Every neighborhood in New York City boasts its own distinct flavor and the Upper West Side is no exception. One of the more family-friendly areas of the city, its residents take pride in the area’s down-to-earth attitude, especially compared to the upturned noses of the ultraposh East Side.

But, this is still New York, where the the air thrums with the pulse of money being spent. Here, “down-to-earth” means something very different than it does in the rest of the world. The designer labels are sported just as much on this side of the park; they just aren’t flashed with abandon. The sidewalks are crammed with nannies of various nationalities (though some Mommies make an occasional appearance) pushing the latest model of strollers into baby boutiques with clothes that cost more than a week-long cruise. Hungry young professionals leave the one-bedroom apartments they share with three other people and scuttle off to work clutching their morning Starbucks hit in one hand and their cell phone in the other, texting furiously about the disastrous date they suffered through the night before. Then there are the random characters, unique to New York, that spend their days hanging around, slupping espresso in cafes or reading newspapers on the benches outside the 72nd street subway stop as the pigeons nip at their shoes, making you wonder how they could ever afford to live in New York City.

And then, of course, there are the Jews. The New York area in general hosts the vast majority of The Tribe’s population, with a plethora of them crammed into the Upper West Side of Manhattan. They’re everywhere here, as prevalent as cracks in the sidewalk. You walk down the street here on Shabbos and it looks like a sea of yarmulkes, black hats and sheitels. By the time you get to your destination, you’re hoarse from saying “Good Shabbos” to everyone you pass. So, mix the wealth and Jewishness of the Upper West, shake liberally, and you’ve got yourself a pretty potent cocktail.

We went to dinner Friday night to friends of my father’s. As soon as I walked into their apartment my mouth fell open. Their apartment, spacious and ornately decorated, felt like I had walked into Versaille before the whole Robespierre mess. The ceiling was painted gold and walls boasted art that looked like it had been lifted from the walls of the Met. Dinner, a multi-course gourmet spread, was served on polished silver that I was almost afraid to touch.

I need to take a detour here for a moment. Meals like this, while awe-inspiring to watch, can actually be a unique challenge for me. Many of you who know me know that I eat in a very specific fashion: no flour, no sugar, and 9 times out of ten my food is weighed on a scale so I know what I’m eating. I eat everything in one sitting and don’t start eating unless the beginning and end of the meal are already on my plate. Since I eat a LOT of veggies, this usually means that my dinner looks like Mt. Fuji, only made of green beans. I’ve gotten used to the sideways glances in restaurants and Shabbos tables; nowadays, people chalk it up to my eating for two and will even cheer me on (if only they knew…). It sounds complicated, but eating this way has pretty much saved my life; when everything else is upside down, I at least know that I’m having my four ounces of protein for lunch.

Anyway, when most people go to a Shabbos table where they present you with a gilded dixie cup of salad, they’ll take a dainty bite, loudly praise the dressing and move on. I regard it with the sentiment of a child who gets socks for Christmas: “What the hell is this?“. It usually ends up requiring me to make extra trips (notice that was multiple) to the kitchen where I ask the hostess if I can scrounge around for leftover salad and pray, pray, pray that there is something more substantial to the actual entree. In this case, I was able to get what I needed after basically lunging on the sugar snaps and carrots and taking an obnoxious amount before and after everyone at the table got their share. One of their daughters regarded me with serious derision when I cut her off en route to the buffet table in order to get the last of the green beans. What can I say? Mama’s gotta eat.

Anyway, it goes without saying that this world is not one I am used to. While I was not raised with nothing, this kind of wealth is as foreign to me as Swahili, as is the general outlook of some of the people who have been blessed with it. There was a woman at the table, perhaps a couple of years older than me, that was expecting her first child in June. She also happened to be a member of one of the wealthiest Jewish families in America. When I asked her what she did, she replied, “Nothing”. I chuckled, pointed to her belly and said, “Enjoy it now”. She smiled back at me and said, “I want to still do nothing and hire someone else to watch it”. I laughed, thinking she was kidding. I felt horror slowly creep in when I realized she was dead serious.

Now, I am certainly not saying that every single person on the Upper West Side is like this. There are actually some wonderful people here, kind, accommodating, warm and humble. But there is also a significant amount of people who look at the world with a view similar to the one I’ve just described. I would be lying if I said I didn’t judge because, quite frankly, it pisses me off that someone with a golden opportunity to stay home and raise her child without having to worry about money would just as soon hand it off to a stranger. I would kill for that. It also makes me really sad to think that we, a people have come from a place of such spiritual richness, have become so entangled in the purely physical we can’t see anything beyond it. Then again, who knows if I wouldn’t be lured into it myself if I found myself suddenly loaded with riches? I’d like to think not, but…

For the past few days, we’ve been visiting my father in New York City. While Dad’s at work, Yonah and I have been spending our days having little adventures, visiting friends, reading books at Barnes and Noble (followed by a rollicking run through the children’s book section, cleaning up the piles of books and toys Yonah leaves in his wake) and braving the icy wind that whips down the streets of the Upper West Side.

I have never been a New York person, not even when I lived here while I was doing my Masters’. While it’s nice to have a change of scene, my desire to settle someplace small, residential, green and slow-paced has kicked up big-time. This city is so fast and many of the people in it, while decent and good-hearted, are definitely a breed of their own. It really is a world unto itself.

That said, the crappy weather put our plans to go to Philly on hold. We’re going to raincheck for another weekend. In the meantime, I am going to get a Shabbos off; Shuie is taking Yonah to see his parents (now back from Israel), and I am going to stay with friends here. My plan is to rest, hit a meeting, let other people cook for and coddle me and just take some space for myself.

The world in first couple of weeks after a new baby are something akin to nuclear apocalypse: time freezes, the rest of the world disappears, and nothing else exists except you and the baby. When there’s only one baby, it’s remotely do-able on your own, provided you have a supportive spouse who is willing to cover household chores while you are on 24-hour milking duty and functioning on about 15 minutes of sleep. It’s not fun, but somehow we pulled it off last time. This time, though, we’ll also have Yonah to take care of (itself a full-time job) along with the cooking and cleaning and errand running and quite frankly, I’m terrified.

Most new mommies have some sort of woman-power brigade ready to back them up in times of transition, armed with casseroles, well wishes and a couple of free hours to babysit your kid(s). In many Jewish communities there are even committees specifically devoted to recruiting people to cook meals for families with newborns. In my case, my woman-power briagde was my mother. It would go without saying that the minute I felt my first contraction she would have moved in here and taken over the whole show. But she won’t be here this time, so I’ve been flipping through my mental rolodex to figure out the different people who I can recruit into some sort patchwork rotation when the time comes.

When I told my sponsor about this she responded with a very simple question: “What about your Dad?”

I hadn’t even thought of that. Well, I had, but I quickly discarded the idea. It’s not that my father isn’t a loving person, but he’s a very, very, very, very busy guy. Let me put it this way: When I was growing up, the sixty-five-thousand-dollar question was always, “When is Dad coming home?” He has always worked insane hours and the little free time he has is spent either studying talmud, riding his motorcycle all over the tristate area to attend a wedding or spend Shabbos with friends, or working on his baby/Torah-learning website, Tosfos.com. Since his life is basically filled to the brim, I just assumed he wouldn’t have much time to spend here playing house with us.

“Why don’t you ask him?” my sponsor said. “He might surprise you.” So I did, and wouldn’t you know it? He did surprise me. In fact, he downright blew me away.

Instead of the hesitant, let-me-check-my-schedule response I expected, Dad was practically tripping over himself to volunteer his services. “Now that Mom’s gone it’s my job to step in and take her place,” he said. When I mentioned I was going to need coverage for about two weeks after the baby comes, he replied, “Well, between vacation time and working from home I might be able to pull it off.” I thought he’d be able to spare two days, three tops. Two whole weeks?!? Unbelievable. He actually seemed EXCITED about it. Who knew?

This is just another lesson to me that sometimes all people need is a chance to be needed and they will show up for you in ways you couldn’t have imagined. It is also a reminder that even from bad things can come good. I’ve experienced a number of blessings as a result of my mother’s death, including a much closer, much deeper relationship with my father. Whereas before it was a catch-as-catch-can, surface kind of relationship, now we have real talks. We share about our lives. Sometimes, he’ll even call me for advice and the occasional chicken recipe. It’s a beautiful thing.

Tomorrow morning we’re off bright and early to New York, where we’ll be babysitting three of my siblings-in-law and my three-year-old niece until my in-laws come back from Israel on Monday night. Sound exhausting? You bet. I have already drawn my line in the sand: I am on Yonah duty and THAT’S IT. Come Wednesday we’re heading down to Philly to visit my cousins Sam and Jodi Milkman (yes, that is their real name) and check out the scenery in Bala Cynwyd and Cherry Hill. Shuie and I are both looking forward to that leg of the trip. It feels like the beginning of a new adventure for us.

That said, I should be getting some sleep. Sweet dreams…

I don’t know what happened, but I turned around today and realized that I’ve gone from “adorably pregnant” to “smuggling a cannon under her shirt”. I am seriously huge. This is not necessarily a bad thing, considering that I’ve only gained about 15 pounds or so in this pregnancy, but I loathe to think how much bigger I’m going to get by the time L.B. arrives in two and a half months.

When I came home from teaching Hebrew School at Chabad this afternoon, I found Yonah in his high chair, happily slupping up his split-pea and tofu soup and sporting what looked like a huge spot of tomato sauce on his cheek. Not quite. It was actually a nasty red welt/cut. Apparently, he took a nosedive off the sofa, smacked his face on his toy bin (really a metal wastepaper basket) and ricocheted onto his back on the floor. As far as Yonah is concerned, it was old news 30 seconds later, but I practically needed smelling salts at the sight of anything remotely resembling blood anywhere near my son. Obviously, I am happy that the cut is the only result of his fall; it could have been much worse. I am also secretly a bad person because I’m happy that it happened on Shuie’s watch and not mine.

When I told my sister about my plan to become a midwife, her first response was, “Can you handle blood?”. “Sure,” I replied casually, not quite sure how truthful I was being. Since then I’ve been toying with her question. When I was at the midwives meeting on Tuesday, a student photographer was showing us pictures she’d taken of some homebirths which were actually quite cool. However, I happened to peek at them while eating my lunch and felt the teensiest twinge of queasiness. It made me a little nervous: what if I don’t have the stomach for this? So, this morning I decided to give myself a little test. I went on Youtube and checked out a video of an episiotomy (that’s when the doc cuts a little extra room into the perineum for the baby’s head to come out…sorry to get graphic), which, if you watch it before 7 a.m., is a great substitute for caffeine. I am pleased to report that the nausea factor was pretty slim, but my resolve to avoid anything like that during this birth has been kicked into super-high gear. I can think of a few other things I’d rather be doing than waddling around for weeks sporting adult diapers with ice packs attached to my crotch.

So much has happened in just the past two weeks alone I feel like I’m in an entirely different life now, which I suppose is true in a way.

A couple of weeks ago, I started thinking about the possibility of returning to work after L.B. is born and I realized that the prospect of going back to school makes me want to rip my nails out one by one. To be completely honest, I fell into teaching because I didn’t know what else to do with myself. This isn’t to say that teaching isn’t sometimes rewarding, but to maintain your energy for a long period of time, you have to have passion for it, which decidedly, I don’t. Plus, now that I’m a mother, I just know that I don’t want to expend all of my resources on other people’s children and come home with nothing left to give my own.

So, I sat down and did some thinking. What is it, really, that I want to do? This isn’t the first time I’ve asked myself this question, but this time I tossed out all of the limitations I’d placed on myself. Forget about money. Forget about time. Forget, even about what you think you are capable of, because you’re probably capable of much more. The answer seemed to sneak up on me, but once I discovered it, it seemed like the most obvious thing in the world: I want to be a midwife.

My faithful readers know that I have written much about natural birth versus “medical” birth and that I have a strong interest in natural living in general. I’ve had midwives come in and out of my life from a very young age, and while I was inspired by the work they did, I never considered myself the “medical” type, so I ruled it out as a possible career choice. When I was doing birth research during my pregnancy with Yonah, I felt the desire to follow that path growing, but again, I didn’t take it seriously. I just thought I could never handle something like that. Don’t ask me why.

Then my mother got sick. I was by her side during most of her illness, and the last six weeks of her life I was blessed to be able to live with her. I worked in tandem with my father, siblings and the VNA nurses to care for her, administering medication, managing the house and just keeping things going. I suddenly turned around and realized that not only was I not intimidated by the whole thing, but I was actually doing a good job. So, when the old desire to become a midwife came back during this pregnancy, instead of dismissing it, I started to think, “Maybe…”

So I started to do some research into different programs around the country, just to see what my options are. I also got in touch with some midwives here on the Cape, one of which was gracious enough to come and meet with me to talk about my own upcoming birth and gave me all kinds of material on midwifery. Turns out, there are a few different types of midwives: Certified Nurse-Midwives (CNMs), Certified Professional Midwives (CPMs), Certified Midwives (CMs), Direct-Entry Midwives (DEM) and Lay Midwives (LMs). CNMs are trained as nurses as well as midwives and are licensed to work in hospitals and birth centers. CPMs are usually trained through an apprenticeship, a rigorous learning program and are certified through NARM (The North American Registry of Midwives). They will typically deliver babies in birthing centers and facilitate homebirths. CMs, DEMs and LMs are usually trained the same way, but some go through a formal learning program and some are even self-taught. The tricky part about being a CNM versus the rest is that if you hold a Nursing License, you risk losing it in some states if you assist in a homebirth. Plus, some if not most of the training may be in the “medical model” as opposed to a more holistic approach. However, having a background in nursing, you have other opportunities to find steady work that other types of midwives may not (more and more hospitals and OB/GYNs are hiring CNMs for their staff; not that there isn’t some tension there, but it’s still a step in the right direction). Plus, you can always apprentice on your own time to learn alternative methods. So I’ve decided to go the CNM route, and have applied to the University of Pennsylvania’s accelerated BSN/MSN program in Nurse-Midwifery. I should hear back within a number of weeks.

In the meantime, I have signed up for training to become a Doula, or birth coach, in a weekend seminar coming up in March. It’s a great way to get to see some births and also get initiated into the “life”. I’ll be heading up to Beverly, MA where they have one of the only two birth centers in the entire state of Massachusetts. Since I’ll be keeping Shabbos, I’ve already spoken to the directing midwife about the possibility of sleeping at the Birth Center so I won’t have to drive. I told her I could pretend to be in labor so I could use the bed. We’ll see how it all works out…

As I mentioned, in the process of gleaning all of this juicy information, I met with a couple of midwives here on the Cape who have been amazing, Becca Taylor and Amanda Haddad. They have been so open to answering my million and one questions and even took me with them to a meeting of the Boston region of the Massachusetts Midwives’ Alliance in Cambridge this past Tuesday. The meeting was really interesting because it opened my eyes to the legal struggles that midwives have to go through in order to practice. Currently, while it is legal to practice midwifery in most states, there is no official licensing board or government backup (could it have anything to do with the medical establishment or insurance companies with lots of “green” leverage, perhaps?). As such, midwives can be held liable for “practicing medicine without a license” and many women do not have access to the kind of birth they may want because insurance won’t cover it. So, the MMA wrote a bill that is currently sitting in the State House proposing the creation of a State Board of Midwifery, which would offer licensing to midwives along with official governmental support. It could also possibly result in Medicaid reimbursement for homebirths. Needless to say, there is some opposition but there are representatives in the State House who are currently negotiating with them. While I won’t go into details here so I don’t compromise anyone, let’s just say these women are mobilizing forces in a push to get this bill passed, without having to practice under the supervision of OBs. It is amazing to me how people can be so passionate about the work they do that they are willing to go to such lengths to make it happen. To be a midwife, you really have to fight to do what you love.

The possibility of going to UPENN opened up another discussion in my family as well. Although we have been planning on moving to Sharon, MA after L.B. comes into the world, it’s still a pretty far shlep from Shuie’s kids, about 3.5 hours. While it’s an improvement from the drive from the Cape (on a good day it’s 4.5 hours), it’s still a long haul to do every week. Philadelphia, however, is only an hour and a half from the kids, my Dad and my in-laws. There was a time when I was married to the idea of staying in Massachusetts but things have shifted a bit for me since coming home. My siblings all have their own lives and my family seems to be moving in another direction. So, we have started doing research into a couple of different Jewish communities in the Philly area. Two in particular are pretty enticing: Bala Cynwyd (pronounced “Ba-luh Kin-Wood”, on the outskirts of Philly) and Cherry Hill, NJ, about a 15 minute drive out of the city. Both seem like lovely places so we’ll be heading down to visit the week after next to spend a Shabbos and visit my cousins Sam and Jodi. If we like it, we may end up down there anyway, whether or not I get into Penn.

Oh, and the best news yet. My new midwife friends Becca and Amanda will not only be acting as mentors for me, but they are also going to assist me in a homebirth! Hooray! Some wishes do come true (though I may not be so happy about it when I’m in labor :). Becca came by for a checkup today and said everything is looking and sounding great. We got to hear the baby’s heartbeat and listen to the whoosh-whoosh of the placenta and umbilical cord.

It is very cool thing to be going through the process of pregnancy with a midwife while beginning the process of becoming one myself. I am definitely obsessed; it’s basically all I talk about. My poor husband finally told me at 11 p.m. the other night that his brain was done and he couldn’t hear anymore about pitocin or contractions or shoulder dystocia (that’s when the shoulder gets stuck in the pelvic bones after the head has already come out). However, tonight when he was on the phone with his mother he gave a wonderful illustration of some of the reasons that mothers hemorrhage after giving birth to the placenta. “I’ve watched the documentaries with Rea,” he told her. “It’s definitely rubbed off on me”. Good boy…

We are having the Motherload of all sick days.

The day before yesterday I came home from work to find Yonah, flushed and glassy-eyed, listlessly resting in Shuie’s lap. Needless to say he had a fever that kept him up overnight. The fever continued into yesterday, eventually spiking at 104.3. This was not the scariest part. In between fever spells, Yonah’s temp dropped, he started intensely shivering and his lips turned blue; he looked like he was auditioning for “Titanic”. We had another wild night last night — Bug has now taken residence in my bed — followed up by a trip to Dr. Marz this morning, who diagnosed an ear infection. Our plans to visit my in-laws in NY have been chucked (that’s 2 for 2) and we will be spending another quiet Shabbat here on the Cape. I am desperate for company and have been begging my sister, fresh off the plane from Europe, to come and visit me.

In the meantime I am in that zombie/space cadet frame of mind that comes from long stretches of interrupted sleep. Anyone who has ever had a newborn knows what I’m talking about: all your responses are delayed and the prospect of doing anything beyond going to the bathroom once in a while is pretty much laughable. I thought I could get a nap at some point today but unfortunately it’s not happening. Ah, the perks of motherhood.

I’m having some tofu issues. I’m the type that likes it extra, extra firm, tofu that means business. The soy stuff I bought in Israel was perfect, for me anyway: hefty, sturdy and friendly to any recipe I wanted to put it in. This American crap is a joke; it’s as soft as the wimpy kid with glasses who just struck out for the third time. It falls apart when I cook it and and practically cries at the sight of soy sauce. I could go to the Asian market and buy the real stuff but a rabbi once told me that anything shipped in from the East is questionable, kosher-wise. It could have been cut with the same knife they used to make Sheepdog Dumplings. So, I must overpay for passive-aggressive tofu and like it. Maybe I should start making my own in my free time, which should be starting around 2028.

I’m reading a book called “Raising a Child with Soul” by Slovie Jungreis-Wolff, daughter of the renowned teacher Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis. For years, Rebbetzin Jungreis has taught a weekly parsha class at the Hineni Heritage Center on West End Avenue in New York City, right around the corner from my parents’ apartment. My mother was a devoted student of the Rebbetzin’s and shared a special bond with her; she ended up turning a bunch of people on to the Rebbetzin’s classes and her amazing books, myself included. This book was a gift to me from my mother’s friend Elizabeth in honor of L.B.’s imminent arrival and Yonah’s already rockin’ soul. Like her mother, Slovie Jungreis-Wolff is a passionate, deeply spiritual writer with a very clear and practical message: If you want your kids to grow up to be good people, you must be the example for them to follow. When not scared out of my wits, I’ve been inspired to really take a look at myself and see what kind of person is raising my son and baby-to-be.

One section of the book is all about the C-word: Communication. Most people will agree it’s important, but how much so is almost impossible to quantify. Slovie writes about David HaMelech (King David), who, in his infinite wisdom knew that communication was THE way to build bridges between generations. During his life he composed Tehillim (Psalms), which are a touchstone for people of all faiths even today. Lesser known is the letter he wrote his son, Solomon, before his death. Solomon was only twelve when he lost his father, but he was destined to take on a kingship that was surrounded with conflict and difficulty. To help him shoulder the burden, David left him with these words (from I Kings 2:2; interpreted by the Me’am Loez):

“Don’t mourn for me and my years. It is our nature as human beings to eventually die. Death in itself is not tragic, but it is a part of life. I completed my task in life. Now it is time for my soul to return to Gd. This is how Gd created us. But if it is your own loss you grieve, accept my words of advice and encouragement. You will not remain in the world alone. Gd will always be there for you. Everything I gave you came from Gd and so now just turn to Him directly and He will never forsake you. Take the strength that Gd has given you and use it properly. Understand that before you rule over others you must rule over yourself”.

I truly believe that we are sent the messages we need exactly when we need them. In this case, as I read these words, I felt like my mother was talking to me. It was a balm for my heart. For the first time in months, there was peace, acceptance and real hope.

Thank You, Gd.

Something has come into my life that has changed it forever: Spaghetti Squash. I think I’ve had it once before but the stars were not aligned then as they were the other night when I sat down to dinner. It was a simple experiment — halve and gut the squash, bake rind-up at 450 for 45 minutes, scoop out the goods, mix with wild rice and a little bit of strained tomatoes — but the results were sonic. It was, hands down, the best dinner I have eaten in months. Take it from me: for a serious world-rocking, look no further than your local produce aisle.

We’re here a week already and are just beginning to get settled in. I have one suitcase unpacked, another waiting patiently for attention and a bedroom in an impressive state of disarray. It’s easy to forget how difficult a simple task like unpacking can be when you’ve got a Yonah running around until you actually have to do it. You can place a sweater on the chair one minute and the next find it on the floor, where Yonah is making an origami swan with it. Pair that with the need to fetch him from the bathroom every few minutes and your productivity level pretty much plummets. In the meantime, I’ve taken on a part-time gig at the Chabad House doing administrative stuff that, were I doing it for some corporation, would make me want to peel my nails off one by one. However, the knowledge that I am helping the Rabbi, his wife and the Jewish community on the Cape actually leaves me with a warm, tingly feeling inside. Indeed, I do data entry with relish.

Last week Shuie and I met with Jessica from BirthMatters Midwifery Care, who spent an hour and a half giving us a rundown about the ins and outs (mostly outs) of homebirth. While we were very impressed with her and the care options she offered, the unfortunate truth is that insurance won’t cover the expenses. This is completely ludicrous for a variety of reasons, one of the most pointed of which is the fact that homebirth costs a FRACTION of what a regular hospital birth usually does. So, as much as we would love to have the baby at home, it looks like the hospital is where it’s at for us. The good news about Cape Cod Hospital is that they have 3 Certified Nurse-Midwives and a Laborist on staff who do most of the deliveries during the day. In fact, I went to my OB’s office yesterday and met with one of them, a willowy, soft-spoken woman named Jodi, to whom I voiced (pretty strongly) my desire to do a homebirth and concerns about doing the hospital go-round again. She agreed with me wholeheartedly. “You are a perfect candidate for homebirth,” she said. “Unfortunately, we’re working with a broken system.” The good thing is that the CNMs are very supportive of natural birth and are generally much more “there” for the laboring woman than the OB’s on call.

A really interesting thing happened when I walked into Jodi’s office. On the wall was a painting of two women holding babies. Around the image was written the words, “And the midwives feared Gd and did not heed the word of Pharaoh.” It was the story of Yocheved and Miriam, Moses’ mother and sister, who were the midwives of Israel in the land of Egypt. This is part of the Torah portion we read this past week. In Israel I learned more than once that the energy of the weekly parsha repeats itself every time it comes around again; I found it comforting and reassuring to bet met with it in her office. When I mentioned to Jodi that this was the week’s parsha, she nodded. “It’s the story of Passover”. When she told me her kids were named Noah and Ariel, my suspicions were confirmed: Another young Jewish mom on the Cape! I was so excited I was practically bursting to invite her family for Shabbat dinner. I held myself in check, though, seeing as I had just met her and I wasn’t sure about the whole midwife/patient thing. Who knows? With time…

It is so refreshing to have a REAL Sunday after Shabbos, a day to relax, get settled, unpack and clean up. My stepdaughters Sima Ellie and Huvi are here with us this weekend, so all the “settling in” stuff is basically on hold until they go home tonight. We’re not quite snowed in, but there’s definitely enough white stuff out there to make us want to scratch our plans for the day and just hang out. Shuie went off to the Chabad house for morning minyan so it’s the girls, Yonah and me for the next couple of hours.

“So what are you going to blog about now?” my Aunt Renee asked me a few days ago. Excellent question. Can life, free of big, fat international intrigue, still be interesting? I’d like to think so. There are still a million new recipes to try–I made my first from-scratch pie crust for Shabbos; I made it too thin so it ended up rock-hard. Note to self: thicker crust–a baby to bring into the world, a Yonah to play with, the rest of my life to figure out. If people will read, I’ll keep writing. Then again, I’ll probably keep writing even if people don’t read. This blog is good for my sanity.

Josh and Katherine surprised us with a visit yesterday afternoon. I was so thrilled to see them, not only because I’ve missed them so much, but because our visit ate up a good 2 1/2 hour stretch of a LONG Shabbos afternoon. We had a talk about our current places in life, how we’re all struggling to find a place that’s really “home”. J and K may find themselves elsewhere at some point in the future, and Shira and Aaron are all making lives for themselves, too. Who knows where it will take all of us? I never thought it would happen to my family because we’ve always been so close, but it seems we’re all drifting. I suppose that’s normal, probably even good (who wants to live with their siblings forever?), but it’s still a little heartbreaking, too. We will always be each other’s family, but it looks more and more like we will all be forced to created communities/families of our own, apart from the one from which we came. The home base we once had hasn’t ceased to exist, but it’s shifted shape enough to seem like another entity entirely. It will take some getting used to, but perhaps one day I will find myself happy in a “home” of our creation, perhaps even grateful for the turns in life that brought me there.

In the meantime, I am very curious to see what kind of life we can build for ourselves out here on the Cape. The Jewish community here compared to the one we just came from is like going from the middle of Times Square to the middle of the Sahara. Okay, I’m exaggerating. There is still some Jewish life here, maybe even more than I realize, and there are definitely plenty of young moms, so I’ve got that covered. If I stay open to possibility, I may find myself surprised.

Yonah calls. Must run.

Whoa.

After a 12-hour flight, an overnight stay in New York and a 7-hour drive in the snow, we have finally arrived at the Cape. I am way too bombed to feel much of anything except a craving for sleep and a few hours’ respite from parenthood. Within an hour or so of our arrival, a magnetic force drew me into my parents’ bedroom, the room where my mother died. Some of her things are still on the nightstand from when she was sick. Her teddy bear, Ralph, is still sitting on her setee. I didn’t expect her to be there, but the need for her, to tell her everything, was so immense I crawled onto her side of the bed and cried into her sheets.

Our arrival home was pretty anticlimactic; everyone has been busy with their own thing so there were no major fireworks or surprise parties planned to herald our arrival. My in-laws were happy to see us (Well, Yonah, really. They put up with us to get to him) and my stepdaughters, of course, are thrilled to have the other half of their family back.

Okay, beyond exhausted. Will write more tomorrow.