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| Serial |

Face the Music: Chapter 13 

“Maybe she’s starving and I’m neglecting her! Maybe I’m, like, an abusive mother! How do I know?”

 

Adina Laufenstein worked quickly. It took less than a week for Marissa to get her first call. Luckily, it was a quiet afternoon at home, with Yaakov working in his little study with his headphones on and the door closed, so he couldn’t overhear. At some point, she’d have to tell him about this project, but she needed to find the right moment.

“Hi? Is this the baby nurse from the Giving Circle?”

The Giving Circle? What was that? Oh, wait, it must be Adina’s new support group. Nice name.

“Hi,” Marissa said, trying to inject warmth and reassurance into her voice. “You got it, I’m a nurse who works with babies. How can I help you?”

There was a pause, then a rush of words. “My baby, she just cries all the time. Like, All. The. Time. And I have no idea what I’m doing! How do I know, maybe she’s starving. Or maybe she’s in terrible pain! I thought that once your baby is born you just get this automatic intuition, but I have no idea what’s wrong with her.”

“Wow, that sounds really tough.” Marissa sank into the couch and tried to figure out the best way to approach this. Do I ask for her name? Is this hotline meant to be anonymous? She really needed some more information from Adina… but here she was on the job, sink or swim.

Okay, so first she would affirm. “You want to be a great mom, but it’s hard to know what your baby really needs.”

There was a sniffle. “Yeah. And half the time I feel like crying myself. Because this is SO HARD! Much harder than I ever thought.”

“You’re probably really tired,” Marissa offered. “How old is your baby?”

How old are you, she wondered. You sound so young.

“Three weeks old. Do you think she’s starving? Maybe she’s starving and I’m neglecting her! Maybe I’m, like, an abusive mother! How do I know?”

“You sound like a very caring and concerned mother, actually,” Marissa said. “When we hear a baby cry, our mind always jumps to the possibility that she’s hungry, but honestly, babies cry for lots of reasons.”

“They do? I just assume that she’s hungry. I’ve been feeding her, like, maybe 18 times a day? And she keeps crying!”

“Wow, you’re working hard,” Marissa said. This poor new mommy. “But it’s very possible your baby’s crying for another reason. Some babies have a hard time getting out that burp. Some newborns really don’t feel secure unless they’re swaddled. And some babies are uncomfortable because we tend to wrap them up in lots of layers and blankets and they might be hot and sweaty. And the thing with a baby is, there’s no distractions at this age. So if they’re tired or uncomfortable, they are 100 percent miserable. It takes over their entire existence.”

“Omigosh, yes, that’s exactly it! She is just totally, totally miserable!”

“So we can talk through all the options and see which fits your baby’s patterns. But if you’re concerned about her being hungry, the best way to know if she’s getting enough nutrition is to get her weighed. Then you’ll be a lot calmer too. Was she weighed since she left the hospital?”

“No… I didn’t do that yet… I think they said to wait a month or so?” the caller said. “I can get her weighed, you’re right that I would probably stop freaking out if I knew that she’s gaining. But help, how do I do that? Where do I go? Will I have to speak Hebrew?”

“Why don’t you tell me where you live and I’ll see if I can find the number of the local Tipat Chalav. That’s the Hebrew name for the well-baby clinics here.” Marissa went to the kitchen and grabbed a phone book, then settled back on the couch and outlined the process step by step, soothing the anonymous woman as she explained. “That’s all you have to do. It’s not so hard, and I bet you’ll find out you’re really doing great at mommying.”

“That’s it? For real? You SAVED me, I’m telling you,” the caller said. “Thank you so, so much.”

“It’s my pleasure. Feel free to call back if you have any more questions.”

Marissa put the phone down and ran her fingers over the couch pillow thoughtfully. This woman hadn’t really needed a trained NICU nurse. She’d needed a listening ear, and reassurance, and also some very practical guidance. And Marissa had been able to give her all that.

A little bubble of satisfaction began rising inside of her. Adina Laufenstein was right. It felt good to be on the giving end.

“Ima?” The door opened. It was Tamar.

“Hi, sweetie, home early today?”

“Yeah, our last class got canceled. Ima, for my party, you know how I want to serve waffles with toppings for dessert? So I was planning to borrow a waffle maker from Malky, but she said theirs is broken. Do you think you can buy one?”

Marissa took a breath before facing Tamar. “I guess, maybe, we probably could… but do you think it’s something we’ll use again? Or would we run out to buy this thing, and pay all this money for it, and then only use it for this party and never take it out again?”

Tamar dropped her backpack down on the floor with a bang. “I knew I would have to beg. I knew it would be this whole situation. Everything I want, I have to make a case for it. It’s never just ‘Ima can we buy this,’ ‘Sure Tamar.’ Never!”

Marissa thought about the huge bill she’d just obediently paid during Tamar’s last shopping spree. “You’re not being fair,” she started. Then she bit her lip. She was the adult here, the woman who gave advice to weepy, emotional young women. Only teenagers talked about fair or not fair. “I’ll run it by Abba and if he’s fine with it, we can probably buy one,” she said.

Tamar’s chin was still cocked at that defiant angle. “It’s not this major deal. But okay. Just don’t forget, Ima, okay? The party is next week.”

Marissa squeezed the couch pillow, then let it go.  “Okay, sweetie.”

“Mommy!” Yechezkel reported. “Babbi Weiss just called. She said everything went very fast in the airport — they got their suitcases very quickly and they’re almost in Yerushalayim. Do you think they brought me a present?”

“I’m sure Zeidy has a good nosh for you in his pocket,” Perri said. “And if Babbi doesn’t have a present in her suitcase, she might take you shopping for one here. That’s what she did last time.”

She eyed her counters — good, they were spotless — set out her homemade babka buns on a pretty glass tray, and switched on the electric kettle. Then she speed-dialed Chaim. Baruch Hashem, he actually answered; he usually kept his phone off during seder.

“Hi, Chaim, it sounds like they’ll be here very soon. Your mother called and said they’re almost in Yerushalayim.”

“Okay, so I’ll start heading home,” Chaim said. “I just have something to finish up here, and then I’ll come.”

Somehow Perri wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t home for Mommy and Tatty’s grand entrance. “Start heading home”  were famous last words for Chaim Weiss. But her in-laws had the kids to distract them. And the babka buns.

There went the doorbell.

“Babbi and Zeidy are here!” Perri called, ushering her in-laws through the door as she leaned toward Mommy for a kiss and hug. “Welcome! How was the flight? How are you?”

“It’s so good to be back in Eretz Yisrael!” Tatty said, smiling as the kids gathered around him.

“With the most adorable, delicious grandchildren!” Mommy added. “Yechezkel, let me see how tall you’re getting! But still not too big to give your Babbi a hug, right? And Dovid, are those new glasses? Very stylish. I like them. Girls, tell me what time you finish school tomorrow, maybe we’ll go out for ice cream at that Shamenet store.”

Miriam giggled. “Babbi, you mean Katzefet.”

Mommy Weiss waved it away as she and Tatty settled into chairs and helped themselves to Perri’s babka. “Whatever it’s called. Perri, the babka is delicious. Tatty really shouldn’t be eating it. Me neither. Nu, he’s just so hungry. I don’t know why plane rides do that, all you do is sit for ten hours straight and for some reason you’re starving.” She poured a cup of water and pointedly set it before Tatty.

“So what’s Chaim’s schedule like these days?” Tatty asked, ignoring the water and taking another babka bun.

“He’s out of the house until around seven,” Perri said. “And then he has his chavrusa at night, after supper.”

“Because I have some plans for him.” Tatty put down his babka. “I want to take him around to some of the gedolim, so they can hear about the kollel, how well it’s doing.”

“Wow,” Perri said. “That sounds so nice.”

“It’s a good opportunity for him,” Tatty said firmly. “Right, Ruchy?”

Mommy pushed her plate of uneaten babka away. “And a good opportunity for you to get some more pictures, Motti,” she reminded him. “Maybe you can do another article about the kollel.”

“Right. PR never hurts. So what do you say, Perri? Do you think he can find some time in his busy schedule?”

Perri nodded. “I hope so. His schedule is pretty tight. But if he could work it out, for sure it would be very special.”

Motti nodded, clearly pleased. “A real opportunity.”

“Hello, hello!” Chaim entered the kitchen, still wearing his coat and scarf. “I’m here! Sorry I didn’t make it over before you got in.”

He bent over his seated parents, giving each a hug and kiss. “It’s great to see you again. How was your flight? How was the trip in?”

“Good, good. It’s all worth it to see the kids again,” Motti said. “How are things by you? Good? Yes? Very good. Listen, Chaim, I have some plans for you. What do you think of taking a trip to Bnei Brak tomorrow afternoon?”

“Bnei Brak?”

“I thought it would be nice to visit some of the gedolim and tell them about your kollel. Maybe get some pictures, too, for another article. Good idea, no?”

Chaim had been unbuttoning his coat. Now his fingers seemed to freeze. His eyes met Perri’s.

“I told Tatty it sounds like a great idea,” Perri said staunchly, ignoring the help me! Chaim was silently broadcasting.

Motti wiped the babka crumbs off his mouth. “So let me get in touch with my connection, he knows all the gabbaim and he promised me he can get us in to at least two or three of them tomorrow. I’ll let you know when I have a final time.”

Chaim’s shoulders sank. “Okay,” he said softly.

Perri gathered the plates. From the corner of her eye, she stole another glance at her husband, coat half-unbuttoned, scarf held awkwardly in his fumbling hands.

When she was little, her mother had installed a shelf above her bed for her doll collection, an ensemble that kept growing with every birthday and afikomen. She took so much pride in that collection — porcelain dolls with tulle gowns and tiaras, American Girl dolls with perfect accessories, a baby doll that looked almost real. But there was one doll that always made her nervous: a floppy rag doll that just couldn’t, wouldn’t, sit upright on the shelf.

Why did Chaim always become a floppy rag doll around his parents?

 

To be continued….

 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1045)

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