Dusting Off My Marilyn Shoes

Okay, so I know disfluency is perfectly normal for a three-year-old. I already talked about that here, where I told you how fine I was with it all and how I wasn't going to freak out.

And I'm not freaking out exactly. I'm just concerned. See, my son isn't just doing the normal repetitions. He's exhibiting secondary behaviors -- specifically, my secondary behaviors. Now, I'm just smart enough to suspect this is more imitation than a severe case of adult-like stuttering manifesting itself in a toddler. So when he says, "Uuuum, uuuum, uuuuum," before starting a sentence, he's just doing what Mommy does. And when someone mocks him for doing it, although I am incensed and ready to punch the mocker, I remain patient bite my tongue. So far.

Since there's no real consensus on the cause of stuttering, and since its being a learned behavior hasn't been entirely ruled out by science, I'm worried about this imitation turning into the real thing eventually. If I give stuttering to my kids genetically, that's one thing. But if I "give it to them" through modeling, well, that's something else entirely.

I am, therefore, trying to get rid of the "ums." I don't "um" all that much just around the house; it's usually when talking to a stranger or talking on the phone -- when on some level I guess I'd prefer to sound absent-minded or a little slow than to just out-and-out stutter. I have no choice but to go for the out-and-out stutter now, though.

Which means I'm falling back on my old therapy techniques. I don't know exactly what kind of therapy I had -- my last visit to a speech pathologist was over ten years ago, so while the gist of what I learned is still with me, the proper names of things escape me. It wasn't the intensive Precision Fluency Shaping discussed on some of the stuttering blogs to which I link, but there were elements of that kind of therapy in it. I believe, based on some quick Internet research, that it was some combination of fluency shaping therapy and stuttering modification therapy. When I am using my therapy techniques, which I typically use only when reading aloud because that is when I often find myself otherwise completely and totally unable to speak, I use a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice (which, by the way, Marilyn herself used because she stuttered) with a measured rate and exaggerated prosody with sounds very softly articulated . . . and with "easy stuttering"/"easy bounce" when a block or repetition is unavoidable. Talking that way sounds a bit strange, yet a whole lot less strange than the ums and uhs and total silences that occur otherwise.

So now that I've pulled the old therapy techniques out of the closet and dusted them off, I'm using them around the house some, especially when reading aloud to my kids (which, somehow, I can usually do absolutely fluently -- it's just reading aloud elsewhere that gets me) or when I notice my son is stuttering or imitating my secondary behaviors. Hey, if he imitates the bad stuff, maybe he'll imitate my therapy talk. And if that will help his chances of staying fluent, then I'll gladly do it.

And besides, this is the closest I'll ever get to being confused with Marilyn Monroe. Now, if you'll excuse me, this sex goddess must go do some laundry.

Partied Out

My son's birthday party is over, and we are all catching up on our sleep. I always seem to forget just how exhausting the party preparations can be. And my son was so excited this year that he was having trouble sleeping at night . . . which means we were all having trouble sleeping at night.

The party was a success, and we had plenty of room for both of our families since the weather was nice enough to put the tables out on the deck. We had a Very Hungry Caterpillar theme and made our own cake that was supposed to look like like the caterpillar and ended up not too far off. My husband and I totally get into the cake decorating thing, even though we are both amateurs at it. And I cut out construction paper foods with holes in them for the decorations. Oh, and the party favors? Well, the three kids (my two and one cousin) got little goody bags, but the grown-ups each got a cheap, er, nice little plant (with a hole in a leaf, of course) planted in a colorful plastic cup decorated with a cute Very Hungry Caterpillar quote and a thank-you. Ah, I have become quite the frugal party planner. Oh, and did I mention I put pipe cleaners on cheap plastic headbands so everyone could wear antennae? Yeah, I'm sure they love me for that, but they were good sports about it. My son had a wonderful time being the center of attention, eating cake, and opening presents. And we had a wonderful time watching him have so much fun.

Now, however, I am very tired. I think I need a nap before I'm up for another round of putting batteries in new birthday toys.

Magic Pills

Tom of The Stuttering Brain has posted some information about a new drug called Pagaclone which is going to be used to treat stuttering. Hm. Very interesting stuff. I remember the grand question in every stuttering therapy or support group of which I have been a member: "If you could take a magic pill that would stop your stuttering, would you do it?" And there was always someone who claimed to be so self-accepting that he would say oh no, stuttering is part of who I am, etc., etc. Stupid. I mean, the pill is magic. Who the hell says no to a magic pill?

However, Pagaclone is not magic, but a real drug manufactured by a pharmaceutical company. Therefore, Tom wisely has reservations about it, which he lists. Naturally, he is concerned with side effects. He says he would not want to gain weight in exchange for fluency.

And that, of course, got me thinking. About fat, and stuttering, and magic pills.

At first, I thought, "What?!?! A few pounds of extra weight is a small price to pay for fluency!" But then when I thought about it, I wondered if I would really say the same thing. Can I really afford to gain any more weight? I guess it would depend on how much extra weight we're talking about. Five pounds? Yeah, I'd do it. Thirty? Oh, boy. I think I've reached my limit, thanks. I can't afford new clothes, and since the health/fat relationship does exist, regardless of inconclusive evidence and exaggerated media reports about cause and effect (Read The Obesity Myth / The Diet Myth before you decide I'm off my rocker.), I'll keep stuttering along, thanks. As they always say, the devil you know is better than the devil you don't know.

But another related question is if I could give up one or the other, fat or stuttering, which would it be? I think I would say stuttering. I mean, it is a disorder, whereas the majority of fat-related problems are just prejudice. Sure, I'd love to be thin -- saying I wouldn't prefer a more socially acceptable body is just nuts. But I'd really love to be fluent -- there are lots of things I'd love to do that stuttering prevents me from doing (ASL interpreting in a courtroom or hospital, for instance -- I don't trust my speech in such important settings; some public speaking gigs; leaving voice mail messages that say more than, "Hi, this is -- this is -- is -- this is -- Mmmmm-- This -- is -- iiiiiiis -- iiiiiis -- th -- th -- this is --SHIT!").

At the same time, I can pass sometimes as fluent, lots of times even, if I'm in a fairly fluent period of my life as I am now. While those nasty blocks can be downright crippling, during a fluent period, stuttering is nothing more than an occasional nuisance. Fat, on the other hand, isn't something I can pretend I'm not when I go out. Everyone who sees me knows I'm fat. The only place I could "pass" as thin would be on the Internet . . . unless I were stupid enough to admit to being fat on my blog. Hey, wait a minute. Dammit. And I told you I stuttered, too, didn't I? What the hell is wrong with me? That's it. I'm starting a new blog right now in which I talk about nothing but my enormous boobs, my knack for creating really cool birthday party invitations, and my impeccable (Ha! Get it?) chicken imitation.

But I digress. I think what I was talking about was that I'm fat and I stutter, and somehow it mostly doesn't bother me all that much, even though I keep talking about it, like all the time. The stuttering bothers me less than the fat, really, because I accepted being a stutterer a very, very long time ago. Sure, it doesn't always make things easy, but I don't have any grand illusions of becoming a fluent person. It was much more recently, however, that I gave up the dream of being thin and decided I'd settle for as healthy as I can be instead.

If I were shown two little magic pills, one to cure fat, one to cure stuttering, and told I could choose one and only one, what would I say? I'd open my mouth wide, stick out my tongue, and say, "Ah ga ca!"

Then I'd close my mouth and repeat myself so it didn't sound like dentist-office talk. And I'd say, "Surprise me!"

The Big Three

Today is my son's third birthday. It's hard to believe it has already been three years since I lay on the operating table and listened for his first tiny cry. "He sounds like a kitten!" I said to my husband, and then we both started laughing and crying all at the same time.

We're having our families over this weekend for a party, so today's celebration is fairly low-key. My husband came home for lunch, and we let our son open his gifts then. We ate some store-bought cupcakes that my husband picked up on the way home. I'm making a big cake for the party, so I figured I'd go the easy route for today. And my son hasn't even noticed that his cupcakes have mortar boards on them.

"Hey, they're graduation cupcakes," I said to my husband. Didn't they have anything else?"

He looked at the cupcakes, allowing his surprise to show for only a second. "My mission," he shrugged, "was to get chocolate cupcakes. I got chocolate cupcakes."

I suppose we could say my son is graduating from babyhood to boyhood. But that would just make me too sad.

Jewish Persecution and Gentile Oblivion

Jack left the following comment below on my Selfishly Intermarried post:

Part of the challenge is that we are all dealing with the impact of thousands of years of persecution. There was so much for so long it has impacted us in ways that are not always so positive.

He makes an excellent point. Funny how I didn't really think about that until he mentioned it. I mean, it's so obvious, and yet . . . . I'll be the first to admit that we non-Jews in general don't really get the persecution thing, even when we think we do. I thought I got it until I read the first chapter of the Intermarriage Handbook by Judy Petsonk and Jim Remson. The chapter, entitled "Jewish-Christian History: A Legacy of Pain" was such an eye-opener for me that when I got to the end of those thirteen little pages, I knew deep down that my future children had to be Jewish. I knew I had come to an understanding that would change my life. I've asked myself a hundred times, "How did I not know all that before?" And I'm just smart enough to suspect that there's a lot I still don't get.

And it's not as if my husband was the first Jew I ever met. In fact, in a strange twist of events that I believe to be destiny, in the two summers before I met him, almost everyone I became close to during graduate school in D.C. was Jewish (and deaf -- I was attending Gallaudet University). I met them at different times, in different classes, and many of them didn't even know one another, yet somehow I "clicked" with all these people who I kept later finding out were Jewish. And there was even a woman I met from Tajikistan who barely escaped with her life; it was so dangerous for her family that her parents hadn't dared to tell her she was a Jew until she was old enough to accept the responsibility of keeping such an important secret. She had had to leave in a hurry, her parents pushing her sister and her onto a plane whose destination they didn't even know at the time; they had been given forty-eight hours to convert to Islam or be killed.

I thought I understood after I watched the terrifying stories she told with her hands. Yet the chapter in that book I read two years later deepened my understanding. So even when we non-Jews think we get it, we still don't, do we?

When people I knew were dumbfounded by the Jewish reaction to Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ, at first I couldn't get why they didn't get it, but then I remembered my way of thinking before reading The Intermarriage Handbook. Several years earlier, I might have been equally baffled, although I like to think I would have tried to understand. I wanted to copy that chapter and just pass it out. In the end, it was this speech by Abraham Foxman that I sent to people instead.

To end on a lighter note, here's a perfect illustration of the conflict. In this excerpt from Stars of David, playwright Tony Kushner retells a family story of his life partner Mark Harris.

"The first year that Mark's parents were married, his Catholic
mother, Harriet, wanted to impress his Jewish dad's mother, Minnie
Moskowitz. So Harriet made this huge seder meal, and at the conclusion of
the meal, Minnie made a toast, saying, 'I'm deeply moved that my new
daughter-in-law, the enemy of my people, has made such a beautiful seder
meal.'"

Every time I read that, I laugh so hard I almost pee my pants.

He Finds a Button and He Keeps On Pushing It

I mean that both figuratively and literally.

My son was talking to my mother-in-law on the phone today and told her how his sister bumped her mouth last week and cut the inside of her lip. The injury was minor, and so we hadn't seen the need to mention it to my husband's mother, who tends to worry about these things.

So as my son relayed the story for the third or fourth time, my husband and I were cringing, waiting for the aftermath. Soon my son got the order to give the phone to his daddy, who then had to answer several questions about the incident to reassure his mother.

Then my son asked to talk to his grandma again. This time, he totally made up two stories, one about his sister standing up in a chair and falling out on her neck, and another about her falling off the fireplace. He did it just for the reaction. That little stinker. It took my husband five minutes to convince his mother that neither incident really happened. I have to give the kid credit -- he found his grandma's button and learned quickly how to make her freak out.

And speaking of pushing buttons, my son is still, at 10:30 P.M. pushing the button on his little battery-operated singing pig. He started sleeping with it a few nights ago, and it has already needed a battery change. It sings "My Girl," which my son calls "Sunshine Cloudy Day." We've been hearing sunshine cloudy day off and on for the last two hours. Every time he wakes up in the night, he cries out, "I can't find my piggy!" And then he finds it and yells, "I can't find the button on my piggy!" And then he finds and we hear sunshine cloudy day yet again.

Quite frankly, I think the song should have been altered. The pig should be singing "My Curl" in reference to his tail. You know, which curls. Because maybe that would be a little funnier at 2 A.M.

Selfishly Intermarried

I've been reading various blog entries about Jewish intermarriage. What I'm reading is, in general, discouraging. No, I'm not talking about the appalling intermarriage rate. I'm talking about how discouraging it is to read about marriages like mine as if they were created for the purpose of destroying Judaism, or that they are the union of two incredibly selfish beings who have no regard for their parents' feelings, values, or history. Beyond discouraging is the Holocaust analogy, comparing intermarried couples to Hitler; such a comparison is both offensive and juvenile and does not merit even this brief mention.

On the topic of intermarriage and selfishness, I've been doing some thinking about whether my own marriage was a selfish one. True, my husband's parents would have preferred he find a Jewish wife. He looked for a long time, but we live in a place where the Jewish population is miniscule. His choices were to A) move elsewhere to find a larger Jewish population, B) remain a bachelor, or C) widen his search a bit for the likes of me. Obviously, he chose C and, in my opinion at least, didn't do half bad.

Let's just consider choice A, though, for the sake of argument. He could have quit a good job that it took him a while to find and moved to a big city, leaving his mother all alone. Instead, my husband chose to stay close by and lend her support in the years following his father's death. That wasn't a selfish choice. And let's look at B. He could have chosen not to marry. But marriage is an important aspect of Judaism. Continuing his father's legacy was important to him, too; he always said he didn't care if our children were boys or girls, but at the same time, he was so pleased to have a son so that he could give him his father's name. Is that selfishness?

How about me? Am I selfish because I don't have enough respect for the Jewish tradition to declare a Jewish man off-limits when I'm dating? Or am I selfish because of the disrespect I have for my own family's tradition? I'm assuming it's the latter. Now, I understand to some extent that there's just a cultural difference here. Marrying "out" is much more of a taboo in the Jewish community than it is in the culture in which I was raised. And I realize that Judaism/Jewishness is unique in that there are issues of peoplehood and religion and history all mixed together. Still, the culture and religion in which I was raised are important to its followers, too, and naturally my parents almost surely would have chosen someone of their own faith for me if they had been in a position to choose. I don't have any excuses about a small dating pool. In my case, the man I fell in love with was Jewish, and I chose to marry him.

Okay, so if anyone was selfish, it was I, not my husband. Even more selfish of me, then, is the fact that I am considering conversion to Judaism. It is selfish, I suppose, that I would want to distance myself even further from my heritage. And so, it follows logically that every convert to Judaism is/was also selfish. All of them chose to leave behind a tradition their parents surely valued, right? Each and every one must have been thinking only about him- or herself, not about carrying on a tradition.

Hm. I bet those who call the intermarried selfish would stop short of calling Jews-by-choice selfish. Yeah, good thing. But that's where their logic leads.

When my husband and I take our children to synagogue, we are, almost without exception, warmly welcomed. However, when I read arguments like the ones I've been reading, I now can't help but wonder if the people I am getting to know at synagogue might really wish we weren't there. Are they judging us? Do they take one look at my kids' eye color and secretly wish them gone? Do they trying to guess whether my children have been converted or not, and by a rabbi of what affiliation? Do the people with whom we worship assume we are selfish? Do they compare us with Hitler?

Are we selfish for assuming we have anything to offer?

Iranian Dress Code Update

It seems that the article to which I linked earlier might not be accurate. Here's an ADL link on the subject.

Time to Take Action

All right, folks. We can't ignore Iran any longer. If Ahmadinejad's comments about wiping Israel off the map and his denial of the Holocaust weren't enough, I'd say this is. What is the world waiting for?

Gullible's Travels, or, Why I'm Reading About Lip Gloss

I hate magazines. Okay, not all magazines. I just hate the kind you find in every waiting room in the world -- the kind with a cover picturing a cake containing 27 grams of saturated fat per serving and "Get Slim Fast!" in large letters. I'm at a point in my life where these topics -- diets and what to eat when you want to cheat on them -- bore me.

And when I am reminded that I, in a moment of weakness and utter gullibility, subscribed to that exact kind of magazine over a year ago because the woman selling them said her father was also the father of her twin boys, then I am likely to be downright disgusted with said magazine every month when it arrives.

Now, in all fairness, the woman who came to my door probably was a survivor of incest. Whatever her background, she certainly deserved a break. She had her sales pitch down. I'm not sure if she actually ever wrote out the whole thing complete with bracketed stage directions such as [pause for lip quiver] or [weep uncontrollably until customer offers a tissue], but I'd bet money it was planned in some form. I hate to turn people away when they are in need. Especially people who have mothered their fathers' children. Especially when they are really good at guilt trips. So I said I would buy one magazine I didn't want. Unfortunately, buying just one wasn't an option because of something or other I couldn't understand through the cracking voice and the sniffling into the tissue I had provided. And that's how I subscribed to two, the second of which was for my children . . . and might be appropriate for them in about six years. I think I'll just save them in a box until 2012. If I'm lucky, maybe the kids will want the clothes and shoes featured in the magazine; by that time, they should be far less expensive than whatever is in style.

But back to the actual purchase of the magazines. I paid entirely too much for them because of some stupid survivors-of-incest-selling-overpriced-crappy-magazines-door-to-door state fee. After the lady left with my check, I scoured the Internet for the name of the organization for which she was selling. There was no such organization. I did, however, find much about these door-to-door magazine salespeople. The consensus is that they are being exploited by whatever company it is that hires them. Wise people throughout Cyberspace warned, "DO NOT BUY!" Yet, trying to be kind, I had bought and helped perpetuate a system that was taking advantage of the poor. So, well, yea me.

Nearly a year later, I had forgotten about the magazines, and if I had in fact thought of them, I would have been glad they hadn't arrived; I didn't want to profit in the least (and it is, believe me, the least) from someone else's life of near-slavery. When they arrived last month, it took me a moment to remember, and then it all came back to me -- the lip quivering, the hand to the chest, the sobbing and the frequent calling out to Jesus.

So, saddled with the reminder of my gullibility and middle-class whatever-ity (you know, the thing that makes you do things against your better judgment because you feel guilty for having what you have even though there are lots and lots of people who have a lot more than you have), I use my new magazine for toilet reading.

It's okay for the crapper. So far I've learned that walking is not beneficial in any way unless it really hurts and you move your arms in such a way that your thumb makes some kind of arc in the air at the level of something or other. And I've learned that even though I answered all "nos" on the bipolar questionnaire, I should still, just to be safe, share the results with my doctor. And I've learned that an innocent phrase like "what to toss in your salad" makes me a little uncomfortable these days. I've learned that the "grills for every budget" all cost at least three times what we paid for our grill last week. I've learned that I am in the minority when I say that I would rather visit the dentist than go on a diet, because three out of four women would rather do just the opposite. And who the hell cares?

But it's my fault I'm reading this stuff. Eh, too bad it's not flushable.

Remarkable

"Cows! On!" my daughter yells.

And so I push the play button on the CD player. The Seldom Herd begin singing "Remarkable Cows," the second track on Sandra Boynton's CD Philadelphia Chickens, and both of my children begin bouncing on their knees on my son's toddler bed. The moment they detect the song is beginning to wind down, one or the other yells, "More cows!"

But I just stay put. The CD player is on repeat play. The song will start again automatically. The children never tire of it. Thank goodness, it's a good song. Otherwise I might have thrown the CD player out the window already. It takes a lot of repeats for it to get ultra-annoying. Not that I haven't been there. I'm just saying that, for a kids' song, it's pretty tolerable.

I have some pajamas that have cows on them. My son says they are remarkable cows. I am sure they are.

The other evening, my husband was reading an interesting article and, after telling me about part of it, called in to me, "Hey, honey, and you know what's remarkable?"

"Cows," I said.

Because they are.

A turn of the head, a swish of the tail, and a tippity-tap of the
toes. / What a glorious sight in black and white with a touch of pink at
the nose.

I can't get it out of my head. I don't want to be the only one with that song running through my head.

So please, click on the link above, scroll down, and take a listen.

Come on. Do it.

"Cows! On!"

An Argument for Nanny Cams

We're short on babysitters. Okay, we were always short on babysitters. But now we're one shorter than usual. See, we're picky and afraid of leaving our kids with people we don't know inside and out. So we have approximately three. Er, two now. Because last week there was an incident.

Not quite a nanny-cam video of an au pair beating a child in the head with a wooden spoon, but it was still troubling enough to make us decide that our children will be with this person alone no more. I'm not going to get into specifics, except to say that the caretaker flew into a rage, and that although what happened next was relatively minor, it was clearly, by any standards, inappropriate.

Our son told us about the incident the next day. Sort of. In a toddler-speak kind of way. While the exact chain of events was not clear, I knew instantly that something troubling had indeed occurred -- it wasn't the kind of thing the child would make up, and certainly not about a person whom he loves so much. I'm glad I believed him.

In fact, I'm glad I decided not to go on a road trip I very much wanted to take late last week. Whatever regrets I have about not having gone, I know I made the right decision because the only sitter available was the person with the temper. And while at the time I still didn't know just what had happened, I had a bad feeling about leaving my children there for an entire day.

Today I confronted the person about it. In a very nice way. I know my kids can be tough at times -- they're only eighteen months apart, they're both in diapers, and they are as resourceful as they are small. So as protective as I feel of my kids, part of me also felt sorry for the sitter, who I knew was stressed out that day, who admitted everything and more, and who has been plagued with guilt since the incident. A sincere apology was offered -- both to my son and me -- and accepted.

We have, in the most age-appropriate and casual way we know how, discussed the incident with our son. Now that the truth is out in the open, now that he has been assured that, even though his behavior wasn't great, the incident itself wasn't his fault, that the person watching him made a mistake, he acts as if a weight has been lifted and seems fine.

The difficult part is that the person who did this is still important to my children and to my family. There will be no severing of ties. But, as sad as we are about it, my husband and I agree that our children can never be left alone again with the individual either. I didn't come right out and say that today, though. I just couldn't.

Word Verification

I don't get it. I'm good at lots of things, like word games and puzzles, and usually spelling, and even typing, so I thought. But I screw up the word verification all the time when I'm leaving comments on Blogger. Why can't I get this right?

"Type the characters you see in the picture above," it says. Well, crap, how hard can that be?

And it says something like lkkwqp, except with fancy-schmancy font. I type it, double check it, and it gives me the next message with red letters and an exclamation mark, as if to say, "What?! You got that wrong?!?!" And it doesn't even give me a second chance with the original "word." Oh, no, I get a whole new one to screw up.

My self-esteem can't handle much more of this commenting business.

Oh, and the last comment I left . . . I'm not entirely sure, but I think the word verification characters were an anagram for loser.

Miscellaneous Mother's Day Thoughts

• I am lucky. My mother, my maternal grandmother, my mother-in-law, and numerous aunts are living. I have two beautiful, healthy children. I am simultaneously thankful for what I have, sadly aware of those who aren't as lucky, and terrified of losing what I have.
• I spent the first part of Mother's Day making my husband's birthday cake with my son. It turned out pretty well, despite the finger prints and the inevitable mixed-in kid spit.
• Today is the twenty-sixth anniversary of my first stuttering block. I was standing with some other children in front of my church congregation attempting to read a sappy Mother's Day poem from Ideals magazine. I opened my mouth to read the title, and not a sound came out. After several unsuccessful tries, I was terrified and ran to the front pew to sit down. I remember how the eighty-year-old minister patted me on the back and told me everyone gets stage fright, and how I cried harder, adamantly shaking my head no, my ponytails whipping my wet face, because I knew this was not stage fright. The good news was that the congregation was spared at least one of those sappy poems.
• I am not going to win any Mother of the Year awards. Yesterday my son exclaimed, "I love my frickin' sister!" Maybe next year.

You-Know-Who

I haven't been much in the mood to post lately. There's something about coming here and talking about trivial stuff that makes the stillbirth of my friends' baby even worse. If I don't post, if I don't visit anyone, if I don't make any phone calls, if I dig in my heels deep enough, maybe the world will stop for a second or at least slow down. But it hasn't slowed.

This morning they laid their tiny boy to rest on the same hill where their other son, who was stillborn a year ago yesterday, is buried. Talk about getting kicked when you're down. I wish my friends hadn't had to learn just how strong they are.

I'm having trouble with little things lately -- things like saying Hamotzi, things like taking my two living children to Tot Shabbat tonight where we will all get to sing about how great God is.

Don't get me wrong. I am incredibly thankful for my healthy children and my wonderful marriage and the roof over my head and the abundance of food we have to eat. I'm just having a little trouble with thanking God for it. So maybe I am being blasphemous -- but it's just the truth.

Here's my problem: If God is responsible for the good things in my life, he must also be responsible for the bad things in my friend's life. I don't get how we thank God when the good things happen and then curse our luck when bad things happen. It has to be one way or the other -- all random, or all by design. If God has blessed me with the good life I have right now, then that means God has protected my family and me from the dangers in the world, right? And so that means God did not protect my friends. And if that is the case, do I want to associate myself with this being who protects me with one hand while killing babies, either through action or deliberate inaction, with the other? Thanking God in such a case seems like kissing up to a playground bully in an effort to keep from being picked on oneself. And that, my friends, is not my style.

Or, do I say that God has nothing to do with babies' deaths? Perhaps God created the world and then just stepped out, washing his hands of it. If so, then God also had nothing to do with the births of my children, the food on my table, the roof over my head. And in that case, why pray to God at all? Perhaps I can see thanking God for creating the world in the first place, a world in which joy and happiness are possible for at least limited amounts of time. Then what do we say about the part where death and hatred and violence and illness are possible in the same world?

I don't know. I'd say approaching the rabbi tonight might not be wise. "Rabbi, I am interested in converting to Judaism, but at the moment I'm really mad at God. So, please, let's just not talk about You-Know-Who. The rest of the conversion stuff, though, is open for discussion."

Weekend Reading

I'm having trouble getting started writing today. I keep wondering how my friends are doing. And so, as I try to distract myself with talk of my own thoughts and my petty problems, every second thought is of them and their pre-schooler who will have to try to understand why he has yet another little brother with whom he will never get to play.

And on with my trivial blathering.

I got two new books this weekend. I'm reading both at the same time as I sometimes do with nonfiction, and both are turning out to be good purchases. I'll talk about the second one in a subsequent post, but the first book is about kids and eating.

It was recommended to me about a year ago by a psychologist whom I was seeing then and who specializes in eating disorders. One day, in a weepy panic, I spewed forth to her all my insecurities about feeding my kids, all my fears that I would make the same mistakes my parents made or, worse, make brand new, more hideous mistakes since I sort of knew what not to do but had no idea what I should be doing instead. She asked me what I was doing, how I was feeding my kids. I confessed that I was following the book Preventing Childhood Eating Problems by Hirschmann and Zaphiropoulos, expecting that she would gasp and call Child Protective Services since the methods suggested by the authors go against current Food Police "wisdom." Instead, she was pleased, saying that book is one of the two that people in her field most often recommend. The other one, she said, might be worth looking into as well.

The basic difference, she said, was that Preventing Childhood Eating Problems says children should control what, when, and how much they eat, which is a great philosophy and works just fine except that it often makes parents feel like short-order cooks. She said the other one, How to Get Your Kid to Eat . . . But Not Too Much by Ellyn Satter, says basically that parents should control what and when their children eat, but that children should control whether or how much.

At the time, I felt very defensive about the "not too much" part of the title. I was afraid it would be a starvation diet disguised as a parenting book. So I didn't read it. Recently, however, now that my kids are both old enough to express their food preferences, I have indeed felt like a short-order cook and fear that I might not be organized and motivated enough to take the steps suggested in Preventing Childhood Eating Problems to alleviate the food preparation pressure I'm feeling. So I got a copy of How to Get Your Kid to Eat. The verdict is that both books are excellent.

Both books -- and listen up, all you fat-phobic, food policing people out there who give judgmental stares to the parents who dare to allow their chubby kid seconds or thirds -- both books agree that it is a very bad idea to restrict the amount of food a child eats, even if the child is "obese." The authors of both books truly understand what happens when children are put on diets or even when they are made to feel ashamed of their eating and/or desire to eat. They understand that the consequences of doing those things are far worse than some excess weight.

And so, I breathe a sigh of relief. I got up the courage to read both books and haven't found one ounce of fat-bashing in either one.

My fear, however, is for all the children out there today whose parents are terrified of making fat kids and who will, as a result, withhold food and pass judgment. It is my prediction that eating disorders will be much more prevalent, and will begin in much younger children, in the years to come until this fat hysteria is finally over.

Stunned and Sad

As I write this, some dear friends are experiencing a nightmare that is all too familiar to them. They have just lost their baby boy at twenty weeks, and it is only days before the first anniversary of their son Alex's stillbirth.

I don't understand. I will never understand how the universe could be so cruel.

Still, because I love my friends and because I feel so helpless, I pray these useless prayers.

So Maybe the Fat Chick Isn't As Bad Off As You Thought

I got my perofluorooctanoic acid blood test reports back. Wow. That is some thorough blood work, indeed. I now know everything from my bilirubin level to my testosterone level (and I didn't even know I had one of the latter). I do have some C8 in my blood, as I expected, but I don't have a clue how much is really dangerous. It seems nobody else does either and that's why the testing is being done. My level was a pretty low number, and my mother, who is still drinking the water, had a C8 level that was more than thirteen times mine. Still, who knows how high "high" really is; it doesn't necessarily mean I'm safe or that my mother is in danger.

In other blood test news, I was quite pleased to note that my cholesterol level is significantly lower than it was six months ago. Finally, finally, some real evidence that what I'm doing is not crazy. Finally, some proof that I can improve my health without dieting or even losing weight "accidentally."

I have a check-up coming up next week. Now that I know my cholesterol levels, I have much less anxiety about it. My doctor had said my cholesterol was a little high but that my HDL/LDL ratio was good, so she didn't see any need to put me on medication. I had been afraid, though, that my cholesterol was going to be worse this time and that she would transform before my very eyes from the level-headed, HAES doctor she is to the diet-pushing kind. Now, however, it will be clear to her that, big though I may still be, I am taking good care of myself.

Look away if you must, for I shall now do the Fat Girl Dance.

In My Father-in-Law's Study

My father-in-law introduced me to Yehuda Amichai.

I have never met him, my father-in-law, the man for whom my son is named. He died two years before my husband and I went on our first date. His study is almost exactly as he left it -- the desk, the computer, the music in the CD changer. It is understood that nothing is to be touched -- except for the books, which we may borrow. He was a librarian; he would have wanted it that way.

When I leafed through the yellowed copy of Yehuda Amichai's Poems, translated by Assia Gutmann, my mother-in-law was quick to say, "Take it. Keep it." So, at least for now, it is on my shelf. I have read it and reread it.

Another of his books, too, is on my shelf. When I started college, e.e. cummings was one of my favorite poets. I knew he had written one novel, but I was never able to get my hands on a copy. And then, years later, in my father-in-law's study, I saw it: The Enormous Room.

On their first date, my father-in-law read poetry to my mother-in-law.

. . . Not a sign will remain that we were in this place. / The world closes behind us, / The sand straightens itself.

(From Yehuda Amichai's "Like Our Bodies' Imprint")

I've never met the man who read these books. But when I sit on the leather couch in his study, my fingers touching the pages he turned, I wish that I had.

Yet Another Fuzz Ball Update

In a telephone conversation yesterday, my father gave me a little more information about the galls.

Dad: I know exactly what you're talking about, but I didn't know they were called galls. You usually find those on white oak trees. I've never seen them on other oaks, just white oaks. And those things -- they . . . they have kind of a sour taste.

Me: You ate one of them?

Dad: Well, yeah, a long time ago. I thought it might be something good to eat, so, I tried it.

Me: And was it good to eat?

Dad: No. No, it wasn't.

Steering Into the Skid

This morning I noticed I was eating when I wasn't really hungry and that the things I was eating were not my typical fare -- in other words, I was eating lots of junk food.

If I still had Diet Head, I would have chastised myself harshly, thrown away or declared off-limits any and all of the junk food I was craving, as well as a host of other foods for good measure. Then one of two things would have happened: I might have starved myself or exercised excessively for a good while to make up for my transgression until finally I could take it no more and binged, or I might have been unable to resist the cravings right from the start and then binged even more to deal with the guilt and the feelings of failure.

But a wise woman suggested a while back that it is far better to "steer into the skid" when facing the urge to overeat. Believe me -- it's scary to give yourself permission to do something when you're afraid you might never stop. Once I got up the courage to try her advice, though, I quickly understood the wisdom of it.

So today, steering into the skid, I said to myself, "Hm. Your eating pattern is really different today. Is something going on?" And I immediately realized the answer: I am exhausted, having gotten only four hours of sleep last night. (The kids still aren't sleeping well.) I have been coping by eating.

And then I said, "Oh, my, you must be so worn out. Here, have some more of that if that's what you need. You know, you could have yelled at the kids, or hit them, or gone to bed and left them to fend for themselves, or popped pills, or collapsed into a blubbering heap in front of the children, but all you did was eat. Hmm. Not half bad when you look at it that way, huh? Maybe you're not such a terrible person after all."

And so I ate what I really wanted for lunch today: nachos. They were good. I hadn't had them in a long while. And now the urge to eat is, at least temporarily, gone. What great advice -- steering into the skid.

And now, in following some more age-old advice, I am going to "sleep while the baby sleeps."

Fuzz Ball Mystery Solved

During a bout of insomnia, I was able to find the answer to my oak tree fuzz ball question. The puffy thing in question is called a gall. It seems there are many kinds of galls, some of them caused by insects, but this particular kind is apparently harmless and quite common on white oak trees. So, for all you folks for whom my puff balls have caused worry and insomnia, it's okay -- you may sleep now, for the mystery is solved.

Fashion and Fuzz Balls

I got to wear a new outfit today! Aren't you excited for me? You see, I had a playdate today that I had forgotten about. Er, ahem, I mean my kids had a playdate today. One of the few friends I have within driving distance had us over this morning. Her daughter and my kids had a great time, and my friend and I got to talk grown-up -- with occasional spelling and Pig Latin thrown in, of course, since there's that little pitcher/big ear business.

And on to other business. Do you know what this little thing is?
The little white puffy thing with the red dots? There are probably a half dozen of them on our oak trees. Hmm. Are they supposed to be there? If so, why aren't there more of them? I found one on the ground, and it looks as if it has little seeds or something inside it. So much for my chrysalis theory. For a farm girl, I guess I don't know much about nature. I'd email the picture to my dad, but he hasn't even made the transition from manual to electric typewriter yet, so that's out of the question.

Perhaps I'll do a little more Internet research. Yesterday I was googling for cocoon pictures, but I was way off on that one, so maybe I'll try again with the search term . . .um . . . puff ball? Oak puff? Little red and white polka dotted puffy thing on oak tree? Oak fuzzy wuzzies? Sigh. I guess there are some things the Internet still can't do.

A Confused Non-Jewish Spouse Rambles About the New Conversion Initiatives . . . And Then, Predictably, Rambles Even More About Herself

The Reform and Conservative movements of Judaism have recently unveiled initiatives to encourage conversion of non-Jewish spouses in intermarriages. I've read a lot of non-Jewish partners' negative reactions to the new initiatives. I don't personally find any of it offensive. Of course, I am considering conversion, so why would I find it offensive? I think back to when my husband and I first met, though, and wonder how I might have felt back then if I had been pressured to convert the first time I entered a synagogue with him. I was not ready back then to consider it. I wish I had been ready, but I just wasn't.

One of the many things I like about Judaism is that it's not an evangelical religion; I have very little patience for folks who try to force their beliefs down my throat, and the recent surge in Christian evangelism is one of the things that has turned me off to the faith of my childhood. However, there is a difference between pressuring and saying, "If you would like to join us, you are welcome." Finding that balance, however, is surely tricky.

I've never been approached about becoming a Jew. It's respectful distance, I guess, that keeps anyone from asking me. I don't know whether to mention to the rabbi my desire to convert or whether I should wait . . . until I'm absolutely certain, or until I've been so absolutely certain for so long that there's no way I would ever change my mind. I keep meaning to talk to the rabbi, but I'm introverted by nature, and so I put it off again and again.

And, okay, more to the point, if I talk to him and start the process officially, that means I'm going to feel obligated to tell my family about all this. That's the part I'm dreading. I like to think neither of my parents would be too surprised or upset; my mom probably knows it intuitively already, and my dad isn't very religious at all and doesn't care too much one way or another. My mom will probably be a little hurt, but I can't imagine she would be as upset or hurt as she was when she found out her grandchildren would not be Christian. (She wasn't happy about it, but she was very respectful.) I hope that she will see my conversion as the next logical step in our creation of a Jewish home. Perhaps I'm being too optimistic.

I'm really, really dreading telling my grandmother. She's in her eighties, and she's just not as healthy as she used to be. I don't want to do anything to hurt her or harm our relationship, but I also can't stand the thought of keeping something from her or being so cowardly as to wait until she has passed away to proceed with conversion. The older she has gotten, the more religious she has become. All the books I see on her night table now are Christian ones. She will not take this well.

She was without a doubt our harshest critic about our children's upbringing. She said, "I'm sorry to hear you're going to that Jewish church. The best way to raise children is Christian. That's how I was raised." Not exactly a tongue lashing, but by far the harshest thing Grandma has ever said to me, and perhaps the harshest thing I've ever heard her say to anyone. It hurt me deeply. And even though we just agreed to disagree that day and have ever since had a close relationship, I haven't really gotten over her disapproval. I feel sad and guilty that I've let her down, while I also feel angry with her for not being more open- minded. I remind myself that my grandmother lived her whole life (until very recently when she had to move in with relatives) in a very, very small town where she had never seen a person of another faith. My husband was the first Jew she had ever met. I need to give her a break. I had high hopes when we married, because she told my mother to tell me that she approved as long as we raised our kids "one way or the other" -- she just wanted them to be religious. I guess her change of heart caught me off guard.

I don't know. Maybe no one will care at all if I convert. After all, I'm an adult and can make an informed decision. I mean, kids are one thing, but me, well, they probably think I've already turned out to be a dud, so what would they care now? And if they do care, what of it? They're not the sort to disown me. I wish I didn't need my family's approval so much.

And then there are my kids. On occasion my son will ask me if I'm Jewish. He doesn't understand how I'm not, since I do all the Jewish "stuff" with him. I can't tell him that I want to be Jewish, because it will get back to my family. So I just tell him I'm Christian because I grew up in a Christian home.

I feel conflicted. Do I do what I want to do, or do I just maintain the status quo (which really isn't so bad since I'm essentially practicing Judaism anyway) to keep from hurting my extended family? And then, what of my children? I feel paralyzed -- afraid to act. I'm unable to move in one direction of the other. You know, I almost wish the folks at the synagogue would get a move on with this new conversion agenda. Maybe if someone would ask me if I wanted to convert, it would push me in the direction of finding the answer.