This Week: Chaos in Three Acts
On the better and worse turns a day can take when we're feeling a bit askew.
Dear family and friends,
Yesterday, when my wife and I pulled up to Big Kid’s school to pick him up, it was pouring down rain. Like, sheets of rain were coming out of the sky onto the car, which was double-parked because what is street parking in Brooklyn if not a logic problem no one can solve? My wife dashed into the school to grab Big Kid, while I wrestled his carseat back into position (we’d semi-dismantled it to make room for another adult a few days ago and had forgotten to reinstall until now, of course, on this cold, cold, wet day).
She emerged with Big Kid, then they dashed to the bodega to get his Friday ice cream, a fun treat tradition we instated earlier this year. By the time they got back, everyone was soaking wet except for Baby, who had peacefully snoozed through the whole ordeal1.
All this is to say that Big Kid, who finds the texture of wet clothes an unbearable sensory experience to the point of a panic attack, decided he’d be traveling to his occupational therapy in his undies.
“Sure, fine, whatever, as long as we get going,” thought I, knowing Brooklyn traffic would be a bastard on a wet Friday afternoon. Greenpoint might as well be on the moon. We bid adieu to my wife and Baby and headed into the horde of cars.
I should have thought through the implications of eating a melty ice cream in one’s undies when one’s coordination is only so-so and Brooklyn roads are, shall we say, not the smoothest.
This, friends, is how I ended up pulled over at a main intersection, honking cars and sirens swirling around us like a bad EDM track, with a naked toddler insisting on playing a CD while ice cream spilled over the front seat and I tried to text the OT that we were, once again, running late.
Sigh. Welcome to the Chaos Palace, indeed.
We made it though, and only eight minutes late — which I consider a minor miracle, considering. And I got to sit at the nearby café for 25 minutes, drinking an iced Americano and eating a truly remarkable slice of gluten-free2 pistachio bread. I got to write some words of the book I’m trying to write in the crumbs of time I have. Don’t know if they’re good words, of course, but at least they exist dammit. There will certainly be time enough for editing in the future.
Then I hustled myself back to the sensory gym, where I found Big Kid playing tennis on a trampoline with an even Bigger Kid. We headed back to the car, which was parked by the East River. Walked past the café, past the plant shop, all the while holding hands as Big Kid told me about his day at school.
At the last school, the one where they couldn’t (wouldn’t?) meet his special sensory and energetic needs, he never told me about his day. He just sat and stared, sad and shut off, after school. This chatter feels like such a blessing. I have no words to tell you the relief I feel when he shares stories about his day — and my literal job is to have words.
When we made it to the car, he said he didn’t want to get in yet, so I suggested we go check out the river. Sure, we were running late. And it probably meant we’d get home too late to do anything remotely Shabbat-related before bedtime. But when was the last time I sat by the river with my Big Kid, just me and him? With our upcoming move to Jersey, when would we do this next?
So we sat on the rocks and watched the waves lap-lap-lapping the seaweed. Big Kid asked me about algae, and moss, and seaweed, and what makes waves, and why sometimes lava stays in volcanoes. I answered what I could, said we would look up the rest. But mostly we just sat and listened. “I want to stay here forever, Mama,” he said to me, “the sound is so nice.”
When we got home, it really was late. Not as late as it is now, at ten past midnight when I finally got a quiet moment to write all this down. But still much later than it should have been. Which meant Big Kid was hangry and overstimulated af.
When I say chaos ensued, please believe me. Big Kid was beyond his capacity to sit at a table, bless him, and my wife and I weren’t even going to try and force it. So, he took a bite then ran in a circle then took a bite then ran in a circle and on and on. Problem is, when one is so spent, one’s proprioception also gets a bit duller. Which means one is far more likely to bang into things.
After two unfortunate falls, I pulled him onto my lap so he could finish a few more bites and he headed to bed. It was my wife’s turn to stay with him, to help his high-strung nervous system come back to earth long enough to fall asleep. Which left me with Baby (remember her?) who is also going through some things. She learned to sit, for one, and she wants to practice it all the time even when she is objectively too tired to do so, plus she has the snuffles and can’t sleep.
All this is to say I ended up with a baby in a carrier, bouncing on one of those giant bouncy balls that are ostensibly good for your posture but really just make your back hurt. This is how my wife found me an hour or so later. My own sensory system shot, my back a damn mess, tired oh so very tired.
But you know what else? Really damn happy. My sweet children may live in a house with a whole lot of leeway and messiness, but by G-d they will always be loved and encouraged to opt for joy. To try something out before dismissing it outright (like a too-long stroll by the water, for example) to enjoy their ice cream even if it’s raining outside, to take on new challenges (like sitting) and listen to their bodies when it’s all too much (like not sitting).
Friday was a long damn day (hence the belated newsletter), but it was good. We chose joy over rules. We chose flexibility over stubbornness. We chose compassion over criticism. These choices can feel impossible when there is so much going on, which just makes me all the more proud we freaking did it.
Lord knows there are plenty of days we aren’t able to get it right. It feels important to acknowledge and express gratitude for the days we do.
Now, my lovely folks, I must go to bed because soon Baby will be attempting an advanced acrobatic routine in her bassinet. I’ll need to be rested for that. I’ll leave you with this picture of Big Kid and his cousin hanging out at a spontaneous visit to our local community garden this week. Plus some reading links.
Shavua tov,
Mikhal
What I’m reading
As usual,
is exactly on the money with her Dingus of the Week edition dedicated to Republican Senators who are playing dumb about the very obvious criminality of their front-runner candidate. To quote Lyz, “Mr. Grassley, sir, you were the head of the judiciary committee under the now-indicted president. If anyone in the Senate has any ability to analyze this indictment, it would be you, sir. SIR!”Every week I fall further in love with
’s series about Wikipedia’s ‘Notable Sandwiches.’ This weeks edition, about the Fishcake Butty (“On haddock, hidden Jews, and the alchemy of rage”), spoke to me for a lot of reasons, many of them related to being a Jewish person who has planetary survival on the mind. ’s work covering the Tribeca Film Festival is so good (follow her at ) and a couple of essays this week really stood out. First, this beautiful coverage of Jeanie Finlay’s new film Your Fat Friend, about writer, researcher and all-around all-star human being . The review was written by and is called Fat Liberation Goes From Online to IRL in "Your Fat Friend" — it is the exact thoughtful and truth-bombing reporting that this important film deserves.Second, I loved how terrifically joyful this review of Happy Clothes was. This is a documentary film about Patricia Fields, the woman behind all the clothes we’ve ever loved on TV and in movies and the review was written by Nicole herself. It’s just a fun read, but still very grounded in a lot of critical cultural knowledge. Yum.
Why doesn’t she sleep like this at 3:30 a.m.? Why is that hour deemed appropriate for practicing new tricks?
I have celiac disease, you see, so it’s a matter of the gluten not liking me, you see.