Passover: A Mom’s Timeline

HOW TO REALLY DO PASSOVER LIKE A BOSS:

T minus one month:
Walk through the grocery stores. Marvel at the passover displays. Liken them to the Christmas decorations that go up the day after Halloween.

T minus two weeks:
Walk through same grocery stores. Consider that it’s probably time to develop a shopping list by figuring out how many boxes of matzo and matzo products are still hiding in the pantry from last year, still awaiting their redemption (and probably still just as fresh as the date of manufacture).

T minus one week:
Finally do the grocery shopping. Pick up another five pounds of matzo because it is, inexplicably, less expensive than a single box. Buy all of the stuff you’ll need to put a passover seder together.

T minus five days:
Watch your husband as he scampers around assembling the ingredients he’ll need to put the dinner portion of the seder together. Have fun texting him every four minutes as you randomly discover all those ingredients you forgot to get the first time you went shopping. Pro tip: try and get him just as he’s making his way to the cash register. Multiple times.

T minus three days:
Make the chicken soup. Pretend there’s enough room in the refrigerator to hold the stock pot once you’re done. It may involve moving the brisket your husband has made in advance, but don’t tell him that.

T minus one day:
Put together a list of all the things you are going to do to stay organized so that this year things go off without a hitch. Laugh at yourself because things never go off without a hitch. Bake the desserts because that’s your stress response to everything anyway.

T minus 12 hours:
Put together the matzo ball dough. Congratulate yourself for always having light and fluffy matzo balls. Remember, as soon as you do, that pride is the kiss of death. Boil the matzo balls for the requisite 40 minutes. Boil them for another 90 minutes, just to be on the safe side. Test them. Realize it will take another hour for them to actually be done.

T minus 10 hours:
Start to set the table with the tablecloth, candles and seder plates. Marvel at how together you really are.

T minus 9 hours:
Prepare the hard-boiled eggs. Make sure you forget to start the timer so it’s anybody’s guess how done they really are. Everyone likes a surprise!

T minus 2 hours:
Gasp because you have now let life completely interfere with preparing for the seder. Begin tossing together charoset and all the other random things that need to go on the table.

T minus 30 minutes:
Finish setting the table because SOMEONE needs to. Remember that there is not yet any mention of a vegetable for dinner. Come up with something from the fridge and throw it on the rack in the oven under the kugel. Promise yourself that everything will be all right.

T minus 15 minutes:
Remember that project you swore you’d complete last year? The one where you decided you were going to create your own cool haggadah for next year’s seder? Let it cross your mind as you fumble through your bookshelves for something to use this year. Forgo the kiddie books in favor of the passover card game you used last year.

T minus 10 minutes:
Separate the passover cards by “actual seder stuff” and “extra conversation stuff.” Deal out the actual seder cards to each place at the table. Save the extra conversation cards to use as punishment cards. Any time someone says something rude or cusses, they will need to pick up a conversation card and share it. Do not stop to think of the repercussions of this choice.

GO TIME!
Spend the first 20 minutes alternately going through the first four parts of the seder and fiddling with the Zoom features on your computer so that a grandparent can be seen or heard along with your family.

5 minutes in:
Secretly congratulate yourself for having put out olives and veggies to keep everyone happy while you perform the service. Also congratulate yourself for spreading the wealth and making everyone else help lead the service.

15 minutes in:
Feel your anxiety ratchet up as you watch the punishment card pile rapidly depleting. Perhaps this was not the best life choice.

45 minutes in:
Stagger through to the blessings over the food. Consider how quiet things get as soon as people actually get to eat. Say a prayer of gratitude that the punishment cards, while running dangerously low, have not yet run out.

1 hour 15 minutes in:
Meal is over. All bets are off. No one wants to look for the afikomen. Nobody wants to clear the table. Nobody wants to finish the service. Forget the passover cards. It is now time to play your mom card.

90 minutes in:
Punishment cards are long gone. Stumble through the last parts of the service in what can only be deemed as a land speed record. Wrap it up and Let Your People Go, for the love of all that’s right and good.

1 hour 40 minutes in:
Sneak all of the lime fruit slices that your family forgot to eat tonight. No one’s watching.

T minus one Hebrew calendar year:
Marvel, upon seeing your now-empty kitchen, what a fun time you had. Resolve to create an even more fun haggadah for next year.

Under the Wire

Today’s writing
will get snuck in

Like bites of chocolate
from the pantry
when the kids aren’t looking

Or the trip to the bathroom
only made possible
by the teacher across the hall
who will watch to make sure
no child explodes
in my absence

Or the extra steps I gain
by parking in the
very last spot
at the grocery store

Or the moment of sleep
I can manage
right before
the next summons for help
to find a shoe
or whatever it is
RIGHT THERE
on the shelf

A Burden I’ll Gladly Bear

Today
I could reach into my bag
Deepdeepdeep
And rustle up
Something good:

My teen guy,
Shambling into the kitchen
For one of those
Rare and
Charming
Extended chats about
Nothing
Out of nowhere
That reminds me how
Teen parenting
Is a lot like being on call

Or

A video chat
With sweet kiddos
Who need help with
Organizationmanagementfollowthrough
But really need
Time to connect
About udon noodles
Or stuffies
Or ways to hide salmon in mashed potatoes

Reach my hand around in there
And I can also probably pull out

A walk in sunshine
With the dog who
Won’t leave my side
Except to sniff
At
Every
Little
Thing

This sack full,
This burden
I will gladly shoulder.

Ode to the Dinner Table

Now that so many of us are home, perhaps it’s time to once again write an ode to an ordinary object that just doesn’t get its due.

Most of the time,
You don’t notice me –
You just see
That water from last night’s dinner
Pretending someone will drink it
Or
The mail, sorted on people’s
Worn placemats until
It’s put out of its misery

I’m not where anyone
Chooses to work
Or wants to relax,
But

Each night
You’re home
I gather you
Across the corners
For conversation
And communion
Weaving you together
Like the fringes of those
Worn placemats

How I’m Doing

It’s around about this time of year that I give my fourth graders a fun warm-up activity. I ask them to tell me how they’re doing, but to respond in haiku.

I love haiku.

It’s an easy little way to get some poetry in, and I usually think I’m copping out by doing it, but then there’s always some sneaky phrase or verse that catches me by surprise and reminds me that despite my best efforts, I am indeed creating poetry.

So. How I’m doing today:

Today was sun-filled
Had the chance to escape with
The hubs for a ruck

Backpacks loaded down,
We strapped in, headed into
Sunshine and cool blue

It was a great way
To pretend I didn’t have
Duty awaiting:

Lessons to plan out
The emails, emails, emails,
Meetings to schedule

And always loveys:
Kids who will take up thoughtspace
Deep inside my brain –

No matter the hour
They somehow find a way to
Occupy my heart.

On Transformation

Everyone, it seems,

Is ready to make this time
My next time
To sieze
An opportunity!

If only I had
thisresource!
thislink!
thislist!
thisadvice!
thischallenge!
thisguidance!
thisinformation!

But

What I really know
is

All I need
Is a moment
To remember
This time
May not be
The time
I emerge from my
Chrysalis

But rather

Perhaps

All I need

Is a cocoon.

A Heart, Moved

There were so very many things
That moved my heart
Today
In one direction or another:

There were times
My smile reached past my ears
And perhaps to my toes

There were times
My smile faltered
Just a little bit
I heard it crack
Right along with a few
Pieces of my heart

There were times
My smile held firm
In the enough
Of now.

Poetry Month: Piece of Mind*

I sit on the floor, legs splayed,
Jigsaw pieces scattered
My work is cut out for me.

Most people open just one
But I wonder where the fun
Is in that.

Take out one box, two boxes,
Six
Dump the pieces out and
See how it comes together.

You say you like to sort for
Edges
Colors
Patterns
Good luck with that.

It would be nice
For pieces to make sense
Between themselves, but
Too bad they are now swimming
In different ponds.

You’ll find a match,
Make forward progress on
One
Two
Switch your attention
To the next
Or the other
Or was that the first?

No mind.
Plow through the jumble
Keep trying
Until something
Anything
Resembles anything.

It may not be prudent
Or efficient
Or practical
Or wise,
But think of the satisfaction
When at last
You have a fit.

—–

*I’m not going to lie. This is the kind of stuff that I did as a kid. I’d dump a bunch of puzzles together and solve them at the same time. My days of e-learning feel very much like that challenge.

April Fool’s

If ever there were a year that April Fool’s were both welcome AND despised, this would certainly be it. NO ONE is in the mood to mess around with anything. And yet, at the same time, we need humor and levity more than ever.

As a teacher, I’m often conflicted about April Fool’s jokes in the classroom. There’s an uneven power dynamic, and it generally makes me uncomfortable to have any sort of humor at my kids’ expense.

Still, there were two times I was able to pull a stunt off. I’ll tell you about one of them (and perhaps save the other for next year?).

April 1, 1999. Fourth grade. A few kids asked me if they could do an April Fool’s joke on the class. I agreed. They stayed in from recess. We swapped four or five pairs of desks, then swapped the name tags so it looked like all desks were in their original spot. The rest of the student desks remained untouched.

Cue the recess bell. Kids file in. I ask kids to take out their journals for writing. MASS CONFUSION as there are a lot of kids who have the wrong journals. There is some grumbling from people who could swear they left their desks cleaner than how they found them. Somehow we press ahead, and everyone gets their own journal. But the natives are restless. We’re going to need a reveal, and SOON.

“OK, class, let’s get started writing. What’s today?”
“Thursday.”
“Yes. And what day is it today?”
“Thursday!”
“Yes, but what DAY is it today?”
“Thursday!”
“Yes, but…” I say, moving to the chalk board and gesturing to the date quite pointedly, “What’s today? What DAY is it?”
“April first.”
“What day?”
“April first!”
“Yes, and…” I say, folding my arms and looking around, “What does that mean?”

There is a moment of silence before the recognition sets in, before the kids realize they’d been had, before the kids realize how messed up things were, before kids realized that some of their classmates had been in on the fun.

That was PRICELESS. Many laughs were had. My guess is that some of them still remember that day.

#SOL20 Day 31: A Conversation with Story, Resolved

I thought that this piece, a continuation of my first and my second “conversations” with Story, might be a good place to bring some closure to this month-long writing challenge.

…..

“Well?” She drummed her fingernails on the table.

“Well…what?” blinked Story, letting the right corner of her mouth twitch up into an almost-smile.

“Oh, come on. You know. You were the one who came in here a month ago, rocking all kinds of boats and upsetting all kinds of apple carts. You were the one who dragged me into this.” She folded her arms expectantly. “Don’t you think I deserve some kind of recognition?”

Story didn’t miss a beat. “Sure. Make yourself a cookie.”

Her face fell. “Ouch.” Then, “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? All I’m asking for is some kind of acknowledgement that this month was hard. That it took courage and discipline to write fiction when all I really wanted to do was to stay comfortable in my journal and poetry zone. Is that too much to ask?”

“Why are you asking me? Who ever said you needed validation from me in the first place?”

She sat for a moment, looking at her hands, twiddling her thumbs, first forward…then backwards…

Story continued. “Was I the one who signed you up for writing every day?”

“No, but -“

“And was I the one who magically decided that you wanted to write more fiction?”

She cleared her throat. “I – I thought that you…”

“You thought! That’s the point!” Story shook her head. “You’re sitting here insisting I’m the one who put you up to this? That I’m the one who is somehow responsible for making you take this all on?”

She banged her palm on the table “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You’re the one who keeps showing up, who keeps following me, who keeps calling me a chicken if I don’t flex my writing muscles.”

“Honey, I hope you know by now that I like you.” Story looked her in the eye. “So I’m sure you will forgive me for telling you that’s a load of bull.”

She sat, confused, though nothing would surprise her at this point. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Oh, come on,” Story said. “It’s time for you to give yourself credit already. Yeah, I drop in from time to give you grief about things, but think about this: who’s sitting in front of the computer every day? Who’s deciding what to write? It sure as heck ain’t me.”

“But – but, the guilt trips? And the teasing?”

“All you, sweetie. I’m just a voice in your head.”

She sighed, loosened her shoulders. “So…I don’t need you after all then, do I?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let’s not go that far. Everybody needs me.” Story set her jaw. “And don’t you forget it.”