Do Good to Feel Good, Part II

Now I'd like to play a couple rounds of Devil's Advocate.

Let's put it on the table. Is there such thing as too much giving? After all, some of us are already helping people. All. The. Time.

We volunteer at the retirement home, we bake for the neighbors. Perhaps we run a little NPO on the side that distributes funds and clothing, or join every other community hesed committee, or run off to a wedding hall in the middle of the night to pick up and distribute the leftover food.

Or maybe we do some or all of the above, PLUS we've found our life's calling in one of those pointedly-named Helping Professions --as a social worker, therapist, nurse or charity office manager. What could be better? We are assured an opportunity to help others, every day, and often in the most moving and meaningful ways. We take care of others' bodies and souls. We sooth mental anguish and relieve financial burdens, advocate for the disenfranchised and restore human dignity. We do all of this without pitying or patronizing.

So is there such thing as helping too much? We love our life's work because it is life-giving, meaningful, significant. We believe our professional role is right and yes, a kind of moral obligation. But we often resent the conditions: Low pay, little recognition, case overload, stressful work environment.

I'm thinking about yet another phenomenon. How do you do it, how can you work here, with such sick kids? someone will query in admiration. Kol haKavod (Bravo!), that's amazing! They don't get it. I can do this work because love this work, and when I'm doing it, my life feels meaningful and significant.

The problem comes later, when I get home. Sometimes it hits me, how sick those kids really are, and I am exhausted. Weighing me down are all the patients I didn't have time to work with. The parents I didn't get back to. That uncomfortable exchange with a short-tempered staff member. The feeling of being constantly on call -- encouraging, empathic, organized and authoritative -- but not too authoritative. These things can all but wash out the day's many successes.

Worse, I often find myself unable to regroup and focus by the time I've finished my commute home. My own kids need me. They need someone to give them lunch and watch their gymnastics practice and blows their noses and help with their math homework. They don't feel my own need to go to the bathroom and then sit down for five minutes, alone, over a hot drink. Whatever went on in my day until now is completely irrelevant. They expect focused, energetic Mommy, ready to go and full speed ahead.

The work itself is not the problem, it's maintaining my strength to give and give, all morning and afternoon, and then give again into the evening. It's keeping up the required enthusiasm at home to do all the day-to-day tasks, with the patience my kids deserve from me.

Sometimes I fantasize leaving for a well-compensated, "normal" office job, or locking myself away in my studio, "arting" around all day. I imagine opening a small craft business, or private therapy work with a limited number of clients. But getting down to it, I know I would only do such a thing if I were to reach the conclusion that the price had gotten too high, that I could no longer keep up both ends of the giving spectrum, and that giving at work was always at the expense of giving at home.

And here's where I have to admit it. For all its difficulties, hospital work gives me a sense of status and accomplishment that, for whatever reason, I cannot always seem to muster at home. Maybe that's the fallout for some of us girls who grew up in the Seventies on Sesame Street and Free to Be... You and Me. Or maybe it's just that at work, I'm an experienced professional, a figure of authority, a source of knowledge and understanding, while at home, I'm "just" Mom.

Their only Mom. Full speed ahead.

Keep the balance,

ALN

____

For more on why we help one another, this is another interesting NYT piece, especially the part about the role of the sclera (whites of the eyes) in human altruistic behavior.

Don't Have the Answers, But Glad You Asked

The Challenge:  Describe your job in one sentence or less.

My Answer:  My job is to listen to kids.

OK, so sometimes "listening" comes in the form of watching them draw, or joining them as they play, or helping them surf the net, or just sitting nearby while they read.  And, of course, the kids I listen to are sick, or are recovering from being sick, or were sick in the past, or are sick again.

Leave out that last part about the sick kids, and replace what's left with the additional cleaning, laundry, dishwashing, fetching & carrying, and we've just described the Second Shift, a.k.a. The Home Front.

I admit it:  Part of me has been waiting for years for my kids to get a little older, so we could start having some real conversations, the ones that extend beyond "Why can't I have a cookie? But why?!?"  It seems that time has arrived, and the questions have been rolling in.

Elder Princeski will be ten soon, and her questions tend to reflect her newly-developing empathy and Theory of Mind.  Always the Imp has just turned six, but her line of questioning (once she gets past all those unreasonable demands resulting from her sugar addiction) has always pushed the envelope, amplifying her imp-like attributes.

Yesterday afternoon I decided it was time to euthanize the poor goldfish who, having displayed multiple signs of illness for nearly half a year (and had long since been placed in isolation from his healthier peers), was now showing acute signs of imminent status change. 

Elder Princeski took an interest and even assisted.  We used an ice-water bath, recommended as the most humane method by Dick Mills in You and Your Aquarium (London: DK), while Always hid herself away until the deed was done.  Later, of course, there were thoughts and reflections on the matter, which surfaced today during Shabbat lunch.

Always the Imp:  Mommy, when you die, I want to keep the whole house for myself.  But I don't need the things inside it, you can give those to somebody else.

Me:  [Which Left Field did that one come out of?  Oh, maybe it was the fish...] Why?  Do you want me to die soon?

Always:  Of course not, but when you do, much later, when I'm already big...

Elder Princeski:  Mommy, I don't want you to die for a long time... but when you do, I'll keep the things inside the house.  I won't need the house itself because I will be married and my husband will buy me a house.

(Short discussion on the topic of religious vs civil inheritance laws.)

The conversation then evolved into a series of questions about Grandma (that's my 95-year-old grandmother -- see here), wondering how much longer she would continue to live, and if she wants to live much longer, and whether, were she to become very sick, dependent, and pain-ridden, she would choose to die (from what she has told me in the past, I wouldn't put it past her).   

We did our best to answer all of these clearly and honestly, with equal measures of optimism and realism.

Then there were questions about death itself.  What does it feel like?, and Does it hurt? and Do people know they're dying?   I told them about the reports I had read on near-death experiences, in which people described feelings of well-being, comfort, and being reunited with lost loved ones.  I told them that no one could prove whether these things really happen, but that many people felt and believed that this is what had happened to them.

Throughout this conversation, my internal voice was asking how much of an influence my Day Job was having here on the Home Front.  I think about death a lot, because I encounter death a lot, and so it is on my mind --  sometimes at a frequency that surpasses what I would consider to be a level of healthy denial.  

I try to keep that to myself, at least around the kids, but as they grow older they develop an awareness of what I do for a living;  Elder Princeski has even accompanied me to work events a couple of times. Sometimes they ask questions about work, and while I don't shy away from answering, I try to keep my answers short and to the point.  

The thing is, kids know about death.  They think about death.  They wonder about it, and they have questions.  At a certain point, they lose their dog, or their grandfather, or their neighbor, or their parent, and they learn that death can't be avoided.   

All of this obligates us to invite their questions, listen to their concerns, and share some answers -- gradually, thoughtfully, and straightforwardly.  Which we tried to do this afternoon.

Suppertime brought with it a whole slew of questions, this time about Down Syndrome, its causes and effects.  For another time...

Keep the balance,

ALN

Kid Central

Elder Princeski is just old enough to make her favorite dinner, pancakes.  She has finally finished her homework and is in a good mood.  I haven't yet told her about my in-service training next week. I figure this might be a good time to breach the subject.

ALN:  So, I have to tell you something:  Next week I'm going away for three days.

Elder Princeski:  What?!?  Three days?  Does this mean we won't see you?

ALN:  Yes.

Elder P:  (slightly perturbed)  Why are you doing this to us?

ALN:  I need to go away for work.

Elder P:  But what does that mean to us?

ALN:  Well, it means something to me.  It's for work.

(A pregnant pause, while she flips the pancakes).

ALN:  Wait, did you just say, What does that mean to us?

Elder P:  Why, do you wanna blog it?

ALN:  Yeah, actually.  I'll be right back...

Sometimes (always?) they see right through me.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Six Days to Go: The Secret Scoreboard

This very second, Always the Imp is dribbling cookie crumbs and chocolate bits all over my MacBook as she desperately informs me, at the top of her well-developed lungs, that Blondini Boy JUST TOOK ANOTHER COOKIE AND I ONLY GOT ONE!!!   

Blondini Boy:  I didn't.

Always (calmly, "innocently,"):  Excuse me, Mommy, he got TWO THINGS.

Elder Princeski leans over my shoulder as I post, enjoying her mostly-unique literate status by narrating the others' exploits back at them.  She continues to read out loud as I write.  

(I think it's time for a remote Five-Minute Bedtime Challenge, so they'll go upstairs and "surprise" me by getting ready for bed while I get a written word in edgewise).

Flashback to dinner, the first night of Rosh haShana.  The neighbors are over with their motley crew, and together with ours, the resulting ruckus makes it almost impossible to hold a conversation.  But we're making the effort, when suddenly...

THAT'S NOT FAIR! yells Always.  SHE GOT SECONDS ON CAKE AND I DIDN'T!  

(Pause for thought).

Ah, I reply, but earlier today you got a candy and she didn't... doesn't that make it even?  

She's not convinced, so I continue.  You know that not everything is fair all the time. 

I see from her expression that it's time for a tactical change.  You know, up in Abba's and my room there's a big secret scoreboard that folds out of the wall when you're not looking.  That's how we, and all the other parents, keep track of who gets however many treats.  Right?  

I turn to our neighbor for confirmation.  She nods.  

Furthermore, I add, all the homes in the neighborhood are linked through the internet, so when you eat junk food at your friend's house, his parents can look up on our scoreboard whether you've had a treat recently, and if they do give you a candy, they we'll know you don't need dessert at home that night.

She looks skeptical.  

Smart kid.  But she does stop complaining about the cake discrepancy.

Still, something echoes inside me.  Here we are, on Rosh haShana, discussing a secret scoreboard.  What a metaphor.  

I mean, how many times have I looked over in envy at my neighbor's car (specifically, I'll readily admit, their lovely Mazda 5).  And oh, how I justify my desires:  If I had a car like that, I could fit the whole carpool in one trip.  The kids would have plenty of room and stop fighting all the time.

More aptly, what about all those "Why Bad Things Happen to Good People?" questions that can plague a person after a decade of working with sick kids in the hospital, or maybe as a result of our regularly scheduled lives and their accompanying losses:  A relative who dies before his time, a loved one who lose his job, her marriage, their home.  

No wonder we're so tempted to ask, Where's the "God of Justice and Mercy" we keep mentioning throughout Yom Kippur?  Experience has shown us, time and again:  No one's promised us anything.   

Still, we ask, pray, beg, cajole.  Our Father, Our King.  Save us, protect us, heal us,  forgive us. We imagine that somewhere, Up There, there must be a Big Secret Scoreboard.

Maybe it doesn't come out even in the end.  Or maybe it all comes out even in The End.  Meanwhile, we live in hope and wonder.

גמר חתימה טובה.

Keep the balance,

ALN

The Five-Minute Bedtime Challenge, Part 2

Ricki's Mom offered a reality-check challenge to my challenge, so here goes:

Introducing the Five-minute Bedtime RELAY Challenge. Relay Challenge rule adaptions, as follows:

1. No two people can be at the same station at the same time.  (One kid in the bathroom, one outside at the sink with toothbrush, one getting on pajamas, one straightening out room or backpack for tomorrow).  

2. Every minute, call "TIME!" and they all have to switch stations. Encourages teamwork and coordination, don't ya think? (Again, extra time is allowed for proper tooth-brushing. Parallel teammate brushing also encouraged, if mirror space allows for adequate elbow room).

3. Winning is all-or-nothing, with collective team reward or lack thereof.

Double-blind study, anyone?

Keep the balance,

ALN

Back to Balance... Or Not

Ah.... it's good to be back.  

The school year is in full swing, the kids are back in school and I'm back at work.  Finding time for it all --  blogging included --  has become the task of the season.  How dare you go to work instead of blogging?  deadpans Dad.  Even Mom, who doesn't fully get the blog thing, called a few days ago wondering whether I'm still alive, for lack of published evidence.  

Returning to the Jblogosphere after over a week's hiatus feels something like jumping back onto a nonstop spinning carousel;  it's simultaneously thrilling, dizzying and weighted down by false starts.  As much as I've missed it, there has been plenty to keep me busy around here. Included below, an abridged record of the flurry, a kind of back-up disk for my sleep-deprived mind:

Things to Do Instead of Blogging

1.  Back-to-School Night (known in Israel as an asifat horim, lit., "gathering of parents"), one for every minor inhabiting the household, and sometimes more.  (RivkA explains it here in all its glorious detail).  Even the daycare centers here hold a back-to-school evening, usually in order to spell out the additional charges they request, for everything from toilet paper to art supplies to enrichment activities.  These events are painfully long and drawn out and can drag on for three hours.    This year, as a balance- and sanity-preserving measure, I skipped the preschool one altogether.  I hope they'll still let my son graduate.

2.  Working in the art studio, making paper and carving linoleum prints for greeting cards.

Here they are, drying on the mini-blinds:

Close-up of the same print as the one up on top, in a different color palette:

Supplies (Carving knives, water-based printing inks, soft-rubber brayers, carved linoleum printing blocks, card samples)  The art table is a low-budget home-made model:  an old wooden door on a frame of leftover construction wood.  Works for me.

My friend Q has a large studio where she makes handmade paper of amazing quality.  A few years back we added on our own, much smaller studio to our own house, but a full work schedule meant it often sat unused.   Going back to my artwork is probably adding years to my life.  At least that's the feeling I get from it.

Indoor plumbing repairs.  Particularly unsuccessful new hobby;  definitely sticking with my day job.  Note the bucket under the studio sink.  Guess why it's there...

Scheduling my kids' extracurricular schedules.  Another less successful venture.  In keeping with Israeli tradition, my kids are now signed up for various after-school creative ventures.... only problem is, the schedule is still new and I keep forgetting to send them on time...

Catching up on Srugim and other stuff.  I'm up to episode 12, and I'm wondering how things will hold together now that the geographic focus has spread out beyond the Swamp itself.  Last night we watched the first couple hours of the BBC's Pride and Prejudice, which follows the book down to nearly every last detail (which is why it takes about six hours to watch.  (I'm just amazed that we have such a detailed historical record of all those line dances... and how did they manage to get their hair arranged so neatly with no running water in the house?).

Work, work, and work.   More work.  Don't know why this one's so far down on the list, actually.  Time-wise, it's way on top.  Lots to do:  Strengthening our connections with the families, designing a class schedule for the school year, helping our new staff members find their way, meeting with medical and mental health staffers, inviting patients' schools to meet the department.... the list is endless.  Despite this, I'm still making every effort to leave work on time.  Balance, balance.

Dancing around the living room, music on full volume.   I do this with the kids, but between you and me, I would do it anyway.  (Just ask my former roommates -- Friday afternoon was Disco Time in the kitchen.  Remember Cate Blanchett in Bandits?  Only she, as always, looks amazing, and I look like, well, never mind....).

Getting some sleep.  Only kidding - I just added that one for Mom.  Amazingly enough, even without blogging I haven't managed more than five hours a night.  I'm still waiting for someone to invent a pill with no negative side effects...

All the other stuff:  Laundry  Dishes  Cooking  Homework help  Bedtime   Stories  Wiping noses (and other places)  Commuting there   And back   Shopping  Phone calls  Hair cut  Bank statements  Emails  Visiting neighbors  Shul meeting  Cleaning aquarium  Guests here  Floor clean  Food ready  Table set.... Go.  Shabbat.

(Speaking of keeping the balance...)

Shabbat Shalom,

ALN

The Five-Minute Bedtime Challenge

The scientific world has yet to prove what all parents have long ago accepted as fact:  the evening hours between six and eight o'clock, plus-minus, are indeed the most long and exhausting two hours of the day.  

Why is this?  Could it be that light-speed transition from never-ending workday to carpool to neighborhood grocery stop to home?  Or perhaps it's the time-swallowing vortex, eldest-daughter-instigated, last-minute pancake-fest, evidence of which is clearly visible on every horizontal surface from kitchen to dining table, and the occasional vertical surface between. In any event, we have every reason to believe that the Fear of Limited Energy Theorem is at work.

In steps the Five-Minute Bedtime Challenge, only recently (30 minutes ago) devised and formulated by Alternative Reality SuperMom,* and now in Phase-I trials in participating households.**  

Parameters are as follows:  

1.  Gather all household children in one place, preferably in close proximity to their sleeping quarters.   

2.  Announce at the top of your lungs, In one minute from now, the [Your Family Name Here] Family is taking on the Five-Minute Bedtime Challenge!

3.  Outline the Six Challenge Requirements:   Clothes in laundry hamper, 30 seconds.  Pajamas on, 60 seconds.  Bathroom break, 30 seconds. Teeth brushed, 90 seconds. School clothes out, 60 seconds.  In bed and lights out, 30 seconds.

4.  Note the current time and shout, Ready, set, GO!

5.  Option A:  MC the entire event in a loud, fast-paced, motivational sports announcer voice.  Option B:  In a fast-paced auctioneer's voice, alternate words of encouragement with a ten-second incremental countdown.

6.  Call Time's up! and reward your team by jump around like a crazy maniac while waving your hands in the air and cheering their accomplishment with all the genuine enthusiasm you can muster (for this part you might need to call in Alternative Reality SuperParent).

7.  With your last remaining kcal's of energy, run to your computer and let me know how it went.

Ready, set.....

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

*  Alternative Reality SuperMom is the entity that, to the benefit of all concerned, took over Regular Mom's body just when the latter was on the verge of collapse.  A SuperDad version is, of course, also available.

**  If you would like your household to be considered for participation in Phase II trials, please submit your typed applications, in triplicate, to the Comments section.

Wrapping Up Early

I was just talking to That Guy I Married, going over our plans for Shabbat and wrapping up the week.  Why do I feel I can wrap up the week by Thursday morning?  Because (drum roll....) I HAVE A DAY OFF WORK.  Yes, you heard correctly.  This year, I'm getting Thursdays off.  Yee-ha!

Why is this such a big deal?  For one thing, it took me a few years to convince myself, and then my boss, that this is a matter of mental health.  I don't want to name names or label labels, but it turns out that over the years I have displayed what one could possibly refer to as workaholic tendencies.*   So say my friends, my parents, and a few of my colleagues - not the physician colleagues, of course, for whom 12-hour days mean they're just getting started, or for software engineers, for whom all-nighters are just another day at the office.

And then there's my father-in-law's cousin's wife, T, who also happens to be our neighbor, and who can be seen some evenings mobilizing the baby carriage with her left hand, while conducting lawyerly business through the mobile phone in her right.   She is a warm and wonderful friend and mother, and was a high-powered DINK career-woman for years until baby-boy came along.  After returning to work, she spent the next few months asking the rest of us how we manage to do this thing we do, leaving work on time to pick up the kids, organizing trade-off child-care arrangements with husbands and relatives, and generally carrying on our lives with not a minute to spare.  I'll tell you, T:  We don't sleep much.  But you knew that.  Just wait 'til you have to attend a parent conference at the kindergarten, like the one I ditched yesterday evening because, well, basically, I'm sick of them.  You'll run back to evening work meetings in a flash.

I'm hoping that the day off is only the beginning of the process of, well, separating from my less-than-balanced tendencies in favor of some normalcy, if such a thing exists.  Some things aren't gonna change;  I still try to get to work early, 7:30-7:45, so I can get some work done in peace, and because, fact is, in order to be taken seriously in a hospital, you have to be seen early and often (and sometimes late and often).  Early in the morning, when most of the kids are still sleeping, and before all the nonessential personnel and outpatient families have arrived, there is a kind of quiet that hangs over the department and lets me arrive more slowly and prepare myself --  body and soul -- for the coming day, from within a peaceful moment and not a flurry.  

An additional repercussion of getting an early start?  It encourages me to leave work on time, infinitely easier said than done in a world where there is always another sick kid to work with, another parent who needs assistance acquiring a private teacher at home, or just a listening ear, another physician who requests that we strongly encourage her patient to finally get out of bed and into the classroom. There is always that kid I didn't reach today, the social worker I forgot to call back, that staff meeting that drags on and on, until that hour I'd saved for him at the end of my day has long since passed.  

That's when thoughts of my own kids start creeping into my head.  They lurk and curl around my brain, tugging me toward my locker to gather my things, pack up my workbag, and head toward the stairs.  They are relentless, consistent, comforting in their insistence that a colleague might be available to help this child or that parent, but at the end of their 8-hour school day, I'm the only one my kids want, and expect, to see.

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

* The fact that this term attracted no notice from Blogger's spellcheck leads me to believe that I am far from the only one to need it.

The Fear of Limited Energy

I'm actually sitting outside at a cafe, blogging while sipping a cappuccino (that is to say, הפוך). It doesn't get more stereotypical than that, does it?  

The reality:  when do I ever have time for things like this?  I'll tell you when:  when I'm waiting for my car to have its guts oiled and realigned.  On any given morning there is no cafe, no lazy breakfast that I've paid someone else to prepare --  it's just work, work, work, then rush home for the second shift: talk and play with the kids, visit a neighbor, prepare supper (maybe fitting a blog post - or part of one - in there somewhere), tidy up the house a bit, and maybe make a couple of phone calls while stuffing the dishes into the dishwasher.  All while thinking, Thank G-d for the dishwasher.  

(And since it's summer, convincing the kids it's time for bed can take, well, 45 minutes on a good day.  "But Mommy, the sun is still out, it's not time for bed yet!"  I'm tired.  I still have twelve things to do this evening.  It's time for you to go to bed).

My friend S calls it her fear of limited energy.  All mothers know to keep some spare, but what happens when we have some timely project to finish and we forget to budget our energy for the rest of the day?  Or we had a particularly stressful or emotional day at work (it can happen)? Or we've been letting "The List" (read:  laundry / dishes / phone calls / paying the bills / helping with a school project / cleaning the litter box-fish tank-hamster cage) run way over board, for way too long?  The day still has hours remaining, but you, my dear, do not.  Then what?

One of my neighbors (name withheld to protect the innocent) once confided in me, in a hushed voice, that she actually lets her kids have cereal for supper once a week.   

I was astonished, not by her "admission," but by the fact that she saw it as such.   

In my book, if she manages to get through her week and have the energy to prepare supper for her family six nights out of seven, that sounds like a real accomplishment to me.  I mean, I practically survived my teenage years on breakfast cereals (and tofu-broccoli stir-fry, and Haagen-Dazs with whipped cream), and it didn't seem to do much harm.  As we know, all major breakfast cereals are fortified -- B vitamins, folic acid  -- and have been so since the FDA realized that this is one way to insure that most Americans will get enough of these nutrients (see a short history c/o the NIH here).

Furthermore, grain products and dairy together?  That's a complete protein.  (And while we're on the subject, see here for the protein content of various vegetarian food sources).  Your kids could certainly do worse. Anyway, with the price of cereal these days, it's practically a luxury food.

Just think of it as buying back a little energy at the end of your never-ending day.

Keep the balance,

ALN