Doctor, Doctor
Finding a pediatrician really was near the top of the list. After all, with three young kids, we were bound to need one in the not-too-distant future.
When we arrived at the pediatric ER on our fifth day in the Commonwealth of PA, I blushed when I explained to the intake nurse that I hadn’t had a chance to get a primary physician for Beernut. Who, as it so happens, had dislocated AND fractured the fifth phlange on his left foot. Translation? He broke his baby toe. We followed up with a visit to a pediatric orthopod the next day and then got back to the massive task that is UNPACKING.
{{cough…}} {{cough..cough..cough..}}
“Did you hear that?” asked PC.
{{cough…}} {{cough..COUGH…}}
“Meh…it’s just a cough.” Mind you, that’s the same thing I said three weeks ago about Poppyseed and her cough turned out to be due to walking pneumonia.
{{cough..cough…}} {{cough..COUGH…COUGH}}
And so…on Tuesday, I set out to find a doctor. Everyone had recommended that I ask around for referrals. Which I dutifully did. And with all the votes tallied, I was overjoyed to learn that all the moms I had asked were in agreement. Hooray! I thought, this was so easy.
Except…the office that came most recommended by the moms on our street isn’t taking any new patients at this time. Drat!
After wallowing in self-pity for an hour, I called their satellite office and was delighted to be given an appointment for the following morning. Which turned out to be a very good thing.
Dx?? Bronchitis.
Meet Mr. Bowtie. He’s our (new) resident pediatric nebulizer. Peach adores him, thank God, since he’s got to take three breathing treatments each day from Mr. Bowtie until the symptoms begin to subside.
Any bets that I’ll get the kids to a doctor any sooner next time??
“Hello, My Friends”
Yes, that is actually what I said as I opened each box and greeted my beloved books.
I had such an enjoyable day, yesterday, rediscovering lost loves and favourite tomes. Placing them on one shelf and then deciding to move them over to the next one. Even in the moment, I realized how much I have always enjoyed the misunderstood act of book-shelving.
And then, as I lovingly placed well-used copies of the Talmud, Moreh N’vukhim, Itturei Torah, etc. onto the shelves, I was overcome with sadness.
“I won’t be spending very much time with you now, my loves. You’ve been replaced…”
If You Can’t Beat ‘Em…
That’s right. Poppyseed is now a field hockey player. With no ga-ga league here in the Lehigh Valley, and soccer already filled for the season, Poppyseed snagged one of the last remaining spots on one of the third grade teams. Field hockey is very popular here. In fact, our local high school has an impressive program and the youth program is coached by members of the high school team.
I have to say that I am not certain who was more nervous before today’s practice. It was, in fact, a first for both of us as I did not participate in any type of organized sports as a youngster and had no idea what to expect. Poppyseed actually looked as though she might vomit, but was much better once she got on the field. And I too was much better once she got on the field. I watched her scan the bleachers, hoping to find me.
And I sat. For ninety long minutes. Watching a bunch of girls learn how to handle their new equipment. Poppyseed was by no means the worst player on the team. Nor was she a shining star. She didn’t seem to notice.
Field hockey is AWESOME!!! she exclaimed as she walked off the field. But their grass is a rip-off; it isn’t even real grass.
Missing Monarch the Bear
Courtesy Microsoft Office
I was paying attention to the speaker. I really was.
After all, it was Sixth Grade Orientation at our new middle school. And the principal gave an engaging, and very funny, presentation.
But I found my attention drawn repeatedly over to side of the stage. Stage left, to be precise. And what was it that was holding my interest?
The flag.
The state flag. Or, should I say, the commonwealth flag. For Pennsylvania is one of four states to self-designate as a commonwealth.
It is a lovely flag. One that displays a great deal of symbolism.
It just doesn’t feel like our flag yet…
Generational Payback?
Courtesy Microsoft Office
I dressed myself today. Please don’t blame my mommy. She is very fashionable and knows perfectly well that a brown, long-sleeved, striped shirt, forest green sleep shorts, mismatched socks, light-up sneakers, topped off with a blue Batman mask and a black Batman cape do not match. However, given that I was planning on wearing my Iron Man costume complete with a sound-emitting Iron Man mask, she decided to pick her battles.
Nomenclatural Crisis
Here in our beautiful new neck of the woods corn fields, most children refer to adults as Mr. ben Ploni and Mrs. bat Ploni. Lovely.
Except…
I have never been “Mrs. Frummie.”
Five years of reform school + a rabbinic thesis + s’micha + twelve active years in the rabbinate = Rabbi Frummie.
Doesn’t it?
But the moms here refer to me as “Mrs. Frummie.” And even though stepping off the pulpit to stay home with the Frummies doesn’t negate my credentials, wouldn’t it be easier to fit in as “just another mom” without the clerical title? Will our new neighbours, friends, etc. treat me differently if they are reminded of my title every time they refer to me as “rabbi.”? On the other hand, my ordination was a transformative moment. Being a rabbi is an essential aspect of who I am. And can’t really be stripped from my soul.
Thoughts? Comments? Advice???
Fitting In…sort-of
Caption:public domain
In addition to a built-in smoker, a built-in barbeque, and a built-in wine refridgerator, Beit Frummie also came with some built-in friends. To our left (your right), there is an eight year old boy, a five year old boy, and a six year old girl. To our right (your left), there are not one but two potential babysitters as well as two potential lawn cutters. And, to our delight, an eight year old girl a few houses past that.
Which is all great.
The one things that we have already discovered, however, is that kids here are really, really into sports. All kinds of sports. Football, soccer, lacrosse, rugby, field hockey, etc. And the Frummies are not from the athletes.
But it’s all fine, according to Poppyseed.
I mean, at least we’re into Ga-Ga.
We’re Home
And so…here we are. In our new home.
As promised, the jar of coffee was the first thing place into our newly-lined pantry.
It has been quite an adventure and we’ve been here less than a week.
More tomorrow. B’li neder…
Memory-Grafting
Our worldly possessions are in a warehouse, across the country. And the past week has been occupied with final arrangements, last minute packing, and tearful leave-takings.
In just over twenty-four hours, we will board a plane that will carry us away from the familiar to something new. Exciting. And unknown.
Unlike the generations of yore, we know that we will see our family again. We will return to visit our old haunting grounds. And regale friends with tales of our new life.
For me, this will be the first home that MamaBear, z”l, will never have seen.
MamaBear, I know, loved that the Frummies lived in close proximity to her and PapaBear. Always an enthusiastic grandmother, she took particular delight in being blessed with great-grandchildren while she was relatively young.
When she would pop over for a visit, she would inevitably wonder, “is anyone interested in coffee?” Translation: Would someone please put up some coffee?
Though PC and I had received a top-of-the-line Bunn coffee maker from MomGiraffe and DadGiraffe when we got engaged, the convenience of having a Starbucks within walking distance was too powerful to resist. That Bunn sat, unused, for all nine years that we lived in our little house.
MamaBear didn’t like Starbucks. “Too strong,” she decreed. But she had a solution. She kept a jar of instant coffee in our cupboard. “So that you should always have coffee for me when I come for a visit.”
That jar of Yuban was the last thing I removed from the cupboard and, I expect, will be the first thing that I place into the pantry in our new home.
MamaBear’s presence will be brought into our sacred space through stories and memories and pictures and, yes, even a jar of instant coffee.
She sure would have loved coming for a visit, though.
Displacement
Courtesy of Microsoft Office
I thought that making a favourite breakfast dish for the Frumettes might be help with the current state of things.
One slight problem — I’m not in my own kitchen.
I really didn’t think that it would make that much of a difference. Being in someone else’s kitchen, that is. And it isn’t as if I’m in a complete stranger’s kitchen; it’s my mother’s kitchen. In the house in which I was reared.
Made no matter, though. I was still competely out of my element here. First of all, things have moved. I don’t mean to imply that the measuring cups have gotten up and moved from the cabinet to the left of the sink to the one on the other side of the dishwasher of their very own accord. [Not they couldn’t; just that they didn’t…]. So not only am I not in my own space, but this once-familiar kitchen is no longer as familiar.
And the utensils are different. Different pans, different stove, different everything.
Even though I was using the same ingrediants — even the secret ones — that have been passed down from generation to generation, the pancakes were just. plain. awful.
Some of them looked fine, but tasted strange.
Others were misshapen, but slightly more edible.
People ask how the kids and I are doing with this transition. We are out of our “little home,” but our new home isn’t ready for us yet. We are staying in BubbeGiraffe and ZaydeGiraffe’s house. We are, as MamaBear, z”l, used to say, neither here nor there. And most of the time, we are just. plain. awful. too.
Some days we look calm, cool, and collected, but are a gooey mess inside.
Other days we are disheveled and with a crazed look in our eyes, but pensive within.
Like the pancakes.
And so, I resolve to avoid any further attempts in the kitchen until I am in my own kitchen…in our own home. And… I resolve to cut the Frumettes a bit of slack. They are being uprooted from all they have known and moved to a new and strange place. The outbursts, crying jags, and overall moodniness is to be expected. And trying to pretend that it’s not is foolish and just leads to more gooey mess.
Lesson learned.
Remembe(RED) is a memoir meme. This week’s prompt was to write a post that either starts or ends with the words “Lesson learned.” Word limit: 400 words. The perfect opportunity to address the tumult that is surrounding us as we enter the final countdown before The Big Move. As always, constructive criticism is welcomed!
Frume Sarah is Shabbos-observant -- in a Reform way, that is. Please note that from Friday afternoons until one hour after sundown on Saturday evenings, Frume Sarah will be unavailable, in observance of the Jewish Sabbath.
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