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.

We are thrilled to announce that after a long, 40-week wait, LB has finally arrived…and HE IS GORGEOUS! At 6:26 p.m. on Thursday, April 29th, all 7 lbs., 12 oz. and 21 inches of him made a (VERY) quick entrance into the world right in our living room! We are amazed, wowed, overjoyed and totally in awe of this little person, his unique personality and by the experience of having him at home.

So, the birth story (warning: some gory details involved). After four days of being cooped up in the house, Thursday morning I booted myself up and out, heading to an early morning meeting and then taking Yonah to playgroup. I was having contractions pretty regularly, but they didn’t hurt and since I’d been contracting for the past two months, I figured it was nothing to write home about. So, we had our lovely morning out (Yonah had a blast with his little girlfriend, Lillian), came home, had lunch and Yonah went down for his nap. Around 1 p.m., the contractions started to get a little painful so I decided to take a nap myself to see if they would taper off. When I lay down and the contractions kept coming, I started to suspect that this was IT.

An hour later, around 2:45, I woke up and things were still rocking. My suspicions were confirmed…Baby was coming! As Yonah snoozed away, I went downstairs to tell Shuie it was time. HUGE smile. I called Becca, who said she’d be there in an hour. Not a big deal…labors take a while, right? After I gave my friend Devorah a ring (Yonah was going to be hanging out at her house while I had the baby) I climbed into the tub and chilled out, listening to Nick Drake as the contractions got stronger. As I sat relaxing in the warm water, I offered up a prayer for the strength to get through this. I was able to chat quickly with my father and Aunt Renee and Shuie called his mother, who begged us to have the baby before sundown. If the baby decided to come after the sun set, the bris (circumcision ceremony) would be held on Friday, when my mother-in-law is due to have surgery and my sister will be graduating from college. We made no promises, since it was only about 4 hours until sunset.

The contractions were building in strength a lot faster than I had anticipated. I couldn’t help but think of what I’d heard about second births being faster, and of Becca’s knowing smile when she checked me the day before and said, “You’ll see; this baby is going to come right out”. I called Becca again and told her she should probably leave NOW.

I was still in the bath when Becca arrived — by this time it was around 4:15 — and she very quickly determined that the show was well on the road. She dunked her Doppler microphone in the water and put it up against my belly to listen to the baby’s heartbeat, then I got out of the tub so she could check me. I was already dilated 4 cm (I had been 2 the day before). I got back into the tub while Becca set up shop and Shuie got Yonah ready to go. Yonah wandered in and out of the bathroom sporadically, saying, “Hi, Mama!”, checking in with his bath toys and wandering out again. At first I was happy to see him but as things got more intense I could barely answer him. I was blown away by how intense the contractions got…and how fast! Becca encouraged me to breathe deep, relax my body and “let them be strong”. When I tried to relax, though, the pain was so intense I felt like I my body was going to break. I fought them, despite knowing that relaxing would make it easier. At one point I even slapped the side of the tub with my hand, like it was the jacuzzi’s fault for making me feel this way.

After a bit the water started to feel confining and way too hot so I migrated out to the living room, where a twin-sized air mattress was waiting for me. I started to feel like I wanted to crawl out of my skin; my bathrobe started to weigh me down like chain mail and I threw it off. I didn’t want anyone touching me and as the contractions started coming faster I was suddenly exhausted, desperate for sleep. Amanda, my other midwife, had arrived by then and told me that that was from the endorphins. In the back of my mind I knew that everything I was feeling were signs of transition, the last stage before the pushing, but I couldn’t believe it was possible for me to be there so soon. By then it was around 5:30; I’d only been in labor for four and a half hours! But Becca checked me, and indeed, I was already about 9 cm, almost ready to push!

As I lay in a heap on the air mattress, Becca set up her birth stool. I felt myself going into a “zone” between contractions, closing my eyes and just kind of floating until the next one hit. When they were ready to move me onto the stool, the contractions were lingering so that there was no break, just one on top of the other. I’m not going to lie: It was brutal. “I need a break,” I kept insisting, “I can’t do this anymore!” And yet, all the while I knew it all meant I was really close.

Getting onto the birth stool was a HUGE relief. Shuie sat on the couch behind me, giving encouragement and looking over my shoulder at the baby. Almost immediately I felt the baby move down into my back and into my pelvis. Becca and Amanda told me to resist the urge to push until I couldn’t anymore. After only a few more contractions the amniotic sac was pushing out — my waters had never even broken! I asked Becca if I could break them, knowing it would speed things along. She agreed and I went for it, hooking my finger in and ripping it open. It felt like ripping open a mix between a plastic bag and a balloon. Even in the midst of it, I couldn’t help but think how cool it was. Not every woman can say she broke her own water!

After that, things moved lightning-quick. For the record, I am a rock-star pusher; just one, and the baby slipped right down and was crowning almost immediately. “Black hair…” Becca said. “He has hair! He has hair!” Shuie exclaimed. Becca and Amanda told me to hold off so he didn’t come out too fast and cause tearing. But even as I held off pushing, Shuie told me the baby was still moving out slowly, as if my body was doing the work without me. I was afraid of the burning sensation known as “The Ring of Fire” that comes from the skin stretching, but I was so relieved to be able to push I barely noticed it in the moment. Finally, with a couple more pushes, I felt his shoulders and the rest of his little body slip out and THERE HE WAS, his timely arrival at 45 minutes before sundown.

“Reach down and get your baby,” Becca told me, and I did, pulling him up to me and taking in his beautiful face, his fuzzy body, his olive skin (definitely my side of the family), his ten fingers and toes, and his little “apparatus”, confirming that he was a boy, as we had expected. He was still attached to the placenta so I had to be careful not to pull him up to high or too hard. I was still contracting as I held him and the placenta came out in a matter of minutes. Shuie cut the umbilical cord, the first time he’d done it for any of his children. Shaking with relief, joy and awe, I just looked and looked at him, unable to believe that he was here so quickly, and right in our living room!

As the setting sun cast gold through the windows, baby and I settled back onto the air mattress, where the picture-taking and phone call marathon could begin. I was thrilled to see that Baby took to nursing right away and was peeing and pooping in less than an hour. While Shuie went to go pick up Yonah, Becca and Amanda went to work cleaning up and starting laundry, and making me a cheese omelette for dinner. When they examined the baby, they held him with such love you would have thought he was theirs. And can you believe it…they thanked ME for allowing them to be a part of it all! I don’t care if you go to the most exclusive hospital in the world; they could never match the loving attention and care these two women gave me. It was beyond awesome and made this experience so much fuller than I could ever have imagined.

Yonah came home and gave the baby a cursory glance before climbing on the birth stool and chasing after Amanda to play with him. He’s slowly warming up to Baby, touching him once in a while, giving him a kiss or two and wandering over to say “Hi, Baby!” before heading off to play. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Shuie is over the moon, of course, completely in love with his new son.

As for me, I have never felt prouder of myself in my entire life. Before the birth, there was a part of me that was fearful I would cave and beg to be taken to the hospital in the middle of everything. I wasn’t sure if I really had the strength to do this. But I did. And, from what Becca and Amanda tell me, with aplomb. I guess God knew just how much I could handle; it was so intense, but just for a few short hours. Going through this process, learning everything I have, making the choices I did about this birth and then following them through has solidified something that is very personal and sacred and dear. Beyond just having evidence of my own strength and ability, I truly feel that this experience has locked in a sense of becoming the person I have always wanted to be. I am so proud and so, so grateful for that.

The guests have already started “descending”, but I am thrilled to have company. Friday brought Katherine and Devorah (who came bearing Shabbos dinner for us, God Bless Her), and my mother’s close friend “Auntie” Jane. We had a sweet, quiet Shabbos and Dad arrived this morning to spend the week helping out. I would love to have more visitors so feel free to give a ring or email if you want to meet our new addition.

Baby’s bris (circumcision ceremony) will be on Thursday morning at the Chabad House, 745 West Main St. in Hyannis, where we’ll be announcing the baby’s name. We have to confirm the time but I will let everyone know ASAP. All are warmly welcome.

Mazel Tov!

For those of you on the edge of your seats, I hate to tell you that L.B. has yet to make an appearance. I’ve been having some intense contractions, but nothing too exciting. My midwife Becca will be by in a bit so we’ll see if she thinks anything’s brewing.

The waiting, meanwhile, has been playing some tricks with me and getting me nervous about the upcoming painfest I’ll be enduring soon enough. One painful contraction yesterday and I thought, “Just Kidding! Take me to the hospital!”. Luckily, I got an email this morning from fellow blogger and acquaintance Chana Weisberg in Israel, who just wrote an article about “The Top Ten Tips for a Drug- and Pain-Free Childbirth”. Quite auspicious. Reading it, I was reminded that most of this is going to be all about attitude. If I get scared and convince myself I “can’t” do it, my body will tense up and make it a lot worse. If I can remind myself to be calm and remember that this pain isn’t pathological, but part of a natural process, I can stay relaxed and take each contraction as it comes. So today I will be playing cheerleader for myself, only without the skimpy clothes and backflips (wouldn’t that be something?).

As the birth gets closer I can’t help but think about the fact that my mother will not be here with me, physically, anyway. There’s still a small part of me that thinks she’s gone on a trip and that she’ll come back eventually. How can someone so integral to who I am not be present for the most momentous occasions of my life? I do believe that she’ll be watching over everything and that she’ll be there in spirit, but in my “Poor Me” moments I can still feel gypped, picturing myself as a crumple-faced preschooler hugging his blankie and wailing, “I want my Mommy!”. And yet, I’m not angry anymore. And I don’t feel helpless at the prospect of facing this experience without her. In fact, I think, as hard as it will be, I will be able to handle the labor and the birth and juggling two kids, one day at a time. I have many people here who care about me and who will help me. And while it won’t be the same as it would have been, it will have to be what it is. So while there is sadness and regret, there is also peace.

Sending love and condolences to our dear friend Jane Haar, who lost her mother Rae a few days ago. The Haars have been a part of my family’s lives for over two decades, living down the street from us when we were growing up. Jane and my mother were best friends, and Jane’s daughter Ali is one of mine. When my mother passed away last year, they drove all the way to the Cape from NJ to spend the day reminiscing with us about all the wonderful times we’ve shared. They are very special friends and I am truly sorry for their loss.

And so the cycle continues. At this time last year, my mother lay dying in her bedroom, only a few yards away from where I’m sitting right now. And now, as another soul leaves the world, another prepares to arrive. Let’s hope the new one shows up sometime soon.