betrayal of disengagement

I finally finished reading "Daring Greatly". There is a passage that haunts me, from the beginning of the book when she talks about vulnerability myths. I keep coming back to it again and again.

Brene Brown uses a marble jar analogy for trust, how trust is a collection of marbles slowly gathered over time, one marble here and one marble there. One cannot wait for it all to work out to start collecting marbles, but one is entitled to dump the entire collection and smash the jar when betrayed.

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"When we think about betrayal in terms of the marble jar metaphor, most of us think of someone we trust doing something so terrible that it forces us to grab the jar and dump out every single marble. What's the worst betrayal of trust you can think of? He sleeps with my best friend. She lies about where the money went. He/she chooses someone over me. Someone uses my vulnerability against me (an act of emotional treason that causes most of us to slam the entire jar to the ground rather than just dumping the marbles). All terrible betrayals, definitely, but there is a particular sort of betrayal that is more insidious and equally corrosive to trust.

In fact, this betrayal usually happens long before the other ones. I'm talking about the betrayal of disengagement. Of not caring. Of letting the connection go. Of not being willing to devote time and effort to the relationship. The word betrayal evokes experiences of cheating, lying, breaking a confidence, failing to defend us to someone else who's gossiping about us, and not choosing us over other people. These behaviors are certainly betrayals, but they're not the only form of betrayal. If I had to choose the form of betrayal that emerged most frequently from my research and that was the most dangerous in terms of corroding the trust connection, I would say disengagement.

When the people we love or with whom we have a deep connection stop caring, stop paying attention, stop investing, and stop fighting for the relationship, trust begins to slip away and hurt starts seeping in. Disengagement triggers shame and our greatest fears--the fears of being abandoned, unworthy, and unlovable. What can make this covert betrayal so much more dangerous than something like a lie or an affair is that we can't point to the source of our pain--there's no event, no obvious evidence of brokenness. It can feel crazy-making.

We may tell a disengaged partner,"You don't seem to care anymore," but without "evidence" of this, the response is "I'm home from work every night by six P.M. I tuck in the kids. I'm taking the boys to Little League. What do you want from me?" Or at work, we think, Why am I not getting feedback? Tell me you love it! Tell me it sucks! Just tell me something so I know you remember that I work here!

...Like trust, most experiences of betrayal happen slowly, one marble at a time. In fact, the overt or "big" betrayals that I mentioned before are more likely to happen after a period of disengagement and slowly eroding trust. What I've learned about trust professionally and what I've lived personally boils down to this:
Trust is a product of vulnerability that grows over time and requires work, attention, and full engagement. Trust isn'\t a grand gesture--it's a growing marble collection.

(pages 51-53)

dreaming

OMG what is that? My baby has been napping for the past hour and the older kids were entertaining themselves (except for one tushie that needed to be wiped). I was not rushing to do chumash with 12 year old, I was not hustling anyone to do schoolwork or finish something or other that is hard to do with an active toddler. (The chicken in Moana is clearly modelled after a toddler: same freak outs, same ridiculous repetitive behaviors.) And all of sudden I find myself finally calling a handyman to install the blinds before too many neighbors diplomatically suggest that we do it for our own good. And I'm making lasagna noodle roll-ups with tuna and spinach, using up leftovers. And I'm getting on IKEA home planner to figure out how to fit in a few more kitchen cabinets while thinking that maybe I should look into design or architecture classes. Is there a market for 40-year-old architects? And I finally threaded the washed 3 year old's car seat after a too-close encounter with raspberry jelly. The wipes did not cut it, so it had to be washed. Pesach came early, and I did it. And I'm thinking what else can I do with the kids around their 3 pm dentist appointment: drop off DVDs at the library because there is a branch not far from the office, stop by Aldi, run to IKEA to replace a vital screw that $%#$& movers did not put into the bunk bed? I did not realize that 10 yo telling me about his fear of the whole thing crashing down was not based on overreaction, but on solid engineering reality that a certain amount of supports is needed for the top bunk.

And I finished two books this past week: "Hillbilly Elegy" and "Run" by Ann Patchett. I cannot recall what was the last impactful book that I read before these two.

My time is slowly coming back to me. My time can also be snatched at any minute by a baby awakening from her nap, spilling pasta all over the floor, dumping cups of water, just screaming to be held. My time is also carved from the hours previously spent homeschooling. There is a misconception that unschooling means not doing anything with the kids, so why are the moms complaining that they are so busy? However, when you unschool, you are still in the picture, still available to answer questions, help with projects, do research, drop everything to read, etc. I am not currently unschooling. I am letting the older kids marinate in their own juices while I go and do my own thing. It is not clear-cut, as 10 yo, after this morning marinade, came to inform me that he and his two older siblings are about to produce Illiad , but a Wild West version. Ok, kids, I can write this down as an educational activity. I can boast about it: hey, my kids know enough about both to synthesize their own mashup. But I cannot call it unschooling, as I am refusing to participate more than a spectator.

Am I too high-strung to even unschool? Am I too controlling? Too worried about the outcome? Do I have too few resources, too few other adults who can spell me for a bit as the adult on duty? I don't know if I failed my kids by sending them to school, failed the ideals of homeschooling, failed myself. I do know that we, as a family, are ready for a new chapter. 12 yo is starting in a week and he is eager to have friends, hang out with friends, do things with friends, be in a class with friends. 10 yo came to terms with his new school reality. 6 yo is happy to have her girls back. And I am grateful for renewed energy and renewed ability to dream. I do wish so badly that my dreams involved homeschooling, spend long intense periods of time with the people that I birthed, educating them, learning alongside them. Right now, that is my fantasy. Right now, I need my space. I wish I did not have to carve time out for myself. I wish there would not be implied violence to time, but a peaceful flow.

PVC pipe menorah

Before

Last year, I got ourselves PVC pipes, draped them with LED lights, and called it our outdoor menorah. It felt funny, like channeling some inner Chabad. Also, I wanted my kids to look out the window at our menorah, not just wistfully at our neighbors' lit-up lawns and houses.

Marking off the measurements

This year, I had the whole plan to make a base for the menorah out of PVC connectors. I was hoping that the boys would design the stand, make all the measurements and I would serve as an advisor and chauffeur to Home Depot for the supplies. As it was getting closer to Chanukah, it was becoming clearer that if i wanted the menorah to have a base, I will need to take matters into my own hands.

10 yo using PVC cutters. I was nervous about his fingers,
 but he was quite careful

Very conveniently, a local Chabad was holding a menorah building workshop in Home Depot this past Sunday. I signed the kids up, and, once they were situated under my husband's supervision, I went off to collect the necessary supplies. I must have been quite a sight, marching through the store with a 10 foot pipe protruding from both ends of the cart. I got one long pipe, T connectors to hold up each "candle" and X connectors for stabilizing feet. I also got super cement to glue the whole thing together. Finally, I splurged on PVC cutters, as I was not sure what length we will need for each piece.

This morning, I started off by telling 10 yo that his math involved figuring out how to measure and cut the correct length of each piece. We sketched and diagrammed. I ended up calculating with him together. It was not as trivial as it appeared, and he ended up having to multiply both decimals and fractions (that is the section that he is currently learning in math). Once all the measurements and the calculations were complete, we had to wait for 1 yo take his nap, so I could focus on the older kids.

the base

At the beginning, all three participated, but then the younger two went off to play. 10 yo did most of the work. He marked off the measurements, used cutters to clip sections, and connected the pieces. He commented how the completed base looked like an antenna. I ended up winding up the lights.Two of the strands were used for the Succah, so I'm yet to retrieve them.

attaching the legs to the base

After

I did not ended up using PVC  cement, as we found that the piece fit in snugly without it. I liked the idea that I can take the menorah apart every year instead of being forced to store it as one bulky piece (it is 5 feet long). That being said, I am not sure whether it will be sturdy enough without the glue holding the pipes in place. We will live and we will learn.

Freedom of speech?

I did not grow up religious. I also grew up without any Jewish pride or Jewish symbolism. Maybe that's the reason that publicly, overtly displaying Jewish symbols always felt over-the-top to me. Those Chabad people with their menorahs, the Chassidim screaming in their clothing that they are from some other era: all of those seemed just a bit too pretentious and ostentatious. It probably sounds funny coming out of a mouth of a woman who dresses in long sleeves and long skirts in hot weather, and always covers her hair in ethnic fashion and whose kids always sport kipas and tzitzis, but in my head, the way that WE look walking down the street fits into the average American diversity, while what THEY are doing is too much.

A friend's family recently moved to Germany. Right before her move, we discussed how she is not planning on hiding her family's Jewishness away: her kids will wear tzitzis out, and kipas without baseball caps. I sort of counseled her on being careful, asking around, finding out what the local Orthodox Jews do. "We are what we are", she said, "and we will not hide it."

This was all just a few short months ago.

How the world had changed!

My oldest on Daddy's shoulders

Last week we went to a pro-Israel rally. It was organized through Jewish federation, and, from attending a previous rally two years ago, I knew they will have high security. Therefore I was not hesitating to bring the boys. I wanted them to see how we Jews come together to support our brothers and sisters in Israel. I wanted them to be aware of what's going on, and I wanted them to understand that it is important to show up and listen up. I wanted them to see what a peaceful demonstration looks like. Still, I prepped them that there might be anti-Israel protesters screaming mean things. I told them to make sure to stick close to me and if they would get separated, they should look for a policeman.

Over 2000 people gathered to support Israel

I need not worry: the rally was very calm, very sedate, and there were no counter protesters that I saw. I printed out signs for the boys to hold:

8 yo

They held them, waved them and then, when the rally was done, I was left with a few of them. A thought occurred: maybe I should place one in my car, on the dashboard, make a statement like a bumper sticker? Immediately another thought occurred: but is it safe? Is it too much? Is it "asking for it"?

Before you think that I overreact, I will cite the instances in Paris and Berlin from the past month where just being Jewish was enough incitement for violent anti-Semitic acts. Too far from home? I will cite Chicago and New York this past week. So I believe that there is a reason to worry.

Yet, just as these thoughts were occurring, another thought was running through my mind: don't I have freedom of speech and freedom of expression? Am I not entitled to my views? Am I not entitled to make a point on my car, just as millions of Americans do with their bumper stickers? I am not infringing on anyone else, I am not doing anything illegal by displaying this very pro-Israel sign. Will I not be protected by the law? Why am I finding myself in a position of fear? Are we not living in a democracy?

So what's the worst that will happen? Somebody will put a rock through my windshield and I will have to call the cops. Somebody might stand by my car, itching for an altercation. Somebody might start up with me. I will handle it. And then it might be time to start packing bags for the only place where people drive around waving Israeli flags without worrying what others think of them.

I hate myself for the fact that I even have to worry what displaying Israeli flag might mean to me.

My flag is on my dashboard.
I stand with Israel!

on my father's 5th yortzait

Another year has passed. Now my father missed meeting three of his grandchildren: two of mine and one of my sister's. He was supposed to be the involved grandparent, the one interested in spending time with his grand kids, tinkering around with them, asking them those goofy math problems that I always attempted to do and then brushed off. He was supposed to be the one who could get excited about things that excited me, or, at least, listen patiently. He was no angel, my father, but he was what a father was supposed to be: a kind man, a man who admitted his mistakes, someone who cared and someone who would do a lot of silly and hard things to show that he cared. He did not complain, and he did not demand. He was soft, somewhere in his core; but he was soft in just a way that I needed him to be.

He knew that life in Russia was not for likes of him. He liked the law-abiding society, instead of constant bribes and contact seeking. He wanted to stand on his own merit. He could have gone to Israel, have his life there, be a brainiac among brainiacs. He was not a goody-two-shoes, a perfect student, a teacher's pet. But he knew that whatever he needed to learn, he would master, and then have it at his fingertips to use. He was not stuck in past, nor fearful of the future.

My best years of relationship with him were during college years, when I was in the dorm in Manhattan and he was in Toronto, working, and living alone. I would get on the phone with him and share about my day, and the classes I was taking. I minored in math, and there were many different subjects. No matter which class I was in, I could tell him the current topic and he could help me with the problem sets. He knew his stuff. I am scared whether I still have enough math base to take my kids through middle school. But, more importantly than actual knowledge of the subject, he was there to listen to me.

I ended up with an emergency surgery while in college. He hopped on a bus and came over. He paced with me in the hospital, made jokes, and then told me of my loopy, morphine-drenched answers which I forgot. He knew it will make a good story one day, and I still smile when I think of the whole situation. He sat in the lobby of my dorm, taking apart and reassembling my computer, improving it. One of the guards came to investigate, and we were laughing: oh, he thought we were constructing a bomb! (This was before 9/11, so it was funny). When he met my future husband, he took right away to calling him by his Hebrew name, instead of his Russian one, just as he was introduced. My guy liked it tremendously, and so did I.

My oldest with my father

If it wasn't for awful Hep C... how different everything could have been! There are years and years worth of conversations: to treat, not to treat, too late to treat, no options, liver transplant, who will be the donor, whose responsibility to find the donor, go to China, they are a dime a dozen, so who cares if it's a little fishy, come on, it's your father! I wished in those years that I could problem solve and just do it myself, be the donor. But I could not, having the same virus. I was also watching with horror, as my father's condition deteriorated: this is going to be me, in twenty to thirty years. These issues are going to be my issues.

All the crazy things I did at that time: prowling chatrooms and message boards, talking online to random strangers who were interested in offering pieces of their livers, for a good price, of course. Talking to some crazy missionaries in Africa, who were part of this organ donor movement. Posting on all sorts of lists, sending out e-mails, asking and searching: are you the right blood type? Could you do a mitzvah? Would you consider davening for my father? Would you help out financially? Calling bikur cholim in Toronto, asking them to visit and to assist with rides, and being told that it is hard to find a male who can do a visit. Then convincing my non-observant parents that a visit from a total stranger would be good for them. We are still waiting for that visitor...

In all this craziness, it was me who figured out that my mother, being a type O, was a universal donor and could serve as a liver donor to my father. Meanwhile, I got my news that my liver was starting to get affected by Hep C. Same Hep C, same strain. My father saved my life. The family lore goes like this: when I was born two months' premature, the hospital did not exactly have a survival plan for such babies. So my parents were advised to take me home, heat the room as an incubator, and just try their best. I landed in the hospital at the tender age of 18 days. Somebody called for a blood transfusion. My father had the same blood type. They quickly reeled him in, bled him, and poured it into me. Blood, the elixir of life. Walking on knife's edge, it is also the toxic brew of whichever viruses happened to be there. Hep C was in that blood. Hep C was not discovered till later, and screening for it did not commence till even later than that. With that gift of life, I got a much more sinister gift. If there will be a vaccine for Hep C, I would take it in a heartbeat.

I started Hep C treatment as soon as my second son was weaned. I was determined to give it a good shot, because I would not make my kids go through what I was going through with my father. Considering my virus's genotype, I was told that 48 week treatment of Peg Intron plus ribavirin had a 50% chance of succeeding. The treatment is being described as having chemo, for 11 months, and without the sympathy reserved to cancer patients. The side effects were brutal: I lost 10 pounds in a few weeks. All you diet people, get some ribavirin and pound yourself into skinniness. You will look slim. You will also have no energy and constant nausea. You will also spend a chuck of your day laying on a couch, too tired to move. My blood counts plummeted, so I had to inject myself with more meds. I do not mutilate myself, and I hated the pain that came with each shot, and the new wave of sickness. Brain fog, loss of mental acuity (to me, a PhD candidate, former math minor, thinking "I will always have my smarts", literally losing my mind was cruelly painful). Insomnia requiring Ambien. Severe depression hit, so severe, that I had to be on medication and in therapy. All this for a 50% chance to beat the beast. I fretted whether my kids will remember me as the mommy who just laid on the couch for a year. They did not, but my second boy  spent a lot of time cuddling with me.

post first transplant

Two months into my treatment, my parents went for the transplant. I came for Rosh HaShana, three weeks later. My mother was home already, my father was supposed to be home, but something came up, and he was not released. I snuck my boys into the hospital lounge, so he could see them. I wore a mask since I was sniffling, and I did not want him to catch my cold. We paced the ward's floor, talking about treatments and quality of life. He was concerned about his friend with cancer. He did not look good, but he was optimistic, making plans.

That first liver, my mother's liver, was rejected by his body. He needed a second transplant, this time cadaveric. I flew in a few months later to visit. I found him in hospital bed, reading about Windows Vista, which just came out. I went to the gift shop and bought a chess/checkers set. I knew better than to play chess against him, so we settled on checkers. He beat me. I accompanied him to the exercise room. He surprised the nurse by asking for a slightly heavier load, to keep in shape. He somehow radiated this simple calm.

Around the time that I finally got word that my killer treatment is working, and all this sledgehammering that I am doing to my body and brain is not in vain, he deteriorated badly. One winter day, I got a frantic call from my sister: come now, this is it, his blood pressure crashed, they can't stabilize him. We threw kids in the car and went. I was still waiting on my citizenship, so I was not even sure whether Canada will let me in, without the proper papers, whether we will get turned around at the border. We made it, and I went up. They stabilized him in ICU, but he was unconscious, intubated, there, and not there.

He pulled through. My husband had to fly out the same night (they do not like to give residents emergency time off). I drove back with the kids a few days later, with my sister in tow. At the end of the month, my father got the second transplant.

It sort of worked. He became conscious, he started moving, started talking and walking. I flew in again, just for a day. (It was hard to place the kids; were it not for all my good New York friends, I would not have been able to go at all). I also managed to mix up my antidepressant with Ambien during that week, so I literally sleepwalked. I remember just bits and pieces: not enough time together, not enough privacy, getting him a hot chocolate from Tim Horton's, watching him struggle to stand up and walk with a walker. What I do remember clearly is him making plans to come and visit me in New York. He was aware of his condition, he knew full well what is going on. But he also knew what he had to do, and this was part of his duty, desire, and no darn freaking transplant or inability to stand unassisted was going to get in the way.

The last time I saw him was Thanksgiving. I finished my treatment and two weeks later we moved to Houston. The summer was busy with setting up a new life in a new place. I was offered a job on the spot to teach science, and my kids went to school just for the hours I was teaching. Meanwhile, this second transplant was not it, either. The virus reinfected the new liver, and there was nothing else to do. My father did come home. When I booked Thanksgiving tickets, it was not a nice visit with the family, it was a good bye. I knew it. I was bringing my kids, in vain hope that they would remember what their grandfather looked like. I made the most out of that visit: let's go out to eat! Let's go to the mall! Let's make a big shabbos meal! No cheer could pierce the new cloak of despair. When I saw that look of resignation on my father's face, I knew that he gave up.

Thanksgiving visit

Darn Hepatitis! It won! I beat my dragon,but my father lost his battle to his. He pulled through just at a year's mark, technically making his second transplant a statistical success. And my father loved those little technicalities.

When he passed away, it came as a shock to people in Houston. They did not know him, they did not know of him, and they did not know of my treatment. I felt like someone making an impolite mess, and apologizing profusely. Sitting shivah, visitors filing in, not knowing what to say. The usual questions: was it sudden? Was he sick? Oh, for how long? Do you have any family? Oh, a sister. Is she single? Well, this is not the time, but, afterward, please contact me, I might have someone for her...

The bottom fell out, Months passed and I did not notice. I got up, took care of the kids, taught, and yet I cannot recall a single moment of huge chunks of time. It was not intense grief, more just fog. I had distinct feelings that first year, moments, when I looked at the world through his eyes, not mine. Sobbing over a song from a record that he brought home many years ago. Feeling emptiness. Intense regret that my children will nor remember him, will not know him. Looking for signs of him in my kids. Saying kaddish when I made it to shul, and being upset when nobody on men's side would lead in mourner's kaddish, so the congregation skipped it.

It's been five years. We moved, yet again. My daughter can identify my father from the picture on our mantle. My baby is named after him. The older boys do not talk about him, as 9 yo told me that it is too sad. For a while, he was worried that he could also have that bad virus and die. I do not push. I am virus-free, and officially cured. But for the rest of my life I cannot be a blood donor. I am slowly starting to make plans to live past sixty, the age of my father's death. And I am planning to hold my kids, tell them I love them and I am proud of them, and let them go.

recognizing and appreciating my mentors

Homeschooling is a rough journey: there are no familiar signposts, and so much of the time is spent either reinventing the wheel or blazing a trail, that it gets exhausting. I found that over the years it helped to have others, further on in their homeschooling journey, to talk to. These people as a rule have been doing it way longer than me, and have older kids, so they have been reassuring: I've been there, I know how frustrating it can get, and this stage will pass.

I have to acknowledge these amazing women, and all the hours they put in, listening to me, giving advice, and just being there.

J lives in New York and has five kids, all of them homeschooled. Her oldest is in college. For four years, when my oldest was just born, I homeschooled someone else's daughter, and we did recess together: J's kids, this girl, and my boy(s). I was following textbooks back then, mostly recommended by this girl's parents, and it is easier to get someone else's kid to mind you (no tantrums), so the conversations with J used to be more technical back then: how to memorize multiplication tables, what about writing, etc. A lot of time had passed since those days: I've moved twice to different cities, J embraced unschooling more fully, and I've got more sage advice from her. Now that I'm home with my own kids, more in charge of picking and choosing what we are doing, I have more existential issues: am I messing them up? What will happen if they will spend a whole week on DS? How much discipline is necessary? Time and again, I call or e-mail J, and every time I walk away feeling heard and reassured.

C was also part of our "recess" crowd in NY. My 9 yo and her daughter were born three weeks apart, and we lived in the same house back then: we had downstairs while C lived upstairs. C has five kids, and her oldest is highschool-age. Luckily for me, C right now lives in the same city that I live in. Unfortunately, between her babies' naps and my babies' naps, her schedule and my schedule, we do not get to see each other as often as we should. However, over the years, she has been there for me. Since our kids are very similar in age, it has been good to discuss whether a particular challenge that I'm having is something that she is experiencing too. C is also quick to point out how many of the issues that I am having now have to do with having a small baby thrown into the mix rather than inherent inability to get things done. Somehow I keep on forgetting how little people can suck up so much attention and energy. And, living in the same city, it is nice just to be able to get together, let the kids play, have a semi-adult conversation...

I stumbled upon S's blog when I was planning on pulling 9 yo out of school. S has four kids, and her oldest is post bar mitzvah. All of them have been homeschooled all along. When I was reading about her days, I walked away inspired. I got a sense of what homeschooling is really like rather than a glossy, picture- and project-heavy shell some bloggers throw out there. Those overly perfect blogs made me wonder whether I should be doing more, and left me feeling depressed. In contrast, S's life sounded so normal and doable. I've met S at homeschool conference in Baltimore and saw for myself how "real" she was. She has also hosted a few webinars. We've spoken a bit through Facebook, but what I really appreciated is when she got on the phone with me and really heard my more recent concerns about the boys. Since she has an older boy, I felt so reassured to hear that some of the behaviors and attitudes which got me so worried are possibly just a stage. S is also very realistic, and kept me grounded when I was talking about nearly impossible expectations that trickle down from the yeshiva system to our sons.

These busy women were willing and able to share some of their wisdom and insight with me. If I did not know that I have someone to guide me, I would not have courage and perspective to homeschool. So wherever you are on your homeschooling journey, seek out a mentor or mentors. When the going gets tough, you will need that voice of someone who's been there.

bunk beds

We have a bunk bed for the boys. We had it since they were 2 and 4. Since we got it when they were so young, we were very firm about the oldest sleeping on the top and younger one on the bottom. For a few years that was all nice and good, but over the past year and a half things started to change. The younger one wanted to be on the top, the older one, on the bottom. That was easy to arrange. They would switch occasionally and then switch back. Most recently, things were not so smooth any more.

Both boys wanted to be on the bottom. There were many reasons offered, but the most recent one was that the older one liked thinking down there and the younger one wanted to make tents out of blankets. While this was developing, the younger one was on the top bunk, and the older one was not willing to budge.

A few nights ago I sat with the boys and listened to them compromise and negotiate. It was not going smoothly: 6 yo was offering solutions and 8 yo was shooting them down, while offering his own untenable ones. 6 yo wanted to work out a switching system; 8 yo wanted to grab as much lower bunk time as possible. He was trying to tie in playing Monopoly, which his brother does not like. He was willing to switch for one night and then to revert to status quo. After listening to these negotiations going nowhere, I ordered the younger one to take the bottom bunk. 8 yo protested that he does not want to be on top. I suggested floor in a sleeping bag. He took his sweet time setting up, and then demanded to be tucked in. I said that the tucking in time has passed. He called his brother stupid and earned himself a night in the basement. Our basement is finished, and has beds. It is removed from everyone else, and I figured that's what was called for.

It took him a long time to fall asleep down there. The next morning he expressed regret at his behavior last night. I said that he still needs to work out with his brother a solution to the dilemma. That night, right after I tucked the boys in, he popped out to announce that the solution has been found: they will hold elections! I grew quite sceptical at that.

This morning, the details were fleshed out: they will vote on who gets to sleep where every four days. These four days are modeled on every four years of the presidential election, but he said that he could not wait that long. Each kid cannot vote for himself, so they will vote for each other. They are allowed to hang signs, but no campaigning in each other's bed. Whoever gets the most votes gets to sleep on the bottom.

6 sat down this morning to make his campaign signs. One had a drawing of the bunk bed with him on the bottom bunk, another said : "Vote for 8 yo". Then he wondered aloud whether he can form a super PAC. I wondered how he would do that, and realized that he referred to negative campaigning. I said that we will not do that. Then I spent the whole day thinking about how this will play out.

Now, luckily for me, both my husband and my mother-in-law were here at dinnertime when 8 yo held the elections. The boys voted for each other, 3yo voted for one of the brothers, and we grown-ups split the votes evenly. 8 yo seemed perplexed; he clearly did not envision this outcome. Bottom line, they decided to flip some coins and 6 yo lost. He did crawl into a top bunk, but he was quite upset. 8 yo suggested that just like in presidency, one is limited to two terms on the bottom bunk. 6 yo said that he just wants to have schedule worked out.

I will wait and see what happens in three days. In the meanwhile, this spontaneous exercise in democracy showed that the boys internalized election lessons and could apply them to real life. What I think they did not realize was that this situation calls for a different solution than elections. If I see unfairness taking place, I will interfere, but it would be nice if they reach the solutions acceptable to all parties on their own.

on nail biting

I have a confession: I am a life-long nail biter. I spent my whole life biting my nails. It seems that my parents spent their whole life trying to get me to stop. There were rewards: if your nails are a certain length, you will get nail polish. There were "cures": salt and pepper and pulling hands away. There was shame: how do you imagine it looks from the side? Are you still going to bite your nails when you grow up? (I do). It is embarrassing. The trump card, used by my grandmother, was a recall of some kind of TV satire (which I never saw), where there is an applicant to a culinary school biting his nails, and, apparently, that was very unappealing. At some point, she would just shout that at me: culinary school, and that was supposed to have a magical effect.

None of those things worked. I felt bad, and tried hard, but I still bit my nails. And I still do.

Nowadays most people know that nail biting is a bad habit, but it does not come out of a vacuum. Usually it is done for a few reasons:

• boredom
• sensory issue: nails are too long or too short, or catch on things
• anxiety
• nervousness

Nail biting is not done to spite anyone, so one cannot be shamed out of it. However, once the underlying issue is addressed, nail biting should decrease.

I try to clip my kids' nails once a week. A few years back I noticed that 6 yo had no nails to clip: he bit them all off. I was a bit taken aback, is he going to grow up like me? Am I going to make this into a power struggle? And am I bound to fail?

I thought about it. I very rarely saw him biting his nails in my presence, and whenever I did, I did not make a big deal about it. I asked him whether he liked his nails short. He is really bothered by hangnails, but he usually gets them on his feet, not his hands, so sensory issue was probably not it. Mulling it over some more, I decided that it might be a form of release for him of some anxiety. My strategy became to not draw any attention to the nails, and, once I sit him down to clip them, just notice whether there is any nails to clip, even if it is just a tiny sliver.

This went on for probably two years. Over this course, I noticed that there are more nails left, but some weeks there was nothing. 

Both boys have been clamoring to clip their own nails. I decided that turning seven is the arbitrary age at which one can manage to do a semi-decent job without major injury. 8 yo has been doing it, however imperfectly. In the past few months, 6 yo started looking forward to this, too. He asked to have a turn with the clippers. He also wanted to know how he can prepare to clip. I told him that handwriting, cutting with scissors and building with tiny legos all help.

Lo and behold, in the past week, his nails were all unbitten. I will celebrate this small success. Is it due to me feigning total disinterest or to his desire to have nails to clip? I do not know, and I do not know whether it will last. What I can celebrate is that he will not be scarred by his nailbitng.

learning from others: Mayim Bialik

First of all, I have to give credit to my friends: I only found out about her divorce because someone was defending co-sleeping. Nobody spent the whole day obsessing over this. But I would like to put in my two cents.

I have not watched "Blossom". I have seen 1-2 episodes of "Big Bang Theory". I don't do baby slings, co-sleeping, elimination communication, anti-vax. I do homeschool and I do believe that natural childbirth is a better way. However, when Mayim Bialik came to our community about a year ago, I heard some gushing which could not be easily ignored. Then she came in to a fundraiser for underprivileged moms. It was her and Ina May, and I really wanted to hear Ina May, so her speech was a cherry on top. I did not agree with most of the things she said.

What I heard about Mayim was that she works and how she does this very hands-on parenting. Being a stay-at-home mom, I know what it's like having kids around all the time. I also know that someone has to pick up all the boogers while one of the parents is out, so I assumed that she had a fleet of nannies carrying out all those intense, hands-on things. I was reassured that they do not use babysitters, which means that it is just them, two parents, doing all the dirty jobs. Except that one of these parents happens to have a very high-profile job, with long hours, routine time out of the house, interviews, book promotions. That means that her husband has been doing all the scut-work.

Attachment parenting is not to blame, but it is hard to do attachment parenting if the parent who preaches it the loudest happens to be the one who has the least time devoted to it. It reminds me of this woman who was a spokeswoman for housewives. She extolled the virtues of staying at home, and having no career and taking care of your family as your primary fulfillment. Well, she made herself a nice career traveling all over the country, speaking at conferences, while someone else took care of her house. It is ironic to be telling others what to do when you stop practicing what you preach.

What am I taking away from all of this?

My blog has been primarily chronicling our homeschooling days. As such, it defines me as a homeschooler. With that definition come certain expectations, both external and internal. Some expect my kids to be getting better education than what is available through school. Some expect me to be more in tune to my kids. Some expect me to be a sage teacher, aware of every nuance of child development and coming up with perfect programs to tap into the kids' strengths. Overall, there is an assumption that we have it all figured out. Then I dispense advice like some guru, and it all goes to my head...

But the reality changes all the time. What was good last month might not work any more. What was an advantage might end up being a throwback. The homeschooling philosophy as we practice it now is what works right now, but it might not be what will work down the road.

For those who asked me how long we are planning on homeschooling, I honestly answered: we are doing it this year, and we will decide about the next year when the time comes. This is my public declaration of ability to back-pedal, so to speak, and be able to choose what's best for my family instead of being stuck defined as a homeschooler. If the circumstances change, and my kids would be better in school, I will send them to school. Possible scenarios: job changes, health issues, extreme unhappiness.

I sort of hope that if Mayim had not written a book and locked herself as an attachment parenting advocate, she could have alleviated some of the burden of keeping up the image that her husband was feeling. It is hard to break the mold when you are defined so rigidly. And no level of attachment parenting can remove the trauma of divorce.

Pesach Trivia Questions

I have been thinking quite a bit how to make our seder more interactive for the kids. I have a few ideas, but not sure how many of them I will be implementing and how many of them will go as planned.

I am planning to have a bunch of trivia questions to throw out there whenever the kids will seem bored.

Here is my list ( the last few with asnwers I found online). They skew to the younger side, since I want my 5 yr old to feel that they are "easy-peasy".

1. What are the names of the holiday we are celebrating today?
2. What are the ingredients used to make matzah?
3. What are the names of the grains used to make matzah?
4. What does shmura matzah mean?
5. How long does one have before matzah dough becomes chametz?
6. What are two reasons for eating matzah at the seder?
7. When does one have mitzvah to eat matzah?
8. How many days is Pesach?
9. What happened on Pesach?
10. In which country were Jewish people slaves?
11. How long were they slaves?
12. How many people went down to Egypt?
13. How many people came up from Egypt?
14. Who is not mentioned in the hagaddah, but you cannot tell story of Yetziat Mitzraim without him?
15. How many steps are there at the seder?
16. How many cups are there? Why?
17. Which two korbanot were brought on Erev Pesach?
18. How are we reminded of them?
19. What tefila is said at night ONLY on seder night, but never during the year?
20. What caused Par’o to let the Jews go?
21. Name the makkos.
22. Which makkah is the scariest? ( subjective)
23. What is Shabbat HaGadol?
24. What are you not allowed to do with chametz on Pesach?
25. In which month do we celebrate Pesach?
26. What did Jewish people do in Mitzrayim so that Hashem would skip their houses during the last makkah?
27. Did Jewish people leave Miztraiym rich or poor?
28.  Which “dessert” do we eat tonight?
29. What is charoset?
30. Name Moshe’s brother and sister.
31. Why is Ha Lachma Ania in Aramaic?
32. Who are the four sons?
33. What does Dayeinu mean?
34. When is the right time for the seder?
35. Name the ingredients of Korech.
36. Which tefila is split into two parts during seder?
37. Which way do we recline?
38. Name some halachot of korban Pesach.
39. What kind of meat are we not allowed to eat during the seder?
40. What happened to Mitzrim as they chased Bnei Yisrael?
41. What is the last line in the hagaddah?
42. Where do the pesukim for maggid come from?
43. What happened in Bnei Brak?
44. Find out what Ben Zoma taught.
45. Who fasts right before Pesach and why?
46. Who is the 5th cup for? (Eliyahu)
47. What do we open right near the end of the seder (the door)
48. What do we do while drinking the wine? (lean)
49. Which way do we lean? (left)
50. Why do we eat maror? (bc slavery was bitter)
51. Name a vegetable u can use for karpas?
52. What do we dip karpas in? (salt water)
53. Why salt water? (tears of slaves, bitter)
54. what did the jews do with the blood of the sheep b4 leaving Egypt? (put it on their doorposts)
55. Name the 4 sons? (rasha, chacham, tam, she’eino yodea lisheol)
56. Sing mah nishtana
57. What do we eat with the matzah? (maror and charoset)
58. Name something u can use for maror?
59. How many times do we wash our hands during the seder? (2)
60. How many seders do we have in chutz laaretz? (2)
61. How many seders do Israelis have? (1)
62. Name 3 things that are chametz?
63. What are ways to get rid of chametz? (burn it, throw it out)

If you have any to add, please add! We will all benefit.