Strange title, I know; please read on.

I loved when my bubbe slept over. The house just felt different; better. Within seconds after delicately hobbling into our house and kissing the middle of my forehead a million times she made everything smell like chicken soup and brisket. Somehow she got the tangled vine that was my hair soft and flowing, and also somehow helped me find that place in my brain that naturally eliminated any mathematical knowledge. With her I was a NASA genius ready to orbit the earth and not the child whose dad had to come into school and discuss getting a potential forever math tutor. She was a tiny, strong, 4ft 10in Russian powerhouse! She could do anything, she did not need help, she was fine and I always needed a sweater; she said so!

Falling asleep with her was by far my favorite moments. She let me place my drowsy noggin on her round belly and she told me story after story until my thoughts mixed with her stories and became the dreams I had during the night. With Bubbe the world made sense and everything would be okay.

One morning I woke up and she was not in bed. I ran downstairs assuming the bagels, cream cheese and apricot jam would be taking over the kitchen table. She was not there. I checked the back pantry, the backyard, knocked on bathroom doors. Nothing. I woke my dad up in a panic. We both searched and searched until finally I heard my dad say, “Mom, what are you doing down here?” I ran down to the basement steps where I saw my bubbe sitting up on the floor, hands in her lap, serene as can be. She had fallen down the stairs and hurt her hip. My dad asked her why in the world she didn’t yell for help. She did not want to bother us she said; we needed our sleep. Oh for goodness sakes!!

If you stuck around and reached this part of the story, thank you.

Maybe a long way around to get to my point, but when I had my babies I thought about this moment frequently. I knew that if my bubbe would have asked for help and woke us up we would never, not for one second, thought she was anything less than the role model of pure goodness and strength she had always been to us. If she would have asked for help she would have been in less pain much sooner and would have been back to cooking, brushing my knotty mane, quizzing me on my multiplication tables and crocheting a blanket for giant in no time!

I wish I would have asked for more help when I had my babies.  Why didn’t I ask for more help? Maybe I thought it made me seem incapable, unfit, not ready. Maybe I thought people would judge my parenting. Maybe it is all of the above. My bubbe was one small person who made a village of possibilities come to life when she came into mine.

Let’s do this thing, together.

JESSIE LOEBFEBRUARY 20, 2017

Though this story takes place outside of the immediate postpartum period I promise an important and relevant point will be waiting at the end so please, read on.

When my daughter turned 6 months old I enrolled the two of us in our first parent /baby play date group at a charming facility in my neighborhood.  I finally felt like my mama legs had come in and it was time to venture out into the social world of parenthood. (Or so I thought) so off I went to “tot time.” This place had all the goods a parent would want; a glorious room filled with visually stimulating colors, hand painted designs delicately and gently popping out of the subtle and calming backdrops, wonderful books, fantastic soft rugs making you feel like you’re literally walking and playing upon a rainbow and a small, safe, tiny gym for the teeny tiny feet and bodies that will play within this adorable squishy labyrinth.

After some good ol’ circle time, singing and stories it was time for snack and then playing in the gym. I watched all the parents find a spot at one of the small tables designed for “Inch High Private Eye.” We all shimmied into our seats and started to dig through our diaper bags. One by one out came the tin containers, perfectly matching Tupperware and wooden forks and spoons. I watched in awe as each cover was taken off and the most beautifully crafted snacks magically appeared before my eyes. Here’s some of what I saw: roasted root vegetables shaped into the most darling little squares, purple grapes with the skins peeled off and cut in small triangles assuring no choking hazard, spinach and arugula (I think) diced for small fingers and finally, perfectly cut mini rectangles of baked tofu. You may be wondering, how did I know this was tofu? I didn’t! I had to ask someone which was particularly embarrassing and I slithered back to my inch high chair with my daughter. I proceeded to unzip my diaper bag and took out a pitiful looking Zip Lock bag of graham crackers. The play date was an hour long, I assumed a couple of graham crackers would suffice. It would right?

I looked around the room, beet red, praying no one was watching and placed a graham cracker in front of my daughter.  I wanted this tot time to end and all I wanted was to go home and finish this bag of crumbled graham crackers in my closet. Alone. All of a sudden this happened. A woman came over with her son and sat next to me in the empty inch high chair. She plopped her son on her lap and placed her Zip Lock bag of vanilla wafers on the table in front of us. “Want to share?” She asked me and she winked; she did, she really winked.  I stayed at tot time and did not go home and sit in my closet.

We need each other. We need to support each other without judgement and help each other,  that’s all there is to it.

 

 

“Come on Jessie; let’s go to State Street, one of your favorite places, and have coffee at that cafe you love, come on!”

I did love Canterbury back then – the coffee shop/bookstore/bed and breakfast. (Presently it is A Room Of One’s Own, one of the most gorgeous bookstores in Madison right off of State street)

I worked at Canturbery while in college back in…well…a long time ago. Trudy Barash, the most lovely, brilliant, sincere and book savvy woman I ever met in my life, was my boss and let me watch authors from above in the atrium of the bed and breakfast. I sat for hours and hours, month after month doing homework and listening to authors promoting their books.  I coveted that time, It was magical and solitary. Plus, I thought I was very dark and stormy up there, hovering over authors unbeknownst to them – it was college and I now know I was NOT as dark and stormy as I thought; I digress.

Back to present. I had just given birth for the first time 14 days prior, and had not yet left my house; my body was doing strange, transformy, drippy things that made me want to stay exactly where I was – at home, with my baby, Boppy pillow, my breast pump, two more Boppy pillows and the privacy and safety of my house. My oldest and dearest childhood friend Heather was visiting with her baby from Florida. I am sure she was given some sort of directives from my husband that went something like this: “GET HER OUT OF THE HOUSE, PLEASE!”

So after two hours of packing my diaper bag and getting us all in the car we arrived at the bookshop/coffee house. My favorite table by the window, looking out at State Street, was free and we made it ours. We ordered our pastries and coffees, took babies out of their “buckets” and stroller and I felt clean, social, capable of motherhood on every level, courageous, successful – and then I noticed my carrot cake seemed to have liquefied and I realized the liquid was sweat that was streaming down my chin onto not only my baby’s face, but obviously my food! Then all hell broke loose. My two week old began to cry and all the receptors that make it possible for me to feed my child from my own body began to go on high alert. ‘Okay,’ I thought. ‘Here we go. I can do this. ‘ I covered myself up with my breastfeeding cape, and tried the football hold; when my daughter’s legs kicked the cape on the floor I tried the cross cradle position and placed napkins over her face and myself. Her left arm also decided the napkins had to go and a shrill cry came from her tiny body that I had never heard before. Heads turned, 20 to 30 pairs of eyes tried to NOT look at me while looking directly at me.

There I was, dripping sweat like an Olympic gold medal athlete. My baby’s hair was slathered in salt water; coffee and pastries a concept of the past. I looked around the café, propped my feet up on the table and silently mumbled, “Enjoy the show everyone, meet the girls.”

Heather and I dissolved into tears and laughter. What else can you do after that?

 

Tears and laughter.

JESSIE LOEBFEBRUARY 03, 2017

The Day Before My Son’s Bris

The borders of this book

puckered

corners

curled upward

tiny claws,

as if wet overnight

dry

by morning

 

These edges

tell the tale

of years

paper fingers

forge

the truth

of love

sacrifice

commitment

 

Time smells like

musk

dust –

saturation

widens the binding

and the story

is a blossom

petals unfurl

 

We save these

upon our shelves

like trophies

displayed

in a row

vertical

autobiographies,

soldiers,

protecting what

was

 

I see you

next to the coveted first editions of

Catcher in the Rye

Henderson the Rain King

The Princess Bride –

and I will save you until the end

because only then

are the chapters complete.

 

 

 

 

 

We all try to trick

the tide-

challenge the water’s connection

to the sun.

 

I kept swimming because it felt so good

to separate myself

from the sand,

as the sun set

I continued on.

 

The silvery stronghold

abreast

my every stroke,

and I was sure

I would not sink.

 

The golden crescent

threatening to dip below –

denial such a dangerous diva –

I was safe.

 

buoyant quickly turned to

fingers and toes

immersed within the earth,

and I knew I would never escape

the emptiness

 

without you.

And there it was

the smokey, white globe at the end of the driveway –

my moon

my beacon

the fixture that somehow always kept my blood at room temperature

when close to a boil

when cold

as ice.

 

The soft hue of the low wattage, creamy glow

spilled out to the edge of the block;

one yard would end

another would begin,

the sidewalks lining the peaceful labyrinth that was my neighborhood

my playground.

When the light grew dim

I had the rest

memorized;

every curve

pothole

picket fence

stop sign

willow tree, gravel bed.

 

How strange to be a stranger

at the foot,

the edge,

of the home

blanketed in my voice

painted with the imprint of my toes

awash with memories –

the beginning of

my life.

 

I backed out slowly

turned my head once more, wheels facing forward,

to look at her one last time.

She smiled at me from our bedroom window,

through the slit between shade and wall –

 

We understood then

we would never be

uninvited guests.

 

 

Dear America,

Shame on you. Open this envelope, unfold its contents and read about my Wednesday morning, November 9th, 2016.

The clock seemed to be standing absolutely still; the house settled in a yellow hue as if before a terrible storm or tornado. I am lucky to have three children who still kiss and hug me on their way out the door to school;  one by one my little army approached  my shaking open arms as I did not want to let them go. They all stared at me; I am the adult, I am a puzzle piece in the puzzle that changed their safe and consistent world to a world that completely confused them.

My 14 year old daughter had tears streaming down her face, “Mom, some of the boys in my grade sound exactly like him. They use the same words, they insult other kids the same way and act as if they don’t care. You said it got better and that boys will grow up and become good people, like dad and Zaide and Papa. But they don’t. ”

My 12 year came next. Big blue moon eyes staring straight at me, ” Mom, my friend said if this happened his grandma is going to have to leave this country. She makes him breakfast every morning, makes his lunch and waits for him to get home from school because his parents work weird shifts. What will he do then?”

My 9 year old is last. Tufts of crazy hair darting out in all directions as if in a wind tunnel. “Mom how come he can be mean to everyone and say bad bad things and not get in trouble? If I said those things you’d take away T.V. and send me to my room. How come he’s allowed to be bad?”

I sit alone then in a quiet house. I blame myself for not giving enough money, for not ringing enough doorbells, for not making signs for Hillary in the park with my neighbors, for not protecting my children.

I blame CNN, MSNBC, Fox, ABC, PBS, all of them for helping to add evil tentacles to the viscous sea monster they helped create. With every minute, hour, day,and  month of free exposure and attention this man grew from being an agitating laughing stock to a potential and present threat to our country’s safety and reputation.

I blame all the people who took out their anger on our political system and voted for a man who could endanger us all. We do not have to always respect our democratic system when it fails us and we have a right to ask for what we deserve; but only adults can vote. Our children look to us, adults, and expect us to keep them safe and to teach them from right and wrong.

Shame on you America.

Sincerely,

Mom

The year sheds its skin

like a snake

 

raw flesh

pink and moist

like a fresh wound

 

left vulnerable

from the past –

open,

breathing,

accepting oxygen

like a baby’s

first breath

 

day one

begins

tomorrow.