Sending the Baby to Daycare: Am I a Monster?

Well, Mr. T has been out of the country since August 7, and everyone's still alive here. I still have another five days to go, so there's still a possibility that my head will explode and take both of my adorable children with it!

The truth is, over these two weeks, Ash has been in part-time day camp (9-3), instead of full-time daycare (8-4) because daycare has been out for one reason or another. Little T, of course, has been home with me, and I've been crazy overwhelmed with work. I have been working bizarre hours, staying up incredibly late to get things done, canceling and rescheduling calls because of a wiggly baby, and running myself ragged. And don't even talk to me about the dishes, the laundry, the state of the house ... I've just given up.

And now? Light at the end of the tunnel! I'm excited, super stoked, but feeling an immense amount of guilt because both kids are in full-time daycare starting Monday. Should a 2-month-old baby be in daycare? I don't know.

You see, I've got a full-time job that I love and that I wouldn't give up for anything in the world. I also have two children whom I love more than anything in the world. With all that combined, it means daycare. Now, Asher ended up in daycare at 10 months because Mr. T was out of the country and I had part-time work and was looking for full-time work. He was a pretty legit human child at that point, and I cried when I dropped him off the first day.

Over the past week and a half, I've hired a nanny a few times because I had to get things done for work. It amazed me how easily it was to leave her with someone. I didn't cry. I thought to myself, "Okay, I've got four hours to get a week's worth of work done." (It also amazed me how much money I had to throw at these nannies; they make a serious killing.)

In just a few short days, I'll be dropping Little T off at daycare for a full day. She'll be with strangers for eight straight hours while I sit, working, in my happy place. On the one hand, I'm thinking "freedom!" and on the other hand I'm thinking, "I'm leaving my little baby with strangers."

Is it a second child thing? Is it a daughter thing? Is it a "being a stay-at-home, full-time working mother" is something that drives all mothers to a breaking point on a daily basis? I actually screamed at my crying 2-month-old in the car the other day. Screamed to the point where my throat ached for hours. And I cried. A lot. Several times that day.

So. Am I a terrible human being for being super ready and prepared to drop both of my kids off at daycare first thing Monday morning? I've got a 9:30 a.m. call and a 2:30 p.m. call, and all I can think is "I'm going to get SO much done with a solid eight hours of work. It's going to be awesome."

Sigh.

I'm terrible, right? How do women do this without guilt? I love my kids. I just can't be with them 24/7. I'm not cut out for it. I feel about full-time, stay-at-home mothers like I do about pediatric oncologists and military personnel. I'm glad someone feels good and passionate and capable about doing those jobs because I simply don't.

I'm a good mom. When I'm well-worked, well-rested, and can cook dinner on my own terms, everyone is happier because mommy is happier. And that's the rule, right? When mommy is happy everyone's happy?

Right?

Review: Garden Lites Superfood Veggie Cakes

Slap me silly and call me in love! Now, Asher is already in love with Garden Lites muffins of all varieties (but especially the Ninja Turtles ones with chocolate chips and the chocolate muffins that we used to get at CostCo), but I have a new go-to for Shabbat and weekday lunch sides: Superfood Veggie Cakes!

The kind folks at Garden Lites sent me these gluten-free, vegetarian goodies for review just in time. With my husband out of the country in Israel for two weeks for iBoy's bar mitzvah, I was struggling to accept the fact that I had to make sure there was food on the table for me and the Ashman. I was thinking of boxed mac and cheese, pizza from the local pizza shop, PB&J, but when it came to Shabbat, I was baffled. PB&J just doesn't scream Shabbat.

Enter Garden Lites. I quickly baked some fish, made a box of Lundberg rice, and prepared these Superfood Veggie Cakes, and our meal was perfectly well-rounded and delicious to boot. At 100 calories, I seriously ate multiples because they just taste good. Also? Asher loved them!

My only gripe? The packaging instructions were a little confusing. I love that Garden Lites prints the cooking instructions on the plastic wrapper as well as the box, because if you toss the box and still have the product, you need the instructions! But the instructions on this package was a bit confusing as it said to remove the outer packaging and place the cakes on a baking tray. I did this, but the black tray that they were in (inside the outer packaging of plastic) started to melt to the side of my baking pan! Luckily, it peeled right off and I didn't ruin the pan. It left me questioning whether I should have taken the cakes out of the black tray they were in, too.

Do you think you'll give these yummy cakes a try?

From Garden Lites: Available in the refrigerated section of Coscto stores, Garden Lites Superfood Veggie Cakes are kosher, delicious, vegetarian, Gluten-free and only 100 calories! The first and main ingredients in every Garden Lites products are always vegetables, and the Superfood Veggie Cakes are no exception. Superfood Veggie Cakes are perfect for healthy snacking on-the-go, or also as a quick side dish at home to go along perfectly with any meal. Garden Lites® Superfood Veggie Cakes are available at Costco at a suggested SRP of $9.79 and online at HealthyGoodness.com.

On Being Fat: Stick to Style, Not Size Number

First grade, homemade dress!

Once upon a time, I was a slam poet. I guess you don't ever really stop being a slam poet, but for me, my poetry juice appears to have dried up. I went through a period in my early/mid 20s where, when I put pen to paper, it made me proud and I worked up the courage to throw words into a crowd. Now, I'm lucky to find the time to blog right here, where I've been blogging for 10 years now.

One of those poems I penned during my slam renaissance was called "First Fat Miss America." It was inspired by an interaction I had as a child while watching the Miss America pageant, and it painted how I viewed myself and how I felt about myself for a long time. Yes, I was told that I, Amanda Jo Edwards, could be the first fat Miss America. I had the potential. Now, I suppose this could have been a compliment, the idea that I, a girl born and raised in the Midwest of the United States, could achieve such a fanciful goal. But I got stuck. Stuck on "fat." And I think that was the point.

I was never thin, and I was always depressed about my size.

I was a pretty cute baby, gosh darn't, but starting the moment I hit school, I was fat. I was basically fat up until I hit middle school and learned that I could skip lunch, I could dump it all in the garbage and my parents would be none the wiser. Yet, somehow, years of skipped lunches and grumbling stomachs didn't leave me thin. I just got fatter. My mom made my clothes for most of my younger years, and as I got older I ventured into the Pretty Plus section at Sears (the girls' equivalent of Husky), and when I entered middle school, I started noticing how different I was. I had a very tight-knit group of friends, 80 percent who were much, much thinner than me. By 6th grade I'd shot up in height, hit puberty, and was gigantic compared to both boys and girls in my class. I started wearing women's clothing, and it wasn't pretty.

Hello fifth grade.

In high school, I went through the same pattern of having extremely thin friends, tossing my lunch, and trying to stay as slim as I could. When I'd tell people how much I weighed, I was always told, "wow, you really wear your weight well." I worked at McDonalds for two years in high school and managed a steady diet of a plain grilled chicken sandwich with a touch of sweet and sour sauce and a small fry. I didn't succumb to the cravings; I had to watch my already-large figure.

Just before graduation in 2006.

By the time I graduated college, I was at an all-time high weight because the rigors of college newspaper life (80 hour work weeks and midnight runs to the local bar) left me drunk and with the munchies and that led me to fast food restaurants. Food was comfort, clothing was hell.

After I graduated college and moved to Washington D.C. in 2006, I lacked a social life, and I started to lose weight. I went vegetarian (it was cheaper), walked just about everywhere, and was depressed as hell. I moved to Chicago to be with a boy and gained 30 pounds because, well, I was still depressed and he cooked the most outlandishly fattening food and bars and late-night pizza were our jam. I was at another all-time high weight when I moved out and we broke up.

I went on Weight Watchers in 2008 and lost 25 pounds, bought a new wardrobe, and finally felt beautiful. I attempted to replicate that 25 pound weight loss, but despite a dozen times rejoining, it's been unattainable. Since then, I've basically been the same weight. I will proudly and boldly say I hover at around 210 pounds, and there's nothing I can do to budge those numbers, it seems.

2008 in Chicago

With Little T, I managed to gain about 25-30 pounds, quite the opposite of what happened with Asher, when I lost 25 pounds during and after the birth (and then regained them, of course). The funny thing is that right after I had Little T, I dropped those pounds and floated right back to my starter weight (yes, it was all fluid retention).

They say with every pregnancy and as you get older, your weight shifts and you wear it differently. My truth is that, yes, perhaps I wear my weight well, but I have always hated how I wear it. I've always been angry that my mom, my dad, and both of my brothers had skinny chunks of life. I've never had the opportunity to experience "skinny" like they did. They could lose the weight, I always told myself. They just don't. It's not fair. 

When I came home from the hospital with Little T and surveyed what was left of my pre-baby clothes and my pregnancy clothes, I cringed. Nothing fit right. Too loose, too baggy, too tight in the wrong places. Only my loose-fitting cotton Old Navy maternity skirts really fit well. I tried very hard to put the clothes on and feel comfortable, or beautiful, or whatever a woman who just gave birth and who has hated her body her whole life should feel. Toss on the fact that everything I wear needs to be nursing friendly and, well, I could have broken the mirror.

And then it happened.

You see, a friend from Facebook who I've never met in real life had invited me to this online "party" to buy clothes from this company called LuLaRoe that I'd never heard of. I ended up wanting to buy some things, but being anxious about the sizing, I opted out. After I had Little T, I popped into one of these "parties" and ended up buying a skirt on a whim based on some sizing instructions from a LLR consultant. Unfortunately, the sizing instructions, while perfectly accurate, were not really perfect for someone of my size trying to dress modestly.

On a whim, I went to the LLR website to see if there was a local consultant. I found a woman who happened to live right around the corner (I could walk to her house in about 10 minutes) and it turned out she was hosting an in-house popup that very week. Perfect. It was bashert (meant to be). I sent her a message about how excited I was because I needed to try on some of the styles to see what sizes were right for me. I explained I was Orthodox, and that I'd see her soon.

In the meantime, I was waiting for a skirt I'd purchased, again on a whim, from a small company called Jade Mackenzie to arrive, and guess what, it did. Perfectly. Like a glove perfectly. The funniest thing about it was that the size that I ordered would have once made me cringe or be depressed about my size, but it fit, and that was all that mattered. I found something that was stylish, comfortable, and fit my modesty needs. I felt like I was on to something.

At the LLR party I went to, I started trying on clothes. The sizing is a bit wonky until you get used to it, so I was able to buy a Large in one style and a 2XL in another, but again, the sizing didn't get me down. I found shirts that fit. Shirts that were stylish. And the consultant encouraged me to go for patterns, and when I picked one up and tried it on, I felt golden.

Now, for those of you who've never been fat, you might not understand what it's like to put on a patterned shirt. I'm not talking about something black and white that's lightly patterned, I'm talking bright, vibrant colors and loud patterns. As a fat person, you just don't wear that type of clothing. It draws attention, you're told. It makes you look like a clown, you're told. Fat people don't wear patterns, stripes, polka dots (+1 on the clown comment), or anything other than muted colors and, most importantly, most especially, black. You wear a lot of black. It's slimming on everyone, but especially larger women, of course.

My unicorn.

This patterned, size large, Irma was a gateway. I'm reimagining my wardrobe as we speak. I bought another patterned Irma, my "unicorn" as I'm calling it, because when I put it on (I could wear it every day), I feel invincible and beautiful and funky. It's the textile version of the ridiculous dialogue that's constantly running in my head. And the best thing about the Irmas? No crazy layering. As a fat, breastfeeding Orthodox woman, the truth is layering is my worst nightmare, especially in the summer, but in many cases, it's a necessity.

For the first time in a long time, maybe since 2008 when I dropped those 25 pounds and found my figure and self-confidence, after three years of hearing Mr. T say "stop insulting my wife" when I put myself down, I think I'm on to something. I think I'm on to feeling beautiful and throwing cautious attire to the wind. I'm not looking at sizes anymore, I'm looking at styles, colors, patterns, and what it does for my shape.

Size is just a number. A stupid, unnecessary number that makes people feel bad about themselves. Stick to style.

Some of my favorite brands right now, as a proudly fat, breastfeeding mother of two:

• LuLaRoe (and yes, I'm totally in line to become a consultant because I believe in beauty)
• Jade Mackenzie
• NakedTank (this thing is the most genius invention ... ever)
• KosherCasual (for shells, of course)

Note: Yes, I use the word "fat" to describe myself. By medical standards, I'm morbidly obese, oh my! I could use the words curvy or plus-size, but they're just masks. I'm okay with the word. Are you?

SaveSave

World Breastfeeding Week: I Need More Space and Time Please

So it's World Breastfeeding Week, eh?

If you ask my parents, I've never been a tactile person. When I was a baby I hated to be held, and my father would lay me in his lap with his leg crossed because it was the only way I could be "held" happily. I've never been a hugger, and even with significant others/spouses I've never been one for PDA or canoodling and cuddling. When I sleep, I want my space, I don't want to spoon or snuggle.

Give me my personal bubble or give me death!

When I found out I was pregnant with Asher, whether I'd breastfeed wasn't even something I debated or thought about. I don't really know that I was aware of what it entailed. That is, the time commitment, the closeness, the lack of personal space, the constant attachment ... but for some reason, it worked. I made it work. And even in those moments where I was desperate to get away and have personal space, I didn't mind the little munchkin because I was his sole source of life.

When we moved to the U.S. when he was about 4.5 months old and I started going into the office of the company I worked for semi-full time a few days a week, I started pumping because Mr. T was at home and needed to feed the munchkin. I hated it. I hated pumping. It was mechanical and uncomfortable and inconvenient and made my workday terrible. 

Eventually, I was back working from home and would nurse when necessary. Then, again, when Ash ended up in childcare at 10 months (when Mr. T was stuck outside the country), I was back to pumping. I hated it, again. When he hit a year, the daycare insisted on me sending him in with regular milk, so I started sending him with almond milk and he would nurse a little bit after school, at night, and when he was sick or sad. 

Then, at 18 months, boom, he was done. I was free. Freedom! FREEDOMMMM!

When I got pregnant with Little T just several months later, I went back to my same position: I'd breastfeed, of course. It served Asher well, it'd serve Little T well, too. 

Now, I'm almost 8 weeks postpartum, and I'm tired. Little T is home with me as I work, and now, with a full-time, very demanding job that I love (and a side, part-time gig), I'm finding that breastfeeding is restrictive and prohibitive. 

I keep fantasizing about formula and not having to be the sole source of life for this little munchkin because I'm busy. I have things to do. I can't stop and break and sit in a parking lot because she's screaming bloody murder and whether she's eating or just nursing for comfort it's her timetable, and I'm stuck to it. 

Did I have these feelings with Asher and I've just forgotten them? I honestly don't think I did. I was underemployed in Israel and then the U.S. back then. I had time. Time was mostly what I did have. He was colicky and grumpy and he nursed a lot because of it, and I didn't mind. I had time.

So, I just pumped. Yeah, she fell asleep and I pumped and I didn't hate it because it might give me some semblance of momentary freedom in the not-so-distant future. I mean, I even cut holes in one of my bras to hands-free pump because I don't have a pumping bra! I've gone nuts!

Or maybe I'm dreaming of the day that she is taken care of by someone who can give her the love and attention that I can't because I have. to. get. work. done. Because I want to play with her, but I want to work, and I want to be a good mom to Asher, and I want to be a good wife to my husband, but I can't do them all and still breathe.

Do I sound callous? Like an ungrateful mommy? I love my baby. I love both my babies. But timing is everything, and right now, I need more time. 

So here's to World Breastfeeding Week. Here's to a love-hate relationship with breastfeeding, a need for space, and a need for time. 

What are your experiences with breastfeeding? Love it or hate it?

Curious George: The Documentary!

Curious George turns 75 years old this year, and filmmaker Ema Ryan Yamazaki has created the first-ever mixed-media documentary about Curious George: Monkey Business. 

The question is: Are you aware of the epic background of the creators of Curious George? Let's just say it involves a narrow escape from the Nazis and the Shoah (Holocaust) on makeshift bicycles across Europe with the yet-to-be-published Curious George manuscript in tow! 

If I've piqued your interest, make sure you donate a few dollars to the Kickstarter in support of the documentary: http://bit.ly/curiousgeorgedoc. Ema Ryan Yamazaki tells the story of Hans and Margret Rey in this exciting look at one of Asher's favorite characters. 

Not only are you supporting the telling of a vital part of history and the background of one of the world's most beloved monkeys and his creators, you'll also get some exclusive Curious George swag in the process. 

Support Monkey Business: http://bit.ly/curiousgeorgedoc

Babywearing: The Boba 4G Carrier Review

Babywearing at the Farmers Market (can you find Asher?)

If you've dreamed of the Swiss Army Knife of baby carriers, I present to you the Boba 4G Carrier: the Original Soft-Structured Infant Carrier (in Tweet, because, well, I'm a social creature).

With Asher, who is now 2.5 years old and who I stopped baby wearing at about a year because mama's back hurt, I started out with a sling and then moved on to a structured carrier that I tried desperately to love but simply couldn't fall head over heels for. Mr. T carried Asher in the beginning in a makeshift moby wrap, but that was never my jam.

In anticipation of the arrival of Little T, I assessed my carrier collection:

• A homemade "moby" wrap
• A Catbird Baby structured carrier
• A MayaWrap sling
• (We'd had an Ergo carrier, as well, but neither of us cared for it and we donated it to a local baby wearing group so it could get some love.)

After taking a gander at what we had, I realized I needed something more. I needed something that both did more and was super comfortable, and this is where the Boba came in. 

I did a lot of searching on the web, and when I came across this carrier I was breathless. Although, yes, I received this carrier for free for review, it puts the other carriers I've reviewed and purchased to complete and utter shame -- in the best way possible. Why? The features make it the ultimate carrier from birth through the moment this little munchkin decides to run free. 

• Integrated infant insert to support the littlest little ones
• The perfect fit for both front and back carry
• Removable foot straps and sleeping hood customize the ride
• Purse strap holders
• Pockets in all the right places
• Adjustable straps that help you find the right snugness
• Ergonomic support that never quits

The most attractive features to me were the infant support, because Little T is pretty little still, pockets pockets and more pockets, and adjustable straps that won't make this curvy mama feel like a sausage while she carries (one of the reasons I hate most wraps and carriers). The best pocket is along the base strap, and it's perfectly sized for my iPhone, which means it's always there. The pocket where the sleeping hood lives is another gem, because the hood snaps out, so if you want to use the pocket for something else it's totally yours to play with.

I'm also super jazzed about the foot straps because they keep your growing child from having their legs uncomfortable dangling at your side, and the purse strap holders because, come on, bags slipping down your shoulders isn't fun for anyone. 

Here's some details about all the features that make this fit for just about everybody that needs to wear a baby:

It took a bit of tugging and adjusting the strap that runs along the upper back, but once I got it pulled just right it has made carrying Little T a dream. The other bonus? She falls asleep about two seconds after I put her into the carrier, and I can't seem to figure out what kind of magic this is, but I'm happy it exists because it lets me do something that every mother of two struggles with: give attention to my oldest, super adorable toddler while also holding and caring for my baby. 

Epic. Babywearing. Win! Honestly, this carrier lets me be a better mom, and that is absolutely priceless. 

Have you tried the Boba in any form? Do you have a favorite baby carrier, and, if so, which one and why? 

SaveSave

My Fat Dad: Book and Nosh Review + Giveaway

[Giveaway at the end of the post!]

I grew up in a house where the Diabetic Diet reigned supreme. I remember measuring cups of green beans hitting the plate off and on my entire childhood, peppered with frequent visits to Red Lobster (mom's favorite for holidays and birthdays), Benitos (a Mexican restaurant) for piled-high plates of beans and cheese, and McDonalds and Sonic for burgers, fries, and drinks with my father's beloved crushed ice. Everyone in my immediate family has battled with weight and diet pretty much our entire lives, and (except for me who has been privileged to always be on the more voluptuous side) has swung between thinness in their younger days to larger waistbands in their 20s and beyond.

My mom and dad never went to the dieting extremes that Dawn Lerman's father did in My Fat Dad: A Memoir of Food, Love, and Family, with Recipes, but I can relate to growing up in an environment where food obsession was manifest in countless ways — both constructive and destructive.

When I was contacted about reviewing My Fat Dad, I jumped at the chance because from a quick look it seemed like something that would really resonate. Although it became clear that Lerman and I didn't grow up with the same relationship with food, I have to say it was a really fascinating and entertaining read. For the first few chapters I was confused, as Lerman focused largely on her tenuous and tentative relationship with her mom, but as the book went on I understood why she wrote the book the way she did.

Both of her parents are Jewish, and both grew up in a post-Holocaust world with parents uniquely obsessed with classic Jewish food. However, whereas her actress mom grew up with an "eat to live" mindset, her advertising guru of a father grew up with a "live to eat" mindset. The author, Lerman, subsequently found herself obsessed with food — cooking it, baking it, understanding how it fits into specific diets, how it could save her dad, how it could comfort her sister, and more.

Unlike me, however, Lerman managed to end up with a pretty healthy relationship with food, thanks to her grandmother "Beauty," who taught her how to make just about anything and everything. Lerman ended up seeing the world through food. I didn't learn how to make anything growing up, so my relationship with food has always been tense, with binges (and starvation periods when I was a teen) and purges of the things that I love. It wasn't until I was in my mid-20s that I started to really explore and understand food in the way that Lerman did her whole life. I learned that steak didn't have to be overcooked, vegetables didn't always come out of a can, and the microwave wasn't necessarily my best friend. (Honestly, I think becoming kosher saved me and my health, because fast food was my BFF most of my life.)

Food, for Lerman, was a source of nurturing and healing when it came to her relationship with her parents and sister and grandparents, and that's something I so admire. I honestly think that the more a child grows up understanding and experimenting with food, the more healthy their overall relationship with food and the more there is a balance between "live to eat" and "eat to live," and I think Lerman's a really powerful example of that reality.

My Fat Dad really takes you on a food journey, both her obese father's journey and battle with food in the fast-paced world of advertising and her own journey to understand and explore all of the food options the world has to offer.

The most unique thing about this book is that each chapter ends with a few recipes based on conversations and events in the chapter. Lerman has created a cookbook based on stories, which is, let's be honest, what healthy relationship with food looks like (if years of watching countless hours of the Food Network has taught me anything). She has recipes for everyone, from a classic borscht to a No Bake Pecan Pie and Healing Mushroom Miso Soup.

I chose to focus on Peanut Butter Love—the Best Flourless Blondie recipe from a chapter where Lerman talks about her relationship with her sister and how she used to bring or send treats to her sister, who was traveling and acting in "Annie" (because their mom wasn't focused on food/treats). Lerman made blondies and other sweet treats for her sister, and that was one of the ways that the two of them were able to bond across the miles between them. Here's the recipe (and they really are to die for):

Ingredients

• 16 ounces natural, no sugar added peanut butter
• ½ cup pure maple syrup
• ½ cup original soy milk or nondairy milk of choice ( I use ones that have about 7 grams of sugar per serving)
• 1 ripe banana, mushed
• 2 eggs, beaten
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• ½ teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• ¾ cup dark, semisweet chocolate chips
• Butter or oil for greasing the pan

Directions
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In a bowl, mix the peanut butter, maple syrup, milk, and mushed banana. Mush it all up and combine well. Then mix in the beaten eggs, vanilla, salt, and baking soda. Mix together until well blended and smooth. Stir in half the chocolate chips. Pour the batter into a well-greased 8-inch-square Pyrex dish. Scatter the remaining chips on top.

Bake for 55 minutes, checking after 15 minutes to make sure the edges do not get too brown. If the top looks very brown, cover with foil and bake for the remaining 40 minutes. Cool and serve.

Note: Mine got a little too brown because I got distracted with the baby ... I recommend cooking for 15 minutes and covering with foil for blondies that aren't so brown. 

---

GIVEAWAY! Comment on this post and let me know what your relationship with food was like growing up. I'll pick one winner at random on July 19, 2016, to receive a copy of this book. 

Rules: Open to U.S. residents only. Must comment to be entered. 

Night and Day: Giving Birth in Israel vs. the USA

With my newest little one approaching her four-week birthday and my five-week maternity leave about to end, I suppose it's time to sit down and put fingers to keys to share what the labor and birthing process was like with Little T. So here goes!

You can read the first and second part series of what it was like giving birth to Asher in Israel at Hadassah Ein Kerem here on the blog for some perspective, as well. Also, here's a look at the place where I gave birth.

I was really nervous about what labor and delivery were going to look like with Little T. After the nightmare horror show I experienced with Asher in Israel, I reiterated a million times to Mr. T what I was and was not willing to deal with. I had limits, and I was setting those limits with the nurses and doctors. I wasn't going to pursue 45 hours of labor only to have a painful c-section again. It wasn't going to happen. I was down for a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarian), and I was committed to it because I didn't want to deal with the recovery of a c-section again, even knowing that the months-long recovery I had with Asher was a fluke caused by an infection that wouldn't heal.

Starting on Monday, June 6, I got concerned that I was leaking amniotic fluid, so the nurse sent me to the hospital. After a checkup and Asher being super concerned with mommy in the hospital bed, we were sent on our way with everything looking fine. On Tuesday, with my inlaws on their way into the country, I started having mild contractions. They were steady, but mild, so I didn't think I was heading into active labor. I was waiting for the magical moment my water would break like it did with Asher, which is what sent me into active labor. So I pushed through the contractions and life went on.

Then, on Wednesday, the contractions got more severe and closer together while Mr. T and I were out to lunch with my inlaws. After lunch, we made the executive decision to head to the hospital, because it felt like this was the real deal. We got there and after a few hours of tests, they decided to admit me around 6 p.m. I got a very large labor and delivery room complete with a super-amazing jacuzzi tub and actual chairs and a fold-out bed so Mr. T could stick around (in Israel, husbands aren't allowed to stay over at the hospital), and we settled in for the night. I was on constant monitoring, but unlike my experience in Israel, the two devices attached to my mid-section (one for the baby's heart rate and one for contractions) stayed in place magically instead of slipping and falling all over the place every time I moved. I couldn't handle laying down in the bed, so I was up on my feet the whole of the laboring process.

Nurses came in and out, constantly assessing how I was feeling and how the baby was feeling. They asked me at every step of the process what I wanted to do, and when Mr. T and I needed to discuss, they left us to it. The giant privacy curtain at the door gave us a sense of, well, privacy, and we felt in control of the entire process every step of the way. I made it clear that I wasn't going to go through two days of labor, and we created a plan.

Late in the evening, when it came time to choose "yes" or "no" to the epidural, I opted to give the jacuzzi tub a try to see if it would calm the painful contractions. Although it was an awesome tub, it didn't ease anything. I did, however, think it was amazing that the monitors they had attached to me allowed me to move freely wherever I wanted to go -- including into the tub.

After the tub failure, we went for the epidural around 12:30 a.m. The woman who did the epidural was ... I can't even describe her ... amazing. She was quick, it was about 2 minutes of pain, and then I was at ease. I slept for a few hours and they gave me petocin, so I slept a few more hours. In order to not bother me throughout those few hours, they put a cuff on my arm to monitor my blood pressure every 15 minutes, which I thought was pretty thoughtful. Yes, it was annoying to have something inflating and deflating on my arm, but less annoying than a nurse coming in to constantly wake me up and take my blood pressure.

Early in the morning, the doctors and nurses starting coming in more regularly to check and see how far I was dilated. We were all amazed at the process because by the morning I was at 9 cm, which is a measurement I never even got to with Asher. As the shifts changed, doctors came and introduced themselves and nurses did the same. Everyone was incredibly pleasant, coming in and doing what they needed and leaving promptly to give us space and privacy. There was no screaming, no arguing, no miscommunications, no confusion.

Around 8 a.m., I was at 9.5 cm and the epidural had all but ceased working. I felt like I was being launched to the ceiling every time I had a contraction, and I couldn't speak or move afterward. I kind of felt like I was dying, and I was screaming pretty loudly, so they called to have the epidural topped off. After that, the nurses and doctor on call and I decided it was time to start pushing.

Now, with the epidural topped off, I was on cloud 9. I couldn't feel a darn thing, so I asked the nurse about how long pushing normally takes, since this whole vaginal birth thing was novel to me. She said it can take one to two hours, to which I replied "how about 15 minutes?" and she laughed. Challenge accepted!

At 8:48 a.m., I began pushing. The doctors and nurses were shocked at how quickly it was going. Now, because I couldn't feel anything, I had no clue how hard I was pushing, so I just went for it. After a mere 14 minutes, there she was.

They held her up for me, and my response was shock. "It's a baby! A little baby!"

They all laughed, saying "What did you expect?"

The cord was cut and she was placed on my chest, the perfect little blob that had caused me so much grief for so many months. After a few hours of bonding and measurements with an amazing nurse who crafted Little T a hat with a bow, we were off to our recovery room. A bit smaller than the labor and delivery room, the recovery room was quiet, private, and had a huge bathroom that made moving around nice and easy. We could see the mountains from our window, and there was another pull-out bed for Tuvia to sleep in. The fridge down the hall was stocked with milk, juice, soda, and pudding (all kosher), and every room and hallway had a Keurig coffee machine for making tea and coffee. We ordered some kosher food from the deli through the hospital (they have a deal with the kosher deli) and spent the next 24 hours bonding, recovering, and trying to get some rest.

The next day, we were back at home, I was on my feet, and all of my expectations for labor and birth had been turned on their heads.

---

Now, I'm sure that language had something to do with the terrible experience I had giving birth in Israel, but considering I had a Hebrew-speaking doula and a husband whose Hebrew is pretty fluent, I can't attribute much of the terrifying ordeal in Israel to language. I just think that it's a country that misunderstands its people and the needs of its patients. Having Mr. T there with me throughout the whole process was unbelievably vital. Although we were only in the hospital one night after the baby's birth, having him there in the middle of the night so he could hold the baby so I could move around or go to the bathroom was life-changing. In Israel, he had to leave every night and go sleep wherever he could find space. I think in Israel the assumption is that people have so many kids that dads just don't need to be there because they're taking care of the kids, or maybe even that they don't want to be there. Also the cooperation of the doctors and nurses with what I wanted was clutch. I felt understood, respected, and like the focus of the experience. In Israel, I felt like I was a body on a bed that wasn't allowed to have opinions. The midwives and doctors fought and argued for what the correct plan of action was; I was merely a passive attendee at the birth of Asher. When it came to recovery, in the U.S. it was all about bonding and making sure that baby and I were comfortable, and most importantly, together immediately -- even with a c-section. Although there is a nursery at the hospital, they put the baby with the mother and practically insist on that bonding time. You can ask for the nursery if you want, but it's small and you won't find many babies in there. In Israel, they insisted on the baby being in the nursery. Even when we moved to the baby hotel, they just assumed we'd want to ditch our baby and go take a nap. What's up with that?

I could go on and on and on, but the experiences were night and day. They really couldn't have been more different. Will I have more children? Who knows. Will I have more children in Israel? Definitely not. I couldn't fathom or stomach going through what I went through with Asher ever again.

Say Hello to the Baby

I present to you ... Tirzah Shaindel! She was born on 06/09/16 at 9:02 am.

More forthcoming.

Shavuot Recipes: Gluten-free Macaroni and Cheese

I'll tell you this right now: There is absolutely zero that is healthy about this recipe. Although I measured a few things, I'm very much in a "play it by feel" kind of recipe experience.

Ingredients
1 package cooked Tinkiyada gluten-free elbow noodles
2 cups milk separated into 1.5 and .5 cups
4 Tbls tapioca starch
1 tsp mustard powder
salt and pepper
plenty of shredded cheese (I used cheddar and mozzarella)

Directions

1. Cook the Tinkiyada noodles according to package instructions. 
2. When the noodles are about 5 minutes from being done, start on the sauce. 
3. In a bowl, whisk together the .5 cups milk with the tapioca starch until combined and not lumpy. 
4. Heat 1.5 cups milk over a medium heat until it starts to steam slightly. 
5. Mix the starch/milk mixture into the milk on the stovetop and add in the mustard powder, salt, and pepper. 
6. Throw in as much cheese as you want and continue to stir as the cheese melts. 
7. Go crazy with the cheese, and just watch as the sauce thickens. If it gets too thick, add more milk. 
8. Mix with the noodles, and enjoy!

You can also throw in peas, tuna, salmon, and any other interesting add-ins you'd like. This freezes really well, which is what I've done for Shavuot. 

Baking with Asher!

This kid will probably end up on some junior baking competition or something. Masterchef Junior? Chopped: Junior? Who knows.

He's still got a few years to go because he hasn't grasped the concept that knives are sharp yet, but he's got the right amount of creativity and commitment to what he's made ... even when it's a mixture of honey, cinnamon, and vanilla.



Note: I was making Blueberry Almond Muffins, and he decided to take it upon himself to make mommy apple juice.

Spinning Babies and Visiting the Mikvah for an Easy Birth

I don't know if anyone out there on the interwebs has been waiting to hear what happened, but it went something like this:

I posted about the baby being breech and us finding some upside down books and properly flipping them on a Monday. On that Tuesday, I started having unbelievable pain. I couldn't sleep on either side, let alone my back. I had to sleep sitting up. The pain late Tuesday night was so excruciating that we called the nurse's line and they scheduled me in for a morning appointment.

I woke up having not slept, in immense pain, concerned about what was going on. I went to the doctor Wednesday morning, explained what was going on, and the nurse practitioner got out the ultrasound. And then, "Well, I wasn't expecting that!"

Yes. The baby had flipped. Just. Like. That. We canceled the version appointment and as of this past Thursday, baby was still properly positioned -- head down.

Now, whether you believe in segulahs or not, you have to admit that's pretty crazy, right?

So last night, I decided to embrace another segulah. It's the tradition of some to go to the mikvah during the ninth month of pregnancy as a segulah for an easy labor and birth. Now, my experience with Asher tells me that I can use all of the help, prayers, and good luck possible.

The funny thing about going to the mikvah is that 95 percent of the time you can't and shouldn't write about it. When you're going to the mikvah, it's usually because you're coming out of being niddah, and you don't want the whole world knowing your menstrual cycle. The 5 percent of the time you can talk about mikvah is either when you're converting to Judaism or taking a dip for the purposes of changing your situation, position, or cleansing yourself to prepare for birth.

So last night, I went for a dip in the mikvah. What happens is that you go to the mikvah, take a quick shower (no intense prep), then go dip in the mikvah dunking only once. There is no special prayer to say, and you don't say the normal mikvah blessing. You can say whatever you want to HaShem, and that's what I did. I asked for an easy labor and birth, a healthy child ... and that was that.

Furthermore, there's a segulah for a woman who has had trouble conceiving to go into the mikvah after a woman like me. Unfortunately, no one went in after me. But it got me thinking: What if you show up at the mikvah for your normal visit and unknowingly go in after a woman in her ninth month? And then bam! You're pregnant! What luck, eh?

Now, we wait. This baby is meant to show up before Shavuot, and I'm praying that it's sooner rather than later.

Blob Watch 2016 begins!

Oh Come On! The Blob is Breech

Well, this has truly been a pregnancy for the books, and we're in a state of breech, still. The Blob doesn't seem to want to turn, so we've begun with the segulot. 

Segulah (also written segula; plural segulot) literally means a "remedy" or "protection" in Hebrew. The term is pronounced suh-goo-luh.

In Judaism, a segulah is viewed as an action that will lead to a change in one's luck, fortune, or destiny.

In Judaism, there is a segulah for just about everything under the sun. Having children, overcoming bad luck or illness, making more money, finding a job, picking out the right religious garments ... you get the idea. 

With a breech baby, there are a bunch of different things that you can do to hopefully turn the baby, the most common and prominent being the typical ones: check your mezuzot (the parchments placed on the doorposts of the home) to make sure they're still viable and not upside down and make sure your seforim (books) aren't upside down. 

The funny thing is, we should have checked our mezuzot before we even moved into the house, because after the balagan of buying the house and having some interesting challenges securing a mortgage, we came to find out that the mezuzah on the front door of the house (the guy who owned it was Jewish) was not only no longer usable, but it was also upside down. Yikes. 

So we checked the books, or at least, we thought we'd checked the books. And everything was upright and accounted for. Then, a Chabad friend mentioned to me that they did the same only to discover later that the slipcover on a book had been right-side up while the book was upside down, so I told Mr. T we needed to check them again. 

Lo and behold, he discovered that three of the machzorim (prayer book for special Jewish holidays) from his grandmother were upside down in a bookcase that is mostly filled with non-Jewish books. BAM! 

Will the baby magically turn now before my version procedure on Friday where we go to the hospital and a trained physician attempts to turn the baby from the outside? I sure hope so. Everything I've read and heard about the procedure has me on pins and needles, terrified at the outcomes (or non-outcomes) and excruciating pain. 

But after last time, I really, really really really don't want to have to go through another c-section and the recovery process. I just don't think that I can take it. 

In the meantime, I'm hauling tuches to get work in order so that when this baby does show up (and for some weird reason I keep getting the feeling that The Blob will be early and that this is going to also be a hard birth), that my coworkers are good to go and not left in the dark. It's a huge undertaking of writing, scheduling, curating ... and my brain is totally mush right now. 

Babies do weird things to your brain, your heart, your body. I can't get over how important the role of women, and mothers specifically, is, and how little I understood went into it before undertaking this journey first with Asher and now with The Blob. I also still can't get over how little respect and consideration is paid to mothers around the world, but specifically in the United States. 

I'm Terrified: How to Love and Parent Two Children

Although I really, truly prefer winter, for some reason there are a lot of tastes, scents, and sounds that hold a special place in my heart and send me swirling back to various points throughout my childhood and college years.

We live near a high school, where just about every day there is some kind of sporting event going on. For me, the sound of a baseball hitting a metal bat delivers me to the days when I lived on the baseball field because either my dad or older brother were playing. Starbucks trips this time of year remind me of when I was in college and worked as a New Student Enrollment leader and would get a grande iced mocha just about every morning, the whipped cream melting into the cold drink creating swirls and clouds. A trip to Home Depot had me hearing the sounds of outdoor wind chimes, reminding me of summer nights listening to the neighbor lady's chimes ringing out with a passing breeze. And, of course, freshly mowed grass -- one of my least favorite smells of all time -- is so prevalent that it reminds me of growing up in a home with a mom and a dad and two brothers, one of which mowed the lawn begrudgingly on the hottest days while I avoided the sun inside.

Back in those days, I hated being outside in the heat. These days, I cherish days where I can sit outside and work in the sun.

---------

Something odd happened a few nights ago when I went to bed too late and couldn't fall asleep. Tossing and turning because of the extreme discomfort of this pregnancy, it suddenly hit me: I only have about a month left where Asher is my only child. Just weeks left where he is the absolute center of my universe and the only little human that I have to share my life and my love with. The smack of reality that soon he'll be moved slightly to the side so that I can love and nurture a second child still stings. I don't know why I hadn't considered the reality before. How does a parent love two children? How does a parent find a space for two little humans in her life?

The love of my life.

To be frank I'm terrified. Asher has been all I've had and all I've known in my life. When iBoy entered my world, he was old enough that he didn't need me in the same way that a baby, toddler, child does. He didn't rely on me for everything from food to putting on shoes to kissing a boo-boo to ushering away scary bumps in the night.

Asher is my world. When Mr. T was gone for nine months, the reality hit me that I would be happy with just my little man forever and ever. If I never had another munchkin, my heart was full and I'd be fine. And, even though I've been pregnant for months, I've still been living with that reality.

I'm scared that I've given him to prominent a place in my heart and mind, that when this new little one shows up that I either won't be able to give it the love and attention it needs or that I'll be completely unable to provide that love and attention to Asher. As I said, I'm terrified.

Is it something normal a parent faces with a second child? Does it just work, like everything else in pregnancy, child bearing, and rearing? Do you just figure it out?

How do you love and parent two children?

It's Passover Again, and I've got PTSD

Oh Passover. After last year's miscarriage three days before Passover and breaking my foot walking to the first-night seder (and not realizing it was broken for the first two days, so walking around on it), I think that I've got Passover PTSD.

Yes, for the first time in my Jewish life, I'm responsible for the Passover seder. Since we're in the U.S., that's two nights of seders, folks.

Note: The seder is the festive Passover meal that begins with a lengthy retelling of the Israelite Exodus from Egypt and the miracles therein. Jews use a haggadah (a book of sorts) to retell the Passover story. There are certain foods you're required to eat during the retelling, and by the time the meal actually arrives, many people are all full up on salt water and parsley and lettuce and wine and, of course, matzah. 

Theoretically we could have gone out the first night, but the reality is that because of that extra month (yes, it's a Jewish leap year), Passover is starting crazy late now and Asher is a creature of habit that I cannot and will not mess with. So the seder starts after bedtime and the Ash man will be fast asleep for mommy's sanity. For the second night, we're having a couple over, and it's what I'm calling the "make up for the first night seder with just the two of us where I fall asleep at the table with a face full of gefilte fish" seder. Yes, the first night it's just the two of us, and my husband has a glowing spirit that is full of stories and singing and ... seder is his jam. I'll let you know how the "just the two of us" seder goes, but I have a feeling it's going to be super disappointing for him. I wish I could pull a couch up to the table.

So the PTSD. There was a giant kitchen fiasco last night that left three dishes I'd made in the "dairy" category because I used real butter, and before you say, "Wait, don't you have a vegetarian house?" the reality is that yes, we're vegetarian, so normally it's not an issue, but we have a guest coming whose custom it is to have meat on seder night, so I acquiesced and ... disaster. Now, the meat seder we're having is slim pickings on food, and that just is what it is and it will be what it will be. Add to that being super preggers and having several jobs and having terribly swollen feet and a toddler running around and a husband who works at the kosher deli (busiest time of year) and who is responsible for fixing the local eruv (thanks, fluke snowstorm last week that tore it down in 17 different places and required 6 hours of fixing today) ... and I broke down last night.

I cried. I was overwhelmed and exhausted and I lost my #@$*. I know, I know. Stress isn't good for the baby. Over exertion isn't good for the baby.

So I think I've finally come to terms with the reality that Passover is just a few hours a way, and it just is what it is. My table isn't set, and as I watch friends post pictures of their beautiful Passover tables with real dishes and real silverware and real glasses I feel kind of lame. I'm 32 years old and don't have Passover stuff. But it's my first time hosting, actually needing those things. In my last marriage and in this marriage, I've always happened to be out or away or just not at home for the seders, let alone the rest of the week.

Someday I'll be a Jewish adult woman with actual stuff for Passover. Someday ...

Anyway, as I come to terms with Passover, I'm also starting to get excited about Shavuot. It's not just because I love cheesecake, but it's because it's my favorite holiday, as it's what I call the "convert's holiday" because Jews read the Book of Ruth. Man I love Shavuot. I loved it even more when I got to stay up all night and teach. Unfortunately, The Blob is showing up on the eve of Shavuot, so who knows how it's going to go down this year. Either way, here's a good read to prep you for Shavuot.

And now? Maybe I should get the toddler-in-a-diaper next to me in the bath and set the seder table, eh? I can't wait for the gefilte fish. And I'm not even kidding.

Ask Chaviva Anything: Parenting, Jewish Books, and Jewish Conversion!

It's been a while since I got my Ask Chaviva Anything on, so it's about time. I can't seem to find an easy theme with the questions I have remaining, so we'll call this a grab bag edition. Ready? Let's do this. 

My husband and I are also thinking of having a baby number two. With the first one I stayed at home for almost three years, now we are thinking that I'd stay home for the first year and my husband for the second. You mentioned that daycare is very expensive in USA, but that you make quite good money while your husband makes less. I'm just curious, would it be possible for your hubby to stay home with the kids and you bring in the dough?

Although it's a great idea, we tried this when we first moved to the U.S. because Mr. T couldn't legally work until he received his work permit/green card. The truth is, neither Mr. T nor I are cut out to be full-time stay-at-home parents. Also, we need to be a two-income family (whether here or in Israel) to make things work, and Asher is ultimately a much happier kid the days that he's at daycare. He sleeps better, he's happier, and he's growing into an immensely empathetic and social little kid. In the end, everyone benefits in their own way from our situation. As for No. 2, we'll see how it impacts the current situation and go from there. Stay tuned!

Can you recommend a nonfiction book or two with Orthodox characters? And I miss Ask Chaviva Anything, please write soon!

Aww, thanks for the kind words! As for a book, you want nonfiction with Orthodox characters? Or fiction with Orthodox characters? I'm a bit confused. There are a ton of nonfiction books about Orthodox topics (a lot of biographies and things like Crossing the Borders of Time), but if you're looking for fiction books with Orthodox characters, anything by Tova Mirvis or Cynthia Ozick, honestly. I've been reading The Boston Girl, but the main character and her family wouldn't really qualify as Orthodox by today's standards, necessarily (some go out for lobster on Shabbat). Have you read The Nightingale? It's also a really great read, based during WWII. Also, check out this list over here that walks through fiction throughout the years. If I missed the mark on your question, just let me know! Also, take a look at the archives for "Book Review" here. 

Did you grow up religious and if not what brought you to your path?

Not only would I say I didn't grow up religious, I didn't grow up Jewish. In a nutshell: My parents raised me smartly on the Golden Rule, despite the fact that the first half of my life we were in the Bible Belt of Southern Missouri and the second half in Nebraska. All of my friends were immensely religious (in both locations), so I attended Vacation Bible School, church on occasion (especially in high school), and so on, but we were never a religious family. Easter and Christmas weren't about Jesus, they were about the common, American secular traditions. From there ... check out my posts and essays I wrote about how I got to Judaism and ended up Orthodox. 

Have a question? You, too, can Ask Chaviva Anything! Just fill out this form. 

 

Review: Sweet Note Bakery Gluten-Free Bagels

Holy (Bagel) Grail! There are a few things that I've slowly been coming to terms with never being able to get gluten free that taste good, let alone edible. The two big ones are baklava (and anything made with phyllo dough) and bagels. Most of the bagels I've had from brands like Udi's taste like eating air -- tasteless, unsubstantial, and just not worth it.

And then? Sweet Note Bakery The Greater Knead!. I'm trying to remember (with my intensely active baby brain) how I found them, and I think it might have been a Facebook ad, but I'm not entirely sure. I saw a small bakery making gluten-free bagels that happened to be kosher, and I reached out. A quick connection later and I had a box full of gluten-free bagel goodies on my doorstep. Cinnamon Raisin. Everything. Plain.

Then I ate them all over the next few weeks with the enjoyment of someone who unearths a classic family recipe a dozen years after it was lost. These bagels are divine, and unique.

They're smaller than most of the gluten-free bagels on the market, and they're more substantial in weight and flavor, too. They don't taste like a fluff of air; you actually feel like you're eating a bagel.

The trick to these bagels? You have to follow the directions -- no swaying from the path. The ladies behind Sweet Note know what they're doing, and they know that storage and reheating can be the enemy or best friend of gluten-free baked goods. I attempted to warm a bagel up on the plata on Shabbat, and it ended in disaster (I was so bummed that I wasted a bagel).

It's all about freezing the bagels. Putting them in the microwave for 60 seconds to soften them up, and then toasting them ... yes. Perfection. So good. So much flavor, so much substance, so filling.

I can't say enough about these bagels. I'm going to do everything in my power to try to get them into some local shops because, even I can admit, the price is a bit of a sticker shock when it comes to shipping (because they need to stay frozen for integrity, overnight is the only option, which is expensive).

Have you tried Sweet Note? Is there another kosher, gluten-free bagel that I should be eating that I'm missing out on? 

Mommy Shabbat: Man Plans, G-d Laughs

The past few weeks have been a bit insane, and basically until The Blob shows up, things are going to continue to be pretty insane, what with Purim tomorrow and Passover coming up next month. Then it'll be June and I'll be launched into a world of having two kids under three. Good times!

It all began a few weeks ago when I ended up staying alone over Shabbat in a hotel airport in order not to miss an 8 p.m. flight after Shabbat to Austin, TX, in order to attend SXSW Interactive. I've stayed in plenty of hotels over Shabbat, but those hotels were in ... Israel! Where everything just works. You can enter your room with a real key, there's no weird automatic lights or doors, the dining room serves food for Shabbat, there's a synagogue in the hotel, and everything is super easy. For this stay, I had to organize a food delivery from the local deli for dinner and lunch, make sure I got to the hotel well before Shabbat to figure out where the automatic things were and what lights I could leave on and off, and to make sure the staff were prepared for me. Add to this the fact that the hotel had only been open a few months and ... what a time I had.

Aside from the logistics and having to "check out" at 4 p.m. and spend the next 3 hours in the lobby waiting for Shabbat to end, there was a great sense of loneliness of Shabbat. I went into it thinking I'd have a super relaxed "Mommy vacation," a chance to kick back, sleep a bunch, and read trashy magazines and a good book over those 25 hours. But the truth was, it was a lot of empty time where I felt a bit stir crazy. Once I was in the lobby, I got to do some fun people watching, and I got halfway through a book, but eating alone in a fairly sterile hotel room wasn't fun.

Would I do it again? Probably not. Would I do it in Israel again? Yes. A million times. So easy.

So Shabbat ended around 7 p.m. and my flight was at 8 p.m. I zipped off to my gate and made it in time for the flight to Austin, where I arrived around 11 p.m. ... the night before the Daylight Savings change. Once I arrived at the group house I was staying at, I schmoozed for a bit and then crashed hardcore like a very pregnant mother would.

About as wild and crazy as I got at SXSW.
Wearing a lei at a Tiki Bar party. 

And then? SXSW Interactive. I attended in 2010, 2011, and a very memorable 2012, but hadn't been back in four years. Showing up at one of the most booze-filled, energy-draining festivals ever at nearly 7 months pregnant with a husband and toddler back at home was a pretty big culture shock. I remember SXSWi from years gone by, and I spent a lot of time waiting in lines for the big parties, drinking, and staying up all hours of the day.

This time around, I was home most nights and in bed by 9 p.m., exhausted with swollen feet, a headache, and no desire to party until the cows came home. I felt completely lame, considering my housemates were up until around 4 a.m. most nights, but hey, I'm a mom. An overworked mom. Sleep is a commodity. I was also a bit turned off by the entire thing this year because it's become incredibly and predominately corporate in the past four years, and not just tech corporate. McDonalds had a house. Why does McDonalds need a huge presence at SXSW? I don't know. They had a virtual reality Happy Meal experience for the love of Pete. I don't mind a Mashable House, but McDonald's? No thank you. The whole thing just made me feel ... dirty. SXSWi was big when I used to go, but now it's turned into some type of unstoppable corporate monster.

Overall, I totally thought that Shabbat and SXSWi were going to be a huge "vacation" for me, but they ended up being harder work than juggling work at home with a toddler. It's definitely a truth that man plans and Gd laughs. Despite it all, however, it was a ton of fun. I just probably wouldn't do it the same way again.

Start Spreading the News: We're Moving!

So we've been living in an epicly rotten apartment complex for the past year and a half, and we found out recently that our lease would not be renewed (because, well, our desire to have a dishwasher that was actually mounted and electric outlets that actually worked and fixtures that weren't falling off the walls -- all in a "newly renovated space," meant complaints, and they didn't like those complaints and having to fix the problems). We assessed our options, and the reality was that the only other apartments within the Orthodox community were too far down the road to be a part of the kehilla (community), especially with the isolation of a new baby coming for me. 

So. What to do? We turned a potentially terrible situation into something awesomely positive!

Well, Mr. T sold his flat in the UK late last year, which left us with a bit of a down payment that was originally meant as our Israel house fund. But let's just say that the amount was not even a drop in the world's largest bucket of Israeli housing costs, so we made the executive decision to pursue the purchase of a home. We technically began looking in the fall, but because of Mr. T's recent re-arrival in the U.S. and lack of work history and my own unique financial background, we were not in any position to even ask the most giving of banks for a mortgage. 

So we waited until quite literally the last possible minute, were blessed with the world's most amazing loan officer at a local bank (whose owners support Israel wholeheartedly) who crafted a completely custom mortgage for us, as well as an amazing realtor, and we closed on a home yesterday, Monday, March 7, 2016. It was ... well, a bit of a process where I felt in over my head about 99 percent of the time, but Mr. T had been through it before and our realtor was outstanding and dealt with my neurosis and countless questions and concerns. 

The house? It's a little single-family, three-bedroom home in the community with a re-finished basement and quite a few nice renovations. It has a huge back yard with a shed and it's just a few blocks from Asher's daycare and our synagogue and most of our friends. It's small, but it gets the job done, and as soon as we can figure out how to make a dining room and living room out of one small space, I'll be able to rest easy. 

So what does this mean for Israel? Well, the reality is that the Denver housing market is on the up and up constantly, which means (b'ezrat HaShem -- with the help of Gd) we'll be able to sell nicely or when we are prepared to move back to Israel we'll have a steady monthly income from renting the home out. But neither of us are up for making it back to Israel without a financially sound plan to support our growing family. 

Truth be told, I'm still in a bit of shock. We're moving on Thursday, and then I'm spending Friday through Wednesday on the road for work at SXSW Interactive in Austin, TX, leaving the boys with a house full of boxes to be emptied. Moving, after all, is one of my least favorite things in the world and gives me immense anxiety. Large volumes of things being packed and shifted just ... I don't know. It messes with my nerves. And being super preggers, no thank you. (My husband is a saint for taking on this task, seriously.)

I honestly never thought I'd be a homeowner. I grew up with parents who rented, and I've rented my entire life. In my last marriage, my ex had two properties in his name, but nothing was in my name, so I didn't know what it felt like to say "I'm a homeowner." 

Does this make me an adult? Am I grownup now? Here's to a new home for a new baby and plenty of celebrations of good, happy, positive things!

Congrats to the Necklace Winner!

First of all, sorry it took me nearly two days to draw a winner ... I've discovered a wacky issue with mobile comments on the blog, and the wacky issue is that you simply can't comment on a mobile device. I attempted to make it happen, it failed, and I'm sorry. In 2016, mobile reigns supreme, and the inability to comment on mobile really bums me out. So. Sorry!

Anyway, congratulations to Mor S. (a Denver friend and most-excellent mama) for winning the giveaway! In case you see this,  Mor, please send me an email at kvetching dot editor at gmail dot com.

In other news: I'm now Facebook "verified" as a personality. Eegads. I'm like, famous or something. Wait, no, I just went through the Facebook Mentions process of verification. But a girl can dream, right?

Shabbat Shalom y'all!