Alright, alright. So I haven’t written in, like, 3 months. But I have a really good excuse. Yours truly has been busy training to become a Doula! I went to the 3-day workshop last month (Thank you for the zillionth time to my amazing husband for taking care of the boys while I was away), which was led by internationally-renowned Doula Debra Pascali-Bonaro, author of “Orgasmic Birth” and producer of the accompanying film, world traveler and attendant at births from South Africa to indigenous regions in New Zealand to NYC. In this birth world, this woman is like Celine Dion. Needless to say, I was like the really annoying kid in class who kept raising her hand and asking a zillion questions. I spent the whole training lit up like a menorah.

Well, today I went to a meeting with my first prospective client up in Central Jersey, and I have never been so excited in my life. I used to believe that a job is a job, something you have to suffer through in order to survive. But I don’t think so anymore. Today I believe that every person deserves a job that makes them say to themselves, “I can’t believe I actually get PAID to do this!”. Everyone deserves to do something with their lives that makes them feel, well, alive. I feel so lucky that I finally found that “thing” that does it for me.

More to come. I promise.

I’ve been around the 12-step block for a while, and one thing I’ve heard more times than I can count is how an “attitude of gratitude” makes all the difference. If I feel grateful, then I’m focusing on the good, instead of what’s lacking in my life. An attitude of gratitude ensures that I stay away from self-pity, resentment and fault-finding.

The problem with that is that I’m a human being with a default setting of: “There’s something wrong with this picture and I need to fix it”. Lack of gratitude has taken a variety of forms in my life, from my addiction to various geographical cures (do you know anyone else who lived in 3 cities in 1 year?) to an underlying feeling of discontentment that followed me around the globe and well into my sober years.

But an interesting thing happened recently. After a complaining session with a dear friend of mine a couple of months ago, she invited me join her “gratitude group”, an email list shared with a few other women in which we each write 10-15 things we’re grateful for each day and send them to each other. Even though she told me it changed her life, I was skeptical it would actually work for me, being the confirmed pessimist I was. But I agreed, since I figured I had nothing to lose.

And so it began. Finding things each day that I was grateful for was a lot tougher at first than I thought it would be. It started with the little things: My husband and kids. My car. A fridge full of food. Being employed. The basic stuff. After a while, though, it got easier. I could be grateful for someone who annoyed me because, if nothing else, I wasn’t them. I could be grateful for my messy house because that meant my kids were healthy and happy and having fun. I could even be grateful for the Mt. Everest of laundry in my bedroom because that meant we had clothes to wear. After a couple of months, I realized my thinking had shifted. When something “bad” came up, I could somehow find something about it to be grateful for.

Then, something interesting happened. At first, I was only sending my list to my friend, but then I started replying to all of the women on her list, and added a few of my own friends as well. I started getting their lists back and seeing all of the incredible things that were happening in their lives, the little triumphs of finding the good and exciting in the everyday, muddling through the tough stuff and still having a good attitude: A woman in her last few, VERY uncomfortable few weeks of pregnancy toughing it out. Two other women getting through the end-of-semester, crunch-time workload. Two moms chasing 2 kids and trying to stay sane. A newlywed just getting used to married life. We all have our challenges, and yet all of us are supporting each other each day and reminding each other that there’s always something to smile about.

Last week, I realized something miraculous had happened. My brain had switched: any time something came up, I automatically tried to find something about it to be grateful for. I even started looking for things throughout the day that I could put on my list. That old, nagging, discontented feeling had faded and was replaced with a continuous buzz of contentment and — could it be? — peace.

I have no doubt that this is the direct result of the my gratitude list, and the women I share it with every day. If there is such a thing as magic, this is it.

Then Shuie told me an interesting story. He said that he once heard Rabbi Nosson Tzvi Finkel, the rosh yeshiva (head of school) of the Mir Yeshiva, one of the largest and best-known yeshivas in Israel (where Shuie was once a student), give a talk. R’ Nosson suffers from Parkinson’s, and despite his pain, is constantly smiling and still teaches his beloved students to the best of his ability. The evening Shuie heard him speak, R’ Nosson told his students that to ensure the maintenance of faith, they should make a list, daily, of things in their life for which they are grateful. I was so excited when he told me the story, but I wasn’t surprised. I am living proof that what R’ Nosson says is true.

I think that’s definitely something to be grateful for.

About two weeks ago, I looked at Shuie and said, “It’s not going to happen today, but at some point very soon I am going to hit a wall. Between work, kids, house and life as we know it, we are looking at major meltdown material here”.
So, we put our heads together and came up with the following solution: Mommy gets a night away, ALONE, and then takes the next day off.

Well, last night and today were Mom’s Great Escape. I spent last night in a hotel about 5 minutes from my house, nothing fancy, but little-Bochner-free. As I stepped into my top-floor room with a fabulous view of Rt. 70, I exhaled so deeply, it was as if I’d been holding my breath for months. After a hot bath and some writing time, I slid into bed for a full night’s sleep, with no commercial interruptions. Bliss. Today, Shuie surprised me with a spa day, and I mean the full sha-bang: massage, facial, mani/pedi, waxing and haircut. I felt like a queen, and came home invigorated and excited to see all of my boys.

I tell you all this not to show off, but to illustrate a VERY important point. MOMS NEED TIME OFF. This was something I didn’t get completely until today; I didn’t realize how worn out I was until I stepped out of the storm. I guess it had to get pretty desperate, because despite the strain, asking for this time to myself was a challenge for me on par with hiking Everest. I felt guilty for leaving my boys, for spending money “frivolously”, and for asking Shuie to take on everything for 24 hours, alone. But it all comes back to the Oxygen Mask Philosophy: When the plane’s going down, you put your OWN mask on first, because if you’ve got no oxygen, your kids are going without it, too. In this case, if I didn’t take time for myself and treat myself with something special, I would not have had the energy, patience or appreciation for the demands I juggle each day.

My dear friend Danielle has recruited me to join a Gratitude email group. Each night, we send each other 10-15 things for which we are grateful, and they have to be good ones. This is an important exercise for me because it is so easy to get caught up in everything I don’t have, start feeling sorry for myself, and if things get bad enough, justify picking up the food or the drugs or the alcohol (”If you had my problems, you’d eat/drug/drink too”.). It’s amazing what a concerted effort to find things to be grateful for can do for my attitude; it’s like a makeover for your soul. Even if I’m cranky, anxious, frustrated or just fried, I can end my day knowing that, fundamentally, all is well. So today, I am grateful to be able to share that with you on my blog, and I’m grateful for all of you out there who read it.

Speaking of reading, did you happen to read my new article, featured on the homepage of Aish.com? Here’s the link:http://www.aish.com/f/p/104758409.html.

Enjoy!

As many of you know, in my former life I was a teacher for disabled students. I will always have a special place in my heart for special needs kids, and these days I am lucky to count many of them, and their families, among my friends. Chabad has developed an unbelievable program called “The Friendship Circle”, which pairs volunteers with disabled kids to spend time together each week, just hanging out or doing something fun. This program is a wonderful opportunity for kids who may not ordinarily have as much opportunity to socialize as their peers, and it is an incredibly rewarding experience for the volunteers (typically middle- and high-school age kids). The Friendship Circle has satellites all over the country, and now we’re trying to start one here in Cherry Hill.

To raise money for the program, the Bochner family will be walking in The Philadelphia Friendship Circle Walk on October 17th. We’re looking to raise $500, so I am asking all of you, my beloved readers, to be as generous as you can. It is truly a worthy cause, and can make a huge difference in the lives of some extraordinary people. To donate, visit The Bochner Family Friendship Circle Walk webpage at:
http://phillyfriendshipwalk.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&eventID=501&participantID=1113 Thanks for your help!

Brisk mornings and gorgeous afternoons have made the beginning of fall official here in Cherry Hill, much welcome after the relentless heat and cold rains of last week. As it is wont to do, autumn makes me nostalgic, reflecting on the various beginnings and endings in my life, and also hopeful, wondering what is to come as the seasons turn.

It also makes me think about Mom. Last week, Dad sent me pictures of her headstone, which will be complete after they sand her name into the stone. On the back of her stone is a design that my father had commissioned: a circle of hydrangeas around the Hebrew Words: “Em Habanim Smeicha” (A Happy Mother of Children). It is really beautiful. Dad said that Mom would have really liked it. I found the statement highly ironic, since if she was around to like it there would be no reason for it to exist.

I think I’ve entered the “reflection” stage of the grief process. As I wrote previously, I was shocked out of the “denial” phase when I watched my father get married, and the door was firmly locked behind me the minute I saw her name on a gravestone. So now I get it –She’s not coming back, ever –and it hurts like hell. In some ways, I wish I could still be in that crazy period when she was sick, even in the last stages when she was dying, because at least she would still be here. At least I could still see her and talk to her. Well-intentioned people like say that I can still talk to her now, but it’s just not the same. So now I just think about her all the time, and I talk about her as much as I can without weirding people out. For just a few seconds, she is alive for me.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about when she was sick, probably because a friend of mine will be going up to Sloan Kettering this week to have a growth removed. Thankfully, the growth is benign, but it’s still been a challenging experience for him and his wife. I wish I didn’t know what they were going through, but I do. I remember the trips to the hospital, the anxiety of waiting for results, the helplessness of knowing it’s all out of your hands. The day my mother had her very first surgery, I was so shaky I dropped my bowl of oatmeal on the floor and cut my ankle on a shard of porcelain. I paced a ditch into our living room floor the day we waited to find out if she was terminal or not. When she ran a high fever and I had to take her to the E.R., all I could do was cry through her intake. There’s no way to explain to someone the pain of watching someone you love suffer. The prospect of losing them is unfathomable, even after it actually happens. Although I am sure that my friend is going to be just fine and that he and his wife are going to get through this stronger on the other side, I know the toll it can take. I bless them with courage, strength, G-d’s protection, and a refuah shleima (full and speedy recovery) for my friend. They should both take solace in the fact that their friends here love them.

I’ve heard it said in meetings that our painful experiences serve us to help others once we have passed through them. If this is so, I hope that everything I’ve been through will be able to help others now and in the future.

Yonah has just arrived, ready for a cuddle. Back on Mom duty…

I just found a tiny piece of broken glass in my bed. Please don’t ask me how it got there, because I have no idea. I’m less concerned about the glass itself and more by the fact that I am barely fazed by finding something that could potentially draw blood in my bed. I suppose it’s part and parcel of having a toddler around; you find all sorts of interesting things in the most unexpected places, and while there is probably a great story behind why it got there, you just don’t know what it is.

My house is the perfect example of this. Glass aside, I have recently found an empty Cheerio box, mangled to a pathetic hexagon-type shape, on the floor of the living room. I have also discovered Yonah’s toothbrush next to the door to our patio, a soccer ball in the bathtub and, my personal favorite, a toy car in my underwear drawer.

Yes, Yonah is a busy bee. This afternoon we went for his two-year checkup, which he most definitely did NOT enjoy. He’s a big boy now, 30 pounds even, and talking up a storm. What struck me most, however, was when I asked the doctor when we should come for his next checkup and told me I didn’t need to come back until Yonah turns 3. I felt like, in that moment, Yonah officially became a big kid. I suppose I should have gotten the hint when he headed off to school with his backpack and packed lunch, but in my head I still thought of him as a baby. So, while he is still just 2, I finally realized today that Yonah’s babyhood is officially over. I had a sad pang in my heart for that sweet baby, and had about 2 seconds to miss him before Yonah crawled into my arms and said, “Ready to go?”.

Thank G-d I have Kivi around for my baby fix. I watched Shuie playing with Kivi on the bed tonight and listened to his angelic little laugh and felt a surge of that yummy baby love that is as potent as crack. Suddenly, I got the urge to have another baby (It’s the addict in me, I guess; something feels good and I want more). Just as suddenly, I gave myself a good mental shake. I can barely keep it together now between the job and the house and the kids and, once in a while, exchanging pleasantries with my husband. It’s so easy to forget the sleepless nights and hormonal roller coasters when they’re so cute and fat and sweet and smile at you like you’re the most perfect person they know. It’s not that I don’t want more children, but right this second, it’s probably not the best idea. I’ll just have to console myself by burying my nose in the rolls of chub on Kivi’s thighs.

If I may, I’d like to say something completely non-revelatory and grotesquely obvious, but needs to be said: Being a working Mom is really, really hard. The majority of the Moms in my community work, many full-time, and since this is a big medical community quite a number of them have insane schedules that keep them away from their kids for very long hours. I am one of the spoiled ones who only works three days a week in the same building as one of my children and around the block from the other. Still, I constantly feel like I’m playing catch-up and that there’s barely a moment to breathe. If I’m not working, I’m running errands or cooking or making phone calls or attempting to pick up after my children, who live by the motto, “Drop it like it’s hot in the middle of the dining room”. My apartment is a monolithic mess that I have to steal time in order to clean — I can finally be grateful that I don’t have a house; chances are, if I did, it would be condemned.

Thankfully, however, I’m not the only one who feels this way. The other day I was having a conversation with a friend of mine, a fabulous mom of three who also happens to work full-time. I asked her how she does it and she said she basically gave up her social life, outside interests and most of her free time. She’s constantly frazzled, trying to beat the clock, and has given up on a decent night’s sleep. Another mom I know had her daughter and went back to her residency after only 4 weeks. She said between the long hours on call and being up with the baby, she was a zombie for months.

Until now, I never understood what it meant to really juggle. Working moms always have many balls in the air at once and have to wear many different hats in one day (sometimes more than one at the same time). It’s like a constant whack-a-mole; after one challenge gets tackled, another one pops up. It’s almost impossible to keep up. As much as I would like to be a “SuperMom”, I can tell you that after just 3 months, I don’t see a cape and tights in my future. I will be the first to admit that I can’t do it all, and that it’s simply impossible without help. As I told Shuie: “I don’t need flowers or jewelry. I don’t want couture or fancy gadgets. What I really need is a wife”.

Official complaints have been staged due to my month-and-a-half-long blog “hiatus”. I assure you, people, that I have not spent the past almost-two months chilling out beachside or contemplating cloud formations. Mama’s a working woman now, which means between shuttling the kiddies to daycare and school, working, running errands, being social and (barely) keeping my house together, my free time has dwindled to the 10 seconds from Akiva’s crib to my bed, when he’s finally asleep and I can pass out.

Not that I’m complaining. I am beyond thrilled with life in Cherry Hill. The people here have been nothing but warm and welcoming, and it feels like we’ve been living here for years. I’m still getting used to the idea that we’re going to sticking around in one place for a while — my faithful readers know that at this time last year I was in Israel, one more knot in my world traveler’s belt — and I have to “Whoa, Nellie!” my brain at least once a day to prevent it from galloping off to plan the next big adventure. Everyday life can be an adventure, too, if I let it.

A few weeks back, my dear friend Chani was here with her family for lunch and sampled some of my Apple Challah, baked fresh for Rosh Hashana. “Oh my G-d,” she purred between bites. “I would pay for this.” And so was the beginning of my new business: Debbi’s Challah. Using my mother’s beloved recipe, I am now supplying challahs for holiday and Shabbos tables all over Cherry Hill. At least one night a week will find me pounding and kneading, shaping and baking away; last week I was so busy with challahs I turned around the night before Sukkot and realized that I’d been in the kitchen all week, but we had nothing to eat for the holiday (thankfully, you’re allowed to cook on Yom Tov!) It’s a delightful thing, making some extra cash doing something I love, and every time I sell one, I feel like Mom is winking at me. If you’re in the South Jersey/Metro Philly area and want to taste the love, check out my Facebook page for info (Shuie is building the website, to be up soon!).

Akiva is currently rocking out on his belly, wriggling his chubby legs like a fish. Kivi is almost 5 months old now (!) and is sweeter than sweet. Except for a not-so-fun croup episode which landed us in the E.R. at 5 a.m., Kivi has been thriving. Like his brother, he’s a hungry guy that my body can’t keep up with; my milk supply quickly went from main course to appetizer to last resort. I still wrestle with guilt over transitioning him to formula, but he’s doing so well I try to let it go. Recent reports of a bettle infestation in Similac was beyond unsettling (maybe that’s why they charge so much for it!); so I’m relieved I switched to the generic brand a while back.

Mr. Yonah is LOVING school. His teacher, Mrs. Weiss, is fabulous and he transitioned into life without 24-hour-Mom beautifully (if he wasn’t so happy, I might need some ego stroking), to the point where I bring him into his class and he gives me a quick kiss and takes off with barely a “Peace out, Mama,” before heading for the play kitchen. He comes home singing songs from school and bringing me various glittery/watercolory/markery art projects (the latest is a painted, glittered pine cone), with stains on his clothes to match. Mama is very proud of her little Van Gogh; we have enough material now to turn our fridge into a mini-Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The job is really nice. I’m enjoying working in a school and not having to teach anyone, and being appreciated for my creativity. I still go back and forth about whether or not it’s good for me to be away from my babies, but when you gotta do what you gotta do, it makes the choice a lot easier. For today, I’m grateful to have a roof over my head, a fridge full of food, two healthy, clothed kids, a husband who adores me and an actual, grown-up life. It’s not always perfect, pretty or fun — try changing puked-on sheets at 4 a.m. — but all in all I’d say I’ve got it pretty good.

In other news, Dad got married about a month ago. I would be lying if I said it was a fun night for me, because it wasn’t. In fact, I would say that I didn’t really understand that my mother wasn’t coming back until I saw my father under the Chuppah with his new bride walking around him. It felt like I was watching my mother die all over again. Like mine, Dad’s life has gone through a lot of changes in a very short period of time, and I hope that he’s as happy on the other side as I am.

Tomorrow night is the last round of high holidays for this year, the tail end of Sukkot and Simchat Torah, which marks the reading of the last portion of the 5 books of Moses, only to begin again the following day with Bereishis, Genesis. In this time of new beginnings, a new year, a new start, I hope we all have the chance to create the lives we dream of, slowly but surely, one day at a time.

Check out my newest article on TheJewishWoman!

http://www.chabad.org/theJewishWoman/article_cdo/aid/1257045/jewish/Kneading-Moms-Love.htm

So, here we are in our new apartment in Cherry Hill. I am blissfully happy, fully aware that yes, I do live in New Jersey. Our move went off basically without a hitch, thanks to my husband’s and my brother-in-law Shloimie’s muscle. Yonah is thrilled with his “new ‘patment” and has already marked his territory by chucking his board books across the living room. We’ve had a very warm welcome here, with plenty of invitations for Shabbos meals and playdates. Our friend Baruch even treated us to pizza at Perlin’s, the local kosher vegetarian hotspot, as an official initiation into the community. It feels like we’ve been here for years, instead of just a few days.

There is no way to adequately describe the wonder of going from the Jewish famine that is Cape Cod to an actual, thriving community. The local ShopRite has an entire section (a ROOM, people, not an aisle) called “The Kosher Experience”. When Shuie and I walked in the other night, my mouth fell open. I practically burst into song a la Maria Von Trapp: “A Butcher that cuts kosher beef to my liking! Prepared Carrot Kugel and lox, oh, how striking! A ten-pack of Empire hot chicken wings, these are a few of my favorite things…”.

Suffice it to say, I am loving Cherry Hill. We are slowly, slowly getting unpacked. One box or suitcase a day is my goal, so I imagine we’ll be settled in officially by the time Kivi leaves for college. It was nice to rediscover all my old dishes and cookware that were sitting, unused, in the basement of the Cape house for almost two years, and use them in my OWN kitchen. I am already champing at the bit to invite guests, but I am going to play it cool and let myself be a guest for a while.

While I am still in the first flush of love with Cherry Hill, I am also suffering from hunger pangs, since today is Tisha B’Av, or the Ninth of the month of Av, a fast day that commemorates the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash, the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, where the Shechina, G-d’s presence, dwelled. Jews would travel there three times a year to offer sacrifices to G-d to atone for sins and to offer thanks for various blessings. It was the place where we could, in a sense, actively interact with G-d. When the Romans came and destroyed it, it was a devastating loss. Other tragic events that have befallen the Jewish people, from the times of the Crusades, to the Inquisition and even the Holocaust, have also eerily fallen on this date. So our fast is also to mourn for those tragedies as well.

However, Jewish tradition holds that even though the Temple was destroyed on Tisha B’Av, it will also be rebuilt on Tisha B’Av, when Moshiach, the Messiah, comes. This is a beautiful idea, which offers hope even in the face of tragic loss. The darkest of times can make for the most joyful and restorative of times. Without loss, we would not know blessing. Without sadness, we would not know true joy. Without pain, we would not grow.

With that in mind, I pray for much growth and reparation for all of us, the coming of Moshiach and the redemption of our people, and never having to fast again.

This afternoon, my boys and I headed down to the beach for a little down time from the moving prep madness. As we hit the sand, Yonah exclaimed, “Big Water!”. It was sweet and brilliant, but I couldn’t help but think of how much my mother would have loved that moment. In that way, I’m glad to be moving now instead of at the end of the summer, when we would have had more time to enjoy the Cape. There is so much of Mom everywhere in this house and on the beach, especially in Summer, that it’s almost too painful to be here. Her absence is too obvious.

4 days to Moving Day…