Don’t Push and Keep Breathing

My children are slowly edging toward teenager-dom. A scary time. Perhaps now, before all hell breaks loose, I’d do well to find some coping techniques that might work. Yesterday, at doula training, I had an epiphany, directly from labor and delivery, which I think is perfect for life. This one I intend to use: Don’t push and keep breathing!

We were discussing a phase of birth called transition. In this phase a woman moves from the early and active phases of laboring to the second stage, or actual delivery, of the baby. Transition is the hardest and most painful part of the birth. Contractions are coming in greater frequency and are longer and stronger. The baby’s head is lower in the mother’s pelvis, ready to make its way out to the world. It is putting a lot of pressure on the mother’s bottom, but the mother’s body is not yet ready for delivery, and she needs to practice this fabulous lifelong lesson: Don’t push and keep breathing!

What a wonderful lesson for the future! It is a lesson all us parents would do well to remember when the time comes for the baby’s first steps and her first attempt to go up and down the stairs. It is perfect for our son’s first day of kindergarten, his first playdates at a friend’s house, and the first time he goes to the neighborhood store by himself. It’s invaluable for our daughter’s first car ride, her first date with a boy, and for when she asks us for help with birth control. And later, too, this lesson remains: when our boy goes to college, marries, and has his own child. Don’t push and keep breathing! Let go! Stay calm!

Parenthood is a hard road, paved with mistakes, crises, and love. It can teach us so much about ourselves, some that we like and some that we really, but really, don’t like. In the doula class yesterday, we learned that one good position for a laboring woman in transition to be in is to lie on her back in bed with her legs resting on the birthing ball. The blood is flowing easier in her body. The pressure is there, the contractions are strong, but she is in a position of relaxation, and she cannot push.

Keep breathing. Don’t push. Let’s lie back with our feet on the ball and at least try to relax. Let the blood flow to our brains. Soon enough transition will pass. It’s the hardest phase, and after that, at least till the next transition, we can get some relief. The daughter or son who we brought to this world and who had taught us so much will soon be all grown up and doing just fine. Like our road, so theirs is paved with mistakes and with love. If they stumble or fall, we parents are there, ready to kiss and hug and give our support. Don’t push and keep breathing. I know we’re going to be all right.

Holding On to Letting Go

Last night, as I was getting ready to go to sleep, an overwhelming sense of dread and loss crept over me. I paused, trying to analyze what precisely was scaring me, and discovered to my surprise that I was stressing, thirty-six hours in advance, about Wednesday morning when the children go, as they always do, to spend their allocated days with their father.

Nearly eight years have passed since the divorce, but the anxiety over my time without the children returns at regular intervals, usually on Tuesday, the day before they are to leave. Wednesdays, after dropping them off at school, I walk around the house like a ghost, not quite knowing what to do with myself. There seems to be no reason to cook, which I suppose is understandable, but why do I not use this “free” time to write, paint, garden, or -- the fairies save me -- have fun?

Every week I ask myself the same question: why can’t I just let go? The custody arrangement is not about to change, and it is high time to accept that and move on. And yet, somehow, it is my very identity as a mother that is in a crisis. I cannot be a mother only half of the week, but how am I a mother during the days when the children are not with me?

Parenting and life itself, it seems to me, are made up of letting-go bumps. The moment of birth and the cutting of the umbilical cord. Weaning and moving to solid foods. Sleep training. A nanny. Preschool. Kindergarten. The first playdate without mommy, then the first party without mommy. Overnight field trips. Overnight camp. Puberty. And before us, always, the scariest moment, the end of high school, the beginning of college. Soon, they will be moving away, perhaps to the other side of the world, finding a partner, getting married, having their own children. And us no longer needed. And soon, gone.

I cheer myself up by saying that letting go is a life-long endeavor. I look ahead, and I can see that my road leads me straight toward these bumps. No matter how much I twist and turn, how much I struggle or try to avoid a particular bump, life relentlessly pushes me on, forcing me into greater and greater letting go's.

This morning, before school, Eden and I listened to music together. I felt the warmth of her little body against mine, admired how big she got, how long her legs and arms, how cute her little nose is, and the sparkle in her eyes. The next moment I was walking her to school, getting a brief hug. And then I was alone. No matter how hard I try, there is no way to stop the clock. I find myself holding on to these wonderful moments of connection, forcing myself to remember to let go of all but the memory once they are gone.

What Will I Be When I Grow Up?

Something strange has happened to me, not completely unexpected and yet unsettling at the same time. I think that I have all grown up.

Top Secret Group, Hasamba

Remember when we were little, and our aunt, after squeezing our cheeks, asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up? I had so many dreams! I wanted to be prime minister and bring peace to the middle east, to sing on the stage of the Metropolitan, to be a famous piano player, a best-selling writer, a painter of amazing proportions. I wanted to get married (and stay married) and have four children and a house with fig and pecan trees. I wanted to be a journalist, and Spiderman (also Yaron Zehavi, the fictional teenaged leader of Hasamba who battled, in the 1940s, for Israel’s independence).

Now I’m forty, and all grown up. We could argue, perhaps, about whether middle-aged is an appropriate description (I’m going to take the devil’s advocate side). I have some white hairs and lots of laughter wrinkles, you know the kind. There were other signs I’ve been ignoring, like the fact that I have a house (one fig tree, no pecans), a boyfriend, two children, three dogs, seven chickens and one cat, all of whom I love. Or that my parents have both turned seventy already, my sister a successful pediatrician, my brother a game programmer, and my youngest cousins, the ones who are fifteen years younger than me, in the university pursuing their own careers.

But the truth is, I put all these signs on a back burner in my mind, because I was not ready to admit to one important fact: it is time to let go of some of my dreams and concentrate on one.

In this life, I will not be Israel’s prime minister. Or get a PhD. Or turn into a pianist or a singer at the Met. I will not become Spiderman despite the fact that we all, apparently, swallow a lot of spiders by sleeping open-mouthed at night. I could plant pecan trees, but a walnut will probably be better in the climate here, and there’s always my one fig tree.

Cover of White Bim

What I want to be now --not when I grow up, but now -- is a writer. An author with readers who read my book, come to hear me speak, and send me emails. That is the one dream I have held onto from the first novel I read by myself (White Bim, Black Ear by Gavril Troipolsky) and all the way till today. And in order to become a writer, an author, I am willing to let those other dreams go.

Life is so often about letting go, but I hope (and I think somewhere inside me I know) that by letting go of these dreams today I am opening up a wider door to the one dream I truly love. Writing.

What do you want to be now that you've grown up?

Feeding the Children, or Is Preventing World War Three Necessary?

It didn’t take me long to discover that my two kids require feeding when I pick them up from school. Even when I lived in Palo Alto, and home was about ten minutes away, they couldn’t wait. Eden especially, if I don’t catch her the moment before irreversible sugar-low crabbiness, will refuse to eat and make it complicated to bring her back to an agreeable (read: manageable) mood.

I have taken to bringing with me sandwiches, fruit, candy, cookies, cakes. For a while the kids loved bagels with cream cheese. Then it was pretzels from Esther’s Bakery. Uri had a donut period. Apples came and passed, then came back again into fashion. Popcorn. Girl scout cookies. Baby carrots which Eden devoured by the bag. But every so often I’d bring something they didn’t care for, and thunderous silence battered me from the backseat.

I wondered, am I feeding the children into pleasantness? I sometimes offer a treat when they are upset, but even as I do, I cringe. I can’t believe I’m teaching my kids that food can cheer them up. Yes, eating is enjoyable and fun, but I’d like my kids to have other methods to relax. I’d like to argue, however, that more than a calming after a long day eating binge, the after-school snack is an important transitional aid, shifting the children’s focus and energies from school to home.

For the past few weeks I’ve participated in a parenting class through Hand in Hand. Hand in Hand philosophy says that a parent needs a place for releasing the emotions that parenting brings, a listening partner that gives whole-hearted support and no criticism. The idea is that in order to really listen to and be there for our children, we parents must be listened to in our turn.

According to Hand in Hand, children need tantrums in order to let go of feelings and upsets. In the last class, we were talking about tantrums that happen during transitions, and how sometimes it is good to leave some time to allow the tantrum to happen. I instantly thought about the moment of school pick-up. I’ve been hurrying the kids away from school, giving them their food in the car in order to be on time for our after-school activities, but perhaps I could plan for a few moments to sit and have a treat at school. Then again, I can’t say I’m eager for tantrums in front of all the other moms....

Without doubt, this parenting business is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. At so many turns I hit a wall, and so often I feel like any choice I make will be a bad one. However, just as I feel better after I cry, perhaps so will the kids. And after their tantrum, maybe they’ll finally have their snack, become grounded again, and we could move on to have fun.

Surprises!

In January I started worrying about my birthday. In the past, I made it a rule to plan my birthday, not waiting for anyone else to remember the date and put a party together for me. This suited me on several levels: I did not want to be disappointed and I knew myself as a reluctant receiver of surprises. I’m high maintenance with regards to parties and birthday celebrations. I like everything to be just right.

On my 38th birthday I invited my friends to a day-long birthday bash with catered food and a jumpy house for kids. There was one year when I handed out goody bags of chocolate truffles to all guests. Another time I invited my girlfriends to dinner at a restaurant, all expenses paid. And on March 9th mornings I set up that fabulous surprise table for the kids and decorated the house.

This year, on my 40th birthday, I was in for a surprise. Literally. When I mentioned to my boyfriend that my birthday is coming and I’m going to start making plans, he answered, “Leave your birthday to me.” Just like that. I was rendered speechless. He wanted me to surrender control??? To let go of the reins I had held so tightly for so long? But what if I’m disappointed? What if I end up not liking what he had planned?

Letting go is my lifelong challenge, and so I promptly let go (as much as I could), and allowed Dar a free hand, only making sure once in a while that he’s still on top of this important task. And the weeks passed. February almost ended. March loomed in the doorway, sunny and bright. And though Dar had asked if I wanted to go to Hawaii or perhaps Morro Bay for my birthday, no word was said about my gift, my party. Nothing moved.

Behind the scenes, however, and out of my direct line of sight, plans were blossoming. My best friend initiated the wheels for a surprise party, put together by the world’s most unreliable keepers of secrets, complete with food, decorations, cakes, a saxophone performance, and two uncoordinated but perfectly identical gifts.

The girls' beautiful cake

The surprise didn’t happen quite as expected (see above, unreliable keepers of secrets), but there was plenty for me to be surprised about. My niece and my best friend’s daughter baked me a cake and decorated it themselves with a stunning display of intricate flowers, rambling leaves, and cute little forest animals. Dar ordered a huge and beautifully decorated Purim birthday cake that was gluten and dairy free and very yummy. He and my dad both printed out a collection of my blog posts till March, using the painting from the blog as a cover, and I got to do my first signing for everyone! I also received four boxes of chocolate as gifts!

The perfect birthday! I felt surrounded by love. Amazing how losing just a little bit of control can give so much back. I might be able to get used to that.

Thank you, dear organizers and dear guests! Lots of love back.

The Conflict Bunny

I suffer from an affliction called Conflict Aversion, also known as the Ostrich Syndrome, though I believe it’s been scientifically proven that ostriches don’t really bury their head in the sand. It is an inherited gene which I received directly from my mother, who in all likelihood inherited it from her mother as well. A conflict averse person like myself will do almost anything to avoid a conflict, allowing the other person to get away with a great deal.

The nice thing about being conflict averse is that since I never start (or continue) any arguments people tend to like to spend time with me. I’m very non-threatening, you see. The bad thing about being conflict averse is that I hardly never stand up for myself. My favorite combination of words is: “Let it go. It’s not worth it.” They’re also my least favorite words.

I live uneasily with this condition. Part of me wishes to be able to stand up for myself, for the kids, or for something I believe in. Sometimes I can feel the words I’d like to say jammed in my throat like a garrulous plug. For a moment I allow myself to wonder what would happen if I got it unplugged, but no. Better not take the chance. Instead I say to myself, “Let it go. It’s not worth it.” And somehow I make the need to speak crumble, disappear, fly with the wind of no-mind. I’ve grown good at forgiving other people, but I always wonder if each of these moments of letting go doesn’t leave a bad taste of not forgiving myself behind.

I wonder if there is a Conflict Aversion Anonymous group somewhere with a twelve-step program to overcome this fear of The Fight. Step one could be “Stare conflict in the face for five seconds before blinking.” Step two might be, “Write down all the sentences you wish you’d said to that lady with the overflowing grocery cart who pushed ahead of you in the checkout line.” I mean, seriously, that would be a beginning!

If only I could come to terms with how I am and accept myself this way, forgive myself for these perceived infractions against my -- against what, really? My honor? Dignity? No one complains about the deer running from the mountain lion, the deer least of all. Protecting oneself by escaping is perfectly acceptable for a deer. So why is it I feel that my personal boundaries are at risk of invasion because I avoid arguments? Am I making a big fuss over nothing? Keeping score against myself for a personality trait which is really perfectly fine?

I can’t say that I have an answer for any of these questions. Perhaps this is an issue I’ll struggle with till the day I die. Or maybe, in an effort to accept myself as I am, I’ll let go of the fear that being conflict averse equals passive aggressiveness and decide: me, I’m just nice.

I found a really cool blog post about lawyers and aversion to conflict. Check it out.