Usually I dress up to go to therapy. It’s important that my therapist doesn’t think I’m as big of a mess as I am. Plus, her shoes are always so cute – she’d clearly judge my Uggs-and-pajama-pants look, no matter how chic it may be…
I hate the box of tissues at my therapist’s office. They sit there taunting me trying to get me to cry-which I’m desperately trying not to do. I don’t want my therapist to think I’m too neurotic, after all. Also, I’m not a pretty cryer. I bet she is.
I wonder if she knows that I’ve spent hours googling her, that I know her husband’s political leanings, her maiden name, and her synagogue…
Have you ever been in a therapist’s office that does not have an orchid? A white one of course. Those fuchsia ones are just too upsetting.
My grandfather escaped Nazi Germany in 1939 for the Philippines where his family, along with 1,000 other Jews, were offered refuge by then-President Quezon. In Germany, despite being chased home by Nazi youth, my grandpa had attended 1st and 2nd grade. He took a bit of a schooling hiatus as he made his way to Manila (how lazy!) where he picked back up in another language somewhere around 3rd or 4th grade at a Catholic school. But his education was again derailed with the Japanese invasion of Manila. To keep learning he studied his father’s medical textbooks in the evenings. For a brief time before the American invasion at the end of the war, he was back in school. But not for long. Fleeing the violence in his village, his family took to the jungle, living primitively; survival, not learning, was the priority. Emerging from the jungle my grandpa was bar mitzvah-ed and started and graduated from high school in the Philippines before crossing the ocean once again to Boston where he studied engineering at MIT. When I get too caught up in the impact of this pandemic on my kids, my grandpa’s story reminds me that these are small potatoes (which, by the way, he still won’t eat to this day after surviving on them in the jungle)…
My great-grandfather did everything he could to prepare his family for life in the Philippines. On the journey there my grandpa studied and learned Spanish since their encyclopedia, published in 1897, listed the islands as a Spanish colony. It wasn’t until they reached Hong Kong (a week before their arrival in Manila) that my great grandparents learned that English had been the official language of the Philippines since the Spanish American War of 1898 – the year AFTER their encyclopedia was printed. To this I say huzzah for Wikipedia! Keeping kids from learning unnecessary languages since 2001.
In 1939, before crossing the ocean to his new home in the Pacific, my grandpa spent a month in Paris with his two young cousins, Ernest and Frank Wohl, who were like brothers to him. After the war, my grandpa spent years trying to track down the Wohl brothers, only to finally, in the 1980s, find their names listed on transports to Auschwitz. His older cousin, along with his aunt and uncle were taken in cattle cars two whole weeks before his younger cousin. My 5-year-old requires my presence to fall asleep at night. Sometimes as I lie with him, wishing I could extricate myself from underneath his small, warm body, I think about little Ernest, all alone, riding to his death, and I give my baby an extra squeeze…
In 2008, my brother and I accompanied my grandparents to Auschwitz where we spent time in an exhibit on Parisian Jews. Covering the walls were pictures of those who perished in the camp. When my grandfather spotted his cousins he quietly, with hand on chin, exclaimed “by golly,” before sinking to the floor where he spent the next several minutes staring up at the cousins he hadn’t seen for 70 years…
My grandmother, who is the smartest woman I know, and who was valedictorian of her class, almost didn’t graduate from college on account – as family lore would have it – of an unjust and arcane graduation requirement to swim the length of a pool. Though her mind was sharp, physical prowess had never been her thing, and it took three tries and the support and cheer of all her friends to overcome this hurdle. She prevailed, much like the resilient German immigrant who escapes the Nazis and crossed two seas to find his way to her…
And this is why, in my family, complaining only gets you so far. Because, how can you compete?!
I recently figured out my calling in life; the job I’ve been training for since attempting this thing called adulthood. I am supposed to be spending my days informing the world about “the 25 BEST Amazon products that you didn’t know you needed,” and the “50 most-liked items for under $50.” I’ve pretty much tested everything Amazon has to offer anyway. May as well put this hard-to-come-by knowledge to good use. Pay it forward, tikkun olam…
Case in point: I drew this purely from memory…
THE BEST PRODUCTS THESE LISTS HAVE TOLD ME TO BUY, BUT WHICH I LIKE TO THINK I COULD HAVE FOUND ON MY OWN: 1. This hard-boiled egg-maker because why boil water in a pot when you can spend money on something that takes us space and scares the sh*t out of you when its buzzer goes off. 2. This tiny desk vacuum because sometimes you make crumbs, and standing up to get the dust-buster is too hard. 3. This giant water bottle whose sole purpose seems to be to nag me until I am so shamed I pee just a little in my pants.
Remember when you could walk down the street without trampling lost-or-littered face masks? I fear my children will never see another fall where they don’t have to be careful of masks hidden amongst the piles of crisp golden leaves they play in…
My 3-year-old is very jealous of her oh-so-cool big brothers who are, as of today, fully vaccinated. This has nothing to do with protection from the virus and everything to do with their vax cards, which, like their ipads, are something they have that she does not and therefore must procure. So, like any reasonable unvaccinated person who is worried about missing out would do, she scribbled on paper and forged her own. Problem solved…
Do other people hold their breath when they pass people too close on the street? As if not sucking in the air for a moment or two will protect oneself from the miniscule soldiers whose only mission is penetration and infection. I know this is not how it works. I am perfectly safe outside. But will I ever stop this new habit? Probably not seeing as I still, at 34, hold my breath past a graveyard. Just in case.
The other day while I was tidying up my 5-year-old’s untidy-able room, I came across a decorated plastic box. Intrigued, I opened it to find dozens of multi-colored flossers, all sorted according to hue. When I asked my son what this was, he nonchalantly told me it was just his collection. I had recently been impressed by his interest in and dedication to oral hygiene. I had even considered spending more time on my own (non-existent) flossing routine so as not to be shown up by my kindergartner. But now I understood. This wasn’t about hygiene. This was about hoarding! A task that I had, indeed, been disciplined about and modeled for my son. “Don’t worry, Mommy. I wash them first,” he assured me. And so, the natural order of the universe remains in tact…
I’ve been shamed. Terribly. By my dentist. And given my obsessive need to please figures of authority (and yes, obviously a dentist is an authority figure. Don’t tell me those “tools” they use aren’t weapons and that you’re not at your most vulnerable lying there with those greasy plastic sunglasses that were probably purchased in the 90s, blocking out that rainbow light, mouth open, trying not to swallow your own spit, and willing yourself to be cavity free so you can lord it over your husband who thinks his oral hygiene is oh-so-good but who recently had to have his first filling.), I have been able to think of little else but how epically disappointing I am to my dentist. I don’t have a cavity. So honestly, I’m not sure why this story doesn’t end here. And of course I lied to her when she asked if I floss – come on! I have 3 kids! But I never expected her to stop mid-cleaning and announce that there was nothing more she could do until I spent a month flossing every day. So, yes, I’ve been ending my evenings with a strict regime of brushing, flossing, water-picking and mouth-washing. Which, all in, takes about 10 min. Which is 3,650 min/year. Which, I assume thought don’t feel like doing the math, is a certain number of DAYS. And am I really going to spend this not insignificant chunk of my life standing over the sink waiting for the electric toothbrush to signal I can move on to the top row of teeth? You bet! Because nothing is more important than impressing those in power.
1. You fall asleep in the dentist’s chair even though, apparently, you have “severe” gingivitis (because you lost your floss months ago and keep forgetting to replace it so that you can at least pretend to have decent hygiene), a slight phobia of the dentist, and an Apple watch that keeps pinging you and who you are sure must be the nurse at school…
2. You make 5 different dinners every night that no one consumes and have convinced yourself that foods – like hot dogs, deli turkey, and ice cream – that you once believed were “unhealthy” and “impure,” do, in fact, have nutritional value (ice cream is basically milk, right?) and that if at least one of these basic food groups have been eaten you are satisfied with the well-balanced meal. Plus, if all foods must be dipped in ketchup for you not to listen to an entire meal of whining, then so be it. You will happily buy a large bottle of this life-saving condiment every-other-week…
3. Your most frequent form of exercise is wrestling tiny sociopaths into socks/shoes/carseats in a calm enough manner that the neighbors don’t contemplate calling child services on you…
4. Pickles count as vegetables, right? Especially if they are smothered in ketchup…
5. You dream of a day when you might once again poop in private. When a shower is a solo (unless the object of said shower is more sexual than cleanly in nature) activity and you don’t have to feel guilty for taking the extra 3 min. to shave your legs…you know, in the off-chance that you might opt into a partner-sort-of-shower later…
4 AM: 2-yr-old comes into your bed screaming for yogurt. Because it’s breakfast time…You spend the next hour and a half explaining that no civilized human eats before the sun rises.
5:36: You relent and let 2-yr-old feast on crackers & yogurt in your bed.
6:30: You alarm goes off, which your husband doesn’t hear. You are covered in crumbs and your snoring 2-yr-old. You kick husband hoping he understands he must wake up and start the morning. But QUIETLY so as not to upset the monster on your chest.
6:38: Husband stumbles out of bed and creeps around in the dark getting dressed. You try to reach for your phone without waking your slumbering child.
6:41: The 2 other kids come racing into your room. They are yelling about a Lego piece which apparently belongs to both of their Lego sets, and which, if unsuccessfully procured, will undoubtedly ruin their life.
6:41 & 23 secs: 2-yr-old wakes and joins in the Lego battle, though you are 97% sure she thinks the sole purpose of Legos is for sticking in her mouth to torment you.
6:53: Everyone is in the kitchen screaming about breakfast. By the time you manage to pull on some leggings & brush your teeth and make it down, the 2-yr-old has already thrown her eggs across the room because she wanted the Batman plate, not the Paw Patrol plate.
6:54: Your husband escapes upstairs for his morning shit, which somehow never takes less than 15 min. Your kids assault you for their gummy vitamins, which you throw at them while slicing cucumbers (the long way, NOT the round way) for the empty lunch boxes waiting on the counter.
6:56: 7 yr-old pulls out a folder from his backpack and reminds you (inform you for the first time) that he has HW to fill out questions about his family.
6:57: You curse, abandoning lunch prep and settling for the well-rounded meal of cucumbers, applesauce and oreos.
6:58-7:06: You sit with 7-yr-old and attempt not to pull all your hair out while out loud you spell Every. Fucking. Word.
7:07: Husband reemerges from his epic poop & sees the vitamins out on the counter. Panicked, he tells you he already gave them to the kids. You consider calling the pediatrician. Or poison control. But then you see the time and decide that the vitamins are probably more sugar than vit., and what kid has ever OD-ed on sugar?
“Mommy, I love how your boobs hang down and point to the ground”
“Eww, Mommy, you smell terrible!” (As 5-yr-old sticks face in my croch
“Look, Mommy’s undies are so big I can use them as my suitcase”
“Squish. Squish. Squish.” (As 2-yr-old kneads my belly)
“Mommy, why do you wear your underwear all the way up to your boobs?” ANSWER: it’s the only way to squeeze this empty baby-sac into my high-waisted leggings.
“I love the strips on your belly” (Thanks, I wouldn’t have them without you!)
“Mommy, why do you have booboos all over your feet?” It’s called dry feet, MF. And in case you haven’t heard we are in the midst of a global pandemic and I haven’t had a pedicure in years
“Mommy, why are your arm pits hairier than Daddy’s?” ANSWER: daddy is a Swedish WASP. Mommy’s a Russian Jew. Who is too lazy to shave.
“How come Daddy always wears pants with buttons but you never do?” ANSWER: because of YOU!
“No, Mommy! I can’t sit in your lap because of all the prickles”
THANKS KIDS FOR KEEPING IT REAL! WHO NEEDS CONFIDENCE ANYWAY?
Well, it’s that time of year again. Time for G-d to judge whether we live or die. If you goyim think Christmas is stressful, and are on your best behavior all year lest you find a lump of coal in your stocking, you should try living with the weight of The Book of Life. Just when you’re over that back-to-school anxiety – when those naked-in-the-hall-can’t-find-your-math-class-didn’t-realize-there-was-a-history-test dreams stop haunting your sleep, it’s time to face your Maker. Time to account for your sins. Take stock of the very worth of your life. This is the beauty of the Jewish High Holy Days. And, let’s be honest, one of the (many) reasons so many of my people find themselves in a lifelong relationship with their therapist. When I was little I was sure I wouldn’t make it to the five thousandth and whatever year it was of Jewish life. Mostly because I stole a Playmobil baby from my best friend’s dollhouse. (This petty theft was followed by my friend’s Mickey Mouse watch, which I then wore in front of her, insisting that it was just a coincidence that I suddenly had the same watch she had misplaced). There was no doubt in my mind that G-d would strike me dead for this. And no amount of apples and honey could convince me there would be anything sweet about the coming new year.
You know what I feel like people don’t talk about enough? How incredibly painful it is when a corn chip gets lodged up in the roof of your mouth. That sh*t can really ruin a perfectly delicious bag of Doritos – which, by the way, my mother never had at our house but which I discovered in my BF’s pantry and may or may not have been an important reason I maintained this friendship for such a long time…
It is a universal but unacknowledged frustration when your phone, which is supposed to recognize your face and open without your having to do anything at all, does not, in fact, know who you are and apparently, like Ron DeSantis, taking a very strong stance against masking. Imagine having to work our fingers when all we want to do is check our Twitter. The injustice!…
Remember when finding something to watch entailed getting in the car, and spending at least half an hour perusing your choices, and trying to find the strength to NOT get sucked into the 2-for-1 candy deal at Blockbuster? These days I can’t even believe the extent of my TV-consumption-laziness. Sometimes the vastness of choices for date night is just so overwhelming that we simply don’t even attempt to find an exciting new show and instead rely on a tried-but-true classic which for us mid-30-somethings is more often than not some mediocre rom-com. But that’s a good night. Because I can’t tell you how many times our evening plans have been derailed by the mere suggestion that we should use our Amazon Fire stick to sign into Netflix or HULU or Disney+. There is just no movie or show good enough to merit moving our fingers up and down to select the proper letters for the search box. And that’s only IF we remember our sign-in info to begin with. Because truly, how many times can you reset your password before losing your F-ing mind?!…
The summer is a challenging time for me. Not only because I hate the heat. But also because I can’t decide what is worse – being blinded by the sun or attempting to tolerate the sweat trickling down my nose from my sunglasses…
You know that nauseated feeling caused by one of your kids rolling down the window in the back when you haven’t cracked your window up front? Yeah…me neither…
I'm Worried My Therapist Hates Me: A neurotic millennial's musings and doodles on life, parenthood, and the myriad ways she can blame her mother for her troubles. 