Contest Winner

Posted on May 10, 2012 by holylandhipstermom

It was so much fun hosting a Mother’s Day giveaway with What to Expect! Thanks for all the great comments, both on my blog and on twitter. The winner is Sarah!!

Congratulations!

 

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Not Just A Four Letter Word

Posted on April 30, 2012 by holylandhipstermom

This afternoon, my toddler did the unexpected. She called a new worker in our home “ugly.” And, after I told her that we never use that word, and that it’s very hurtful, and I don’t ever want to hear her say it again, she turned to our new worker and told her that, “my Mommy says that you’re very, very, ugly.”

That was absolutely shocking. One, because it was an outright lie, since I never ever said that. And two, because it was just so cruel and mean to hear. I immediately put her into time out and, when DH came home, he had a long talk with her.

But, I have absolutely no idea where on earth that even came from! We certainly don’t talk that way in our house, and I am hoping that the girls don’t talk that way in gan. I sent an email to DD’s ganenet, asking her advice on how we should handle this situation. We are definitely in unchartered territory here. I mean, I can handle a lot of other things that comes our way: disobedience, acting out, being upset with her baby sister, fighting over meal times and makeup. But this, being mean just to be mean, is something I never expected to hear from my toddler.

I tried to reason that she has no idea what she is saying, but then I realized that she does know what she is saying. The other day, when we were walking on the street, she pointed out that a man was fat. He was a very, very large man, and when I tried to explain that we don’t say those things, she got very confused. She doesn’t yet associate “fat” with the way I associate “fat.” She is starting to grasp concepts like “opposites” and “similar” and therefore, she understands that “fat” vs. “skinny” is an opposite. But, how do we educate a toddler about social niceties? How do we explain that, even though technically one person might be fat, we certainly don’t scream it to that person from across the road.

But I also think that when she used the word “ugly” it was very, very, different from the way she used “fat.” In her mind, the worker in our house wasn’t what she has decided is pretty. And that got me thinking about what she sees around our home. She sees Disney princess characters and she spent a year and a day looking at Nicki Minaj in a Mac cosmetic ad on the back of my Oprah magazine. She watches celebrities on Sesame Street and she also watches all of the pretty people on Yaldut Yisraelit.  She has very limited exposure, however, to different races and ethnicities. Aside from Dora the Explorer, she doesn’t interact on a daily basis with children of different races. Also, when she reads her Dora books, she doesn’t see the physical differences between her and Dora. All she thinks is different is that Dora speaks Spanish, and she speaks Hebrew and English.

So, what do we do? How do we handle this situation? Do we punish her? How do we educate her? How can we teach her that her words are hurtful? That we don’t call someone “fat” or “ugly”? We’re new parents that definitely do not want our daughter growing up as a mean girl, or worse, a bully.

Anyone who comments with advice is automatically entered into my What to Expect giveaway! If you don’t have the books, or if you haven’t been to the What to Expect website, you are definitely missing out! These books are, to me, what Dr. Spock was to my parents thirty years ago. The website is really, really helpful and I especially loved getting daily emails about fetal development during my entire 42 week pregnancy! They approached me to host this fabulous giveaway and, on Thursday, one lucky commenter will win all of the What to Expect books!! So, spread the word and let your friends know about this fabulous giveaway. And, more importantly, weigh in on what you think we should do to teach our daughter that “ugly” is a really nasty four letter word!

 

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Third Generation

Posted on April 17, 2012 by holylandhipstermom

(Photo: Jewish children, bearing the yellow star of David, during the Holocaust)

I’m what they call 3G, or third generation Holocaust survivor. I realized this evening that, my daughters, are 4G. The fourth generation. In my mind, the fourth generation will not bear the same burdens as the third. And that is a tremendous blessing.

Being a 3G, I often times feel like a complete freak. I exhibit “Holocaust like” behavior that therapists would have a field day with, and I very often struggle to keep the paranoia and fears at bay. I’m also very unique in that my Holocaust survivor Grandmother helped raise me from the age of five. At the time, my Mother had to return to work to help support our family, and so my Grandmother quit her job as a seamstress in the garment district of Manhattan, to care for us. Until I moved out of the house at the age of 20, I saw and interacted with my Grandmother every single day.

As a child, she roused me in the morning from sleep and got me dressed for school, tried to force feed me oatmeal or cereal, and either walked me up the block or waved from the door as I got on to the bus that took me to High School. She usually greeted us when we got home from school, put supper that she cooked on the table, and said good night and went home once my Mother arrived from work. She imparted wisdom in her thick, Polish accent, marveled over any of our achievements, taught us how to make the beds or fold the laundry, and hung onto our every words whenever we gave a Dvar Torah at the table. My siblings and I, her only Grandchildren, are the very reason she survived the hell she went through during the Holocaust. And through sheer will power and strength that I do not possess, but admire in awe, she survived so that my family could live.

The Holocaust was this huge presence in our home, almost like a permanent grey cloud that hung heavily over our heads. I remember the jealousy I felt over Jewish holidays, as my friends would talk about all of their cousins and Aunt’s and Uncle’s and how many people could fit around their dinner tables. And, at our holiday tables, it was just my Grandparents, my parents, and my siblings.  We were a small, nuclear family. My Grandmother, orphaned at the age of 15. My Grandfather, escaped the Holocaust by joining and fighting with the Jewish Brigade in World War II. Both of their families, almost completely annihilated by Hitler.

Sometimes, I would fantasize that my Grandmother’s older brother or her baby sister had survived and were living in South America or Canada, or Australia. And that, one day, through the magic of the Internet, they would find each other and have this great reunion. And that, my 88 year old orphan Grandmother, would realize that she is not alone in this World. But, that is merely a fantasy. The SS and Hitler were methodical, and they were methodical with their record keeping. We know, without a shadow of a doubt, that my Grandmother’s parents and siblings were sent to the gas chambers at Treblinka.

Growing up, I used to pray that I would, one day, have a large family. When I started dating, I would ask the guy I was seeing if he came from a large family. One of my dating criteria was that the guy either come from a large family, or really wanted one of his own.

Secretly, I had another dating criteria. I wanted to date someone who was a 3G, like me. So that he would understand how obsessed I am about making sure we all have passports, that they are always up to date, that we can literally leave the Country (any Country), at any time, because we have the right papers. When we bought a car on my Olah rights, and they requested to hold my US and Israeli passports overnight, I literally had heart palpitations. I almost didn’t go through with it, because the very thought of being separated from my passports, made me sick to my stomach.

And yet, wonderfully, I fell in love with DH. A man who is blessed to have a massive family on BOTH sides. He has oodles of cousins, and more second and third cousins than I could ever imagine. And, while his Grandmother lost a lot of her immediate family during the Holocaust, he was not exposed to it the same way I was. He doesn’t remember ever discussing it with his Grandmother, or having it be this big presence in his life.

I was so excited about marrying into this great, big, boisterous family. I couldn’t wait to experience their holidays, to see and experience how a family not exposed to the Holocaust functioned. To be a part of something different, to experience what many of my friends growing up experienced.

And, to this day, I cannot fit in. I am a fish out of water in this great big pool that is my husband’s family. I yearn to have Passover Seder with just DH and the girls, as opposed to 25+ people family Seders that consist of both sides of DH’s family. Fortunately, this year we had a very intimate family Seder with DH’s Aunt, Uncle and his two cousins. And, I finally felt at home, comfortable, and myself. I have earned a bad reputation for keeping us at home for Shabbat meals, for isolating us during large family functions. But, truth be told, I just cannot function in that environment. I just don’t belong, being a part of a large, extended family is just too difficult for me to adjust to.

And the worst thing is that, aside from DH’s Uncle, no one else gets it. They don’t understand where I’m coming from, how it’s not just that culturally we are different, we are different because I am a 3G and they – blessedly – are not. I hope, one day, they can forgive me for any friction I have caused because of my anxiety about being around the larger family, at big family functions.

Truth be told, I yearn for the day when my siblings can join us for holidays and Shabbatot. Because they are the only ones who understand how I feel, how I grew up, how much the Holocaust is a part of my life.

And, on the flip side, I try so hard not to pass on my issues to the next generation. That my 4G daughters grow up having joyful holiday experiences like DH had, that they only hear about their great-Grandmother’s life experience when they are older and ready to hear about what she went through. That the stories are only told when they are old enough and ready to hear them, and that they are not spoken about at every single Jewish holiday, family function or other social gathering. That they don’t equate Succot with when the family was herded into the ghetto, that they don’t equate Yom Kippur with when the ghetto was liquidated, that they don’t equate Pesach with when the family was sent to the gas chambers. That they don’t have to watch their Grandmother wipe away the tears during the Haggadah or throughout the Rosh Hashanah liturgy. That they never hear the story of how my Grandmother helped her first cousin kill her baby by throwing him into the toilets at their concentration camp. If the baby had been discovered, they would have all been killed.

Instead, my wish for my girls is that they can be a part of a large, beautiful, amazing Jewish family and be happy. That they can lose their passport and, without breaking a sweat, simply apply for a new one. That they live life without all of this debilitating fears that threaten to paralyze me, from letting them leave the house, live their lives, experience the World. That they don’t eat food in secret, in the dark, and with fear that there won’t be another plate tomorrow. That they leave food on their plates if they are full, and not feel guilty.

They have no idea how hard it is for me to let them go off to gan, get into the car with their Father and leave me home, alone, or to go to friends for a play date. I rely on DH to make sure that they have a normal upbringing, that my fears do not trickle down to them. So far, I think he is doing a great job. I can’t imagine them going over to other people’s houses for a sleep over. Aside from my 5 day hospital stay with DD#2, I just can’t imagine being away from both girls.

I don’t know if that’s a Holocaust thing, or simply because I’m a Mother.

We say that we should never forget. Intellectually, I believe that statement to be true. Emotionally, sometimes I wish that I could forget.

Just a little bit.

 

 

 

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Sibling Rivalry

Posted on April 16, 2012 by holylandhipstermom

 

(Photo credits: Hipstermom. DD#1 walking the streets of Jerusalem with her Uncle)

Passover is finally behind us, which means so is DH’s Monsoon Wedding of a birthday, my brother’s brief trip from the States to meet his niece and hang out, and 8 days of eating Matzah. Blech.

What that also means is that the diet started today, after a “final supper” with DH at Gabriel’s in town. That place is amazing, and I’m still tasting on my tongue the delicious glass of Carmel Winery’s Merlot.

With routines getting back to normal, I’ve had some time to reflect on the holiday and especially having both of my girls home for more than a week. And, I’ve realized, that there is some serious sibling rivalry going on and I’m not really sure the right way to handle it.

In a nutshell: Whatever DD#1 has in her hand, DD#2 wants. To the point where she will just pull it out of her older sisters hands. That causes an unbelievable amount of frustration on the part of DD#1 and she ends up screaming at her sister, screaming at us, and yelling a lot. We tried to distract the little one with similar toys, and to help her play together and not necessarily play by taking away all of her older sisters’ toys, but it didn’t help. We know DD#2 understands the word “no,” but that just doesn’t stop her. And, while we eventually encourage the older one to either play in her room with the door closed, or to move to a higher table like the kitchen or dining room, it’s really not fair to her that she has to be the one to move away when all she wants to do is play.

And it’s with everything! If DD#2 is sitting in my lap, DD#1 wants to come in for a cuddle. Now, I’m a big Mama and got plenty of lap space for the two of them, but they both don’t really like to share the lap. When I’m on the floor playing with DD#2, to distract her from taking the toys of DD#1, my eldest abandons her toys and comes to play with me too. I laugh and tell her that it defeats the purpose of me distracting the baby if she no longer wants to play with the toys, but that just doesn’t resonate with her. She just sees Mommy playing with one child, and she wants to play too.

And I have no IDEA why the baby likes to frustrate her older sister by pulling out her pacifier. We are slowly weening our eldest off of her pacifier. We have her day weened in that she cannot leave the house in public with the pacifier, although on long car trips we give in. She pretty much only gets the pacifier when she is watching TV or when she is going to bed. Our goal is to get her completely night trained and then we’ll work on giving up her pacifier. But, since the girls were home on vacation, I let her use it more that usual and she likes to sit on her little couch with the pacifier and watch TV. And sure enough, the little one crawled right up to her and would just pull the pacifier out of her mouth! She didn’t want to put it into her own mouth since she had hers in there, she just liked yanking it out and getting a rise out of her sister. It got to the point where I literally had to keep a hand over DD#1′s pacifier/mouth and tell the baby “no” each time she tried to pry my hand loose.

Aside from the sibling rivalry though, we had a really enjoyable vacation together. I was so relaxed and enjoyed our practically non-existent schedule. If DD#1 wanted to stay in PJ’s until 11:00 a.m., and color on her little table or play in the living room, I gladly let her. We went on walks to the Supermarket and the park, and I let the eldest blow bubbles during our trek. We went to the museum and to parks in other neighborhoods where the girls could go on swings, and we actually took BOTH girls out to dinner at Moshava 54. It was a great experience, they were both behaved and ate nicely. It was the first time since DD#2′s birth, where we were able to go out to eat as a family. That was just so exciting, to know that they are both at an age where we can dine out and I don’t have to whip out the cape to breastfeed while trying to eat my appetizer with one hand, and cut up DD#1′s chicken with the other.

And the best part of all? When my eldest child pulled her little sister in for a cuddle, and they hugged.

How do you handle sibling rivalry at such a young age? All advice and anecdotes welcome in the comment section!!

 

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The Single Life

Posted on March 5, 2012 by holylandhipstermom

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club in concert

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my single life. Specifically, the things that I miss and the things that I don’t. I literally spent majority of my single 20′s yearning for the life I live now, and with good reason. Had I known then what I would have now, I would have been just beyond depressed.

But, I took advantage of my single status and decided to spend my days, not pining away for a husband and children, but enjoying the life I was living at that moment. Because, I knew that one day, it would be gone and there would be aspects of that life that I would miss.

I was definitely right about that.

Most of the time, I think about my single bed. The glorious full bed with my eight pillows, Calvin Klein and Donna Karan sheets, and pillow top mattress. I used to sleep right in the middle of the bed, with plenty of room on either side of me. Usually, I think about my old bed when I’m practically hanging over the side of my side of the bed, with our daughter’s feet crisscrossed across my chest and one hand slapped against my face. Of course, I barely breathe, afraid any sudden movement will wake her up. Forget going to the bathroom, I’d rather hold it in than wake her up. So, I close my eyes, and think about the copious hours of sleep I used to get while living alone. And, just when I yearn to transport myself back in time to my old apartment on the Upper West Side, into my delicious bed, my daughter strokes my cheek and whispers in my ear that I’m her best friend. And, suddenly, I’m thrilled to be awake and at the edge of my mattress.

I also don’t miss the loneliness of single life.  I wanted to be with someone who got my jokes, cared enough about me to take care of me when I was sick, was my partner in crime in this life. I’m thrilled to be coupled, and I definitely found the perfect partner for me.

I don’t miss cooking for one. Especially since, back then, cooking for one meant heating up a Weight Watchers meal and finishing it off with a bag of 98% fat free popcorn. I love cooking for my family, and don’t even mind all of our dietary restrictions. I’m gluten free, my husband is carbs free except for breakfast, my baby is allergic to oats, peanuts, sesame, egg and rice, and our eldest is just a real picky eater. Most of the time, I’m preparing four different meals at least twice or three times a day. It’s a good thing I really enjoy cooking.

I don’t miss laundry for one. Oh sure, there are times when I look at all the laundry bags in the house and  I’m overwhelmed. That usually comes after I change the sheets and towels, but then during the quiet of nap time, I sit down to fold little onesies and footie pajamas, and I just fall in love.

Now, I am a supermarket junkie. Take me to a new location, anywhere in the World, and I will hightail it straight to the nearest supermarket. So, you can imagine how much I enjoy shopping for my family. I just love walking up and down the aisles and picking out a special treat for our eldest, or remembering that we’re low on my husband’s favorite yogurts and buying some before we run out. I love looking at an overflowing cart filled with food for four, as opposed to the tiny basket I used to tote around Fairway on Broadway that I could barely fill up with food for myself for the week.

But the two things I miss the most about single life are money and music. I miss having money to spend on myself, lavishly. I used to make a decent living, enough to cover my expenses and have a healthy entertainment fund. Now, we have to really count our pennies, and I can no longer just shop when I feel like it. I can no longer just go to the mall and come home with bags and bags of goodies for myself, just because I could. That takes a lot of getting used to, especially since I spent more than thirteen years just spending money on myself.

And then, there’s music. I used to be so on top of the music scene. Today, I’m lucky if the local radio station is on while I feed the baby. Usually, we’re listening to Hebrew music about the upcoming holidays, Raffi or some Disney soundtrack. Our local music station plays the weirdest mix of music, ever, and most of the times I just get so aggravated with the selection. I miss discovering a new band before it’s hot, like I did with The Black Keys. I was into them well before their music was selected as the background to those car commercials and some WB shows. I miss going out to concerts with my friends in the City. There is nothing like going to a concert in Manhattan. The venues I’ve been to have been amazing and exciting. I’ve seen Scissor Sisters at the Hammerstein Ballroom and Coldplay at Radio City Music Hall. I saw an intimate showing with Gruff Rhys, lead singer of The Super Furry Animals, and was so close to him I could have wiped the sweat off his brow. I can’t count how many times I saw both Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and Kings of Leon, who I was also into well before they were popular. My friend Julie took me on a fabulous full day concert featuring Oasis and Kasabian for my birthday, and we met the most interesting group of people from Ireland. I miss the atmosphere at a concert, holding that giant plastic cup of beer that sweats in your hand as the warm up band plays. Even though I don’t regret, for one minute, quitting smoking, I do miss smoking at a concert. And I’ll never forget seeing Radiohead in concert at Liberty Island, mere weeks before September 11th. I won’t forget sitting at the Cosi at the base of the World Trade Center, eating a sandwich before the show, then walking around to the pier to pick up the ferry that took us across to the show. I remember looking at the people coming in and out of the Trade Center, and the people walking around the area as we headed to the concert. And then, after 9/11, I wondered how many of them survived the terrorist attack.

I wish I could take my husband to a concert in Manhattan. I would love to see the Arctic Monkey’s or Adele, live. But, at least right now, that’s just not in the cards. Instead, I think we’re just going to try to play some more of our kind of music during the day. There is no reason why the girls can’t be introduced to the music we love. Sure, we’ll still play the soundtrack to Beauty and the Beast, but there’s no reason why the girls can’t also rock out to Tapes n’ Tapes.

 

 

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The Summer I Got Kicked Out of Camp

Posted on February 12, 2012 by holylandhipstermom

Whitney Houston RIP 2/11/2012

Sometimes in life, events happen that bring old wounds to the surface. Whitney Houston, a legend in her own right, died yesterday at the age of 48. When I heard the news, I felt extremely sad. And then, a flood of difficult memories came into my mind. That box where we store away the difficult moments in our life was opened with her death.

Why? Because, the summer I got kicked out of Camp Hillel sleep away camp, was the summer I spent consoling myself to Whitney Houston’s music.

It’s funny, but this past Shabbat I was talking to my friend about my summer camp experiences, and I mentioned this incident. But sometimes, we can mention moments and still keep them locked away. Today, they all came to the surface.

I was 11 years old and it was the summer after 6th grade. It was my second summer at Camp Hillel sleep away camp in Swan Lake, Pennsylvania. I was in bunk 5A with a couple of friends from elementary school and girls who had been there the summer before. I ended up getting the bottom bunk bed at the entrance to our bunk, directly beneath one of my counselors. My older sister was also at camp that summer, and it was comforting to have her around.

I was a messy kid. I remember unpacking my trunk and not finding any hangers, so I folded my summer dresses and put them in the back of one of my cubbies. I wasn’t dirty though, and always showered when it was my turn, and wore clean clothing.

But, I didn’t make friends easily, and my bunk mates were challenging. A lot of the girls had cliqued off early and it was hard for me to break into the cliques. I was friendly and outgoing, so I was willing to work at it. I was also fairly athletic (didn’t have the weight problem yet) and excelled at swimming. I could also kick that ball really far during kickball.

I made a couple of mistakes about 2 weeks into the summer. One night, after lights out, I sat on my friend’s bed with about four other girls, and we were talking. It was then that I mentioned that I was seeing a psychologist back home. One of the girls asked me what that was, and I explained that he was a doctor I talked to about some of the issues I had at home and at school. That girl later told my counselor, who told our division head, who told the head of girls campus.

So, this is the 1980′s, and going to see a shrink was no where near as popular and accepting as it is today. In fact, if people were in therapy in the 80′s, it was this huge secret. Unfortunately, no one ever told me to be ashamed of it. No one ever told me not to talk about it. And so, I made the big mistake of telling my bunk mates. (Side note: I am extremely thankful that my parents sent me to a therapist, even though there was a tremendous stigma if anyone found out. They cared enough about me to know that I needed some help, and tried their hardest to help me).

Second, the head of girls campus hated my guts. Why? Because her twin daughters were my age and we didn’t get along. In fact, I didn’t get along with them the previous summer, and I’m pretty sure we fought a lot (never physical, just verbal) and Mommy Head Honcho didn’t like it that her daughter’s were having issues with a particular camper. This is an important piece of information to remember as you continue to read my story.

Once the head of girls campus heard about my shrink, she sounded the alarm and put me on probation. However, she never told me she put me on probation. Then, the second Shabbat of camp, there was a major heat wave. And, of course, I couldn’t find my summer dresses. Why? Because I had folded them into a ball in the back of my cubbie and forgot they were there. I had nothing to wear to shul and no one would lend me anything. So, I took out a white sweater dress, and wore it. I had nothing else.

Well, the head of girls campus FREAKED that I was wearing a sweater dress in 90 degree weather. She yelled at me and sent me back to my bunk to find appropriate clothing. Fortunately, my sister saw the screaming and she got permission from her counselor to help me. She knew I had summer dresses, since she was there when my Mom packed me up, and so she started looking for them. We went through the entire closet and then emptied all of my cubbies, until we found the dresses in the back. Truth be told, I was relieved we found them because I was really hot in that sweater. I thanked her, got dressed in a summer outfit, and rejoined my group.

That night, I went to sleep at lights out and was woken up by my counselor when she came in after her curfew. Now, at age 11, I did not do well with being woken up when I was tired. Our counselors thought it would be fun to wake us at 11:00 p.m. and have a little chat, but I wasn’t up for it. And so, I started crying. I was exhausted and all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. I remember the look my counselor and junior counselor gave each other as I bawled and begged to be allowed to go back to sleep. It was the look of “oh, this camper isn’t a team player. She’s the only one upset while everyone else is ready to go and have fun.” Well, too damn bad. I was behaving like a normal, exhausted, 11 year old and they shouldn’t have woken me up to begin with.

The next day, Sunday, was laundry day. I put all my laundry in, remembered to pin my socks, and used a mesh bag when necessary. I remember being in the shower that night and one of the girls was bullying me from the sinks. I told her to leave me alone and she punched me through the curtain. When I went to complain to my counselor, she ignored me. That was hurtful. That night, before dinner, I was called to the girls campus HQ for a phone call. It was my shrink.

Now, I wasn’t smart enough then to be surprised. I didn’t know how he had the number, why he was calling me, or what was going on. I thought maybe it was part of therapy and I was supposed to have phone consultations with him. The head of girls campus stood listening in the entire time, as I spoke to him on the phone. He basically asked me how I was doing and whether or not I was getting along with my bunk mates. I admitted that some of the girls were more difficult than others but I was having a good time. We hung up and I went to the dining hall, oblivious of what was to come.

When the laundry came back later that week, I was lazy. I decided I didn’t want to fold it and put it into my cubbie. Instead, I opened my duvet cover and stuffed it in there. I figured, when I was ready, I would just put it away some other time. But, I didn’t think that I would get busted during bunk inspection. Sure enough, once the division head found my laundry in my duvet cover, she freaked out! I got punished and had to stay back from an activity to put the laundry away.

That night, I was called to the camp owner’s bungalow for my second phone call with my shrink. Now, never once during this time at camp did I hear or speak with my parents. But, they knew what was going on, as they were working tireless to make sure the camp didn’t kick me out. I also never said more than 2 words to the camp owners,  the people who agreed to kick me out of camp. In fact, while in their bungalow on the phone with my shrink, neither of them were present. My shrink didn’t let on that anything about my behavior was going to get me kicked out. He just asked me how things were going and if I was happy. I answered honestly, that all was fine, as I itched to get back to my friends.

A few days later,  it was all over. I remember sitting at shiur with my bunk mates and seeing a truck rumble past toward girls campus, with a trunk in it. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Then, my name was called over the loud speaker, to go to the girls HQ, and I left shiur early. I arrived at HQ to find my parents. I was happy to see them but really surprised. I remember what my Mom was wearing, a pair of purple capris and a white, button down shirt with a ladies face on it. She put her arm around me and told me that they were there to take me home. I was shocked. I told her that I didn’t want to go home. She said that the camp wanted me to leave.

The next two hours were a complete blur. My Mom and sister packed my trunk with all my stuff while my bunk mates – suddenly my best friends – hugged me and told me they would miss me. The head of girls campus observed everything, she couldn’t wait to get me off of camp property. Our division head escorted us to our car, to make sure we really left camp grounds (or maybe to deal with her own guilt, she her parents attended my parents shul in Queens and she knew I was a good kid). Once again, the camp owners didn’t say a word to me.

I cried the entire drive back to Queens. I kept asking my parents what I did wrong. I kept going over and over in my mind the moments I could have changed. I should have asked for hangers for my dresses, so I didn’t wear a warm sweater dress on a hot day. I could have just put away my laundry, and not stuffed it into my duvet cover. I shouldn’t have told the girls I was seeing a shrink. I shouldn’t have cried when my counselors woke me up late a night.

But you see, what really upset me the most, is that I never broke any of the rules that got someone immediately kicked out of camp. I never physically assaulted anyone. I never went on a raid to the boys camp (although, that’s the story I told everyone back at school, when they asked why I got kicked out of camp. I had to save face and make it seem like I was really bad, got caught on a raid, and deserved to be booted), I never brought non-kosher food to the camp, I never lit a fire or tried to destroy camp property. I never tried to run away or leave camp grounds.

Should I have been kicked out of camp? Absolutely not. The owners of the camp dropped the ball, big time. They had a responsibility to me, and they failed me. Why didn’t they try changing my bunk? Why didn’t anyone ever discuss with me that I was on probation, or that my actions would get me kicked out of camp? I was never, ever warned.

A week and a half later was visiting day, and of course I had to come back to see my sister. Where else would my parents leave me when the entire family came for the day? I was excited to talk to my bunk mates and ran ahead after my Dad parked the car. I asked the girls whose parents hadn’t arrived yet, what I missed being gone. They told me that one of our bunk mates had hepatitis and they all had to get shots in their asses. I didn’t think much of it but I did mention it to my Mom minutes later. She, of course, got pissed off and went to the division head to find out the story. And wouldn’t you know it, but about 20 minutes later I was in the infirmary getting a shot in my ass! And let me tell you, hepatitis shots in the ass are not fun. They hurt. Now envision a 6 hour car ride home. As if getting kicked out wasn’t bad enough, this was the visiting day experience from hell.

But that moment, getting kicked out of camp, haunted me for more than a decade. I suddenly feared I would get kicked out of elementary school, and later high school, for the slightest indiscretion. My seventh grade year was the worst I’d ever had. I was ridiculed and bullied by just about everyone. They had all heard I was kicked out of camp, and no one bothered to ask if I deserved it. They had branded me a “problem child,” and with that brand I endured a year from hell. My issues with my parents exacerbated as the issues with the kids in school got even worse. I was getting it at both ends – in school and at home – and I felt like there was no one there for me. I acted out even more, and felt like there was no one in my corner.

I tried to commit suicide midway through the year. Crouched behind the garbage can in my parents kitchen, I took my Father’s Challah knife and tried to slit my wrists. It was the wrong knife to take, and after a few tries, I lost my nerve. It also hurt a lot, and so I made some cuts on my hand and arm, rinsed off the knife, and went back upstairs to my room. I wasn’t going to get off easy, and I would spend years dealing with my adolescent pain.

I worried and had constant anxiety throughout my seminary year in Israel. I would ask my Rabbi if he was upset with me and if that meant he would send me home. It wasn’t until college, YEARS later, that I finally realized that I wasn’t going to get expelled.

But those scars remained with me. I have spent years going over and over that summer in my mind. As an adult, I could really understand things better. My counselors were shitty little 16 year old’s who had no idea what they were doing. They heard therapist and immediately branded me a sociopath. What did they know? At 16, they had absolutely zero experience working with youth. They weren’t trained to take care of us, and all they cared about was getting a good tip from our parents and meeting boys.

I also realized that it’s never a good idea to have a child in the same bunk/class as a child of one of the administrators/head counselors, etc. Those parents cannot be neutral, they cannot separate being a Mother with being an educator. They cannot choose what’s best for another child at the expense of their own child.

I will make part of my decisions about my girls schooling and other camp/schools based on whether or not they might share a class/bunk with an administrator’s child. If possible, I will make sure that never happens. The head of girls campus never should have made the call to kick me out of camp, or wielded such influence on the decision with the camp owners. But since both of her daughters were in the only other bunks in my division, she would not have switched me into a different bunk. She wasn’t willing to risk HER child having a bad experience, or possibly not getting along with me. She chose her children’s happiness first, I do not think another person would have done the same. But I blame the camp owners for not seeing through her personal stake in the situation, she definitely didn’t want me around.  The responsible action would have been to move my bunk, and see how I did with different counselors and different girls. THAT would have been the right thing to do.

As a Mother today, I understand why she did what she did. Truth be told, if I had been in the same shoes at the head of girls campus, I do not know if I would have made a different choice. I would protect my child at all cost. But who am I kidding?  I wouldn’t put myself in that position to begin with.

It was just my bad luck that I was in the same division as the head of girls campuses’ twin daughters. If I were a year young, or a year older, there could have been other options for me. I’ve stopped asking “what if’s” a long time ago, sometimes – no matter how painful things are – it’s just meant to be.

And so, that brings me back to Whitney Houston. I spent the remaining weeks at home. It was too late to enroll me in any day camp, so I was stuck spending my days at my parents house. My Grandmother took care of me, and schlepped me on all her errands. She taught me how to test the ripeness of a melon or pick sweet grapes (the trick is to eat one until you find the sweet ones). My Aunt Irene Z”L took me to her house and taught me how to bake chocolate chip cookies.

And my Mom stayed home a few days from work, and put the sprinkler on in the back yard.  I popped my Stacey Q and Whitney Houston cassette tapes into our portable tape recorder, and drowned my sorrows while dancing to the music, underneath the gentle pelting of the water sprinkler.

 

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Chasing the Orange Stroller

Posted on January 18, 2012 by holylandhipstermom

Orange stroller at the Maon in Baka

Two days ago, I witnessed something horrible. I was leaving our apartment building with the baby, who was all bundled up in her Bugaboo and ready for a nice walk in the fresh air. I closed the gate behind me and turned towards my right, trying to decide which route to take on our little walk. In front of me was a woman and a little girl, sitting strapped into an orange carriage. I turned away from them to contemplate walking the other way, when the woman let out a yell. I quickly turned back, just in time to see her punch the little girl in the head. The child immediately howled in pain, as the woman continued to yell at her, while bending down to pick up the cause of the assault.

A blanket. A worn blanket that had been covering the child, slipped off (or was thrown off by the little girl), and the woman ran over it with the carriage and was FURIOUS about it. Angry enough to hit this little child. And then, as I watched in shock, she proceeded to violently wrap the screaming child in this blanket. The little girl, still crying hysterically, started coughing. It was the sound I’m familiar with, when my DD has bronchitis. The woman was still screaming at the child, yelling in Hebrew that she had horrible manners, and who taught her how to behave so badly.

At this point, I wanted to get involved. I wanted to say SOMETHING to this woman, who was definitely not this little girls Mother. She was either a Grandmother or a caregiver, which was making the situation even worse. I wanted to scream at this woman for hitting this child. I mean, for what did she hit this poor kid? Because a blanket fell on the floor? Because it got dirty? That’s something that a 2 year old deserves to get beaten for?

As the woman came towards me, I opened my mouth, and then closed it. She walked past me, oblivious to my presence, continuing to chastise the screaming toddler. I turned my baby carriage in her direction and started following her. But, as she took a left at the corner, I shook my head and continued straight. I fought the urge to cry.

Why couldn’t I say something? Why? Why didn’t I open my mouth and object to what was such outrageous behavior? I didn’t know.

Scenarios kept racing through my mind. One scenario had me confront her, ask her if she wanted to hit someone her own size, and then she actually takes a swing at me. Or, even worse, she takes a swing at my baby. The other scenario has me following her to her home, writing down the address, and then calling the police and reporting her. In a third scenario, I call the police right then and there and then chase after her until they arrive.

But, it was too late, the woman was gone. And only G-d knows what this child endures behind closed doors. I mean, if she is getting such a hit in public, can you imagine what happens in private?

I was riddled with guilt, not being able to get them out of my mind. I took to the Israeli Babies Facebook group and ask the members, what they would have done. Many of the them responded that they would have been all over the woman. I was immediately jealous of those women, I wish I was like that. I wish I was able to open my mouth and object when I see something so offensive, so disturbing, that I can’t do anything but intervene.

And so, I’ve spent the past couple of days, trying to understand my behavior. Part of it has to do with my American culture, part of it has to do with being a New Yorker who’s taught to keep out of other people’s business. Because, as Mom would say, you never know who has a gun. Another part has to do with my personal upbringing, and also my “breeding.” (The whole, A lady is seen, and rarely heard, crap). I also spent years conditioning myself to be quiet, meek, demure, because, heaven forbid, someone should stereotype me as a brass, bold, loud, aggressive fat person akin to Roseanne Barr.

And I felt tremendous shame. I’m ashamed of myself for not saying something, for not getting involved, for not doing what I have a responsibility to do to protect this child!

So yesterday, at exactly the same time, I left the house with the baby. Only this time, the skies were grey, the rain had already started, and the weather was freezing. I walked around the block,  hoping to run into this woman again. This time, I had a plan. I was going to photograph her on my phone, follow her home, and then give the information over to either Child Services, or the Police.

But, she was no where to be found. Since there are at least 4 child care facilities within a 2 block radius, I decided to go to each one and see if I could spot the orange stroller. Or, better yet, to run into the woman and child again. I walked up the block to the first day care facility and waited until a parent came to pick up their child. A Mother arrived,  keyed in the code, and let me in. I walked up the ramp towards the entrance and surveyed the carriage. And my heart literally skipped a beat. There it was! The orange stroller, with 2 bags hanging on the handle bar. I took a picture, went inside, and told the woman in charge that I was looking for a gan for my daughter for next year. It wasn’t a lie, I actually am looking for a gan for next year, but that really wasn’t my purpose. She gave me some information, and then I left. I stood watch by the door for the next 30 minutes, pushing the carriage to keep warm, watching each person that went in and out of the gan. And then, a woman with dark brown hair and glasses walked past me and inside the gan. I looked through the hole in the tarp and saw that the orange stroller was the only one left, and my palms started sweating. I called my husband, told him that I had found the stroller, and that I was waiting to confirm that it belonged to the little girl. He told me that I didn’t need to have a confrontation, and I affirmed that I was simply there to take a picture so I can go to the proper authorities. And then the woman walked out, pushing the orange stroller and holding the hand of a 2 year old boy.

I was so crushed that I almost started crying on the street. She passed me and said hello, and I waited until she turned the corner before I left.

How could that be? I mean, how many people have an orange stroller with handles? I picked up my eldest from gan, came home, and buried my disappointment in drooly kisses, toilet training, dinner and bath time.

Today was no different. At the same time, I bundled up the baby, stepped outside the apartment and turned to the right. The woman and child were not there. I walked around the block, twice, keeping my eyes out for the orange stroller. On the third trip past my door, I ran into my friend Rachel. I didn’t tell her what was going on, and since I had time before gan pickup for my eldest, I decided to join her for a little walk. We chatted for a few blocks and then, before we crossed Reuven street, I saw him coming towards me with the orange stroller.

Second orange stroller at a gan in Baka

The adrenaline started pumping and Rachel and I parted ways. I had to run a bit to catch up with him, but I was determined to keep up. My husband drove past as I was racing down the block and I tried to wave him down, to tell him that I was in pursuit of an orange stroller, but he continued past. I was half a block away when I lost him. Fortunately, I knew that he had gone into one of the gan’s on the block and I simply had to look for the orange stroller. Breathless, I arrived at the first gan, and there was the orange stroller in the courtyard. I didn’t need the code to get in, I simply parked myself outside the door and waited for him to emerge. My phone was at the ready.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and the man emerged. Holding the hand of another little boy.

At that point, gan pick up was over and the parents and children had thinned to a mere trickle. I joined my husband to pick up our eldest daughter and filled him in on the story. I showed him the two photos of the orange stroller, and held back tears that I had failed to find the little girl. He urged me to stop trying to find her, but I dismissed him.

He says I don’t need to pay penance for not getting involved at the moment. I think he’s wrong. I shudder to think what this child could be going through a home, and how I might be the only person who has an inkling into her suffering.

And so, as long as I physically am able, you can find me around 3:00 p.m., walking around the neighborhood, searching for the orange stroller.

If you happen to live in Baka and want to help, keep an eye out for a little girl in an orange stroller, similar to the one photographed above. She had brown hair and brown eyes, is around 2 years old. There was a Shilav bag hanging on one of the handles, and she was wearing a pink coat. The Israeli woman pushing her had white/blonde hair, wore clogs, had a raspy voice from one too many cigarettes, and dark sunglasses. Thin built, average height, speaks only Hebrew. If you see someone matching this description, please take a picture and send it to me.

What would you have done in this situation?

 

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One Potato Miracle

Posted on December 22, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

Preparation for the first night of Hanukkah!

When we think about Hanukkah, we think about miracles. Well, the first night of Hanukkah, we had our own little miracle. Where I was able to get, from 1 medium to large sized potato, 20 small latkes for our family Hanukkah party. And they were delicious!

Making Hanukkah a celebration for my little family is so important to me, especially since so very many of the Jewish holidays of my youth were hijacked by the Holocaust.  DH has amazing memories of these massive Hanukkah celebrations with loads of Uncles, Aunts, Grandparents, cousins, second cousins, etc. My memories of Hanukkah’s past includes my parents, siblings, and Grandparents. My father is an only child, and well, Hitler took care of any of the other relatives that could have been on my Dad’s side. Our celebrations were intimate, small, and very sweet. One night out of the eight, we would go to my Grandparents house where my Grandfather would be busy hand grating the potatoes for the latkes. My Grandmother, meanwhile, was mixing up all the ingredients and frying them in the pan. She never used a spatula, turning each one with either a fork or her fingers. Her fingertips were already numb by then from all the hard work in the concentration camp and then as a seamstress in Manhattan’s sweatshops.

Her latkes were thin, delicious, and perfect. And somehow, the tradition of lighting candles, singing, eating latkes and then finishing them off with Carvel flying saucers were born. My Grandmother made sure we all had our favorite flavor of choice, mine being pistachio, my parents enjoying chocolate and vanilla, my sister liking pistachio, the other sister liking chocolate, and my brother going for the vanilla. We never got together with my Mother’s side of the family since it was usually a school night and my Dad didn’t want to drive into the City. So that was it, our Hanukkah celebration. During the week, we lit candles and then went back to doing our homework. Nothing overly exciting. Sometimes we would get gifts, but for the most part, Hanukkah just wasn’t that big a deal.

So, what happens when you have one person whose Hanukkah celebrations weren’t that big of a deal, married to someone whose Hanukkah celebrations were eight nights of gigantic family get togethers, loads of gifts, gelt, latkes, sufganiot, music, laughter and overall merriment? Well, you have a lot of compromising.

I like to try to incorporate some of DH’s traditions, with some of my low key ones. That being said, I want to make Hanukkah fun and exciting for our kids so they don’t end up riding the school bus in High School and singing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs while looking at all the neighborhood Christmas lights (which are gorgeous!!). I want them to grow up excited about 8 days of joyous festivities, where they get gifts (within reason), spend time with family, learn about the miracles of Hanukkah, and just feel the love of a holiday season.

So, as we work on created new traditions for our little family, we agreed to have a first night of Hanukkah where it’s just us. That made me happy, as we are spending 5 nights of Hanukkah with various members of DH’s family. And, since I have no family on my side in Israel (yet), I have to stand up for myself and insist that small, intimate, little family celebrations at home are also fun and joyous.

I prepared for Hanukkah for a long time. Starting back in August, when we were in the States, and I picked up all the gifts for Baby J. at Target. Everyone laughed at me for doing that, but believe me, it was much cheaper shopping then than it is shopping now. DH and I also decided to tell each other what we wanted as gifts, and they were very reasonable. DH got a book by his favorite author, and I got three CD’s.

While Baby J. was in gan, I got to work on setting up the apartment. I took out our Chanukiah and took a pair of chopsticks to them, getting out as much of last year’s candle wax as I could. Then, I set up the windowsill with plenty of silver foil and tied back the curtains. DH had gone to Roladin the day before and picked up sufganiot, and he got one of each flavor so we could have a sampling! Check out my food blog at FatGirlFoodie in a few days for my review!

I put the sufganiot on the table, surrounded them with an Elite candle full of candy that Baby J. picked up at the supermarket the other day, some dreidels, and put on a CD of Hanukkah music. The house felt warm and festive, but I felt that something was missing.

My Grandmother’s latkes. Sigh. What I wouldn’t give to be back in their tiny, overheated apartment, watching my Grandparents prepare the latkes for us. Unfortunately, my Grandfather has been gone now for a number of years and my Grandmother no longer has the strength to make us her favorite fare. I thought, wouldn’t it be great if we had some latkes too? As I started to reach for the phone to call DH at work to ask him to buy some on his way home, I remembered that I had one potato. The potato that didn’t make it into the Chulent soup that I made 2 weeks ago, had been hanging from the kitchen chair in a pink bag. I peeked into the bag, expecting to see tons of eyes and perhaps some other growths from all this time, but it was almost pristine!

Excitement began to build and I quickly looked around for all the other ingredients. Onion, check. Matzah Meal, check. Salt, pepper, eggs, oil, check! Within minutes, I was hand grating that one potato, marveling at how my Grandfather had the upper arm strength to hand grate all those potatoes for our family, back in the day. I formed small, thin patties, and fried them in oil until brown and golden. I jabbered excitedly at Baby J. and Baby S., telling the story of my Grandmother’s latkes, and exclaiming how these would be just as good. Baby J. barely looked away from the TV to listen to what I had to say, but at least I got a drooly smile from Baby S.

And, a miracle occurred. From one potato, I managed to get 20 small, perfect, delicious latkes for our little family celebration.

And Baby J. didn’t touch even a one.

What type of holiday traditions do you have on Hanukkah? Let me know in the comment section below!

Chag Sameach to everyone celebrating the Festival of Lights!

And may the miracle of Hanukkah extend to little Ayelet Galena, and may she have a complete and total recovery. Please keep Ayelet Yakira Bas Chaya Hinda Matel Nechama in your prayers/tefillot this holiday season.

 

 

 

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New Thanksgiving Traditions

Posted on November 24, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

Snoopy Balloon at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade

Thanksgiving is probably my favorite holiday. And I’m including the Jewish ones in that list. I absolutely love everything about Thanksgiving. Growing up, my parents would let us sleep in and then my Mom would make us a pancake breakfast. Then, we would get dressed and go watch the parade in their bedroom. I got all excited when Santa showed up, because it signaled the end of the parade and the official start of the holiday season. I know I don’t celebrate Christmas, but there is just something so climactic about Santa showing up during the parade. After the parade, it was usually time to pile into the van and head to the Lower East Side for Thanksgiving dinner at my Aunt Amy’s house. When we were really younger, the meal wasn’t as important. We would play with my cousins and then all of us would watch the Godzilla, King Kong and The Blob marathons on TV while the adults languished over dinner and dessert. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I was also very happy to leave the TV for a piece of my Aunt’s apple pie. It is delicious.

As I got older, and during the single years, Thanksgiving wasn’t as exciting for me. It was pretty difficult to be at the dinner table, surrounded by my married siblings and cousins, and all of their children. That, and there was no longer any Godzilla, King Kong and The Blob TV marathons. We still had the parade, but I was usually sleeping it off on Thanksgiving mornings. The beauty of being an adult on Thanksgiving is hitting the bars with friends on Wednesday night.

But when I got married, I was so happy about bringing the Thanksgiving tradition to my new family. I didn’t marry an American, and while DH is very supportive of my culture, he doesn’t share the same connection to the holiday. The first two years of marriage, I went all out and made these big Thanksgiving feasts. The first year I invited my husbands entire extended family, and we even had some non-relatives crash the party. I slaved over the meal for a week and made 2 turkeys. The food was great, but something was missing. I decided the second year to scale down the invitations and just have his immediate family and our friends Jen and Zvi, who were in Israel visiting. Baby J. was almost a year old at the time and we were so excited about her first Thanksgiving. Once again, I cooked like a fiend, made two turkeys, and set a gorgeous table. DH’s family seemed to enjoy the experience, but again, I felt like something was missing.

Obviously what’s missing is my family. I miss my Aunt Amy’s turkey and apple pie, watching my cousin’s Larry and Neil dive into the dessert with gusto (this is after a huge meal), holding my nieces and nephews, making sure my Zayde A”H cup is full, fighting with at least one of my siblings and/or parent, gossiping with my Grandmother, the annual joint birthday cake for both of my parents,  and then reminiscing about days of yore and how much we loved watching Godzilla, King Kong and The Blob. That, and how funny it was the year we accidentally threw my sister’s retainer in the trash and how my Dad had to go through 3 apartment buildings worth of dumpsters FULL of Thanksgiving trash before he found it (he smelled great when he got back to the apartment with the retainer, BTW). Or the year New York City got socked with a heavy snow storm and we were holed up in our house, sans turkey, but with plenty of love, good cheer, snowball fights, and hot cocoa.

Not wanting to make an elaborate Thanksgiving meal for just the four of us, especially since Baby S. isn’t up to eating meat yet, I decided to delay Thanksgiving dinner until the girls are older but start some new traditions already today. First, that DH and I go out to a movie after Thanksgiving dinner. Even if my feet were aching from all the cooking and the house would be a mess from all the guests and food, I plan on leaving the mess, getting a babysitter, tucking the kids into bed, and going to see a nice movie with my husband. Next year, I’ll make a much better choice of movies though. Seeing Breaking Dawn with a theater full of screaming teenagers wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Also, I decided I really wanted Baby J. to experience the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any online outlets live streaming the parade. So, I went to YouTube and decided to show her last year’s parade. When DH got home, we gathered around the computer, and watched some guy’s video from 75th and Central Park West. It was a grainy home video but it was so effective, it made me feel like I was right there. Anyway, we watched the marching bands go by, and then Snoopy was the first balloon to make an appearance. As I excitedly told the kids about the balloons, DH realized that Baby J. was crying! She was so scared of the balloon, that she was silently crying and miserable. I quickly turned off the video, gave her a hug, and put on a TV show for her. While she was watching her show, with drying tears on her cheeks, she told me: “Mommy, I no want Thanksgiving. No more Thanksgiving, ok?”

Sigh. OK. She perked up when I ordered in pizza and ice cream though. And, while she only took three licks of her chocolate ice cream cone, I think she wasn’t so sad about Thanksgiving anymore. Another new tradition is born: pizza and ice cream cones for lunch on Thanksgiving day. But not too much, I wouldn’t want them to spoil their appetite for what’s to come.

And, while they are much too young for a touch football game in the courtyard of the Matnas next door, I’m looking forward to P”G getting a nice game together. Even if it’s just two on two, it will be a family tradition I hope they will all come to enjoy. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to teach my non-American/non-sports loving husband the rules of the game.

At the end of the day, I just hope the girls don’t grow up to be teenagers who roll their eyes and gripe to their friends about having to deal with their American Mother on Thanksgiving, when they’d rather be anywhere else but having turkey dinner with us.

Here’s hoping they’ll just invite them all over for dinner instead.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

 

 

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Mo Money, Mo Problems

Posted on November 15, 2011 by holylandhipstermom

Money. When you don’t have it, you desperately want it. And when you do have, well, sometimes you just squander it away.

I was very conscious about money at an early age. The summer I got kicked out of sleep away camp, I spent my days being dragged around town by my Grandmother. Wherever she went, I went. At Supermarkets, I would watch her count out every single penny from her little change purse. She knew before getting to the check out counter, exactly how much each item cost and whether or not she could afford it. Sometimes, she would pick up an item and then put it back on the shelf, doing the mental calculation that she couldn’t afford it. During these trips, I never got any treats. There was no extra money for me.

After those shopping trips, I vowed that I would never be in that position. That I would never count pennies, deny myself (or a future child) a treat from the store, or put something back on the shelf because I didn’t have the budget.

When it came time for me to be financially independent, I learned the hard way just how difficult money management could be. My first job paid me $21,000 a year before taxes. It was 1998 and I was going from earning no money to earning 21 grand, and I felt like I was rolling in dough. I moved out of my parents house and into a tiny third bedroom at the Westmont on the Upper West Side, and spent $750 a month for my closet. When I moved out, I also gained access to my bank account and my Bat Mitzvah money. It was more money then I had ever seen and I started spending, with abandon.

Six months after I started my job, I had depleted my savings by half. My Mom finally stepped in and told me that I couldn’t continue to afford the lifestyle I was living. That the apartment was too expensive and I wasn’t earning enough. She warned if I kept it up, I would deplete my savings completely.

I was loving my life, spending on anything my heart desired. I went out, wore nice clothing, bought great shoes, bulked up my CD collection, traveled, you name it. But, I heeded her warning and decided to break my lease and move down to the Lower East Side, and in with my 88 year old Grandfather.

Now, you would think that since I was living rent free in Manhattan, I would have saved some money. But no, in the 2 1/2 years that I lived with my Zaydie, I didn’t save one single penny. I now had more money to spend, and spend I did.

After 9/11, I decided it was time to give the Upper West Side another chance. This time, I was making $65,000 a year at another PR firm, and the housing market in Manhattan was in the toilet. I scored an adorable studio apartment on 74th and Columbus, in a part time doorman building, at $1400 a month.

I lived there for 4 years, spending a total of $67,200 on rent. That doesn’t include yearly Christmas tips to the three doormen, porter and our super. Or my other monthly expenses like cable TV with a DVR and HBO and Showtime. My electric bill, internet bill, cell phone bill, phone bill, supermarket shopping, etc.

Living alone was amazing. I furnished my adorable apartment with Pottery Barn furniture, Crate and Barrel dishware and West Elm rugs and knick-nacks. I wore Stuart Weitzman shoes, shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue, and got monthly waxes and facials at the Aveda salon and spa. I worked out at NYSC, had a weekly personal trainer, and went to weekly Weight Watchers meetings. Every single Saturday night, I either went out to bars, clubs, dinners or the movies. I spent my Sunday afternoons shopping at the Flea Markets around town, ordering in Chinese food, and paying my bills. I was generous with family and friends on birthdays and charitable as much as I could. I never looked at a price on a Supermarket item when I put it on my credit card, and never counted out a single penny at check-out. I was making enough to cover my comfortable lifestyle, without saving a penny.

And now, it’s 2011, and I’m married with two children, and we are barely making our bills. We live in my parents apartment but we’re about to start paying a mortgage. The only way we were able to buy an apartment is because DH already owned one when I married him. We sold that apartment, bought this new one, and are praying we will be able to make our mortgage payments.

I haven’t had a wax or facial in months, and sometimes I put items back on the shelf at the Supermarket. I tell Baby J. before we leave the house that she is only allowed one treat wherever we are going, and then I pray that it’s a treat that can also double as her dinner. When I order packages of turkey breast, I stretch it for at least 3 sandwiches, or 4 dinners. In the past, I would have easily polished off that package in one meal. When the Doctor told me that I’m borderline anemic, and all I have to do is eat red meat twice I week, I was too ashamed to tell her that we can’t afford red meat. I should have just asked for iron pills. Instead, I just feel tired and lousy most of the day. The next blood test should have me as a full blown anemic, and then I’ll just take the pills.

I thank G-d that we are on a Kupah here in Jerusalem, because there is no way I could afford health care in America. As an independent contractor, my health care bill was $350 a month. With a spouse and two children, that monthly bill would be triple the amount.

I haven’t had a vacation in 5 years, we can’t afford for me not to be working. When Baby J was born, I wrote a press release from my hospital bed. I then pitched it two days later, the first night we were home from the hospital. When Baby S. was born, I took a week off and then was back at my desk, writing and editing blog posts and working on social media strategies. I have a Masters degree in creative writing, a manuscript I’d love to get published, and a book idea that I wish I could actually write. But, being a writer is merely a dream, one that I don’t think will ever be realized. My manuscript will languish on the shelves of Bar Ilan University where maybe, some other Creative Writing student will read it. That’s probably the closest I’ll get to publishing my work.

I’d rather skip a meal than not pay for my weekly cleaning lady. I don’t have the time to clean the apartment and it needs to be maintained since it’s my parents place. When we move into our new place, we probably will not have a cleaning lady.

Baby J. doesn’t stay a full day at gan because we can’t afford to pay for after care. And I’m already sweating trying to figure out how we will  be able to have two children in gan next year.We don’t have a second car because we can’t afford the vehicle, gas, and extra insurance. There’s a reason I walk everywhere, and it’s really not because I love the walk. Sometimes, our lives would be so much easier if I just had another car.

The worst are the unexpected expenses. Like the unexpected oral surgery DH needed this past month to fix a tooth. That was 6,000 shekel. Or paying my Israeli accountant almost 6,000 shekel to do my books this year (this doesn’t include my estimate quarterly taxes that I pay in the States). And the private OT consultation and subsequent appointments to help Baby J. with some of her tactile issues (thank you Mom for paying for this!) Or the fact that Baby S. is probably allergic to wheat and now I have to eat gluten free. Have you seen the price of gluten free products yet? It’s obscene!

And then, there are the little things that you need to find the budget for. Like date night and a babysitter at least twice a month. DH works all day, comes home at 6, and then I go to work at 7 p.m. If we didn’t go out at least twice a month, our relationship would severely suffer and it’s already suffering because of my work hours. Baby J’s birthday is coming up and she is having a party at gan. She asked for a Dora birthday cake and I am going to have Abi of My Cakery Bakery make it for her. It’s more expensive than me just making a plain, Dunkin Hines sheet cake, but she deserves to be happy on her birthday.

Chanukah this year is going to be really lean in our house. I already bought Baby J. presents at Target this summer. Everyone laughed at me for buying Chanukah gifts in August, but we had more funds then and I just wouldn’t be able to buy her anything otherwise. Poor Baby S., she won’t be getting anything this Chanukah from us. We just don’t have the budget. DH asked for a book, and so he’s getting the book.

And, because I’m not humbled enough by our money issues, this morning I asked my Mom for cash to help pay our bills as my birthday present. I really wanted an iPad, but I can’t be self indulgent when I have a 6,000 shekel accountant bill that needs to get paid.

I never thought I would be in this position. In my twenties, I always assumed I would get married, quit working, raise the kids, take care of the home, and write my books while my husband supported us in a comfortable fashion. I think there is a very small percentage of people who could fulfill that type of dream, most everyone I know needs to have two incomes to keep themselves afloat if not comfortable.

At the end of the day, I just don’t want Baby J and Baby S to grow up wanting anything. I want to be able to give them whatever they ask for, with in reason. I want them to not worry about money, or whether or not Mommy and Daddy can pay the bills. I don’t want them to bear witness to our stressed conversations about going into minus with the bank or not being able to pay a credit card bill in full.

And, most importantly, I don’t ever want them to have the image of Mommy not being able to buy them a treat at the Supermarket. Or worse, counting out the shekels, realizing I don’t have enough, and making them put the item back.

 

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