How cruel.

I suspected I was pregnant with my fourth child even before the little ritual with peeing on the stick for two reasons. Reason 1: It is not normal to fall asleep in the (parked) car in the carpool line. Reason 2: It is not normal to think that dipping chocolate covered pretzels in hot sriracha sauce would constitute a tasty snack. Well, okay, both of those reasons are “normal” behavior–normal behavior for a woman who is pregnant, that is.

Food is a touchstone of pregnancy. It’s not only because a pregnant woman has to think of the developing child in her womb as she chooses what to eat, but also because those “pregnancy cravings” are very real. Trader Joe’s trips, normally a comparatively inexpensive supermarket trip to stock up on fresh vegetables, have become a veritable minefield of lethal snacks. There is definitely someone pregnant working in product development for that store (chocolate covered peanut butter filled pretzels, exhibit A), and they prey on my dramatic pregnant appetites.

The problem is balance. As you know, I was pregnant with my third child fairly recently, and gave birth just last July. Now I’m due in October. Back to back pregnancies mean back to back joy. Unfortunately, they also mean a difficult relationship with food.

I realize I’m one of the lucky ones–plenty of people have food-related issues in their adolescence and onward, after all. I’m just starting now. I’ve always been rather fond of food. It’s tasty.

But now, as I watch the formerly gorgeous Betty Draper engage in a tormented love affair with Reddi Whip on Mad Men, I feel my stomach turn. For those who don’t watch the show, Betty, the protagonist Don Draper’s first wife, is played by January Jones and in previous episodes was nothing short of a Grace Kelly lookalike. Now, the character has settled into her second marriage, her couch, and the semi-dowdy outfits of a suburban matron, replete with tweed coats and pearls. She is trying desperately to control her problematic relationship to food through Weight Watchers and portion control. It’s slow going.

I hate the Betty Draper plot line and every time she is on, I can’t wait for her to get off my screen. And I wonder if it’s not just that she’s a self-absorbed, comparatively uninteresting character, but also that the plotline hits a little too close to home.

Yes, I know, there is a difference between being “pregnant” and being “fat.” “Pregnant” allows you a degree of leeway that our society won’t let you otherwise. After all, both Ben and Jerry are very happy about your bringing new life into the world.

But when you’ve had two pregnancies with a break of only five months in between, like me, you get a little worried. I didn’t gain too much superfluous weight with the last pregnancy. I felt and looked good, all things considered. But in those five months, I didn’t lose that little bit of extra weight entirely either. I was only starting to feel comfortable in non-maternity pants when I got the news that it was back to the elastic waistband for me.

On the scale of problems, this is a small one. But I don’t want it to become a big one. So I go to the gym every day, not because I particularly want to, but because I feel I have to, in order to stay on the right side of healthy and fit. Or, if we’re being less diplomatic, I’m doing “damage control.”

I like food far too much to develop some sort of weird pregnancy-harming eating disorder, don’t worry–but I wouldn’t mind some guidance toward delicious ways of eating healthier while! Any and all ideas/suggestions/recipes/cookbooks welcome…as well as tips on how you made it out of your postpartum maternity pants. It never hurts to think ahead. And someday, I aspire to wearing a pair of pants that need to be zipped up. Someday.

- Congrats to Big Bang Theory star Simon Helberg and his wife Joceyln Towne, who just welcomed their first baby, a daughter named Adeline, on May 8th. If he ever needs parenting tips on set, I think he knows where to go. (Celebrity Baby Scoop)

- Here he is, making his debut: Astala Dylan Willow Geldof-Cohen. If you need a refresher course on who exactly that is, see here. (Celebrity Baby Scoop)

- Mother-of-two Amanda Peet has come out in support of vaccinations, sharing the story of her daughter Molly’s whooping cough when she was an infant. (People)

- In case the elaborateness of her kiddie birthday parties didn’t stress you out enough, Tori Spelling is now debuting a craft collection for the Home Shopping Network. Start making your uber-stylish scrapbooks and holiday cards today! (People)

And yet, I couldn’t help myself.

I have all sorts of excuses, reasons, whatever you want to call them.  My husband is traveling for work this week, and I’m stressed out by solo parenting and my own work demands. I’m getting over a cold. It’s raining. I was up three times in the middle of the night with her sister, before being awakened at 5 am for the morning. My new diet is stressing me out. I hadn’t had my coffee. She wasn’t behaving well, and I did ask nicely several times. Blah blah blah.

Yes, I know that yelling isn’t the worst parenting move I can make, but it’s not the best one either. I should take a breath, give myself a time out, use my words (as I told both daughters to do over and over again this morning), or just get over whatever it is I’m in such a tizzy about; chances are it’s not that important. But this morning, somehow, I couldn’t do any of those things.

I ultimately apologized to my daughter, and we had a nice snuggle. I got the girls to daycare, kissed them good-bye, and headed to the gym before going into work. (Mommy’s working on her positive coping skills here, people.) Once I got on the treadmill, I popped in my headphones and listened to a public radio interview with Dr. Bill Sears, the “guru” of Attachment Parenting. (Yes, we’re still processing the latest issue of Time Magazine.)  At one point, Dr. Sears stated that children who were attachment parented are more empathic than other kids.

In that moment, I had to restrain myself from bursting into tears. I left the gym, and as I sat in the car in the parking lot in the pouring rain, I managed to convince myself that my sweet, loving, smiling daughter will undoubtedly become a psychopath by age 9. All because I yelled at her this morning.

From a personal and professional standpoint, I know it’s all bullshit. Other than Dr. Sears’ own observations, there is absolutely no data measuring the impact of attachment parenting on empathy. The reality is that most parents, attachment parents or not, do a good enough job, most children are empathic most of the time, and yelling at a kid from time to time won’t actually destroy her tiny soul for all of eternity.

Now that I’ve had a cup of coffee, a few deep breaths, and a moment of perspective, I’ve come to some important conclusions:

1.  For the most part, my aversion to attachment parenting has nothing to do with the specifics of the practice. But I have little patience for those who insist that any one style of parenting will result in better children, as Dr. Sears so clearly stated this morning. It’s just not true.

2. I need to develop some skills for slowing down, breathing, and responding more calmly when my kids are driving me nuts.

3.  I’m not always going to get it right, and that’s ok.  No parent ever does, and like I said, most kids turn out ok, most of the time.

4.  I really need more sleep. Or more coffee. Or both. But probably just more sleep.

So, parents, help me out here. Do you yell at your kids? How do you feel about it? What skills have you developed to manage difficult situations with your kids?

In those days no one seems to have known what that was, and certainly no one talked about it. But even when we were very young, we knew he was not the guy you wanted to be with, especially if you were alone. When I was little, he bent down to kiss me and my sister and would stroke our non-existent breasts. When we got older, my father would hold us away from him, but he was still allowed to kiss us. What were people thinking?!

My dad was a good, involved father and yet it would not have occurred to him to confront the situation. He just protected us from inappropriate touching. And that was considered enough.

Uncle Sid was still alive when I had my older kids. I didn’t let him near them and by then I could protect myself by dodging his kiss. But I still would never have said anything.

When my younger daughter was in seventh grade, she had a male teacher, a “rabbi,” who was very inappropriate in what he would say to the girls. I called the principal, with whom I had a good, long relationship, and voiced my concerns. I was furious when he poo-pooed me. I called the mother of my daughter’s best friend and she, too, had been concerned and called, too. The principal said we were the only two parents to complain. We then had our husbands call, thinking perhaps he would listen to men. Nothing doing. I had already spoken to my daughter about how to handle the situation and marched into school, which I visited frequently as I was very active with the Parents’ Association. I cornered the principal and said that this rabbi guy was a disaster waiting to happen and it was a matter of time until he actually touched someone. Appealing to his “rabbinic authority,” I pointed out that the Talmud specifically said that unmarried men should not teach girls. He agreed that was on the books but poo-pooed me again. I was furious but felt that was as much as I could do.

Now, if that happened, I wouldn’t roll over and play dead. I would have tried to rally the other parents. I would have contacted members of the Board of Directors (among whom I had served). I would have threatened legal action or found out which agency had jurisdiction over the yeshiva. I would have gotten that teacher kicked out. And, by the way, several years later, he was kicked out, but “why” was hushed up.

It’s a dangerous world out there for kids. But at least we now know more about the dangers lurking from child molesters and other bad guys. We talk about it and take action.

When I was raising my kids, the big danger was kidnapping. Kids’ pictures stared out at us on milk cartons during breakfast. I organized a school-wide event in which psychologists came to talk to parents about how to protect their kids and how to talk to kids about how to protect themselves. Police officers came to do the same and fingerprinted the children, giving the prints to the parents for safekeeping “just in case.” Can you imagine? We were terrified.

I was thinking about this after reading about the arrest of a teacher from a local New Jersey yeshiva day school and the futile search for the remains of Etan Patz (the 6-year-old who had disappeared in the 1970s while on his way to school). It came up again as I watched my favorite show, Modern Family, in which Lily, the young daughter of the gay couple, is restrained from running away by a leash. Uh, a “child restraining tether,” as dad Mitchell euphemizes it.

Well, I am totally sympathetic to Cameron, the other dad who insisted on the restraint. I, too, used a (Fisher Price children’s) leash on my youngest when he was about 2-years-old when we went on our Sunday family outings. He was an adorable, outgoing, friendly, fast little kid. Just the kind of kid someone could have grabbed if my attention had been distracted for a second. I remember this lady in the Bronx Zoo glaring disapprovingly at the leash and then at me. I glared back. No one was getting my kid no matter what I had to do!

Thankfully, we made it through his childhood safely. But the newspapers confirmed that not everybody had the same experience. Was it an exaggerated threat? I really don’t know but didn’t care. Whatever we had to do to be vigilant, we did.

Now the bad guys can get your kid in person, by phone, text, or computer. “Strangers” are everywhere, not just on the street or trailing in their car. I used to go down a list of who my kids should consider a “stranger” even if they saw them frequently and greeted them by name. The gardener was, the bus driver was, the handyman, and so on. What about the synagogue rabbi, the kindergarten teacher? Their friend’s father? Then, they were “safe.” Now–I really don’t know who’s safe anymore.

Remaining vigilant these days is almost a full-time job and the types of dangers are so much more varied. It was scary in the “old days,” protecting your children. I really sympathize with young parents today. In general it is such a complicated, complex world to help your kids negotiate. And finding the balance between making them feel safe and yet aware of very real dangers–the balance between feeling secure with an appropriate amount of skepticism and fear–that is not easy.

What I wouldn't give for a washer/dryer set...

As a nice Jewish girl, I’ve encountered this bit of wisdom from Pirkei Avot (popular Jewish text known as “Ethics of our Fathers”) time and time again: Aizehu Ashir Hasameach B’Chelko. Translated: Who is rich? He who is happy with his lot. I understood the words, but the deeper meaning never really sunk in. Then a few weeks ago I had an epiphany, with the help of a kitchen renovation and Shel Silverstein.

Now I’d been feeling a little down lately, thinking about the things that we can’t afford yet, and eating my heart out about updates on Facebook: this one got a new car, that one a new house, etc. “Why are we the only ones not living the dream?” I wondered with no small amount of angst and marital haranguing.

Serendipitously, my 5-year-old has been on a Shel Silverstein kick, and we dwelled on one particular poem for a bit, “Lester.” Lester was given a magic wish, which he used to wish for two more wishes, which he used to wish for three more wishes, and so on. The poem ends:

And then one Tuesday night they found him
Dead–with his wishes piled around him.
And they counted the lot and found that not
A single one was missing.
All shiny and new–here, take a few
And think of Lester as you do.
In a world of apples and kisses and shoes
He wasted his wishes on wishing.

The next day I was talking with a friend at work. She’s got a lot of the things I long for: a big suburban house with a dishwasher and washer/dryer, a dog, a housekeeper, and so on. But when I walked into her office she was looking at pictures of her friend’s kitchen renovation on Facebook. “I’ve got a serious case of the covets,” she said.

That’s when it hit me: it truly never ends. No matter how much we have, we always want more. Makes you realize why, “Thou shalt not covet,” is one of the ten commandments–coveting what your neighbor has is both completely human and completely corrosive to our humanity.

I’m convinced that if I give myself over to the covets, I’ll never find peace.

Don’t get me wrong. Of course I still want things. But I realize that with new things comes new problems (flooded basement anyone?). And new things to want. Yes, money makes life it a little bit easier, but it doesn’t make you happier. True happiness comes from appreciating the many blessings I have: my family, my health, my job, my faith. And from knowing that I’m modeling this important lesson for my children.

In a world of apples and kisses and shoes, I don’t want any of us to waste our wishes on wishing.

Ticker tape parade? Not enough.

It was Mother’s Day Sunday, as you may have heard.

I’ll readily admit that I’m insanely hormonal as of late. I’m entering my fifth month of my fourth pregnancy. And I know that Mother’s Day is the day that we’re supposed to think about how blessed we are, how lucky we are to be mothers, how being a mother is the most wonderful thing in the world. And that if I don’t appreciate all that–especially on Mother’s Day–I’m an ungrateful little toad.

All that is true. But as I read my Facebook friends’ updates about being feted in bed by children bearing homemade chocolate-covered strawberries–as I prepared to host 15-odd family members for brunch–I thought, you know something? What *would* constitute a “good enough” celebration of this Day of Days, or as my husband (incorrectly) called it, this “Hallmark holiday”?

A friend of mine told me that what she really wanted for Mother’s Day was to have a day in New York by herself–without her kids. Another one told me that she wanted to sleep in and have her husband take her kids somewhere–without her.

Well, sleeping in doesn’t happen with a baby who wakes up at 5:15…and wanting a Mother’s Day where the reward is to escape the children–the very people who give you “mother” status–seemed odd to me. I told my kids that all I really wanted was one day without their internecine endless spats about Kinect, basketball, Legos, etc. Well, they tried it (allegedly) and the peace lasted approximately an hour. Thanks, guys.

The thing is, no one-day tribute to motherhood is ever going to be adequate. First of all, it’s not going to be possible to devote an entire day to celebrating motherhood, because someone at some point is going to need something and only you, as the mother, are going to be able to address it. That’s the price of being indispensable. Second, the whole thing about motherhood is that it teaches you that it can’t ever possibly be summed up in one day.

The best way to illustrate what I’m talking about is to bring you back eight and a half years to my first child’s birth. I’d leaked a bit of amniotic fluid and was brought into the hospital to be induced, an all-night event during which I was extremely uncomfortable and my then-husband was delighted that there was a TV in the room so he could watch the football game he didn’t want to miss (no comment). Thankfully, the game ended in time for my personal big finish.

After giving birth for the first time, lying there on the table, I was simply stunned. I could not believe, having gone through that excruciating pain and physical agony, that THAT was how the human race had always perpetuated itself. Are you KIDDING ME?

“If any man went through even a third of what I just did, he would have made sure he got a medal of honor and a ticker tape parade,” I told my mother as she held my new son later that day in the hospital.

She looked at me, mother of four children herself, and said, “That’s how it is.”

That’s how it is.

A twenty-one gun salute, a ticker tape parade, rose petals being rained down from the sky? Not that anyone’s offering, but the truth of the matter is that any one of those would be inadequate. Motherhood isn’t, and can’t, be about one day. It isn’t about accolades. It isn’t about skywriting. It’s about endless nights and too-quick years. It’s about treacly sweetness and being annoyed like nothing in your life has ever annoyed you before. It’s about crap and pee and smiles and bites. It’s everything. What makes it so incredible is that it is life, in a nutshell.

On the morning of Mother’s Day this year, my phone rang at 6:15 am. It was my sister, telling me she’d had a baby boy an hour or so before. Another life had erupted into this world and into my extended family. And another adventure would begin, full of frustrations, possibilities, monotony, and wonder.

Now THAT seemed like an appropriate celebration.

But then, 49 days later, after wandering the desert, God gives the Jewish people the Torah, and with it, rules. In some way, those rules must have been a huge sigh of relief. No more crazy anarchy (golden calf, anyone?), no more feeling confused about how to build a society–God gave us everything we needed in the Torah. It’s nice to have a sense of structure to your life.

Somehow, this in-between period–this time of intense freedom without rules–always comes for me at an in-between period in my life. Starting in college when the Omer fell during finals, and up through today, I always identified with this liminal space, this place of in-between-ness… a time of waiting. My husband and I got married just a few days after Shavuot. My first baby was born a few weeks after Shavuot.

And this year, once again, I’m waiting for baby #2 to be born. Waiting for a baby is a funny experience. You’re given a due date, which is based on a series of things (some of which I think are quite arbitrary) and often doesn’t correlate at all to when you will actually have your baby. But this date sticks in your mind, and becomes such a focus. People ask me when I’m due and I tell them I have three weeks left, or two weeks left. When really, I could have five weeks left. Or five days left. There’s NO WAY TO KNOW.

And that not-knowing, well, that’s what makes you a little bit crazy. It’s like those ancient Israelites. They’ve got freedom, but they don’t know how to use it. I wouldn’t call having a baby’s foot lodged in my ribs freedom, per se, but I too am in this in-between space and time…waiting, just waiting, for the baby to decide to arrive.

And this year, Shavuot is on our wedding anniversary. I kind of think that means the baby will show up that day. Any bets?

In addition, a magazine pitch of mine was rejected as being too much like something they’d just assigned to someone else, while a completed piece was more or less re-written prior to publication.

I can’t wait to tell my kids about it.

A couple of years ago, when my husband lost his job after only a few months, the first thing I did (well, after scrubbing out the spice cabinets–when I’m stressed, I clean), was make sure to tell the kids. And note how Daddy had failed.

We tell our kids that we’ve failed all the time. (Fortunately, life hands us numerous opportunities to do so.) And we tell them when they’ve failed, too.

In fact, we go out of our way to locate opportunities for them to do so.

I gather that is not Modern Parenting 101.

Modern Parenting 101 holds that it is our job to bolster our offspring’s self-esteem, put forward unconditional approval, and make sure the kids feel good about themselves 24/7.

No, thank you.

For one thing, telling a child that he/she is perfect all the time is blatantly untrue. You know it, they know it. If they were perfect all the time, there would be no cause for discipline, or even instruction. When they get a bad grade because they didn’t study or strike out because they weren’t looking or hit a flat note where there should have been a sharp, they know they’ve made a mistake. So, what’s the value of acting like they didn’t?

At best, your child thinks you lack awareness (or a sense of pitch). At worse, they think you’ve lied to them.

Because you have. How’s that a beneficial thing?

What’s the motivation to improve if you’re already perfect just the way you are? (I love Mr. Rogers. I co-produced his tribute at the 1997 Daytime Emmys and he couldn’t have been lovelier or more gracious. But, that catch-phrase of his drove me nuts. If everyone is perfect just the way they are, should no one strive to improve themselves ever again? Everything is copasetic and nothing is socially unacceptable any longer? We’ve really hit the peak of human evolution and potential?)

But, the most important reason my husband and I talk to our kids about our own failures and theirs is because we don’t want them to be afraid of it.

My husband insisted our oldest son keep going to Tae Kwon Do even after sparring became mandatory and our son balked, because my husband wanted him to see that you can take a punch–and get back up again.

Our middle son competes in fencing tournaments against older kids (10 and under, even though he could qualify for the 8 and under), which he has yet to win. Because you don’t improve by going up against those weaker than you. You improve by facing those who are stronger.

And our daughter… well, she still thinks she’s the greatest singer, actress, gymnast, and guitar player who ever lived. And the prettiest, too. She’s 5. Life will set her straight soon enough. No need to rush things.

As a result of our reluctance to protect them from reality, our kids get upset about things that, in theory, we could have avoided. When they lose or break a toy, they don’t get a replacement. When it’s time to sign up for a library card, they have to go up to the scary, main desk and ask for it themselves. I’m not going to do it for them. When one of my sons forgets his homework, he has to face the consequences with his teacher–I’m not going to ride in to the rescue. When the Bess Beetles died because their container was left on the heater, we made it clear who was responsible. (I also confessed that I would not miss them.)

On the other hand, we were at a birthday party at a play space last weekend and, as we were leaving, my daughter didn’t get a balloon–they’d run out. I expected tears and cries of “No fair!” Instead, when I told her she’d have to handle it herself, she marched to the manager’s desk and explained, “I didn’t get a balloon. Can I have one, please?”

She got her balloon.

And, hopefully, a sense of her own agency, as well.

Because, as far as I’m concerned, self-esteem comes from actually accomplishing something. Not being told that you did in direct contradiction of facts in evidence.

My oldest son is now one stripe away from getting his black belt. He still hates sparring, but he knows he’ll survive it.

My middle son won a silver medal at his last fencing tournament. He knows if he wants to turn that silver into gold, he’ll have to work even harder.

And my daughter has a balloon!

Fear of failure, and the paralysis of inaction that comes with it, is the greatest impediment to doing anything at all. Because doing anything at all, especially something with a high chance of failure, means taking a risk. Sucks that, most of the time, taking a risk is the necessary first step to success. (It’s also the first step to failure. But, somehow, that doesn’t sound nearly as pithy. So let’s not dwell on it.) At our house, a failure is a person who stepped out of their comfort zone and tried something new.

Everyone wants their children to “succeed.” Though, of course, everyone has their own definition of what precisely that means. Which is how it should be.

We happen to believe that the best way to achieve success in any field is through an intimate familiarity with failure. When something is a part of your life on a daily basis, it has a tendency to lose its power. And its intimidation factor.

I fail, we fail, they fail. So, I didn’t sell any books last week. At least I can use it as a teachable moment…

- Can you call a 9-year-old a pyschopath? Psychologists now believe you can identify psychopathic tendencies as early as kindergarten. (NYT)

- Guess who’s getting a much-needed makeover? The power suit. (WSJ)

- There’s no shortage of responses to the Time Magazine’s recent cover, but this one, which takes a look at weaning practices in chimpanzees, attempts to answer the question: did cave-babies have attachment parents? (Slate)

- New studies show that Israeli families’ IVF success has doubled in the last decade, resulting in 25% in vitro pregnancies, and 20% of attempts resulting in live births. (Jewish Press)

Within two seconds of the exam, he backed away and told me to move to the ultrasound room. We waited nervously as the doctor pulled up the ultrasound machine and declared that I had next to no cervix left, was completely softened and dilated to 1 cm. He scheduled us the next morning for an emergency cerclage (a suture used to close the opening of the cervix) but when we arrived at the hospital the procedure was cancelled because the monitor showed my contractions were three minutes apart.

I don’t remember the sequence of events of that day. It was the day that all of my idealistic, giddy pregnancy notions were wiped away, forever. It was a day that I learned how heart wrenching parenthood can be. It was a day that I remember in snippets, almost as if it didn’t really happen to me and I was watching it through a piece of foggy glass.

I was rushed to the prenatal intensive care unit and given fluids and medication to stop my contractions. My husband watched the monitor with a stoic face, almost willing the contractions to stop. I remember asking him how big a baby is at 27 weeks and his answer was, “Not big enough.”

I remember signing papers that gave permission for our baby to be taken away immediately and given all means necessary to save his life. I looked down at my signature–it was barely legible.

I remember a conversation that hurts just thinking about. My husband and I decided that if I were to give birth to our tiny son, no matter what happened, that he would stay with him. Go with him anywhere, no matter what. Because if he only had a short time in this big wide world–he would never be alone and he would know that he was loved.

And I don’t remember much after that. I couldn’t talk about it or write about it. All I did was listen to his tiny heartbeat on the monitor and I prayed.

I met a new part of my husband that day. The part who returned all of the phone calls on our behalf and slept in a chair holding my hand all night long. I met my son’s Daddy that day.

While it was an awful day, it turned into another day, and another. Ten weeks of strict bed rest and anticontraction medication brought my son into this world at 37 weeks, strong and healthy.

But that heart wrenching feeling… it never went away. I discovered it is a part of me now. He is a part of me now. And while having a child has made my heart soar to places I’ve never imagined, the visceral worry lingers in the background. And when he falls or cries out or won’t eat–it pounces.

I’m 23 weeks pregnant with our second son and I’m trying to be optimistic as memories of a difficult time come flooding back. I have biweekly ultrasounds and my husband plunges a large needle of progesterone into my hip once a week in hopes of preventing preterm labor. I am trying not to get lost in the exhausting 36 week countdown to term.

I am so happy that I was brave enough to get pregnant again. I have found a wonderful support network of other mothers who have gone through preterm labor and bed rest, many of whom I’ve never met in person but cheer me on through heartfelt emails and Facebook comments. I see a team of Maternal and Fetal Medicine specialists that monitor my pregnancy and answer all of my crazy questions. In terms of risk, my case is relatively mild and there are many mothers who have endured much more than I have and suffered far worse. Being on bed rest or having any kind of difficulties during pregnancy can take a toll on you emotionally and physically. I think sharing the journey is half the battle and I’d love to hear your story.