Sunday Blogaround 4.8.12

Welcome to another edition of the Sunday Blogaround!

This has been a wonderful week for other bloggers- if not for me.  I've been so busy with Passover and whatnot that I've hardly had time to enjoy the fruits of other writers' labors.

But here they are- the best of the week as determined by yours truly.  Enjoy!






"Baseball Immortality" - Daddy Knows Less
This week marked the start of Baseball Season.  Baseball Season... that which provides us hope in the darkest depths of a midwestern winter.  That which reminds us that better times are coming.  And of course, opening day (a disaster this year of pointless changes) is the best day of the year- when your baseball team is undefeated for a few glorious seconds.... at least, if your team is the Pirates and they have the rotten no-good luck to play the hated Phillies for the first game of the year.  At any rate, here's a lovely post filled with baseball and fatherly love.  Which in my experience, pretty much always go together.

"Why Is This Night Different From All Other Nights?" - Try Defying Gravity
My favorite post from the first night of Passover (not that I got to enjoy it that day), and also as short as everybody wishes their seder could possibly be.

"Simplicity Parenting: Keep it Simply" - on Diapers and Daisies
I agree so strongly on this one.  So many parents insist on stimulating their children to the point of no thought at all... I'm not sure that I'm with the author when it comes to the finer details, but when it comes to just leaving your kid alone and letting them be for a few minutes/hours?  Yeah, that's how I try to parent.



"The Bully Project" - The Family Pants
In case you haven't heard of it, recently a film came out about bullying in schools.  It's a heartbreaking documentary, and it's the sort of tool that can be used for genuine good when it comes to the lives of our children.  I've written many times about bullying, and about the examples that we as adults need to set.  I'm very happy to have the Family Pants share their voice and story in support of this kind of education and awareness.

"Keeping Up with the Joneses" - Rediscovering Our Family
Another post on the "keep it simple" theme.  Only this time, for your family as a whole- not just for your children.  I love it.

"Returning Thanks" - Weak and Loved
I go through this process whenever M and I find ourselves waiting around in the Oncology center at our hospital.

"If I Had $1000000" - Dude of the House
The Dude of the House agrees with me when it comes to "kids music."  He regularly posts songs that he likes to share with his children, and I have yet to disagree.  This is a particular favorite.




"Nightstand Face Lift" - The Crafting Hobbit
Super cool DIY!  If I had the time... I would so do this.  In fact, once I find a dresser for Baby X's room, I just might do it for her.  :)

"Meeting Emma" - Dad of the Decade
Okay, now this is something completely different.  Dad of the Decade has been writing about the experience of the first months/years of his daughter's life.  She was diagnosed with an incredibly rare cancer in the womb, and Dad of the Decade has been retelling this story both beautifully and painfully.  This is a vignette- it stands alone.  But be prepared with tissues and somebody to give you a hug.

"The Neediness of Twins" - The Kopp Girls
Need some cheering up now that you've read "Meeting Emma?"  Here you go.  Nothing warms my heart more than twin sisters being best friends.

"Second Guessing is Lame" - Michelle Mossey
We all do it.  She just puts it really well.  (On a side note, this reminds me very much of a few nights ago when, utterly exhausted, I was trying to put the children to bed.  As I left the room, SI said, "Mommy- you want to kiss me!"  I had forgotten to kiss my daughters goodnight!  "Me too!" added DD!  "You're right," I said.  "I do want to kiss you."  I gave them kisses, and they went almost straight to sleep.  That night, no second guessing for me.)

"Late Night Baby Party"- Short Fat Dictator
A reminder of what I'm looking forward to this fall and winter.  Babies and toddlers, each with their own sleeping issues.  Complete with the passing desire to kill your spouse.  At least she makes it funny!

"Silent Week" - Suburban Rebel Mom
As any of us with kids know, sometimes all you think you want is a break.  A week, without your kids.  Where they leave you alone, where they're somebody else's problem.  Well, she got just that.  And it wasn't all it was cracked up to be.  Suburban Rebel Mom actually wrote a lot of stuff this week that I wanted to share with you, but this is the best.  So once you've read it, you should check out the other stuff she's been writing, like this post about star gazing, or this one about dress shopping.  Trust me, you'll enjoy it.

"I Think It's Going Around" - 649.133
First of all- in case I've never mentioned it before, I think this is the cleverest parenting blog title I have ever heard.  Library nerds, rejoice.  Moving on- Janel writes about Baby Fever.  Particularly, the Baby Fever of one who already has babies and therefore knows what a dumb idea it is to have another one.  I need to remind myself to revisit this post when Baby X is about four months old.

Hard Times

Last time I was pregnant- on the right with the extra poofy feathers

Recently, I have found myself totally overwhelmed,

Overwhelmed by my schoolwork.

Overwhelmed by my children.

Overwhelmed by my pregnancy.

Last time I was pregnant, I could participate in weddings
with alpacas and homemade wine.

I'm not ashamed to confess that I've spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself and crying and eating frosting right out of the canister.  The thought that keeps floating through my head is...

"Why is it so much harder this time?"

Well, today I finally figured it out.  It's harder this time because EVERYTHING is harder this time.

Last time, I may have been pregnant with twins, but I wasn't in school.  And most importantly, I didn't have any children.  I had two jobs to do, to move and settle my home, and to be pregnant.  Yes, it involved a subchorionic hematoma.  Yes, it involved SPD and a few gall bladder related trips to the hospital.  But still, it was the only thing I needed to do.

Once we had moved, M lost his job and suddenly not only was I constantly assisted in both of those tasks by my favorite person in the world. they were still the only jobs that I had.

Now?

Last time I was pregnant, we could get away with friends
for the weekend

Now I am wrangling two (very well behaved all things considered) toddlers.  Now I am scrambling to finish my degree.  Now my husband is not only not available to me all day as he's working, he also is unavailable all night and evening because he's finishing up his degree as well.

And on top of all of that, this time around I'm dealing with regular mole removals, with dietary and health problems, and with all of the drama that comes with changing insurance companies two times during the course of a pregnancy.  Yes, getting $2K bills for ultrasounds is enough to give pretty much anybody heartburn.  And of course, I still have the SPD.

So as I sat on my couch, willing my children to go to sleep and just be quiet, and wishing that somebody would magically bring me a root beer float, I realized...

It IS harder.  I'm NOT crazy.  I'm NOT lazy.  I'm NOT somehow much older and weaker and less able to handle being pregnant.

I would be exhausted and stressed and borderline insane even if I weren't *also* pregnant.  And yet, here I am.  Also pregnant.

Last time I was pregnant, we could
catch a ballgame

So I hereby remind myself to take my last minute New Year's Addendum to heart- I am going to be a little easier on myself.

I am going to give myself a little slack for sitting down and weeping on the couch into my Girl Scout cookies.

This is hard.  School is hard.  Toddlers are hard.  Never seeing your husband is hard.  Having skin cancers is hard.  And being pregnant is hard.

And doing it all at the same time?

Well...

On that note, I'd like to apologize for the lack of posts so far this week.  And that the lack shall continue.  You see, Friday is Passover.

And because I had so much free time and energy and all, I decided to host my family seder.

(Really, there was more to it than that.  With Passover starting on a Friday night in the buildup to finals, with two small children and me reaching the size and shape of a beluga whale, there was no way we were going to be able to travel.  It simply made more sense to have everyone come to us.  That said, I'm hosting a seder for 27 on Friday.)

Last time I was pregnant, no matter how
much it sucked it was a hell of a lot easier.

(It should be fun.)

Next week I will make up for it in spades by posting all about my family's seder- from the recipes to the tradition to how on earth I squeezed that many people into our condo.

Next week, I will write all about my wonderful family and friends who are trying so hard to make things easier for me by cooking and cleaning and watching my children.

This week?  Becoming SuperMommy is going to be... scarce.

I'll be busy crying into a box of Tagalongs.

...because this time?  This time, pregnancy is really, really, really hard.

This time, life is harder.

In four weeks, M will be done with school.  Four weeks after that, I will be done with school.  Four days after that, Baby X will be due.  And ten weeks after that, my monkeys will start preschool.

This time, I'm just limping along to the finish line.  But I'll get there.  And it will be just as wonderful as last time.  I just need to keep remembering that in the end it's going to be okay.  And it's going to be okay.

The Very Best

A perfect child

Here's a fun challenge.

...or maybe not fun, but a challenge nonetheless.

The Momalog and Mama Wants This are hosting a blogging event for their first blogoversary.  And rather than just hosting a series of giveaways (which they are doing as well), they're hosting a linkup of your favorite blog posts.  Ever.

This was a really hard one for me.  Not because I'm such a narcissist (which I suppose I am), but because there are so many different kinds of "best."

Do I link up my best funny post?  My most read post?  The post that I thought was the most well written?

I've chosen to link up one of my oldest posts.  It's about realizing that I will always be pretty much a failure at parenting.  Which isn't a bad thing, exactly, it's simply inevitable.

The Tibetan Book of the Dead and Jewish Guilt

It was my 29th blog post (this is post number 286), and the one that really changed the direction of this blog into what it is today.  Prior to that, I had thought I was actually going to offer parenting advice or household tips or something.

I must have been crazy.

This is the post where I found Becoming SuperMommy's voice.  Don't get me wrong, this blog is still a grab bag of all sorts of things.  I've even got another couple craft type tutorials in the works.  And recipes.  And other things I probably haven't even thought of yet.  But for the most part, I know who Becoming SuperMommy is, and she's the lady that wrote this post.

It's one I go back to over and over again, because it constantly amazes me what we remember and what we forget.
Please read the post before reading the following paragraphs- I don't want to spoil anything for you.

After reading this post, M reminded me that the day we conceived our girls, I had told him all about this part of the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and in order to ease my worries we had gone home and snuggled in bed for most of the afternoon.  Theoretically, at the moment our children were conceived, we were wrapped around each other talking about how much we loved each other and our hopes for our future and our family.

I don't know how I could have forgotten that.

But it warms my heart to no end to know how well he remembered it, and it in no way changes my feelings of gratitude for my children.

...and yes, I have agonized over the conditions in which Baby X was conceived as well.

And I am absolutely certain that Baby X will come into the world just as perfect.

In Our Cups, So To Speak

Baruch atah adonai!

As we all know, kids say the darndest things.

While this is true, there is a great deal of import when it comes to context.  Sometimes, the darndest thing is super cute and funny.  Sometimes, that same thing is... in a word... mortifying.

Oddly enough, the car is one of our favorite places.

My kids are of an age where they say something that makes me laugh every couple of hours.  Frequently, their best moments for verbal humor are in the car.  Take this little gem:

SI - "Where is we going?"
Me- "We are going to the restaurant!"
DD- "I LOVE the restaurant!  I want grilled cheese!"
Me- "Well you're in luck!  You can HAVE grilled cheese!"
DD- "I in luck!"
SI- "I want pizza!"
Me- "You are also in luck!"
SI- "I also in luck!"
DD- "I also in luck too!"

...okay, maybe that's only funny to me because of grammar issues.  But still.  Then yesterday SI had this moment of gut busting hilarity:

M and I are having a conversation about lifestyle and art and how despite our reactionary loathing for that white guy in the keffiyeh around his neck (probably without any idea about the statement they're making about Palestinian nationalism), a baseball cap with the brim pointed straight up, skinny jeans, and ironic t-shirt on the scooter who just went whizzing through the intersection, you've really got to give him some credit for actually committing so completely to the way he wants to be perceived.

Let's be realistic- they place they go to see hippies is
Grandmommy and Poppa's house.

M: "Of course, the whole Hippie movement was an exercise in lifestyle as art."
SI: "I LOVE hippies!  I saw hippies at the zoo!"

M and I laughed all the way to the playground.

But, you see, things like this are funny pretty much regardless of the context.  I could tell you that my two and half year old said that hippies live in the zoo, and it's going to be silly no matter what.

Some things, however, require the context.  You need to know that really, this kid has no idea how bad they're making their parents look.  Or at least their mother.

For Channukah, my children received a play Shabbat set.  It's awesome- there's wooden challah, wooden candlesticks, wooden candles with removable flames, and wooden goblet,.  (Actually, it was a Rosh Hashanah set, so it also came with a little shofar, a wooden jar of honey, and a wooden apple they can slice up.)  I put it away without letting them play with it.  Not because I'm a mean mommy, but because they got SO MUCH STUFF!  I figured, a few weeks or months would go by and then they could have it when they were particularly stir crazy or bored.

Hey Mommy!  Thanks for the bottle!

And that is precisely when they got it.  To complete the arrangement (and to quell any fights) I pilfered the goblet and bottle of Kosher For Pesach wine from their new toy Passover set (more on that in the coming week or two).

The thing is, this toy set has been really helpful.  SI has an aversion to singing... and most Hebrew prayers are sung.  Which meant that, until our Shabbat toys made their appearance, every Friday night included me singing the kaddish while my daughter screamed and sobbed.

By the way, for somebody who used to plan on singing opera (or at a piano lounge) for a living, having a kid who throws a fit each time you hum a tune is kind of like Hell.  But it's getting a little better.

At any rate, now Shabbat is a game.  And a super fun game, at that.  There's one song that Mommy sings when you pour your wine into your cup, there's another song that Mommy sings when you eat your yummy raisin challah, and there's another song that Mommy sings when you light the candles!  It's great!

This means, of course, that the girls want to "play Shabbat" several times a day.  And I'm happy to oblige, most of the time.

She's still not clear on the whole right-to-left thing.

But there's another side effect of this sort of game.  The discovery that there is a beverage that is inherently more fun than milk or juice or water.

I am, of course, talking about wine.

Ah, sweet nectar of the gods... wine.

The girls don't know it, but MAN O MAN does their Mommy love a good glass of wine.  Not that kosher sweet stuff, but GOOD wine.  A good Argentinian Malbec, a Califonian Pino Noir, a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc...

Not that I'll turn up my nose at a Two Buck Chuck.

As it turns out, despite not having had a lot of wine in the past eight months, my kids have picked up on my love for wine.

Or so they would have you believe.  Because, you see, Shabbat is so much fun.

So recently, and of course in front of mixed company, I find myself asking my children, "What do you want to drink?"

Nom nom nom nom...

And they answer me, "Wine!"

...and then they proceed to mumble or sing tunelessly a series of words that make absolutely no sense, swaying sightly where they stand and giggling.

As though they've already had quite enough, thank you.

That's right.  You can say it.

My kids look like freakin' drunks.

...

People must think I am such a good mom.

As soon as this baby is out of me, I'm getting my own bottle of wine.



P.S. You can also get those awesome Jewish holiday toy sets- they're here.

Sunday Blogaround 3.25

Round and Round and Round we go!

This has been a great week for blogging, it seems!  I'm very happy to share a lot of good posts with you today, as you get ready to start up a new week of reading, writing, and life-living.

Let me know if you've uncovered any gems!  Feel free to post them to my facebook wall during the week, or to my account on Google+!  I would love to discover new and wonderful blogs, posts, stories, pictures... anything awesome.  And I'll be happy to credit you as a fabulous finder.  I might even start up a blog-reader hall of fame, if you rock at it as much as I think you might.


Enjoy!



"Bald is Beautiful and Mohawks are Manly!" - The Butter Bottom Blog
Last month, this daddy blogger's wife was diagnosed with breast cancer.  They're upbeat and confident, and this is a post about how they're owning the experience.  I love it.

"Six Year Old Explicit Lyrics" - Happy Hippie Homemaker
I was once asked to review a CD of children's songs. It's one of the few times that I got comments on this blog that could be construed as hate mail.  It's always wonderful to see other parents who agree with me on what is "child appropriate," or not, and who care more about good music than about content that has to do with balloons or rainbows.

"Beginnings" - Good Times Dad
Two words- freaking hilarious.



"When Support Groups Aren't So Supportive" - The Crafting Hobbit
The Crafting Hobbit has a son on the spectrum, and a husband on the spectrum too for that matter.  This week she was kicked out of her support group.  Why?  For asking them to treat non-special needs kids with the same consideration as her own.  Go show her some love.  She deserves it.

"An Open Dialogue" - The Kopp Girls
I know, I refer you to Kyle's blog a lot.  That's because his girls, being almost exactly the same age as my girls, do a lot of the same (or similar things).  And I absolutely can't get over reading about it from another person's perspective.  Knowing that you're loved by your kids is amazing, and watching them turn into these fully formed people... it's humbling.  And awe inspiring.  And Kyle writes about it eloquently.

"A Once Upon A Time Story" - Finally Mom
I've only recently discovered this blog, and I love it.  On top of that, I love "happily ever after" tales of toddlers and love.

"Little Hoss Brings the Zombies" - The Hossman Chronicles
If anybody ever told Daddy Hoss that they based their parenting philosophy, in any way, on HIS parenting... he'd probably have a minor heart attack.  And yet, I do.  Daddy Hoss rocks, and I'm right there with him when it comes to the vital importance of introducing your kids to Star Wars, of the possibilities of mixing glitter with household reconstruction, and protecting yourself against the inevitable zombie apocalypse.  That said, I too fear that as a result, I might be sowing the seeds of global destruction.

"Hero, Part Two" - Try Defying Gravity
This autism mom wrote earlier in the week about meeting Temple Grandin's mother.  But Eustacia Cutler wasn't the only inspiring person that she met.  In this post, she writes about a man reconnecting with his autistic brother.  In their fifties.




"New Mom Survival Guide: You Are Doing A Good Job" - When Robots Reproduce
I know, I know... I wrote this one.  It's part of a series that the mommy Robot is hosting on new motherhood, having just had her baby last weekend.  But I still think it was an awesome post.  :)

Sunday Blogaround

Until I finish the button... here's my icon for the Sunday Blogaround!

Welcome to another edition of my Sunday Blogaround!  I'm still trying to think of a catchy name, so if you have any suggestions please let me know.

This week, my favorites run the gamut from drinking tales to vintage photography to breakfast.  Which is, I suppose, full circle.

Enjoy!









The NEW Glasers- "Purim Lessons"
A brief explanation of Purim, because I didn't write my own Purim post this year.  Chag Samayach, all!

Good Time Dad - "Purim"
One man makes it his mission (or did when he was in college) to follow the Purim drinking instructions to a T.

Michelle Mossey - "The Tower of Terror"
Finding balance between parenting techniques (and parents), and a really awesome idea for those of you who want to give your crazy kids a bit of a thrill.


Googiemama - "Speculoosity"
I have never heard of this stuff.  Now it is the only thing in the universe that I want to eat.  Googiemama strikes again.

Departing the Text - "Heroes for All"
I love this post- all about good role models and heroes for your children, complete with tons of age appropriate suggestions for characters that your kids might look up to... in all the right ways.  Plus- comic books for everybody!

io9 -"'The Women of the Future' According to 1902 French Trading Cards"
This post has super cool pictures!  Apparently, Feminism was sort of a fetish of the French around the turn of the 20th century.  Yes, they're pin-ups... but in that Victorian elaborately-corseted-and-accessorized-with-giant-hats kind of way.  I particularly love the lawyer.

The Daddy Dialogues - "Hold You In My Arms"
This post made me remember the earlier days with my little girls... in all the best possible ways.  I love blogs by other twin parents, I love daddy blogs, and I just generally love Brandon's stuff.  If you haven't heard of the Daddy Dialogues, check him out.


Things I Can't Say - "My Child Would Never Do That"
We've all had hard days.  Some days are harder than others, and some days... some days we need to remember that days are hard for other people as well.  And particularly, for other parents.  A heartbreaking story.

From the Mudroom - "What I Miss. Really."
One mom of teenagers reflects on having little children.  I'm going to keep this in my thoughts as long as I can.  Hopefully, about another five years.

Good Idea, or Best Idea Ever?

This year's assortment of flavors

Next week is the Jewish holiday of Purim.  It's a favorite of mine.

Dressing up in costumes?  Eating delicious cookies?  Drunken adult revelry?  (Well, not for me THIS year, but NEXT year you can bet your ass I'm getting tanked.)

At any rate, I've waxed poetic about Purim in the past.

But Purim isn't the only thing going on at the beginning of March.

As all of us Americans know, as soon as one mass-promotion holiday ends, the candy for the next one immediately begins.  That's right, Easter candy is all over the shelves in our grocery, pharmacy, and convenience stores.

SI and DD help me cut out the cookies

And as you know if you've been reading my blog for very long, the one thing I find irresistible about Easter is one very special candy.

One incredibly special candy.

Perhaps, the best candy ever devised by man.  Except maybe- MAYBE- for Ingberlech.

That's right.  Cadbury Creme Eggs.

...you can see where I'm going with this, can't you?  If not, that's okay.  I'm about to take a sudden left turn.

A watched cookie never bakes

Recently, I have been contemplating my cultural differences with M.  M's white American culture versus my immigrant-influenced Jewish culture.  It's hard to find common ground sometimes.  It's hard to figure out where the lines in the sand are and then to blur them into oblivion.

I have attempted to blur that line.

Like every year in my "adulthood," the weeks preceding Purim were filled with the planning (and eventually, baking) of many cookies.  Many very special, delicious Purim cookies... Hamentaschen.

Hamentaschen are awesome.  Just ask my Lutheran mother-in-law.  Come Christmas, it's the cookie she wants me to bake.  I tell her, "You're going to have to wait a few months."

They're not cool yet...

Very special cookies should be spread out across the year, no?  After all, as soon as the Christmas candies are gone, it's Valentine's Day.  After all the extra awesome chocolate, Purim comes and bring Hamentaschen.  Then, there are Girl Scout Cookies during the weeks between Purim and all the macarrons you can eat for Passover.  And of course, Passover is immediately followed by Easter and all of its egg shaped goodies.  Cookie lovers, enjoy the ride!

So this year, I had a sudden brainwave.

What couldn't I put into Hamentaschen?  If I can experiment with Nutella and blueberry Cabernet fillings, why can't I experiment with, say, something else?

After eating spaghetti, we finally reap the rewards

Something awesome from the goyim?

Something like... the best idea that Christian candy makers have ever come up with?

Could it be?  Could I have come up with a sacriligious and perhaps downright unholy union of sugars and carbohydrates and assorted fats?

Could I have, perhaps, coalesced my entire relationship with my husband into a simple confection that in of itself represents our family's harmony and dedication to understanding and cultural adoption and even, dare I say, randomness?

Two out of two grublings can't be wrong

Did I somehow manage to, through a mystical and unexpected alchemical process, bring into being a Frankensteinien creation of both genius and, certainly, more than a little human hubris?

Am I hyping this up a little too much?

Yes, my friends.  I am.  So I will finally just let you know about the amazing cookied candy I have invented.

That's right.  Friends and junk food lovers, I give you...

The Mini Cadbury Creme Egg Hamantaschen.

I think I hear a choir of angels singing...

...you're welcome.

B'tayavon!

What's in a Name?

Future namesakes

Naming Baby X is proving... a little complicated.

When it comes to cultural differences, my husband and I do very well.  We don't have arguments that are fundamentally based on a world view and experience that are different from each other.  Rather, we talk things through and find our common ground.

But baby names?  This is a much trickier area.

You see, M is white.

And I?  Am not.

Our first two babies were much easier to name.

Jewish and "white" are just not the same thing.  I have no frame of reference for "white."  I have a lifetime of experiences of otherness, of being an anomaly among "white" people.  Of being a "token Jew," or of being told by the group of white people around me about every other Jew they've ever known.  Of having my OWN cultural identity and needs completely ignored and marginalized in the face of the culture of the majority... white American culture.  Of "white" people having no idea what on earth I'm talking about when I reference the same basic experiences that all Jewish people share.

I wrote about this extensively once upon a time, for the blog of a Muslim mother I used to correspond with online.  I'm not going to rehash all the same issues, but I'll refer you to a perfect example.

Baby names.

For M, a lot of the names I come up with are strange; they are names he is completely unfamiliar with.  Whereas I have actual people that I know (or have known) and can associate with names like these:

Girls:
Aviva, Talia, Mara, Nava, Simcha, Zohara, Chani, Revital, Hadassah, Freyda, Noa...

Boys:
Dov, Ari, Tzvitka, Chaniel, Naftali, Lev, Yona, Chaim, Misha, Eitan

This is what a Rifka looks like

I can see the wheels spinning sometimes in M's head when I suggest naming a girl "Noa."  His thoughts, although he has the sensitivity never to say such a thing, are along the lines of, "What kind of a weird name for a girl is THAT?"  Keep in mind, M has met a Noa.  She's a regular feature at my family's seders.

Whereas when he suggests a perfectly white-American name- like, Kaylee- my internal response is, "But that's so... white."

There are other baby naming traditions that don't carry between Jews and goyim.  For example, who you can and cannot name a baby after.

In Jewish culture, it's a pretty big insult to name a baby after a living relative.  You name babies for dead relatives, as an honorific and sort of in the hope of passing along some of the beloved departed's traits.  You don't see a lot of Jewish Juniors.  Of course, in M's culture, you name babies after living people all the time.  M's middle name is his own father's name.  Nothing unusual for him, for me it would be inviting the worst of all possible outcomes- replacing the father with the son.  I could never name a child for my husband.

My great-grandma- big Bubbe

This means that, what with both of us having pretty big families, a LOT of names of just plain off the table.

The tradition of passing along family names made coming up with SI and DD remarkably easy.  We had both lost loved ones throughout our lives, and nobody had yet been named for our departed grandmothers and family friends.

SI is named, first, for my great-grandmother.  She died when I was about fourteen, and she was one of my favorite people in the whole world.

SI's middle name comes from my mother's best friend, who was murdered by her boyfriend when I was a child.  I have no real memories of the woman, but my memories of my mother grieving will stay with me for my whole life.  As important to me as my great-grandmother was, I have no doubt that Irene was more important to my mother.  And as I have a lifelong best friend of my own, I know how utterly devastated I would be if I found out something so horrific had happened to her.  In honor of the woman who had been my mother's best friend for most of her life, we gave her name to our daughter.

DD is named for both my grandmother and M's grandmother.  They actually died within the same year, my grandmother from colon cancer and M's grandmother from pulmonary fibrosis.  They were both wonderful women who were much loved, and M and I each remember our grandmother well.  As an added bonus, it was M's grandma's idea to give all of her children the initials "DD," so naming DD... well... DD, was an added honorific to her.

My grandma

Right now, we're operating under the impression that Baby X is a girl.  If Baby X is a boy, it simplifies matters somewhat.  M and I have both lost a grandfather, so we have a few names to work with.  But as for girls' names?

The debate is endless.

I suggest Hadassah, he counters with Scarlett.  I suggest Aviva, he counters with Angela.  I suggest Naama, he says... what?

It is, without a doubt, his least favorite recurring conversation.  He would rather talk about life insurance, or scheduling his next prostate exam.  He hates having this conversation with me.  I, likewise, hate having it with him.  But I can't stop.  Not until we're absolutely sure we can agree on a name.  It's a compulsion I can't shake.

For the time being, we're agreed on something.  Tentatively.  I'm not going to give it away, but it does include an old name from each of our families.  One of M's great-great-aunts (or was it great-great-great grandmother?), and one of my great-great-aunts.

My mother's best friend

I'm not sure it's right, but I'm not sure ANY name is right.  SI and DD had their names presented to us.  I had hoped to have daughters to name after three of those four women since I was fifteen.  I had never considered that I might find myself in need of other girls' names... but I like Jewish names.  I like names that feel to me as though they are connected with my heritage, my history, my culture, and my identity.

M has said that, when we were first dating seriously, he had considered me "white."  Now, he says he knows better.

And we're still learning to get through these cultural differences.  While I'm learning to take things in stride that would be utterly bizarre to my Jewish community, M is learning to take things in stride that are completely foreign to him.

I am a very Americanized Jew.  I am not a terribly religious Jew.  I have blue eyes and pale skin, I speak English extremely well and barely any Hebrew, I cook meat and dairy together for my husband and I am a kosher-by-default vegetarian.  But I am still a Jew.  And, as far as I and my community is concerned, any child of mine will also be- essentially- Jewish.  At least, they will have the opportunity to identify as Jewish, the implications of which are something that almost nobody who isn't born to a Jewish family can fully understand.  They will have the option of being accepted by the community at large as being Jewish.

So if Baby X is a Chani, or a Dov, that won't raise many eyebrows with the Yelenas and Avramis.  But it will for the Lindsays and Williams... which is to say, for M's family.

Baby X, last we saw probably-her

And if Baby X is a Brian, or a Valerie, it won't cause a stir with the Dereks and the Beths.  But it will make the Renas and the Bentzis shake their heads with the understanding that I have abandoned my own community a little more- that I have stepped even farther away from my heritage.  And I confess, I'd be shaking my head with them.

I love M.  And I believe with 100% of my soul that these are not irreconcilable differences.

But holy cow...

Naming a baby is hard.

On Losing My Husband's Grandfather

DeLloyd with his great granddaughters

On Friday morning, my husband's grandfather passed away at 77 years old.

It was remarkably unexpected.  He had been in ill health, but through several surgeries had been improving greatly.  Thanks to the doctors at the Mayo Clinic, he had saved his legs and, it seemed, his heart from the ravages of diabetes.  However, there was "hibernating" tissue in his heart that put him at very high risk for cardiac arrest, or rather, if he HAD a heart attack he was not likely to survive it.  And so the plan was made to schedule him for a surgery to reawaken the hibernating tissue.

It wan't open heart surgery, it was as non-invasive as heart surgery gets.

They put him under anesthesia and inserted the catheters with their scopes for performing the surgery, but before they could even begin the procedure his blood pressure tanked, and his heart stopped beating.

The entire family is in shock.

It's not just that it is hard to lose a loved one.  It's that this came during what seemed to many of us to be his recovery.  He did not look or, so far as I know, feel ill.  However, he let those family members that went with him to his final procedure know that should anything happen to him, he was completely at peace with the outcome of that.

My husband's grandfather was a pastor.

The first time I was to be introduced to him, I must confess that I was terrified.  Here I was, the Jewish girlfriend, being introduced to the family patriarch, the Reverend.  Although M tried to comfort me with the idea that his family was just having your run-of-the-mill Christmas party, I shouldn't worry about people trying to talk about Jesus to me.  When one branch of the family arrived wearing, "Put the Christ back in Christmas" t-shirts, my nerves heightened and I became, if possible, more skeptical and frightened of what might happen.

DeLloyd administering the sheva bruchot

But DeLloyd was never the sort to intimidate, or to behave in any way that might be seen as frightening or imposing.  He looked to me like Santa Claus with a Van Dyke beard rather than the full Grizzly Adams.  He was kind, he was sweet, and he immediately made me feel welcome and even loved.

I have almost never felt less than welcomed by M's family.  As much as I might feel occasionally foreign or exotic to the clan of Minnesota Lutherans, I feel at the same time loved and respected for my differences, as well as for what we share.  And I believe that much of that has to do with the family having DeLloyd for a patriarch.

When M and I were married, he didn't officiate our wedding.  Rather, he assisted by performing a traditional part of the Jewish ceremony- the sheva bruchot.  Our asking him to do this was something that he found not at all odd, or offensive.  He was delighted to do it, and did so without any hint of disrespect towards us or our friend who had been ordained online for the purposes of officiating the majority of the ceremony.

In a time and a place when Christianity is frequently used as a platform for condemnation and even hatred, DeLloyd always represented, to me, the very best that any Christian can be.  He did not cast the first stone, he seemed to constantly exude an aura of love for everyone around him, he listened and he smiled and he acted as though he knew that God had a plan, albeit mysterious, and that the plan was fundamentally good.

In short, he was a wonderful man.  I always looked forward to seeing him.  I never again felt anxious about what he might say, or even think.

What I learned about him since our first meeting only proved all of what I initially felt about him.  He dedicated most of his life to a school in a downtrodden part of St. Paul.  He didn't believe that it was the Lutheran school's job to proselytize the African American and Latino children, to impose any trappings of his own faith into the school.  Rather, he believed it was the job of the school to educate them, and hopefully to encourage their own love of learning.

SI, DeLloyd, DD, and DeLloyd's wife Barb

I think the moment that he and I shared that showed me how incredibly sensitive he could be, how incredibly kind and understanding, was the day after M's brain surgery.  We had all just learned of M's diagnosis, and had stood quietly by while the doctor explained it to M, still confused and woozy from the painkillers and anesthesia.  DeLloyd offered to lead us in a prayer.

He did not directly ask me to join him.  He did not ask if it would make me uncomfortable.  He simply did what it was that he did- which was to pray for his grandson's recovery.  And in that moment, when I could have felt very much isolated from M's family, he mentioned me in his prayer.  He asked that God look after not only M, but after me as well- newly engaged to his ill grandson.  And he did this without any hint of unhappiness that I did not share his faith- he did it simply with the understanding that I had completely tied my life to M, and that I would be there with him and for him no matter what.  I wish I could remember the exact words that he used.  They were filled with love, not just for M, and for God, but for me.  The future granddaughter-in-law that he had only met a handful of times.

DeLloyd was the first person who, it seemed, really understood how much M and I meant to each other.  And I cried.  Not because I too prayed that God would protect my future husband, but because here- on this earth- a human being understood what I was going through at that moment.  And that human being was DeLloyd.

When I heard the news of his death, I went into shock.  It had only just happened, and Grandma called me in tears.  She didn't even have to say what had happened.  I spent a few moments utterly numb- completely unable to figure out how to do anything.  Once the shock wore off, I pushed my grocery cart the fifteen feet towards the flower section of the grocery store that I had *just* stepped into, and I prayed.  I closed my eyes, and standing over my empty cart, I recited the Mourner's Kaddish.  I tore the hem of my skirt, and I went into the store to pick up my groceries.  What should have been a ten minute trip took me an hour and a half.  I just kept circling the store, unable to figure out what to do.  My impulse was to buy all the food I could think of.  Because people have to eat.  Because I needed to cook.  My impulse was to just sit down with the grapefruit and be as alone with my thoughts as one can be in the produce section of Whole Foods.  I bought a ridiculous amount of food.  I went home.  I baked a cheesecake and a chocolate cream pie, which was on the agenda anyway, I talked myself out of cooking a steak for M, I scrubbed but didn't bake a whole sack of potatoes, and I rearranged the refrigerator.

DeLloyd, SI, Barb, M, and DD

We all mourn differently.

As M's aunts and uncles post facebook messages remembering DeLloyd, I can't help but find myself thinking about all that he, as a man I did not know nearly well enough, had meant to me.  And in M's sadness, and their sadness, and my sadness, I find some comforts.

It comforts me that he died completely at peace, knowing that he would go to heaven.  We should all be so fortunate.
It comforts me that he would have understood the sadness caused by his death, and known what to say to make everyone feel more at ease in their grief.
And it comforts me to know that his legacy is one of love.  That he taught forgiveness and acceptance rather than condemnation and fear.  And those lessons are like seeds, that once planted grow and continue to spread.

M has quoted scripture to me that he says describes his grandfather's teachings, and everything I ever knew of DeLloyd echoed those words.  "A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." 


The last thing that I can't help thinking of, as I mourn for DeLloyd, are the words of Dumbledore.  I know, my obsession with Harry Potter knows no bounds, but there you have it.  As Dumbledore said, "Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all those who live without love."

It is a sentiment that I am sure DeLloyd would share.

Rev. DeLloyd Wippich, 1934-2012

Holiday Recap, or, Unintended Consequences of Birthing Favorite (i.e. "only") Grandchildren

The last night of Channukah

I have spent a great deal of the day thus far making plans for M and I to take the weekend essentially away from our children, in order to undertake The Great Ikea Adventure.

First of all, you must understand... I don't do so well at stores like Ikea.  I get agoraphobia on occasion, and nothing like a big box store will kick that in.  And no store is bigger, more filled with people and stuff, and more designed to totally overwhelm your senses than Ikea.  Add to that my rapidly increasing levels of nesting hormones, my obsessive need to plan, and my inability to walk for any meaningful length of time without a cane (yay SPD!), and it all adds up to a gigantic disaster waiting to happen.  Thankfully, sans grublings.

So why on earth are we doing this?  What could possibly have inspired us to go through the process of trucking ourselves out to the burbs to go through a process that will most likely result in at least one of us crying in public?  (The only Ikea trip that left M in tears was more due to manly shame than anything else- his pregnant wife was climbing all over the car using her mad knot tying skillz to attach far too many oddly proportioned boxes to the roof of our Kia.  Girl Scouts taught me well.)

How I decorate for the Holidays

We are going to Ikea in order to find a way to accommodate the innumerable presents that were heaped upon our children by their doting relatives.

This is not a complaint, but I'm just saying... I don't remember EVER having as many toys as my kids have right now.  I just stole away and entire box of toys that as Executive Parental Unit I deemed "outgrown," and their toybox STILL doesn't close.

So what on earth was involved in this veritable orgy of gift giving?  I couldn't even begin to catalog it.  But I can tell you without a doubt what the favored gifts have been, and I am extremely pleased to say that I am behind at least three of them.  Go SuperMommy!

(If you don't care about the details of the toys, skip to the picture of the man in the fancy pants for the heartwarming ending.)

SI and her new train

We had three distinct gift giving events.  First, our own small family Channukah celebration.  It was the first night of Channukah, and the girls opened presents sent from extended family members, from me and M, and from a few friends.

This night yielded two big wins for the kids.  First, their Melissa and Doug toy train set and toy truck and car set.  I'd just like to say, my girls LOVE cars and trains.  I think the idea that toys like this are so heavily gendered is truly unfair.  And I love that the first person to get them their own trucks- a great toy dump truck and fishing boat set- was my Granny- hereafter known as Great-Grandmommy.  She delivered them to the girls last summer with the announcement that SOMEBODY had to get our   little girls their "boy toys," because those are better toys anyway.  Great-Grandmommy, you rock.  The train and truck came from her sister, my great aunt Minda Rae.  They have been underfoot ever since.  It's kind of glorious.

Wearing their Channukah dresses from Great-Grandmommy

The next big toy excitement was over their "big" presents from Mommy and Daddy- that is, me and M.  As SI has been obsessed with robots for months now, we found her a super cute stuffed robot.  Despite the obvious reasons not to, she immediately named it "Blue Robot," and it became her very best friend.  For DD, we got an owl.  Now, this was a little trickier.  She has a serious case of the "me toos" when it comes to expressing her opinions.  So I simply filed a way a list of things that she announced she loved that morning while getting dressed, and when I found what was to be HER stuffed toy, her little voice announcing, "I love owls!" jumped back from my memory.  As it turns out, she loves this owl, too.

SI and Aunt Engineer play with the elephant bank

The next day, it was off to Minnesota for Christmas.

Yes, the very next day.

I can't even begin to recount all the gifts they received.  M's family utterly showered them with love and toys and all manner of things that little children absolutely adore.  It was five days of nonstop madness.

Aunt and Uncle Engineer got the children stuffed animal piggie banks.  Well, a piggie bank and an elephant bank.  They make noise and move around each time you put in a coin.

This was more excitement than my children could handle.  Cookies were abandoned.  All games forgotten.  Nothing was important anymore.  Not now that there were... pig and elephant.

DD insisted on posing with "her family" at least 100 times

The children spent much of the trip putting coins into the banks as fast as they possibly could.  It is due to this that they quickly learned that the coins that made the pig and elephant come to life were called "money," and from there it was only a few quick leaps of thought to the repeated squeal, "I love money!"  Adorable, yes.  My grandfather probably rolled in his grave a little bit.  :)

The girls were each given a gift by their cousins (we have a one-to-one gift giving ratio for kids, as there are SO MANY of them in M's family!), and I have to say... those cousins have spectacular taste!  It's amazing.  The girls only get to see most of M's family a few times a year, but M's aunts in charge of gift gathering for grublings seemed to read the girls' minds across the span of three states.  DD got what she has since called "my family," which is two little girl dolls, a mommy doll, and a daddy doll.  She carries them with her everywhere.

Yup, same zipper as on the show...

Then came the coup de grace, Muno and Brobee.  You see, my kids are OBSESSED with Yo Gabba Gabba.  For a whole month, the only way I knew to get SI to smile for the camera was to ask her if Muno had bumps, or one big eye.  The answer to both of those questions is "yes."  I searched EVERYWHERE, within a few pre-set limitations, for Yo Gabba Gabba toys.  I finally dug up some stuffed backpacks from Spencer's Gifts, of all places.  DD was immediately in love.  SI wasn't so sure.  She spent about five minutes looking Muno over, as if asking him, "Are you really who you say you are?"  Finally, she accepted that he might not be THE Muno, but he was at least HER Muno.  And just like that, Blue Robot was forgotten.  Possibly forever.

Future American Idol?

I actually feel bad for that toy.  To be loved intensely for five days and then tossed aside?  But I digress...

The other huge Christmas hits were microphones and flashlights.  The microphones, sadly, do not have adjustable volumes.  But they have wrought a huge change in my daily life.  As many of our friends and family know, our children HATE singing.  The reason for this is that they love being sung to sleep, so much that they associate all singing with bedtime.  So unless they are not tired, not laying down, or have no wish to sleep, they feel they are being tricked when somebody strikes up a tune.  However, the microphones play the tunes to a few songs that I know, and I now frequently find myself with two microphones shoved in my face as I sing endless verses of "Old MacDonald Had A Farm."

The flashlights have been turned into SI's new favorite game of all time.  She calls it, "Light in the Dark."  It sounds religious, but actually it's quite literal.  I turn off the hallway lights, and then she runs around with her flashlight (a tiger that roars when his mouth opens to emit a beam of light) squealing with delight, roaring with the tiger, and announcing, "Make light in the dark!"

Grandma made that purple dress!

Then it was back to Chicago for the last night of Channukah, and immediately off to Guppy Lake for the SuperMommy family shindig and New Year's Eve.

Again, total present overload.  My mother went absolutely nuts getting stuff for the girls.  But the most beloved items of the trip were the following...

The vintage stuffed My Little Ponies made the top of the list.  I'm still patting myself on the back.  And intensely relieved.  If the girls hadn't liked them, I'd be playing with them myself out of pure determined pride.  Aunt Genocide was pretty floored when she saw them.  They're creatures of our own childhood, and it is a little strange to see them brought back to life, as it were.

DD lighting the wooden candles

Grandmommy got the girls a toy Menorah.  That was an enormous hit.  The girls took turns lighting candles all weekend long.  They even came to accept more singing- the Channukah shema in a variety of tunes.  So long as they were lighting the candles, singing was totally allowed.  It was pretty cool.

And then there were the books.  So many books!

The girls favorite two were, without a doubt, "It Happened in Pinsk," and "The Carrot Seed."  Although the Nutshell Library and the incredible pop-up book from Grandmommy are also instant favorites.

"It Happened In Pinsk"

It's odd.  I noticed as I was picking out books for my kids (like "It Happened in Pinsk') that really, I was passing along my own favorite books.  But the more books I got for the girls (they got a book apiece every night of Channukah), the more I realized that I wasn't passing along MY favorite books, I was passing along my mother's favorite books (Maurice Sendak's Nutshell Library) that had been passed to me.  And more than that, I was passing along Great-Grandmommy's favorite books ("Harry the Dirty Dog" and "Blueberries for Sal") that had been passed first to my mother and then to me.

It's amazing to realize that children's books, GOOD children's books, are so incredibly universal that they transcend era.  That it doesn't strike my kids as at all odd that somebody would deliver coal, or that Sal's mommy's kitchen would have a wood burning stove, or that Pierre's mother wears an elaborately feathered hat.  It doesn't strike them as strange that the big brother in "The Carrot Seed" would wear knickerbockers, or that Irv Irving's telephone would have separate parts for the mouth and ear pieces.

Reading "Harry the Dirty Dog" with Grandma

A good story, with good illustrations, is basically immortal.  And that's pretty cool.

So the girls need about a bazillion feet of shelf space for all their new books, they need a new, more organized system in which to store their increasingly complicated toys, and I need about a month and a half to recover from the insanity that was December.

I suppose that if there's a moral here, it's Don't Have the First Grandchildren Unless You Have Tons Of Space.

Or, you know, do.  Because there are few joys greater than giving a gift that is well loved.

M and his swag

And truly, gift giving is my favorite part of the season.  I love to give presents.  I love finding things that tell the people I care about, "I KNOW you.  And I love you.  And in order to show you that, I have a physical object that you will love because it reflects something about you that can only be known by those who DO love and know you."

I got Grandmommy a super weird CD.  I got Aunt Genocide TMNT tumblers.  I got M a laptop skin that looks like a vintage boom box and a hoodie from his alma mater.  I got Aunt Engineer a beautiful upcycled sweater.

I love to give gifts.  Because when somebody opens the gift, and sees something that they really like, it's not about what that thing is.  It's about being loved.

So I am glad that my children are so crazy about all their new stuff.  Not because they needed a single piece of it (which they did- the dresses and the socks. THANK YOU!).  Not because now they have all sorts of new distractions that give me a little more time.  I am glad because they are so thoroughly loved by their family- by their aunts and uncles and grandparents and greatgrandparents... by friends they didn't know that they had.

Watching them play together is always pretty amazing.

My heart was warmed every single time DD grinned and said Thank You to another person.  I grinned seeing now only how happy my children were, but how happy their relatives were, seeing that they had succeeded in showing something simple like love to my children.

I love the holidays.  I love presents.  While I don't care what I get (although I ADORE the perfume M got me!), I care very much what I give.  And I really hope to instill those sorts of gift giving values to my kids.