News broke today that Marissa Mayer, the newly appointed CEO of Yahoo, is pregnant and expecting her first child in the fall. First of all, kudos to her for being a young woman who has busted her butt to climb the corporate ladder in a tech firm. She should be the model for the Yahoo Barbie doll.
Since the news broke I've read a few articles that are trying to use Ms. Mayer as proof that women can in fact have it all. I think this statement--having it all--may be at the heart of the so-called mommy wars. And now the media is once again using a strong woman to make others feel inadequate. How about all those male CEOs--is anybody asking if they have it all? I don't think so.
I don't believe for a second you can have it all.
I believe that phrase---that expectation--leads to a life of discontent. Life is about choices. When you have children (or, for that matter, choose not to), you have to forge a path where you decide which sacrifices will lead to which rewards. Those choices are so very personal, and they pervade every moment of every day.
I read one article that asked, "If you're up at 2 a.m. with a baby, why not read memos from your team?" Maybe because that 2am feeding is the only time your baby lays still enough for you to notice her curls have grown or her cheeks have filled out or her toes no longer curl when you tickle her feet. Those moments are fleeting, and deserve your full attention. Or maybe the contents of that memo involve complex legal issues that will affect a major settlement which will, in turn, completely change the course of somebody else's life. Those moments are intense, and deserve your full attention. If that is the definition of having it all, I don't want it all.
I have mom friends that have one foot in each world and get to celebrate big wins at work, and big milestones at home--but sometimes feel the pull when they have to leave a sick baby at home to make an important presentation, or skip a business trip to be home for a first birthday. They don't have it all. They've made the choices that are best for their families, they endure the sacrifices, and they revel in the rewards.
Obviously, I've chosen to spend these years at home with my babies. My choice does not come without sacrifices--I certainly feel a pang when I see a member of my graduating class in the news for winning a major case. There are days when I wish I was knee deep in legal briefs instead of dirty diapers.
But for me, I would not trade these years with my babies for anything. I've made choices. I've made sacrifices. I know I don't have it all but the truth is, I have everything I need.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Mom Village
It's been said that it 'takes a village' to raise a child. So true, so true. People often tell me they don't know how I do all that I do with three little people. It's simple...I've got an amazing village of moms (in addition to my amazing husband and our families), so I rarely have to go it alone. We are still recovering from all of the (mis)adventures of the past year, and I can think back to so many instances where things would have been so much worse without our village.
Happy Mother's Day to the mom that caught Finny Bo Binny when he was about to take flight off the 2nd story of a playground structure. Also, to the moms that made me feel ok when he did take that flight, and I couldn't move fast enough to catch him. Happy Mother's Day to the mom that volunteered to watch all three little people when we had to put our beloved Lukey boy to sleep, and to the mom who offered to do the final pooper-scooper-ing of our yard so I didn't have to face that final task. Happy Mother's Day to the moms that have cooked and delivered meals, shared recipes, and reviewed my experiments. Happy Mother's Day to the moms that have saved us hundreds of dollars with your product reviews, and helped us spend hundreds more dollars with your product raves. Happy Mother's Day to the moms that have helped me diagnose illnesses, and reassured me that my babies' symptoms mean nothing serious. Happy Mother's Day to the moms that have given me rainy day ideas, and the moms that have invited us over to puddle stomp at their house. To the moms that live far away, but post pictures of their babies on facebook so I can feel a part of their lives, all the while oohing and ahhhing at the pictures I post. Happy Mother's Day to the mom that helped Finny bowl his first spare, and the mom that held Felicity so I could help with the second. To the mom who tied the Tatiman's shoe, and the stranger (mom) who came running after me when we left a beloved lego guy on a park bench. Happy Mother's Day to the mom that convinced me to come to a moms' night out, even if I had to bring my sweet Lici girl, because she knew I really needed a night out. Happy Mother's Day to the first-time-moms and moms-to-be, who remind me of the excitement I felt when these babies were in my belly--a particularly good reminder on days when I'm ready to to run away and join the circus.
I hope today was a day of appreciation for all the moms in my Village.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
When Breasts Aren't Best.
I’m not one to talk about my boobs. Really, there is nothing particularly special about them, nothing worthy of discussion. It’s almost fitting then that the first time I’m discussing them in public is because they are failures. That’s right, though I’m a B cup; I have F- boobs when it comes to providing milk for my precious babies.
I’ve thought and thought about writing this post, but every time I’ve begun to write, I’ve fallen into a pile of tears and decided that depression is not the best place to be when I write a public blog. But today I’m not depressed. No, I’m angry. And we all know…anger is the best place to come from when writing a blog!
I’m angry because I’ve met five women, this week alone, that have gone through the same struggle as me—and all of us are *just* feeling ok enough to talk about it. We are all middle class, educated women who embraced the mantra “Breast is Best” and came into motherhood with every intention of feeding our babies the way nature intended. We knew that breastfeeding would give our babies higher IQs, better immunity, more bonding time, less allergies…and on and on and on.
What we didn’t know is that our bodies would fail us. And today I’m angry because nobody told us that could happen—and even angrier that nobody is figuring out WHY this is happening. I often think of my struggle to breastfeed as similar to my friends who have struggled with infertility. Breastfeeding, like conceiving a child, is such a miniscule part of what makes you a parent—yet as a woman, if your body doesn’t let you accomplish these things naturally, it’s hard not to feel like a failure.
When I gave birth to the Tatiman, it never occurred to me that I would do anything other than breastfeed him. Until I nearly starved him to death. I read the books, I listed to his pediatrician, and I worked with two lactation consultants. I drank water, I ate oatmeal, I took herbs, I downed tinctures, and I ordered medications not approved by the FDA. I fed him 12 times a day for an hour each time, then pumped for 30 minutes after each feeding, and then fed him whatever I managed to pump. That’s 20 hours a day, minimum, that I sat in tears, facing my perceived failure, while I still managed to starve my beautiful baby boy. Nobody worked harder than I did to do what I believed my body should do naturally. When I finally accepted that my body was not producing enough milk, I knew I had to supplement with formula. I can vividly remember the smell when I opened that first can of formula, and feeling a stabbing pain in my heart when I realized I would not even taste that powdery mix, yet I had to feed it to my innocent newborn son. I wanted to run away to a lala land where my boobs worked, but unfortunately, no lala land existed, so I added formula to the mix. Now my baby was thriving, but I was still spending 20 hours a day doing everything I could to make milk…and failing, repeatedly. I cannot explain to you the anguish I felt (and still feel, remembering that time) every.single.time somebody asked me if I was breastfeeding. I wanted to SCREAM that I was TRYING, but the feelings of failure and fear of judgment usually had me dodging the question. I can’t even begin to tell you how marginalized I’ve felt by well-meaning women who suggested I drink more water or take a ‘nursing vacation.’ My struggles with breastfeeding factored heavily into our decision not to have any more children (yeah, we see how that went!). Eventually, I made surface-level peace with the situation and went on to nurse the Tatiman for 10 months, and continued pumping and giving him ‘shots’ of breast milk until he was a year old.
I had high hopes when I gave birth to the Finny Bo Binny. The Tatiman had been tongue tied which I had hoped factored into our issues. Finny Bo had a perfect tongue. Unfortunately, I still had imperfect boobs. I began the routine—nurse, pump, feed, rinse, repeat—but was scared to take many of the herbs and drugs because Finny had a wicked case of reflux, and I didn’t want to make anything worse for his poor tummy. Still, we managed to keep up the schedule until Finny was 5 months old, and then I pumped until he was 8 months and the breast milk ‘shots’ became breast milk ‘sips’ and life went on. I held out hope that the problem was his, rather than mine, because even when taking in massive quantities of formula on top of the breast milk, the Finny Bo Binny has never broken the 10th percentile for weight. It was possible that he was really just a slow grower on my breast milk, since he barely grew once we added formula. Possible, but not plausible.
Seven weeks ago I gave birth to my beautiful Lici girl. I naively thought the third time would be the charm. I also naively thought I could mentally prepare myself for my inability to breastfeed her without any supplementation. When reality sunk in…depression started to sink in too. But this time I was DETERMINED not to spend the first few weeks of my baby’s life feeling like a failure. So I started the herbs and tinctures and medications, and I forced myself to adopt the attitude that I would give her all the breast milk I make, and the rest is just nutrition.
Nutrition. That’s it. Formula is not the devil. Formula has kept my children alive and thriving. And I don’t mean to brag…but I have one of the smartest three year olds I’ve ever met—his IQ isn’t suffering. I have a 22 month old that is practically glued to my side—we didn’t fail to bond. And I have a 7 week old that is currently snuggled up, wrapped in a Moby, making the sweetest little cooing noises. Did I mention she can already roll? Well, she can. I think she’s going to be just fine.
I’m angry because I had to go through some very dark times to get to where I am today, and I even angrier that I have been unable to find any help in the form of answers and treatment from the medical community. In fact, my beloved lactation consultant just attended a three-day conference where under-supply did not receive a SINGLE session. How can it be that even an organization whose main goal is to promote breastfeeding is ignoring the issue? I think it’s because there is still a perception that anybody that wants to breastfeed can. And anybody who can’t is choosing formula as the easy way out. Maybe that was true one day, but it just isn’t true today. More and more of us are struggling, and I want to know why.
So for now, I nurse my baby girl as often as possible. I suck in her sweet smell, and stare into her lightening blue eyes. I rub her long toes and I pat her little tushy. I consciously use the word “nurse” to describe what we do rather than breastfeed. Nursing is caring, and loving, and attending to—and I do all of that, in spite of my milk supply.
I imagine very few of you actually care about my struggles to breastfeed, but if it makes one of you feel like you are NOT a failure, I’m glad I put it out there.
I’ve thought and thought about writing this post, but every time I’ve begun to write, I’ve fallen into a pile of tears and decided that depression is not the best place to be when I write a public blog. But today I’m not depressed. No, I’m angry. And we all know…anger is the best place to come from when writing a blog!
I’m angry because I’ve met five women, this week alone, that have gone through the same struggle as me—and all of us are *just* feeling ok enough to talk about it. We are all middle class, educated women who embraced the mantra “Breast is Best” and came into motherhood with every intention of feeding our babies the way nature intended. We knew that breastfeeding would give our babies higher IQs, better immunity, more bonding time, less allergies…and on and on and on.
What we didn’t know is that our bodies would fail us. And today I’m angry because nobody told us that could happen—and even angrier that nobody is figuring out WHY this is happening. I often think of my struggle to breastfeed as similar to my friends who have struggled with infertility. Breastfeeding, like conceiving a child, is such a miniscule part of what makes you a parent—yet as a woman, if your body doesn’t let you accomplish these things naturally, it’s hard not to feel like a failure.
When I gave birth to the Tatiman, it never occurred to me that I would do anything other than breastfeed him. Until I nearly starved him to death. I read the books, I listed to his pediatrician, and I worked with two lactation consultants. I drank water, I ate oatmeal, I took herbs, I downed tinctures, and I ordered medications not approved by the FDA. I fed him 12 times a day for an hour each time, then pumped for 30 minutes after each feeding, and then fed him whatever I managed to pump. That’s 20 hours a day, minimum, that I sat in tears, facing my perceived failure, while I still managed to starve my beautiful baby boy. Nobody worked harder than I did to do what I believed my body should do naturally. When I finally accepted that my body was not producing enough milk, I knew I had to supplement with formula. I can vividly remember the smell when I opened that first can of formula, and feeling a stabbing pain in my heart when I realized I would not even taste that powdery mix, yet I had to feed it to my innocent newborn son. I wanted to run away to a lala land where my boobs worked, but unfortunately, no lala land existed, so I added formula to the mix. Now my baby was thriving, but I was still spending 20 hours a day doing everything I could to make milk…and failing, repeatedly. I cannot explain to you the anguish I felt (and still feel, remembering that time) every.single.time somebody asked me if I was breastfeeding. I wanted to SCREAM that I was TRYING, but the feelings of failure and fear of judgment usually had me dodging the question. I can’t even begin to tell you how marginalized I’ve felt by well-meaning women who suggested I drink more water or take a ‘nursing vacation.’ My struggles with breastfeeding factored heavily into our decision not to have any more children (yeah, we see how that went!). Eventually, I made surface-level peace with the situation and went on to nurse the Tatiman for 10 months, and continued pumping and giving him ‘shots’ of breast milk until he was a year old.
I had high hopes when I gave birth to the Finny Bo Binny. The Tatiman had been tongue tied which I had hoped factored into our issues. Finny Bo had a perfect tongue. Unfortunately, I still had imperfect boobs. I began the routine—nurse, pump, feed, rinse, repeat—but was scared to take many of the herbs and drugs because Finny had a wicked case of reflux, and I didn’t want to make anything worse for his poor tummy. Still, we managed to keep up the schedule until Finny was 5 months old, and then I pumped until he was 8 months and the breast milk ‘shots’ became breast milk ‘sips’ and life went on. I held out hope that the problem was his, rather than mine, because even when taking in massive quantities of formula on top of the breast milk, the Finny Bo Binny has never broken the 10th percentile for weight. It was possible that he was really just a slow grower on my breast milk, since he barely grew once we added formula. Possible, but not plausible.
Seven weeks ago I gave birth to my beautiful Lici girl. I naively thought the third time would be the charm. I also naively thought I could mentally prepare myself for my inability to breastfeed her without any supplementation. When reality sunk in…depression started to sink in too. But this time I was DETERMINED not to spend the first few weeks of my baby’s life feeling like a failure. So I started the herbs and tinctures and medications, and I forced myself to adopt the attitude that I would give her all the breast milk I make, and the rest is just nutrition.
Nutrition. That’s it. Formula is not the devil. Formula has kept my children alive and thriving. And I don’t mean to brag…but I have one of the smartest three year olds I’ve ever met—his IQ isn’t suffering. I have a 22 month old that is practically glued to my side—we didn’t fail to bond. And I have a 7 week old that is currently snuggled up, wrapped in a Moby, making the sweetest little cooing noises. Did I mention she can already roll? Well, she can. I think she’s going to be just fine.
I’m angry because I had to go through some very dark times to get to where I am today, and I even angrier that I have been unable to find any help in the form of answers and treatment from the medical community. In fact, my beloved lactation consultant just attended a three-day conference where under-supply did not receive a SINGLE session. How can it be that even an organization whose main goal is to promote breastfeeding is ignoring the issue? I think it’s because there is still a perception that anybody that wants to breastfeed can. And anybody who can’t is choosing formula as the easy way out. Maybe that was true one day, but it just isn’t true today. More and more of us are struggling, and I want to know why.
So for now, I nurse my baby girl as often as possible. I suck in her sweet smell, and stare into her lightening blue eyes. I rub her long toes and I pat her little tushy. I consciously use the word “nurse” to describe what we do rather than breastfeed. Nursing is caring, and loving, and attending to—and I do all of that, in spite of my milk supply.
I imagine very few of you actually care about my struggles to breastfeed, but if it makes one of you feel like you are NOT a failure, I’m glad I put it out there.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
'Tis the Season!?!?
A college friend posted an interesting article on facebook today: http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/actually-you-cant-celebrate-hanukkah-and-christmas/
The premise of the article is best summed up with the following quote:
It didn't sit well with me, and I've been composing my thoughts on the subject all day. And here is where I feel the author gets it wrong: She is confusing "celebrate" and "observe."
My preggo brain is preventing me from really putting things together in any sort of succint manner, so I'm just going to muddle through my thoughts. Bear with me, please.
The subject has been on my mind over the last few weeks because, let's face it, Christmas is everywhere (and has been, commercially, since Novemeber 1st). I've mentioned before that we are part of an interfaith family. Although both my husband and I are Jewish and we are raising our children in a Jewish home, we have relatives who are Christian. In fact, since Irene destroyed our home, we have been living with Christian family members. We have chosen to be open about our differences in beliefs on a level that our children can understand. For instance, the Tatiman knows that he is Jewish so he can't eat pork--and that some people in his family are not Jewish, so he has to ask them if their food has pork before he takes a bite.
So, back to the Hanukkah/Christmas situation. The house we are living in is decorated for Christmas. My boys spent the better part of a weekend helping their grandparents decorate (and 're-decorate', ha!) with Santas and candy canes and gingerbread houses and lights and a tree. The boys loved it. The grandparents loved it. As the decorations came out, so did stories about the boys great grandparents, and great-great grandparents, travels, milestones, and family memories. The weekend spent decorating was full of celebrations.
A few nights later, I heard sobs coming from the back seat of my car. We were driving down a street in which every single home was decorated with beautiful lights for Christmas. The Tatiman was inconsolable because we cannot decorate our house for Christmas. I tried to explain to him that we can decorate our house for Hanukkah, but because we are Jewish and live in a Jewish home, he is right that we can not decorate for Christmas. He wanted no part of my explanation. I decided to rectify the situation by picking him up from school with a surprise trip to a store that I knew would be full of Hannukah decorations. We drove over an hour to the store, armed with my husband's credit card; I had no budget in mind, because I wanted the Tatiman to feel like his house could be the most beautiful for Hannukah. We arrived...and the Tatiman wanted none of it. Not a single decoration. More tears ensued because no matter what, his house would not be the most beautiful for Christmas. Honestly, it was heartbreaking. I did buy the tackiest string of light-up dreidels I could find in the hopes that once we are home, he will find some joy in seeing them light up his room each night.
I can understand what he feels like. I have a favorite pizza shop. Their pepperoni pizza smells amazing. Like more amazing than the most amazing smell you can imagine. Especially when I'm pregnant, which I tend to be most of the time. When we are there, my mouth waters for that pizza. It is truly intoxicating. Unfortunately, they don't have any vegan pepperoni to subsitute. That's life. Sometimes your convictions don't let you do something you might otherwise love doing. I believe those convictions make me a stronger person, and I believe it is important to raise my children with those same convictions. It's not always fun, but I do believe it is always worth it--and one day, my Tatiman will understand that.
The next day I ventured into the Tatiman's school-a small private school with kids from all different religions and cultural backrounds--to talk to his class about Hanukkah. His teacher pulled me aside to tell me that he had refused to take part in the St. Lucia day celebration because he "is Jewish, so he can't do Christian things" (in his own words). My heart broke again.
To me, a celebration is just that--a festive occasion that you share with friends and family. Celebrations make memories. Life is about memories. As much as I want my little guy to understand he is Jewish, I want him to see the beauty in other traditions, holidays, and beliefs.
An observance is a completely different event. An observance commemorates an event, in the case of Christmas, it is commemorating the birth of Jesus. An observance shows commitment to following a set of rules.
In our family, the Christmas celebration is all about Santa Claus, favorite foods, family time, and making memories. There is nothing un-Jewish about that--certainly nothing less Jewish than opening presents on Hanukkah, which has exactly zero to do with the Macabees or the miracle of the oil. Part of our celebration includes thinking of those less fortunate and giving (toys, money, trays of cookies) to the local homeless shelter, and delivering sweets to emergency personel that work on the holiday --a perfectly Jewish concept, if you ask me.
As a Jewish family, we cannot observe Christmas as the birth of Jesus. But I do believe we can celebrate the secular traditions of Christmas without compromising our Jewish beliefs (and hopefully without offending anyone with strongly held Christian beliefs). We can celebrate Christmas without practicing Christianity. We can celebrate a holiday with our family even though it is important to them for different reasons. We can honor their choice to observe the birth of Jesus without challenging our own beliefs. It may not always be easy, especially as my boys get older and ask more questions, but I truly believe we can, and always will, celebrate Hanukkah and Christmas.
The premise of the article is best summed up with the following quote:
Specifically: the entire point of Hanukkah is to celebrate people who died rather than practice any religion other than Judaism. And to celebrate that AND a holiday that celebrates the birth of someone who Christians believe is the son of God does not make sense.
It didn't sit well with me, and I've been composing my thoughts on the subject all day. And here is where I feel the author gets it wrong: She is confusing "celebrate" and "observe."
My preggo brain is preventing me from really putting things together in any sort of succint manner, so I'm just going to muddle through my thoughts. Bear with me, please.
The subject has been on my mind over the last few weeks because, let's face it, Christmas is everywhere (and has been, commercially, since Novemeber 1st). I've mentioned before that we are part of an interfaith family. Although both my husband and I are Jewish and we are raising our children in a Jewish home, we have relatives who are Christian. In fact, since Irene destroyed our home, we have been living with Christian family members. We have chosen to be open about our differences in beliefs on a level that our children can understand. For instance, the Tatiman knows that he is Jewish so he can't eat pork--and that some people in his family are not Jewish, so he has to ask them if their food has pork before he takes a bite.
So, back to the Hanukkah/Christmas situation. The house we are living in is decorated for Christmas. My boys spent the better part of a weekend helping their grandparents decorate (and 're-decorate', ha!) with Santas and candy canes and gingerbread houses and lights and a tree. The boys loved it. The grandparents loved it. As the decorations came out, so did stories about the boys great grandparents, and great-great grandparents, travels, milestones, and family memories. The weekend spent decorating was full of celebrations.
A few nights later, I heard sobs coming from the back seat of my car. We were driving down a street in which every single home was decorated with beautiful lights for Christmas. The Tatiman was inconsolable because we cannot decorate our house for Christmas. I tried to explain to him that we can decorate our house for Hanukkah, but because we are Jewish and live in a Jewish home, he is right that we can not decorate for Christmas. He wanted no part of my explanation. I decided to rectify the situation by picking him up from school with a surprise trip to a store that I knew would be full of Hannukah decorations. We drove over an hour to the store, armed with my husband's credit card; I had no budget in mind, because I wanted the Tatiman to feel like his house could be the most beautiful for Hannukah. We arrived...and the Tatiman wanted none of it. Not a single decoration. More tears ensued because no matter what, his house would not be the most beautiful for Christmas. Honestly, it was heartbreaking. I did buy the tackiest string of light-up dreidels I could find in the hopes that once we are home, he will find some joy in seeing them light up his room each night.
I can understand what he feels like. I have a favorite pizza shop. Their pepperoni pizza smells amazing. Like more amazing than the most amazing smell you can imagine. Especially when I'm pregnant, which I tend to be most of the time. When we are there, my mouth waters for that pizza. It is truly intoxicating. Unfortunately, they don't have any vegan pepperoni to subsitute. That's life. Sometimes your convictions don't let you do something you might otherwise love doing. I believe those convictions make me a stronger person, and I believe it is important to raise my children with those same convictions. It's not always fun, but I do believe it is always worth it--and one day, my Tatiman will understand that.
The next day I ventured into the Tatiman's school-a small private school with kids from all different religions and cultural backrounds--to talk to his class about Hanukkah. His teacher pulled me aside to tell me that he had refused to take part in the St. Lucia day celebration because he "is Jewish, so he can't do Christian things" (in his own words). My heart broke again.
To me, a celebration is just that--a festive occasion that you share with friends and family. Celebrations make memories. Life is about memories. As much as I want my little guy to understand he is Jewish, I want him to see the beauty in other traditions, holidays, and beliefs.
An observance is a completely different event. An observance commemorates an event, in the case of Christmas, it is commemorating the birth of Jesus. An observance shows commitment to following a set of rules.
In our family, the Christmas celebration is all about Santa Claus, favorite foods, family time, and making memories. There is nothing un-Jewish about that--certainly nothing less Jewish than opening presents on Hanukkah, which has exactly zero to do with the Macabees or the miracle of the oil. Part of our celebration includes thinking of those less fortunate and giving (toys, money, trays of cookies) to the local homeless shelter, and delivering sweets to emergency personel that work on the holiday --a perfectly Jewish concept, if you ask me.
As a Jewish family, we cannot observe Christmas as the birth of Jesus. But I do believe we can celebrate the secular traditions of Christmas without compromising our Jewish beliefs (and hopefully without offending anyone with strongly held Christian beliefs). We can celebrate Christmas without practicing Christianity. We can celebrate a holiday with our family even though it is important to them for different reasons. We can honor their choice to observe the birth of Jesus without challenging our own beliefs. It may not always be easy, especially as my boys get older and ask more questions, but I truly believe we can, and always will, celebrate Hanukkah and Christmas.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Why My Children Sit in the Main Sanctuary
This time of year is quite busy for Jewish families. We celebrate the new year with two biggie holidays, Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur. Each holiday is rich with tradition—and filled with hours of reverent prayer services.
This year, we elected to skip the babysitting, skip most of the tot and family services, and bring our boys to the main sanctuary for the morning services. The morning services that last about five hours. Five hours in Hebrew, a language neither of my children speak.
We were not immune to some of the side eyes, glances, and outright glares. My boys are relatively well behaved, but they are 16 month and 3 year old boys. No amount of spiffy suits or shiny shoes (or pockets stuffed with snacks, transformers and books) can keep them from acting like two little guys.
My boys are the products of an interfaith family. They proudly don their Buchanan tartan for the Celtic festival, have strong Scottish names, and open presents from Santa Claus. We keep a kosher home, light candles for Shabbat, and listen to Hebrew songs in the car. As their parents, we feel it is very important that they understand and feel connected to their roots, as unique as their particular set of roots may be.
But on the most holy days of the year, the High Holidays, we feel that it is essential that they participate in the real deal. We want them to see the real Torah, and not a cloth stuffed version. We want them to hear the prayers sung in the same way they have been sung for over 4,000 years, not a cutesy toddler tune. We want them to hear the silence pierced by the sound of the shofar, a real ram's horn, and not a plastic toy. And yes, we even want them to feel that bit of discomfort that comes with sitting and standing and sitting and standing over and over again. Its not always easy to be part of 5,772 years of history.
So when the Tatiman asked if he could sit closer to the Torah, we marched up to the very front and sat on the floor with an unobstructed view. We noticed the whispers, but we didn't care. When he asked, “What do we do to celebrate Yom Kippur?” we did not shush him. And when the Tatiman cried, not because we were still in services, but because we had to leave early to feed the Finny Bo Binny, we knew we had done something right.
We can not guarantee that our children will pass on our traditions. We can not guarantee that they will see value in being part of an unbroken chain. But we will do everything in our power to make them feel that their presence matters. That their voices are part of the music of the service. Hopefully, one day, they will do the same with their children.
This year, we elected to skip the babysitting, skip most of the tot and family services, and bring our boys to the main sanctuary for the morning services. The morning services that last about five hours. Five hours in Hebrew, a language neither of my children speak.
We were not immune to some of the side eyes, glances, and outright glares. My boys are relatively well behaved, but they are 16 month and 3 year old boys. No amount of spiffy suits or shiny shoes (or pockets stuffed with snacks, transformers and books) can keep them from acting like two little guys.
My boys are the products of an interfaith family. They proudly don their Buchanan tartan for the Celtic festival, have strong Scottish names, and open presents from Santa Claus. We keep a kosher home, light candles for Shabbat, and listen to Hebrew songs in the car. As their parents, we feel it is very important that they understand and feel connected to their roots, as unique as their particular set of roots may be.
But on the most holy days of the year, the High Holidays, we feel that it is essential that they participate in the real deal. We want them to see the real Torah, and not a cloth stuffed version. We want them to hear the prayers sung in the same way they have been sung for over 4,000 years, not a cutesy toddler tune. We want them to hear the silence pierced by the sound of the shofar, a real ram's horn, and not a plastic toy. And yes, we even want them to feel that bit of discomfort that comes with sitting and standing and sitting and standing over and over again. Its not always easy to be part of 5,772 years of history.
So when the Tatiman asked if he could sit closer to the Torah, we marched up to the very front and sat on the floor with an unobstructed view. We noticed the whispers, but we didn't care. When he asked, “What do we do to celebrate Yom Kippur?” we did not shush him. And when the Tatiman cried, not because we were still in services, but because we had to leave early to feed the Finny Bo Binny, we knew we had done something right.
We can not guarantee that our children will pass on our traditions. We can not guarantee that they will see value in being part of an unbroken chain. But we will do everything in our power to make them feel that their presence matters. That their voices are part of the music of the service. Hopefully, one day, they will do the same with their children.
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