“Don’t get nervous at me, mommy.” Ben uttered this sweet, gut wrenching line on Tuesday as I was quickly losing whatever cool I still possessed frantically loading up the car.
Don’t get nervous at me. How is my three year old that perceptive? To realize that I am not angry or frustrated with him. To perceive my anxiety and to use the language he has to describe that energy (nervous). He was so spot on, it almost gave me chills. My heart broke just a little when he said that. Just a small fracture. A little chip. I took a breath and took in his words.
“I’m not nervous at you baby, but thank you for telling me that. You’re right. I am feeling a little nervous. But we are okay and I’m sorry if I wasn’t being nice to you.”
**
I’ve been working on this piece of writing about my grandmother. But the resistance I am facing is intense. I can only muster a few sentences before my brain shuts down. The block is so real.
Of course it doesn’t help that I have been largely without childcare for about six weeks now. Turns out being rarely apart from little ones isn’t great for the writing juices.
On Monday we were first in line for a rapid PCR test. He needed one to return to preschool with the school just lifting a Covid closure. I knew he would lose his mind, even if I was the one doing the swabbing, but I had to at least try. Or did I?
It went about as well as I expected it would. Even better, actually. He was so distraught that he scraped his knee as we walked away with him still tantruming. I felt a bit like a poster on display for the oh those poor mothers parenting in a pandemic sentiment to the long line of onlookers.
Mostly though, I just felt defeated that I didn’t listen to my gut about not forcing him to take the stupid test in the first place, frustrated it would be another week of no preschool, and disappointed in myself for getting nervous at him. Not my finest parenting moment when I scolded him in overwhelm and frustration, sternly admonishing that since he didn’t do the test there would be no victory donuts. No, I would not carry him to the car. He could walk. This of course resulted in the fall and knee scrape. (We still went and got donuts once we both calmed down. But also, no shade if your parenting decision would have been to skip the donuts.) This sh*t is hard.
I’ve come to rely on those six hour preschool stretches twice a week. It is very rare I don’t have both kids, and very, very rare to be completely on my own. In those fleeting, spare alone moments, I have prioritized running over writing, when I have or can fake that I have the energy to do so. I’m still not logging the miles I should be for the adventures I have planned, but I’m doing my best.
I’m doing my best.
**
One of my most cherished pieces of writing was a one-page essay about my other grandmother. I wrote it in the fifth grade, for one of those standardized tests. I wrote about how she is completely glamourous, and yes she knits, but no she does not sit in a rocker, and she is definitely not one to bake cookies, and how much I love her. Those are the main points I remember. I think my mom actually may have it, I’ll have to ask.
Grandma had it framed. A one page, handwritten essay, framed in hand drawn tulips and matted with a 11X17 purple construction paper border. It scored a six in the “Voice” category, the highest marking. I think only one other kid in the fifth grade at my school also received that high a mark. It was one of the earliest confirmations of an innate skill, and instilled in me a core belief that I was, in fact, a decent writer.
It’s peculiar that I didn’t choose journalism, or maybe English, as a major in college. Maybe it was fear of failure. Maybe I was scared the formal training would beat the creativity out of me. Maybe it was self-sabotage, in the form of not even giving myself the chance to become the best I could be. Maybe it was a little of all of those things.
I was doing my best.
I’ll finish the piece about my grandma when the time is right. When I have the time. There is no rush.
There is no rush.
**
An old Kabbalah book found its way into my life this week. It was on a shelf in one of the floor to ceiling bookcases in my father-in-law’s study. It’s peculiar, because I have perused the shelves countless times over the years. I almost certainly would have seen a Kabbalah book at some point in the last eight years. Alas, the teacher appears when the student is ready.
This particular Kabbalah book deals with the nature of the universe, more so than the nature of humankind. It is full of figures and diagrams I have never seen. Love.
There is of course bleed into human nature, being a Kabbalah book. A bit about union with another human (ie, besheret/finding soulmate). I’m definitely not preaching the Hetero hegemony here. I don’t think there is one right way to live or love.
The portion Naso has this weird test for a husband to administer to his wife if he becomes jealous and suspects she’s been unfaithful. V witch hunty vibes, Tbh.
I actually have been thinking about faithfulness a lot lately. Not in terms of infidelity, but in terms of being a true partner in life.
So much of my physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual resources have been dedicated to my children lately. It feels like it has to be that way, but also, there is not one relationship in my life that is more important than the relationship I have with my husband. He works so hard every day for our family. I am so grateful. We make a good team, and I love being his companion in life.
**
This writing is SO all over the place. A bunch of loose strands. I know there is a way to braid them all together. I feel it. Something about how instead of Ben being in preschool on Tuesday we were singing our hearts out all the way to the coast to the Jewish CD in the car player. How sweet it is when the Heya Heya song prompts him to ask me if he has a spirit and if he has a soul. How I’m holding Leah as I type this on my phone, wondering how I’m gunna get dressed and meet my friend in seven minutes for a run without waking her, and how grown up she looks in this strawberry onesie. How I wish I could be in five places at once, cuddling the kids, snuggling with my husband, running with my friend, drawing and typing and journaling in a coffee shop, driving through the forest while sing-belting on the way to the beach.
But I’m not willing to dedicate the brain resources to pull all these loose strands together. Is that bad? Is it okay to just let the reader braid it themselves sometimes? Making the dough is the messy part anyways.
Shabbat Shalom, friend. :)
P.S. I think I’ll buy a challah this week, and one for next week and freeze it. Building in mileage, next week is peak week, then taper! Running > baking. We’re out of coffee beans, so I have to go to the little hippie dippie neighborhood market that also sells challah anyways. Love that place.
My dear, the braiding is life…loose strands are what we braid to make one! Your writing are my favorite things to read!! I appreciate your vulnerability and all the strands that make your life!