Monday, December 27, 2010

just back from vacation

I have missed you, readers! (Especially those of you who write to me after reading my blog posts) I am back in Cincinnati after over a week on the road - staying in Southern Georgia, Port St Lucie Florida, Palm Beach Gardens, Northern Georgia before returning to rather less snow than we had anticipated on Christmas night. It was snowing so hard in Georgia on the way home that we would have stopped for the night, were it not for the fact that my sister and her kids were flying in from NYC that evening for the first time in TWO YEARS.

So, now, we are hosting my sister, Susan and her son, Julian, 8, and daughter Veronique, 4. Visiting is keeping me occupied and away from the keyboard, but I did want to check in and share one of the smoothies I invented in honor of their visit.

When I returned home, the crisper drawer in the fridge was full of slightly wilted veggies. Rather than toss them, I threw parts of them into the Blend Tech, with low expectations. What emerged looked like green sludge, but even Sam, 10, declared it delicious, and it disappeared in a flash:

four radishes
1/3 onion
handful spinach
handful kale
big pinch of parsley
one carrot
1/2 honeycrisp apple
1/2 cup cider
1/2 cup water

By the way, if you want to hide green veggies in smoothies for your kids, I highly recommend disguising them with a handful of blueberries. L'chaim; bottoms up!

Friday, December 17, 2010

Shabbos Wonderland

Later on today it will be shabbos,
a special holiday we have each week.
Mom works hard all day to get things ready;
when Dad comes home, he'll kiss her on the cheek

Later on, comes havdalah,
but for now, we all wanna
enjoy what G-d made,
what we'd never trade:
walking in a shabbos wonderland.

From the oven comes the fragrant challah,
at sundown, Mom is blessing sabbath lights.
Dad says kiddush and takes us to temple
and after oneg, tucks us in real tight.

Farther on is havdalah,
but for now, we all wanna
enjoy what G-d made,
what we'd never trade:
walking in a shabbos wonderland

[optional verses for frum families:

on other days we might drive to the city
on shabbos, the car stays in our garage
other people may think it's a pity
to see us walking as they're driving by

but you see, we're together,
as we brave any weather,
we embrace what God made
what we'd never trade:
walking in a shabbos wonderland]

Walking in a shabbos Wonderland

adapted from the song, "Winter Wonderland",
originally composed by Felix Bernard (n. Bernhart)
new lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010

Esther, baby (a song for Purim)

Esther, baby,
the king is looking for a new bride-
to-be.
You really are a beautiful girl.
Esther, baby,
hurry to the palace tonight!

Esther, baby,
the King is set for Queen number two,
it's true!
Queen Vashti really seems like she's through.
Esther, baby,
hurry down to Shushan tonight.

Now's not the time to tell the King
the names of all your relatives.
Now's the time simply to show
your beauty is superlative.

Esther, baby,
be a good, obedient wife
to him.
One day, it will pay off for you
and all of your kin.
So be a sweet, obedient wife!

Esther, cutie,
fast three days, then bend the King's ear,
be true.
He'll throw that Haman out on his rear,
for you.
So Esther,
won't you see him tonight?

Esther, sweetie,
look at all the good you can do.
You'll see.
When Haman tries to kill all the Jews,
ooh wee...
you'll save yourself and all of us, too.
Esther, baby,
you'll go down in history tonight!

based on "Santa Baby" by Jerry Herman
new lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010

Thursday, December 16, 2010

breaking a parenting taboo

My friend, Michael, posted a link on facebook today to one of the marvelous TED lectures. (see www.TED.com/talks) This particular one was given by a married couple whose goal was to shatter 3 taboos of parenting. They say, and I agree, that new parents would feel less discouraged if we didn't observe the following prohibitions:

(1) don't discuss how lonely new parenting can be
(2) don't talk about "the invisible loss" of miscarriage
(3) don't admit that your "average happiness" has declined

If you are a parent, I'm sure you will agree that there is a lot of false advertising about parenting, and much of it is merely the result of omission, the very kind that we ourselves perpetuate when we fail to warn our friends or patients of the bleaker aspects, because we don't want to discourage them from doing their part to propagate the species. Or, as some might say, because misery loves company.

I'm half joking with that last remark. I love being a mom and I am quite sure it is the best thing that ever happened to me. At the same time, nothing is more humbling than pregnancy, childbirth and parenting, so I hope you will trust me that I am not bragging here. If you read my blog, you must already know that I'm mainly here - on Earth, as well as on Unburied Treasure - to share for the purpose of being helpful. But I know from (1) the number of parenting questions I get from friends (2) the number of inquiries about my summer and after school programs, and (3) the repeated suggestions that I write a book of parenting advice, that many people regard me as something of a parenting role model.

Like most people, I'm always flattered to be asked for advice, and eager to give it. But sometimes, I realize, even I do not try hard enough to be completely honest. I, too, am guiltly of glossing over some of the tough stuff. Because, of course, we all like to forget it, and quite frankly, forgetting helps us to carry on. Who among us would actually volunteer to have a second child, much less a third or fourth, if we carried around 100% vividly powerful memories of the pain and fear of delivering and nurturing that first newborn baby?

Consistent with these realizations, and inspired by the above mentioned TED lecture, I'm going to share a bit about one of the darker parts of my experience as a new parent. Not trying to be maudlin, just hoping that it holds some value for some of you out there. It's probably not what most of you would expect, but maybe it will help you better understand why I am so deeply grateful for my three healthy wonderful boys. And why, on their worst days, I still consider your kids to be such freaking miracles.

I became pregnant almost exactly halfway through law school, perhaps as a subconscious attempt to escape the process of being trained for the profession. (In which case, my instinct was correct.) I was living in Manhattan, surrounded by lifelong and college friends, less than a mile from my sister, a hike through central park to my aunt, just a commuter rail away from parents and grandparents.

About a third of the way through my pregnancy, my husband announced that we would be moving to Cincinnati, his hometown. He admitted that he had already secured a job there, reminded me how much he hated living in New York City, and stated besides, that it was not negotiable. I was terrified of leaving home and relocating to a place for which I felt little to no affinity, but evidently, even more afraid of being left behind to become a single mother. It seemed I had no choice. From hundreds of miles away, we commissioned my mother-in-law to commence house hunting on our behalf.

A few weeks later, I discovered that not only was I carrying twins, but that one of them, "Twin B", was so rife with multiple fetal anomalies so as to be incompatible with life. That is, were he to be born alive, he would never leave the NICU. He would never go home with us. He would suffer - quite expensively, mind you - without there being any point to the suffering. Furthermore, we were told, the longer he continued to develop, the more risk he posed to the healthy fetal development of "Twin A". We were advised by doctors and nurses alike to consider selective termination. Ever the researcher, I began investigating the options. I visited every doctor in New York who did this procedure, listened to their advice, studied the statistics. Of course, I was still attending class, preparing briefs for moot court competition, editing articles, and reading cases endlessly, while my husband continued negotiating the purchase of a four bedroom home in Cincinnati.

Prior to this point in my life, my five greatest traumas had been:
(1) being born
(2) getting a little sister
(3) joining second grade in October at the age of five
(4) getting kicked out of Harvard college and
(5) losing my virginity to a closeted homosexual.

The experience with my pregnancy surpassed several of these, rising rapidly toward the top of the list. Lying on a table, having a long needle inserted into my uterus and waiting for a lethal injection the heart of "Twin B" was surpassed only by being informed that it was impossible to get safely past "Twin A" to access "Twin B".

Even before he was born, my son, Max demonstrated an unrivaled degree of protectiveness toward a sibling.

I returned to the hospital, alone, on a cross town bus, every few days, to allow the doctor to attempt the procedure again. I felt I owed it to my unborn son, "Twin A" (whom I already called "Max"), to do everything I could to maximized his chance for a long, healthy gestation and safe birth. I knew that the sooner we stopped "Twin B" from developing, the greater chance there was of stabilizing the uterine environment. The goal was to maximize the time "Twin A" could spend growing inside me, as opposed to an incubator in the NICU, which is where he'd go if he was born too early. Each time, as I undressed my increasingly large body, the technician, doctor or nurse would remind me that perhaps they would discover on the sonogram that "Twin B"'s heart had stopped beating on its own, but it never had. Ultimately, the twin pregnancy reached 26 weeks, the outer limit, under Roe v Wade, for the legal termination of a fetus. That day, I knew I would have to stay on the table until they were able to push "Twin A", using the side of the needle, out of the way, and then inject the heart of "Twin B".

I do not recall how long I lay there. I do remember staring at the pale green painted cinder block wall, staying as still as I could, breathing as little as possible, and praying for "Twin B" to die and let his brother live. My husband told me he would have to be in Cincinnati that day, attending the closing on our house, but in an uncharacteristically rebellious moment, I had called the bank vice president, told my story, and secured an extension so that I could have him there to help me get home from the hospital.

Finally, the procedure was done, and on the taxi ride home there were only two hearts beating inside my skin, instead of three. I lay in bed for the next two days, studying for finals and trying not to cry.

I passed my exams, won an award for best brief, and best of all, found a doctor at the University of Cincinnati willing to accept me as an obstretric patient despite my high-risk status (most docs wouldn't touch us with a ten foot malpractice policy). Miraculously, I was able to sustain the pregnancy through the move and ultimately broke all records, staying pregnant for an unprecedented 39 1/2 weeks.

Max was already a survivor when he was born, and he has continued to be, not only surviving but thriving through his parents' divorce, both his parents' remarriages, the addition of three siblings and most recently, his father's second divorce. Now, he is a tall, strong, handsome, funny, kind, smart, talented, healthy teenager getting ready to apply to college. He is still the best big brother a person could ever hope to have.

I'm going to sign off because it is time for me to make another sacrifice for the sake of my kids. As much as I'd love to sit here in dry clothes, typing, the boys really want to go sledding.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

I Need a Little Sukkos Now

(a Harvest Festival song, to the tune of "We Need a little Christmas")

Haul out the garlands!
Put up the sukkah before I get verklempt!
Unwrap the etrog!
I may be rushing things but Yom Kippur is done now.

For we need a little Sukkos
right this very minute,
gourds hanging from the ceiling,
corn stalks resting in it.
Yes, we need a little Sukkos
right this very minute.
(The dishes from the break fast aren't all done but don't have tsouris)

So, pile up the hay bales!
Hang the brightest string of autumn leaves I've ever seen!
Shake, shake that lulav!
It's time we tied some chili peppers up on these drab walls.

For I'm done with Rosh Hashanah,
done with dressing up for temple.
Done with all my fasting,
done with my repenting.

And I need a little bubbeleh
standing on my shoulders,
hanging mini pumpkins,
tying on dried roses.
Yes, I need a little bubbeleh
stringing beans and berries.
I need a little Sukkos now.

By Jerry Herman
New Lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010

Monday, December 6, 2010

I'll be Home for Pesach (or, I'll be Home for Seders)

music by Kent Walter
revised lyrics by Nancy Illman
c2010


I'm dreaming tonight, of my mishpocha
even more than I usually do,
and although we both know it's a great big shlep,
Mama dear, I promise you...

I'll be home for Seder
You can count on me
Make brisket, please, and macaroons,
and brew some lemon tea...,

I may find the afikoman
but my true prize will be
after we bench and clear the table
and dry the silver 'til it gleams.

I'll be home for Pesach,
and we may stay up 'til two.
It's a mitzvah to tell the story,
so I'll be there with you.

Crowded Malls (formerly Silver Bells)

Busy side streets, busy highways,
jammed with huge SUVs,
in the air there's a feeling
of Chanukah.
Children whining, children kvetching,
cause their mom's still in line
and in each parking lot you will see


Crowded malls,
crowded malls,
it's Chanukah time in the suburbs.
Better valet park,
or you'll walk
a mile just to get in the door.

Sales and discounts, gift with purchase,
stores are desperate this year;
their numbers just have to top last year's.
Turn around, Mom,
look on amazon,
look on overstock.com,
but you will do well to avoid...

Crowded malls,
crowded malls,
it's Chanukah time in the suburbs.
Remember dear,
(oy vey iz mir),
Surely, you'll find it online,
Surely, you'll find it online.

music by Jay Livingston
lyrics by Nancy Illman
c2010

White Chanukah

I'm dreaming of an all inclusive
resort for Chanukah this year,
where the palm trees beckon,
and there's no need to reckon
the gratuity for every round of (cheer/beer).

I'm dreaming of a tropical Chanukah,
with every batch of latkes that I fry.
The house smells like a diner
and my baby's got a shiner
from the neighborhood snowball fight outside.

I'm dreaming of white sand beaches,
and rows of bright cabanas by the shore.
While my sweetheart plays tennis,
I'll finish my breakfast and
then, do some pilates for my core.

I'm dreaming of a well equipped day camp
with counselors whom my kids will adore
They'll meet other kids their age there
from New York, Philly, London,
and other Jewish cities round the globe.

I'm dreaming of an all inclusive
resort at Channukah this year...
May your menorah glow brighter each night,
and may all your beach towels be bright.

music by Irving Berlin
lyrics by Nancy Illman c2010

Friday, December 3, 2010

accessing your inner calm

Last night, the night before Isaac's birthday, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. I hadn't yet done the dishes, I still had to decorate the kitchen for breakfast, my husband was asking if I would take Sam to basketball practice the next day at 5pm (I also have rehearsal at 5pm) and the boys were asking me why their new sea turtle night light (which I bought at a bookfair in October, but saved for the first night of Hannukah) only stays lit for 30 seconds.

I had just changed the batteries on the nightlight and realized this was not the source of the problem, when a friend asked, on my facebook wall, if she would see me at yoga in the morning.

I replied "You know I WANT to go, but I'm afaid that if I wait until after lunch to return our Hannukah sea turtle nightlight (by the mall, without a receipt), I will regret it. I will have to see how I feel in the morning."

"Spoken like a yogi" she replied.

This made me smile. It reminded me that the overwhelm I was feeling was a choice. I could choose to stay with the feeling until the next morning, or I could decide to feel a different way, whenever I was ready.

Just then, Max walked in from rehearsal, and asked "can you do Latin vocab?"

Automatically, I said "Not right now, I have to decorate the kitchen."

His tone in response showed me that I had been unnecessarily sharp with mine.

That was the moment I decided my overwhelm was no longer welcome. I recognized that I could continue to let a mood rob me of the things I love to do (yoga, Latin flashcards) or I could subdue it and choose another way to be.

I put down the roll of tape, went to Max's room, picked up the stack of flash cards, and we had a great time making up goofy ways to remember new vocabulary.

Afterwards, I returned to the kitchen, festooned it with streamers and balloons, located the donuts, plates, candles and matches, set the table for breakfast and got ready for bed.

In the morning, we had a wonderfully joyful birthday breakfast with our eight year old, who was pleased as punch to have a day to get even more attention than he usually does, and to start it with a flaming Entenmann's chocolate crumb donut.

After dropping off the kids at school, and taking Suki for a brisk walk, I arrived at the yoga studio. When class time rolled around, there were only 6 of us there to practice, as compared with the usual 20 to 30 who ordinarily attend. As we marvelled at the small size of our group, I kept looking out for my facebook friend to appear.

The theme of today's practice was about our ability to locate the inner center of calm within ourselves and the particular importance of being able to do so consciously throughout this holiday season, when we are surrounded by crowds of frantic shoppers, faced with increased traffic and generally exposed to more stimuli than usual.

We were reminded of a variety of ways that this particular time of year can affect us. We even examined each other's neck, shoulders and trapezius muscles to see if and how we were letting stress affect our posture. We worked at being more conscious of how others' stress can impact upon us. We resolved to try to observe it, when possible, rather than react to it. To send a blessing to the driver who cuts us off, a wish that they too might find their inner calm. That sort of thing.

I left yoga feeling so happy and grateful that I had taken the time to check in with my favorite source of yogic wisdom. I raced home to grab Isaac's presents, the turtle nightlight, a birthday banner and a roll of tape, zoomed to the local cafe, claimed a table, decorated it, and dashed off again, to bounce Isaac out of school for an hour. Just as we arrived at the cafe, Paul was getting out of his car and approaching from the opposite direction. Isaac ran to him, and as they walked hand in hand toward the door, I went on in ahead. In the booth next to our table, I recognized four teenage girls who do theatre at the high school. I asked if they would sing "happy birthday" to Isaac when he appeared and then I went back outside. The three of us entered the restaurant together and Isaac deeply enjoyed the stereophonic musical escort to his seat.

After a very happy lunch, I returned Isaac to his classroom and whooshed off towards the mall, praying that I would not have to apply too much much of my new yogic strategy. I did not at all enjoy sitting, like a lame duck, in the right lane of the highway, waiting to get to the exit ramp while huge trucks swept past me in the center lane, but otherwise it wasn't so bad. The parking lot was full, but I went straight for a remote spot, reminding myself of the aerobic benefits of parking farther from the store, and cheerfully gathered up my turtle nightlight and began heading toward the entrance.

Just as I was crossing the red brick plaza dotted with dead shrubs and dry fountains, I heard someone call my name. I looked up and there was my facebook friend from last night.

"That's so funny!" I said "You knew I would be here after lunch, returning the turtle nightlight."

"Did you GO to yoga today?" she asked.

"Yes, and I looked for you!"

"Well, I didn't go because you made me feel guilty for taking all that time for msyelf when I had so many things to do."

"I didn't MAKE you feel guilty," I said, employing yogic wisdom, but this time, I'm afraid, it was lost on her. Which is a shame, because her comment the night before had really helped me get in touch with myself.

"It was strange - I kept looking for you and even telling the teacher I knew you were coming - because there were only 7 of us there, you see..."

"Well, that's because you made everyone feel too guilty to do anything but errands and shopping!"

As if.
I had.
That kind.
Of power.

But, thank goodness, I did have the wisdom to observe what stress was doing to my friend, rather than to react. Instead, I sent her a blessing. "Happy Hannukah!" I shouted, as I stepped onto the escalator on the way to return my broken turtle nightlight. And as I was lifted up, I heard her voice in response.

"Happy Hannukah, Nancy!"