Little Yellow Notepad

I remember the day the biggest ball dropped.

I didn’t actually drop it – it kind of landed from above. 

Onto our Shabbos table.

My husband and I were hosting a journalist for a Shabbos meal; she wanted to do a column on our newly founded Chabad House and having her over seemed to make sense.

There were signs the ball was going to drop, but we missed them. Primarily, kids giggling and squeeling at the stop of the steps. 

And then it was launched – the big exercise ball that was supposed to stay in my bedroom had been rolled out and it landed squarely on the Shabbos table.

Continue reading “Six Habits of Moms Who Actually Enjoy Tishrei” →

Why is he wearing the same shirt as yesterday? 

I start panicking.

I know he has enough shirts.

I sent a dozen.

But it looks the same as yesterday’s!

Oh, one second.

I forgot, two of the T-shirts have similar sleeves.

I mentally go through my son’s wardrobe.

I try to remember what he’s been wearing every day of the week since camp started; I mentally go through the photos I’ve seen of him so far.

Maybe it wasn’t the same.

I make the picture bigger.

It’s getting too blurry to see; because in truth I’m only seeing a small swatch of sleeve in a sea of 400 boys, but I know it’s my son because I recognize the corner of the outer rim of his yarmulka.

I make the picture bigger and smaller and smaller and bigger.

He’s wearing the same shirt two days straight.

No, he’s not.

Argh I think he is.

And then the next horrifying thought:

What if he’s also wearing the same undershirt?

And although I don’t want to believe it, deep down I know this is probably the truth.

Feeling like it’s a judgement call on me, the mother, I push the thought away.

I’m still staring at the picture.

Until my senses return and I ask myself; Ok, what can you do about it?

And I begrudgingly admit the answer; NOTHING.

I can do nothing.

And I should do nothing.

I should practice mentally letting go.

I look again;

I hadn’t even noticed what was going on in the photo; he’s standing on a bench cheering. I take that as a sign he’s happy. He’s happy!

Unaware of my emotional roller coaster, he’s still having a great time – regardless of the shirt he’s wearing.

I try to do some mental housekeeping;

To clear my brain and free up space.

He’s in camp. Let him wear what he wants.

And if he never changes his bedding either, does it really matter? 

Practice letting go.

With a deep breath, I leave the page of photos.

Could it be that looking at 796 daily pictures of my kids in camp isn’t actually the healthiest way for a mother to spend her summer?

“It’s my chair! I called the spinning chair first!”

“No, it’s my soup chair!”

“It’s my mandelin chair!”

I’m staring from one kid to the other, trying to figure out what this all-out brawl is about.

I didn’t know we had a spinning chair, a mandelin chair or a soup chair, whatever that means.

They’re all grabbing one of the bar stools, of which we have 6 identical ones.

With tears streaming down her face, my 4 year old continues insisting, “It’s my mandelin chair, I called it first!”

My 5 year old is still adamant it’s a soup chair and my 6 year old is determined to get the spinning chair.

Continue reading “The Spinning Chair” →

Hi my name is Goldie and I suffer from principalaphobia.

I was born being scared of principals and their offices. It didn’t take any harsh and scary lectures or speeches or lessons; it was just part of my DNA. The principal says, and I do; and then I just stay under the radar and try to go unnoticed. Because one thing is for sure: I did not want to ever be called into the principal’s office.

And then I got married to an amazing husband who has endless tales about principal office visits. When I told him about my phobia, he stared at me blankly.

“They’re just people,” was the best answer he could give me. He had a good point. But I wasn’t there yet; I didn’t have the capacity to think past the fear and intimidation. 

I became a mother and that’s when the real life learning really started.

Continue reading “Principalaphobia” →

Dear Teacher,

I’m sorry we were late today. I was sure we’d be on time. I hope you believe me when I say that I had the best intentions.

Everyone went to sleep on time last night so waking them up today was pretty simple; my 5 year old was hard at work in the playroom coloring when I came out of my room. Some mornings he gets dressed as soon as he wakes up, but today didn’t seem to be one of them.

My 12 year old was already in the shower – the day seemed to have all the high hopes of getting there on time. And today is Wednesday, when we need a few extra minutes because of the coinciding drop off time at the neighboring public school.

I prepare protein shakes, the breakfast of the week that everyone still approves of, and set them out on the counter. I’m humble enough to know not to brag about this healthy breakfast choice because the kids can change their mind about it at any given time.

I head over to wake up the rest of the kids. One by one sleepy eyes open and I cheerfully remind everyone of the order of tasks for the morning; negel vasser, brush teeth, get dressed, brochos and eat; when all that’s done they can read or play.

Continue reading “Dear Teacher, Sorry we were late” →