Keeping kosher for passover

During Passover, observant Jews aren't supposed to eat bread.  Or pasta.  Or cereal.  And Marc keeps kosher for Passover, and oddly enough, so do my kids.

I love Passover, it's one of my favorite Jewish holidays, but I don't love keeping kosher for Passover.  I really don't like matzoh, which is the staple of our diet this week.  I think part of it is that I don't like being told NOT to do something, and part of it is my own issues around converting to Judaism.  It's critical to me that formally converting to Judaism be an addition to my life, not a subtraction.  And forcing myself to give something up just feels WRONG to me.   I love the Seders, I enjoy a little matzoh with mexican cheese and salsa.  I love me some matzoh ball soup.  But I know that left to my own devices, I'd observe Passover by adding matzoh into my diet, and not by subtracting anything with grain.

But I do it, because (and I'm baffled by this) my kids seem to really enjoy it.  They love the restrictions, they love the specialness of the whole thing.   I honor that - I respect their right to make choices about how observant they want to be.  Without ever forcing the issue, they just seem to really enjoy the restrictions.  If it was a problem, I'd be yanking out the ramen noodles and mac and cheese and cheerios, but they seem delighted about it.
 
So I'm keeping kosher for Passover.  There's a whole lot of matzoh going on over here these days, Jessie is taking matzoh and peanut butter to school for lunch, Sam is eating matzoh brie like it's going out of style and Julie's go-to snack is matzoh pizza.  Meanwhile, I'm just counting the days until it's over, and making secret plans to sneak out for chinese food by myself.

Parental guilt

I blame myself.  For pretty much all of it.  To be fair, I also give myself credit when things are going well.  When the kids are well behaved, healthy, happy.  But when there are problems - I'm pretty sure it's all my fault.    Case in point, my little Samilicious Boy.  His teacher is recommending that we hold him back for an extra year of kindergarten and I'm horrified.  Can't stop trying to figure out where I messed up, where did I go wrong?  I feel bitterly betrayed by the attachment parenting movement - which assured me over and over again that if I held him when he cried, if I nursed him until he was ready to stop, if I co-slept and loved him and nurtured him - he'd grow into a confident, secure kid.  But I did all of those things, and his teacher wants to hold him back because she fears he's too fragile to handle the pressure of first grade.  How did I manage to screw up so badly?  Why can my five year old not hack it like his friends?

So, you see, I blame myself.  Maybe I did baby him.  That's what my family is going to think.  They told me not to nurse him that long.  But I thought it was the right thing.  I still kind of think that it was, and given that I'm currently still nursing his almost two year old sister with no plans on stopping, I guess I must still think it was.  Because there's a part of me that thinks that kids just are who they are.  And Sam's not fragile, he's just stubborn and determined and incredibly introverted.  He's smart and kind and so, so sweet - and I think he'll do just fine in first grade.

I think yesterday was a bad day, and to base a decision on his future ability to handle first grade on his behavior yesterday exclusively is not the right way to go.  I'm leaning strongly to pushing him ahead.  Academically, he can handle it, socially, he's already advanced so much from where he was eight months ago at the start of the school year.

We'll wait and see.  I googled yesterday - and found nothing really helpful.  It appears as though studies have shown that holding them back a year isn't really that beneficial, and that more and more kids are being "redshirted", and started a year late.  He's vaguely on the young side, he'll graduate at seventeen if we don't hold him back.   But then I also read that retaining them for academic reasons is discouraged, but if a kid is being held back for confidence or school readiness, then that's a kid who would really benefit from the extra year.

I don't know what to do.  And because I don't know - I'm super easily swayed one way or another.  I read one article assuring me that it's not a good idea, and I'm convinced.  I talk to a friend who thinks I should hold him back, give him an extra year, and I waver.  I talked to his Hebrew school teacher who said to push him ahead, but make sure he's got structured activities all summer, I talked to another friend who's also a teacher and she said to push him ahead.  I'm all baffled and confused - leaning towards moving him up, but not fully convinced that it's the right thing.   And either way - I still feel guilty.

Craptastic morning

Okay - so it was a three day weekend.  Four day, as Sam had been home sick last Thursday.  And the weekend was filled with seders and late nights, so he's still somewhat sleep deprived.  So maybe I should have seen it  coming.  But I didn't.

He absolutely lost it this morning at drop off.  Hysterical sobbing, refusing to get out of the van, it was awful.  I made him go - there was no good reason for him not to.  He had gotten a solid eleven hours of sleep last night, he wasn't sick - he needed to go.  But I feel like the worst mother in the world.  He's so little, and why am I teaching him that I'll just drive away when he's sobbing and miserable and desperate for a hug?

I think sometimes that I was scarred by the attachment parenting literature I read so much of.   Too many descriptions of how crying it out is just teaching your infant that you won't be there for them.  He's almost six years old, he's at school with familiar teachers and I'm not abandoning him.   I'm not.  Right?

I know he's fine now.  I know that.  I know that his teacher will hug him and love him and that he needs the time with kids his own age, and with adults that he can trust other than me.  I know that he's grown up so much this year, become so much more confident and happy and self assured.  I know that.  So why can't I get the image of his little sobbing face out of my mind?  Why do I keep reliving it?  I counted to three to get him out of the car, and was totally unsympathetic - any sympathy from me would have made it worse.  So I dragged him out of the car and passed him off to the teacher and then sat in the van and sobbed.  The secretary gestured for me to go, so I drove back home, and called to make sure that he was okay.

He is.  I'm not, but he is.

Parenting doesn't get any easier.  When they get bigger.  I mean, it gets a little less labor intensive - but mentally - it's just as hard.  Harder.  Because their wants are not their needs.  It's not easy to know what's the right thing to do.  And even harder to guess.  Is it right to send him to school?  Is it wrong to shelter him?  Given the choice, Sam would stay home 24/7.   I have to push him out of the nest a little, just to show him that the world is a good place and that he's safe and loved and secure.

I know he's better off at school, I can see the difference in him.  He's voluntarily going to playdates, he's chatting with relatives and enjoying time with other people.  He's exposed to new ideas and new things, and that's awesome for him.  But this morning was horrible, and I feel like the worst mother in the world.

Seders, seders and more seders

This is the Passover of many Seders.  We've had three so far, and I'm weary of plagues and prophets.  Today, we threw Easter into the mix and the kids are gorging themselves on chocolate.  Which, combined with a bedtime last night of eleven-ish, is going to make for an extra fun afternoon :-(

In other news... Julianna has learned to say her name.  She self identifies as Julianna, which is interesting, as all three of my kids have nicknames and the other two always went by those names.  Jessie will tell you her name is Jessica, but that didn't start until she started school, and Sam still self identifies as Sammy.  But Jules is clear that her name is Julianna.  Not Julie.  Or Crabbianna, which is, often, what I call her.

Passover and Easter

Easter is not a big deal to me.  I have a lot more issues in December, because Christmas is such a big holiday and Hanukkah is such a minor Jewish one.  But in the spring - Passover is one of my favorite Jewish holidays and Easter has always been less significant.  I think this year it's particularly difficult to get excited about Easter because of the timing.  Passover starts on Friday night and we've got big Seders on Friday and Saturday and then doing Easter the next day just seems... like overkill.  Like it's too much. Like it's unnecessary.  I dislike it in December too - when Hanukkah and Christmas are too close together.  As someone who celebrates the Jewish  holidays because I'm, you know, Jewish, and the other holidays because I grew up, you know, not Jewish - it's always a struggle to do justice to both.

So why bother with Easter at all?  Good question, and one that I've pondered a couple of times.  Because I am Jewish, and absolutely going to celebrate Hanukkah and Passover.  But there's a part of me that really needs for Judaism to be an addition to my life, and not represent a subtraction.  I want my spirituality to fit into my life, not to represent things that I have to give up and lose.  And it's critical to me that my children know and celebrate their whole heritage - and only half of that heritage is Jewish.

It's tough to explain - because while I'm content and satisfied with my religious choices, and secure in the knowledge that my children are Jewish, that Marc and I are specifically raising a Jewish family and living a Jewish life, I'm also not ashamed of the fact that my family of orgin is mostly Irish Catholic pagan witches.  I like that reality.  I don't want to lose that.  I don't want my kids to feel ashamed that they don't have a Bubbie who makes gefilte fish and chopped liver. I want them to love that they a Grammy and a Dzidzi who decorate for Easter and hide eggs and give them way too much candy every year.

And they do - I know the conflict is more in my head than in theirs.   They're fine with bringing macaroons and chocolate matzoh to the Easter celebrations, and believe firmly that the Easter bunny will drop off baskets here on Sunday morning.  They know they're Jewish, they know they celebrate my family's holidays because one of the tenets (one of the Commandments, really) is to honor your parents, and that's what Mama does.  We celebrate the holidays because it's what my mother wants.  It's what my grandmother would want, if she was still alive.  Not that they celebrate Christian holidays, but that they know, down deep on a level they'd never question, that they are connected to generations past.  That they are part of a larger family - and they are blessed to belong to two extended families.  One that celebrates Passover and one that celebrates Easter.

I keep sharpie markers in my freezer

And nail clippers under the couch.  I also store scissors in the drawer next to the stove and a hair brush in my knitting bag.  Not necessarily on purpose, more that I've noticed that that is where they've ended up, and make the deliberate choice to keep them there.  The sharpie markers in the freezer - I have actually managed to collect all of them and put them in the freezer after noticing that the yellow one had someone made it in there and still functioned perfectly well.  It strikes me a great storage spot, high enough up so that none of the kids can find it, and easy enough to access if I decide I need it.

My organizational skills are somewhat haphazard.  I feel as though I'm sort of organized, I haven't lost any of the children, and can almost always locate my keys and sunglasses.  I did have to drive the kids to school today barefoot because I couldn't find my shoes, but that's rare.

It drives my husband nuts, the way I keep things organized.  He's the exact opposite of me.  There's very little he keeps track of, but what he does keep track of is always meticulously put back where it belongs.  His dresser drawers are organized to a scary degree, in my opinion, and I think it's a little disturbing to be able to recite from memory exactly where you put the peanut butter.   For me, it's enough that the socks are washed and dried.  In a basket, or in a drawer.  I gave up sorting socks a couple of months ago, and have successfully taught the children that mismatched socks are the preferred choice.  Only boring people match their socks.  At least that's what I tell them.  Jessie is a little less likely to believe it, but even she's flexible enough to wing it.  I don't think Sam even notices.

I know vaguely where almost everything is.  And that's a lot of stuff.  I have three children, two of which are major hoarders, and a ridiculous amount of stuff floats around this house.  I can sort of tell you where most of it is.  Most of the time.  It's not perfect, for example, I'm still not sure where Julie's red hat went.  And Jessie's American Girl had a brush that went missing about two weeks ago, I still can't locate that.

My system isn't perfect.  Case in point, my feet were freaking FREEZING this morning on the drive to school.  But I have to give myself points and credit for keeping track of as much as I do.  Three kids, three outfits, three lunchboxes (yes, I know Julie doesn't need one, but when I tried to convince her of that fact, I lost - now she gets a lunchbox just like the two older kids).  Three coats, three pairs of socks, six shoes.  All of that, and only half a cup of coffee.  That's impressive.

So I'm not going to feel bad anymore about my lack of organization.  Because really, you can't compare being able to keep track of five things the way my husband does (keys, wallet, phone, shoes, and peanut butter) and the fifteen thousand things that I'm sort of keeping track of, a little bit.  And when all else fails, at least I know where the sharpies are.

Eaglefeather and Marigold

Sammy lost his first tooth on Thursday.  And I cried.  Just a little, because it's such a major milestone.  His whole smile is different now, and I can't get used to it.  His tooth had been loose for a while, so we knew it was coming, and as luck would have it, he swallowed it while eating an apple.  It was an occasion of great joy, he was ecstatic, so proud of himself, and only a little freaked out about accidentally swallowing the tooth.

When Jessie lost her first two teeth, it was fairly traumatic.  She had broken her wrist the week before, and had gotten very used to using her mouth as a tool.   She was getting ready for bed, and her shirt got stuck on her wrist, so she grabbed it with her teeth and ripped both her bottom two teeth out.   She came tearing out of her room, hysterically screaming, half naked and dripping blood.  There wasn't time to get misty.  But this time, I was very aware of what a milestone it was, losing the first tooth.  He's not a baby anymore, he hasn't been for a while, and sometimes I still get wistful.  It's not any easier, watching your second baby grow up.  I thought it would be, for some reason.  I don't know why it surprises me.  But I find myself watching him more and more, marveling at how very fast he's grown up.  He still seems so little to me, at times.  But then he'll do something or say something and I'll realize that he's actually so much bigger than he was, and it makes me a little... not sad, just...wistful.

Moving on... Our tooth fairies work a little differently than most families.  Because we're a step family as well, my daughter was very familiar with the workings of the tooth fairy.  And one of my stepdaughters had benefitted hugely by a dark room, and mother and a grandmother who both slipped what they thought was a dollar under her pillow.  When she woke up and found $40, she was delighted - and the expectation was set for Jessie to profit hugely when she lost TWO teeth at once.  Not having $80 to spare - and being honestly a bit thrown off at having to follow someone else's guidance, I quickly made up a story about Marigold.  She was OUR tooth fairy, and she was very smart, and knew that Jessie was very smart as well.  So she only gives out one dollar per tooth, but she also writes a detailed note, and gives a new book with each tooth.  A book, a buck, and a note.

But Marigold was clearly a tooth fairy tailored to Jessica.  Sam was a different child, and required a different tooth fairy.  So now we've got a family of tooth fairies.  Marigold is Jessica's and Sam's is Marigold's younger brother Eaglefeather.   He's not as touchy feely as Marigold, more wise, and all knowing.  It's a different tone in his notes, because Marc writes his notes.  I don't really like giving up the note writing, but (reluctantly) acknowledge that Marc should be able to be a tooth fairy too.  And I can always console myself with trying to come up with a name for Eaglefeather's little sister, because I've got a soon to be two year old who will one day lose her first tooth.   And I just hope that it's as happy an occasion as her older brother's was, and not nearly as bloody and hysteric-inducing as her older sister's.