An Interfaith Advent

I have had a brilliant parenting idea and I have never seen it anywhere else and it might be the only one I ever have that's worth sharing so here I go.

Amanda Soule has a box of holiday and winter books that she pulls out every December and puts away after the New Year to preserve the sense of special-ness and anticipation for these books.  (Actually, now that I went back and read the post, she speaks less deliberately about this so my idea must have been percolating even then based on how I altered the memory.)

My mother did something similar, except more intuitively and with fewer gorgeous pictures.  We had our favorite Christmas books that we looked forward to and she had a reason to collect beautiful books for the stack that sat by the fireplace.

I have been figuring out how to celebrate Advent in my little family and Advent calendars are part of my tradition.  But they make Christmas so long!  I know, I know, so do Christmas trees and music and special cookies and all the other things I do.  But calendars seem to completely obliterate Hanukkah altogether, since they take every single day of December as anticipation for Christmas. 

We believe in keeping our Christian and Jewish holidays separate and that works most of the time.  This is the only real situation I can think of where one spiritual practice excludes another spiritual practice, other than when Passover dietary restrictions preclude celebrating Easter through traditional foods.

I began thinking about holiday books and decided to take Soulemama's and my mother's tradition one step further.  I am going to wrap books like presents and number them 1-25 like an Advent calendar.  This way, 9 days of the season, the books can be Hanukkah books and 16 days they can be Christmas or winter-themed.  Now that I think of it, next year I'll make sure I have non-holiday specific paper for the winter books.

My hope is that in future years, the kids will anticipate their favorite books, guessing based on size and shape.  Reading the books together can spur conversations about both holidays and the thoughts they have about their inter-faithness.  If advent means "coming," like the candle-lighting ceremonies taught me, the Advent season can prepare us for both holidays.

On a related not, a few weeks ago, I bought Esther a Hanukkah book by Lemony Snicket called The Latke Who Couldn't Stop Screaming, which is maybe the best Hanukkah book I've ever read.  Many pages required me to mock-scream as I read the titular latke's lines.  We read it once and then I put it away.  I got it out again now to wrap it and Esther pulled it out of the pile and went to read it to herself.  Apparently, my dramatic rendition made an impression because she began mock-screaming exactly as I had done.  Three weeks later.  This kid.  Seriously.

Ginger jelly and ginger pear preserves

So, the suburbs may not be all that bad.  By my parents' house, there is a gigantic super-store of produce and international foods. In addition to other awesome things, they have this whole shelf of still-good produce being sold in packages that must be at least 5 pounds for $1.49 each.  I bought one of fresh ginger roots just for the sheer novelty of it.

One of our closest friends is a little nuts for ginger and we're seeing him on Friday so if I couldn't figure out what to do with it, we could just take it to him and he would.

But Tuesday morning, I woke up raring to go and wanting to make applesauce for Esther, the applesauce monster.  We had about 8 pounds of apples that turned out to be not-so-good and another 6 pounds that I bought and the super-store for about $3.50.

Since I had all of the canning equipment out anyway and the Pandora outlaw country station was helping with the all-around patriotic feeling in the house, I set out to do something with the ginger.  I didn't like any of the recipes I found, so I made up my own.  My neighbor actually knocked on the door to ask what smelled so good, then asked me for the recipe so she could make the jelly for gifts, once she had tasted it.

So, I figured I'd share it with the internets, since they have given me so many recipes over the years.  This is written for intelligent beginners.  I'll include links and encourage you to bone up on food safety when canning shelf-stable foods.  My recipe is a derivative of several out of the Ball canning book, so I'm fairly certain the ratio of sugar, acid and fruit are OK, but it certainly hasn't been approved by anyone but me.

Ginger pear preserves

4-6 big fresh ginger roots
6 cups water
1.5-2 cups peeled, diced pears marinating in 0.5 cups lemon or lime juice (to deter discoloration)
5 cups sugar
1 package powdered pectin

1.  Rough chop the ginger root into fairly small pieces.  There is no need to peel it first.
2.  Bring water and ginger to boil in large stock pot. 
3.  Reduce heat to simmer, cover and let it go for awhile.  At least 20 minutes?  When you take a spoonfull, blow on it and taste it, it should be HOT (spicy hot, not temperature hot).
4.  Pour ginger tisane into a receptacle, using a sieve to strain out the solid ginger.
5. Let cool for a few minutes while you measure the sugar and cut up the pear.  This is a good time to set up your canning materials, as well.  (Sterilize jars and lids, begin heating water in a bigger stock pot, find way to keep jars and lids warm until needed, set up stations, etc.)
6.  Measure 3 cups of the ginger tisane back into cool stock pot and whisk in pectin.  Do not turn on stove until after this step.
7.  Bring liquid to a boil, then add the sugar all at once.  Return to a boil, then turn off heat after 1 minute.  Skim the foam from the top.
8.  Stir in the fruit and juice.
9. Ladle into jars, leaving about 0.5 inches empty at the top.  Attach lid and band and deposit in canning pot.
10.  When pot is full, bring water to a rolling boil when covered and process for 10 minutes.  Turn off heat and let sit for 5 more minutes.  Remove from water to sit undisturbed on a kitchen towel until cool.  You will know you have been successful at creating a vacuum when you hear all the little buttons on the lids pop as the jars cool.

Once the preserves are cool, don't worry if they seem a little runny.  Refrigerate before serving to harden the set.

An alternative is to leave out the fruit for a purer Ginger Jelly.  If you do this, stir in the lime or lemon juice when you stir in the pectin instead of after boiling.

Ginger Jelly

4.5 cups ginger tisane
0.5 cups lime or lemon juice
5 cups sugar
1 package powdered pectin

Both recipes should make approximately 8 half-pint jars and excellent presents.  The finished product can be served with a cheese spread or over cream cheese.  I love savory jelly PBJs on rye and when warmed, it can also be served over ice cream.  Do not hesitate to eat straight out of the jar instead of mediocre store-bought hard candy.

What do I do? I'm a writer.

I just sold my first piece of writing.  Folks here will find it very familiar but after this one, I'm writing original essays (probably on themes you have heard about) for the same editor.

http://www.interfaithfamily.com/life_cycle/pregnancy_and_birth_ceremonies/Welcoming_Esther_a_Simchat_Bat.shtmlhttp://www.interfaithfamily.com/life_cycle/pregnancy_and_birth_ceremonies/Welcoming_Esther_a_Simchat_Bat.shtml

The website recommends choosing one religion or another for interfaith families but I appreciated that they didn't cut out the bits of our story that communicated that we were raising Esther in both faiths.

I keep going back to the website because they offer really good resources about how Jews actually go about the business of being Jews, in all the different traditions and this is unique on the internet, as far as I have found.

You should go.  Make a comment.  Or come back here and make one.  Or better yet, tell me what you'd like me to write about next in 800-1100 words.

A good eater

My daughter's appetite is legen . . . wait for it . . . dary.

She eats everything you put in front of her.

Especially fruit. Oh my gosh, the fruit she consumes.

Her appetite is so epic that my brother likes to hold her and feed her things, just for the pleasure of watching a child eat what he has offered her since his own daughter is a very picky eater.



Normally, I take very little credit for how good-natured my daughter is.  Seriously, I'm not going to take the blame if she goes bad, so I just tell people that she came out of the box that way.  I think she's just like Rory Gilmore and basically she'll raise herself right as long as I don't get in the way too much.

So, although I'll point out that I use the baby-led weaning method in introducing solid foods, I have no idea if that had any actual impact on the type of eater she turned out to be.

However, because she was never spoon-fed baby food, she has some very well-developed manual dexterity when it comes to handling her food.  She has almost complete control over the food on her tray and is actually getting pretty good with a fork.



She does deliberately throw her food from the tray to indicate that she has completed her meal and we're working on that ("Can you hand it to Mama when you're all done?") but since she's only 15 months old, my expectations for this sort of behavior moderation are low.  When reminded, she'll often hand it over.  Unless she is smiling mischievously and racing me to throw it as I'm racing to clear it from the tray.  15 months.  Totally normal.

So, last night, neither Jacob nor I were feeling very well so we decided to be bad parents and sit on the couch watching Battlestar Galactica while Esther was still awake.  She played by herself over in the corner very nicely for about half of the episode and then began to want our attention.

We decided to just lean into the bad parent thing and stick her in her high chair with a larabar, followed up with some honey cake that Jacob's mom sent us for Rosh Hashana.  Seriously?  We didn't even put the effort into cutting up some fruit for her.  An energy bar and cake while strapped into a chair facing the TV where sci-fi violence was being portrayed.  Totally normal. Actually, she was perpendicular to the TV so that if she looked left, she could watch Cylons seduce humans and if she looked right, she could see us.  We're not monsters, even if when she looked right, all she would observe were slack-jaws and dilated pupils instead of her normally scheduled attentive parents.

At some point, she uncharacteristically fumbled some of her cake and dropped in on the floor.  We know this -not because we were monitoring her- but because she began to pointedly make eye contact with us while pointing at the floor.  I've never seen her do this before.  The kid was in a panic.  She was pointing with her hand through the leg opening to better illuminate for us when the cake must have gone, rather than a more generic over-the-tray point.  She was articulating her gibberish with an intensity that I have never heard before.

We laughed and ignored her.

Seriously, she had a full half of the cake still in her other hand.  She was going to live.  Plus, it was pretty tense waiting to see if the Cylons had followed the colonial fleet through this faster-than-light jump, too.

She began to insist.

Her gibberish was distinctly cadenced to communicate, "I don't think you understood me.  I DROPPED my CAKE."

She was pointing with her arm fully extended.

I swear to you, people, we ignored her pleas for another five minutes.

That's an ETERNITY to toddler.  Unless the forget about what they wanted and move on to other interests, which is what we were hoping she would do.

But she was persistent.  She was not only upset that she was missing out on cake, she was also clearly upset with herself for fumbling it.  What kind of terrible parents would not hit pause to soothe their child's wounded pride?

Us.

Finally, I got up to find the dropped cake since she was so focused that she would not even eat the cake that was in her hand any more.  She was not crying her proto-tantrum cry of frustration.  She was not whining her usual bid for attention.  If Esther can advocate for herself with this much dignity and tenacity as she grows into an adult, she will do very, very well for herself.

And when I found it?  It was the size of a pea.

It's good to know we've all got our priorities straight.

Chick-Fil-A and me

Someone very close to me, whom I love and who has my express permission to hold me accountable recently write me this email:

your words of facebook come across to me as very harsh, very condemning, very exclusionary, very barrier building, and - most of all - very unlike you and how you live your life - in my opinion. 

"One of the better articles on why it's not Dan Cathy's personal feelings about gay marriage that is offensive: people are allowed to have those and pursue them; it is the money his tax-exempted foundation gives to political groups trying to deny people equal rights that is offensive."

"Shut up already about how liberals are tolerant of everyone but intolerant people. Seriously. Like everything else, some liberals are like that, but a whole lot of us are trying to be better. Like Glennon. Go ahead, my conservative friends. Read it."

   

You have modeled for me these last few years your personal life of loving, of tolerance, of inclusion, of forgiveness, and - to me - the written words are none of that.  I've learned much from you - because of what you do and how you live your life - about following Jesus who was loving and tolerating and forgiving and including.

And this person is right.  Something about this Chick-Fil-A thing has me angry.  It has me not quite being myself.  So, this post is more about figuring out what's going on in my head and my heart than a defense.  Because, as I have said, my friend is absolutely right.

I wonder if some of the harshness of my posts is a response to the more conservative things I see being said on Facebook.  (And remember, a lot of my professional life is spent in the evangelical Christian world so there's a pretty good balance of left and right showing up in my Facebook feed.)

I suppose there are two aspects about these posts that strike me: the first is the general gleeful tone of catching up liberals in their own hypocrisy and the second is their assertion that their rights are being infringed upon.

So, this gleeful tone.  This image is a good example.

Honestly, I don't know what to say.  I have a million and one arguments but don't want to go down the rhetorical rabbit-hole.  I suppose folks could even argue with me that this picture is neither gleeful nor pointing out hypocrisy and those folks would be right, as well.  I just know that so many people in my news feed have said they are buying multiple meals today.  Maybe the better word is enthusiasm.

Why does my sense that this is the way folks on the right feel about this make me upset?

Because at the core of this, we're talking about people.  We're talking about people that God loves as much as he loves you or me.

Every time someone posts in support of Chick-Fil-A, they are communicating, intentionally or not that gay people do not deserve the same rights that straight people have.

And why would that be true unless they thought that gay people weren't as good as straight people?

So, that makes me mad.

The second thing is this statement that freedom of speech is at stake here.  This is patently ridiculous.  I asked my friend why he would post about eating multiple meals and he talked about how wrong is was that politicians were saying that stores would not be allowed to open in their districts.

He makes a good point here.  That does seem a little distasteful, IF that actually happened and IF it  wasn't just election year posturing (yes, posturing invites response) and IF the laws of a particular district actually allowed that type of discrimination to happen.

But the majority of people who are upset with Chick-Fil-A are not politicians.  They are individuals who support equal rights for gay people.  And our Constitutional right to freedom of speech only gives you the right to say what you want.  It does not give you the right to say what you want without consequences.

And the consequence for Chick-Fil-A is that people who support equal rights for gay people do not like Chick-Fil-A and do not want to eat there.  Boycotts are not a new thing for the right wing.  They are just usually on the other side of it.

So, again, talking about the rights of Dan Cathy to people who legitimately are not allowed to do things that other people are allowed to do, simply because of who they sleep with, is a little angry making. (What things?  Hospital visitation, social security benefits, tax breaks, adoption, etc.)

I don't the answer to the question as to why this has me acting outside of my usual patterns.  I know that there are times when conversation has to stop and people who are being hurt have to be protected, if those two things are at odds.  I don't know if this is one of those times.  I did not deliberately set out to draw a line in the sand.

The compromise I made with myself today after my friend sent me his email was to give the cost of lunch to The Marin Foundation and to post about on Facebook:

"I just donated the cost of a chicken dinner (with Coke because let's get real) to The Marin Foundation, a nonprofit that works with Christians -regardless of their beliefs about the sinfulness of homosexuality and without judgement of them- to treat members of the LGBT community as beloved children of God through reconciliation and relationship-building."

I do love the people in my life who are conservative and I respect that many of them have come to their beliefs about homosexuality through prayer and study.  I do not think that many of them actually live out their maxim that they love the sinner and not the sin.  Posting enthusiastic support for Chick-Fil-A doesn't communicate love for gay people.  Posting harsh comments of my own probably doesn't communicate love for conservative people, either.  I don't know what to do with that.  Do you?

But you weren't born Jewish, were you?

Some conversations on Facebook inspires me to write just a little bit more about our intents for Esther's religious upbringing.

Mostly, it was mentioned that because of the heavy emphasis on Jewish practice, it seems to readers like we're raising a Jewish daughter who has some exposure to Christian practices.

In fact, when we were discussing Jewish conversion, Jacob's main concern was that people would come to that conclusion.

Let me start by saying that the premise of our choices is that all kids find their own language in which to communicate with God.  A Modern Orthodox family that I grew up with has two children who practice Judaism to varying degrees and one child who is raising his own child completely devoid of Jewish upbringing.  For awhile, the reigning ladies' semi-professional wrestling tag-team champions were named Lane and Nevaeh.  Nevaeh was a name popular with conservative, evangelical Christians because it it Heaven spelled backwards.  I'd bet money, that's now how those religious folks thought their daughter would turn out.

Kids are given a religious line by their parents and they spend their early adult lives jumping back and forth across that line, bouncing off of it first one direction and then the next until they find a line of their own.  Sometimes it's close to their parents' line and sometimes it is very far away.  However, their explorations all start in that specific place.

The line my parents' laid down was basically mainline Protestant, with some evangelicalism thrown in because the church we attended was geographically close to Wheaton college.  They modeled a certain social liberalness that was grounded in a sense of love and respect for the situations of people down on their luck that was born of their understanding of who God is.  They also modeled certain practices, such as a love for traditional hymns, how we celebrate Christmas and what kind of  relationship to have with the pastor.  This was explicitly grounded in the orthodox beliefs that Jesus was God's son, who saved us from our sin by dying, rising from the dead and ascending into Heaven.

All four of us have ended up parallel to that line in some way or another, with varying degrees of formal participation in institutional religion, behavior towards others and belief in that theology. 

My parents did not push their line on us but did insist that if we didn't want to go to church with them, we had to find a place where we did want to go.  When I look at families that take active steps to make sure that their kids choose an exact copy of their own spiritual lives, yes, sometimes they are successful, but often those kids bounce even harder off of that hard line, with sometimes tragic and/or ironic results.

Understanding that children find their own paths regardless of parental desires, Jacob and I would like to do something a little radical and give Esther tools that will increase her chances of success in finding her path.  We are not going to tell her that she's Jewish or that she's Christian.  We are going to give her Jewish experiences and Christian experiences.  We are going to support her when she wants to experiment with wearing a cross necklace to the high holiday services or when she insists on keeping kosher as a teenager and acts disgusted in the presence of the ham on the table.  We will insist that she be respectful and engaged but we will not expect her to assume any identity other than the one that feels most authentic to her and this includes experiementation with her aunt's Catholicism, her other aunt's Hinduism or some other religion altogether.

Like all other things in parenting, we will just try to do our best.

So, with that philosophy lined out, let me talk a little more directly about our choices for Esther's Jewish practice.

As far as I can tell (and I've studied a lot), Jewish identity is a three-wheeled bicycle.  If there all three aspects are there: fabulous.  But you are included by the community is only two are present, as well.

You can be considered Jewish by your birth or your conversion, by your religious practice and by your cultural trappings.

Thus, totally secular people are still Jewish if their parents were Jewish and if exhibit certain characteristics which are hard to pin down but most people know them when they see them.  A fondness for lox, a certain sense of humor, particular cadences of speech, a story about making out with a girl for the first time at Jewish camp are all popular examples.  Remember the classic Seinfeld episode where they were horrified that the dentist had converted possibly just so he could make better jokes.

Or, if you convert to Judaism and practice religiously, you are part of the in-crowd even if you never speak a word of yiddish.

It's tougher for  culturally Jewish people who are pursuing an active spiritual practice but who don't meet parentage standards and who don't want to convert.  My friend's husband is an atheist but shares her Jewish practices with her and has promised to raise their children Jewish but their wedding was not celebrated by their synagogue as joyfully as the two kids who were both born Jews with culturally Jewish identities but who never went to shabbat services and holidays. 

So, if Esther decides that she wants to be accepted by the Jewish community, we want to make sure she has her bona fides.  The more orthodox communities will require her to jump through even more hoops, but raising her eating kosher, converting her and surrounding her with other Jewish people who consider her part of their tribe so that she develops some of the cultural markers will go a long way to making that choice easy for her, if she wants to make it.

If she decides that she wants to identify as Christian, the infrastructure is totally different.  Still, for the vast majority of churches, all she needs to do is state that she believes certain things and they have a long history of accepting her regardless of her upbringing.  My church and other churches in the emergent movement are working to make more safe spaces for people who believe lots of different things but want to follow Jesus's teachings and to draw upon the Christian tradition of spiritual practice.  At one of those churches, bona fides are considered anathema anyway.  So, we have been less concerned with making sure the groundwork for being accepted by others as a self-proclaimed Christian.  It's the dominant religion of our country and she will learn the appropriate shibboleths without much effort on our part.

Judaism, as a minority and historically persecuted community, is a little harder to feel like one belongs.  I was finally won over to the idea of converting Esther to Judaism mostly because the rabbi wanted us to. But I agreed with the choice in the end because I believe the frequenly-asked question, "But you weren't born Jewish, were you?" belies an insecurity in those who ask it. I think they are really asking, "Are you safe because you've had the same experiences as a Jew that I have?" When Esther can reply, "No, but my parents converted me when I was a baby," she opens a door to these folks to be in relationship with them because she's really saying, "From my infancy, I have been raised as a Jew and probably have some common ground with you." Since we want her to feel at home in the synagogue and the synagogue is full of people who ask that question, it was the best thing we could do for her.

Welcoming an interfaith baby

On Saturday night, the family we spent the week with in Kansas City treated us to an amazing French dinner at Cafe Des Amis, which I cannot recommend enough if you are ever visiting the area. Because our hosts are friends with the owners, they made several special dishes for my husband's family, including a kosher bouillabaisse that Esther LOVED.

 I, however, had the scallops.

When I put the first forkful into my mouth, I moaned a little and my sister-in-law laughed, remarking that every dish so far seemed to be a religious experience for me. She was not wrong and I turned to Esther and joked about how sad I was that I would never be able to share the experience of scallops with her.

But that sacrifice is such a small one to make. There is so much good food that IS kosher plus it is about the only sacrifice like that I will make in raising our interfaith daughter.

 Now that her first birthday has passed, I want to document the choices that Jacob and I made for how to welcome Esther into this world in the traditions of our families.

We began with a Jewish naming ceremony when she was about 2 months old. This Simchat Bat ceremony has been gaining popularity in the last decades as an equivalent to a bris, which happens for a boy on the 8th day after his birth. Thus, there are very few guidelines for how they are structured. Some communities do them during regular Shabbat services but both the bris and the naming that I have attended were intimate ceremonies held in the home of the grandparent, which is slightly more traditional for brises. Since my parents had been willing to host the bris if Esther turned out to be a boy, we followed the same plan for her naming.

Our rabbi sat down with us before Esther was born and then again after her birth to talk about our intentions for spiritual life and the origins of Esther's name. He leads a congregation of non-denominational folks in an inclusive congregation focused on Jewish spirituality. We gather with them for the holidays and occasionally for Shabbat services in his living room, which lots of folks to whom I describe this to assure me is how every synagogue started. Our rabbi would have co-officiated our wedding but he was busy creating a Jewish community at the Burning Man festival. If this does not give you enough insight into his persona, I will share that he asked during preparation, "Do I need to wear pants?" which was a humorous question I understood to mean, could he wear his kilt?  He wears one daily and actually, he has a glorious three-piece kilt but he didn't want to offend anyone in Jacob's family.  I was so glad he wore it.


Our rabbi is actually a little bit more inclusive than we are when it comes to ceremonies.  He has the luxury to do this because he is all-Jewish and a rabbi.  Since we want to keep our spiritual practices separate and distinct, our conversation with Menachem are often about finding a balance between making an event feel authentically Jewish and making an event reflect our spiritual advisor's desire to explore a new Judaism.  I love this tension.

The service itself involved a procession of the grandparents and each held Esther for some part of the ceremony.

We said many blessings and our rabbi gave a sermon on the origins of Esther's name, the Torah portion for the week and the Torah portion from the week of her birth.  These sources led him to talk about tithing (which is a value Jacob and I share) and the word, "nistar," which is the root of her first name and means hidden and her middle name, which means tree in Hebrew.

I had asked Menachem if we could give thanks for a healthy delivery and I had meant that he would give thanks and he thought I mean that I would give thanks so I was put a little on the spot with nothing planned and blubbered my way through it.  I was still healing on both the physical and emotional level from Esther's birth so I'm OK with being that much of a mess in front of the people I love.

We also totally forgot to bring the cash for Esther's first tithe of her gift money to the Ounce of Prevention Fund so had to wing that part of the ceremony, as well.  This is the story of our lives, isn't it?

Also, we had the timing a little off for Esther's sleep cycles and so she screamed through the entire thing.

But people were so loving and the food was amazing.  It was exactly what I wanted to say to the world -and to her when she got older- that this child was welcome in the Jewish community, which is theology that I have come to believe is true through a lot of studying.  Actually, we liked her name because it would help her fit in at a synagogue, as well as a church.  I try to explain this with many more words all the time and Jacob cuts in and says, "We named her after a strong woman in the Bible."  That's true to and so much more succinct, don't you think?

When we discussed a possible bris if the baby had been a boy, our rabbi expressed that he would be happy to do it and his conversations with his favorite mohel indicated that it would be fine to perform a conversion when the child was a little bit older and able to handle full immersion in water.  Earlier in my marriage, I would have bristled at this implied statement that the baby would not already be considered Jewish.  Didn't this non-denominational guy know that the Reform movement has recognized patrilineal descent for 25 years?  But maybe pregnancy mellowed me or maybe marriage had, but in that moment sitting at an outside table at Cafe Sel Marie, the condition of conversion didn't raise a single hackle.  I trusted our spiritual advisor and was willing to follow his understanding of what was necessary.

So, when Esther was 11 months old, we had her formally converted by meeting with a beit din, a jury of three Jews, who asked us questions about our intent and then went through the immersion in the mikvah, which is a ritual bath that is maintained to strict kosher standards.  The make-up of the beit din was a compromise with the rabbi.  He believes that Jews should go back to the scriptural requirement that only specifies that the jury be made up of Jewish people.  We wanted to observe the current custom of having Jewish clergy, again so that Esther would later know that we had observed all of the customs on her behalf if she chose to identify as Jewish.  However, as the rabbi said, "Since I'm not Orthodox, Israel won't recognize this conversion and if she want to marry a hasidic man someday, God forbid, she'll need to be re-converted anyway."  So, our beit din was made of our rabbi, a mohel (who is also a cantor) and one of Jacob's friends.  It was just coincidence that they were all dudes. The mikvah lady explained that immersion marks a time in one's life between who you were before something important happens and who you are after.  People visit the mikvah before their marriages, before trips to Israel and Orthodox women go after their periods are over every month.  What Christians call Jesus's baptism was actually a mikvah and it was only after Christianity was established as a separate religion that it was seen as what we now call baptism.

Jacob acted as a divine surrogate for Esther and showered, brushed his teeth, cleaned under his nails and took out his contacts to be sure that nothing would come between him and the spirit of God, represented by the water.  He put on paper slippers so that he wouldn't pick up any dirt between the shower and the pool.

While that was happening, I undressed Esther and handed her to him when he came out.  They stepped down into the pool and the doors above it were opened to the beit din and Jacob's mother so that they could witness.

Esther screamed the whole time.  I have no explanation for why since we took swim lessons and she loves the water.  (By the way, the swim lessons were totally for my comfort level in watching someone dunk my baby.)

Jacob whispered a blessing in her ear from both of us, read a special blessing for the immersion from a card on the wall and we all said a shehecheyanu, which thanks God that we have lived long enough to see a special event.

Afterwards, the was much joyful kibbitzing while Jacob dressed and our beit din signed Esther's certificate of conversion and naming.  I created my own certificate since all of the ones I could buy were aimed at female adult converts.  (Boo to that truth revealed through capitalism.) I hope to frame it with pictures of the event for Esther's wall.  For reference, if you are considering a similar ceremony, here is the text of her certificate.  The rabbi also wrote in her Hebrew name to reflect her earlier Simchat Bat.

This is to certify that Esther Alanna has been dedicated to live by the principals, values and practices of Judaism. She has fulfilled the Mitzvah of Tevilah and we, the undersigned, have found her family to be of sincere intention. We do hereby accept and welcome her into the Covenant of the Jewish people on May 23, 2012 and the corresponding Hebrew date, the 2nd of Sivan, 5772, in the community of Wilmette, IL.

A week later, we had Esther blessed during the regular Sunday service of our church.  We considered baptism and attended a joint naming and blessing for our friend's baby facilitated by the Interfaith Union but found that individual ceremonies reflected our spiritual life better, in addition to being more comfortable for many members of our families, who are still getting used to our inter-faithness.  I made Esther a bonnet out of the same fabric from my wedding dress to mark the occasion.

Our Christian congregation is founded on inclusion of people with any beliefs to participate with us as we explore Christianity and how to live out the teachings of Jesus.  Our pastor and I worked together to create a liturgy that would make everyone present feel like an insider, even if they weren't Christian. 

The portion of the service with the blessing took my denomination's traditional elements and tweaked them a little.  Esther was introduced by a member of the Leadership Co-op, questions of commitment were asked of us as her parents and as a congregation, she was prayed over by the pastor and her hands were anointed with oil.

We asked people to write blessings on fabric and I was so pleased that every single person in attendance did so, many of them stepping outside of their comfort zones to do so.  We displayed the wedding quilt that I made from squares contributed by guests and this might have helped people participate since they could see an end result.

We applauded for her and she tucked her head in pleasure at the sound.

Then, anyone was invited forward to have their own baptism remembered by having their foreheads anointed or to have their hands anointed like Esther's if they had never been baptized.

We sang many songs, including my request of "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing."

I have the bulletin in PDF form if anyone is interested, but this text represents the flavor of the liturgy:

Jacob and Rebecca plan to continue practicing both of their religions as a family, encouraging Esther to participate as she is able so that as she grows and discovers her own with relationship to God, she will have the spiritual resources of both communities available to her to determine her own identity and the practice that brings her closest to God. Although infant baptism is part of Rebecca's religious heritage, out of respect for Jewish customs and laws that Esther may one day value, her parents have decided to let Esther choose that step for herself in the future, if it seems right to her.

Today, we welcome Esther into a gathered community of Christians to ceremonially declare that she -like all of us- is loved by God simply because she exists.  Recognizing this helps us to remember that God also loves us simply because we exist and not for anything we do or do not do, can or cannot accomplish.  God's love is unconditional.

We also gather today to promise that we will teach Esther about our own experiences with God, however God has manifested Godself to us. This storytelling and sharing of our own lives and experiences will give Esther not just words, but inspiration and guidance that will shape her life.

I had to negotiate a little bit with my pastor for this, as well.  She has been part of a national committee of the denomination that is learning from rabbis about how to live together in the world and they said that one of the ways to be respectful was to stop baptizing their babies.

And apparently, I'd been having these very sophisticated discussions with all sorts of people about how our family is an interfaith family but I had failed to explain it sufficiently to my pastor.  She had been thinking that we were raising her as a Jewish kid in a house that celebrates Christianity, as well.

So, when we were still considering baptizing her as part of my tradition's way of welcoming her into the community (rather than for conversion or as a ticket to heaven, which are problematic rationale in the history of Jewish-Christian relationships), she was very uncomfortable with the idea.  Symbolic acts are powerful for a reason, after all.

So, over the course of those conversations, I convinced her that Esther is like a bi-racial kid and when she asks, "No wait, what am I: Jewish or Christian?" we will answer with a third option.  Hopefully, we will have done the hard work to make sure she feels at home in each community, rather than an outsider in both.  It's the best we can do.

And over the course of those conversations, she convinced us that blessing Esther would accomplish better things spiritually for our family than a baptism would.

So, it was a lot like the scallops.  In a perfect world, it would be nice if I could share that experience with her.  But she probably won't miss it much since there are so many other good experiences that we will share.

After the ceremony, we shared a potluck meal, like my community always does.  My mom brought a ham because -much like we want our Jewish experiences to be authentically Jewish- we wanted this Christian ceremony to be comfortable being totally Christian.

As I ate my ham sandwich, I reflected on how powerful it had been for me to be asked, "Rebecca, do you promise to live following the example of Jesus, to renounce the powers of evil in the world and to teach Esther the life and Way of Jesus?"  This is a standard question for rituals in my denomination and I have answered it before.  This time, I was surprised at how important this ritual had been to my personal practice: to my own relationship with God.

Esther contributes to the communion liturgy. This is my favorite picture of my fierce daughter.

It was a powerful thing to dedicate my own daughter to the rhythms of my own spiritual life.  It is what Christians do and what I have watched Christian parents do my whole life.  My own parents had done it for me.  I was brought closer to God by doing it.

I had been so focused on what was best for Esther and my marriage that I hadn't even thought about what was best for me.  What a surprise to find that what's good for those two turned out to be the best thing for me, as well.

Work! Turn to the left. Work! Turn to the right.

I have a confession to make.

I have been holding out on you.

I have been having adventures that I haven't shared with you.

For instance, I have become a Stage Mom.

I'll give you a minute to let that sink in.

Ok, I'm back.

You see, enough people told me that Esther was just like the Gerber baby that I began to think that they might have a point.  The tipping point was when the dermatologist that my family has been seeing for 35 years insisted that she could make money as a model.

So, money AND an adventure into a culture that I have not experienced before?

Yes please.

So, I began somewhat half-heartedly doing some internet research and sending her pictures to the agencies that seemed to have fancier websites.

We got an immediate response from a company that turned out to be a scam.  Of course, I didn't look it up on Yelp before we drove 45 minutes both ways on a Saturday morning and save myself the trouble.  However, I am pretty proud of myself for going with my gut that although I expected talents agents to be a little skeezy, these guys were too skeezy.  On the way home, I also puzzled out that I didn't really respect a business model that couldn't make enough money off the percentage they would make.  I used my University of Chicago-honed economic analysis skills to realize that they had to incentive to actually find us work if they made a big chunk from me up-front.

Apparently, my research had not turned up the old chestnut that you should NEVER pay up front for any kind of representation.

Yup, that's me there: with the fancy degrees?

It was another 2 months before I heard back from anyone else.  Then, it was the last agency that I expected would go for us.  Seriously, this is a direct quote from their website:  "Quickly the news spread amongst the soccer moms of Chicago's suburbia. . ."

You might need another minute to compose yourself.

(At this point I need to clarify in case our agency is reading this, the joke is that I am the last person my readers would expect to be chosen by an agency who normally appeals to soccer moms.  And that is not disrespect to suburbanites.  I totally tried to be that and failed abysmally.  So, I am - without sarcasm - excited to be part of your group.)

So, of course, I let the call go to voice mail since it was an unknown caller and then promptly forgot it was there and didn't listen to it until 3 days later.  What I DID pick up from my internet research is that you have to be super-available to talent agencies.  So, I had already failed my daughter by not returning their call immediately.  I was amazed at how anxious this made me.  I called the next morning 4 times before their office actually opened.  When I spoke to the nice woman on the phone, she gave me a date and time in six weeks.  I was sure the lag was punishment for my slow response.

The morning of our audition, I tried to keep Esther's schedule totally normal, which would result in her napping and waking up just in time to leave.  Of course, she had other plans.  So, we hauled ourselves into the soft industry warehouse loft offices groggy with no nap.

It turned out that it was a group audition and we were directed into a well-lit waiting room with white and chrome eames-style chairs around the perimeter of the room.  On the way up, the elevator had so much cuteness in it that I definitely feared it would exceed capacity and we would all plunge to our fiery deaths.  A man was waiting to take the elevator back down with an empty stroller and warned us that strollers weren't allowed in the office.

Duh.  That was clearly stated in the confirmation email.  Did they really not read it or did they just think it didn't apply to them?

I'm a fanatical rule-follower.  (Did I ever tell you about the time when I was waiting for a ferry and watched tourists decide that the "Wait here to embark" sign didn't apply to them?  I watched the other tourists fight conflicting herd instincts: do I obey the sign or follow the others?  Since I was a native, I knew to obey the sign and got to feel smug when the crew ordered the folks back up the hill.  Rule-following always pays off.  Except when it doesn't. But don't ask me how to tell the difference.)

I assume that the guy had been early enough to be warned.  I have no idea if it was a coincidence that the other two families that brought strollers were both sent home without contracts.  However,you weren't supposed to bring more than one child per adult or be late and all of the families that broke those rules passed the audition.  So confusing when rule-following isn't consistently rewarded.  And when things like merit actually could for something.

So, everything about the audition experience, from the email full of rules to the waiting room that we were asked not to wander out of when comforting crying infants to the attitudes of the employees seemed to be designed to communicate that they had all the power and, as the "talent," we were in a position of supplication.  They did not need us; we needed them.

This totally makes sense and I was prepared for it.  No one was mean and if it makes their life easier, then I can play by their rules.  I don't need their affirmation to feel good about myself.

But that is certainly interesting when thinking about most stage parents, isn't it?  I spent a year teaching kids in three different theatrical productions and I have to say that their parents totally fit the stereotype.  The only one who handled it well was a child of a successful 60s musician and had been on tour herself as a teenager.  Again, she had enough self-confidence that she didn't need her daughter to get it for her.

But as they took the kids one by one into another room to see how they would respond to strangers, I admit that I felt nervous and actually asked one of the other parents if it had taken this long with the other kids that had gone before.  Here's hoping that little bit of visceral sympathy with those parents of my students keeps me centered and hospitable to the parents of Esther's peers.

There were 10-12 families there at the same time we were and the agency had scheduled several other appointments like this throughout the day.  From their identity signals (clothes, haircuts, etc.), most were upper middle class status-y types with one pageant mom and one young working class family.  Only one other family seemed like me by being dressed in casual clothes that were practical rather than expensive.

In the past, I would have archly described these characters, hoping to sound a little like David Sedaris, and many of you would have laughed along with me, loving that God made a world where people have idiosyncrasies.  This is not that post, somewhat because I don't have time to do it right and partly because I'm feeling a little tender toward those folks.

I have only told a few people about this adventure and when I do, it's with a little bit of embarrassment and a lot of self-mockery.  I mean, many of the posts on this blog are as good a testament as any to my desire to live a life of meaning and passion for the things that God loves.  And here I am feeding the capitalist, materialist monster because my daughter gets a better billable rate than I do? 

But I have never been led astray by the heuristic of asking the question, "Will this make a good story?"  God is in every workplace and I will not belittle folks who are called to fields other than fields of service by saying that I am supposed to be taking a nobler path.  Making my life into a good story has always moved me toward God, even if sometimes I feel more like Jonah or Hosea than like Sarah or Rachel.

Back to the story at hand, each family was either asked to wait until after the audition to fill out necessary paperwork or to resubmit new photos in 3-6 months because their child wasn't ready yet.  I thought this was supremely well-done diplomacy and made me comfortable with the prospect of working for them.  Five families, including us, were asked to stay.  No one had a meltdown when their kid wasn't chosen and no one was weirdly triumphant.

We were offered the chance to pay for a special workshop, pay for an upgraded online account and pay for a portfolio but no one implied that we would get less work without paying for those things.  In fact, children under 3 years old don't even need professional head shots since they change so quickly.  (Esther's comp card is the image above.)  So, all I needed to do was create a couple of online profiles, print out comp cards and get a work permit, which required a trip to the Board of Education, finally getting a copy of her birth certificate and a note from her doctor.  The work permit experience heightened my sense of ridiculousness to new levels.

And then we waited.  A month after officially becoming clients of our talent agency, I got a call.  I had even made the effort to run across the house to get it before it went to voice mail without knowing who was calling, which is unheard of for me.  So, today, we will drive out to Roselle, with an armful of Christmas-style clothing, and have our photo shoot with a slew of other children whose names are all prominently monogrammed on personalized items in the Land of Nod catalog.  Like the audition, though, one family might be similar to us because their daughter has Esther's middle name, with the same spelling.  Since we got that name from the character in a young adult fantasy novel, there is hope we won't be the odd ones out.  Still, hospitality is my main spiritual practice so I will try to move myself out of my comfort zone with the other parents to befriend them.

I'll let you know how it goes.

A few people have now asked me what I think of the Time magazine cover. That's how they say it: "the Time magazine cover." They know that I know what they are talking about. Apparently folks think that I will have an opinion.

Let's start with the facts. The kid is 3 but his 4th birthday is in June. The mom is 26 and she was breastfeed until she was 6. (Let me know if I have any of that wrong; I didn't read the article but no one is talking about the article, only the cover.)

Now, what do I think? I think it is totally fine if Mom wants to breastfeed her kids for as long as they are interested. Yes, even if they are in 2nd grade.  Because, you see, they are not my kids. So unless she is undeniably hurting them, I don't get to have a say in the matter.

Some folks have argued with me that she is hurting them, usually claiming that the other kids will make fun of the boy once he is older.

1. Kids will always find something to pick on another kid for. Letting 8-year-old assholes influence your parenting choices is a terrible idea.
2. This mom in particular was breastfed in a similar way so she knows a little bit more than most people what it's like to have grown up with that experience.
3. They are not the only family to be doing this; this kid will have plenty of peers.

 I have yet to hear an argument that there are psychological or physical harms being caused that is anything other than: "It just seems unnatural." So glad we're using scientific standards for health and not letting our socially imposed sense of what's "icky" guide how we treat people.  Also, let's think about the childhood experience and think about how many other unnatural things are acceptable.  Sour Patch Kids, anyone? 

We also cannot know what good this might do for their family. The world is a scary place to raise kids in. Predators, the attractiveness of violent video games and Internet porn, bullies both IRL and online, hard drugs available in the suburbs, sexting, "juicy" clothes for 2-year-olds and abusive teachers, coaches and caregivers are just a handful of influences that parents feel helpless to 100% protect their children from. It can make us edgy and fearful, which leads to parenting choices that are actually bad. If extending the intimacy of nursing into toddlerhood helps a parent to feel more secure that she has done everything in her power to protect his innocence, who am I to tell her she's wrong?

Finally, let's please notice that Time is doing what the media does: it tries to sell audiences to advertisers by generating controversy, even if that controversy is bad for society as a whole. The headline, "Are you mom enough?" is insulting. Parenting should not be a competition. Who benefits from that? Trying to keep pace or pass up other parents takes our eyes off the real goal, which is healthy, happy children. As with any attempt to measure the ineffable, we start doing things that increase our scores without actually increasing our success.

Unless she is extremely damaged, every mom is mom enough. I have not met a parent yet who has said to herself, "You know what, I'm only going to do a half-assed job raising my kids." We are all doing the best we can and all of us come up short.

And I have to say, it's become pretty clear to me that there is very little correlation between parents I would judge to be good parents and how well their kids turn out and parents I judge to be bad parents and how well their kids turned out. Don't you know amazing adults who had shitty parents? Don't you know assholes that are breaking their parents' hearts with the choices they make?

All we can do in the face of that is the best we can. And when we know better, we do better, to paraphrase Maya Angelou.

So, acting like people who are doing their best  have earned our scorn because we wouldn't make the same choices their making? Not cool. And let me be clear, I am going away for 4 days in two weeks and Esther will be weaned by the time I get back so I definitely would not make the choice the cover mom is making right now in my life. But it would be astounding hubris for me to declare there would never be a circumstance in which I would not make that choice. Remember that if you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans, right?

Giving people the benefit of the doubt? That's the same grace that God extends to us. That's the mercy that helps us move us all forward even we should be paralyzed by past mistakes. That's what will bring about peace for our children.

Time magazine can suck it for trying to stick a wedge between me and another parent. Between your child and that mom's child. These are the kinds of differences that we are striving to overcome when we sing camp songs and celebrate multi-cultural week by eating tacos and naan.  Because different cultures are not solely created by geography and politics.

Time can also suck it for their predictable gendering of the situation and for their predictable choice of a pretty, young, thin, blonde woman as cover model. Expounding on those opinions here will probably wear us all out, though. But let me say that men make parenting choices, too; and people of color, older moms and moms who do not fit the unrealistic standard of beauty our society insists upon can also be paragons of parenting. I know that sounds a little bit like the old joke about the wedding where the food was terrible and the portions were too small but I think that shit needs to be called out whenever possible.

Parents are amazing. It's a waste of time to nitpick about how we disagree about parenting. Outside of a close relationship with the parent, judgement will only gunk up the gears of our society because it's not going to change how the choices that parent makes and might prevent other parents and future parents from trusting their own instincts. Is there any benefit to a parent who parents hesitantly?

 In conclusion, support each other. Support each other. Support each other. And, Time can suck it.

Since this blog was named 8 years ago as an allusion to Maurice Sendak's most famous book, I want to take a moment and honor his passing.  I heard this anecdote on NPR awhile ago and I repeat it all the time.  God is great to create artists like Mr. Sendak and to create cranky old men, as well.  If you haven't watched the Colbert Report interview or listened to the Fresh Air interview, I suggest you take some time this week to do so.

But my best friend is Jewish so it's OK that I said that.

Jacob and I have fought manymany times about some joke I made that I thought was pretty funny that turned out to be more than a little bit offensive according to most Jewish people.

Now, let's be clear, sometimes when we fight, it turns out that Jacob was being over-sensitive and my joke would be fine in all but the most conservative of gatherings.  However, often, like say 90% of the time, it turns out that I shouldn't have made the joke.  Like, really. I have made some huge mistakes.

So, I'm admitting up front that my learning curve has been and continues to be steep.  STEEP. And, like Louis C.K. says below, it can be tricky knowing what is and isn't OK.

Jokes.com
DVD Exclusive - Louis C.K. - "Jew" Is a Funny Word
comedians.comedycentral.com
Louis C.K. Comedians Stand-Up

But I have been thinking about allies lately.  Allies work to re-establish God's shalom in the world by speaking on behalf of marginalized folks because they will take relatively less social, financial and physical damage for saying the unpopular thing than the person at the receiving end of the injustice would.

I have a friend who was in a situation where no ally stood up for her.  She is amazing because she's trying to figure out how to become the ally she wished for on behalf of other young people like herself who haven't achieved her level of confidence yet.  She's letting me help her brainstorm how to do this.

While I have been thinking about allies, this article from InterfaithFamily.com came across my screen about Purim, which is the story of Esther, who was in a position to help the Jewish people because she was married to a non-Jew.  The rabbi writes about other ways that intermarriage might be good for the Jewish community as a people, saying, "Perhaps in all the intermarriages that are happening today, we are acquiring allies for the Jewish people. Perhaps we now have hundreds of thousands of non-Jews who are also committed to the survival of the Jewish people, its customs and teachings, and to raising Jewish children. "

Interestingly, I had just acted as an ally in a way that I would not have before Jacob started teaching me about anti-semitism and before Esther's birth caused me to start seeing the world through her eyes. I clicked through a Facebook post to an interview in the Huffington Post that was about a guy who kept his homosexuality in the closet while he worked as a high-level producer in Christian TV, which is for the most-part anti-gay.  The tone of the piece was edgy, funny and just a little bit fabulous.  Then, the interview subject signed off saying, "Transformation of any kind will only come from being in a relationship with [Jesus] - and if there is anything he wants you to change, HE will let you know. I mean, he is Jewish, remember!"

Four years ago, I would have thought nothing of that.  Today, it struck me as weird that a Jewish joke would conclude an article about homosexuality and Christianity.  It's mostly just out of place.  It also made me uncomfortable because the humor in the rest of the piece was mostly self-deprecatory jokes about gay people or conservative Christians, both of which came across fine since either the interviewer or the subject belonged to those communities in some way or another.  Since neither claimed Judaism, I realized that the joke was offensive.

How?

The premise of the joke says that BECAUSE Jesus is Jewish THEN something is true.  If the joke said that BECAUSE someone was black, THEN something is true, we would see the racism immediately.  The only way for that logic to scan properly is if that thing is true for every person of that community to possess the characteristic and that's always a stereotype.

Whether they are negative or positive, putting stereotypes into print adds to the weight of that stereotype, which hurts members of the stereotyped group, since they don't get known as individuals, as well as keeping the stereotyper bound by his or her own ignorance.

Without debating it too much in my own head, I called out the anti-semitism in a comment on the Facebook post and a little later, I sent a message to the interviewer to open a dialogue.  He was really gracious and very willing to listen to my perspective and acknowledge my points.  As a Christian, I spoke from my safe position as family to another Christian about how he was inadvertently hurting the Jewish people.  I acted as an ally, just like the rabbi on interfaithfamily.com wrote about.

As I was explaining my perspective to the author, I realized that this is a joke I have seen before.  Mainstream Christians have a funny relationship with Judaism.  Almost all of us are well past blaming the Jews for Jesus' death (because it's not true) and more and more, people are studying the historical context of our scriptures, which necessarily means studying Judaism, at least of the ancient sort.

And that's where the problem comes in.  Starting with the bumper stickers declaring that our boss is a  Jewish carpenter, Christians claim intimacy and familiarity with Judaism because our roots are there.  Unfortunately, too often we conveniently forget that in 2,000 years, Judaism has changed quite a bit from what we read about in Acts, much of it as a result of persecution by Christians.  Our knowledge of ancient Judaism does not translate automatically to knowledge of modern-day Jews.  This means that our knowledge of modern-day Jews is most often supplied by pop culture, which is still largely informed by deliberately intentional negative propaganda against Jews.  Even the humorous self-loathing of people like Woody Allen is SELF-loathing and not to be appropriated by folks outside of the tribe.  I know it sometimes doesn't seem fair that Black people get to use the n-word and white folks don't but really, do you want to use it that much?  Isn't our sense of unfairness just based in a desire not to be bound in any way?

Also, as strange as this sounds, we often forget that Jewish people don't read Old Testament scripture (also, think about the solipsism involved in that nomenclature) believing that the prophecies are referring to Jesus.  Remember the movie Clue?  When it first came out in theaters, different theaters ran different solutions to the mystery and it wasn't until it came out on VHS that people could see all three endings.

The end of the story for Jews is different than the end of the story for Christians and that changes how we interpret the beginning and middle of the story.

So, we don't realize that it is insulting to host a Passover seder and talk about how Jesus was foreshadowed as the paschal lamb, whose blood was painted over the doorframe.  It's like adding salt to the wound of 2000 years of persecution to then take one of their most  sacred celebrations and twist it to reflect our own beliefs.  Yes, the past 30 years have been a relatively safe time for Jews all over the world but 30 years isn't very long in the memory of people that are over 3,500 years old.  Judaism teaches continuity and a sense of belonging to the tribe that is not necessarily a part of Christian culture.  Our emphasis on a personal revelation of our individual relationship with God de-emphasizes our sense of belonging to community.  It's not gone - many of us are certainly aware of the Church or of being brothers and sisters in Christ - but trust me that it is not nearly as intense a sense of global belonging as being Jewish feels for even the most secular members of the diaspora.  These are, of course, sweeping generalizations and I recognize the irony of making them in a post that began with condemning humor based on stereotypes.  Still, the naivete I encounter of so many Christians seems to necessitate that I start with the basics.

There are very few Christians who are anti-semitic as an identity.  Please don't think that. However, even non-bigoted people make both unintentional or deliberate decisions that are reflective of larger forces that hurt folks in minority populations. (Actually, there is a whole sub-set of evangelical Christians who are dispensationalists and support Israel somewhat blindly based on their belief that Jesus won't come again to take them to Heaven while leaving the rest of us behind until the Jews are all back in Israel.  Seriously.   That's a whole different kind of objectification that's too gross to talk about in this one post.)

So, I am excited by my new-found role as a non-Jewish ally.  I don't want a world where my interfaith daughter feels like half of her people are willing to throw the other half of her people under the bus for the sake of a good joke.  I'll try to share some of these adventures as we go along. 

Esther's Birth Story: it's a long one

On Wednesday evening, the 15th of June, I began to feel pressure in my belly that I recognized as labor, although I couldn't tell you what it was that made me certain. Still, since I wanted Jacob to get a full night's sleep, I kept my suspicions to myself and we kissed each other before heading off to our separate beds for the night. I woke up periodically, smiling and checking the clock, sleepily calculating that I was having 3 or 4 contractions an hour. In the morning, I went to Jacob and told him that he needed to call in to work because I was probably going to have this baby today. Then, I called my best friend, Susan, who lives three hours away. I told her that when she got close to Chicago, she should call to find out whether we were still laboring at home or whether she should meet us at this hospital. She was very excited and since it is part of her core nature to be excitable, I was happy that it was such a scattered conversation.

I called the midwives just to let them know to expect me at some point and they were also excited. My midwives always make me feel like a rockstar. Then, as Jacob got on the computer to pass off his work projects and go on paternity leave, I called my younger brother Daniel and my parents, basically crowing that Grandma was going to love me best because my baby was going to be born on her birthday.

Yeah. These things have a tendency of biting one on the ass.

It was a gorgeous Chicago summer day. Not very hot at all and brilliantly sunny. Jacob and I went for a walk and then settled down to labor in the house. Contractions were between 7 minutes and 13 minutes apart and, although painful, they didn't quite take my breath away yet.

Susan called from the hospital, asking where we were because it turns out that in her excitement at receiving my phone call, she forgot our previous conversations about laboring at home and didn't really listen to the current conversation with my instructions to call when she got close. Her adventures at the hospital would make for an essay all it's own.

We labored together some more.  Susan brought ice cream at my request. We gleefully picked out episodes of Firefly and Buffy to watch and reveled in the strength of those women.  Contractions continued to be about 7 and 13 minutes apart.

We moved into the evening and Jacob and I had a fight about something. I remember saying tearfully, "We are not going to fix that part of our relationship right now!  That's going to have to wait until after the baby is born." He went for a walk and I told Susan that if he pulled that shit in the delivery room, she should kick him out. Looking back, I'm not sure who was right in that situation or even what the issue was.  The anecdote illustrates for me that my mindset was still set in early labor mode. I knew that I was still having it pretty easy and that there would come a time when I would have to focus everything on the baby.

We realized that we should probably go to bed rather than waiting up for active labor to start. To be honest, I can't remember who slept where.  Did Susan go on the couch? Did Jacob come back to the marriage bed so she could have the guest room? I think I remember verbally directing her to clean sheets with a sense of comfort that we had that kind of friendship.  Actually, now that i'm reconstructing it in my mind, we went into the hospital to get an Ambien at the suggestion of the midwife before we went to bed. That helped for a few hours but otherwise it was just short naps between contractions. While we were in the hospital with the midwife, she swept my membranes but said I was a little less than 2 centimeters but most of the way effaced. This was about the 24 hour mark.

This is where things start to get really fuzzy in my mind, where I wish I had an easier delivery so that my recovery would have been faster and I could have written this down while it was still fresh.  

I think I called into the midwives on Friday morning, just to check in since my contractions were still 7-13 minutes apart.  I think I talked to Gina, who always gave me a hug after every check-up. She told me to stop timing the contractions, to treat myself gently and to do things that were relaxing, like taking a bath.  She said that vigorous activity to speed things along would be counter-productive.  I think I cried a little in relief when she said this.

So, as much as I can remember, I spent the day eating ice cream and watching TV.  My brother, his wife and his daughter came over to keep us company and we went on a walk.  (This may have happened on Thursday, though.). We walked to the nearby dog park and back and I watched Susan charm my 14-month-old niece. Shashi communicates quite clearly with gestures and at one point when Susan and I were trailing behind the pack, she turned around and patted the ground while looking right at Susan.  My sister-in-law explained that she did the same thing when she wanted the dog to come to her. A rare honor bestowed upon Susan.

Contractions continued as before.  When walking, I would stop and lean on something. When home, I think I grunted a little at the peak of the waves. I know we ordered in a lot of food throughout the laboring and that  I ate some of it. At bedtime, I took anoth Ambien but this one did no good. Again, I can't really remember where we all spent the night.  Bedtime marked 2days of labor.

I can't tell you anything at all about Saturday.  Trying to write out this timeline is actually making me realize it was much more grueling than I acknowledge when I tell people how long it took. Usually, I laugh and make empathetic noises when other people express shock.  But no. Really. It seriously sucked.

I just asked Jacob if my mom came to visit while were laboring at home and he said, "Oof, you'd have to ask Susan that." In consultation, we think maybe she did come by.  Before I went into labor, my dad specifically requested that I not have the baby on Saturday since he had been invited to play golf at his favorite course and he didn't want to have to cancel.  Little did when know when laughing about this together how it would actually play out.

On Saturday evening, we were watching the new BBC Sherlock Holmes. When  I went back to watch them again later, many visuals were familiar but I couldn't remember the plot at all.  I think is shows my mental state pretty well.  I was absolutely present in the moments without any sense of narrative: past and future.

As we watched, I began to feel like I had gas that I couldn't pass.  Evil, malicious gas.  I know there was a lot of loud groaning and I kneeled on the couch with my ass in the air trying to pass it.

When Jacob suggested that he go down to the Walgreens and get an enema for me, I actually considered it.  In a final triumph of squeamishness, I said, "Let's call the midwife first." In retrospect, I can hear her laughing when I earnestly described the terrible gas that was filling my pelvis.  To her credit, I felt nothing but grateful relief that she was taking the decision out of my hands when she suggested that I come back in for evaluation first.  And if she had actually good-naturedly laughed at my naïveté that could not equate pain in my lower abdomen with a baby moving down, I would have felt embarrassed. Since I wasn't, she was probably very kind.  Anyway, since we had been stuck in this fugue state of 7-13 minutes contractions with almost no sleep, I think we all kind of forgot that things would progress eventually.

The drive to the hospital is only 15 minutes.  It was brutal. The meanmean gas made every tiny bump feel gigantic and I believe that I fantasized out loud in a demanding way about the features of the next car that we buy so I would not have to experience this gauntlet of a journey again.

My midwife was so good to me once we got to the hospital.  In general, I loved all 8 midwives in our practice during our pre-natal check-ups because they gave me information to make my decisions and then supported my decision.  In the condition I was in when we arrived on Friday night (3 days of labor at this point), I really wasn't able to come up with my preferences for, well, anything.  I was both disengaged spiritually to avoid the trauma of extended pain and engaged purely in the present minute because the pain required it of me.  My midwife knew this and started by making a recommendation rather than asking what I wanted. I remember the exact words:

"I think we should administer some IV drugs so you can sleep."

Yes. Yes. Yes.

She said I was still only 2 centimeters and when she swept my membranes, I went up to 3 centimeters so she could admit me to the labor and delivery floor.  I had been warned that manual exams and membrane sweeping could be really painful at this point but, honestly, I barely noticed that those things were happening.  I think that must be telling of how much my contractions hurt.

When I woke up after a few hours, I feel like the first thing I said to Jacob was, "I want to talk with the midwife about getting an epidural.  Is that OK?". I was getting disappointed vibes from Jacob and spent a whiff of thought to realize that normally I would stop to figure out what was bothering him but a second breeze of thought came along that I had other things that were more important to do right then.  After Esther was born, he explained that since I had asked him to take responsibility for encouraging me to remember that I wanted a non-medicated birth, he felt like he had failed in that role.  He must have pulled it together like a champ, though, because he was nothing but supportive after that.

When I did the math in my head, I examined the assumption that an epidural would make me less spiritually present for the birth of my child.  I still believe that would be true for a labor than lasted less than 24 hours, like I was expecting.  I had also considered negative health outcomes for myself and the labor of future children when making the decision to try for a non-medicated birth.  Given the new variable of a 3 day labor, I realized that an epidural would actually help me to be more spiritually present and that this was worth the medical risks at this point in order to have the best possible birth experience.

When the midwife arrived, I said, "I would like to talk about getting an epidural." She said, "Would you like to talk about it or would you like an epidural?". I smiled and said, "I would like an epidural, please."

And with that, the waiting ended and it felt like everything shifted into drive after we had been sitting in the driveway, letting the car warm up.  She suggested a little pitosin since although it was good that I had gotten to 5-6 centimeters while I slept, I still needed to get to 10.  I quickly agreed.

My parents had been in the city on Saturday night and when they called to check on me after their dinner, we were headed into the hospital. I think they must have come over but I was asleep by the time they got there. When I woke and felt so much better because the sleep and the IV drugs had cleared my head, I remember explaining to my mom about wanting an epidural: "I thought it was going to be all girl power and hot baths. . ."

When the anesthesiologist arrived, he announced that he was on Hour 18 of a 24 hour shift.  I think Jacob blanched at that but the implications barely registered for me.  When we tell this story, Jacob also points out that the doctor had to leave in the middle of set up because he had done so many epidurals that night and ran out of a necessary supply.  This was when we really realized that the hospital was over capacity for mothers that night and continuing into the next morning.

I slept again and when I woke, it was morning. Total labor: 3 and a half days.  My parents had gone back to our house and slept. Jacob slept in the awkward reclining chair for partners and Susan had another slapstick comedy trying to find a comfy spot on the floor.  

I felt amazing.

If I have another child, I will try again for a non-medicated birth. However, I will not pretend that an epidural is not magic. Seriously.  Abra-cadabra.

Oh, it was weird.  No doubt. My legs were numb and my feet were cold.  I asked someone to put on the fuzzy socks my other sister-in-law gave me. The right side of my body wasn't totally numb at first but my awesome labor and delivery nurse knew to turn my body so that the drugs could flow to that side like sand in an hourglass.

Have I mentioned how awesome Barb, my nurse, was? She consumes the same media that I consume, so we had that common ground and was just all around laid-back, cool and a little sarcastic while being utterly warm and competent.  She also laughed at my jokes. Susan has said since then that it must have been God who wrote the nursing schedule that week.  Barb had a trainee who was also very nice.

So, the sun is shining in the windows, my contractions no longer hurt, my brother, sister-in-law and niece joined my parents and we are all listening to my Delivery Mix on my laptop.  James Brown's "Get Up Offa That Thing (And Dance 'Til You Feel Better) is a decent example of the playlist.  Barb liked it.  I definitely heard someone on staff admit that we were breaking some rules by letting Shashi be there but I think they were smiling while they said it.  So, basically, we were having a party with my most favorite people surrounding me. It's all like some wonderful dream in my memory.

I was told that I was 10 centimeters and completely effaced and could vaguely feel the contractions that I saw on the monitor but I had no urge to push at all.  They say that the urge is unmistakable, like having to vomit. I was not overwhelmed by said urge.  So, we made the decision to harsh my mellow by turning up the pitosin (I think it was only at 2 or 3 at that point) and turning down the epidural.  I assume that this is when my family disbursed to the waiting room, leaving Susan, Jacob and I to work and wait with Barb and her trainee.  Barb reminded our midwife that the anesthesiologist would need to be called back to turn the epidural down even though they could turn it off entirely without him.  She then asked again what the midwife recommended.  It was a subtle bit of advocacy that I was grateful for later since I can’t imagine what delivery would have been like with no epidural at that point.

There were other babies being born in every other room on that floor.  We could see their fetal monitors on our computer screen for some reason and I remember we had sympathy for one of the moms and were excited when Barb came back from a short break to tell us she had a healthy baby.  Our own monitor continued to show that I was having “good” contractions that I was now beginning to feel more and more sharply, but still no urge to push.  Since our midwife had at least one other birth to attend to, we actually waited 3 hours from the time I was declared to be 10 centimeters to the time we started just giving pushing a try, like it was a lark our something.  That was how casually Barb suggested it.

So when I started feeling a contraction (or seeing it on the monitor), I pushed.  This did seem to kick-start something and by the time the midwife was able to join us again, we were in active labor.

At some point I closed my eyes and really did not open them again until Esther was born. My knowledge of the past did not inform my experience with the present.  For instance, my hips would begin to hurt so much that I wanted to cry but I would have to logically think, "My hips are hurting so this must be a contraction." All I could register was the pain. We would try different positions to accommodate the pain in my hips but finally only being flat on my back was at all bearable.  Susan stayed up by my head while Jacob must have helped with my body's positioning.  Susan has known me for almost 15 years, compared to Jacob's three-year tenure so she knows me better than anyone but my parents and my brother; plus, our relationship has lived through any emotionally loaded fears that either of us will leave the other.  This made her the perfect person to let go with and do what I needed to do.

I won't lie: this stage of labor and ultimately delivery was violent and hard.  There should be another word for the physical sensation because it was not related to any pain I have felt in the past.  (I have never broken a bone though and I imagine that would also be pretty painful.) I think that if Susan hadn't been in my ear, encouraging me and letting me make jokes, I would have given up and needed a c-section.  After three and a half days and almost no sleep, I believe that's a real possibility.  And I'm not sure that I would have had the same dynamic with another woman or Jacob that I would want to tell jokes as a coping mechanism.  I remember thinking about Winnie the Pooh being stuck in the hole after eating too much honey, imagined Esther like that and worried that we’d passed the point of no return and that I would not be able to have a c-section.

So now, I feel triumphant and powerful that I and my body accomplished this amazing act.  In the first few months after, though, I just felt wounded and traumatized.  Luckily, my spiritual life up to this point has prepared me to respect how I feel and not to beat myself up for what comes naturally.  So I paid attention to what my body and soul were asking for and ate a lot of ice cream as therapy in the first three months and didn't worry at all about losing weight.  I told this story in an entertaining way to people who visited and called but I definitely needed to tell it in a slightly horrified and sad way once to my therapist to really face the truth of how little control I had over that situation and how bad it was.  I feel like hospitals should provide post-partum events for small groups of women to be able to do this with one another with strangers who don't need them to put on a happy but-now-I-have-this-beautiful-baby face on it.  I only needed to mourn my expectations once and now I am completely at peace with it. It was so transformative that I definitely wish it for other mothers.

So, I pushed like that for three hours, feeling rising pain in my hips, intellectually recognizing that it must be a contraction, then making the decision to push.  I remember opening my eyes at one point and realizing that I was in a sit-com.  There were literally five people around my bed, looking at me, and the one between my legs was a total stranger.  I believe that I made a joke about that.  Apparently, my blood pressure spiked, so they called in an obstetrician to help.  It was really neither here nor there to me at this point.  Most of the time, I kept my eyes closed, although I remember them encouraging me to open them at some point.  I suppose I was losing focus and they feared I was retreating mentally.  But Susan and Jacob kept me going.  At one point in the middle of a push, I asked Susan how many more, both knowing that she could not know and hoping fiercely that she did.  Whenever I talk about “living in the tension” from now on, that question is what I will remember.  When Susan told me, “Seven,” I said, “You lie!”  I think that Barb held my hands at one point and pulled away from me as I pushed the baby while pulling away from her to give myself momentum.  That helped move things along.  They asked if I wanted to touch the baby’s head but I knew that it wouldn’t be able to discern it as anything special at that point, so I declined.  I have no idea if I yelled, grunted and swore or not during this time.  I assume that I did.

How to describe Esther’s actual birth?  Think about the most difficult bowel movement you have ever struggled for and multiple that by 15.  There is triumph and severe relief after the moment of intense pain.  It feels exactly like you think it would feel except that the context for the sensation is so thick that it is not nearly as bad as you would think it would be.  Jacob actually caught Esther and I tear up a little bit thinking about it now.  I remember being angry at the time when the midwife was instructing him how to do it in the minutes before it happened.  For some reason, I thought that it was prolonging my struggle for her to stop focusing on me.  But it was totally worth it, looking back.  Also, I think probably she knew (because she’s a professional, right?) that we were in the end game and nothing could prolong the inevitable in any meaningful way.  

They handed her up to me and I sobbed.  Susan took some pictures at that point and I have kept them private, pondering them in my heart from time to time.  They are so bloody and Esther is so beautiful.  They took her from me shortly after that to measure her and such even though we had in our birth plan a request to delay that until later.  I assume that the nurse who did that stuff was available and since the hospital was overbooked, taking advantage of her presence trumped my desire not to be separated.  Jacob went with her to the warming table and I do not think I stopped asking for her back the entire 10 minutes she was gone.  I remember feeling pretty desperate as I asked.  It’s probably more likely that I demanded, since that’s how I normally deal with being powerless when it’s important to me.  And it felt primally important.

Of course, I got her back and everything was fine and I was so tired and so proud of my little girl.  It was a little after 4:00 in the afternoon on Sunday, June 19.  Father's Day.  Jacob and I asked her if her name was any of the several names we had on a short list, and sure enough, her spirit agreed that she was an Esther and not a Golda or a Ruby.  I got to show her off to my family and Susan just beamed at me.

We stayed in that room awhile since there weren’t any available recovery rooms.  Susan went back to our house to sleep and visited in the morning before heading home.  Jacob’s brother and sister-in-law visited and brought the most amazing gift.  They stopped at Whole Foods and got a warm loaf of multi-grain bread and a half pound of Irish butter.  I needed so much nourishment and it was such a wholesome way to get it.  I woke in the middle of the night that night, ravenous and thankful for their consideration. It was all gone by the time we were discharged.

The nurses were amazing throughout our stay.  I never knew that nurses were so amazing before this.  They have to be book smart AND have the humility to clean my body of gore.  They are thoughtful enough to bring water every time they come into the room for something.  Seriously, the room was littered with styrofoam cups with lids and straws that had been full of ice and water.  

And then they cleaned them up.

I think this is an extremely rare combination of skills.  So often book smart people (myself included) think they have risen above menial tasks.  Nurses make the rest of us look selfish and small in that thought.  Or, they would if they weren’t so busy making us feel cared for.

I have such a fondness for our recovery room.  My best friend from high school lives near the hospital and visited that first night.  My other sister-in-law visited there the next day.  It was a handicapped room so I just walked into the vast shower without impediment and used the luxurious French soap my mom had brought me from her trip there.  Word of advice to pregnant moms?  Take luxurious bath gel and shampoo.  Never will you feel so much like you have earned it.  Jacob learned to love letting Esther fall asleep on his bare chest in that recovery room.  So much so that we had to scramble when we got home to figure out safe co-sleeping after vowing that we would never be THAT family when we were still pregnant.  We took as much skin-to-skin time as we could in that warm room.  We struggled to establish breastfeeding but the amazing lactation consultant was so patient and persistent.  She finally produced the magical nipple shield and gave us info on how to find more help.  Pragmatic: that’s how I like my lactation consultants.  None of that fundamentalist, judgey crap that I got later for not being “pure” in my methods of feeding my daughter.

But that’s not the tone on which to end this story.  Let’s try another one.

Birthing my daughter was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  It is also the thing over which I have had the least control once it came down to it.  I did a lot of preparation.  I educated myself.  I found the right practitioners.  All of that helped.  But in the end, Esther came into this world as a force of nature.  Literally.  My body stumbled a little, but ultimately did what it had been designed to do.  To me, this is my relationship with God in its purest form.  I take so much comfort in the fact that I am not God: that I do not have the ability to control what happens to me.  Because if I did?  I would screw a lot of things up.  Instead, when I let God be God, I can work hard alongside her, doing what she designed me to do and I get something as beautiful as Esther not for for my efforts but as a gift.  My efforts were a gift in themself like all hard work is.  All of the things that went wrong.  All of the things that hurt.  I include them in this narrative because they make the final climax and denouement that much more satisfying.  Life is painful.  Life is also stunningly beautiful.