Limits

Last night I was talking to my son about childrearing. To my amazement, I think my children all are doing a wonderful job of raising their children, each in their own way, so it was not a discussion where I was giving advice, merely a talk about what seems to work best. He said that he was convinced that the most important reason for a parent to set limits is that limits make children feel secure. Children actually want limits.

I have to agree (after all, he learned that from me!) Children feel secure if they know what they may and may not do. They feel happy and in control of their lives if their parents have told them what actions will have what types of consequences and then enforce them. Of course consequences can also be good. If a child knows that helping to clear the table will earn him a special story or helping to fold the laundry is good for some cookies and milk, then he is able to choose a behavior that will yield him a reward. The key to this type of security is consistency. If parents consistently provide rewards that have been promised for certain actions and punishments that have been defined for others, then children begin to understand that what they do matters. The child learns: “It is not just whether Mom and Dad are happy with me, but I am able to arrange for good things for myself if I put in the effort.” For after all, isn’t that the way the world works? When we do something good that requires a lot of effort, there is usually a reward at the end. Sometimes it is monetary, sometimes it is something tangible, and sometimes it is the satisfaction of a job well done.

For children, knowing what’s permitted and what’s not is a key to their making sense of the world and to understanding that it is not just a random place where things happen for no discernable reason. Having limits that are clear and consistent provides them with opportunities for self-efficacy and with feelings of security.

Although I was fairly consistent as a mother, I remember having that important lesson taught to me once again as one day I was driving with my then 11 year old and he said to me, “the same thing happens to Scott as happens to me.” I asked him what that was and he told me, “Scott does bad things and his parents still give him good things.” He said it in such a way that it was clear to me that he didn’t understand why that would happen. For him, receiving ood things after he had misbehaved was not a gift of love, but something that confused him. I began to appreciate even more that I had before that limits are of vital importance, not just for teaching children how to act, but for enabling them to make sense of the world.

Flexing my muscles

It’s a sunny Sunday morning and I have been doing windows. Actually, before you begin to think that it means I am a good housekeeper, I must tell you that we have had approximately 10 grandchildren born since I last did the outside of a window. But it does, nonetheless, feel good and it’s nice to know that there are real trees and houses and streets outside that I had never actually seen before.

The occasion of the cleaning, for after all, let’s face it, it takes an occasion of major importance, is my daughter’s upcoming marriage. As I began to look at the house through the eyes of my expected visitors, I realized that clean windows might be a nice touch. I most likely will attack the dust on the bookshelves and books not to mention the blades of the ceiling fans. Who knows, even another coat of whitewash (we’ve never gotten around to painting the walls with real paint) is possible. After all, giving birth to her was the easy part, raising her, a bit more of a challenge, but getting ready for the wedding gives me the opportunity to flex my muscles in a new and literal way. After all, this is the last of the children to marry. I have to get it right this time.

So on go the gloves. The bleach is at the ready. Every mirror will sparkle; every dust bunny will be evicted. This is a full-scale operation. All visitors between now and the wedding will be issued cleaning supplies and expected to use them.

Or at least that’s the way I feel today.

Inanimate Objects

I have finally gotten some of the items I needed to do out of the way. I cleared a couple of shelves in the walk-in closet and put in a couple of loads of laundry, washed the breakfast dishes, and watered the plants. I sat down to write, having no idea what it was that I wanted to say when all of a sudden I heard something fall in the kitchen. I could have gotten up to see what it was and perhaps I could have seen without getting up if I strained myself enough to lean forward and look around the corner, but I am convinced it is just another one of my household items that is bound and determined to drive me crazy.

Years ago my husband and I observed “inanimate objects aren’t.” They seem to have a life of their own. Socks, for example, escape during the washing process and frequently take off with the mate of another, not unlike some humans I have heard about. Pencils and pens disappear precisely one minute before you need them. It is useless to search since they are practiced at rolling to the least accessible floor location possible. Leftovers in the refrigerator hide behind other foods and never appear when you need a quick snack, but they miraculously reappear when you are looking for something to serve guests and usually they have by then taken on a blue or green fuzzy appearance. Let’s not even talk about Legos, of which there are never enough for your child to build what he has been working on, but always enough to appear under a bare foot in the middle of the night. How many thousands of dollars of Legos did I throw away for just that reason before I found out that ounce for ounce they are more precious than gold?

So when I heard something fall in the kitchen, I thought: “does it really pay to look?” It didn’t sound as if anything broke, at least not glass, and who knows, when I pick it up, I may find a couple of unmatched socks or perhaps a pen.

Reflections

OK, I really do understand why I am so elated about my daughter’s engagement. After all, I carried her for nine months and 12 days (but who’s counting), I lived through her colic, and heard her first words, and I took her to nursery school the first day. I remember her innocence and her trust in others and her vulnerability. I remember her sweet little smile and her bouncy walk as she went to kindergarten. I saw her grow up overnight, able to understand the concepts of family therapy as she listened in on conversations with my colleagues. This is the little girl who at 7 remarked to one of my colleagues, “Good metaphor, Dell!” I watched her grow through high school, graduate, and pack herself up to make aliya. I was with her as the plane touched down and tears filled her eyes and she looked at me and said, “I’m home.” I watched her dance with joy at her siblings’ weddings and now, she is looking forward to her own.

All this I understand. It is logical. It is sensible. Every mother wants happiness for her children.

But why do I feel such a sense of happiness for her fiancé, someone I hardly know? Of course I think that he will be a very happy man, married to someone who is full of love, who is giving and caring. But it is more than that. When I see him, I smile. His face is kind. His voice is gentle. Maybe my happiness comes from seeing the reflection of her in his eyes.

May they always reflect each other– the sparkle in their eyes, the kindness of their souls, the sweetness of their love.

An Inhuman Sport

Is there a uniquely Israeli sport? Well, Israelis like soccer and basketball, but until recently I really didn’t understand that there is a uniquely Israeli sport. It is on a par with the US World Series and the European World Cup. Before the event they interview players on both sides. People in the country take sides and root for their team. During the event there is excitement and movement, and of course, the commentary. It is a sport that the TV networks cover with blow by blow descriptions.

Our sport is throwing people out of their homes. Jews, to be sure. Israel certainly couldn’t, wouldn’t even think of doing such brutal things to Arabs. And they do it with such enthusiasm! This past summer, 7000 people were thrown out of their homes. For the 1000 people in Amona today, residents and protestors, there are 6000 police. A recent comment on the action that I am watching at the moment (who ever said I wasn’t a sports enthusiast?) was about the police mounting the roof of one of the homes (the homes are all conveniently numbered, so we can follow the action) and the picture showed the police all taking out their bats and striking people repeatedly. The reporter (most of them root for the police) asked someone on the scene, “Why are the police beating the people on the roof? Weren’t they just sitting there?” The person on the scene said, “Well, yes, they were just sitting there, but this is what the police do in these circumstances” – as if this standard operating procedure was perfectly legal and understandable.

Interim score: In the last hour and a half, three of the nine homes have been destroyed. I’ll bet those rooting for the police are very proud. The injured have been numbered between 40 and 70. Many have been taken away to the hospital. A helicopter is leaving for the hospital now. It’s an exciting scene—fires, horses, water hoses spraying huge amounts of water on the protestors. Police taking rods and smashing in the shutters and windows of the homes where the residents are. Who needs baseball? Who needs soccer? We Israelis really know how to put on a show.

If God cries, he must be crying now. I am.

Wedding plans….

It’s week two of being mother-of-the-bride and I am delighted that the young couple has decided to marry in just two months. I find myself thinking obsessively about all that I have to do and all that they have to do to make the wedding happen in the nicest way. With both of them working and neither with a car, I have been more involved than I had planned to be. So it is nice to think that this period of relative frenzy is finite.

The good part is the happiness that I feel. It is almost as if each of them has an aura around them, an energy that feels to me like warmth and happiness and love, and when I am with them, I just feel elated. I find myself sitting and smiling thinking about them and their future filled with endless possibilities.

Of course, it always reminds me of the happiness I felt when I was looking forward to my own wedding. It was not just the love I felt for my husband then, it was the prospect of starting something new and wonderful that I would have a hand in shaping. We would create a home, an atmosphere. It would be the place that we would always feel comfortable. It would be safe and I would always feel accepted, respected, and loved.

The first disagreements plunged me into despair. How could it be that I had made such a huge mistake? I couldn’t get beyond my own hurt and pain to think about what might have happened from his point of view. What helped me was my stubborn streak. I was not going to let go of this beautiful life that we were creating together. I was going to do whatever it took to make the dream come true. I came to understand that this stubbornness that we both have is an asset that has gotten us through the years relatively unscathed as each of us believes in this marriage and will do what we need to keep it strong.

A number of years ago I had a group of chaplains’ wives at my house for a social evening. One of the things we did was to go around the room and give our responses to different questions. To the question, “what do you wish you had known about marriage before you got married?” one woman answered, “I wish I had known it would be this sweet.”

May this new couple I feel so much happiness for be stubborn enough to get through the difficult times and may they be surprised again and again by how very sweet it can be.

MAZAL TOV!

If I were charting my life on a graph that showed ups and downs in my feelings of happiness, today would probably reach an all-time high.

There are two reasons:

The first has to do with the visit of an old friend to Israel. When last we saw each other, he was experiencing a personal crisis. I feared that he would never feel happy again, that he would never have the kind of life he deserved. Years later, I discovered that he had since married and was happy. Today, I almost burst with joy when I met his wife and his beautiful children. Everything that had been so wrong had become right. His life is filled with laughter and love.

The second is much closer to home. Our youngest, Leah, is engaged! The happy news came last night. They make a beautiful couple: giving, caring, kind. The wedding will be in 2 months assuming all the arrangements can be made. May their lives too be filled with laughter and love (and lots of children!)



The Beautiful People

They are out there. They are not in magazines, movies, advertisements, TVshows, or plays, at least not visibly, but they are there.

They are the kind of people who draw you toward them. You want to talk with them, laugh with them, listen to them, even cry with them. They touch you deep inside. Once you meet them they are forever a part of you.

They are not showy. They do not speak of their accomplishments as if they are medals and as if they are what make them special. In fact, they speak of others’ accomplishments and they feel happy for them. They give, they create, they listen, they watch. They are kind. They are gentle, And most of all, they are real.

They know that the humanness they possess is not something to be ashamed of, but something that is precious so when they make mistakes, they can laugh at themselves and they can listen and learn for the next time. They are tolerant of others’ humanness too. They are patient and forgiving.

When you meet them, you know it. You feel the magnetism. You see their vulnerability, the clear eyes, the gentle smile, the openness. You see the light of truth shining through them. There is no artifice, only what is real. I think it is what Keats meant when he wrote in Ode on a Grecian Urn
,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

If you are lucky, you welcome many beautiful people into your life. If you let it happen, you can become one of them.

Winter Warmth

It was a cold day today—cold for Israel, that is. In the northeastern US where I grew up, it would be thought of as a warm day in winter with the temperature rising into the 50s, but I have become spoiled by our moderate weather. So for my trip to Jerusalem I dressed in black woolen tights and a velvety black skirt and a lime green sweater with a matching green pashmina that I had brought home from China. The pashmina is a scarf woven in a pattern with shiny and matte threads. It is made from cashmere and silk and besides being warm, it is very very soft. Over these clothes I wore a very soft black wool coat.

Years ago I began to realize that I bought my clothes not on the basis of style, but on the basis of color and texture. Clothes had to have pleasing colors and feel soft to the touch.

I know that my love for colors comes from my mother who tutored us on the gradations of color and their names. She had a wonderful sense of colors and made sure to share it with her daughters. Her home was decorated in blues and greens and purples. Every room was a showpiece. Only my room, at the top of the house, was yellow and orange.

In her home, the furniture was velvet and velvet brocade. The furniture was dark wood that was highly polished. The floors were always shining and the carpet was swept in the right direction and no footprints were allowed on it. The drapes were light and airy, but hung in a straight and dignified way, like women dressed elegantly, not like chorus girls. However, my mother didn’t teach us about textures. I think there was something too sensuous for her in the idea of soft textures.

I remember once sitting at my aunt’s house, allowing my fingers to stroke the silky fabric of the sofa. My mother’s face turned angry and she said, “Is that sofa bothering you?” I was not to touch.

In fact, that really was her message. I could be in the world. I could move around in it in a utilitarian way, but I was not to touch it. I was not to embrace it. I was not to enjoy it. I was to sit and be patient and endure. I was not to enjoy, to partake, to caress, to love.

It was only when I became pregnant that I realized what a wonder the human body is. My ever expanding belly brought me such a sense of happiness. Back in the days before ultrasound and prenatal testing, pregnancy meant carrying around a treasure to be revealed only at birth. And the babies were, indeed treasures. I loved their sweet smell and the softness of their skin. I enjoyed touching them and holding them. Their soft innocence helped me appreciate the world in a new way. I learned from them to explore with wonder new sights and sounds and textures. Because of them, for the first time for me the world became a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds and textures and wonders of all kinds.

And so this morning as I walked out into the cool sunny day, I was enveloped with softness and I felt appreciative of the world which I have learned to embrace and enjoy.

Singin’ in the Rain

Ah, Gene Kelly. All I have to do is to picture him dancing through the puddles, and swinging around the lamp post and I once again am in love. He looked so happy, so full of life and energy, as the rain came teeming down. And he was “singin’, just singin’ in the rain.”

Today it is raining. And now I understand how one can be elated with rain. We have had a warm, dry fall and our winter began with springlike weather. Our garden required watering as the parched earth began to crack from the dryness. But finally, the rains have come. They fall gently and sometimes strongly and they turn the summer and fall browns and tans to verdant greens. Titora hill, across the street from us is filled with lush vegetation. Soon the wildflowers will begin to grown and bloom and the hill will be dotted in red and yellow and pink and purple.

On my way home from Jerusalem on Monday, I spotted three almond trees, too impatient to wait even until the month of Shevat, let alone Tu Bishvat, to bloom. Already their branches were filled with blossoms. In Israel, rain and water mean life.

And now, I should stop, put on my rain boots, and go dance through puddles and around lamp posts!