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Everything is Always on Thursdays

June 7, 2018 | C+C Guest Writer

Our president and the dictator of North Korea are playing a dangerous game of who has the bigger nuclear button leading to total burning, life obliterating, forest killing, water polluting, tumor spawning annihilation. Giant hail, winter bomb cyclones, mudslides, weeks of sub-zero temperatures cause misery for a quarter of a billion people on one continent alone. Every day, tragedies touch the lives of good people, friends, neighbors, and relatives. Life can be scary and difficult.

Now that we’ve established some global perspective and a clear-eyed understanding of what matters in the world, I would like to draw your attention to a small, yet chronic annoyance that affects my life in a persistently negative manner: Everything seems to be scheduled for Thursday. In an effort to be efficient, I used to tutor bar and bat mitzvah students on Thursday afternoons at the same time and in the same building as my son’s Hebrew school. Life got sticky, though, when he had occasional baseball games that conflicted with Hebrew school. This year, I thought I’d simplify my life by tutoring on a different day altogether. That didn’t exactly work out the way I intended. Now on Thursday, I’m driving Hebrew school carpool and worried about the other parents’ schedules, too, which includes the adorable girls’ Thursday play practices for “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” and one of the girl’s brother’s Thursday guitar lessons.

The Thursday pile-up is rampant. Work meetings, flights for business trips, special event dinners: Thursday. Lately, it seems that every other activity in our family plops itself down on Thursday. My budding Hebrew scholar’s winter mandatory indoor baseball practice at the batting cage in a nearby town is scheduled 20 minutes after his last drilling of bar mitzvah blessings. It comes as no surprise that next week, the only time available for my other child’s appointment at the oral surgeon is also on a Thursday afternoon. Jazz band practice and wind ensemble fall on Thursday evenings, in case you were wondering.

Parents visiting from out of town? They’ll be arriving on Thursday just in time for dinner.

Mandatory meeting to calm parents about the tick situation at Sixth Grade Camp? Of course, it’s taking place on the only day of the week, Thursday.

Heater breaks in the house? I’ll give you one guess what day of the week the repair person is available.

Last year, my New Year’s Resolution involved trying to say yes to more invitations and adventures, and embracing life more openly and freely. At the core, I’m a person whose idea of contentment involves being in pajamas by 10 pm reading a book in which I underline pretty sentences with a turquoise or purple felt tip pen and eating a nighttime bowl of Rice Krispies with bananas and raisins. In 2017, I pushed myself out of my comfort zone, attended a book party on a school night in New York City for a brilliant college friend, managed to get myself to a milestone event for an old coworker on a tricky weekend for the family, and even drove my son to an academic challenge meet on unfamiliar roads in a distant city. These actions might seem ridiculously mundane for many people, but for me, these were steps toward greater engagement with the chaotic world outside of my home and routine.

We are halfway through 2018, and I’m still trying to figure out how to stay afloat while also saying yes to life and the invitations it presents. Except everything happens on Thursday.

Hello, whatever happened to Wednesday? That’s a day of the week, too, last time I checked. A perfectly reasonable period of 24 hours, nestled right in the middle with lots of elbow room to the right and left. What’s wrong with Wednesday? Can’t anyone schedule a little league game, clarinet recital, science fair, meningitis vaccine booster, or student government meeting on that afternoon? Hey, Mondays work for me, too, in case you were wondering.

We are at our wits' end.

I try to teach my children to commit fully to the activities in which they participate. We’re not people who dodge out early from practices, skip lessons, bail out of appointments, but this Thursday situation is conflicting with my values, and let me tell you, now I have to manage Thursday-related anxiety on top of all the driving and gear gathering.  ry as I might, I just can’t juggle all of the commitments that are landing at the same time. The old saw reminds us that it takes a village, but what if everyone in your village is running around on Thursday afternoons, too? Could my son Uber to Hebrew School? (No? Probably no.)

A little research shows that Thursday is named for the Norse god of thunder, Thor—you know, the one who looks like that tall, long-haired pitcher from the New York Mets. Red-headed Thor carries a magical hammer and belt and rides aloft in the heavens in a chariot propelled by two goats, named Tooth Grinder and Tooth Gnasher. Those mythmakers knew what they were talking about when they named Thor’s animal buddies after unhealthy dental practices. This Thursday schedule is causing some serious tooth gnashing for me, and I don’t even have a goat. Although I’m sure if I had one, it would need to go to the vet on a Thursday.

So Thor, I know I’m not Norse, at least not to my knowledge, but this nice mom from New York is asking you to please calm down with the Thursday stress. Let’s spread the activities out a bit more evenly. And, if heaven forbid, the ridiculous talk of Armageddon escalates into an all out confrontation—could you slot it for Monday? The end of the week is wiping me out as it is.


Guest post written by Sharon G. Forman. Sharon is a mom, wife, reform rabbi, bar and bat mitzvah teacher, little league carpool driver, and owner of a mischievous dog. She used to be the principal of a 600-student afternoon religious school in New York City, but now is focusing on writing and teaching. The author of The Baseball Haggadah: A Festival of Freedom and Springtime in 15 Innings and numerous essays on motherhood for Literary Mama, Mamalode, The Bitter Southerner, Kveller, Lilith.org, Parent.co, and Mothers Always Write, she is still trying to figure out how to work the downstairs television. 

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I leaned towards the window to get a better look at a plaid pair of ankle pants. I studied the pattern and wondered if they’d look cute with an Irish cable-knit fishermen’s sweater Jesse gave me for Christmas years ago. I didn’t get a chance to wear it that often when we were in the DC area, and the weather never got as cold as it does in the Midwest. I shook my foot rapidly while Cara read, and I stared at those ankle pants. I should get rid of that sweater, I thought. After all, minimalist wardrobes are all the rage: only keep what you love. If you haven’t worn it in several years, toss it.
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I hadn’t worn that sweater in years, this is true, but thinking about throwing it out made me sad. I could remember the morning Jesse gave it to me. We were living in South Bend, and he was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame.  He told me the story behind the sweater—that each pattern is unique to the fisherman so that if he drowns at sea, he can be identified. I thought about a wife sitting by a fire, knitting a sweater for her husband, a pattern designed for him so if she stands next to his lifeless body one day, she can point out the cable and twist stitches down the center, the rib stitch she decided on at the last moment for the sleeves. “This is mine,” she would say, running her fingers over the yarn that was once a pile on her kitchen floor while her husband sat nearby humming “The Night Visiting Song.”
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Maybe I’d wear that sweater again someday. It would look cute with those ankle pants. I began to imagine reading my Erasmus paper in that outfit at a writing conference, perhaps the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I would look fantastic, and I would express something about The Praise of Folly that nobody had thought of before.
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// From "Lessons in Folly (an excerpt from Twirl)" by @calliefeyen, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

Currently reading:

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I leaned towards the window to get a better look at a plaid pair of ankle pants. I studied the pattern and wondered if they’d look cute with an Irish cable-knit fishermen’s sweater Jesse gave me for Christmas years ago. I didn’t get a chance to wear it that often when we were in the DC area, and the weather never got as cold as it does in the Midwest. I shook my foot rapidly while Cara read, and I stared at those ankle pants. I should get rid of that sweater, I thought. After all, minimalist wardrobes are all the rage: only keep what you love. If you haven’t worn it in several years, toss it.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I hadn’t worn that sweater in years, this is true, but thinking about throwing it out made me sad. I could remember the morning Jesse gave it to me. We were living in South Bend, and he was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame.  He told me the story behind the sweater—that each pattern is unique to the fisherman so that if he drowns at sea, he can be identified. I thought about a wife sitting by a fire, knitting a sweater for her husband, a pattern designed for him so if she stands next to his lifeless body one day, she can point out the cable and twist stitches down the center, the rib stitch she decided on at the last moment for the sleeves. “This is mine,” she would say, running her fingers over the yarn that was once a pile on her kitchen floor while her husband sat nearby humming “The Night Visiting Song.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Maybe I’d wear that sweater again someday. It would look cute with those ankle pants. I began to imagine reading my Erasmus paper in that outfit at a writing conference, perhaps the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I would look fantastic, and I would express something about The Praise of Folly that nobody had thought of before.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
// From "Lessons in Folly (an excerpt from Twirl)" by @calliefeyen, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
The plan for the weekend was to worship, listen to speakers, and be together as a community. The only problem: child care was no longer available. After spending two full mornings tucked away in a separate room for the kids to be loud in, I break down into tears. I feel alone. I long for a physical second body. One to share responsibilities with. Mentally and physically I am drained.
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I walk outside to get some fresh air. The only place to sit is a cold metal bench facing a dreary pond. I look to my left and see two canoes. Not one person has dared take them into the green water while we’ve been here. Built to hold people while floating on water, instead they sit upside down on a piece of wood. I feel like the canoes: unnoticed and not living to my potential. Tears fall down my face.
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I don’t understand why I’m still single, I think to myself. I know I am being the best mama to my daughter that I can be, but I also feel I am missing out on something beautiful: a complete family. I long to be loved.
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A couple weeks later, I sprint around the house early one morning. My daughter is sleeping and I am already late for work. Again. With only one shoe on, running around like a madwoman, I  look for my lunch box. It is nowhere to be found.
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My daughter wakes up just in time.
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“What are you looking for, Momma?”
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“My lunch box.” I reply.
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“Oh! Hold on,” she says with utter excitement.
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She crawls out of bed, stumbles into the living room and comes back with my lunch box.
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“Here you go Momma, I made your lunch for you last night!”
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I peek inside the lunchbox to see all of her plastic play food in there. My heart bursts with pure joy.
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We head our way to the car to repeat another day.
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Turns out there is love for me after having a baby. I was just looking in all the wrong places. She was right in front of me the entire time.
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// #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member @woodyface #loveafterbabies
Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
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I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
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But a funny thing happened by the time I reached aisle four; I felt confident, almost proud. I felt like a mom. As it turns out, the past five years have produced a mom who knows what she’s doing every now and then.
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile
Birth exposes you in ways you’re not expecting, and I don’t just mean the most private areas of your body, which are exposed to a room full of medical professionals. It exposes your heart, too. Never before have I been so incapable of hiding my innermost feelings; the love for my newborn son, the fear for my ruined body, the awareness of the fragility of life. My husband saw me at my weakest, in every possible way. Now, six weeks later, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. What if this experience has completely changed how he feels about me?
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My doctor gave me the green light to resume normal activity. I’m healed, she says. But here I am, sitting at a green light, frozen in place. Green light means go, but I’m scared to move forward.
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I take a step closer to the mirror, then shimmy out of my yoga pants and tank top, slipping on the black lace lingerie. Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way. But it’s possible that what he says is true, and after all this, he loves me even more. I want so desperately to trust him and let his reassurances drown out the self-deprecating voice in my head.
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God had to literally knock me off my feet for me to finally let someone see me completely. All I want to do right now is build my walls back up, but I won’t. Isn’t this the whole idea of marriage? Truly seeing someone and loving them anyway? And truly letting yourself be seen and letting yourself be loved?
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Our bedroom door quietly creaks open. I turn toward my husband, my heart racing with fear and anticipation and everything in between. Within seconds, he’s crossed the room, filling the space between us.
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His kiss tells me more than words possibly could.
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// From "Green Light Means Go" by an anonymous guest writer, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
A stack of puzzles sits atop our office desk. Each puzzle has at least one missing piece. We’ve searched couch cushions, rearranged furniture, and moved tables and dressers. We don’t give up, at least not yet; the stack of puzzles attests to that fact. Their presence reminding us to keep looking, to keep hoping to find what is lost.
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I want to tell my husband that our marriage, or our love more aptly, is like those missing puzzle pieces.
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Not necessarily lost for all time, but buried underneath something else.
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I try to remember the excitement and tingle of first love and the joy of being together on long car rides. Those feelings are still there, yet most days I fear they’re buried beneath the rigors and busyness of our day-to-day lives.
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Some days I’ll go to bed without saying goodnight or giving a good night kiss - not because I don’t feel anything, but because I just can’t do one more thing.
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My love lies hidden with the puzzle pieces under the couch.
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The other day, our daughter came running to us both. Cheering and exclaiming, “This, this, this!” as she shows us a puzzle piece. She places it in the missing hole. The puzzle is complete once again.
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She’s cheering, we’re cheering.
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The piece wasn’t lost, just waiting for us to find it. Waiting for us to be surprised by its presence once again.
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There are moments when my feelings of love come bursting forth. I want to cheer, too, like my daughter. “This, this, this. This is the love I know and felt.” I want to jump for joy again and fall into your arms.
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I hope we’ll keep unearthing this love, keep searching for it, for years to come. Leaving pieces of ourselves and this love wherever we go.
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We fit together, you and I.
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We belong together like the one missing piece that can’t be found until you’ve stopped looking for it, and find it suddenly right where you left it.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
"We’ll figure it out." They seem like rote, meaningless words, don’t they? If there’s a continuum from the solid confidence of “A Plan” to the futility of “Grasping at Straws,” “figuring it out” feels like it falls closer to the latter. In the face of fear and uncertainty about things as big and weighty as health and financial stability, it’s a solution so nebulous and ambiguous that it should fall flat upon delivery. Instead it has provided courage, absolution, and comfort by turn.
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Why?
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I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the “we” that makes the difference. My fear and shame is Jon’s. His worry and anxiety is mine. It’s not just my stuff to work through or his to deal with. It’s ours, and I’m learning that it’s just as much an act of love to allow someone else to carry your burdens as it is to be the one who offers to help. We’ll figure it out has become our shorthand for “I’m going to help you carry this and you’re going to let me because of the love between us.”
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It took six months of the tightest budget imaginable, but we figured out quitting my job.
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It took a few extra writing gigs and moving some money from savings, but we figured out the credit card bill.
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And it took two weeks of tests, but I was sitting in the doctor’s office with Jon when we found out that his heart is fine—the irregularities are harmless and nothing to worry about.
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After 10 years of marriage, we’ve learned there are times for plans and research and arguments and spreadsheets. And then there are times to close the computer, stop debating, and make the call. There are my battles, his battles, and the ones we fight together, guarding each other’s weak side. There are nights when we stay up for hours, talking through options. And there are nights when the only words we need are "I know." "I understand." "We’ll figure it out."
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// From "We'll Figure It Out" by @jennbatchelor, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

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