbat-ness.

Sam has some anxiety issues.  And he’s really stubborn too, so when he starts to get really anxious and panicked about something, he kind of sinks into it, and it’s wicked hard to pull him out.  And apparently, I’m kind of a trigger for explosive tears.  He can hold it in and appear to be fine, until he sees me.  And then… yeah, suffice it to say that today was not one that I’d want to repeat again.  Except for this one moment… but I’m getting ahead of myself.

They were having the annual spring concert today at their elementary school.  And by they, I mean my stepdaughter, daughter and son.  Grades sixth, fourth and kindergarten, respectively.  And in a misguided attempt to prevent overcrowding in the auditorium, and also to make it more meaningful and fun for everyone, the powers that be divided the grades up into two different shows, added a reading off of everyone who had served in the armed forces/fire/police/EMT and then let everyone who wanted to sing/dance/play an instrument/recite a poem perform.  So it was LONG day.  For me, and especially for a toddler.

Julie was mildly amused at going to see her sisters sing and dance.   She was less amused after they read of 300 names and even less so after sitting for an hour or so.  I was bopping back and forth between the lobby and the auditorium, because she’d get really loud in the audience and I’d have to leave.  And then get really bored in the lobby and I’d take her back in to see the kids.

Jessie and Sarah were on first, so I got there for 10:00.  Sam’s portion of the program was going to start at quarter of one, and in theory, I’d be able to swing into his classroom, hang out, read with the kids for a while in between shows.  But I knew he was nervous about performing today, and also knew that seeing me would be a bad idea.  My goal was to avoid the wing where his class was, to say out of his sight until after the performance.  But I didn’t anticipate that he’d pop out into the lobby.

He came out with a buddy on some errand, and once he saw me, he just fell apart.  He was so nervous and wound up about the whole thing, and could only hold it together when I wasn’t there.  Long story short, I ended up leaving, because he couldn’t calm down while I was there.  It’s heartbreaking, because this is my boy, my baby – and the only thing I could do to make it better was to leave.

I know in theory that it’s okay.  I know that what looks like good parenting in most kids can be contraindicated in kids with anxiety, so trying to soothe and make it better and reassure him just reinforces that there’s something to be nervous and afraid of.   But walking away from my child, while he’s screaming and sobbing for me – begging me to take him home and not make him do it, is absolutely the hardest thing I do.

In the end, though, the books were right.  His teacher (who is a goddess and I worship at her feet) is right.  Walking away allows him to pull it together.  Because I’ve got a strong support system in place, his school is filled with people who love him, and sincerely want for him to succeed.  I could walk away, because I knew it was what he needed.   He needs to know that he can do this – that he can conquer the anxiety and the nerves, that he’s strong and capable and can do it without me there – and he just can’t learn that if I’m there.

When I snuck back in, after his performance had started, and stood in the back so he couldn’t see me – I watched him on stage.  Sitting beside his best friend, singing his little heart out.  I cried.  Just a little.  Because his victories are so hard fought, because what looks so easy for everyone else is unbelievably hard for him sometimes.   Because he was so scared and it was so hard for him, and because I’ll always second guess myself and wonder if I’m doing the right thing when it comes to pushing him versus indulging him.  But he sat up there, wearing his stupid little hat, singing like all the other kids, and I was prouder of him than I can possibly express.