After a three-month delay, we finally got to spend a Shabbos in Cherry Hill. Although located in NJ, Cherry Hill is really a suburb of Philly, a LONG shlep from our current perch down the Cape; we’re talking 7-8 hours, without traffic. Now that we have two little pitzels, my aversion to extra-long drives has gotten political, so we did most of the drive Thursday night, crashed with Aunt Renee (”Auntie Nay”, in Yonahspeak) and finished up on Friday afternoon. It was definitely a good move; it’s a little awkward to meet new friends looking like a bedraggled, green-skinned, milk-leaking hose beast with two wailing spawn.

I’ll be honest. Based on first appearances, I was not so thrilled with Cherry Hill. I had pictured something a little more rural, a little farther away from the many malls and highways that comprise Jersey’s major claim to fame (well, that, and the birthplace of Thomas Edison). But, I swallowed my disappointment and decided to look beyond “Borders” and get to know the people. After all, a great friend is worth a million blades of grass (Eat your heart out, Walt Whitman…).

It was a wise decision, because the people of Cherry Hill are absolutely lovely, and they absolutely love where they live. Comparatively, it’s a very small community of only a few hundred families, but in my book this is a very good thing. People smile as they walk by you in shul; they say hello and ask your name. Trust me, this is a REALLY big deal coming from the extra-large Jew-pot of Teaneck, where Shuie and I lived for the first year and change after we got hitched. There are nice people in Teaneck, but if you don’t move in knowing someone, you might as well consider yourself eating lunch alone in the cafeteria for the rest of the year.

Another thing I like about the community is how diverse it is, and yet how connected. Saturday night I was invited to a women’s Rosh Chodesh gathering where a woman gave a little class and then we had a dance party — That’s right; yours truly stayed out dancing until midnight! The woman who spoke wore a sheitel and fully tznius (modest) garb, but there were also women there in all sorts of get-ups, everything from skirts to jeans. Some wore hats, some wore tichels and some wore no head covering at all. But everyone was friends. There were no lines between “them” and “us”. It was just a group of Jewish women of all kinds celebrating the new month together by learning some Torah and doing the Macarena. It was awesome.

My greatest discovery was Chani and Baruch Seff, another young couple with four gorgeous kids who also happen to be connected with my trippy-hippy, crunchy-granola Carlebach tribe. Chani and I immediately connected and I felt a sense of excitement that, should we choose to move to Cherry Hill, I would do so already having a friend. There were a few other colorful characters that I fell in love with immediately, including Devorah Ahavah, a fabulous sixty-something poetess who told me to check her out on YouTube, where she’d posted four poems about Hashem. A majority of the community are ba’alei tshuva like me, people who weren’t born religious, but came to it later in life (always makes for the most interesting stories!), and so lack judgment or expectation of each other. You can come as you are, make yourself comfortable, and take whatever you want from the fridge.

I was also excited to see Yonah have a million other kids his age to play with. It was such a stark contrast to being on the Cape, where Yonah’s social life extends as far as me, Shuie and Kivie, his pre-teen friends at Chabad, his weekly playgroup (at which we have been absent since Kivie was born) and his daily dates with Elmo. It’s also great to be only an hour and a half away from Simi and Huvi, so they can be more a part of our everyday lives. So we’ll see. No decisions have to be made today, and I’m glad, because between exhaustion and hormones, a choice like that seems monolithic at the moment.

It’s funny, though. Despite the longing I feel to actually settle somewhere after all this wandering we’ve been doing, the prospect of it becoming a reality scares me a little. Like it or not, I am still a gypsy. I’m afraid of getting “stuck” somewhere, that I will fall into a black hole of everyday life that will block me from accomplishing the aspirations I have for myself. Realistically speaking, I am going to be caught up in the mundane for a while — I’m a nursing mother, for crying out loud — but I have to remember that it’s not always going to be like this. I’ve already managed to get an article published, with another coming up (Yup, Aish.com is going to publish another one of my pieces!), and when I have more than one hand free again I will probably be able to do more. Not just that, but if I give myself enough time to actually ease into a place, I may turn around one day and realize that a community has sprung up around me and that I have actual friends who live around the block, instead of four hours away. There may be some amazing people and opportunities waiting to come into my life, if I let them.

The other part that’s hard about making this choice is that it means officially leaving behind the dream my mother had for us. She had hoped, as did we, that we would all end up living in the Boston area, a part of each other’s lives, raising each other’s children and just growing closer as a family. With her death, we’ve each been forced to search for our own sense of belonging and to build our own lives. Unfortunately, those lives probably won’t end up looking the way we may have once thought they would. We’re all being led in different directions, and despite our love for each other, that may lead us to different places. But there’s only so long you can hold on to a hope, or a memory, before real life steps in and forces you to let go. Pretty soon, it’s going to be time to move on, and I will, for myself and my family. But it might not be as easy as I’d thought.

Wishing an official Mazel Tov to my father, Jan Buckler, on his engagement to Ms. Channie Gross of Manhattan!

In the orthodox world, widows, widowers and divorcees are encouraged to get back on the bandwagon quickly — as it says, “It is not good for man to be alone”. The Ortho dating pool is filled with freshly single folk ready for a second (or even a third) go-round, and it isn’t unusual for second marriages to happen within months of the first one ending.

So it was no big surprise when my father started dating. Apparently, the buzzing Manhattan singles scene is full of eligible women on the market for a 56-year-old math geek with a motorcycle, four grown kids, and who holds the record for most viewings of “The Hunt for Red October”. Since the fall, Dad has been telling me about one woman or another he’s been hanging out with, and once in a while asks me for dating advice (talk about turned tables…), but for the most part, nothing has gotten too serious.

Until now. My father recently began seeing a woman named Channie, a former Brooklynite who now lives on the UWS. From what he tells me, he’s over the moon about her, and things are looking like they might get serious pretty quickly. This past weekend, Dad brought Channie up to Boston and the Cape to meet my siblings and me. I, of course, cooked up a storm for the occasion. They spent Shabbos with us here at the Cape house so we could get to know each other a bit. Yonah took right to her and Akiva gave her his mark of approval by pooping all over her skirt.

As for me, well, what can I say? Channie is a really nice person, gregarious and funny, and she and my dad clearly care for each other. My father seems really happy. But it was a lot harder for me than I thought it would be, seeing him with someone who is not my mother, because that means my mother isn’t here. It made me miss her terribly. I pictured this new person becoming a part of our family and it felt like watching a broadway show featuring the understudy instead of the star.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m really happy for my Dad. He’s only 56, after all, and he shouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life living on canned tuna and bagged salad, eaten with plasticware in front of his computer. The thought of him growing old, alone, in his one-bedroom apartment, falling asleep each night in front of his 52-inch flatscreen is downright depressing. He life needs a woman’s touch — I can see my mother, wherever she is, shaking her head in exasperation at his bare-bones apartment (”Would it kill him to have ONE throw pillow?”) — and he deserves some companionship. But our family is changing at rapid-fire speed here. It’s hard to compute, and even harder to let go of the family I once knew. Because like it or not, it’s gone. Also, on a purely selfish level, I’m not ready to give up the role of Dad’s “go-to girl”. For the past year and change, even when Mom was still sick, we worked as partners to take care of her and keep things going. Now he comes to me for my opinions and input. With this new person, I probably won’t be his first stop anymore.

Needless to say, there are some mixed feelings here. But, as my good friend Amy says, “It doesn’t always stay like this”. Life shifts and changes and we have to deal with whatever comes as it comes. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. In fact, sometimes, in downright stinks. But, in the end, these are the things that make us who we are.

To my gorgeous, fantastic, delightful, adorable, patient and fabulous husband/baby daddy, Shuie: Happy 3-year Anniversary, Babe!

Exciting News!

The Isabella Freedman Jewish Retreat Center in Falls Village, CT will be hosting its First week-long Annual Jewish Women’s Music Festival this August, featuring performances, jam sessions and music workshops, one of which will be taught by YOURS TRULY!

A few weeks back I submitted a proposal for a workshop called “Songwriting as Storytelling”, the title of which should be a good indicator of what the course is all about. Anyway, I got word today that it was accepted. I am so excited! The Isabella Freedman community is a wonderful, open and vibrant group of people who promote acceptance of Jews of all walks of life and they even have a working farm. Definitely my cup of tea. I have been wanting to go for over four years and I am so excited that this is going to be the time during which I finally get to do it.

So, this August, we’ll be strapping Akiva in the sling and heading off to Falls Village. If they’re nice, maybe I’ll let Yonah and Shuie tag along, too.

A curious convergence has occurred my family upon the birth of Akiva. It seems that at the precise moment my little guy entered the world, his older brother turned into a full-fledged almost-two-year-old, complete with mini-tantrums, a propensity for trashing whatever room he’s in, dead-on parroting ability, and an actual opinion of his own. While these are delightful developments to discover in your child, when you’re wrestling, sleep deprived, through each day with a newborn, chasing a wound-up toddler, even one as adorable as Yonah, is the last thing you really want to be doing. In fact, in some of the hairier moments it was all I could do not to turn the hose on him, full force.

That’s not to say that watching the “brother love” develop hasn’t made for some great entertainment, too. Like the other day, when I was changing Akiva’s diaper, Yonah walked over, pointed to Kivi’s “equipment” and exclaimed, “That’s a Peenie!”. Later on, when my midwife Amanda came to visit, he proudly pointed to his own crotch to show her the precise location of his own. No envy there, I guess…

Then there was yesterday morning, which found us in my in-laws’ kitchen. Yonah discovered their supply of onions and potatoes and proceeded to throw them down the hall like he was trying out for the Sox. Well, one renegade potato flew from Yonah’s hand directly at Akiva’s head. The spud CLOCKED him. This is doubly impressive because it was A) unintentional, and B) I was holding Akiva in my arms. Poor little guy; looks like his older bro is breaking him in early.

Can I just say that I am freakin’ bombed? Last week we headed down to my in-laws’ for Shavuos, or at least we planned to. We got no farther than Rhode Island before both Shuie and I were slap-happy with exhaustion. We knew we couldn’t finish the trip, so we turned around and went home. To pacify my disappointed in-laws’ we went down to visit on Sunday and came back today. All I can say is that I am so done with 5-hour drives, especially with two babies in tow. Pair that with a joke of a night’s sleep last night — Akiva wanted to chat from 2 a.m. to 5:30 — and my state of being is on par with a really, really, really angry rodent. With Rabies. And a short supply of acorns. Yesterday, I called “Auntie” Jane, my mom’s best friend and surrogate mama to me, in tears. “Yonah won’t stop throwing stuff and I’m so *@$%^ tired!,” I exclaimed between sobs. “Don’t worry, honey,” she assured me. “You’re not supposed to be happy right now. Just change the diapers and eat some lunch.” And so I soldier on, mangled, but at least my two little tushies are clean.

I no longer feel like a terrible person for indulging in nostalgic musings about the good ol’ days when I was a single gal bopping around Beantown, free to come and go as I pleased, to sleep as much or as little as I wanted and free from any major commitments. The stark contrast between then and now is pretty jarring, seeing as my days are dictated by the whims of two little people. Now there’s wiping away eye crud, boogers and all kinds of treats like that, throwing healthy meals together, playing Lil’ Miss Milk Pump every 2 hours, picking up after a 2-year-old tornado and, of course, the endless marathon of diaper changes. But back then, despite my freedom, I was also really lonely. I was floating, really, looking for a sense of “home”. Now, with my three men who adore me, I have everything I wanted. So yeah, I’m a mess, but would I trade now for then?

Nah.

Months ago when I was still in Israel, my friend Batsheva told me about her son, a lively, charming little boy with an easygoing manner. That is, until her daughter came along. Once lil’ sis put in an appearance, her once-docile son turned into an angry, demanding, tantrum-throwing, baby-smacking masochist. And that was after his nap.

When I heard this story I smiled smugly to myself, knowing Yonah was way too cool a cucumber to fall apart like that. And for the most part, I was right. The only shift in behavior we’ve seen so far is his crying at bedtime — until now, he usually goes down without a peep — and a few little hissy fits when I’m nursing and can’t read him “Hop on Pop” for the 8 trillionth time. Certainly nothing nightmarish. As for his feelings for his new little bro, Yonah is mostly still turning in his own orbit, though once in a while he will stop at the pack n’ play and watch Akiva in action. Yesterday, when I was holding the baby, Yonah came over and touched Akiva’s head. “Hair,” he said, and then poked the little guy in the eye, telling me, “That’s an eye!”. So, I think he’s slowly discovering that this little creature is, in fact, another little person with body parts just like his and who may not be going anywhere so fast.

The hardest part for me has been those moments when I have to decide, “Which one comes first?”. I remember my mother telling me once that the toughest part of going from one to two is letting one of them cry. I get it what she’s saying now, but I certainly haven’t mastered it yet. For example, the other night I was home alone with the boys and Yonah started wailing as soon as I put him in bed. Akiva, inspired, jumped in to back him up. I had no idea who I should tend to first. So, I quickly strapped Akiva into his sling, moved him onto my hip and propped Yonah on my other hip, rocking them both and looking like the Old Bag Lady in the Shoe. I know it will get easier, but right now the thought of leaving either one of them to just cry is way too heartbreaking.

So why did we choose Akiva?

First of all, in my humble opinion, it’s a beautiful name. Luckily enough, Rabbi Akiva ben Yosef, my son’s namesake, also happened to be The eminent Torah scholar of all Jewish History. A story I heard about him a few years ago is actually one of the things that inspired me to begin on the road to becoming more observant.

A man of humble beginnings, poor and uneducated, Rabbi Akiva worked as a shepherd for Kalba Savua, one of the wealthiest men in the land of Israel at the time. Kalba Savua had a beautiful daughter, Rachel, who saw great potential in Akiva and fell in love with him. Rachel agreed to leave the comfortable surroundings of her father’s home and marrry Akiva, on the simple condition that he dedicate his life to the study of Torah. While Akiva was thrilled to have her as his wife, he was unsure of his ability to meet her condition; after all, by this time he was 40 years old and completely illiterate! How would he ever be able to learn Torah? Deeply troubled, he found himself by a brook, where he saw a stone with a hole in it. Curious how the hole got there, he looked above it and saw water dropping onto it. He realized that it was the water that, over time, had bore a hole in the stone. “If drops of water can make an imprint on stone, “ he thought, “then surely I can learn Torah”. With that, he was able to take the steps needed to become one of the great Torah scholars of all time, gathering 24,000 students after 24 years of study.

What I admire about Rabbi Akiva was his ability to see the water and the rock not just as an end result, but as a slow process to be taken step by step. The hole did not appear in the water after one day; it was the result of thousands of drops fallen over the course of years. He had the humility to apply that lesson to himself, seeing that he could accomplish much, step by step, one day at a time. At my Akiva’s bris, I blessed him that he should have that same humility and perseverance, and that he be able to rejoice in his small accomplishments along with the great ones.

Another reason we chose the name is its significance during this time on the Jewish calendar. We are currently in the middle of counting the Omer, the period of 49 days between Passover and Shavuot. The first 33 days are considered a mourning period because during this time, all of Rabbi Akiva’s 24,000 students died of the plague. It is said that the reason all of the students died was because they didn’t treat each other with enough respect, even with “Sin’at Chinam”, unfounded hatred. Despite his grief, Rabbi Akiva began again with only five students and not only rebuilt what he had lost, but learned from it. He took responsibility for not instilling love in his students and from then on taught that one of the fundamental tenets of Judaism is to “love your brother as yourself”. Again, Rabbi Akiva demonstrated admirable humility and strength of character that I pray my son will have as well. His teaching is applicable especially today, when there are so many different kinds of Jews, from the Ultra-orthodox to the completely unaffiliated, and between whom there is often misunderstanding and judgment. This extends also to the world scope, where tensions between people have costs countless lives. It’s so important to remember that we are all “brothers” and each worthy children of God, no matter how we each choose to live. What more important lesson could I want my son to learn?

L.B. is L.B. no more. This morning at his bris, we announced his name: Akiva. His namesake is Rabbi Akiva, one of the great Torah scholars in Jewish History. While I would love to wax poetic about why we chose the name right now, I have a houseful of hopped-up kids clamoring for french toast (that would be Yonah, Sima Ellie and Huvi), and a baby in my lap who is passed-out drunk on wine (one of the perks of getting a bris). So, I will have to steal some time later to say more…

Of the many tactics employed by the Soviet Police Force during the Stalin Era, sleep deprivation was one of the most torturous for those under arrest. As Israeli prime minister Menachem Begin described it: “In the head of the interrogated prisoner, a haze begins to form. His spirit is wearied to death, his legs are unsteady, and he has one sole desire: to sleep… Anyone who has experienced this desire knows that not even hunger and thirst are comparable with it.”

He ain’t kidding.

Here’s the thing about having a baby: God hands you this spectacular little miracle that can make you burn with a love that can melt your bones, and at the same time, you get thrust into a whirlwind where hormones can send you flying and crashing in a matter of seconds, you turn into what I like to call the “Lie-Thru Dairy Queen” and sleep becomes a more a commercial break than an your regularly scheduled program. And that’s if you’re lucky. All this is hardly a revelation, but when you’re spoiled with consistent sleep, a non-leaky chest and a (mostly) even temperament for a while, getting thrown into the trenches without much warning can be as potent a jump to the system as electroshock therapy.

Can you tell I’m tired? Not that I’m complaining, of course. Despite my brain-draining exhaustion, I am thrilled with our new little guy. He’s beautiful and strong (picking up his head already!), nurses, poops and pees like a champ (if there was a contest in that sort of thing) and is very nice to his big brother. He is definitely a mama’s boy, constantly wanting to be held, and like his mother, is always ready to feast on something yummy (though colostrum is not really my speed so much anymore). He’s kind of like this cute little frat boy who sleeps all day and parties all night, only without the body odor and penchant for cheap beer.

That said, there are also some mixed feelings going on about the shift from one to two. As glad as I am to have LB with us, I miss my one-on-one time with Yonah, and I worry that he’s going to feel neglected. We’ve been lucky this week to have the help of a post-partum doula named Taylor, who along with doing laundry and offering me moral support, has become Yonah’s personal plaything. But I know it’s an adjustment for us both that I can’t give him 100% of my attention all the time. He got a little frustrated when he couldn’t get juice out of his cup and had a major meltdown. So not his style. So, I pulled him into my lap and rocked him until he stopped crying. Later in the evening, after Baby went to sleep, I rocked Yonah in the rocking chair for a long time. Truth is, I need one-on-one time with him as much as he does with me.