This morning, Yonah and I headed for Boston to spend the morning with Uncle Joshy, Auntie Katherine and Auntie Shira. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the bridge to get off the Cape, I was overtaken by a bone-draining exhaustion with a side dish of back spasms and contractions. As much as I wanted to see my sibs, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to complete the trip to the city. So, we did a tidy about-face and went home. Could this be an indicator that I won’t be able to make it all the way to New York next week?

Being me, of course, I had to take at least a minute to second-guess myself: Maybe I could have pushed it out…Maybe it’s good for me to get out a bit…But before I could make myself too crazy, I passed by a hilltop church near my house –I like to call it “The Cool Church” — with a board out front that regularly features clever, pithy phrases to lure wayward Christians through its antiquated wooden doors. This week, the board read, “U-Turns are Okay with God”. I like to take signs where I can get them, and this was one that quickly put my thoughts to rest. An unfortunate defect of mine (one that I pray will be lifted one day) is fear of making the wrong decision, a fear that is exacerbated by the multitude of choices I have to make every day. Sometimes, the fear becomes so overwhelming that I freeze, unable to make a decision at all (also known as “Analysis Paralysis”), or I put off making the decision until some external factor makes it for me, thereby absolving me of responsibility if it doesn’t work out. However, today’s little message was a nice reminder that nothing is permanent, and every decision can be made, un-made, and re-made again, if I so choose. There is no one “right” way to do this life; every person’s path is unique to them and only I can know what the truth is for me. So, each day I can make the decision that seems is best and deal with whatever comes as a result.

Okay, enough waxing philosophical.

The bane of every Jewish woman’s world is Passover, the holiday coming up next week that commemorates the Jews’ redemption from slavery in Egypt. It’s not the holiday itself that’s such a problem, but the preparation for it that can be a major pain. Part of the observance of Passover is to clean the house of all “Chametz”, or leavened substances (i.e. bread, pasta, cereal, beans, the list goes on), down to the last crumb. We are not allowed to have it in our possession for the duration of the holiday, and we are even discouraged from seeing it. Our dishes and crockery, used year-round for cooking “chametz”, are considered unfit for use during Passover. That being the case, we are required to do a major housecleaning and turn over our kitchens until we are chametz-free. It is absolutely exhausting, particularly for anyone with children or other responsibilities besides playing June Cleaver on steroids. Smart, rich people go away for Passover to kosher hotels or on fancy cruises so they don’t have to deal with the cleaning and cooking for Passover. I’m (usually) smart, but rich I am not (for today), so cleaning the house falls to me and Shuie, at least until this weekend when Dad, Josh and Katherine will come to help. I’ve already gotten the chametz we won’t be eating this week out of our pantry and cabinets, and I’m letting that be enough for today. I’ve come to accept that my productivity level has been cut by about 90%, so if I accomplish such a small task as that, I’m doing pretty well.

I’ve started digging through our cookbooks to create a Passover menu. Most of the cookbooks here belonged to my mother, so many of them have folded corners where she marked them and notes she wrote to herself in her sassy teacher handwriting (”Excellent! Make Double!”, “Add 1 tbsp. Peanut Butter”, “Quick and Easy!”). Reading through them feels like I’m having a conversation with her, which is both lovely and sad. At this time last year, she was moving here after being diagnosed as terminal, the VNA nurses were coming each day help us with her meds, and my father and I were turning the house upside-down in preparation for Passover. It was my first time at the helm of the holiday and I still have no idea how I managed to pull it off between chasing baby Yonah and manning the fort while Dad ran back and forth to New York. It was definitely a testament to my belief that we women have a resource of strength we don’t realize we have until circumstances force us to draw it forward. I’ll need it again pretty soon, when L.B. decides it’s time to show up.

Speaking of L.B.’s imminent arrival, I started feeling doubts about having the baby at home after meeting a doula who lost a baby last year at her homebirth. I made a panicky call to my midwife Becca, who assured me of everything I already knew intellectually, but forgot emotionally: homebirths are just as safe as hospital births (if not safer, in some respects) for healthy women, that I am in great health and a perfect candidate for a homebirth, and that if something does Gd forbid go wrong, my midwives are trained to detect it early enough that we will be able to get to the hospital in time. After a bit, I felt I had backed up a bit from the ledge. The next day I learned that a close friend of mine who just had her first baby ended up with a C-section after being induced, and that she’s trying to balance recuperating from major abdominal surgery with the demands of caring for a newborn. After that, the faith in my decision was restored. All I can do is pray for protection and safety for me and L.B.

Book Recommendation: “Committed” by Elizabeth Gilbert, the writer of “Eat, Pray, Love”. “Committed” is a meditation on the institution of marriage in our culture, along with the roles, expectations and beliefs that surround it. As a married person, I am truly enjoying it, but I believe even the unmarried have much to gain from reading it.

Right now, Yonah and I are hanging out on my bed watching “The Piglet Movie”. Mr. I’m 19-months-old-now is brimming over with personality and entertains me more and more every day. His vocabulary continues to grow (newest words are “Elmo Socks!” and “Butterfly”) and he’s showing a keen interest in potty training, following Shuie and I into the bathroom whenever we go. I’ve decided to hold off on training him until after the baby comes, anticipating a possible regression as the result of such a big change. In the meantime, we’ll just enjoy him saying “Bye-bye, Doo-doo!” every time the toilet flushes. He’s also started doing what Shuie and I like to call “The Orange Dance” whenever he hears a song he likes (especially “You are my Sunshine”, sung by his animatronic flower). The Orange dance is basically a frantic series of kicks and jumps, kind of galloping Can-can thing, which is possibly the most adorable/funniest thing I have ever seen in my entire life. Currently, he’s taking nose-first ski jumps off of my husband pillow and rolling onto the bed, so I must give him both my eyes so he doesn’t fall off. Wishing everyone a fabulous week…