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?
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Friday, May 19, 2006
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?
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
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.
So please, click on the link above, scroll down, and take a listen.
Come on. Do it.
"Cows! On!"
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.
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.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.
So please, click on the link above, scroll down, and take a listen.
Come on. Do it.
"Cows! On!"
Monday, May 15, 2006
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.
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.
"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.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
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.
Friday, May 12, 2006
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."
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."
Monday, May 08, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
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 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.
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.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
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.
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."
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.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, May 01, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
A Super Duper, Fan-Packed Weekend. Seriously.
My husband just said he thinks this is the best weekend we have had since we moved here last fall. I agree. The only thing that could have made it better would have been a "date night" for my husband and me. But we can't be greedy.
On Saturday we took the kids to the park for a romp on the playground and a picnic in the grass. There happened to be a walk-a-thon for autism going on at the park, so there were a lot more kids on the playground than usual. My favorite part of the playground experience was that there were autistic kids and "typical" kids, and for the most part, no one could tell who was who. With all the other kids on the playground, my kids learned a little about taking turns, too -- we don't get out much, so at first my son didn't get the concept of getting in line and waiting his turn for the slide, but by the time we left, he was much more confident.
I love this particular park. The play equipment is built into the landscape. There aren't ladders to the slides; the slides are built right into the hillside so you walk right up to them and sit down. That also means they're fully supported underneath so that fat mamas like me can slide down with their little ones without having to worry about weight restrictions. Yea! I had forgotten how much fun it was to slide! I admit to being a little disappointed when my daughter started sliding down by herself.
She is as much a daredevil as my son is cautious. He is the sort who will stand at the edge of the playground until we coax him first onto the sand, then up to the slide . . . where he sits and sits and then has to move over and let other kids slide and then he sits and sits some more until at last he gets the courage to go down, and then onto the swings . . . where he screams if he goes too high. My daughter, on the other hand, giggles like mad the higher she goes, and she loves the slides (although my husband and I nearly have a heart attack every time she flies down, her tiny body wobbling from side to side).
In the afternoon, we took the kids for ice cream. My son had never been to an ice cream parlor before, but I have to hand it to him: the kid knows how to order his food. He said he wanted strawberry ice cream (which he's never tried before, and which he didn't even know they had). My husband asked if he wanted anything mixed in with it, and I was just opening my mouth to list some examples for my son, when he shouted, "Oreos!" So strawberry ice cream it was, with Oreos mixed in.
The kids had their fun yesterday. Today, however, was my day. I did something I haven't done since before the kids were born: I went shopping by myself, for myself. I walked at a leisurely pace, didn't have to worry about strollers or sippy cups or getting finished before nap time. I wasted time looking at things I didn't need. I tried on lots and lots of clothes and bought a few things for the summer.
Have you ever noticed that in department stores, the plus size women's clothing is usually on a separate floor from the other clothing? I think it's funny. I pass by all these pretty skirts and trendy tops until I come to the escalator. "See ya!" I call to all the thin shoppers, "I'm heading up to the Fat Racks!" And there, at the top of the escalator, is a lovely muumuu made just for me. No, seriously, fat clothes have gotten a lot better. I found some stuff I actually liked, stuff that makes me feel young. Uh-oh, does that say more about the current state of plus size clothing, or my old lady taste?
Anyway, I came home refreshed and rejuvenated, and now I'm ready to face the world in something other than spit-up stained t-shirts and worn-out jeans. Um, except tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, I have nowhere to go. Hm.
But the weekend, I'm telling you, was great.
On Saturday we took the kids to the park for a romp on the playground and a picnic in the grass. There happened to be a walk-a-thon for autism going on at the park, so there were a lot more kids on the playground than usual. My favorite part of the playground experience was that there were autistic kids and "typical" kids, and for the most part, no one could tell who was who. With all the other kids on the playground, my kids learned a little about taking turns, too -- we don't get out much, so at first my son didn't get the concept of getting in line and waiting his turn for the slide, but by the time we left, he was much more confident.
I love this particular park. The play equipment is built into the landscape. There aren't ladders to the slides; the slides are built right into the hillside so you walk right up to them and sit down. That also means they're fully supported underneath so that fat mamas like me can slide down with their little ones without having to worry about weight restrictions. Yea! I had forgotten how much fun it was to slide! I admit to being a little disappointed when my daughter started sliding down by herself.
She is as much a daredevil as my son is cautious. He is the sort who will stand at the edge of the playground until we coax him first onto the sand, then up to the slide . . . where he sits and sits and then has to move over and let other kids slide and then he sits and sits some more until at last he gets the courage to go down, and then onto the swings . . . where he screams if he goes too high. My daughter, on the other hand, giggles like mad the higher she goes, and she loves the slides (although my husband and I nearly have a heart attack every time she flies down, her tiny body wobbling from side to side).
In the afternoon, we took the kids for ice cream. My son had never been to an ice cream parlor before, but I have to hand it to him: the kid knows how to order his food. He said he wanted strawberry ice cream (which he's never tried before, and which he didn't even know they had). My husband asked if he wanted anything mixed in with it, and I was just opening my mouth to list some examples for my son, when he shouted, "Oreos!" So strawberry ice cream it was, with Oreos mixed in.
The kids had their fun yesterday. Today, however, was my day. I did something I haven't done since before the kids were born: I went shopping by myself, for myself. I walked at a leisurely pace, didn't have to worry about strollers or sippy cups or getting finished before nap time. I wasted time looking at things I didn't need. I tried on lots and lots of clothes and bought a few things for the summer.
Have you ever noticed that in department stores, the plus size women's clothing is usually on a separate floor from the other clothing? I think it's funny. I pass by all these pretty skirts and trendy tops until I come to the escalator. "See ya!" I call to all the thin shoppers, "I'm heading up to the Fat Racks!" And there, at the top of the escalator, is a lovely muumuu made just for me. No, seriously, fat clothes have gotten a lot better. I found some stuff I actually liked, stuff that makes me feel young. Uh-oh, does that say more about the current state of plus size clothing, or my old lady taste?
Anyway, I came home refreshed and rejuvenated, and now I'm ready to face the world in something other than spit-up stained t-shirts and worn-out jeans. Um, except tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, I have nowhere to go. Hm.
But the weekend, I'm telling you, was great.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Teething
We're teething. The little one is the one getting the new teeth, but we're all feeling the pain. Nobody's getting much sleep, and we're all a little grumpy.
Yesterday morning, after my daughter finished a very long screaming session, she finally decided she would sit in her chair and eat breakfast. We enjoyed about two minutes of calm before my son ran over and took her bowl away from her. She began screaming all over again, very loudly, her fists clenched, her body shaking, even after the bowl was returned, even after I offered to feed her, even after we were all offering her our own breakfasts. As my frustrated husband was putting my son in time-out, he asked, "Do you like to hear her scream?" My son, wide-eyed, whispered, "No. Turn it off."
Last night my daughter, all screamed out, slept very well. However, as I said, we're all teething, so my son, used to waking to his sister's wails at 5:00 A.M., began wailing himself around that time. "It's still nighttime, sweetie. Go back to sleep," I called.
He continued to scream. We tried to ignore him and tried to get back to sleep. I thought the screams were getting louder, and I was just pulling the cover over my head to drown them out when a little face appeared at my bedside.
"Mommy!" my son wailed, "I want you to come in my room and get me out of bed!"
"That doesn't even make sense," I muttered.
"MOMMY! I NEED YOU!" he shrieked in my ear.
Cursing about Skinner's rats and intermittent reinforcement, I reluctantly got up.
I guess I figure the kid means business when he braves the dark hallway alone. When I was a kid, I would yell for my parents, but I would never, and I mean NEVER, venture through the dark house to their room. From my bed, I could see a green, coffin-shaped storage trunk in the living room, and I knew that Frankenstein would come out of it and grab me and bite me if I were to walk past in the dark. Yeah, Frankenstein. I didn't quite have that whole vampire/regenerated tissue thing worked out in my mind back then.
We don't have a coffin-shaped trunk in our house. In fact, there's not much scary in between the kids' rooms and ours. It's a straight shot. Lucky little dogs. You know, I'm calling my mom right now to see if that green trunk is still in her basement. I bet it would fit nicely right outside our bedroom door. That ought to buy us some sleep.
Yesterday morning, after my daughter finished a very long screaming session, she finally decided she would sit in her chair and eat breakfast. We enjoyed about two minutes of calm before my son ran over and took her bowl away from her. She began screaming all over again, very loudly, her fists clenched, her body shaking, even after the bowl was returned, even after I offered to feed her, even after we were all offering her our own breakfasts. As my frustrated husband was putting my son in time-out, he asked, "Do you like to hear her scream?" My son, wide-eyed, whispered, "No. Turn it off."
Last night my daughter, all screamed out, slept very well. However, as I said, we're all teething, so my son, used to waking to his sister's wails at 5:00 A.M., began wailing himself around that time. "It's still nighttime, sweetie. Go back to sleep," I called.
He continued to scream. We tried to ignore him and tried to get back to sleep. I thought the screams were getting louder, and I was just pulling the cover over my head to drown them out when a little face appeared at my bedside.
"Mommy!" my son wailed, "I want you to come in my room and get me out of bed!"
"That doesn't even make sense," I muttered.
"MOMMY! I NEED YOU!" he shrieked in my ear.
Cursing about Skinner's rats and intermittent reinforcement, I reluctantly got up.
I guess I figure the kid means business when he braves the dark hallway alone. When I was a kid, I would yell for my parents, but I would never, and I mean NEVER, venture through the dark house to their room. From my bed, I could see a green, coffin-shaped storage trunk in the living room, and I knew that Frankenstein would come out of it and grab me and bite me if I were to walk past in the dark. Yeah, Frankenstein. I didn't quite have that whole vampire/regenerated tissue thing worked out in my mind back then.
We don't have a coffin-shaped trunk in our house. In fact, there's not much scary in between the kids' rooms and ours. It's a straight shot. Lucky little dogs. You know, I'm calling my mom right now to see if that green trunk is still in her basement. I bet it would fit nicely right outside our bedroom door. That ought to buy us some sleep.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Thoughts on Giving Up Dieting
It's been more than two years since I officially gave up dieting. They've been the most freeing two years of my life (um, okay, except for the part where I'm not allowed to go to the bathroom without at least one diapered escort -- but that has nothing to do with dieting).
Why, you might ask, would I do something so crazy as to give up dieting? Why would I decide to just "let myself go"? Here's why.
Why, you might ask, would I do something so crazy as to give up dieting? Why would I decide to just "let myself go"? Here's why.
- There is a ton of evidence that yo-yo dieting, and perhaps even weight loss in general, is worse for one's health than is just being fat. (See this post on Alas (a Blog) for just a taste of the truth.)
- Diet after diet after diet after diet after diet, and the results were always the same: temporary weight loss followed by out-of-control binge-ing and horrible guilt and sometimes purging and eventually the regaining of the weight I had lost plus a good bit more. It was making me bigger.
- The most unhealthy relationship I have ever had with food was when I was the closest I have ever been to my "ideal" weight. Yes, I was able maintain, at least for a few months, a weight of only five pounds above my "ideal" weight, but only if I a) restricted myself to a 1000 calorie a day diet, and b)exercised vigorously (high impact aerobics, jogging) for sixty to ninety minutes a day six days a week. The feelings of desperation I had when near a piece of cake back then are enough to remind me that what I was doing was NOT normal.
How has giving up dieting, America's favorite pastime, changed my life?
- Now that I have given up dieting and legalized all foods, I no longer feel those out-of-control cravings for cake, donuts, etc. I have actually had to throw away sweets that went bad because I don't feel the need to eat them. That NEVER would have happened before.
- Two years since giving up dieting, I am now able to enjoy salads without having flashbacks of starvation. I eat things like cucumbers and broccoli and black beans (You knew that was coming, didn't you?) because I love them, not because they are required diet fare.
- I now eat when I am hungry, not when the diet book says I can eat, and not when I have some extra calories/points/fat grams/carbs to which I am entitled.
- I am learning to recognize when I am full. I am learning to stop when my body says I've had enough, not when Weight Watchers/Dr. Phil/my father/the carb police say I have used up all my calories/points/fat grams/carbs.
- I am finally able to separate issues of health from issues of weight and to choose fruits and veggies and whole grains because they taste good and are good for my body -- not because they might make me smaller.
- My children are learning things that I didn't learn (or that I knew and forgot years ago?) until my thirties. At dinner the other day, my son said, "I'm not going to finish this strawberry because I'm full. My body is saying I had enough." He can stop mid-strawberry! One day I want to be that in tune with my body.
- I move my body because it feels good to do so and because it's good for my health, not because it burns calories. I now know that I love to walk, practice yoga, play tennis, swim, dance, mow the yard, and garden. I used to do many of those things as a way to punish myself, not for fun.
Sure, I have a long way to go to undo the damage I've done to myself in a ridiculous quest to be something I'm not. I'm getting there. Despite being big and looking the farthest from "normal" I've ever looked, this is without a doubt the most normal I have ever been.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
My Gutters Have Been Cleaned!
And not by my husband.
(Ahem. Okay. Promising to behave myself now.)
We finally found some home repair folks to fix our water problems. A team of one loud guy and one quiet guy arrived yesterday while the kids and I were on the front porch watching the rain.
Loud Guy asked if I had a water hose, so I plucked my daughter from her precarious perch on the porch glider and took her with me the short distance to enter the code on the garage door opener. Loud Guy said, "Hey, let me hold 'er. She's gonna get wet!"
"Thank goodness," I said, handing my child over to the almost complete stranger, "because, well, she's never been wet before. We've always had her dry cleaned."
Okay, okay.
What I really said was, "She'll be all right. It'll just take me a second," and I took her with me. It was only sprinkling, and the kid had been climbing down from the porch and darting out into the yard just to make me chase her, so she had already proven she wouldn't melt, and I was worried she might turn the glider over since she did turn a rocking chair over last week.
Loud Guy followed us, trying to hold his jacket over her head and breathing right in her face as he told her he wouldn't want her to get sick.
Once Loud Guy found the water hose, the kids and I went inside so we wouldn't be in the way (read: so the kids wouldn't try to climb the ladder). Then it was time for an afternoon snack, which my children ate happily at the picture window, sippy cups resting on the window sill, heads tilted back and eyes peering up at Quiet Guy's feet on the ladder, gazes occasionally following a small clump of leaves as it was tossed to the ground.
Loud Guy followed their gaze, looked at the leaves on the front lawn, and yelled up, "Hey, put them leaves in a bag! I got a bag right here!"
Then Loud Guy announced he'd found the source of our basement leak: a crack in the concrete drain in front of the garage. He fixed it with some concrete caulking maybe.
Maybe. We've already had to mop up several gallons of water downstairs, but it did rain quite a bit before Loud Guy and Quiet guy got everything fixed. We'll have to wait until the next rain to find out if our money was well spent.
After they left, I looked out the window at the back yard and saw that Quiet Guy had gone back to dumping leaves into the yard when Loud Guy wasn't looking. So after my husband got home, I raked them up in the rain . . . which only proves how desperate I was to get out of the house for a while.
Yea, Me-Time.
(Ahem. Okay. Promising to behave myself now.)
We finally found some home repair folks to fix our water problems. A team of one loud guy and one quiet guy arrived yesterday while the kids and I were on the front porch watching the rain.
Loud Guy asked if I had a water hose, so I plucked my daughter from her precarious perch on the porch glider and took her with me the short distance to enter the code on the garage door opener. Loud Guy said, "Hey, let me hold 'er. She's gonna get wet!"
"Thank goodness," I said, handing my child over to the almost complete stranger, "because, well, she's never been wet before. We've always had her dry cleaned."
Okay, okay.
What I really said was, "She'll be all right. It'll just take me a second," and I took her with me. It was only sprinkling, and the kid had been climbing down from the porch and darting out into the yard just to make me chase her, so she had already proven she wouldn't melt, and I was worried she might turn the glider over since she did turn a rocking chair over last week.
Loud Guy followed us, trying to hold his jacket over her head and breathing right in her face as he told her he wouldn't want her to get sick.
Once Loud Guy found the water hose, the kids and I went inside so we wouldn't be in the way (read: so the kids wouldn't try to climb the ladder). Then it was time for an afternoon snack, which my children ate happily at the picture window, sippy cups resting on the window sill, heads tilted back and eyes peering up at Quiet Guy's feet on the ladder, gazes occasionally following a small clump of leaves as it was tossed to the ground.
Loud Guy followed their gaze, looked at the leaves on the front lawn, and yelled up, "Hey, put them leaves in a bag! I got a bag right here!"
Then Loud Guy announced he'd found the source of our basement leak: a crack in the concrete drain in front of the garage. He fixed it with some concrete caulking maybe.
Maybe. We've already had to mop up several gallons of water downstairs, but it did rain quite a bit before Loud Guy and Quiet guy got everything fixed. We'll have to wait until the next rain to find out if our money was well spent.
After they left, I looked out the window at the back yard and saw that Quiet Guy had gone back to dumping leaves into the yard when Loud Guy wasn't looking. So after my husband got home, I raked them up in the rain . . . which only proves how desperate I was to get out of the house for a while.
Yea, Me-Time.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Stuttering at Work
Results of a survey by Professor Marshall Rice of the Schulich School of Business at York University, Toronto, indicate that more than half of stutterers believe their stuttering has been an obstacle in their employment. Furthermore,
Shortened interviews? Yeah, that's definitely happened to me. I'm pretty close to being among the fourteen percent, as well. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, though, so perhaps the rejection letter I received from an employer accusing me of lacking "honesty and forthrightness" for not having specifically told her that I stuttered meant that my failure to state the obvious, not the stuttering itself, cost me the job.
I truly believe that when I go into an interview, or most any other situation, I have an obligation to make my listeners feel as comfortable as possible and to educate them about my speech when necessary and appropriate. I also know that it is incredibly difficult to know just how to carry out those obligations during a job interview. I've tried numerous techniques, and they all failed at one time or another.
Before I was to graduate with my undergrad degree, I approached a professor who frequently sat on interview panels and asked his opinion about how I should deal with my stuttering, since it would no doubt show itself during an interview. Should I raise the issue to put the interviewers at ease, or should I just let them figure it out? He thought about it for a while and got back to me the next day. His suggestion: mention it if I was comfortable doing so.
So I did. During the first interview, I was frank and told the employer that, as he had most certainly noticed, I did stutter, and that, as it should be clear from my transcript, my student teaching evaluations and my letters of reference, I had never allowed my speech to interfere with my work. The employer looked me square in the eye and said, "Lady, you need to lower your paranoia level."
That went well, now, didn't it?
In my second interview, once I mentioned my stutter, the employer refused to look me in the eye at all.
Oh, brother.
In my third interview, I was frank about my speech, and then promptly and rudely was told that I was not allowed to talk about it because of the ADA. The interview ended shortly thereafter.
What the . . . ?
So for my fourth interview, in an effort to avoid "breaking the law," scaring people, or being "paranoid," I changed my game plan. That's when I just stuttered my way through without mentioning it . . . and received the "honesty and forthrightness" letter.
ARGH!
The truth of the matter, though, is that I eventually got the kind of job I really wanted: a job teaching at a residential school for the deaf. I can't remember now what was said about my stuttering in that interview, but I know for a fact that the employer was much more interested in how I signed than in how I spoke. (Would you believe it was the only interview in which signing was even a component? But that's another post for another day.)
As for me, once I was employed (in my first teaching job and my subsequent one), I don't think I was overlooked or underestimated because of my stuttering. I'm one of the lucky ones, though. I have a feeling there are many less forgiving professions than the field of special education.
. . . 42 percent felt a job interview was "cut short." Fourteen percent said an employer told them directly that they would not be hired for a position because of their stuttering.
Shortened interviews? Yeah, that's definitely happened to me. I'm pretty close to being among the fourteen percent, as well. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, though, so perhaps the rejection letter I received from an employer accusing me of lacking "honesty and forthrightness" for not having specifically told her that I stuttered meant that my failure to state the obvious, not the stuttering itself, cost me the job.
I truly believe that when I go into an interview, or most any other situation, I have an obligation to make my listeners feel as comfortable as possible and to educate them about my speech when necessary and appropriate. I also know that it is incredibly difficult to know just how to carry out those obligations during a job interview. I've tried numerous techniques, and they all failed at one time or another.
Before I was to graduate with my undergrad degree, I approached a professor who frequently sat on interview panels and asked his opinion about how I should deal with my stuttering, since it would no doubt show itself during an interview. Should I raise the issue to put the interviewers at ease, or should I just let them figure it out? He thought about it for a while and got back to me the next day. His suggestion: mention it if I was comfortable doing so.
So I did. During the first interview, I was frank and told the employer that, as he had most certainly noticed, I did stutter, and that, as it should be clear from my transcript, my student teaching evaluations and my letters of reference, I had never allowed my speech to interfere with my work. The employer looked me square in the eye and said, "Lady, you need to lower your paranoia level."
That went well, now, didn't it?
In my second interview, once I mentioned my stutter, the employer refused to look me in the eye at all.
Oh, brother.
In my third interview, I was frank about my speech, and then promptly and rudely was told that I was not allowed to talk about it because of the ADA. The interview ended shortly thereafter.
What the . . . ?
So for my fourth interview, in an effort to avoid "breaking the law," scaring people, or being "paranoid," I changed my game plan. That's when I just stuttered my way through without mentioning it . . . and received the "honesty and forthrightness" letter.
ARGH!
The truth of the matter, though, is that I eventually got the kind of job I really wanted: a job teaching at a residential school for the deaf. I can't remember now what was said about my stuttering in that interview, but I know for a fact that the employer was much more interested in how I signed than in how I spoke. (Would you believe it was the only interview in which signing was even a component? But that's another post for another day.)
As for me, once I was employed (in my first teaching job and my subsequent one), I don't think I was overlooked or underestimated because of my stuttering. I'm one of the lucky ones, though. I have a feeling there are many less forgiving professions than the field of special education.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Remembering the Six Million
Today is Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day.
To read or listen to the stories of a few survivors, click here.
"The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference." -- Eli Wiesel
To read or listen to the stories of a few survivors, click here.
"The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference." -- Eli Wiesel
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Normal Disfluency
Shortly after the release of the why questions, my son's brain also declared, "Prepare to enter stage of normal disfluency! All systems go!" That's right. He's entered the land of normal developmental stuttering. My son is definitely repeating sounds, words, and entire phrases. It's all "easy" stuttering, with none of the tension, frustration, or blocks, that a real, live adult stutterer would exhibit.
Actually, I noticed it a couple weeks ago, but no one else did, and rather than chalk it up to my super sensitive stuttering radar, I decided maybe I was imagining things. But yesterday my husband and parents both noticed it.
I knew this developmental stage was coming. I spent a lot of time wondering how I would deal with it. And of course, I wonder at what point we will know if the disfluency is temporary or if it will hang around and intensify the way mine did. The odds in favor of fluency for my son aren't the greatest. Stuttering runs in my family. Four of my father's six brothers stutter(ed), as do at least three of my first cousins.
To make the statistics a little more interesting, I am a woman and the only female in my family to stutter. Stuttering is a sex-linked disorder; the vast majority of stutterers are males. A college acquaintance who was a speech pathology student and who stuttered himself, gave me some statistics way back when about the likelihood of a stutterer having children who stutter. I don't remember the exact numbers, but I do know that the sons of female stutterers were the group most likely to stutter themselves.
I have moments when I worry about how well I would do at parenting a child who stutters. I hope my own experience would be an asset, not a liability. I know what it's like. I know what my kids will need to deal with obstacles -- you know, those little obstacles like introducing themselves.
Just a few months ago, for example, when we went to the synagogue in our new town for the first time, I was having some difficulty introducing myself to all the people we were meeting. Not everyone recognized as stuttering all of my blocking and my technique of starting my voice with a neutral "uh" before I set the first sound of my name on it (as in "UhhhhhhhhhhhMmmy name"), so they often made jokes about how I'd forgotten my own name, ha ha. I have developed a pretty thick skin about it and usually just laugh along, but sometimes frustration creeps in.
For me, the most awkward moment to block on my name is when someone is shaking my hand. I try to spit out my name, it takes a very long time, and the whole time the confused person holds onto me. It becomes this intimate hand-holding session when all either of us wanted was a quick shake -- yet the other person is almost always too polite to let go until I've finally finished. At the end of the evening at the synagogue, I was in the midst of just such a hand-holding session with a very nice gentleman when I became frustrated and embarrassed, and said, "Agh! I'm sorry. I stutter, and it's sometimes really hard for me to say my name." The man didn't flinch. He gestured to the elderly man beside him and said, "Oh, so does my father." His father, a stooped and gentle man in his late eighties or early nineties, whose mind was very sharp, took my hand gingerly, smiled into my eyes, and said, "I know. I know. All my life. All my life."
That simple act of kindness and acceptance touched me deeply (I made it to the car before I cried) and comforted me in a way no non-stutterer's kind words ever could. If my son never "outgrows" this period of disfluency, I hope I will be able to look him in the eye and repeat with kindness those same words: "I know. I know. All my life. All my life."
Actually, I noticed it a couple weeks ago, but no one else did, and rather than chalk it up to my super sensitive stuttering radar, I decided maybe I was imagining things. But yesterday my husband and parents both noticed it.
I knew this developmental stage was coming. I spent a lot of time wondering how I would deal with it. And of course, I wonder at what point we will know if the disfluency is temporary or if it will hang around and intensify the way mine did. The odds in favor of fluency for my son aren't the greatest. Stuttering runs in my family. Four of my father's six brothers stutter(ed), as do at least three of my first cousins.
To make the statistics a little more interesting, I am a woman and the only female in my family to stutter. Stuttering is a sex-linked disorder; the vast majority of stutterers are males. A college acquaintance who was a speech pathology student and who stuttered himself, gave me some statistics way back when about the likelihood of a stutterer having children who stutter. I don't remember the exact numbers, but I do know that the sons of female stutterers were the group most likely to stutter themselves.
I have moments when I worry about how well I would do at parenting a child who stutters. I hope my own experience would be an asset, not a liability. I know what it's like. I know what my kids will need to deal with obstacles -- you know, those little obstacles like introducing themselves.
Just a few months ago, for example, when we went to the synagogue in our new town for the first time, I was having some difficulty introducing myself to all the people we were meeting. Not everyone recognized as stuttering all of my blocking and my technique of starting my voice with a neutral "uh" before I set the first sound of my name on it (as in "UhhhhhhhhhhhMmmy name"), so they often made jokes about how I'd forgotten my own name, ha ha. I have developed a pretty thick skin about it and usually just laugh along, but sometimes frustration creeps in.
For me, the most awkward moment to block on my name is when someone is shaking my hand. I try to spit out my name, it takes a very long time, and the whole time the confused person holds onto me. It becomes this intimate hand-holding session when all either of us wanted was a quick shake -- yet the other person is almost always too polite to let go until I've finally finished. At the end of the evening at the synagogue, I was in the midst of just such a hand-holding session with a very nice gentleman when I became frustrated and embarrassed, and said, "Agh! I'm sorry. I stutter, and it's sometimes really hard for me to say my name." The man didn't flinch. He gestured to the elderly man beside him and said, "Oh, so does my father." His father, a stooped and gentle man in his late eighties or early nineties, whose mind was very sharp, took my hand gingerly, smiled into my eyes, and said, "I know. I know. All my life. All my life."
That simple act of kindness and acceptance touched me deeply (I made it to the car before I cried) and comforted me in a way no non-stutterer's kind words ever could. If my son never "outgrows" this period of disfluency, I hope I will be able to look him in the eye and repeat with kindness those same words: "I know. I know. All my life. All my life."
Profit
For the second weekend in a row, I traveled to my parents' house. This time, however, the trip was not for pleasure. I had an appointment to answer a ton of health questions and to give a blood sample (for "$1,000 worth of blood tests," according to the nurse) in connection with a health project to see what effect the community's contaminated drinking water has had on our health. For my trouble, I got $400, my main motivation for participating.
When I was growing up, we all knew that the cancer rate for our community was higher than normal. We always blamed the nearby power plants. It wasn't until recently, however, that a chemical company upriver admitted to years of dumping perfluorooctanoic acid into our water supply. Hence the mass testing.
After I had given my answers and my blood, I sat waiting for the receptionist to print my check. I couldn't help but notice a family with three children. The oldest child, who couldn't have been older than ten or eleven, was particularly striking. She had a very short and trendy haircut, dark little waves lying close to her head. She stood out, perhaps because the rest of the family, and most of the rest of the community for that matter, didn't look nearly so trendy. I wondered if she had asked for that haircut.
The girl's father was shuffling through a pile of documents trying to prove that he and his family had been residents of the area during at least one full year in which contamination occurred. The only problem was with his eldest daughter's documents; somehow the name of the elementary school had been left off her report card. The father, although polite, was becoming a little flustered. All the while, though, the girl looked on with the calmest eyes I have ever seen -- wide, brown, and deeply calm. I thought again how stunning she was. The receptionist was trying hard to find them a loophole so that testing could be done. Finally, she suggested a bank statement from the girl's savings account -- that, she said, would provide an address and tell the date the account was opened. The family stepped outside the cramped trailer to make a cell phone call.
As the receptionist printed my check, she said to her coworker, "We have to find a way to get that little girl tested."
"Why?" the other woman asked.
"You didn't know?" the receptionist continued. "She has cancer."
Suddenly I understood the "trendy" hair style and those eyes. I felt a lump in my throat. The receptionist handed me my check. I was disgusted by my profit.
When I was growing up, we all knew that the cancer rate for our community was higher than normal. We always blamed the nearby power plants. It wasn't until recently, however, that a chemical company upriver admitted to years of dumping perfluorooctanoic acid into our water supply. Hence the mass testing.
After I had given my answers and my blood, I sat waiting for the receptionist to print my check. I couldn't help but notice a family with three children. The oldest child, who couldn't have been older than ten or eleven, was particularly striking. She had a very short and trendy haircut, dark little waves lying close to her head. She stood out, perhaps because the rest of the family, and most of the rest of the community for that matter, didn't look nearly so trendy. I wondered if she had asked for that haircut.
The girl's father was shuffling through a pile of documents trying to prove that he and his family had been residents of the area during at least one full year in which contamination occurred. The only problem was with his eldest daughter's documents; somehow the name of the elementary school had been left off her report card. The father, although polite, was becoming a little flustered. All the while, though, the girl looked on with the calmest eyes I have ever seen -- wide, brown, and deeply calm. I thought again how stunning she was. The receptionist was trying hard to find them a loophole so that testing could be done. Finally, she suggested a bank statement from the girl's savings account -- that, she said, would provide an address and tell the date the account was opened. The family stepped outside the cramped trailer to make a cell phone call.
As the receptionist printed my check, she said to her coworker, "We have to find a way to get that little girl tested."
"Why?" the other woman asked.
"You didn't know?" the receptionist continued. "She has cancer."
Suddenly I understood the "trendy" hair style and those eyes. I felt a lump in my throat. The receptionist handed me my check. I was disgusted by my profit.
Friday, April 21, 2006
What the Intermarried Talk About
(The following is a conversation my husband and I had early in our marriage.)
She: Have you ever wondered why you never hear of people today having the last names of certain people from history? For example --
He: You mean like Christ?
She: (Laughs) What?
He: Seriously. I've never seen the name Christ in a phone book.
She: You do know that Christ wasn't Jesus's last name, right?
He: What? Wasn't it? Then why are people always calling him Jesus Christ.
She: Christ is a title, not a name. It means anointed or savior or something. It's not a last name.
He: Are you sure?
She: Yeah. I mean, it wasn't like "Mary and Joseph Christ."
He: It wasn't?
She: No!
He: Oh, that's right! Mary's last name was Magdalene.
She: No, no, no. That was a different Mary.
He: Then what was his last name?
She: He didn't have one.
He: What do you mean he didn't have one?
She: Well, I don't think people had last names back then.
He: Are you sure?
She: Pretty sure.
He: Hmm.
She: I mean, it's like Moses. Moses didn't have a last name.
He: (frowns skeptically)
(A few moments of silence)
He: Well, what about Judas Priest?
She: Have you ever wondered why you never hear of people today having the last names of certain people from history? For example --
He: You mean like Christ?
She: (Laughs) What?
He: Seriously. I've never seen the name Christ in a phone book.
She: You do know that Christ wasn't Jesus's last name, right?
He: What? Wasn't it? Then why are people always calling him Jesus Christ.
She: Christ is a title, not a name. It means anointed or savior or something. It's not a last name.
He: Are you sure?
She: Yeah. I mean, it wasn't like "Mary and Joseph Christ."
He: It wasn't?
She: No!
He: Oh, that's right! Mary's last name was Magdalene.
She: No, no, no. That was a different Mary.
He: Then what was his last name?
She: He didn't have one.
He: What do you mean he didn't have one?
She: Well, I don't think people had last names back then.
He: Are you sure?
She: Pretty sure.
He: Hmm.
She: I mean, it's like Moses. Moses didn't have a last name.
He: (frowns skeptically)
(A few moments of silence)
He: Well, what about Judas Priest?
Thursday, April 20, 2006
A-Z Meme
I wanted an easy post for today, so I took this meme from Jack.
A-Z Meme
Accent: A bit of an Appalachian accent when speaking. A bit of a "hearing accent" when using American Sign Language
Booze: Not much of a drinker. Do wine coolers count?
Chore I Hate: Putting away the folded laundry
Dogs/Cats: 2 cats, but I love dogs, too
Essential Electronics: Computer with Internet access
Favorite Perfume/Cologne: Anything other than baby spit-up
Gold & Silver: Whatever. Silver, I guess.
Hometown: Teeny tiny town in the hills of Appalachia
Insomnia: Rarely
Job Title: MOMMY!
Kids: A son and a daughter, ages almost 3 and 17 months respectively
Living Arrangements: In a house, with hubby and kids
Most Admired Trait: Admired by whom? If you ask my kids, it's my ability to make sandwiches and cut up fruit. If you ask my husband, it's . . . well, something else entirely.
Number of Sexual Partners: Sorry, but I am NOT giving out his number.
Overnight Hospital Stays: Four in all, the last of which, for a c-section from hell with a side of pre-eclampsia, lasted for thirteen days.
Phobia: Blood and spiders . . . but not so much bloody spiders.
Quote: Books are for reading, not for eating. (Sigh. I must say this twenty times a day.)
Religion: Raised Methodist, baptised because I was afraid of the demons from the sewer in Ghost, married to a Jew, raising Jewish children, considering conversion.
Siblings: One
Time I Usually Wake Up: When the little people make me.
Unusual Talent: I do a damn good chicken imitation.
Vegetable I Refuse To Eat: Refuse is a strong word, but I tend to avoid celery.
Worst Habit: Being indecisive. Well, no, no, wait. Maybe it's . . . oh, I'll have to think about it.
X-Rays: Yeah, I've had some of those.
Yummy Foods I Make: black bean soup, pasta with pomodora sauce, chocolate almond cake
Zodiac Sign: Capricorn
A-Z Meme
Accent: A bit of an Appalachian accent when speaking. A bit of a "hearing accent" when using American Sign Language
Booze: Not much of a drinker. Do wine coolers count?
Chore I Hate: Putting away the folded laundry
Dogs/Cats: 2 cats, but I love dogs, too
Essential Electronics: Computer with Internet access
Favorite Perfume/Cologne: Anything other than baby spit-up
Gold & Silver: Whatever. Silver, I guess.
Hometown: Teeny tiny town in the hills of Appalachia
Insomnia: Rarely
Job Title: MOMMY!
Kids: A son and a daughter, ages almost 3 and 17 months respectively
Living Arrangements: In a house, with hubby and kids
Most Admired Trait: Admired by whom? If you ask my kids, it's my ability to make sandwiches and cut up fruit. If you ask my husband, it's . . . well, something else entirely.
Number of Sexual Partners: Sorry, but I am NOT giving out his number.
Overnight Hospital Stays: Four in all, the last of which, for a c-section from hell with a side of pre-eclampsia, lasted for thirteen days.
Phobia: Blood and spiders . . . but not so much bloody spiders.
Quote: Books are for reading, not for eating. (Sigh. I must say this twenty times a day.)
Religion: Raised Methodist, baptised because I was afraid of the demons from the sewer in Ghost, married to a Jew, raising Jewish children, considering conversion.
Siblings: One
Time I Usually Wake Up: When the little people make me.
Unusual Talent: I do a damn good chicken imitation.
Vegetable I Refuse To Eat: Refuse is a strong word, but I tend to avoid celery.
Worst Habit: Being indecisive. Well, no, no, wait. Maybe it's . . . oh, I'll have to think about it.
X-Rays: Yeah, I've had some of those.
Yummy Foods I Make: black bean soup, pasta with pomodora sauce, chocolate almond cake
Zodiac Sign: Capricorn
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
HTM-Hell
Dude. I don't know what I did to my sidebar. It's messed up. The headings are somehow included in the previous links. I've looked at the template. I've forced my husband to look at the template. I even looked at the template while standing on my Gorilla Ladder. All to no avail. Any ideas?
Gotta Get My Mind Outta the Gutter
Our midnight mopping sessions have continued. The day before yesterday I mopped up two giant Fresh Step kitty litter buckets full of basement water, and then my husband mopped up another half bucket when he got home. The good news is that we think we have figured out the source of the problem: our gutters.
The gutter above the spot where the basement leaks seems to be leaking. There's a slow, two-day drip after every little rain, and during a major rainstorm, the water just pours out over the edges of the gutter. We cleaned the leaves out late last fall, but apparently something still isn't right. We decided the downspout must be clogged.
So I added "call gutter people" to Monday's to-do list. I found the number for a handyman service that does gutters. When I called, I spoke with a very sincere-sounding man who, I immediately detected, stuttered. I have a stuttering radar. I can detect a person's stutter before he or she so much as repeats one syllable. It sounds mysterious, but after reading the book Blink, I am convinced that I am just "thin-slicing" and recognizing in other speakers the same teeny tiny stuttering (or trying-not-to-stutter) behaviors that I myself exhibit.
I don't remember the journal or the article or anything else, so feel free to accuse me of making this crap up, but when I was in college, I read about research in which brain activity was scanned for stutters and non-stutterers. During speech, the brain activity of the two groups was drastically different. The fascinating part, however, was that even during non-speech activities such as wiggling the fingers, the brain activity of the two groups was very different. So if stutterers do lots of stuff just a tad differently from other folks, it does seem logical that I might subconsciously find some other stutterer's actions familiar. Right? Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm off on a tangent. I know.
Anyway, the sincere stuttering guy, who didn't actually stutter until very late in the conversation, and then only enough for most people to think he was "just nervous" (a pet peeve of mine and another blog entry entirely), quoted me a fair price, promised a free estimate, said he could get gutter covers for me for 10-15% less than the price at Lowe's, and told me one of his workers would be here Tuesday morning. Um, Tuesday was yesterday. I'm still waiting. Wanting to give them the benefit of the doubt, I called back late Tuesday afternoon and asked if there had been a mix-up, and sincere stuttering guy's wife assured me that the guy who was supposed to give me the estimate would call with an explanation "as soon as he comes in the door." That was yesterday afternoon. It's Wednesday now. I guess he's still not back.
So, highly irritated that I couldn't give sincere stuttering guy my business, I did the next best thing and called a "handylady" who was advertised in the phone book. She charged fifteen dollars more per hour and said I would have to buy the gutter covers myself. I told her I would think about it.
Grumbling and frustrated, I put the kids to bed this afternoon, got out the Gorilla Ladder, which I have to admit makes me feel all-powerful, the water hose, a straightened wire hanger, and a pair of rubber gloves, and went to work. The downspout had a few leaves in it, but not many, and when I put the water hose in, I saw the water come out the bottom. That was a good sign. I checked the gutter right over the basement leak, the place where the drip occurs, and it also seemed mostly clean except for a think layer of silt. Then I squirted some water in . . . and it flowed the wrong way . . . as in away from the downspout. Uh-oh. What causes that? I do not know. Even with the awesome power bestowed upon me by the Gorilla Ladder, I cannot answer that question.
Am I going to have to call in the Big Guns, the gutter salespeople? I'm sure they'll tell me the whole thing needs to be replaced, even if it's a minor problem. Grumble, grumble, grumble. I'm stumped.
Oh, and I was wrong. Those aren't calla lilies after all. That's gotta be a baaaaaad omen.
The gutter above the spot where the basement leaks seems to be leaking. There's a slow, two-day drip after every little rain, and during a major rainstorm, the water just pours out over the edges of the gutter. We cleaned the leaves out late last fall, but apparently something still isn't right. We decided the downspout must be clogged.
So I added "call gutter people" to Monday's to-do list. I found the number for a handyman service that does gutters. When I called, I spoke with a very sincere-sounding man who, I immediately detected, stuttered. I have a stuttering radar. I can detect a person's stutter before he or she so much as repeats one syllable. It sounds mysterious, but after reading the book Blink, I am convinced that I am just "thin-slicing" and recognizing in other speakers the same teeny tiny stuttering (or trying-not-to-stutter) behaviors that I myself exhibit.
I don't remember the journal or the article or anything else, so feel free to accuse me of making this crap up, but when I was in college, I read about research in which brain activity was scanned for stutters and non-stutterers. During speech, the brain activity of the two groups was drastically different. The fascinating part, however, was that even during non-speech activities such as wiggling the fingers, the brain activity of the two groups was very different. So if stutterers do lots of stuff just a tad differently from other folks, it does seem logical that I might subconsciously find some other stutterer's actions familiar. Right? Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm off on a tangent. I know.
Anyway, the sincere stuttering guy, who didn't actually stutter until very late in the conversation, and then only enough for most people to think he was "just nervous" (a pet peeve of mine and another blog entry entirely), quoted me a fair price, promised a free estimate, said he could get gutter covers for me for 10-15% less than the price at Lowe's, and told me one of his workers would be here Tuesday morning. Um, Tuesday was yesterday. I'm still waiting. Wanting to give them the benefit of the doubt, I called back late Tuesday afternoon and asked if there had been a mix-up, and sincere stuttering guy's wife assured me that the guy who was supposed to give me the estimate would call with an explanation "as soon as he comes in the door." That was yesterday afternoon. It's Wednesday now. I guess he's still not back.
So, highly irritated that I couldn't give sincere stuttering guy my business, I did the next best thing and called a "handylady" who was advertised in the phone book. She charged fifteen dollars more per hour and said I would have to buy the gutter covers myself. I told her I would think about it.
Grumbling and frustrated, I put the kids to bed this afternoon, got out the Gorilla Ladder, which I have to admit makes me feel all-powerful, the water hose, a straightened wire hanger, and a pair of rubber gloves, and went to work. The downspout had a few leaves in it, but not many, and when I put the water hose in, I saw the water come out the bottom. That was a good sign. I checked the gutter right over the basement leak, the place where the drip occurs, and it also seemed mostly clean except for a think layer of silt. Then I squirted some water in . . . and it flowed the wrong way . . . as in away from the downspout. Uh-oh. What causes that? I do not know. Even with the awesome power bestowed upon me by the Gorilla Ladder, I cannot answer that question.
Am I going to have to call in the Big Guns, the gutter salespeople? I'm sure they'll tell me the whole thing needs to be replaced, even if it's a minor problem. Grumble, grumble, grumble. I'm stumped.
Oh, and I was wrong. Those aren't calla lilies after all. That's gotta be a baaaaaad omen.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Why Oh Why
I noticed about a month ago that my son was asking "why" questions but was not yet using the word why. He created some rather convoluted syntax in order to ask his questions. Instead of asking, "Why did you say that to her?" he would ask, "What did she do that you said that?" I'm fascinated by language development and felt downright giddy every time he came up with something like that.
But then, of course, I started to wonder if he was on track or whether he should already know how to use why. I kept meaning to look up the age at which children begin to use why, but before I got around to it, I heard him use it for the first time. He'd been using it every now and again since.
And then last night during his sleep, his brain must have sounded the trumpet and called out to his mouth, "Release the WHY questions!" Today the whys have been endless. For the first couple hours, I found this new stage of development fascinating.
And then it just became annoying.
But then, of course, I started to wonder if he was on track or whether he should already know how to use why. I kept meaning to look up the age at which children begin to use why, but before I got around to it, I heard him use it for the first time. He'd been using it every now and again since.
And then last night during his sleep, his brain must have sounded the trumpet and called out to his mouth, "Release the WHY questions!" Today the whys have been endless. For the first couple hours, I found this new stage of development fascinating.
And then it just became annoying.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Spring Surprises
Do you ever get the feeling the universe is telling you you are just where you are supposed to be? This spring is giving me that feeling.
Shortly after we moved last fall, I remembered the lilacs I left in our old yard. My father had dug them up from my parents' yard, and I had transplanted them. They were tiny, but each year they got bigger and even started blooming two years ago. I wished I had brought them. I realized I would miss my pink hyacinths, my tulips, and all my lilies, too.
Then early this spring, when the tree at the corner of our new house began to bud, I realized it was a lilac, more than three times the size of the ones I had left behind. I then spotted hyacinths and tulips coming up in the back yard. And last week I figured out that the familiar-looking flowers coming up at the side of the house were calla lilies, some of my favorites and the last bulbs I had planted at our old house.
I told my mom last week that the only thing I needed to add would be some peonies. I hadn't gotten around to planting them at our old house, but they were next on my list. During our visit to my parents' house this weekend, though, I took one look at my parents' peonies and realized that they looked exactly like the two little bushes coming up on our backyard.
A coincidence? Probably. But I can't help feeling this house was meant for us.
Now if I can just figure out where the previous owners planted that dishwasher . . .
Shortly after we moved last fall, I remembered the lilacs I left in our old yard. My father had dug them up from my parents' yard, and I had transplanted them. They were tiny, but each year they got bigger and even started blooming two years ago. I wished I had brought them. I realized I would miss my pink hyacinths, my tulips, and all my lilies, too.
Then early this spring, when the tree at the corner of our new house began to bud, I realized it was a lilac, more than three times the size of the ones I had left behind. I then spotted hyacinths and tulips coming up in the back yard. And last week I figured out that the familiar-looking flowers coming up at the side of the house were calla lilies, some of my favorites and the last bulbs I had planted at our old house.
I told my mom last week that the only thing I needed to add would be some peonies. I hadn't gotten around to planting them at our old house, but they were next on my list. During our visit to my parents' house this weekend, though, I took one look at my parents' peonies and realized that they looked exactly like the two little bushes coming up on our backyard.
A coincidence? Probably. But I can't help feeling this house was meant for us.
Now if I can just figure out where the previous owners planted that dishwasher . . .
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Dai, Dayenu . . . I'll, I'll Weigh You
Our Seder went well. My husband did a great job leading it, and the kids loved singing the songs and looking for the afikomen. Grandma didn't seem offended at all by the real wine (it's grape juice all the way at her church), perhaps partly because my uncle, a minister himself and my grandma's favorite son-in-law, chose to drink all four glasses of wine. He has always been wonderful to us, setting an excellent example for the rest of my family when it comes to dealing with our intermarriage. He even brought his own yarmulke. I was touched, as I know my husband was. My mother-in-law also had nothing but wonderful things to say about him after the Seder.
The only negative part of the evening was that my father did not show up. His not coming would not have surprised or bothered me nearly as much if he had not promised my son repeatedly that he would attend. When my mother arrived alone, my son began to wail. I asked my mother why my father hadn't come, and she said he didn't say. The poor kid wailed louder. After he had calmed down a bit, I excused myself, went to another room, and called my dad. Long story short: my father, in his typical passive-aggressive manner, was punishing my mother because of some argument they had had, and my little boy was the one who got hurt. My father has broken his promises to me a hundred times, but somehow I hoped my children would never know that part of his personality. At the very least, I hoped they wouldn't have to know it until they were out of diapers.
Saturday morning we were to go to my parents' house. My husband was not thrilled about going there after my father's childish behavior, but we piled into the car and went anyway.
And here's the really fun part. When we walked into my parents' house, my dad immediately picked up my son and said, "You're really growing! Let's go see how much you weigh!" This has become a habit of his -- weigh the kids before we're even all in the door. I realize weighing toddlers isn't unheard of, but this is the man who taught me that my weight is inversely proportional to my value, and I'm not letting him teach my children that lesson. I've had enough. Now, I don't think quickly on my feet, and I was trying to plan what I was going to say to keep the great weigh-in from happening while avoiding World War III. Well, let's just say that while I was searching for the right words, my husband found some of his own that got the point across quite nicely, and neither of my children was weighed.
Have I mentioned how much I love my husband?
The only negative part of the evening was that my father did not show up. His not coming would not have surprised or bothered me nearly as much if he had not promised my son repeatedly that he would attend. When my mother arrived alone, my son began to wail. I asked my mother why my father hadn't come, and she said he didn't say. The poor kid wailed louder. After he had calmed down a bit, I excused myself, went to another room, and called my dad. Long story short: my father, in his typical passive-aggressive manner, was punishing my mother because of some argument they had had, and my little boy was the one who got hurt. My father has broken his promises to me a hundred times, but somehow I hoped my children would never know that part of his personality. At the very least, I hoped they wouldn't have to know it until they were out of diapers.
Saturday morning we were to go to my parents' house. My husband was not thrilled about going there after my father's childish behavior, but we piled into the car and went anyway.
And here's the really fun part. When we walked into my parents' house, my dad immediately picked up my son and said, "You're really growing! Let's go see how much you weigh!" This has become a habit of his -- weigh the kids before we're even all in the door. I realize weighing toddlers isn't unheard of, but this is the man who taught me that my weight is inversely proportional to my value, and I'm not letting him teach my children that lesson. I've had enough. Now, I don't think quickly on my feet, and I was trying to plan what I was going to say to keep the great weigh-in from happening while avoiding World War III. Well, let's just say that while I was searching for the right words, my husband found some of his own that got the point across quite nicely, and neither of my children was weighed.
Have I mentioned how much I love my husband?
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
From the Junk Drawer
Some miscellaneous ramblings . . .
- I'm totally on a black bean kick lately. Last night I made black bean and carrot quesadillas, and today I had a black bean burger for breakfast and another for lunch. Yummy.
- Being a grown-up almost made me forget that dandelions can stain your hands and that the best place to find bugs is under a big rock.
- We're hosting a big (well, big for our small house, anyway) Passover Seder in a few days and have invited some of my family members, including my grandmother who knows very little about Judaism and who has probably never been in the same room with an open bottle of wine in her life. My husband said, "Is your grandma going to think less of me when I drink four glasses of wine?" I replied, "Well, you'll get lots of extra points for leading us in all the religious readings and prayers. Yeah, sure, she'll think you're a lush, but a religious lush, so it'll all even out."
- I'm allergic to something. I pulled weeds yesterday and now have bumpy, itchy hands. I've never gotten poison ivy in my life, and goodness knows I've been exposed to lots of it before, so I doubt that's what it is. Hmm. If I find out it's a reaction to black beans, I'm going to be seriously upset.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Vocational Testing for the Pre-Schooler
My son will be three next month. Already there are some clues about his future vocation. Judging from his words, I see several career paths emerging as potential fits for my son. For example:
- Spin Doctor/Politician -- When his little sister tries to join him for a round of "jumping" (bouncing on his knees) on his toddler bed, my son rudely tells her to go away. I remind him that we are nice to each other in this house and that we share. He pauses to think. Finally, gesturing earnestly, he says to his sister, "I don't want you to fell and hurt your head. I sorry, but I just don't think it's an idea." He convinces her.
- Horticulturist -- Taking his toy lawn mower out into the yard, he says, "Bye, Mommy. I'm going to make some dandelions."
- Therapist -- "Daddy, are you sad because your daddy died? Do you miss him? Here, I give you a hug."
- Jewish Farmer -- "Old McDonald had a farm, E-I-E-mayim!"
- Attorney -- My son sees me give his sister, who has just received a vaccination, some Tylenol, and he asks me for some. I explain that Tylenol is just for people who are sick or who are hurting from, say, a shot. He asks, "If I don't get a shot and I take Tylenol, will it make me sick?" I answer that it might. "Then can I take Tylenol because I'm sick?"
- Doctor -- In the middle of Shabbat dinner, my son blurts out, "Grandma, do you have a 'bagina'?"
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Hindsight Is 20/20, or, Home Sweet Money Pit
This evening after we put the kids to bed, my husband and I sneaked downstairs together for a repeat of last night's little rendezvous -- a romantic adventure for two mopping the gallons of murky water that had seeped into one room of our basement.
Since we moved in last September, I have, like a brilliant detective, solved one after another the mysteries of the peculiar items the previous occupant left in the shed. First there were the tarps. Three of them. Each one folded neatly and placed on a shelf. They had smears of dried mud on them. First I just thought the previous owner had a tarp fetish. But why, then, would he have left them here? By November, we had figured it out. The dozen or more oak trees on our property drop a lot of leaves, and one of the easiest ways to get rid of them (as we learned from watching neighbors) is to rake them onto a tarp and drag them down over the hill.
First mystery solved.
Then there was the mystery of the snow shovels. There were two in the shed in the backyard. For snow, right? Ah, one would think so, except that another snow shovel had been left in the garage near the front of the house. November solved that mystery for us, also, when we realized the leaves in the backyard were too numerous to rake. The top layers could be dealt with more easily with snow shovels, until only a reasonably rake-able layer was left.
Second mystery solved.
Most peculiar of all to us was the large, industrial size, heavy duty, custodian's mop bucket on wheels with the built-in mop squeegee. Last night solved that mystery. We wheeled the sucker out to sop up the mess in our basement.
Third mystery solved.
Let this be a lesson to you. If the previous occupant of your new home leaves you a mop bucket on wheels, expect to use it. Our home inspector gave us some clues, too, that we didn't understand until now. As he walked through the extraordinarily clean basement, he said with what struck me as a bit of sarcasm, "Oh, a fresh paint job. Well isn't that nice."
This is the same inspector who spent such a long time looking at the floor around the base of the toilet. He pressed on it with his foot. He got down on all fours. He went to the basement and shone a flashlight up underneath the bathroom floor. Finally, he muttered, "Eh, yeah, it's okay." Well, last month we had to replace the seal around the base of the toilet, and the plumber announced that although the subflooring around it was fine, the wood floor beneath the linoleum was rotten. I guess that's what "Eh, yeah, it's okay" means. Next time I'm going to get a home inspector who comes right out and says things instead of leaving little clues. I've had enough of this detective business.
I hesitate even to mention this, but I also found in the shed a peculiar box with wooden stakes, holy water, crosses, and a nearly empty can of Vampire-B-Gone. Hm. Wonder what that could mean.
Since we moved in last September, I have, like a brilliant detective, solved one after another the mysteries of the peculiar items the previous occupant left in the shed. First there were the tarps. Three of them. Each one folded neatly and placed on a shelf. They had smears of dried mud on them. First I just thought the previous owner had a tarp fetish. But why, then, would he have left them here? By November, we had figured it out. The dozen or more oak trees on our property drop a lot of leaves, and one of the easiest ways to get rid of them (as we learned from watching neighbors) is to rake them onto a tarp and drag them down over the hill.
First mystery solved.
Then there was the mystery of the snow shovels. There were two in the shed in the backyard. For snow, right? Ah, one would think so, except that another snow shovel had been left in the garage near the front of the house. November solved that mystery for us, also, when we realized the leaves in the backyard were too numerous to rake. The top layers could be dealt with more easily with snow shovels, until only a reasonably rake-able layer was left.
Second mystery solved.
Most peculiar of all to us was the large, industrial size, heavy duty, custodian's mop bucket on wheels with the built-in mop squeegee. Last night solved that mystery. We wheeled the sucker out to sop up the mess in our basement.
Third mystery solved.
Let this be a lesson to you. If the previous occupant of your new home leaves you a mop bucket on wheels, expect to use it. Our home inspector gave us some clues, too, that we didn't understand until now. As he walked through the extraordinarily clean basement, he said with what struck me as a bit of sarcasm, "Oh, a fresh paint job. Well isn't that nice."
This is the same inspector who spent such a long time looking at the floor around the base of the toilet. He pressed on it with his foot. He got down on all fours. He went to the basement and shone a flashlight up underneath the bathroom floor. Finally, he muttered, "Eh, yeah, it's okay." Well, last month we had to replace the seal around the base of the toilet, and the plumber announced that although the subflooring around it was fine, the wood floor beneath the linoleum was rotten. I guess that's what "Eh, yeah, it's okay" means. Next time I'm going to get a home inspector who comes right out and says things instead of leaving little clues. I've had enough of this detective business.
I hesitate even to mention this, but I also found in the shed a peculiar box with wooden stakes, holy water, crosses, and a nearly empty can of Vampire-B-Gone. Hm. Wonder what that could mean.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
In Which I Unabashedly Brag About My Offspring
At sixteen months old, my daughter is saying a whole slew of words, well over a hundred at last count. I am amazed by her vocabulary, perhaps because it is so much more extensive than my son's was at that age. She not only tries to say almost everything, but she manages to say it all so cutely.
And now I shall bore you with a few of my favorites:
- Rabbup (rabbit)
- Boop (book)
- Pup (up)
- Puppies! (Up, please!)
- ARRRROOOOOOO? (Where are you?)
- Mac (macaroni and cheese)
- Chee (cheese)
- Bapple (apple)
- Meel (mail)
- Rayrer (Ranger, the neighbor's dog)
- Brow (eyebrow)
- Bobbum (bottom)
Yeah, yeah, yeah, so my background in language development and linguistics tells me why she says her words the way she does, but nothing, I tell you, nothing can explain that cuteness.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Clean House, Empty Head
At last! I have accomplished enough today that I can blog without guilt.
So far, I have dressed the kids, fed them breakfast and lunch, changed several diapers, rushed my son to the potty numerous times, cleaned up two of his accidents, put the kids down for a nap, washed two loads of clothes, folded three loads of clothes, tidied the kids' rooms, vacuumed the carpet, scrubbed the kids' booster seats and chairs, and washed the dishes.
Okay, blog time, here I come!
Crap. Now I don't know what to write about.
So far, I have dressed the kids, fed them breakfast and lunch, changed several diapers, rushed my son to the potty numerous times, cleaned up two of his accidents, put the kids down for a nap, washed two loads of clothes, folded three loads of clothes, tidied the kids' rooms, vacuumed the carpet, scrubbed the kids' booster seats and chairs, and washed the dishes.
Okay, blog time, here I come!
Crap. Now I don't know what to write about.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Irked
I am so easily wounded. It's one of my worst faults, you know. Or at least that's what I've always been told -- I'm too sensitive. But now, with thirty-four years of hyper-sensitivity under my belt, I've realized something: it's a gift, really. It's just the underbelly of empathy and compassion. So sure, go ahead and call me sensitive. It's no longer a source of shame; it's just something about me.
But I digress. My point was going to be that I was wounded yesterday . . . by a post on a blog I've only recently started reading (and which will, at least for the time being, remain anonymous) but with which I have otherwise been impressed. I was wounded by the words of a person I don't know, a person who has never met me, a person who was simply stating his (unfortunately, very popular) opinion.
The blogger, who appears to be educated and intelligent, said, "It is one thing for parents to be overweight, but children. This just irks me. It is just wrong. Why are so many children overweight."
I read that, and then the rest of my day was crappy, until finally, during my evening walk, I thought and thought about what he had said, what I believe, and why the words of this total stranger hurt me so much.
First of all, the part of his post that bothered me the most was the word "irk." It doesn't concern him, or worry him, or even trouble him. It "irks" him. In other words, it annoys him that there are chubby kids. It disgusts him that fat children exist.
I'm particularly sensitive to reactions of disgust. My father was disgusted by my body. I would say my fat definitely irked him. He wasn't worried about my health. He wasn't concerned about my emotional well-being. He was irked by my appearance. He was disgusted by my shape. He was offended by the space I took up. And that is why I was the only eight-year-old who counted her calories, the only kid in my class to skip trick-or-treating. Everything he did to make me smaller over the course of my childhood worked temporarily, only to send my weight rebounding to more than the pre-diet weight. I am sure I continue to irk and disgust my father to this day, and I would bet money he is not the only one who is "irked" by my size.
But I've learned patience over the years. More than being the fat kid, being the kid with with the stutter taught me that those worth having around will get over their initial recoiling at the sound of my voice, or the sight of my wide derriere. They'll figure me out, if I just give them enough time. And when I was a kid, they did. Really, I find it amazing that I wasn't made fun of more when I was little. Sure, it happened sometimes, especially when I met new people, but the vast majority of the people who initially rejected or made fun of me at least came to keep a respectful distance if they didn't end up being downright friendly. I'm not sure why that is. Was it something about my personality? Was it the inherent goodness of people? Was it dumb luck? I don't know. I just know that I, the fat stuttering kid, made it through childhood relatively un-bullied.
To this day, when faced with people who are disgusted by me, I use the same patience I learned as a kid. Perhaps to an extreme, I will give people the time to figure me out, refraining from intervening on my own behalf when I learn that others have gotten a false impression of me. What? She thinks I'm stupid? Ah, I'll let her figure it out. What? He thinks I'm fearful? Ah, I'll let him figure it out. What? She thinks I know nothing about nutrition? Ah, I'll let her figure it out. What? He thinks I never exercise? Ah, I'll let him figure it out.
But that patience, I'm finding, does not transfer to my own children. If someone is "irked" by my child's weighing more than the chart in the doctor's office allows, I have very little patience for that.
When my daughter was born three weeks early, she already weighed over eight pounds. From her first visit to the pediatrician's office, my daughter's weight was off the charts. If I hadn't already experienced my son's pediatric visits, I would never have known how differently my daughter was being treated. Once my daughter was weighed at each visit, the nurses became curt, their faces judgmental. They didn't smile at my daughter or talk to her or offer to show her the fish in the aquarium. The focus of each visit was her weight . . . so that I would have to remind and remind them of any other concerns. It wasn't until my daughter's most recent check-up, when her weight was finally within "normal" limits, did the doctor remember to check the three hemangiomas on my daughter's torso without having to be reminded numerous times. They also talked to her, smiled at her. They were, apparently, no longer "irked."
What did I do to make my daughter so much more acceptable? What did she do? Nothing. I just fed her the same way I've always fed her, the same way I've always fed my son, and she just grew the same way she had been. But isn't it funny that suddenly, when her body naturally happens to weigh within these somewhat arbitrary parameters set by the medical establishment, my daughter is worth everybody's time.
I don't know why kids are getting fatter these days. Maybe it's for the same reason they're getting taller. Maybe it is, as so many claim, because of "junk food." Is fat really the cause of health problems, or is it a condition that is caused by the same things that cause many health problems, a condition that often exists alongside health problems? Either way, let's focus on encouraging healthy habits for all kids, not just the fat ones. And let's take some time to examine our attitudes toward fat people . . . because prejudice is certainly no healthier than fat.
But I digress. My point was going to be that I was wounded yesterday . . . by a post on a blog I've only recently started reading (and which will, at least for the time being, remain anonymous) but with which I have otherwise been impressed. I was wounded by the words of a person I don't know, a person who has never met me, a person who was simply stating his (unfortunately, very popular) opinion.
The blogger, who appears to be educated and intelligent, said, "It is one thing for parents to be overweight, but children. This just irks me. It is just wrong. Why are so many children overweight."
I read that, and then the rest of my day was crappy, until finally, during my evening walk, I thought and thought about what he had said, what I believe, and why the words of this total stranger hurt me so much.
First of all, the part of his post that bothered me the most was the word "irk." It doesn't concern him, or worry him, or even trouble him. It "irks" him. In other words, it annoys him that there are chubby kids. It disgusts him that fat children exist.
I'm particularly sensitive to reactions of disgust. My father was disgusted by my body. I would say my fat definitely irked him. He wasn't worried about my health. He wasn't concerned about my emotional well-being. He was irked by my appearance. He was disgusted by my shape. He was offended by the space I took up. And that is why I was the only eight-year-old who counted her calories, the only kid in my class to skip trick-or-treating. Everything he did to make me smaller over the course of my childhood worked temporarily, only to send my weight rebounding to more than the pre-diet weight. I am sure I continue to irk and disgust my father to this day, and I would bet money he is not the only one who is "irked" by my size.
But I've learned patience over the years. More than being the fat kid, being the kid with with the stutter taught me that those worth having around will get over their initial recoiling at the sound of my voice, or the sight of my wide derriere. They'll figure me out, if I just give them enough time. And when I was a kid, they did. Really, I find it amazing that I wasn't made fun of more when I was little. Sure, it happened sometimes, especially when I met new people, but the vast majority of the people who initially rejected or made fun of me at least came to keep a respectful distance if they didn't end up being downright friendly. I'm not sure why that is. Was it something about my personality? Was it the inherent goodness of people? Was it dumb luck? I don't know. I just know that I, the fat stuttering kid, made it through childhood relatively un-bullied.
To this day, when faced with people who are disgusted by me, I use the same patience I learned as a kid. Perhaps to an extreme, I will give people the time to figure me out, refraining from intervening on my own behalf when I learn that others have gotten a false impression of me. What? She thinks I'm stupid? Ah, I'll let her figure it out. What? He thinks I'm fearful? Ah, I'll let him figure it out. What? She thinks I know nothing about nutrition? Ah, I'll let her figure it out. What? He thinks I never exercise? Ah, I'll let him figure it out.
But that patience, I'm finding, does not transfer to my own children. If someone is "irked" by my child's weighing more than the chart in the doctor's office allows, I have very little patience for that.
When my daughter was born three weeks early, she already weighed over eight pounds. From her first visit to the pediatrician's office, my daughter's weight was off the charts. If I hadn't already experienced my son's pediatric visits, I would never have known how differently my daughter was being treated. Once my daughter was weighed at each visit, the nurses became curt, their faces judgmental. They didn't smile at my daughter or talk to her or offer to show her the fish in the aquarium. The focus of each visit was her weight . . . so that I would have to remind and remind them of any other concerns. It wasn't until my daughter's most recent check-up, when her weight was finally within "normal" limits, did the doctor remember to check the three hemangiomas on my daughter's torso without having to be reminded numerous times. They also talked to her, smiled at her. They were, apparently, no longer "irked."
What did I do to make my daughter so much more acceptable? What did she do? Nothing. I just fed her the same way I've always fed her, the same way I've always fed my son, and she just grew the same way she had been. But isn't it funny that suddenly, when her body naturally happens to weigh within these somewhat arbitrary parameters set by the medical establishment, my daughter is worth everybody's time.
I don't know why kids are getting fatter these days. Maybe it's for the same reason they're getting taller. Maybe it is, as so many claim, because of "junk food." Is fat really the cause of health problems, or is it a condition that is caused by the same things that cause many health problems, a condition that often exists alongside health problems? Either way, let's focus on encouraging healthy habits for all kids, not just the fat ones. And let's take some time to examine our attitudes toward fat people . . . because prejudice is certainly no healthier than fat.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Monday Newsworthlessness
For the scores upon scores of readers left dangling on the edges of your seats over the weekend wondering about our big fight, I shall reassure you. We have made up. We don't tend to stay mad long. I'm not saying every problem went away when we made up, but at least we are back to our usual mode of trying to deal with problems together.
In other news, the big oak tree in our front yard finally lost its last autumn (??)leaves yesterday in a wind storm. Um, it's April. And, of course, the wind storm happened only hours after I had sucked up some stray leaves along the front of the house with the leaf blower from hell -- which cost too much, weighs too much, and does indeed "suck" and "blow," although not in the way I had hoped.
In other news, the big oak tree in our front yard finally lost its last autumn (??)leaves yesterday in a wind storm. Um, it's April. And, of course, the wind storm happened only hours after I had sucked up some stray leaves along the front of the house with the leaf blower from hell -- which cost too much, weighs too much, and does indeed "suck" and "blow," although not in the way I had hoped.
Friday, March 31, 2006
With Heart
We had a fight last night, my husband and I. That doesn't happen very often. We fought because . . . because my husband had an awful week at he office . . . because potty-training is driving me insane . . . because we get so little time alone together . . . because we have been in this new town for seven months and I know nobody and I am lonely . . . because if my husband had wanted a Jewish wife he would have married one.
I am discouraged today. My biggest fear is, and has always been, that one day I will learn that everything I think I have is false, that I have been conned. I am afraid I will discover that the people around me are here not because they find me genuinely interesting and likeable, but because they feel some sense of guilt or obligation.
My husband says it's not enough for me that he do what I want him to do. He says I want him to do it "with heart." Maybe he's right. When he goes through the motions, I can see in his face that his actions aren't sincere, and then I begin to doubt everything. So maybe it's not that I want him to do my bidding with heart; maybe instead I want him to do only what he can do with heart.
I am discouraged today. My biggest fear is, and has always been, that one day I will learn that everything I think I have is false, that I have been conned. I am afraid I will discover that the people around me are here not because they find me genuinely interesting and likeable, but because they feel some sense of guilt or obligation.
My husband says it's not enough for me that he do what I want him to do. He says I want him to do it "with heart." Maybe he's right. When he goes through the motions, I can see in his face that his actions aren't sincere, and then I begin to doubt everything. So maybe it's not that I want him to do my bidding with heart; maybe instead I want him to do only what he can do with heart.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Conversion Confusion
Am I an utter hypocrite? Am I fickle? Am I hard-hearted? Am I carting around repressed anger?
These are just a few of the questions I find myself asking as I consider conversion from the (Methodist) Christianity of my youth to Judaism. So few people convert from one world religion to another. What motivates them to make such a drastic change? Why would I do it? Why would I do something that might (further) alienate people I love? My marriage to a Jew didn't make me want to convert (although now, to be honest, I WISH I had wanted to), nor did our joint decision to raise our children Jewish. So why now? And why has this need come on so strongly? Is something wrong with me that I would want to "abandon" my roots?
It's not that I think my family's faith is wrong. I don't. In fact, I don't think about their religion much at all. It just doesn't work for me. So far, Judaism works better.
The first Friday evening after we moved to a new town a few months ago, I was preparing challah for our first Shabbat in our new home. My husband came home, saw the bread, and said, "Oh, honey, you don't have to do that for me! I know you have enough to do already without worrying about Shabbat."
His considerate comment momentarily offended me because -- and this was the first moment I had realized it -- the Shabbat dinner was for me, too. Since we had begun observing the Sabbath after our son was born two years earlier, Friday nights had taken on a quality of . . . of . . . holiness? That is such a hokey word. What I mean is that Friday nights felt special (even more hokey), were anticipated, kept me feeling content and thankful and acutely aware of our family's tiny place in the whole of creation. Lighting the candles, saying the blessings, drinking the wine, breaking the bread, singing together -- these rituals provided a weekly snapshot of the best of our lives, stopped time for just a moment of raised consciousness before the earth continued to spin.
Shabbat made me fall in love with Judaism. But is it possible that any ritual from any faith might have provided the same sacred moment under the right circumstances -- an evening shared with the husband I love and the children I adore? Perhaps it's not God or Judaism, but my family life I love so much. What if my husband and children were gone? Would I still love Judaism? I doubt it. I doubt I would be able to love anything.
Do I put off conversion until I am sure nothing could ever change my mind? Or do I join my family at the Shabbat table as a Jewish wife and mother? Just how sure do I need to be?
These are just a few of the questions I find myself asking as I consider conversion from the (Methodist) Christianity of my youth to Judaism. So few people convert from one world religion to another. What motivates them to make such a drastic change? Why would I do it? Why would I do something that might (further) alienate people I love? My marriage to a Jew didn't make me want to convert (although now, to be honest, I WISH I had wanted to), nor did our joint decision to raise our children Jewish. So why now? And why has this need come on so strongly? Is something wrong with me that I would want to "abandon" my roots?
It's not that I think my family's faith is wrong. I don't. In fact, I don't think about their religion much at all. It just doesn't work for me. So far, Judaism works better.
The first Friday evening after we moved to a new town a few months ago, I was preparing challah for our first Shabbat in our new home. My husband came home, saw the bread, and said, "Oh, honey, you don't have to do that for me! I know you have enough to do already without worrying about Shabbat."
His considerate comment momentarily offended me because -- and this was the first moment I had realized it -- the Shabbat dinner was for me, too. Since we had begun observing the Sabbath after our son was born two years earlier, Friday nights had taken on a quality of . . . of . . . holiness? That is such a hokey word. What I mean is that Friday nights felt special (even more hokey), were anticipated, kept me feeling content and thankful and acutely aware of our family's tiny place in the whole of creation. Lighting the candles, saying the blessings, drinking the wine, breaking the bread, singing together -- these rituals provided a weekly snapshot of the best of our lives, stopped time for just a moment of raised consciousness before the earth continued to spin.
Shabbat made me fall in love with Judaism. But is it possible that any ritual from any faith might have provided the same sacred moment under the right circumstances -- an evening shared with the husband I love and the children I adore? Perhaps it's not God or Judaism, but my family life I love so much. What if my husband and children were gone? Would I still love Judaism? I doubt it. I doubt I would be able to love anything.
Do I put off conversion until I am sure nothing could ever change my mind? Or do I join my family at the Shabbat table as a Jewish wife and mother? Just how sure do I need to be?
Monday, March 27, 2006
Spiritually Unfit
Last night while reading A Book of Life: Embracing Judaism as a Spiritual Practice by Michael Strassfeld, I came across something that really bothered me.
I had just read the part that said, "Unlike secular society, Judaism does not have an idealized model of beauty. We are all created in God's image. In all diversity, fat and thin, tall and short, we are all equally God's creations."
So I wasn't ready for this part: " . . . Judaism's focus on inner beauty [does not] release us from our obligation to care for our bodies. This is especially true with regard to matters of health, such as eating the right foods, losing excess weight, and regular exercise."
Ok. So it's fine to be tall or short, thin or . . . thin. Hm.
I'm all for caring for our bodies. I really am. I'm all for eating the right foods and getting exercise for the sake of health. But why is "losing excess weight" mentioned? If we care for our bodies by eating the right foods and getting enough exercise, won't our bodies naturally tend to weigh the weight God intended for them to weigh? Obviously the author knows that diet and exercise are not enough for everyone to maintain a slim body; otherwise, his mention of weight loss would have been redundant. So he's associating Judaism with the societal standards of beauty from which he had just distanced it.
So, what, God stopped production of fat people when He heard from the CDC that fat was bad?
I'm taking this book back to the library. Maybe the remaining 499 pages are great, but I cannot continue reading. I prefer to get my spiritual guidance from someone enlightened enough to understand that Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, and Fen Phen are not moral obligations.
I won't read a book that contributes to the growing epidemic of eating disorders among the young women of our nation. Consider this my first small contribution to Tikkun Olam.
I had just read the part that said, "Unlike secular society, Judaism does not have an idealized model of beauty. We are all created in God's image. In all diversity, fat and thin, tall and short, we are all equally God's creations."
So I wasn't ready for this part: " . . . Judaism's focus on inner beauty [does not] release us from our obligation to care for our bodies. This is especially true with regard to matters of health, such as eating the right foods, losing excess weight, and regular exercise."
Ok. So it's fine to be tall or short, thin or . . . thin. Hm.
I'm all for caring for our bodies. I really am. I'm all for eating the right foods and getting exercise for the sake of health. But why is "losing excess weight" mentioned? If we care for our bodies by eating the right foods and getting enough exercise, won't our bodies naturally tend to weigh the weight God intended for them to weigh? Obviously the author knows that diet and exercise are not enough for everyone to maintain a slim body; otherwise, his mention of weight loss would have been redundant. So he's associating Judaism with the societal standards of beauty from which he had just distanced it.
So, what, God stopped production of fat people when He heard from the CDC that fat was bad?
I'm taking this book back to the library. Maybe the remaining 499 pages are great, but I cannot continue reading. I prefer to get my spiritual guidance from someone enlightened enough to understand that Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, and Fen Phen are not moral obligations.
I won't read a book that contributes to the growing epidemic of eating disorders among the young women of our nation. Consider this my first small contribution to Tikkun Olam.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Plagues
It's almost time for Passover, so I innocently began the project of reading my toddlers a Passover board book. It has bright pictures of objects and foods used at a Passover seder, as well as of scenes from the story of Exodus. It was while reading the page with the plagues that my three-year-old son shook my faith.
"What's he have?" he asked, pointing to a boy with obviously fake red spots covering his face.
"It says 'nasty illness'. He has a sickness that makes his skin all spotty. It's one of the plagues," I answer.
"Is he sick?" he asks again.
"Yes," I reply, ready to move on.
"Did God gave him that?"
Silence.
"Did God make him sick?" he repeated.
"Well, God sent the plagues, yes," I answered, suddenly feeling ill myself.
"What did he did?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"What did the boy did that God made him sick?"
I was speechless. "Well," I finally said, "Pharoah was bad, and so God made Pharoah's people sick."
But that wasn't the answer, really. The answer was that the boy with the ridiculous spots was being punished for nothing he had done. He was simply born Egyptian.
Then my son said, "Is God bad?"
"No," I answered quickly, but suddenly I felt uneasy, and I just wasn't sure anymore.
I am a hypocrite for reading the story to my children. I could leave out the part about the plagues, because maybe I don't believe that part, but then do I also leave out the part about the Red Sea and Mount Sinai? And if so, what's left, other than an historical account? And if that's all it is, why do we pray to God?
I am always quick to roll my eyes at people's rantings that this hurricane or that flu outbreak or some earthquake or other is punishment from God, or part of "God's plan". This seems to be the only thing that the radical religious (Christian, Jewish, Muslim, etc.) can agree on -- that bad things are deserved. Unfortunately, they can't agree who is being punished and for what.
I guess things must have seemed clearer back in Moses's day. I wonder if being on the right side made it easier to watch as neighbors buried their dead.
No, I suppose not. That's why the Passover seder includes the ritual of removing a drop of wine for each plague to symbolize how the Israelites' joy was incomplete in the face of the Egyptians' suffering. Still, I wonder how one's knowing God sacrificed children for one's freedom is really supposed to make one love God more.
Fear Him more, yes. But love Him more?
"What's he have?" he asked, pointing to a boy with obviously fake red spots covering his face.
"It says 'nasty illness'. He has a sickness that makes his skin all spotty. It's one of the plagues," I answer.
"Is he sick?" he asks again.
"Yes," I reply, ready to move on.
"Did God gave him that?"
Silence.
"Did God make him sick?" he repeated.
"Well, God sent the plagues, yes," I answered, suddenly feeling ill myself.
"What did he did?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"What did the boy did that God made him sick?"
I was speechless. "Well," I finally said, "Pharoah was bad, and so God made Pharoah's people sick."
But that wasn't the answer, really. The answer was that the boy with the ridiculous spots was being punished for nothing he had done. He was simply born Egyptian.
Then my son said, "Is God bad?"
"No," I answered quickly, but suddenly I felt uneasy, and I just wasn't sure anymore.
I am a hypocrite for reading the story to my children. I could leave out the part about the plagues, because maybe I don't believe that part, but then do I also leave out the part about the Red Sea and Mount Sinai? And if so, what's left, other than an historical account? And if that's all it is, why do we pray to God?
I am always quick to roll my eyes at people's rantings that this hurricane or that flu outbreak or some earthquake or other is punishment from God, or part of "God's plan". This seems to be the only thing that the radical religious (Christian, Jewish, Muslim, etc.) can agree on -- that bad things are deserved. Unfortunately, they can't agree who is being punished and for what.
I guess things must have seemed clearer back in Moses's day. I wonder if being on the right side made it easier to watch as neighbors buried their dead.
No, I suppose not. That's why the Passover seder includes the ritual of removing a drop of wine for each plague to symbolize how the Israelites' joy was incomplete in the face of the Egyptians' suffering. Still, I wonder how one's knowing God sacrificed children for one's freedom is really supposed to make one love God more.
Fear Him more, yes. But love Him more?
Friday, March 10, 2006
The Business of Holocaust Denial
I'm not typically one to shout my politics from the rooftops, but there are times when silence is a crime. As Elie Wiesel said, "The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference."
Iran has hosted a conference to promote Holocaust denial. It was attended by young people, students. Holocaust denial is gaining popularity -- it's not just Hutton Gibson anymore. There are young people being taught this very minute that the murder of six million Jews, more than two million of them children, did not happen. There are young people being taught not that the Holocaust was one of the worst chapters in human history, but that it is instead a myth created by Jews. Young people are being taught right now not that babies were thrown in the air and shot, that some rabbis given the duty of putting bodies into the incinerators chose to leap into the flames themselves, but instead that the Jews made up such stories in an effort to dupe the world into giving them money.
Whatever you believe about Europe's penalty for Holocaust-denial, whatever your opinion on the policies of the Israeli government, you must stand for truth.
When I first read of Holocaust-denial, I felt sickened by it, but I didn't really think through the long-term implications of such widespread lies. Of course, of course, Holocaust-denial causes pain for Jews, especially for those who survived concentration camps and lost loved ones, and for the children of survivors. There are few things more damaging to say to someone than, "That which haunts and hurts you and has nearly killed you does not exist. Your pain is a lie. The pain of your loved ones is a lie." Beyond the hurt, the frustration, and the absolute isolation the Jewish community must surely feel at such accusations, there is a future at stake. One day the last Holocaust survivor will be buried, taking with him or her the last blue tatoo. One day the last American soldier who wept upon entering Auschwitz, too, will die, taking with him the last memory of walking skeletons, mass graves. One day the Shoah will be something no one remembers first-hand. At that point, each human being will have to weigh the evidence, the textbooks claiming the brutal murder of so many Jews, the textbooks claiming a grand plot to cry genocide and gain profit. Each person will make a choice. Each person, good or evil, will make a choice based on the evidence.
Writers are being paid right now to deny the Holocaust. People are being paid. This is a business. The "evidence" against the Jews is being created and distributed. I would like to believe truth always wins. But does it?
And what happens when the "evidence" against the Holocaust is enough to convince most people? What will those poeple think of Jews? What in the world is there to prevent history from repeating itself?
Iran has hosted a conference to promote Holocaust denial. It was attended by young people, students. Holocaust denial is gaining popularity -- it's not just Hutton Gibson anymore. There are young people being taught this very minute that the murder of six million Jews, more than two million of them children, did not happen. There are young people being taught not that the Holocaust was one of the worst chapters in human history, but that it is instead a myth created by Jews. Young people are being taught right now not that babies were thrown in the air and shot, that some rabbis given the duty of putting bodies into the incinerators chose to leap into the flames themselves, but instead that the Jews made up such stories in an effort to dupe the world into giving them money.
Whatever you believe about Europe's penalty for Holocaust-denial, whatever your opinion on the policies of the Israeli government, you must stand for truth.
When I first read of Holocaust-denial, I felt sickened by it, but I didn't really think through the long-term implications of such widespread lies. Of course, of course, Holocaust-denial causes pain for Jews, especially for those who survived concentration camps and lost loved ones, and for the children of survivors. There are few things more damaging to say to someone than, "That which haunts and hurts you and has nearly killed you does not exist. Your pain is a lie. The pain of your loved ones is a lie." Beyond the hurt, the frustration, and the absolute isolation the Jewish community must surely feel at such accusations, there is a future at stake. One day the last Holocaust survivor will be buried, taking with him or her the last blue tatoo. One day the last American soldier who wept upon entering Auschwitz, too, will die, taking with him the last memory of walking skeletons, mass graves. One day the Shoah will be something no one remembers first-hand. At that point, each human being will have to weigh the evidence, the textbooks claiming the brutal murder of so many Jews, the textbooks claiming a grand plot to cry genocide and gain profit. Each person will make a choice. Each person, good or evil, will make a choice based on the evidence.
Writers are being paid right now to deny the Holocaust. People are being paid. This is a business. The "evidence" against the Jews is being created and distributed. I would like to believe truth always wins. But does it?
And what happens when the "evidence" against the Holocaust is enough to convince most people? What will those poeple think of Jews? What in the world is there to prevent history from repeating itself?
Monday, March 06, 2006
Academy Award Commentary
I agreed to watch the Academy Awards last night just so I could get my Jon Stewart fix. I miss him, just as my son misses the Wiggles. But we all have to make our sacrifices. I don’t get out to the movies much these days, and the only nominated movies I saw were Crash (which I loved) and Walk the Line (which was okay), so I can’t really say much of substance. That’s never stopped me before, though. And I really would like to comment on the Best Song category.
First of all, where were Dolly’s Parton’s interpretive dancers? Everyone else got them. You know, I was startled to see Dolly. She looks . . . unnatural. She looks like a walking Barbie Doll, and I’ve heard a woman can’t really live with Barbie Doll proportions, so I was afraid she was going to die on stage. Thank goodness she didn’t. I’m reminded of the time when I was six or seven and I asked my dad what he wanted for his birthday. He said he wanted a Dolly Parton doll. I took him seriously and set to work making one out of paper, wadded up tissues, thread, and modeling clay. My father laughed until he cried when he saw it. Now that I look back on it, I realize I didn’t give her enough of a “wasp waist.” But thanks to the modeling clay, at least I got the boobs right.
But I digress. The second song, the one from Crash . . . um . . . I didn’t even hear a song because I was too busy picking my jaw up from the floor and trying to stop the spasms of nausea when the interpretive dancers reenacted the BIG GROPE in slow motion. The only thing worse than seeing it reenacted was that it was done in slow-mo and it looked as if the gropee were giving birth to a huge hairy arm. There’s art, and then there’s just enough already.
What do I say about “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp”? I have never felt older than when I was watching that performance. I really have to get out of the house more. I just couldn’t figure out if I was supposed to think it was kind of funny or if I was supposed to feel deep empathy for pimps. The interpretive dancers confused me all the more. Maybe if I’d seen the movie I wouldn’t have been so clueless. I didn’t want to appear too out of touch with reality, so I said to my husband, “Hey, you know, I bet in the real version of the song, she doesn’t say witches.”
Because, you know, I’m down with it.
First of all, where were Dolly’s Parton’s interpretive dancers? Everyone else got them. You know, I was startled to see Dolly. She looks . . . unnatural. She looks like a walking Barbie Doll, and I’ve heard a woman can’t really live with Barbie Doll proportions, so I was afraid she was going to die on stage. Thank goodness she didn’t. I’m reminded of the time when I was six or seven and I asked my dad what he wanted for his birthday. He said he wanted a Dolly Parton doll. I took him seriously and set to work making one out of paper, wadded up tissues, thread, and modeling clay. My father laughed until he cried when he saw it. Now that I look back on it, I realize I didn’t give her enough of a “wasp waist.” But thanks to the modeling clay, at least I got the boobs right.
But I digress. The second song, the one from Crash . . . um . . . I didn’t even hear a song because I was too busy picking my jaw up from the floor and trying to stop the spasms of nausea when the interpretive dancers reenacted the BIG GROPE in slow motion. The only thing worse than seeing it reenacted was that it was done in slow-mo and it looked as if the gropee were giving birth to a huge hairy arm. There’s art, and then there’s just enough already.
What do I say about “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp”? I have never felt older than when I was watching that performance. I really have to get out of the house more. I just couldn’t figure out if I was supposed to think it was kind of funny or if I was supposed to feel deep empathy for pimps. The interpretive dancers confused me all the more. Maybe if I’d seen the movie I wouldn’t have been so clueless. I didn’t want to appear too out of touch with reality, so I said to my husband, “Hey, you know, I bet in the real version of the song, she doesn’t say witches.”
Because, you know, I’m down with it.
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