The Far North Eruv

“You might find you feel more comfortable in the Far North Eruv”, he said.  

I was in town for an interview which happened to coincide with Shabbos/Purim. I was having a lovely time with my dear friend and hostess “electrictrixie” (not her real name) and we were at the house of her chavrusa who was deemed “not controversial” enough to educate her on her path towards conversion. They were a lovely family; husband, wife and beautiful, smiling, tiny, baby daughter. We were enjoying a fine meal, and had successfully weathered his attempt to compare inviting a non-Jew to a Shabbos meal to inviting “dancers” (euphemism) from the street to your house.  We pointed out the fallacy of this comparison, quiet calmly I might add, when the conversation turned to my purpose in visiting: Namely, to check out the community in case I might want to move there.

“You might feel more comfortable in the Far North Eruv”, he said matter of factly; Which left me curious. Why? Was this a veiled insult (as in, we want you as far away from us as possible)? A reflection of my personality? (Those people in the North Eruv are all a little weird JUST LIKE YOU.) I mean, here I was on my VERY best  “frummy” behavior wearing my best dark-colored Jewniform and a lovely coordinating head scarf. OK, so maybe I was a little vocal at the meal pointing out that his personal stance on conversion was directly contradicted by halachia. But still, I was perplexed. What about me led to that comment, and what was true about the “Far North Eruv” that led him to believe I belonged there?

Anyway.

After Shabbos came Purim, and after our morning hearing of the Megilla “trixie” took me off to the Far North Eruv to visit two of her favorite people.  We drove up to a non-descript, but lovely, home and rang the bell. I was momentarily shocked to find the door answered by two bikers, complete with do-rags, cut offs, modified muscle shirts, and tattoos. 

And I thought, oh yeah, the north eruv is My Kinda Place!

Oh. Purim. 

So, no, they weren’t really bikers, and the tattoos turned out to be those kinda fake arm-sleeves with printing on them, but they were lovely, creative, interesting, open-minded people. However, I was a little sad to discover that, in their opinion, their neighborhood was not particularly…. well… whatever  I had begun to think MIGHT be true of the Far North Eruv (FNE).

*sigh*

My hopes were dashed. Yet, the idea of this mythical place where I MIGHT fit in made me start to imagine all that I wish was true about the Far North Eruv (FNE) .

So, here goes:

In the FNE, no one judges your “religiousness”  based on what you wear. No one assumes your rastifarian beret says anything about your political leanings or implies that because you don’t  wear opaque black stockings, no one can trust the kashrut of your home. Men wear an astonishing variety of kippot including croched, velvet, black, purple, green and even occasionally indulge in a baseball cap. Women wear hoodies, or purple, or scarves, or hats, or sneakers. And everyone prays together, with the requisite mechitzah of course.

In the FNE, people strive to find the balance between rabbinical input, and intelligent discernment.  For example, they feel fully capable of deciding that they can plunge (or not plunge) their clogged toilet on Shabbos.  And no one feels pressure to take on every chumra in an attempt to “out Jew” one another. We accept that everyone is on their own path to Hashem, and we don’t have the right to judge someone else’s faith journey based on our criteria of observance.

In the FNE, no one considers the idea that women might want to learn Talmud as “strange”. Of course, women who don’t want don’t feel any pressure. But, as for the rest of us, we are never told that we are “too emotional”, and we always have a variety of vibrant study groups to join that are on the same intellectual level as what is available to the men.

In the FNE, our shuls are designed in a way that engages both women and men in the beauty of Torah. No one tries to tell us that we are up in the balcony because we are “at an elevated spiritual level” and the men assume that women MIGHT want to touch the Torah. Women dance together on Simchat Torah, and don’t have to fight for the right to have a Torah of their own. The “all female” megilla reading is normal, and the women boo Haman with as much vigor as the men.

In the FNE, everywhere you look you see Jews that look like a true reflection of our international community of Jews. There are Jews of every color, shape, ethnicity, and the shul is a place where no one walks in and has to hear “Funny, you don’t look Jewish” or has to endure stares because they don’t meet the Askenaz “norm” of what “Jewish” looks like. And, no one asks if you are a convert. 

In the FNE, people are supportive of families and their choices, and singles, single parent homes, single child homes, and even no-child homes are accepted without remark, and everyone is allowed their place in the community without prejudice and judgment.

In the FNE, Judiasm is seen as a vibrant faith, where questioning is permitted; Where we strike the right balance between keeping the traditions of our ancestors, and reflecting the challenges of our future. Where halachia is taken seriously, but where people are encouraged to learn, to think, to challenge, to argue, and to fail without fear of judgment or retaliation. Because, after all, faith is a journey, and no one will know for sure if we are “right” until we stand before Hashem. 

Do you belong in the Far North Eruv? I know I do.

A Million Little Pieces

No, this entry is not really about the mostly fictitious autobiography that made the headlines a few years back. Actually, I think the title REALLY is more appropriate for the autobiography of your average mother because 1,000,000 little pieces is what we end up picking up off the floor each and every day.

Yes, for some reason toy manufacturers seem to delight in making toys that have about 5 bazillion parts, and the older the child, the smaller the parts. So, I spend a healthy portion of each day picking up said parts off the floor, fishing them out of the couch, and removing them from under the fridge. And, yes, I always "make" the kids help. The problem is, of course, that MAKING a mess is hugely more fun than picking up a mess. And, making children pick up these toys is almost more work than picking up the darned things yourself. I have had to, more than one time, resort to the "vacuum threat" (as in, pick up all this S*** or I'll suck it all up in the vacuum) BUT, as things happen, I usually end up with a pick up job at the end of the day anyway.

For some reason, this "gathering of pieces" thing seems to be a female trait cause my husband can blissfully step over these parts and walk on by without a second thought. And, his method of "cleaning up" is to pick up everything and throw it all jumbled together in a box. This, of course, drives me INSANE because throwing the parts all mixed together in a box is not the same thing at all as actually putting them away. Putting Them Away means you have to go find the box, open the box, and place the items BACK in the box. And, for some reason, I always feel compelled to do this. Even though the child might have about 1000 rectangular blue legos, I simply can't bring myself to toss the one blue lego that somehow lodged behind the fridge no matter how dusty and dirt encrusted.

The worst part of this is that EACH of my children went through this preschool/toddler stage where they enjoyed stuffing the small parts under and into things. My third child is in that stage right now, and I am regularly fishing huge numbers of objects out from under the couch, under the television, and beneath the fridge. This stage is often accompanied by the inexplicable desire to "feed" the VHS player. A friend of mine once fished out two army men, a playing card, two legos, and half a dozen pennies when her VCR ground to a halt one afternoon. Toddlers also treat the house as ONE huge shape sorter, meaning that they walk around with objects trying to see where they might possibly fit. And, yes, although I appreciate this as a sign that the little booger's brains are click clacking around, the thought is no consolation when you are fishing your oldest son's favorite toy out of the toilet.

Anyway, back to the one million pieces: I think someone should design these toys with mothers in mind. I mean, I LOVE legos and K'nex and Lincoln Logs. They are marvelous, open ended, educational toys. BUT, they are also FULL of, you guessed it, one million little pieces that end up everywhere. Maybe the designers could put little homing devices in the toys so they all "jump" back in their boxes once the play time is over. Or, maybe someone could design one of those little RHOOMBA robots that can selectively suck up certain toys and spit them back in the box.

Maybe I could make such a thing, and then make a million little dollars and HIRE someone to do all this picking up for me. Yeah, that is a nice fantasy. In the meantime I'll be writing my autobiography. I intend to entitle it: One Million Little Legos.

The Death of a Marriage

The glance lasted maybe a few seconds. But, the softness of his gaze told me all I needed to know. We were “exchanging the children” as I like to call the process, something we have done close to 15 times in the three years since I threw the kids in the car and headed off for the unknown leaving everything I took for granted behind me. Since then, I’ve grown, changed. I’m happier and healthier; the children are healthier and happier. Maybe he is as well. Still, despite all the time, pain, and separation, he loves me. 

Let’s be clear here. The marriage was irretrievably broken. I was damaged beyond recovery and nothing could have rescued us. I know this. I also know that my children are joyful and relaxed in ways they never could have been when we were all living together in that endless twilight of a dead marriage. They deserved a mother who wasn’t half paralyzed by depression and a crushed spirit. They deserved a home without discord and unspoken anger. I did what was necessary, and in my moments of clarity I realize how much better I am, how much happier they are, and no matter how much struggle we have had in the last three years, the end of that marriage was a blessing. Admittedly, I go through long stretches where I don’t think about him at all; where he exists only in the dim recesses of a memory, pushed aside by the daily challenges and joys of a life as a (mostly) single mom.

But there are moments. Sometimes a song, perhaps one we used to listen to on his fold out bed in that crappy Philadelphia apartment where we would fall asleep in a tangle of blankets and awake to the sounds of the neighbor’s trashy garage band that always seemed to practice way too early on a Sunday morning. Or maybe taking the children to the Grand Canyon where the view not only reminds me of the grandeur of G-d, but also of that trip he and I took on Christmas Eve where we hiked to the bottom and out while I was 8 weeks pregnant with my first child. Or a glance, that fills me simultaneously with regret, and guilt, and flooded with memory of a marriage that began with such hope and promise on a hot, sunny day in June, and ended in such desperation on an equally hot day 14 years later in April. 

I want to know if there will be a time when I can drive through the places we used to go, or see the house where my oldest was born, and not be overwhelmed with equal parts memory and pain. Will there come a time when I don’t spend moments for the week or two after seeing him, gripped with regret, the tears freely flowing. When will I release the guilt from realizing that to survive, I had to damage the man whom I had promised to love “till death do we part”.

March Already

So, its March. I didn't QUITE make my goal of a new blog post every six months, although at the time this seemed like something I could, maybe, manage. Yet, alas. Most days I can hardly manage to find my keys, and get out the door having eating breakfast, and without wearing my coffee. I have what you might call a disorganization problem.

Sadly, all three of my lovely children inherited what I will call the "disorganization gene" which means, as a family, we move in this sad disaster of disorganization on an almost constant basis. And, trust me, you "born organized" people. I try. I really, really try. But, managing my own disorganized self, plus my three walking tornadoes, is really more than I can manage most days, especially since my children don't seem to care how organized (or not organized) they are.

Case in point: My lovely 6 year old has a tendency to leave shoes everywhere and anywhere they fall off her feet. And socks, as well, but that is another story. But, as to the shoes, shoes are totally expendable, and something of a modern nuisance. If she could manage to go without them, she would. As things stand, she sheds them as soon as she can, with absolutely no regard to where she is, and when she might need them again. Which means, we often spend 10-15 minutes in the morning looking for where she last put her shoes. And, trust me, I am allergic to morning, and I am not particularly kind or sunny when I am forced to delay our departure over, yet again, misplaced shoes. Yes (shh born organized people) I KNOW that if I just enforced the rule that she had to put her shoes in the same place every day, then we would not have this problem. I know this. However, you understand this requires that I actually be organized enough to remember that I have to enforce that she put her shoes in the right place every time. Which, if you haven't figured out yet, is... well.. let's just say consistency is not my strong suit right.

So, comes Monday morning and we are headed out the door for school and I look down and realize that there is only one shoe. I ask my daughter, where is the other shoe. She doesn't know. Of course she doesn't know. How could she possibly remember where she took off a shoe? We looked in all the logical places (where we found the other shoe) and some illogical places (the bathtub, the toy box) but no shoe was found. And, let's just say, in one of my less than steller "insane mom moments" I was less than pleasant. So, I said. FIND a shoe to wear (through gritted teeth). I don't CARE what the shoe is or what this looks like (with a few colorful adjectives thrown in). And, when you get home tonight, you WILL find that shoe cause I am not going to spend another precious few hours of my time looking for shoes AGAIN! And, no, I am not buying you more shoes.

So, my lovely 6 year old went off and found a shoe: A bright pink sandal with Dinsney Princesses and she went to school that way wearing one princess sandal, and one brown loafer, both left feet.

 So, yes, in my SMM (stellar mothering moment) of the day, I managed to lose my temper, use profanity, AND send my child to school with two left shoes all in the same monday morning. But, at LEAST, I thought to myself, this is what all those parenting classes and books talk about: "Enforcing Natural Consequences". In other words, the fact that she had to go to school wearing one princess sandal and one brown loafer (both left feet) might possibly reinforce to her the wisdom of putting her shoes in the same place every day. And, as an added bonus, I don't have to be the nagging mother to remind her to find her shoes every night because "Natural Consequences" will teach her better than I could anyway. Problem solved, right?

You can see where this is going, I think.

So, lovely 6 year old comes home, and I say.

"How were your shoes today?"

"Fine"

"Didn't wearing those shoes bother you? They weren't a little uncomfortable?"

"No"

"Are you ready to find your other shoe?"

"No"

Which, I guess, was not a priority for her because she continued to wear her "shoes" for the next week and a half until I (yes I) finally found her shoe in the middle of the backyard where it had been covered by a snowdrift for much of the last two weeks.

Natural Consequences 0
Child with a mind of her own 1