The Secret of Siblings

Sometimes on the weekends it feels like my family is walking on a cracking ice field, one step away from being swallowed whole by the glacier. By that I mean to say that my older girls have been fighting a lot. Their voices are louder than ever, their bodies are bigger every day, they share a room and a dresser and a closet and a bathroom, not to mention a stubbornness and sense of injustice that one hopes they'll put to good use one day to argue on behalf of the truly downtrodden. As they are still grade schoolers, they mostly argue on their own behalf, and the arguments can feel like major storm systems. The lightning and thunder comes in the form of meanness that they don't show to other people. They are equally responsible for lashing out, and equally cruel.

This is the secret of siblings.

People ask me if they get along, and of course, they do. They enjoy many of the same activities, support each other in new situations, and know exactly how to entertain each other. There are times when they are lost in each other's company for hours. But they also know each other's Achilles' heel. They can hurt each other better than anyone.

I know that they are not unique, because I have not forgotten the way I fought with my brothers when I was a kid. When I was eight and my parents told us that we were going to have a new sibling, I famously said, "If it's another boy, I'm leaving." If I could have made my brothers disappear, I might very well have made that choice.

I'm close with my brothers now, and when I look back, the bad times are certainly out-weighted by the many good memories of growing up in a loving family. The point is that I believe this sibling stuff is normal. But that doesn't make it any easier.

I didn't set out to write about this today. I was going to write about how Ruby and I went to a fabulous art exhibition yesterday: Marc Chagall at the Jewish Museum. There was a family program with a child-oriented guide and interactive art projects that Ruby so enjoyed: she made a puppet and painted a picture inspired by Chagall. She also got to try on a larger-than-life super-cool backpack puppet, courtesy of the Puppeteers' Cooperative.

It was the perfect activity for both her and for me, as I love to visit galleries, but rarely do, and she loves to make art at any opportunity. Best of all, we got to talk about Chagall, and laugh at the self-portrait of him as a goat, and enjoy lunch in the cafe, all without any arguing or fighting or distractions from her siblings.

Oh, no. Did I just say that? Yes, I did. The outing was great because Ruby and I did it alone. It worked out that way because Bella had a birthday party, and Louisa was home napping. We could have had a great time all together, for sure. But it would have been different, and it would inevitably have been less calm.

Bella and I had alone time yesterday, too, when I took her to swim practice on the subway at 6am, followed by breakfast. I don't even mind getting up 5:40 because I enjoy the time with Bella. That is a Sunday ritual that no doubt will stay with both of us forever.

It's really difficult to find time to spend alone with my children, as any parents who are outnumbered by their kids know. I'll take the opportunities when they come.

On Toddler Routines and Mommy-Amulets

One time, I bought Louisa a whole-wheat roll at the farmers' market. Thereafter, I couldn't walk by the Bread Alone stand without her demanding, "I want a roll!" The same thing happened at Whole Foods. Don't every buy this girl a roll! It became a real problem, until I realized I could use it to my advantage. While I sometimes say no, just so you don't think she always gets what she wants, I also sometimes take her to the market at meal or snack time, get her the roll, and then can peacefully do my shopping while she munches. Strategies.

Louisa has me thinking about routines. She is something of a stickler, and all it takes is doing things a certain way, twice, for it to become a routine in her mind.

Mealtime: She wakes up every day begging for "waffle and milk". Before nap, she asks for yogurt and "gra-o-la". A sandwich must be sunflower butter and jelly: this last one only started two weeks ago when I sent her this type of sandwich to school. I also sent her sliced apples. She now expects both of these things to be in her school lunch every day. 

Sleep: Before I leave the room I must cover her with a particular blanket, identify the location of the prized puppy, "hug-kiss", turn on the fan, and sing her a song. 

These are steadfast rules. Do not mess with them.

Josh comes home from a bike ride. Louisa says, "go take a shower!" We all laugh, thinking she is accusing him of being stinky. But really, she's just telling him what comes next. 

Similarly, when I come home from an outing, she enthusiastically says to her babysitter, "Goodbye!", expecting the sitter to leave on the spot.

It's amazing to watch her now as she's trying so ardently to understand the world. She will stop in her tracks to listen to a sound that she can't identify. She wants to make sure, most of all, that she is safe. 

I think the  routines are her way of ordering the chaos. The category "breakfast" is simply too wide. "Waffle and milk" is something she can manage, hold onto, and expect. 

I worry about me being an essential part of her routine. Obviously, I am inextricably so. But do I want to be her amulet? "No, Mommy do it," is inevitable, and as a mother, it can be exhausting (the implication being: not Daddy, or not the babysitter).

 I feel for those parents who can't get a break because their kids so adamantly demand them. I've known parents with nightly hour-long bedtime routines (which quite frankly, would send me over the edge). A friend recently told me her kids, both school age, won't go to sleep until she (not their dad) puts them to bed, so she hasn't travelled on her own in years. That's hard. But we each make the choices that work for us, and everyone has a different level of tolerance for their child being upset, which is what tends to happen when routines are disrupted.

I try to remember that this mommy-need, like most else about taking care of kids, is fleeting.  I was the nursing mom who didn't separate overnight from my babes until they were nearly weaned. To me, this was more about more than having an upset baby, or needing freedom. I had to feed and comfort the baby, and the artificial means of doing so, so I could go away, were more trouble than just sticking together. As I've always said in my defense: this time isn't long. It's only, say, two years out of the hopefully 80 or 90 that I will have on the planet. And it's two years of closeness to my baby that I can't ever get back. 

As Louisa screams from her bed every morning, "Mommy! Mama! Mommy!" the sounds of which her father can't seem to hear at all (and no wonder), I only have to look to my older kids, begging us to let them navigate the city on their own, to know that this, too, won't last.

Government Shutdown Chit-Chat

Anyone else try to explain the government shutdown to their kids over breakfast this morning?

I could tell that the sounds of the very words "government. shut. down." brought wrinkles of wonder and concern into my civic-minded ten-year-old's face. "What do you mean?" she asked.

She knows the government to be a provider of services: the keeper of the roads, the employer of police officers, the enforcer of laws that make people safe and able to live freely. I could see why she would worry. Why would the government shut down? And what will happen?

I told her (quickly, because this was a school morning) that the local government would still be up and running today. You can just imagine, from a child's perspective, the hell that might erupt from the lack of a government: crime, traffic mayhem, garbage-strewn neighborhoods, and kids ejected from public schools into the streets. I explained that many national government offices would be closed, and that the workers in those offices would not be paid until the US congress could agree on a budget to operate the government.

You see, the representatives in the US Congress are so torn up by opposing views, that they can't agree on a plan to fund the government, or pay for the programs that it needs to run. Specifically, a small group of congresspeople want to crush the already-passed healthcare legislation. Yup, that's the law that will help lots of Americans go to the doctor when they need to, and stay healthy.

Blank stare.

Okay, I gave it my best shot, but this mess is tough to explain to someone as logical as a fifth grader.

The conversation made me imagine the conversations at the breakfast tables of families who voted for these obstructionist tea-party congresspeople. What are they telling their kids? That the evil government is at it again, trying to help people go to the doctor? Do they also tell their kids that if someone can't afford to personally pave the road, they need to walk instead instead of drive? Atul Gawande pointed out in the New Yorker that

"conservative groups are campaigning to persuade young people, in particular, that going without insurance is “better for you”—advice that no responsible parent would ever give to a child." 

As a parent, there's nothing I want more for my children than for them to be empathetic, caring individuals who will grow up with a sense of responsibility for themselves, and for their fellow members of society. I am well aware that a major element of the impasse in our nation is that each side feels so strongly about its position that it can't begin to understand the position of the other. I personally have to work hard right now to have empathy for those who seem to have none.

So Many Holidays, So Little Time

It's the holiday season, for some of us. Jingle bells for the Jews.

A friend who works for a Jewish institution posted on Facebook that it's always this time of year when she hears a lot of, "Why are your offices closed? I never heard of this holiday you speak of." Thank you, Miryam, for this: http://www.isitajewishholidaytoday.com/

Yes! I feel sheepish, at times, having to explain that there's "yet another holiday" this week, and that once again my children will be home from school. It's a lot of celebrating, all squished together into a short period of time. I remember trying to explain to friends in high school, or at the office, why I was missing so much school/ work this time of year: "it's another Jewish holiday...don't ask." You could tell they weren't sure whether to believe you. It doesn't really seem plausible, does it?

And right after the summer! How in the world can you get back into your family's routines when your preschooler has only one morning of school a week for the first three?

Of course, for those who observe, it doesn't matter when the holidays fall; whenever they arrive, we greet them with open arms. We do our best to cook and prepare and be merry. We make the brisket, twice (once for RH, and once for Sukkot)! (OK, let's be honest "we" don't make the brisket; Josh does. I ordered it, though. That counts for something.) We drop everything and run to Savta and Saba's house, where, if we're lucky, we fight for a bed with siblings and cousins. At least this year it was warm; no need for down coats in the sukkah.

Sukkot is an important holiday for our clan. My siblings and I attend our own shuls in our own towns for the high holidays, but every year, the extended family gathers for this strangest of holidays--the one where we shake the imported branches and eat in a hut. (How do you explain this one to the neighbors?) It's really the crunchiest of Jewish holidays. We eat outside! Under the stars! It's like camping. With lots of good food.

First cousins

The saddest time for us was when we were in London, and couldn't make it home for Sukkot. But, on the other hand, it was exciting because we had a small garden, and our very first (and very tiny) sukkah.

The pop-up sukkah

Yes, it's all a bit odd, but not strange at all, if it's what you've always done. I feel grateful to have Sukkot in my life, and in my kids' life, because it's so wacky and fun and specific to Judaism. There's nothing like it anywhere else.

It's not over yet, this holiday season. Oh, no! We've got Shmini Atzeret (I know! Are you excited?) and Simchat Torah, a perennial childhood favorite. We will dance, we will sing, we will rejoice, and then we will say goodbye to this holiday marathon for another year. Phew. I'm exhausted.

!חג שמח

On the Moral Compass of Children

The news showed up just before Yom Kippur, just before that time of deep reflection when we wrestle with the challenges of being human: Girl's Suicide Points to Rise in Apps Used by Cyberbullies.

Fifteen Florida middle school children participated in bullying another child so relentlessly that she took her own life. At age 12. Twelve. When I read this, I found myself muttering, almost moaning, aloud. Rebecca Sedwick was "absolutely terrorized on social media" says the local sheriff.

Rebecca Sedwick

How could these kids do this to another human being? Who is the evil child living in the world who would send this text message: "Can u die please?"

What? asked Bella, on hearing my audible shock. I hesitated telling her about the article--for a minute--because the idea of discussing suicide with my children is somehow sickening. I don't want them to know that it exists. But of course, like just about everything in this world, they know, or they will know, whether or not I tell them. Instead of trying to explain, I said read this, and handed her the article. At 10.5, she's not much younger than Rebecca. She will be in middle school next year. And she will get a phone, in not too long. I wanted her to know, in the starkest terms, that every word that she types, anywhere, has lasting effects, both on herself, and on others.

Bella was mystified by the article. "But why were the kids mean to her? Why?" she asked. As if there should be a reason. 

"It doesn't matter why," I told her. 

Do I think that Bella is a potential bully? I certainly hope not. But one must ask: did the parents of those fifteen children think their children were? And what did they do to prevent them from unleashing such hatred on another human being? 

Is it even plausible that such a large group of children all were lacking a moral compass? The dynamics of the group are strange and powerful. Children will gang up on the weak, even if their individual inclination is to be kind. It's a mob mentality, where ethics go out the window, and evil spreads like fire. When the horror is over, the individual child might defend himself saying, "But it wasn't just me! Everyone was doing it!" So the group becomes both the impetus, and the excuse. 

This is not a phenomenon seen only in children, of course. Think about the Holocaust. Think about neighbors turning in neighbors.

A parent of a teenager told me that the students in her daughter's high school are required to sign an anti-bullying pledge at the beginning of each year. I wonder if those pledges work. I wonder if, perhaps, Rebecca Sedwick's bullies had to sign one; according to a school official, the school has an "extensive anti-bullying campaign." They do? What the hell is happening in this campaign?

The term cyberbullies makes the culprits sound like strangers on the internet out to terrorize young people, when in fact these were classmates of the victim. The article mentions that there was regular bullying, too--i.e. pushing and hitting. Though unmentioned, there was undoubtedly also social isolation and intimidation--common forms of bullying, especially among girls, that often go unnoticed and unaddressed. It doesn't matter where or how they did their evil work, the end result is the same: a group of children terrorized another child, with no regard for her feelings or her well-being. 

It seems to me that the more explicit we are with kids about our expectations of them, the more information they have to make ethical decisions. We tell toddlers, over and over, to "be nice." We need to find a way to tell older kids to be nice, too, in ways that they understand, in as stark terms as necessary. Maybe we can start by having them read the article.

May Rebecca Sedwick's memory be for a blessing...

Looking Back, Looking Forward: Remembering 9/11, The Day That Changed Everything

For me, today is a day of remembering, and of beginning. Of looking back, and looking forward. While remembering the events of September 11, 2001, I said goodbye to my youngest child as she started preschool. In my mind, this is all related.

This morning I sat outside Louisa's classroom. (Louisa has a classroom!) As I waited, I chatted with a mom who has three girls under age four. I told her that I also have three girls, but that my big ones are 10 and almost 9. And this lovely, lovely woman, sure-to-be-my-new-best-friend said to me, "But you look like a kid! How could you possibly have a ten-year-old?"

"You just made my day," I said, and then explained that the reason we started our family when we did had everything to do with 9/11.

Today, we are all remembering. We remember the people we lost. We remember the disbelief. We remember where we were, down to the minute. We remember the phone calls, the ones that went through, and the many that didn't. We remember the feeling that our city was changed, forever. We remember making eye contact with strangers in Union Square, and seeing tears. We remember walking to Chelsea Piers to give blood, and being turned away. We remember the photographs of the lost, on every light post, on every bus stop, and the desperate loved ones diligently posting them, hoping.

The soot and dirt and smoke seeped in through our windows, entering our lungs and our blood. I had to leave. A downtown Manhattan refugee at my parents' house for the chagim, I fell into a silent cloud. Always a verbal person, I had no patience for words, then. What was there to say? Instead, I immersed myself in images. For the first time in my life, I made Rosh Hashanah cards, each one painstakingly cut and pasted from colored construction paper, a child's project.

I had no children, then. Nor was I a child. I was a young-ish adult, living what was, in retrospect, a relatively carefree existence. It didn't feel carefree, though. After leaving grad school, I was struggling to gain a foothold in my career. I was working full-time as an editor, but without title or benefits. I felt mistreated, undervalued, and underpaid. On that fateful day in 2001, I had a meeting about a new and exciting job opportunity. But, like everything else that day, the meeting was cancelled. And never rescheduled. Things like that happened, then. Everything changed, in the matter of an hour.

When I awoke from the stupor (was it weeks later, or was it months?), I had a strange, new compulsion. I wanted to have a child. I still didn't have a proper job, and Josh was still in grad school. We were in no way financially secure; we were just starting out. But none of that mattered. My plan on this earth was to share my life with children.  It was a seize-the-day, the worst-could-always-happen mentality; after all, what if there is no tomorrow?

In the spring of 2002, I became pregnant with Sunshine, as we called our in-utero peanut. I was 26 years old, which made me the youngest in my childbirth education class by roughly ten years.

Someone observed to me recently that growing children can act as markers of passing time. Their ages at different points and places remind you where you once were. That's true of when you first started dreaming about them, too.

This morning, for an hour and a half, my baby played and socialized and simply existed without me there to take stock in her experience. I've never had trouble letting go before; how unexpected to find myself tearing up last night at orientation, when the teacher talked about separation. "They're not babies, anymore," she told the room full of parents, and for many of us, this was news.

Our children will always be our babies, even when they go off to school on their own, even when they leave home. We'll always remember how they came to be.

Time passes, but the memories don't fade. We remember, as we always will, the day(s) that changed everything.

The Longest Sunday

Forgive me. It's been almost a month since my last confession. Oh sorry, I meant, post.

Where has the time gone? Not coincidentally, my last post was on August 13th, and Bella came home from camp on the 14th. So, it's been a month filled with beach days, endless car rides, sisterly screaming matches, lost flip-flops, sunburns, ice-cream, potty training, barbecues, family gatherings, arguments over summer assignments, backpack and shoe shopping, boredom, and a high holy day thrown in for good measure. You know it. You just lived it, too.

My friend Debs, who lives in the UK, texted me to say she misses my blog posts (bless you, dear). When I told her today was the first day of school, she replied, "Wow, your holidays are long!"

Yes, they certainly are. My kids had eleven weeks vacation this summer (I had to count it twice to be sure, because it seems crazy), while Debs' kids had only six. Think about the difference. That's a lot of time to entertain the offspring, and it costs a lot of money. For many working parents, it's a major financial hardship. Also, studies have shown that for many children all that time out of the classroom means more catch-up academically at the beginning of each new school year.

I'm not sure that I'm ready to argue for a true year-round school schedule, mainly because I love (and my kids love) summer camp. But I do think that the school year could be adjusted and lengthened a tad . . . maybe a few more days off in the winter, and a few days more of school at the end of summer.

True, this year felt especially long because of the awkward occurrence of Rosh Hashanah just after Labor Day. The past week has felt like one long Sunday, in which we're all supposed to be happy and free from obligation, but we're all-too-aware that the return to school, i.e. real life, is coming. Anxiety has been simmering in my girls like a pot of water taking forever to boil. Even Louisa, who starts pre-school on Wednesday, knows that school is coming, and with little awareness of time, she doesn't understand why we don't march to her new classroom right now.

Which is all to say that this morning was a blessing, indeed. "I feel like a new woman," I texted back to Debs, imagining the reclaimed space in my brain now that my kids will spend a few hours each day having theirs stroked by someone other than me.

Happy family on the first day of school