There are dishes all over my kitchen because I claimed yesterday as a writing day. Then I didn’t get much done because the kids weren’t on board with that. They were on board with whining over writing assignments and forgetting how to do math. Balancing life is possible, but it isn’t always easy. And some weeks I just pray for the blessed reset button of Sabbath to hurry.

My life is good, like farm-life is good and childbirth is good–it’s the kind of good that character and joy are made of. But there are several moments in every day when I look at dishes and I want to break them. I want to put on my running shoes and beat the road to a bloody pulp–but there is no one to watch my children. So instead, I turn on hot water and I make a sink full of suds. I wash those dishes and I scrub those pans and I sing and pray until my shoulders drop back where they should be and my blood is finally a little cooler than the dish water. Then I go about my life until the next wall crashes down in front of my face and I fail and then begin again.

Last night was one of those nights you leave out of  a letter to grandma and instead drive it down to the local bar to drink beer and sing it in blues form. It was one for the record books. I eventually gave in to my four year old’s shenanigans and crawled into his bed hoping my presence would be sleep inducing. He decided that he didn’t want to sleep with me, and the frown I made to coerce him turned into a blubbering flow of hot tears that must have been dammed by something government made. I tried to wipe them away, but they just kept coming, and coming, and coming. When he threw his little body over my chest and cried, “I’m sorry I made you sad! I’m sorry I made you sad!” that didn’t help matters, either. I kissed him and excused myself and then drove to the nearest mental institution.

Did I mention that I was tired?

This book that I am writing is much dearer to my heart than the last one–though I never thought that would be possible–and I’m answering the same sweet call from the Father in writing it. Even so, I have to fight exhaustion and actually write it. It still surprises me how words from my glorious day dreams fail to find their own way to the page. But they don’t, and this book will repeat everything I have ever written in falling drastically short of my own expectations. Even shy the prettiness of perfection, the five word jewels that Tennyson wrote about and so often used, it’s taking longer to finish than I had planned. When you self publish, you pay yourself to write with little hope that investment will ever be returned–except, I hope, in lives changed. I no longer run ads on this blog because, despite common sense, obedience demanded that I take them down. The money I’d tight-fisted to last through this book writing is gone, and so I’ll finish it this month or fail to finish for quite a while. I’m still hoping beyond hope to finish (if you feel led to pray for that). Actually, I’m kinda freaking out.

And also, I’m a little tired.

With Mother’s Day fast approaching, I’m hearing the usual chatter from wives. Many of them expect their husbands to do something big (pay attention, husbands!), and at least 50% of them will be disappointed at the close of the day. I really don’t understand that. After all, it’s “Mother’s Day,” not “Wives’ Day”. Don’t Valentine’s Day, birthdays, and anniversaries offer enough manipulation? I’m sure my sweet children will color beautiful construction paper cards, but the ones I receive on Mother’s Day won’t mean more than the ones I received today….or yesterday…or the day before that. Why do we insist on measuring love by how much obligatory attention we receive on days dictated by a calendar that some man made? It doesn’t make sense to me.

I think we’ve invented holidays to make up for our lack of time and thoughtfulness throughout the year. The guilt over our selfishness rises and rises until we alleviate it on days set aside for such a purpose. If I’m a good mom (and I think I do okay) my kiddos might one day decide to spend their hard earned money on me, or call me out of the blue, or write me a note, or take me to lunch. And I hope they’ll think of me on many random days throughout the year. If they don’t, what good is the one day they feel they have to?

As a single mom of little ones, I work hard. This week alone I’ve wiped more pee off of toilet seats, sopped up more flooded bathroom floors, graded more papers, picked up more mysterious scraps of paper trash, cooked more meals, de-gunked more stickiness, given more baths, scrubbed more dishes, clipped more nails, changed more sheets, refereed more fights, and kissed more boo boos than I care to count. Well, I don’t mind kissing boo boos. But I have said “boo boo” more than I’d like to. Motherhood is a selfless pile of sacrifice with rewards that are sometimes buried under too much laundry to be readily found. If I do it well, if I run a good race, my children will someday rise up and call me blessed. Maybe they’ll even do that on Mother’s Day. But if they decide to remember me on April 3rd or September 17th, I’m okay with that, too. Until then, I’ll do my best to set a good example by honoring the ones who have gone before me–the mothers who after years of service are finally seeing the fullness of their reward (or at least, they certainly deserve to). I hope they feel loved all year long.

{To the best Mom, Grandma, and Mother-in-law in the whole wide world!}

(You’re almost one in this picture, but Mommy is still frantically searching her drives for your baby pictures.)

Everything Old is New Again: A Jewish Midwife’s Look into Pregnancy and the Feasts of Israel

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On Sunday morning (before hair was brushed–sorry, Mom!), we made our countdown calendar to Shavuot (Pentecost)!

Then, we had banana and sweet cream cheese crepes for breakfast…(hence, the whole not missing leaven thing)…

And garlic curry matzoh with tuna salad and potato salad for lunch.

It doesn’t feel like we’ve given up a thing this week. Still, tomorrow I’ll be back with cake!

Exodus 16:14-15 (KJV) And when the dew that lay was gone up, behold, upon the face of the wilderness there lay a small round thing, as small as the hoar frost on the ground. And when the children of Israel saw it, they said one to another, It is manna: for they wist not what it was. And Moses said unto them, This is the bread which the Lord hath given you to eat.

It’s Manna (What is It?)!

7 cups flour

1 cup sugar

3 cups water

1 t. salt

1/2 cup oil

Roll thin with more flour and bake at 400 degrees until slightly browned. Recipe will make four large sheets. Once cooled, cut or break into wafers.

I couldn’t sleep on Tuesday night. Maybe I was just excited. So, at four-thirty I got up, flipped on Pandora, took a shower and headed to the kitchen to prep garlic and horseradish crusted roast beef, herb crusted rack of lamb, root vegetable broth for matzo ball soup (after the broth was done I mashed the softened vegetables with heavy cream so nothing was wasted–and it was so good!), unleavened bread, tomato salad, and matzoh dessert.

I wasn’t quiet, but these three managed to sleep through it.

Oh, and latkas! What’s a Feast without latkas?!

Late in the afternoon, we acknowledged Jesus’ death and adorned our doorway. The kiddos excitedly shouted to the neighbors, “That’s blood!” Sigh.

I didn’t grow up celebrating the biblical holidays, so this was the first Passover Seder my dad has ever led for us. What a special memory. Oh, and our wine and watered down grape juice just happened to be the same color. Don’t worry.

I surprised each of the kids with a lamb (who they each immediately named). I think this one is Elijah. We also had an Abraham and a Roxy.

1 Corinthians 10:1-4 (KJV)

Moreover, brethren, I would not that ye should be ignorant, how that all our fathers were under the cloud, and all passed through the sea;  And were all baptized unto Moses in the cloud and in the sea; And did all eat the same spiritual meat; And did all drink the same spiritual drink: for they drank of that spiritual Rock that followed them: and that Rock was Christ.