Nice Kids Finish Last?

One of my more painful challenges as Ann progresses through the preschool years is seeing her navigate the murky social waters. It's tough to let go and worry about how she manages when I'm not there to help direct her environment and experiences.

I know that these years are fraught with ups and downs. One day two kids are best friends. The next day one of them doesn't want to be friends anymore. The next day they're friends, but another child has stepped in too, forming a tricky triangle. It doesn't seem like these patterns change much with time, but rather, become slightly more sophisticated versions of the same thing.

Like many kids, Ann thinks very deeply about what she sees and experiences. She's shy yet friendly, and a total chatterbox at home. She narrates a good deal of her inner thoughts when she feels comfortable. Her observations are often punctuated with a resounding, " . . . and that's how it goes!"

Over the past year at preschool, Ann has sporadically mentioned either hearing or sometimes being the brunt a few of the usual kiddie barbs. When Boy Y called her a baby at the start of the year, she matter-of-factly told me, "But he's wrong. I'm not a baby. My brother's still a baby, but I'm big!" Today Girl S told Ann that her picture was 'not beautiful' which had Ann a little down in the dumps. Thankfully these incidents haven't happened often. Ann's not an unpopular kid, but she's no queen bee either.

Ann is the product of two non-queen-bee types who are also sensitive. Chances are, there'll be a good share of hurts over the years. My report cards always said things along the lines of "good student but overly sensitive." And RaggedyDad asked to be changed from one first grade class to another because the teacher was too harsh with some of the other kids and it was too upsetting to him.

It's difficult to see Ann face the usual peer-meanness, because, though she certainly has her other faults, she's not the kind of child who tries to knowingly insult or hurt the feelings of another kid.

Though much of this is just typical preschool phase stuff, sadly, what happens a lot is that the rude kids turn into rude grown-ups who often do get their way. Maybe they're less liked for it, but they don't seem to mind, and in the shorter version of the long run, they even come out on top.

And while I'd rather be the mom of the nice kid, I'd rather her not be relegated to finishing last.

Erev Shabbos Entertainment

Finally, the concrete, rusty-nail, ancient "playground of doom" behind our area of the apartment complex where we live has been replaced!

We've been watching the various stages of tearing down and rebuilding over the last week, and it has been really fascinating. Sometimes, progress was amazing, and sometimes it just looked like a bunch of workers in the hot sun all scratching their heads, simultaneously baffled.

They seem to be nearly done, with just a padded floor to lay out and a few more finishing touches. All the local kids can't wait to get in there. I'm glad because the equipment seems age-appropriate for my kids, with more closed-in sides and easier access to the slides than some of the other play-structures within close walking distance.

I never bothered taking any before shots of the eyesore monstrosity, but here's where "our playground" is holding now:

Meal-Jacked!

Is it just me, or does having kids around mean that there are very rarely times when I get to eat without one or two extra little mouths hovering about, vying for a bite?

Accompanying these attempts to hijack my meals are cute phrases like, "Me too! Me too!" although Andy usually prefers to call out, "Iwannin!" (I want it) and Ann has taken to coming up close to me and trying to flatter her way onto my plate ("Mommy, I really love you, Mommy. I like you. Can I have some please . . ?").

I like to eat in peace, and while I realize that, for the most part, those days are over, it sometimes seems as though I only get to taste every fourth or fifth bite! I guess it would be different if early on I had been very adamant about "Mommy's Food," but it seems this is not the most territorial of households.

Thankfully my kids are good eaters, with nice appetites, healthy-ish tastes, and the willingness to try new foods. But I think there's still no greater way to make a food appealing to them than to start eating it myself. Anything from a bowl of cereal to a real meal to a glass of water lends itself to frequent meal-jacking.

When Ann was just starting to eat regular food, I could get away with continuing to cook for just me and RaggedyDad, and taking off a bit of food to give to her. Now that she's a bigger and hungrier kid, she actually needs to be counted in the shopping and cooking equation!

But Andy puts us all to shame. Eating is his forte, and he tries to eat each meal several times by meal-jacking every other member of the family. I remember when my brothers were teenagers and food would literally disappear before it had more than a few minutes to get comfortable in its spot in the fridge. The day Andy's big-boy appetite really kicks into high gear is going to be a momentous (and pricey!) one around here.

Another hidden un-benefit of all this meal-jacking is that it's also a great way to ensure that when one of us is sick, we all get sick very quickly. Just another way we like to spread the love around.

Considering that the RaggedyKids' bedtime runs rather early, I do often have the option of waiting until they're asleep to eat. But I kind of like to eat together with them and then get everything cleaned up together.

I just have to be prepared to be meal-jacked. Yet again.

Naming Pressures

It's a busy week for extended family simchas.

Tonight, my cousin is making a modest bar mitzvah party for her son, the oldest of 8. This is the first great-grandchild's bar mitzvah for my grandmother, and it comes just after the first yahrtzeit for my grandfather, ob"m. I won't be there, but RaggedyDad is on his way to the party now. I know it will be pretty moving and emotional for my grandmother.

On Shabbos, the bar mitzvah boy will read from the Torah in his community. However, my grandmother will be in another neighborhood, at the bris of the first baby boy born since my grandfather's passing. The baby was born to another cousin (different family) and his wife, the newest member to join the family. I hope the new mother realizes what's riding on this bris!

The level of emotionality surrounding the reaction to the illness and subsequent loss of my grandfather is hard to describe. To say that it has been a genuine heartbreak for every single member of this large extended family is an understatement.

It is a very strong assumption on the part of some of the elder family members that the name given will be my grandfather's. And I would say that there's a good 98% chance that that'll be the case. But when I talk to my grandmother and it's clear that this is a done deal in her mind, inwardly I cringe at the thought of the very remote possibility that another name will be given. Stranger things have happened.

It's rough sometimes, as young parents, feeling that very intense implicit (or explicit sometimes!) pressure to give a particular name. Or to choose between names that both sides feel ought to be given. Or to find that you just don't like the name you feel like you're "supposed" to give.

I can be objective and say that although I hope to have the merit to use it for one of my own kids someday, my grandfather's name is not on any top 10 or maybe even top 50 list of popular Jewish baby names. And the nickname options it provides are extremely limited. With our kids, we were fortunate to be able to go our own route in combining naming for people and ensuring that we actually liked and wanted to use those names / combinations of names. There was also not the same degree of emotional pressure at the times when our kids were born.

Sigh. I really do wish the new parents nachas from the newborn and the confidence and intuition to make the best of this first of many of their own parental choices.

Not too Raggy

It's the end of an era.

The Raggedys are in the midst of preparing to say a fond farewell to our only family car to date, and the car I myself have been driving a few years longer than that.

Our loyal '95 Corolla, affectionately called "Ninety-five" or "Jimmy" for what you have to do to get the driver's side door to open, is ready to be retired to my father. Together, they'll enjoy great gas mileage, a smooth(ish) ride, and if there's ever a famine, there's a Snicker's bar somewhere in the glove, and some splattered stains on the ceiling (!) upholstery from a Coke can that exploded years ago. Those can probably be licked off in desperation.

Today, RaggedyDad shlepped with Ann and her heavy shleppy carseat by subway to Brooklyn in order to bring home The Van. This is the van we've deliberated over for so long as to almost take all the fun out of it. We test drove several vans. We consulted with some experts in the field - a guy from my parent's shul who finds "deals," the very van-astute Mrs. Balabusta, and of course, the Psychic Friends Network.

Actually, Ann and her Papa had quite a big adventure today, van notwithstanding. They took the bus and the subway, which was very new and exciting, to his office near Rockefeller Center. After hanging out "at work" for a little while, it was back on the train to the car dealer in Brooklyn. Afterward, they drove the van home, where thankfully, only one of them (the right one) fell asleep in the shlepped carseat.



As for me, I'm getting adjusted to the new wheels. Sentimental spirit that I am, I'm already a little nostalgic for our former little road-hugging black car. And now I have to learn to drive (and park!!) all over again! So far I've just been assuming that the car is about 5 times bigger than what I'm used to. But, as my eloquent brother said, "If every Shaindy out there can handle driving a van, so can you!"

Dairy Queen

Growing up, I was not a big fan of fleishig (meat) meals. But we had meaty dinners almost every night. My father is just not a lasagna and salad kind of guy. Trying to pull a weekly "pizza night" would have been a sort of unappreciated joke at our home.

But I always wanted dairy. Very rarely would I actually like or not make a fuss over the dinner my mother prepared. More often, I would beg or insist on making myself a dinner of a Lenders bagel with cheese, melted on it in the toaster. Having come to the point of running my own household, I've since apologized many times over to my own mother!

In any case, I really look forward to Shavuos. Or Shavuot. Or Shvi'is as RaggedyDad learned to say it when he was becoming frum in Antwerp. Gaaaah! Too many names! (And that's aside from some of the other descriptive names for the holiday.) "Burning out" (or in this case, self-cleaning) the oven for that yearly switch to a milchig cooking bonanza is one of my most anticipated activities.

Dairy cooking is tricky because I feel like it somehow requires a lot more refrigerator space, though I'm not sure why. I'm not a last-minute person by virtue of the fact that I don't have the strength or time-frame to do things alone, quietly, late at night, and all at once. So I typically do a few things each day.

A kink in my agenda this year came when my downstairs neighbors called to say that their refrigerator and freezer blew out some kind of crucial fuse, and could they transport everything (!) to ours? Luckily they were able to eventually move non-essentials to another neighbor's fridge in an empty apartment across the street, and gradually start keeping fewer things at our place. But for a couple of days we've been so crammed that I couldn't find (or store!) a thing!

RaggedyDad finds it funny when I take photos of things I've cooked. It's not that I sit there and look back on them lovingly. But it is nice to have some remnant of my hard work besides the crumbs! And it's kind of exciting for my two short assistants to look at the photos of their own hard work/major Mommy interfering and mishaps.

This year, the RaggedyClan and their guests can anticipate:

Blintz Souffle:



Eggplant Parmesan (or as Ann calls it - Parmesano Reggiano):



Scalloped Potatoes:



Raspberry Swirl Cheesecake (recipe available and so worth it):



Crumb Cake:



Of course, no holiday cooking is complete without that classic staple of "what to make for dinner the night before" - Spaghetti! This is the second box - the first uncooked box was scattered by Andy all over the then-sticky kitchen floor. Another fun activity for Mommy!



Tomorrow's cooking list consists of flounder, French onion soup, and possibly pasta (although - do we need it? Not sure). Hopefully nobody will be running for the toaster to make any alternate meals (though I'd deserve it)!

Turning Into My . . . !!!!!

Tonight, I sunk to a new low. I realized mid-supper that my food choices were designed around the goal of eliminating clutter from our home by eating remainders of nearly empty containers. You see, tomorrow is recycling pickup, and I want this stuff gone. When Ann's teachers ask for empty bottles and containers, I faithfully and gladly send in all of my empty junk.

The coop where we live has garbage pickup every morning (!) but recycling only weekly, and between our own kids and the two-year-old twins downstairs, that little blue can really fills up to overflowing. Which is not pleasant during the warm, muggy New York weather.

Nearly empty large seltzer bottle - gone. Barely there chocolate spread container - gone (with the help of some bread). Smidge of milk left in the bottle - gone. Peanut butter lingering in the corners and crevices of the Jif jar - sayonara. A few dozen last Cheerios amid a bag of mostly dusty bits - ciao. Not the most well-rounded of meals, but hey, I did also finish some tomatoes that were on their way out. Tonight I was a bit of a human trash bin, and I'm not proud.

RaggedyDad, if you're reading this, I can already hear you saying, "Please don't get overly obsessed by cleaning." Don't worry. There's no danger of that. But we know that I do get into my cleaning spurts. Don't fight it - enjoy it!

I've mentioned before that I grew up in a very neat and orderly environment. I really don't ever remember a mess at home, clutter (besides chachkes - RaggedyDad subtly informed me early on after seeing my parents' home that he wanted minimal chachkes around!), or piles of random things looking for their proper place.

I'm not that kind of homemaker. My kids will have a different backdrop for their memories. Things are neat over here, but in a much more relaxed sort of way. Unlike my mother, I don't dust every morning at the literal crack of dawn, Windex the phone after someone hangs it up, or wash the floors constantly. If there's some disarray, but I can't or don't get to it, I don't mind leaving it overnight. However, I have noticed that I'm taking after her tendency of picking lint off of the carpet. Yikes!

To be fair, as the youngest child in my family, I don't have very clear memories of the cleanliness status during the years when we were all little. My mother has told me that she wasn't as much of a neatnik when we were all younger. It would have been a constant, fruitless effort.

Luckily, my mother's also not the critical type and I generally hear very positive impressions of our home from her. I do have to say that having grown up in a spotless home, I'd rather err on the side of being overly neat. There's something great about always knowing where things are, having a sense of order prevail, and being ready for that unexpected ring of the doorbell at any time! Hopefully, I've also almost managed to reform RaggedyDad's inner slob-man.

There's a little chachke plaque somewhere at my parents' house that says, "Mirror, mirror on the wall. I am my mother after all" that I thought was mildly disturbing. I don't really want to be that much like anybody. As for my mother, I don't look like her at all, but we do have a lot of similar tendencies. Overall I wouldn't mind taking after my mother. Just without the crack of dawn part.

Now excuse me while I go find some more stuff to toss.

Life's a Beach

For the most part, I'm not a big enjoyer of The Beach. This should not be surprising to those who know me nowadays, considering that I am a Very Pale Person. As in, SPF 50+ reapplied constantly. To me, a large, spread-out location with no shade in sight and grainy bits to get into all the food is more of a punishment than a recreation activity.

BUT, in my heart, there is something very nostalgic for me about being at the beach. Until I was five years old, we lived in Israel. Nearly every single day during those years, once my father left for work and my older brothers were off to school, my mother and I would take the bus from our apartment in Givatayim to the beach in Tel Aviv. Sunblocked and hatted, the beach was my daily activity. We would spend the morning there and then hurry home, stopping for a Capri Sun-type drink on the way and getting back before the end of my brothers' short, Israeli school day.

Thankfully, my mother was quite vigilant about my skin even in those years, though I definitely sported a more golden, outdoorsy appearance. I should try to find and scan some pictures from those years. My hair hadn't turned red yet at that age - instead I had two long, blond braids, usually wrapped around my head in a bit of a Scandinavian style. Not a very common look in Israel (this is before the majority of the Russian influx!), and almost hard to believe, considering my own kids and their, shall we say, minimal hair.

Although going to the beach these days is much less fun than it was during those carefree years, I guess that in some ways at my core I am a bit of a beach person. I am also a beach kill-joy, uttering phrases like "Sun Damage!" as extended family and friends show an interest in tanning. And on the rare occasions I'm actually at a beach, I do always feel very, very, very dressed. And definitely not four years old anymore. Sigh.

Until I find some way to reconcile my varied selves regarding the beach, there is a great deal of pleasure in taking the kids to the beach, like I did with my mother and aunt a couple of times last summer.



And when the weather is warming up but not quite there yet, there's always a day at RaggedyBeach. Ann had the terrific idea today that we should dress up for the beach at home. I was thankfully exempt from participating except for as a coordinator. But the little Raggedys got into bathing suits, swim shoes, sun hats, and spread themselves out onto blankets. There was a round of beach tennis and a snack. And no sand in the car.

Work and Play

RaggedyDad finished his finals on Monday, but starts "Summer" classes on Sunday! Yikes! Haven't these people ever heard of Mother's Day?! Plus it was "month-end" for him at work (although it seems like it's always month-end).

We also got some advance cooking and baking done in the house, both for us and for a family we're friends with who just brought home baby #5. It's great living in such a community. I remember what a huge help those weeknight suppers were after Andy was born!

As I wrote in the comments on A Mother in Israel's recent post about kids helping out, Ann and Andy are usually in the thick of everything that goes on over here. The kitchen stepstool is big enough to accomodate them both for now, and they're little enough to be genuinely excited by tasks like checking eggs, pouring sugar, and mixing batter (gently please!)



I try as much as possible to leave no or very few errands for Sunday, since RD is almost never around for the kids' bedtime during the week. We all get about 45 minutes every morning together, since Ann and Andy are early risers, but it's not much. I really dislike the idea of Sunday being devoted to running in and out of stores and other boring tasks.

Instead, we really try to make Sunday about going out and enjoying nature together whenever possible and weather-permitting. Outdoor photos of the kids are the best, and most parklike settings are free, or very reasonably priced.

Sunday was the English calendar date of our engagement, which took place at another nearby park. We came across a pet fair at the same park, complete with cute, cheesy fair activities.







As long as we're getting a good balance of work and play in at the Raggedys, we stay happy . . !

Pesach Sheini

Six years ago, Pesach Sheini fell out on Sunday, May 6. Until that point, the relatively obscure holiday really held no associations for me, and I'm pretty sure I barely knew what it was. But that year, it became a very special date, and has remained so since. On Pesach Sheini, six years ago, RaggedyDad and I got engaged.

Pesach Sheni (“the Second Pesach”) is celebrated on the 14th of Iyar, a month after the eve of Pesach. The Torah (Bamidbar 9:6-11) re­lates that in the first year after the Exodus, when the Jewish people were preparing to bring the Pesach sacrifice:

There were [certain] men who were impure because [they had come in contact with a] human corpse and they could not bring the Pesach offering on that day. They came before Moshe... and said, “We are un­clean... [but] why should we be held back from bringing the offering of G‑d in its time?...”

And Moshe said to them, “Stand and hear what G‑d will command concerning you.”

G‑d said..., “If any man be impure... or on a distant way [on the day of the Pesach offering]..., he shall sacrifice the Pesach offering to G‑d, in the second month, on the fourteenth day at dusk....”

Anyone who did not bring a Pesach offering, whether be­cause of impurity or even because he had willfully trans­gressed G‑d’s will, was thus given the opportunity to com­pensate for his shortcoming by bringing an offering on Pesach Sheni. (Talmud, Pesachim 93a)

via Chabad.org)

One thing I'll never forget about that day (besides RaggedyDad's proposal) is how my grandfather, of blessed memory, spoke briefly back at my parents' house that night. I can still hear his voice resonating with strength, yet cracking slightly with the emotion he was prone to during such occasions, especially in those years: (paraphrased)

"Those Yidden who were late in the game for various reasons were despondent. 'Me too!' they cried to Moshe. I want to have a part in this, too! [RaggedyDad] likewise insisted, 'Me too!' and sought inclusion into a Torah lifestyle through significant challenge."

He connected RaggedyDad's and my relationship, RaggedyDad's own personal story as a Russian ba'al teshuvah, and the observance of Pesach Sheini in a way that was so poignant and moving.

Happy Engagemaversary, RaggedyDad. Thanks for asking me :)

Recipe by Request

An anonymous reader recently commented on my post The Great Debate where I discussed the merits of the sweet, pie-shaped matzah brei that I grew up eating.

My father happens to be great in the kitchen, but the combined realities that he works six long days a week, and that my mother is a person who is obsessively neat, clean, and panicked about the mess others cooking in her kitchen would make, the extent to which he actually cooks is limited.

Central to just about every memory from my father's childhood is FOOD. When recollecting something about his parents, his childhood, his past - the conversation always relates back to food. His parents were both concentration camp survivors, and shortly after he was born, they moved from Norway to the very young state of Israel. (Norway was a stop on the way, not a place of origin for anyone in my family)

Those early years meant a lot of physical challenges to survive and make ends meet, often followed by my grandfather (the one from Jaworzno, PT) struggling to acquire or arrange something and likely having to march into one office or another and 'turn over a table.' But of course, afterward, there was always something simple, yet incredible to eat at home. Even in the ma'abara (transit camp), or the one-bedroom apartment with a combination bathroom/kitchen, or later from the gigantic cast-iron, wood-burning oven that came on their 'lift' from Norway.

My father's method for making matzah brei is his own father's method. Over the years, I've tried to learn it as closely as I can. However, it really is one of those things that I have seen done so many times, and still find confusing at some points. Kind of like when my father was trying to teach me how to drive to Brooklyn via the Interboro (Jackie Robinson) versus the Belt Parkway. I had to see it done a couple dozen times before it sunk in.

Readers will see that this matzah brei recipe definitely leads to a fair share of splashing and dripping messes. It seems involved, but is quite simple once you've done it once or twice. Like driving to Brooklyn on the Interboro.

Although this is not a cookbook recipe, my father and I pieced the approximate recipe together as follows:

Use a 10-inch frying pan,. Recipe serves approximately 4 hungry people.

In a bowl, beat 4-5 eggs, and add around a cup of milk (enough to make the eggs more watery than sticky).

In another bowl, place an equal amount of cold water.

Using machine matzahs, break up each matzah approximately into thirds and then each third in half (six approximate squares).

Heat up the dry frying pan. Add oil to hot pan, enough to coat it well, and rotate the pan to coat the sides well, keeping flame to low-medium.

One by one, place each piece of matzah into the water. It is important that you allow the matzah to get lightly softened in the water, but not soaked.

Then dip the wet matzah into the egg mixture.

Layer the pieces in frying pan, going around the pan and gradually building up to the top of the pan in a circular pattern.

While you work, continually take the pan by the handle and jostle the pan vigorously to ensure that the matzah brei is not sticking. This is crucial. If the brei sticks, it will fall apart. If it is getting stuck in spots, scrape the bottom of the matzah brei with a fork and shake the brei loose, keeping it in one solid piece.

Once the pan is full, and you've built the pieces up to the top, cover the frying pan, and bring up the heat a little. Let the matzah brei cook a couple of minutes longer in the steam of the covered pan. Pick up lid and shake matzah brei loose. Cover the pan again and steam cook a little longer, checking to see that it is getting crisp and brown on the bottom.

Place a plate over the pan and turn the matzah brei out onto the plate. The crisp brown bottom should now be on top.

Place more oil into the frying pan and heat the oil on low-medium.

Slide the brei back into the pan, letting it brown on the other side, continuing to shake it loose periodically. Once the second side is brown, turn the matzah brei out onto a plate again. Let it cool for a couple of minutes, and then slice into 4 quarters that are pie-shaped. Toppings are as desired, but we serve it with sugar and/or raspberry jam both on the side, for dipping the cut pieces.

Raggedy Nights (rated G)

I want to wish congrats to the JIB finalists, and to say that some of the "best post" nominations are going to give me a sizable amount of backreading to do.

But that shouldn't be a problem, as my nights are seeming pretty quiet, since RaggedyDad is currently embroiled in both finals at school and "month-end" at work. Somehow, month-end is a crazy time that goes a few days into the new calendar month. Don't ask me. If I knew why this was the case, I'd probably also have a clearer sense of what "exotic derivatives" are.

Note from RaggedyDad: My job is absolutely not as sexy as it sounds.

In the meantime, I find that the kids' supper/bathtime/bedtime and the accompanying activities actually go quite a bit more easily when it's just me. When RaggedyDad is around for bedtime on the weekends, there's more fussing, kvetching, and silliness. Even though I'm not really the type, with me somehow it's quieter, smoother, less monkey business.

Ann usually has one or two of her "kids" (dolls) to accompany her to bed. Tonight she got a third in there - a doll we got her for her first birthday, aptly called "Dolly."



Andy looked over from his crib tent (I still can't believe this contraption - but he's actually liking it quite a bit), and saw Dolly with Ann, and called out, "Baby! Baby!" which could only refer to our other lifelike-looking doll, called "Baby," who is also Andy's occasional girlfriend. So Baby joined Andy, along with his other nighttime buddy, a soft pink dolly called "Baby Ashira," named by Ann and often referred to as one of her "kids."



It's important to note here that Ann has several "kids" who she lives with in her "apartment in Florida" (Orieyenta, do me a favor and check on her once in a while?).

As you can see, Andy is a prototypical 'boy after a girl', very happy and comfortable with Ann's stuff, similar to my own childhood as the youngest and only girl, but in the reverse - handed-down, red-markered G.I. Joes alongside my own Barbies.

As long as it doesn't get crowded, I don't have too many qualms about what my kids take into bed. Whatever gets us through those Raggedy nights!

B is for BeHatzlacha (Good Luck)

***Update***
Although RaggedyMom didn't make it into the top two to qualify, it was an honor just to be nominated :) Thanks for the votes, guys, and I know we all got a look at some interesting blogs out there. Thank you to the organizers!



Here at RaggedyMom, things are usually fairly low-key and understated. I do what I do, and I think that for those who visit, read, and comment, we have a good time together.

I'm not a former grade-school macher, student body president, or team captain. Except for a brief, spoofed stint as "Communist Party Leader" of my high school, which as I've mentioned before, is a convoluted story for another day. Also, I think I acted as captain of the school trivia bowl team when the regular captain was sick. Otherwise, I've been a mostly 'behind the music' kinda gal.

But I was nominated for a JIB Award this year in the Best New Blog category, and I'm still blushing! Go Group B! And it's full of some other blogs I hadn't seen before, which makes for some interesting reading.

Until now, the only thing I associated with the term "Group B" was the test that the obstetrician does for Group B Strep a few weeks before a woman's due date. Now, it will forever be immortalized as my brief moment in the sun.

Tzniut Meme

A Mother in Israel recently started a great set of questions for discussion among the she-bloggers. I'm going to try to address them in this post.

1. For married women, do you dress by the same standards as you did when you got married?

We've been married for 5 and a half years. I think that my standards for dress have remained pretty much the same during that time. However, I do think that in the last couple of years, I have come to a place of greater comfort with my own standards, rather than feel like I am falling short of others' standards, or worrying that I ought to be pushing myself to adopt stricter standards. I think this has more to do with becoming more confident in my decisions as I get older than it does with spirituality.

2. Also for married women, do you and your husband conflict about this issue?

RaggedyDad is pretty easygoing about these issues, and I get the sense that if I wanted to make changes in one direction or another, he'd likely be fine with it. I do get (negative) input from him if what I wear looks like an overly dowdy attempt to cover, cover, cover. But, I try not to take fashion advice overly seriously from a man who wears socks with sandals.

3. Have your standards changed from when you were growing up, and why?

Yes. I wore pants and short sleeves (though not sleeveless - not sure why) until some point during college. Covering my hair is not something I really thought I'd ever consider. As I started to take on more in terms of observance, I waited until I really felt ready to tackle my dress. When I felt more comfortable in skirts, and later, with covered elbows, than not, I was ready. But without any immediate, absolute decision or public proclamation.

4. Do you often feel uncomfortable when you are in the company of a group keeping higher or lower standards than you?

Being around those with looser standards in tzniut is usually totally comfortable for me. Many of my family members, and some friends, hold to looser standards, and I wouldn't say that this is a concern for me (or my kids as they get older - that's just another challenge of comprehensive chinuch).

If I'm not looking particularly put-together or am in a large crowd of women dressed in looser standards of tzniut, I do sometimes feel a little self-conscious. I'm not focused on being the most fashion-forward, and I think that it's sometimes easier to look 'cute' in pants for a casual look than a casual skirt-outfit. Or, rather, harder to look frumpy in the pants.

If I'm surrounded by many women holding to stricter standards of tzniut, I'm also a little uncomfortable, more so than among those with looser standards. If I know I'm going to be in such a situation, I often won't wear something "borderline" and will try to conform for that occasion. In that regard, I like that my neighborhood and chevra is rather mixed in this regard.

5. If you have ever suddenly changed your standard of dress, did people treat you differently or make approving/disapproving remarks?

I haven't made many sudden changes, though covering my hair was an obvious exception - before my wedding and after! - but that was anticipated. It's interesting, I have one sister-in-law, "S," who covers every strand of hair, and holds to a very strict, chassidish interpretation in all aspects of tznius. I have another sister-in-law, "L," who wears pants, sleeveless, and uncovered hair.

A family acquaintance once approached my mother in a pizza shop (I was there with my daughter, and I was in earshot) and said, "What did you do wrong with [RaggedyMom] and what about "S"?? The only one who turned out normal [vis a vis dressing style] was "L"!" Ouch. But I have gotten some positive feedback from a more right-wing member of the family.

6. How accepting is your community of women who "deviate" from the generally accepted mode of dress?

It's difficult to speak for an entire community. In my experience, within the more traditional bounds of Orthodoxy and tznius, this community (KGH) is a diverse and open one. It has moved more to the right a significant amount over the last couple of decades. But there are really all kinds of people here, and I think they all fit in.

There are women who are sheiteled and very dressed up (though not that many). There are women who are sheiteled and more 'heimish'. There are women who totally cover or partially cover their hair with all range of hat, tichel, bandana, or snood. Or not at all. I see pants with covered hair on occasion, and quite a few skirts with uncovered hair. Lots of Israelis live here, and they run the gamut vis a vis tzniut. I see bare toes, socks, stockings, thick stockings.

I'm glad that I don't feel self-conscious about my clothes, both in terms of tzniut and style, living here and going out to grocery shop or pick up Ann from preschool.

7. If you have a daughter, has tzniut become an issue yet?

Ann is turning 4 this summer. As of now, I don't have an immediate plan as to when she'll wear just skirts. In some ways, since my own decision about this was so pressure-free and up to me, it feels awkward to think of setting this guideline for her. However, I realize that her upbringing is quite different from my own.

Some moms have told me not to shop too heavily for pants in advance at this point, since the girls themselves sometimes say they don't want to wear pants if that's the way most of their friends are dressing. We'll see. I do find that girls' clothes (and even shoes!) these days are sometimes way too sexy or suggestive for our very young girls, and that bothers me. Even if I were not religiously observant, I would not feel comfortable with tight, very short, or revealing clothes for Ann.


Reading the responses of others, and posting my own, has been thought provoking. Thanks, Mother in Israel!

I forgot about tagging - SWFM, Baleboosteh, TorontoPearl, and Orieyenta - I'd be interested to hear your thoughts if you'd like! Sort of a cross-world geographical weigh-in.

What Do You Call Them?

Secretly, I married RaggedyDad because he planned to have his kids call him "Papa" which I thought was so cute.

Okay, not really. But I do think often about what children call their parents. I grew up calling my mother "Mommy" or later, as a teenager, just "Ma!" We're back to "Mommy" now. She's not really the type to be called "Mom" and although my Israeli father refers to her as "Ima" when speaking to us kids, we never really called her that.

With my father, there was no question he'd be "Abba". Anyone who has heard his gravelly voice and blend of teddy bear/intimidating has probably wanted to call him "Abba" themselves. When we moved to America, I had a brief phase where I wanted to call him "Daddy" but it just felt too silly with him and didn't stick at all.

I think most of my friends growing up lived in "Mom and Dad" households.

RaggedyDad is Russian, and it was clear that his own kids would call him "Papa." Once Ann started referring to him as Papa, I do remember some emotion on his part. His own "Papa" died when RaggedyDad was just six. After so many years without a Papa, it came with mixed feelings to actually be the Papa.

While speaking to Ann and Andy, RaggedyDad often refers to me as "Mama" and sometimes they call me "Mama", but not usually. When Ann was smaller and wanted to get the attention of both parents, she cleverly decided to call us "MaPa." I hear her and Andy use the MaPa term once in a while.

Since this is what they've always heard, my kids view the term "Papa" as the original, basic meaning for "father." Ann tells me that other kids call their Papas other names, like Abba, Daddy, or Tatty. But, she tells me, it all means "Papa". When we did a round-robin playgroup and sang "The Wheels on the Bus," we had six kids and four terms for father. So our circle time lyric was a rushed combination - "The Abbas/Daddies/Tatties/Papas on the bus say 'I love you!'" Whew! Funnily, all the mothers were called "Mommy."

Readers: What do you/did you call your parents? Did you feel like it was the norm or something unusual? Did it change as you grew up? What do your kids call you/do you plan to have your kids call you?

Lastly, I want to express how sorry I am for the loss that my very dear sister-in-law "L" has just sustained of her own "Dad", nearly 20 years after losing her Mom.

Meet Curious Andy

If my son is a monkey, I guess that makes me the mom with the yellow hat.

While I related in my last post that I love living in an apartment because of the flatness and lack of climbing, apparently, Andy apparently doesn't take after me in this regard - ANDY CLIMBED OUT OF HIS CRIB TONIGHT!

We had a relatively busy day. Rather than go to pick up some Shabbos provisions with Andy after dropping off Ann and my neighbor's son at preschool, I decided to take both Ann and Andy with my before school, and come straight home after dropoff. Andy's been waking up quite early since we have been eliminating the pacifier from his life, and an early nap was definitely in order.

The morning went according to plan. The supermarket was blessedly quiet at 8:20 a.m. (though it's even better on the mornings when I go alone at 7 and RaggedyDad is still home). The kids were happy and helpful in the store, and my neighbor helped me in with my bags while I got her son in the car. I even got to say a quick hello to another blogger on the street, and then I got the kids to preschool very punctually.

Andy's nap came and went, things got busy at home, and when Ann was home, we baked two batches of corn muffins. After a messy supper of leftover meatballs and spaghetti, even I was ready to sleep! After a quick bath and storytime, the kids were ready for bed.

I put them down and got to work on some more Shabbos cooking. The chicken cutlet blobs needed to be butterflied in the ridiculously thin way I like, breaded, and fried (I know that nobody's supposed to fry food anymore, but this is one thing that just doesn't work baked for me).

For a short while Ann and Andy were cracking each other up, giggling about something together from their respective bed and crib. After listening to it for 15 minutes or so, I came back to get them to settle down again.

After I left, Andy was crying, and somewhere in his pacifier-free frustration, he managed to climb out and fall onto the (thankfully carpeted) floor. I realized this because his cries were getting closer and closer until my crying baby in a crib suddenly appeared before me, shocked himself at what he'd done!

As I held him and comforted him, I asked Ann if she saw how he'd done it. "He was trying to do it, and then he did!" is what she told me, eyes open innocent and wide.

I put a calmer Andy back in the crib, but he proceeded to quickly lift one leg and then his torso right back over the corner! I realized that a quick fix was needed for tonight, and fished out a pacifier.

Andy is turning 18 months old on Shabbos, which I consider way too young for a bed. I don't think he's mature enough to grasp staying in there all night, though he knows the concept of getting in and out of Ann's bed.

For now, we're going to try out a friend's contraption - the crib tent. No more am I the smug mom of a calm kid! We'll see how it goes.

Jolly Rancher

I've said it before, and it bears repeating: I love living on one floor. One of the things that I really enjoy about our apartment is that although there are quite a few steps until I get in, once I'm home, there is no more shlepping up and down.

When I spend a couple of days in a place where there are stairs (okay, my parents' house is probably the only frequent example) I get so winded going up and down within the home. Yes, getting into our apartment involves a set of 8-9 steps leading to a path, another 7-8 stairs leading to our front door, and then about 13-14 steps leading upstairs. But once that gate is closed, that's it. Bedrooms, bathroom, living/dining rooms, kitchen, washing machine, dryer - it's all there on ONE level. And I love it.

Until I was five, we lived in Israel, on a first-floor apartment in Givatayim. Since then, we lived in houses in Queens - but being that by then, I, the youngest, was old enough to shlep my own self and stuff up and down, it was more feasible. Not as easy for my mom I'm sure, with the laundry area being two steep flights away from where the clothing drawers are. I'm wary of the shlep-mania involved in having babies/young kids while living with internal steps (Mountains of laundry! Infant car seats! Etc.!)

I suppose I'd get used to it the way I'm accustomed to the mountain climb involved in getting groceries into the apartment and getting a double stroller up and down the narrow, steep stair jungle. Somehow I'm in shape enough to accomplish those tasks fairly often. Now that Andy's climbing the steps with help, it does take a literal load off.

As long as there's enough space (and what a subjective concept that is!) I don't believe that there's anything detrimental to kids about growing up in an apartment. In other countries where my husband and I have lived (Russia, Belgium, Israel), apartments are almost always the standard for families through the years. I don't really believe that kids suffer for it or grow up feeling boxed in.


For as long as I can, I prefer to keep it flat. Happy ranching!

Linguistics and the Art of Acceptance

This year's Pesach sedarim were on the larger side for us. Since one of my brothers, his wife, and their kids made aliyah 2 years ago, and the other brother with his wife and kids live near her sisters, it is usually just the four Raggedys at my parents' house. Going to Belgium for Yom Tov is not on the agenda, since RaggedyDad's family there is quite secular/assimilated. And since my parents live rather locally, we're there by default on Sukkos (no outdoor space for a sukkah) and Pesach. We've had all of the other holidays at home at this point, sometimes with my parents here, sometimes with friends, or alone.

This year, my oldest brother (who lives in the U.S.) came with his family for the first days of Yom Tov. For the first seder, my parents also hosted my mother's sister, and my father's brother's family from Israel. Specifically, my aunt and her 3 teenaged/20's kids - my uncle had to stay in Israel for work.

We moved here from Israel over 20 years ago, and it has been a long time since we've had a seder together with that side of the family. Having a seder with non-religious yet marginally traditional cousins who you feel close to yet have very little shared upbringing experiences with is an interesting way to get reacquainted! We had a nice time, and it was great to actually have them meet RaggedyDad and my kids.

They stayed almost until the end, since they were catching a flight to Orlando early the next morning.

The next night, a whole discussion got started (not by me!) about how "Israelis don't pronounce Hebrew words carefully or properly" which drove me a little crazy from a linguistic point of view, plus I just disagree with this take on things. But then again, the slang and alternate grammatical usage my students used in public school didn't bother me, beyond wanting the kids to also be comfortable with standard English for life outside the barrio. When I majored in linguistics, the philosophy was descriptive rather than proscriptive - describing and analyzing the way people DO speak rather than how they 'ought to.'

I tried (probably in vain) to convince everyone that if Israelis (including my father) are altering some obscure vowel construction to fit most closely with a Hebrew word they already recognize, it's not "wrong" as much as it's the nature of language used by native speakers of that language. Since to them, there is no prayer concept of every sound being relevant and exact, they are using the language as we all use our native languages. To communicate the meaning effectively. And in that regard, they are accurate and successful. If the word is "veyeKUDASH" and they recognize it as close to "veyeKADESH" and pronounce it that way, to me this is not only totally understandable, it is alright.

Sigh. What are your thoughts?

The Season of Our Redemption

I'm going to put my helmet on because I'm sure to be pelted with stones by acknowledging that I am not in post-Pesach collapse mode simply because we are lucky enough to spend all eight days of the holiday at my parents' house. That being said, it is so nice to be back home in my own bed. With almost all of the immense amounts of laundry done and put away. Surrounded by our own stuff. And not by stuff that is decorative, sharp, breakable and dangerous.

There is nothing like spending time away from the 933 square feet of this apartment to make me long for it. We hear occasional well-meant comments from extended family members who "would love to see us in a bigger space," but I have no immediate desire to move. The kids share a room, so there's still an empty third bedroom here, and I'm just not feeling the pinch.

My wish list is 1) An extra half-bathroom to up the number of toilets from one; 2) A driveway or other adjacent parking spot; 3) Backyard space big enough for a couple of kids to let off some steam and maybe splash around in a plastic pool in the summer.

What I find with a house with stairs is that the kids always want to be downstairs when I'm up, and upstairs when I'm down. The wrought-ironness of the banister at my folks' house means that if I lived there, I would find some way of putting up a gate, but for occasional use, it's not a simple 'whip up a simple, pressure-mounted gate and worry no more!' situation. So there's a lot of monitoring, chasing, rescuing, and cringing. I think Andy heard the words "Oh no!" more than he heard the word "matzah". Sorry, Andy. You won't be 17 months old forever.

We had a really nice time with my parents. But it really was priceless to see the kids delight in being reintroduced to their surroundings. Redeemed. Post-Pesach.

Have a Raggedy Pesach!

I want to wish the readers of RaggedyMom a wonderful and happy Pesach! I'm sure there will be lots for us to share with one another after the chag.

Enjoy it!