Every Day is Independence Day in Our House

By Carla Naumburg

They might as well be teenagers.

My daughters are 4 1/2 and 3, and other than their short stature, penchant for screaming rather than brooding, and a total inability to write snarky notes to each other, they’re basically teenagers. They’re in that unpredictable phase where one minute they want to be treated like grown ups (i.e. 8-year-olds), the next minute they want to snuggle on your lap and suck their thumbs, and God help you if you pick the wrong one.

The struggle for independence is alive and well in our house. I have no idea who’s winning, but I’m pretty sure it’s not me.

Exhibit A: 3-year-old has exactly two skirts she wants to wear. Whenever they aren’t clean (likely because she peed on them), she huffs and moans about how she “won’t be pretty” unless she has the right clothes.

Exhibit B: 4-year-old has started FaceTiming with her friends when she can’t have an actual play date. (“I keep my dollies in my bedroom! Where do you keep yours? … Oh, I don’t have a playroom. My mommy says our whole house is my playroom. Is that true?”)

Exhibit C: On more than one occasion, I have come into the kitchen only to a find a little tushy sticking out of my fridge, as one of them is looking for snacks or making sure that I wasn’t lying about whether or not we have any yogurt left. They are now deeply suspicious of most things I say.

Exhibit D: An angry 4-year-old yelling at her Dad this morning: “FINE! I’m not going to play with you any more!” I’m pretty sure he just got kicked out of the cool kids’ club.

Exhibit E: Both girls refused to go to the zoo on Friday. (What child refuses the zoo?!) They were “too tired” and “needed some space.” They spent the morning listening to books on tape, but only because we wouldn’t let them zone out in front of the TV.


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I Threw My Baby Down the Stairs

 By Jessica Glassberg for Kveller 

Okay, before you call child protective services, let me explain… 

Three months ago, my husband and I were playing with our 4 ½ month old when it became quite apparent that it was time to sing “Poop Monster” (to the tune of The B-52s, “Rock Lobster”). We’ve pretty much created a song for everything involving our daughter: “We’re Not Gonna Cry Now,” (“We’re Not Gonna Take It”), “Rolling on the Carpet” (“Rolling on the River”) and “Food Glorious Food…” that one needed no editing.

After a brief stare off to determine who would change the little stinker, it was I who danced my little one upstairs to change her. I sang; she smiled. After the “Bare Necessities” were complete, I picked her back up, gave her a big kiss on the cheek and as she smiled at me, we headed for the stairs. And it was right then that I threw her.

Please put the phone down and understand that it is my “Jewish mother guilt” that has lead to a slight exaggeration where I felt like I intentionally threw my baby down a flight of stairs.

The truth is, I was cradling my daughter in my arms, when I slipped. My little darling was startled and cried for about five seconds and then smiled for the next hour. I, meanwhile, have been scarred for life. And I’m not just talking about the giant gash and bruise I have on my forearm from where I slammed into the banister in an attempt to protect my baby’s still-developing brain from permanent trauma. I am referring to this all-encompassing feeling that I am a bad mother.

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Why You Should Never Leave Your Kids in the Car

I have dozens of childhood memories that include me and my siblings waiting in the car for our parents. Most notably, I remember us waiting at the bank and my little brother, probably preschool age, backing the car into an adjacent lot. The story is told in jest now, and my mother was most definitely a helicopter parent of her time. That’s just how it was.

But it’s 2013 and we use car seats and bike helmets and you can’t leave your kids in the car anymore. There is no “running in” anywhere and even going to the bank to deposit a check is a full blown ordeal.

I ran errands one day last week and pulled my two kids in and out of the car no less than 15 times before noon. It was 80 degrees outside and I was taking our cat to the groomer. Here I am holding a 20-pound infant who is diving out of my arms with a cat carrier in one hand and attempting to wrangle a bolting preschooler with the other. Add the diaper bag and I’m a walking circus. Once I finally got everyone loaded into the car I realized that I forgot the checkbook and the grooming salon ONLY TAKES CHECKS.

I contemplated leaving my kids in the car while I ran back up to our apartment. The car was parked in the driveway in a shady area. I would only be a second. The windows were down.

Then I pictured myself falling up the stairs and twisting my ankle. Or being stopped by a neighbor who wanted to chat. Answering a phone call. My mind flashed to any number of things that could keep me from getting back to my car full of the most precious people in the world to me.

So I schlepped them all back inside.

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Stop Taking So Many Pictures of Your Kids

By Nina Badzin

I remember how the cost of taking pictures used to add up quickly, and how tedious it was to keep track of your film. On my teen tour in Israel in 1993, for example, I was always judicious as my finger hovered over the shutter. I would never have considered snapping a picture of every person on my trip standing in front of the same stack of rocks on Masada. Who had the time, energy, money, and interest in developing all of those pictures? Did I want to load a new roll of film in the middle of a hike? The advent of the digital camera feels like a curse. Taking pictures is such a regular part of our lives that my 6-year-old asks to see shots immediately and requests I take new ones if she doesn’t like something about the picture. And since I have four kids, it should come as no surprise that I am drowning in digital photos. I expected to have the classic situation of endless pictures of my oldest child and next to nothing for my youngest. Instead, I have an obscene amount of pictures of everyone, and I don’t know how to manage them all.

Recently, when I attempted to put the pictures into folders on my computer, I got half-way through the project before I realized the main problem was not how to organize the pictures (though that is a beast of a task). The real issue here is training myself not to take so many pictures in the first place. It’s a chicken-egg problem. My files wouldn’t be so out of control if I took smarter pictures from the get-go like I did on Masada in 1993.

Based on the many pictures I deleted as I was putting our photos into digital folders, I would like to share some picture-taking wisdom with my fellow Jewish parents.

PICTURES YOU DON’T NEED

1. You don’t need 20 pictures of yourself from every angle during each month of your pregnancy.

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10 Tips for Flying with Kids

By Melissa Langsam Braunstein

Over the past year, I’ve flown a lot–way more than I would have anticipated with a new baby. Lila and I have flown up and down the East Coast and all the way to Europe. It hasn’t always been easy–especially when it’s been just us girls–but I’ve gained some useful travel tips along the way:

1. Book your baby’s ticket. Even lap infants need their own tickets. Call customer service after booking your own, because there’s typically no obvious way to do this online. If your child is under 2, she flies for free domestically, but there are taxes and fees if you fly overseas. Lila chilling on my lap added about 10% to the price for our round-trip to Geneva.

2. Dress simply. Airport security is an ordeal for everyone post-9/11, but even more so when you’re traveling with a toddler in tow. Keep things simple. Wear shoes you can easily kick off in the security line, like loafers or flip-flops.

3. Seek necessary help. When flying alone with a baby, you carry endless gear. There’s no way you can schlep everything from your home to your destination without some help. If no one’s offering, ask. If need be, embrace your inner chutzpah and direct unencumbered adults: “Could you put this car seat on the metal detector conveyor belt?” (It’s not really a question.)

4. Shun the red-eye. The worst thing you can do for your toddler is fly overnight (as we did to Geneva). Meghan Casano, sleep team leader at Boston-based Isis Parenting, recommends that you fly during the day, so if any sleep is missed, it’s nap time. By the time you reach your destination, your child will be tired and more inclined to sleep, rather than completely overtired, having missed a whole night’s rest.

5. Pack some toys, find others everywhere. Lila loves spoons, so I like to pack plastic spoons and other small teething toys in my carry-on bag. However, with airlines’ copious baggage restrictions and fees, it’s often easier to pack less and find more on-board. We’ve discovered that sugar and pretzel packets make great rattles. Ditto for (closed) roll-on deodorant, if you stowed personal items on board. Plastic cups from beverage service are also fun for your toddler to roll, crunch, and chew.

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How an Ex-Catholic and Jewish Atheist Talk to Their Kids About God

By Julia Fierro 

This post is part of Kveller's month-long series featuring different ways that parents of various religions have talked to their kids about God.
When people ask what religion we are–me, my husband Justin, and our two small children–I answer, “nothing.”

Then I realize how empty this sounds. I revise, explaining our parents’ religion. As if, to tell the whole truth, one has to start from the beginning.

My Catholic parents believe even dogs go to heaven, I say.

Justin’s parents, I add, are atheists who belong to a temple of socially conscious activists, presided over by a gay rabbi.

Justin and I do not believe in God, but he can still call himself Jewish. It is ingrained in his history, his perspective, his sense of humor, and even his curly hair, which he calls a Jewfro. I will only ever call myself an ex-Catholic, because once I stopped believing in God, in Jesus, in his mother Mary, in miracles and the afterlife, calling myself a Catholic felt like trespassing.

Despite our attachments to the religious identities of our parents, Justin freely admits that he is an atheist. But I often feel I have to elaborate after I confess my loss of faith. “I used to believe. If I could, I would.”

I need people to understand that it’s not my choice, and that I know life would be easier, and less lonely, if I did still believe. My people, for generations back on both sides, are believers. I am the first to not baptize his or her children. My nightly prayers as a child, my visits to the confessional box, the papery taste of the crumbling communion wafer on my tongue–all feel as if they happened to another person, not me.

Death is mentioned regularly in our house–but only in regards to the death of LEGO figurines and Power Rangers. Our 6-year-old son says, “The bad guy got dead!” or “Batman made the Joker dead!” but it has the weight of losing a life in a video game. Getting dead = Game Over. You can start over. Reboot. Try again. The few times that death, with a capital D, has come up have been (coincidentally?) at my parents’ house. Like when my son spotted the black-and-white photos of my deceased Italian ancestors crowding the mantel, flanked by holy candles, a chipped statuette of St. Francis standing guard.

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Jewish Naming Practices

Advice and traditions on how to choose a baby name

A child's name is significant in forming her identity; going through life as either Mackenzie or Maayan will probably affect her in many ways. Luckily, Jewish tradition offers some guidelines for how to choose a meaningful name. All of these fall under the banner of custom or tradition--not law--so feel free to view the suggestions below as just that: suggestions. Pick what works for you.

One Name or Two?

Perhaps you--like many parents of Jewish kids in America--are looking to give your child both an English name and a Jewish name. You might want those names to be somehow connected (either by their meaning or their sound), or you might not be too concerned with making them "match."

Either way, it's helpful to think about when exactly you plan to use the Jewish name (most likely a Hebrew name, though you might choose one that is Yiddish or Ladino). If your child's Jewish name will mostly be used in synagogue contexts, you might not be too concerned with how pronounceable it will be for kids on the playground. But if you plan to use your child's Jewish name more regularly--or make it his only name--you might want to consider whether certain sounds will make his life complicated.

Naming After Relatives

You might have heard that Jews do not name their babies for living people. While this is true in most communities of Ashkenazic Jews (Jews of Central and Eastern European origin), the opposite is the case among Sephardic Jews (Jews of Iberian or Middle-Eastern origin), who often choose to name children after living relatives.

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