Talking to myself while cleaning for Pesach

Chaya 1: Wow, there’s a lot of gross stuff stuck on this chair.

Chaya 2: It’s okay. Just spray it with toxic cleaner and keep working.

Chaya 1: As long as I’m cleaning the chair, I may as well really scrub at it.

Chaya 2: That would be fine if all you had to do before Pesach was clean this chair, but you have a few other things on your agenda.

Chaya 1: I can’t believe I let so much gunk accumulate on this chair. My sisters-in-law would never let their chairs get this dirty.

I want to be a matzah

I just heard this awesome story from Rabbi Hanoch Teller about a rabbi who realized right before the seder that his housekeeper had fed all the shmurah matzah to his children for breakfast.

This was the 18^th century. These weren’t matzot that the rabbi had ordered from his shul or picked up at the local kosher mart. He had cut the wheat himself and separated the chaff and ground the grain to flour and mixed it with water and kneaded the dough and shaped the matzot and poked them full of holes to discourage rising and rushed them into a hot oven and baked them to perfection.  And through all this hard work, I’m sure he meditated on the symbolism of matzah, yearning to be “flat” and free of the chametz of ego and to perform the mitzvah with beauty and clarity. And in an instant, all that work was gone, munched into breakfast crumbs. But the rabbi didn’t freak out and yell at his employee; he just asked his wife to obtain some regular matzot, and they proceeded with the seder.

I shifted in discomfort when I heard this story. I thought of how I might react if, say, a side dish for the seder meal doesn’t turn out the way I want.

Hitting snooze on my wake-up call

When I heard about the bus bombing, I was entertaining a house full of children—my three and two neighbors. Well, it wasn’t that entertaining. Except when the two youngest started wailing and I got out a couple of one-eyed Steiff puppets to sing a classic Israeli children’s song about a rodent who leaves the door open and catches a virus (how Jewish is that?). That was one of my finer moments that afternoon. Mostly, I was periodically settling toy disputes and doling out snacks and then shooing everyone back into the nursery because I don’t like noise.

They shoot, I’ll build

I have been sick for a couple of weeks straight now with one thing and then another—our whole family seems to be building our immigrant immunity to a new continent’s worth of germs. And just as I was recovering from the last thing, I injured my back. My husband has been bearing the entire burden of caring for the kids, which we usually share. He is dressing them, feeding them, ferrying them back and forth from gan and babysitting, putting them to bed. The laundry is piling up and the Shabbat leftovers are running out.

Mini-victory: stop the screeching

There comes a point in every toddler’s life when he realizes that he can make a really cool, loud, high-pitched shrieking sound anytime he wants. No? Your children don’t do this? Okay, I don’t want to hear about it.

Anyway, my girls went through a shrieking phase, and now it’s B.A.’s turn. And you know how every mother has her thing, a personal pet issue that makes her a little crazy? Like how some women are freaked out about choking risks and other people can’t stand clutter? No, this doesn’t ring a bell? Nothing ruffles you? Fine, now I’m unfriending you on Facebook .

Parenting with ghosts

It was bedtime and I was trying to wrestle B.A. into his footie pajamas.  A.N. was standing off to the side, whining in a rising-and-falling monologue like an accordion. Something about a cookie? Two cookies of unequal size? Broken off in an unacceptable way? I wasn’t listening to the details as much as just trying to breathe and be calm.

In the midst of this, I was overcome by the pleasure of B.A.’s adorable arms and tummy. He is at that wonderful toddlerbaby phase where his body is still soft and mushy, too new to walking to slim down or muscle up. I hugged him and I hugged A.N.

“I love this little family so much. Thank you Hashem for this little family.”

The no-fail parenting solution that will change everything

In response to my post on davening with young children in the house, the excellent Glad Hatter commented:

Amazing! I have just been living off the hope that all the extra davening I got when I was single is filtering into these years and keeping my average up. I run tot shabbat, but this should hopefully get me a little yom tov davening! IYH it'll keep working for you!

I had to laugh at myself when I saw that last bit—Glad Hatter’s lovely wish that my system will keep working for me. I am not so confident about the parenting enterprise that I often make predictions, but here I am secure in forecasting the following:

Why All Victories, Part I

Since I launched the blog, a few people have asked me why I chose the title “All Victories.” There are a few reasons, so I’ll start with the first and hopefully get to the others at another time.

Since I moved to Nachlaot and started running into Jenny in the course of my days, she has occasionally urged me to start writing a blog. I think her main point was that more women parenting young children need to share their voices. And I really wanted to listen to Jenny because I think she is wise and I like to listen to wise people. But I really really did not want to start a blog. Not at all.

How I daven with three young children at home

Bribes. Bribes deserve a post of their own. Here is how I use bribes to get some praying done Shabbat morning. Unlike the rest of the week, when my kids are at nursery school or babysitting, on Shabbat they are all around in their lively glory, and it can be quite challenging to pray.

Wait, first let me tell you what I do NOT do. I do not try to engage in solemn communion with my Creator with the child cyclone swirling around me. I tried this briefly the other week—snatching a quick mincha while the kids ate dinner so very nicely. My darling A.N. promptly starting using her fork to drum on the pine dining table, so instead of thinking about prayer I was thinking “Gouge gouge gouge. Gouge gouge gouge.”

Pine is a soft wood.

Elevating the pink

The discussion around Peggy Orenstein’s new book, Cinderella Ate My Daughter caught my attention. See, I have young girls, and there’s a lot of princess talk in my house, too. And most of it is coming from me.

I tell my young daughters to sit like princesses, no feet on the table. Meals are served in “princess portions,” and if they finish that, they can ask for seconds. When they behave in a way that is beneath their station, I tell them, “You are princesses; I expect more of you.”