The Ball I’m Trying to Drop

Mali Weisz

“IS there anything else you want to ask?”

I was finally doing that full checkup that every woman is supposed to do once she hits a certain age, and the doctor seemed to have reached the end of her list of questions, recommendations, and suggested tests.

I shifted uneasily in my chair. “Don’t you want to talk about my weight?”

The doctor looked at me, then looked at the chart in front of her. “Your weight,” she said. “What about it?”

“I need to lose weight,” I said urgently. “I gained so much weight over the years. It’s not healthy.”

She looked at me, then looked again at the numbers. “Your BMI is not great,” she said slowly. “But the BMI is really a very small part of the picture. What are your eating habits like?”

What should I say? That I’ve been on one diet or another since teenagerhood? That the diets that always worked when I was younger now achieved nothing? That my list of forbidden foods just got longer and longer with every passing year — as my weight climbed higher?

“I try to eat healthy,” I said. “I love fruits and vegetables, I don’t drink sugar drinks, I stay away from candy and white flour and rice, I skip dessert and never eat pasta. It doesn’t work.”

She nodded. “And what about exercise?”

“I exercise at least four times a week.”

She paged through the file again, perused the numbers, then looked at me. There was so much compassion in those eyes.

“I’m looking at your bloodwork, and all the numbers are good. Your weight is not where you want it to be, but objectively speaking, I don’t think we can say you’re not healthy.”

“So how can I lose weight? I need to lose weight!” I burst out. This time I didn’t try to hide the frustration, the loathing, the self-flagellation that accompanies me to every dressing room, every simchah, every glance in the mirror.

“Maybe,” she said very gently, “maybe right now that doesn’t have to be your priority. You have a big family and a demanding job. You eat right, you exercise, you do what you can. But honestly — at this stage in life, in order to lose weight, you have to make it a priority. You have to invest a lot of time and effort in it, it won’t happen on its own. And honestly, I don’t think that you have the time or the resources or the headspace for that. You have a lot going on. Maybe this doesn’t have to be one of the things on your plate?”

I left the doctor’s office dazed. I kept replaying those judgment-free words as I stumbled to my car, and the empathy laced through each sentence literally made my eyes fill. You have a lot going on. Maybe this doesn’t have to be your priority. You do what you can.

The doctor was giving me the license to accept my body — my body that was so much less graceful, less pleasing, than those earlier versions that still snapped back after birth and burned calories with every staircase I climbed and dutifully cinched in my waist when I did my daily crunches.

Could I take that license she was giving me? Could I finally drop this terribly painful burden and come to terms with the body I had? And could I ever grant myself the same compassion, the same gentle acceptance, that the kind doctor with her warm voice and understanding eyes was able to give so freely?

I wish I could say that I got home, took that license, and dropped the ball. That I left it behind and never looked back. Of course, life isn’t that simple. But I’m trying.

I’m trying to remember the many blessings I have, the reasons for my expanded waist. I’m trying to find the styles on the larger-sized racks that complement this body that may not obey my diet plan but does accomplish so much for my family. I’m trying to be grateful for the gift of health that encompasses so much more than numbers on a scale. I’m trying to celebrate what I do and where I’ve gotten without the accompanying condemnation of how I look.

I’m not there yet. But when that accusing inner voice comes back, I have my response at the ready. You have a lot going on. Maybe this doesn’t have to be your priority. You do what you can.

My sanity. Honestly, it’s easier to manage without it.

—Malky B.

Put to Bed

Shoshana Gross

C

risp sheets. Plump pillows over a glass-smooth expanse of duvet cover. Taut hospital corners and a perfectly cylindrical tasseled bolster accenting the immaculate bed.

In a hotel, maybe. Not in my house.

It was never high on my priority list. Once I was (finally) the proud possessor of my own room, the rumpled blankets and forlorn pillows didn’t bother anyone, right? Wasn’t it more important to get to school on time?

I was in for a rude shock. The Powers That Be in seminary didn’t agree with my relaxed attitude. Our eim bayit would conduct a rigorous inspection every morning, and bedmaking delinquents were informed that we needed to straighten out the sheets — now. I would dash up three flights of stairs, yank my bedding into some semblance of order, then rush down, sliding into my seat seconds before the next class.

Shanah rishonah inspired a burst of uncharacteristic bed-making (complete with European pillows and decorative bolsters), although this may have been attributed to beautiful new linen or a desire to pull the wool, er, blanket, over my new husband’s eyes.

And then my family grew. And grew. And the beds?

There is beauty in a perfectly made bed, but I don’t make mine. Or my kids’.

I know why I’m supposed to. Bedmaking makes us feel accomplished, which supposedly leads to increased productivity. Personally, I feel accomplished when I wave goodbye to my children in the morning, and everyone has their homework, snacks/lunch, shoes on, etc. The time I don’t spend making seven beds and two cribs every morning is put to better use: writing about why I don’t make beds, or occasionally, working/cleaning/preparing supper. That’s pretty productive, too. And all my work won’t be undone as soon as evening rolls around, and everyone climbs into their (unmade) beds, which simply stay… unmade.

Statistics almost upended my habit when I discovered that people who make their beds are 206.8 percent more likely to be millionaires. Who needs a good job or financial know-how to become rich? Just make that bed! Upon further reflection, I realized that this probably wouldn’t increase my assets, and the good intentions fizzled into heaps of billowing bedding.

But what about the harm I’m inflicting on the next generation? My kids know how to make beds, I just don’t nag them to do it. I save my best nagging for cleaning the playroom, completing homework, and eating supper. The tidal wave of life keeps drowning me in endless demands, chores, and tasks that I need to complete every day. I try to be conscientious and caring, but my resources only stretch so far.

I’ll admit a smooth, clean blanket and pillow are inviting — and I’ve heard it’s easier to sleep in, which is probably true. By the time I reach my bed, though, it’s too late for me to see it.

Maybe someday I’ll make the beds, but for now I’m too busy putting children in them.

Thursday night supper — we do hot dogs and French fries, and for the most part I don’t worry about how unhealthy a supper it is.

—E.Y.

Life in the Ball Pit

Toby Schorr

S

ince my special-needs daughter was born eight years ago, I’ve dropped so many balls there are times I feel I practically live in a ball pit.

The first time we sent her to a rehab hospital for a few days of respite care brought that home. It was summertime, almost six years ago, and after a rough year, I desperately needed a break. So after an angel in the guise of a neighbor agreed to have all my other kids for Shabbos, my husband and I went to a hotel ourselves. It was peaceful and relaxing, exactly what the doctor ordered, and I found myself with time to think… a rare commodity.

A self-professed neurotic list maker, I found myself making a list of a different sort. I thought of all the things I’d learned to do since my daughter was born, things that were once completely foreign to me, like administering oxygen, reading a saturation monitor, handling a feeding tube, and more recently, suctioning and changing a trach.

Then I thought of the things I’d once easily done but thought I no longer could, like serving supper, bathing my little ones, and combing their hair. I was so surprised during those few days as I realized that I hadn’t forgotten how to do those things.

Then I ended with the million-dollar question: How would I learn to do it all?

It’s been almost six years since I made that list, and I confess, I still haven’t figured it out. Yes, the baths and the suppers and the basics all happen, somehow, but whenever I read about that mythical frum superwoman who can do it all, I shrug in complacent self-acceptance: Not me.

And while it took a lot of time and inner work to get here, by now I’m okay with that.

One of the bowling balls I dropped from my life was cooking. I never enjoyed spending time in the kitchen, but hey, you do what you gotta do, and so for the first few years of my marriage, I churned out (decidedly non-gourmet but definitely passable) Shabbos meals and suppers like anybody else.

Then life got more intense, as in ICU-in-my-living-room intense, and I found I couldn’t push myself anymore. I don’t think I ever made a conscious decision not to cook… but at first, we got meals, and then? I don’t really know myself. But my kids eat plenty of pasta and hot dogs, I make omelets when I feel guilty about their lack of protein and then feel virtuous, and baruch Hashem, they’re all here to tell the tale.

One year, when I whipped together a super-easy cheesecake before Shavuos, my oldest son asked me in shock, “Mommy, you know how?”

Okay, I’ll admit it, I was insulted.

But most of the time, I’m just grateful that we’ve found a way to make things work for ourselves, that life in the ball pit is fun and colorful… and that my kids like cereal.

If you want to skip homework, that’s on you, kiddo. Usually this results in one kid doing his homework in class when he finishes his regular work, one kid doing homework diligently every night, one kid doing homework most nights, and one kid waking up about 60 seconds before she needs to leave the house and deciding she actually DOES want to do her homework. Some might call this a bad idea and a backfire, and to those people I say, could you please pick up milk on the way home, honey?

—L.G.

Of Note

Rivki Silver

“You should practice music every day,” exhorted Rabbi Moshe Chalkowski, menahel of Neve Yerushalayim, as I sat in his office as a freshly frum young woman trying to navigate my new life.

I’d spent the past 15 years of my life practicing music, not quite every day, to all my teachers’ chagrin, but a lot. When I discovered the beauty of Torah, and the subsequent incompatibility of frum life with a career in classical music (concerts on Shabbos, performances in churches, and music of varyingly levels of kosherness), I thought I needed to choose between being a musician or being frum.

That was an easy choice; I’d much rather be frum than be a professional musician. But it’s not so easy, or healthy, to just drop an entire part of one’s life, Rabbi Chalkowski told me. I took his words very seriously, carrying them with me as a mandate to not waste my musical talent.

Over the next 15 years I took every opportunity to play music. An amateur orchestra in Jerusalem; a Neshei Purim shpiel in Cleveland; a chamber recital in Baltimore. I played for shul events, senior living homes, and many, many schools. I was in an all-women’s frum band, an all-women’s orchestra (not Jewish). I was a musician. It was something I wasn’t allowed to give up. I had an achrayus.

And yet, while I appreciated the many opportunities Hashem sent me, time and again, I was faced with the unpleasant reality that my musical training and my frum life weren’t quite compatible. Playing in frum venues often made me feel frustrated, as my training was so much more advanced than anything the performances required. Playing in non-frum venues was often unpleasant because of an environment filled with bad middos.

I was using the skills Hashem gave me, but I was frequently unhappy doing so. Also, I wasn’t only a musician. I enjoyed writing, volunteering, and public speaking, in addition to running the household for my growing family.

Slowly, I started to prioritize other skills Hashem gave me and stopped hustling so hard to find opportunities to play music. I said yes to so many other things that I eventually found I was barely playing any music at all. Internally, I shifted from identifying myself primarily as a musician, but externally, that is still how people saw me.

“Are you playing at all these days?” I’d get asked with some regularity. When I answered in the negative, the response would be, “Oh, that’s such a shame!” At first, a niggling feeling of achrayus would creep back up, chiding me for not using my skills. But then I remembered that I wasn’t sad, and it didn’t feel like a shame at all. It felt like I’d gently put down an increasingly heavy ball. And once I let go of that burden, I found that I was able to enjoy whatever performances came my way with a newfound lightness.

I dropped the competition ball. I’m no longer trying to be more tired, more overworked, more stressed, have the hardest kids. I’m okay being okay. Let the other moms win the awards while I take a nap.

—Rena S.

Sweet Anticipation

Yehudis Mandel

I

don’t know what other people’s association is for those nine months in waiting, but mine is “time to go off sugar.”

I’m grateful to Hashem a thousand times over, my sugar levels in pregnancy have never actually been problematic, yet I still agonize and fret till I get the results of the second trimester test. But between being overweight, having a genetic history of delicious, round, large babies, and a previous C-section, I’m always cognizant that watching my sugar would be good hishtadlus in terms of the natural birth I so badly hope for.

With my last baby, I managed successfully to limit my sugar intake for my seventh and eight months (I kind of crashed after that), and my son was born relatively small for my kids. I was so shocked that he needed clothing in size NB! My munchkins usually go straight into size 0–3 months….

But this time, try as I might, I’m having a hard time. I’m overwhelmed in a hundred different ways, and yes, I admit, I find yummy, sugary carbohydrates both energizing and pampering.

Eventually, I faced that fork in the road where I had to figure out which way I would take: the more familiar path of self-flagellation — I have no self-control! It’s disgusting! — or the path less traveled, where I would make peace with what I felt able to do.

I analyzed the inventory in my toolbox and what I was doing to try to stay healthy, and decided things weren’t so dismal after all: I exercised regularly, I almost always got a full night’s sleep, I tried to stay hydrated with water. And on the emotional and spiritual end, I tried to learn regularly, stick some amount of socializing in my life, took a gratitude tally daily, and davened, of course.

And while I’m going to take cover before getting slammed with the inbox letters that some people may be sending my way, I decided to relax. I’m doing mine, trying to stay afloat while facing some rather turbulent waves, and right now, my life vest often takes the shape of an iced coffee.

Me, Myself, and I

Rena Freundlich

G

rowing up, I was the quintessential “girl who has it all.” I was pretty, smart, talented, and popular. My parents were well-off, and yes, I even had yichus. I soared through high school on a magic carpet of high grades and spotlit stages.

That carpet crash landed along with my carelessly flung graduation cap. I flew off to seminary, leaving my closest friends in the US. I cried straight through the year. Sure, I made some sort-of friends, but I was also forced for the first time to face my inner workings — and found, to my surprise, that they were broken.

To my credit (pat pat), I went for help. I explored my past and the ache inside me that came from never really having been seen. I worked hard. I thought I’d moved on.

Then I got married. We moved overseas, and within a short time were blessed with our first child. Several others came soon after, and I plunged headfirst into motherhood. I was determined to be the parent I’d never had. I was a storybook stay-at-home mom. I spent loads of time with my kids, playing with them, reading to them, doing projects, baking cookies.

I never left them with anyone else, of course. My kids wouldn’t be left with a babysitter. My babies wouldn’t ever drink from a bottle. No sirree. My kids would be mothered strictly by their mother, and mothered perfectly.

But in the meantime, unbeknownst even to me, I was withering. Self-care wasn’t yet a byword. There was no one to make sure I slept or ate. I had no friends whatsoever in my new hometown. We didn’t even speak the same language! Pre-WhatsApp and even cell phones, I lost touch with my childhood friends. And I had no outlets for any of the things that had nurtured me previously. Where or when could I now sing? Paint? Act? Play basketball? I was caring for my children, but no one was caring for me.

Year followed year, baby followed baby, and the void within me grew. I tried to fill it with my kids and their brilliance and adorableness, but where my contemporaries thoroughly enjoyed watching their daughters perform, my nachas was tinged with pain and jealousy. My emptiness was a black hole, bigger and stronger than any of those things, wonderful as they were. I thought with envy of the people my age pursuing advanced degrees or going out with friends or getting promotions. I felt like a nobody.

Then, at the ripe old age of 45, it occurred to me: I had to put myself on the list. My to-do list was so long, my needs never rated. But if I wasn’t on anyone else’s list, I realized, I would have to be on mine. I started to examine my needs and wants and ask myself, “If it were my husband or one of my kids who needed this, would I make it happen?” Most often, the answer was yes. It was a battle — the voice calling me selfish still broadcast itself — but I tried to force myself to take care of it. For me.

It still doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m wearing an old, stained coat I’d have replaced long ago if it was one of my kid’s. I can’t bring myself to enroll in the course I’ve been eyeing for months. It’s still hard not to let every one of their “wants” outweigh my “needs.”  But there’s an undeniable counterbalance on my side of the scale that wasn’t there before.

And for now, that’s enough.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 890)