Uncontrollable Blessings

 

I recently developed a tick, likely a result of my divorce and other turmoil in my life. It was not until a teacher gave me an approving nod on carline the other day at our kids' school that I really gave it much thought though.

I have become a blesser or one who bestows blessings.

As a native of Texas, I think the blessing gene was probably cultivated early, though it manifested only recently. Blessings are rather common in that part of the country...less so up here.

Since I am not from a religious home, I think my family might find my behavior awkward and  I have no doubt that I appear silly and/or naive to many others who happen to catch me in the act. (Luckily I have learned to care less about what people think with age).

So I bless our kids when we part in the morning and I bless our kids when we are reunited in the evening. I bless them when I tuck them in bed each night and even when I get angry and lose my patience. I bless our children constantly and my blessings are not limited to them either. I bless strangers, though not audibly, as I know many people find the practice uncomfortable, except perhaps when it follows a sneeze. Bottom line, when I see someone who appears to be struggling and I think they might benefit from a little help from above, I bless them.

I do have my limit however. I do not bless those who cross our kids or me. I am not capable of that kind of benevolence yet… far from it actually. My ex is the one exception. I bless him because I believe it is in our children’s best interest that he prospers.

Blessing others gets me through the day by giving me a sense that I can somehow help to control the uncontrollable in this world. Ebola, ISIS, the frightening rise in anti-Semitism…danger seems to be lurking around every corner. So I do the only thing I can. I bless our kids, I bless my friends and family, and I bless strangers. 

I do not know if there is any efficacy in my blessings, but I figure there is no harm. Besides, I do not think I could stop now if I wanted to.

Illuminating the Crawl Space

I did not have a basement in my home as a kid, but I do have fond memories of dancing around my grandparents’ basement during our annual family road trips to Nebraska. Many of my favorite television shows also featured loving families playing in basements. So when I moved to the East Coast where basements are rather standard, I assumed my family would make happy memories below ground too.

Instead of a basement however, our house came with a crawl space located behind the laundry room, accessible only by moving the washing machine. A crawl space was a foreign concept to me. Though our real estate agent pointed out the strange area during our tour, I hesitated to explore it even after the house became ours.

For months after we moved into the house I feared this crawl space, especially when I was home alone with our young children. Just the sound of it…crawl space…gave me anxiety. I had visions of evil, little creatures climbing out of the darkness after we went to bed, eager to steal our breath or blood. Every horror film scenario played out in my mind with each creak and groan the house made on those nights.

One day the fear became intolerable, so I grabbed a flashlight and went to our laundry room ready to battle the demons inhabiting our house. However, when I shined a light upon the crawl space I discovered that it was simply a large vacant area under the main level of our home. The floor was immaculate, clearly maintained by the previous homeowner.

Sometimes the fear becomes crippling in my life. At those times I try to recall the crawl space and remember to shine a light on the situation. Nothing ever seems quite as bad in the light.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

When I reached into the back of my closet and tugged on the tweed coat sleeve as I did regularly, I heard silence instead of the comforting jingle of my rings. Then I felt an explosion in my head as I frantically searched the contents of my closet. I swept the hardwood floor beneath my clothes hoping the rings had fallen out of hiding somehow, but I knew better.  I prayed, I cried and then I picked myself up off the floor and vowed I would not let the disappearance of my rings defeat me either. I have survived too much in the last few years. 

It turns out that my engagement and wedding rings were stolen from my house along with several other pieces of jewelry shortly after I filed for divorce.  Though I ceased wearing the diamond rings when I finally admitted my marriage was over, I did not expect to part with them and certainly not in this painful way. I had hoped that someday our boys would give them to their significant others and the tradition would continue.

My ex-husband proposed with a beautiful ring he spent hours shopping for on-line. As fate would have it though, my Bubbe died as I began making plans for our wedding. There was no question that we would return his ring and I would wear the rings my Zayde gave to my Bubbe decades earlier in a small Nebraska farming town where they fell in love. My Bubbe's rings had a beautiful history and they were my inheritance, but the rings were also exquisite in my eyes and I was proud to wear them. (Perhaps that was why I had to endure this lesson).

Diamonds may last forever, but nothing is really ours in this life. I hope the person who has the rings is enjoying them now at least half as much as I did during the seven short years that they were mine. Thankfully I have the precious memory of my Bubbe wearing the dim and dirty rings while she rested in bed towards the end of her life. And I will always remember the exhilaration of opening the jewelry box my father sent me from Texas after she died to discover the same rings, freshly cleaned and shimmering in all their glory. 

   

Woman of My Dreams

I have this reoccurring fantasy about a woman.  She is patient and loving, organized and tidy. She likes cooking and scrapbooking and especially enjoys caring for young children. She greets me every Friday evening with a smiling face, her hair the scent of freshly baked challah.

She is my wife and at the risk of offending…I really want one…a Jewish one more specifically.

I was spoiled when my mother came to town to watch the kids for three weeks this past summer. It was glorious! (For me anyway… I am not sure how she would describe the visit.) I returned home from work each day to find happy children, a clean house, a real meal, and all of the laundry washed, folded and sorted. The best part about having another woman in the house though was that I could relax after work and truly enjoy the children since the housework and cooking was already done.

I know I am not alone in my challenges as a single, working mom and I know that there are those who have it much harder than I do.  I am not complaining (well, maybe just a little.)  Thank God for my children. Thank God for my life. Thank God, thank God, thank God…

But by the time I have reached my desk at 8 am (when all the stars are aligned) I have already worked what feels like a full day. I made three breakfasts, three lunches, dressed three generally uncooperative kids and delivered them and all of their necessities to two separate locations before racing to my other job. If I am especially lucky, I enjoyed a 30 second shower and with the exception of the Oreo smudged on my sleeve, I am dressed in clean clothes.  (Yes, breakfast sometimes translates to Oreos and I dare you to judge me). Like the old army commercial, I feel as if I do more before 7 am than most people do in a day, or is it a lifetime? I am an army of one now with three little recruits who take orders as well as cats.

So I was thinking of simply ignoring the High Holidays entirely this year to be honest. The older children are registered for religious school after all and the little one clearly absorbs some Yidishkeyt from daycare based on the songs I hear him singing in the backseat.

But then I received TWO separate invitations for Rosh Hashanah meals and I was overjoyed and relieved. It was a sweet New Year for my family and particularly for me, thanks to these two thoughtful Jewish women who obviously recognize my struggles. So I guess in a small way I got what I desire, if only briefly for the holidays.

You know who you are ladies. You rock!

Temporary Dwelling

In the beginning

In honor of the seven-day Jewish festival of Sukkot that begins today, my tribe of three and I are building a sukkah out of Legos. As a divorced, working mama with limited time, money or skills in the construction department, a Lego sukkah is the best I can offer the boys. Luckily we live in a neighborhood with no shortage of sukkahs, so we will meander through the streets before dinner this evening surveying the structures and seeking our favorite.

The huts are meant to remind us of our ancestors' forty years of wandering in the desert prior to reaching the Land of Israel. However, with our home in foreclosure as a result of very bad luck, poor choices and a costly divorce, this year the sukkah represents so much more to me. I have discovered that everything in life is temporary...jobs, money, homes etc. All that matters to me now are the three little men in my world and ensuring that they thrive despite the hardships and unanticipated changes in our lifestyle.

My divorce attorney (to whom I owe my life as well as thousands of dollars) guesstimates that the children and I have approximately a year in our house before the bank finally gives us the boot.  I have yet to find a solution to save us from homelessness, but I am hoping by blogging about our trials and the good times as well, I might discover a village of individuals who have traveled a similar journey, made it to the Promised Land and can offer much needed guidance and emotional support.

No, I do not expect blogging to save our house, but I am hopeful that it will help this Mama gain perspective and forge ahead.

You can read more about our mishaps on Kveller at http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/my-exodus-emerging-from-the-financial-ruin-of-divorce-better-and-stronger/ 

 Chag sameach! Happy holiday. Here's to a much better year.