Seth is in a good mood for the six weeks of the gulf war! We go for professional help. Seth reveals his philosophies on relationships. Very scary.
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Homeless... at Home
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As promised, the US is at war with Iraq, and we're in the middle.
As soon as the sirens sound, TV displays the word ALERT in various languages, and sound a siren as well. There's a silent radio station that broadcasts silence except during an alert, so you can leave it on at night and not worry about sleeping through a siren. Each time a new problem crops up, new instructions accompany the alert. The first night, a child was injured when her parents tried to force her to put on her mask. Now they say, each time, as long as the room is really sealed, not to force a child who refuses. One time some Ethiopians at an absorption center sat in their masks all night because they didn't understand the All Clear. Now they remind us to go check on neighbors who don't speak the languages in which the announcements are given. And Amharic is one of the languages, now.
The children's programs joke about everything to do with the war.
A night like last night is the worst - when there's no attack at all. You wait for it all night.
Eli, Leora and Rafi are going to work with me every day. It was more cost effective to set up a sealed room with day care than to have half the employees staying home.
We dread these nightly alerts. Mostly because we're afraid they'll catch us in the shower (which they have, Seth, three times now). Last night, when the sirens went off, I actually felt a wave of relief. There's no fear or urgency because we know exactly what to do: dump each kid with pillow onto our triple bed. Press the tape to the door frame, soak a floor rag and put it along the bottom of the door. Eli is too groggy to put on his own mask, but it goes on easily. Leora's and Rafi's hoods are trickier, but we're all experienced. Seth watches TV from the edge of the bed. I like to think of everyone in the whole country sitting in family units with masks on.
It's been two weeks since I've written anything. We’re all back at work and school. We moved our sealed room from our bedroom to the bomb shelter because so far there have been no chemicals, and all the damage has been from impact.
Driving around the city, I'm reminded of a picture Mom painted, based on a scene my father had pointed out the last time they were here. Silhouettes of all the different types of Israelis crossing a street - hassidim, kibbutzniks, Ethiopians wrapped in white, old men who could be straight from Europe. The silhouette of the Israeli figure, whatever sort of person it is, has been redrawn. Every grownup has at least one bundle with him - a conspicuous cardboard box: the ABC kit. People herding little children might be draped with half a dozen boxes. Anyone pushing a stroller is also carrying the baby's MAMAT. The plastic tent with the aluminum frame is half the size of a card table when it is folded up.
The masks add one more thing to remember and decide about with each thing you do.
Everybody is jumpy about anything that sounds like a siren. A dozen times a day, someone will say, "Wait..." and lift his head, and everyone else listens too, till someone can identify what it really was that he heard. A child imitating a siren at school goes home immediately, and is suspended for a day.
Signs of the times: Seth came home the other night and, as we all do, went straight to the shelter to put away his mask. He came out and asked, "Where's Leora?" We determine who's not home by whose mask is missing from its rung on the ladder in the shelter.
The first night, I didn't know what was happening. Then when we had put on our masks, they told me there was an alert. The mask pushes on my chin, and a teeny bit on my nose. If I try to sleep, it chokes me on my neck.
To put on a gas mask, there are five straps, two in the back, and two in the front, and one over the forehead.
We need to block up the front of the filter, and try to suck up air. If you can breathe, we need to take it off and put it on again. If you can't breathe, it's OK. I look like a big ant!
The little children have a pump with a motor in it. It uses batteries, and it pumps air, and it's easier for them to breathe than for us. Their filters are at the end of a long tube. It makes them look like an elephant! The grownups have big masks, and I, Eli, have like my mother's and my dad's, and Leora and Rafi have a hood with a pump. And teeny babies, they put in their whole bodies.
Every morning I need to take my mask to school, and then I need to bring it back. The windows at school have big sheets of plastic with tape all around the edge, and there's a roll of plastic over the door that they can roll down and tape up in case of an alert. At school, we practice putting on our masks, and every day a few parents come, and help us put on our masks. On Fridays my mother comes to school.
I'm trying not to get into the dance Nora and Sam are doing. The harder Sam protests against taking the precautions they're telling us to, the more Nora gets hysterical. Every step of the way, Seth has pooh-poohed what I've done to comply with the recommendations of civil defense. He expects me to remind him to take his mask with him, so no one could accuse him of being a chicken.
Forget it. My job is to take care of myself and the children. However he wants to display his macho is his business.
It must be hard to be a man in this generation.
Desert Storm ended last week.
Seth left on a trip to the US the day after. We don't feel the elation we usually do when he leaves, and at first I thought it was because everyone is elated that the war is over.
But there's something else. Seth was 'good' for the entire six weeks of the war. Really good. Happy and pleasant for a month and a half. If I looked back at my diary entries during the war, I'm sure there is no mention of tantrums, or out of control hitting, or strange charades.
We spent an hour or two in our sealed room nearly every evening as the sirens blasted. But Seth just went into action, hooking up the electric cord for the TV, and putting the rag at the bottom of the door. Then he sat calmly watching for bulletins.
In fact, Seth really surprised me, one Friday night,when Sam and the children wound up in our sealed room, because they had been at synagogue when there was an alert, and our house was closer. After we had sealed the room, Seth told Sam, "Call Nora. She needs to know you're all safe." Seth persisted, even when Sam balked at the idea of using the telephone on Shabbat. Sam finally gave in only when Seth threatened to make the call if Sam didn't. I was really impressed that Seth would think of Nora's feelings like that.
I guess it's nice to have a husband who is good in emergencies - if only he weren't so bad the rest of the time. Maybe we should go live on the side of an active volcano.
I wonder if he will come home from this trip as scary as ever. Or whether the war frightened him into realizing how precious his family is, and from now on he'll cherish us. Cherish. "Cherish is the word ...". That's what I feel for Eli and Leora and Rafi, and even for Seth. Valuing someone so much that your breath hitches when you think of them. You want to guard them. Protect them. You know that if anything bad happened to them, your world would be shattered.
As I write this, my three children are asleep here in the triple bed we still have in our room from the war.
Maybe this war has taught Seth to cherish us.
Yeah. And maybe I'll go see about buying that bridge over in Brooklyn.
My friend Jane took shorthand when we were in high school. She taught me a few words - the name of my boyfriend, so I could doodle efficiently, and phrases that would speed up my note taking in class. If I knew the shorthand for 'Maybe', these diary notebooks could hold many more entries.
I'm doing our US income taxes. I totaled up my salary for my first year back at work. The number looked familiar, and I realized that it is within a hundred shekels of what we paid for air-conditioning for the bedrooms.
So that's what it was all worth. My going back to work, putting the children with baby sitters, rat-racing around the dance that every working mother does to keep all her dreidles spinning.
When Seth started bringing home brochures about air conditioners, I asked why we need it - none of us are home during the hot part of the day, now that I'm working and the children are in day care.
He said that we have more money in the savings account than he likes to leave there, and we should spend it. He never asks what I think we should spend money on. Why ask, when he has already decided?
He joked that we're the only ones on the street who haven't put in air-conditioning. How can we hold up our heads?
Seth is always looking to impress people. The air conditioner guy suggested putting the compressor in the back yard, but Seth wanted it on the front of the house so all the neighbors could see and hear that we have air conditioning. Seth kept making up far-fetched reasons for wanting the compressor next to our bedroom window.
So. To impress the neighbors, Seth put Eli through such a rough first grade year. Imagine if I had been home this year, and could have run the errands in the morning, and had all afternoon to help Eli and to be with Leora and Rafi.
Sigh.
A new decree from on high. Now that army spokesman Nachman Shai isn't running the show anymore, Seth has taken over again.
He announced that he wants Leora to take ballet lessons given on the local college campus. I should find out about it and sign her up.
He's absolutely right! She needs an activity - not just to sit in front of the TV with Rafi while Eli and I work downstairs. She needs a perk, not always to be pushed aside. She has shown definite ability in gymnastics - I taught her to turn cartwheels, and she can cartwheel along as easily as she can walk. Handstand, headstands, back flips, walking on fences.
But carpooling would take a big hunk of time I just don't have. I said I would look for something closer to the house, and even pointed out that she really needs the (much less expensive) gymnastics club that Nora's girls are in, at the community center up the street. With a strict Russian teacher who trains them as though they're headed for the Olympics. But Seth really wants to hobnob with the academic community at the college.
So, of course, I signed her up.
The grounds of the college are beautiful. When it’s my turn to drive, Eli and Rafi and I sit by the frog pond and Eli reads to me while I keep Rafi from falling in. But for the elapsed time of over two hours, we don't get much studying done. And even when it’s not my turn to drive, and my little child-minder is off learning the butterfly step, I wind up entertaining Rafi while I’m working with Eli, and I realize what a big help she is.
Even when Seth gets a good idea, he manages to turn it into a problem. Why couldn't he have brought it up like a pleasant, positive thing - "Gee, Leora seems to be talented at gymnastics. We should find an instructor for her. Do you think you could work that into your schedule? Maybe if I would come home early on ballet day, or work with Eli one evening a week, or take Leora and Rafi shopping with me Thursday evening so you and Eli can have more time?"
Propose it as a thing that would be nice to have, but that requires sacrifices in other areas, and offer to contribute, and to involve me in the decision making, if I'm the one who's going to have to implement it.
When we moved into this house six years ago, we put temporary shelves in the walk-in closet off our bedroom. Rough boards from our lift, supported by used cement blocks and my old black rootbeer crates. At one point I got tired of finding splinters in my sheets, so I took some of the big black plastic garbage bags, also from our shipment fourteen years earlier, and wrapped them around the shelves, and stapled them in place. Those bags were designed to be biodegradable, though, and they're busily biodegrading there in the closet. So now we have shreds of black plastic in our linens as well as splinters. The place is crowded and dusty and inefficient - the crumbling cement blocks themselves take up a quarter of the space. There's stuff all over the floor. It's congested and dirty and awful.
There have always been reasons not to really settle into this house - before Leora was born, we thought we would be going away for a sabbatical year. Then Rafi's awful pregnancy and birth. By the time I got to be feeling better after that, Seth went into a tailspin. Now Seth is better, but I’m drowning under this impossible schedule. The only improvements we've made to this house are to change light bulbs when they burn out.
So this is what I wound up with. After being the Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Future for my high school. After spending hours of my childhood drawing floor plans of the house I would build some day. After going all out on my Interior Decorator badge in Girl Scouts. Here I am, living in a dull ugly house over which I have no jurisdiction. I love beautiful houses. Interesting houses. I grew up in a beautiful house. I love a house that you go into and say “Oh!” And this – look at it - is what I wound up with.
Closet shelves would cost way less than Seth's air conditioning (which we haven’t used after the first day we tried it out. It only cools the bedrooms, and we’re only up there at night when it’s cool.) And shelves would impinge on my life way more. It really doesn't seem too much of a splurge to build some simple, smooth, clean, white Formica floor-to-ceiling shelves in there.
But … how should I go about asking him?
It's been over a decade since Seth imposed his ban on communication. Thirteen years that we're supposedly 'communicating' in hints and actions instead of words.
Well, his hints to me are still unfathomable. He'll frown or grimace or growl or huff or mutter or purse his lips in disgust. He'll throw out phrases like, "Right!" "Again!" "Figures!" "Look at her!" or he’ll just tisk and shake his head. He'll say something enigmatic, and when I ask what he means, he'll say, witheringly, eyes closed to slits, teeth clenched, "I meant ... what I said." He gives me the silent treatment for days at a time. He hits my children while glaring pointedly at me.
That's the opening move of this game of charades. Then it's my turn to ask myself, "What's he trying to tell me? Did I do something? Forget to do something? Is it what I'm wearing? Bad breath? Are the children doing something he doesn't like?"
Then I fix on my face what feels like an innocuous smile, but looks, the times I've caught sight of myself in a mirror, like the maniacal grin of the evil village idiot. I go around fixing anything that might be offending him. Close or open a window, turn off the children's TV show or tell them to clean up Chutes and Ladders and go watch television, run and sort the laundry piled on the bed.
Sometimes I wonder if he even has something specific in mind, or if this is all just to keep me on my toes.
Communication in the other direction is no better. I have never gotten the hang of hinting - enough for him to catch on to what I'm hinting about, but not so obvious that he'll classify it as ‘direct communication’ and decide that I’m giving orders or criticizing him. That's one trouble with having him make all the policies. If I suggest changes to the status quo, it’s a criticism of something he has decided.
If there's something that needs to be bought, or something he's doing that I feel is bad for the family, I plan for days how to approach it. Maybe, like the way the teenagers on 90210 ask for advice - "I have this friend who ..." Buys frozen vegetables and says they're really good … Washes the floors on Thursdays so Fridays aren't so rushed.
So I went to Seth last night, while he was washing dishes, and said I think we need shelves in the closet.
He growled that growl. I was tempted to just turn and walk away as I usually do when he does that, but I stood my ground. "What, exactly, did you have in mind?" he barked, not looking up from his dish washing.
"Well, I don't know. Just shelves. On both sides. We could sit down, when you're finished here, and plan them."
"Shlomit," annoyed, "how can we discuss something as vague as 'just shelves'?"
"I thought that's the best place to start. Start with the most basic idea, and we'll both make suggestions ..."
"I can't work that way. You go and figure out exactly what you want, and then I'll have a look at your plans."
So I'm drawing up some plans, based on the sizes of the things we need to store in there. It's fun. I gave the children a lesson in one-point perspective.
OK. Forget the shelves. I took Seth my plans just now. He dried his hands and took the pages from me. "Where were you going to put the ironing board, Shlomit. Or other tall things?"
"Oh - we keep tall things in the shelter. But that's a good idea. Here. I'll make a list of the things I've forgotten to plan in ..."
"No, Shlomit." He shook his head and handed me the plans. "I don't see that this is any better than what we've got. No sense going through all the expense and bother and winding up right where we are now."
I guess I just got a lesson in one-point perspective.
I haven't written in this diary much since the war. Poor Eli and I have been struggling with his schoolwork. I cut out some of the specialists he was going to. I had to decide on my own. Seth just got annoyed when I tried to get some input from him. Such an important decision, and he won't participate.
Seth demands the right to 'make all the decisions', but really, when you think about it, he only makes the trivial ones. What furniture to buy. What meals to eat. Where to go for family outings. Where there's really no 'wrong' decision. We're never going to look back, twenty years from now, in despair, and say, "Oh, if only we'd gotten blue upholstery instead of brown!"
But I am making the decisions that count. I'm raising the children. I am deciding everything regarding their health and education. Even when I play with them or read to them or talk with them, or when we work on a project together, or just the example I set - I'm molding three human beings. If I make mistakes, it could mean the difference between turning out happy, well adjusted, productive, mature, creative citizens, and miserable, self-loathing problematic ones.
Even though it's no fun living under Seth's thumb, I got the better deal, didn't I.
Anyway, the good news is that my request to work 66% instead of 85% has been approved. Now I come home and pick Eli up from afternoon daycare while the other two are still there, and I can be with Eli two extra hours a day. It's making such a difference! His classroom teacher and his remedial teacher have both said he is suddenly improving by leaps and bounds, after only two weeks of extra attention at home.
How I wish ...
Well, as Granny used to say, "If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride." But I do so wish Seth had agreed to help out for even an hour a day all winter so I could really work with Eli. He will learn to read, but the longer it takes, the worse it is for his self esteem.
I've been aware, for a week or so, that there's something in the kitchen that angers Seth. Then the other day, he was in there, and I went to throw something away. We don't have a proper kitchen garbage like everyone else - we have a little rack sitting on the counter that you hang a small bag from. People who come to visit often wander around, trash in hand, looking in all the normal places, before finally asking where they should throw it.
I saw that the little bag was already overflowing, so I tied it up and headed for the door to take it out. Seth started snorting and tisking and sighing and huffing and stamping. I didn't know what the problem was, but his charades were obviously aimed at me. So I went into reverse, like when Dad used to show the home movies backwards. While I backed up, and put the bag back on the counter, the sound effects stopped. So I slowly picked up the bag again, and Seth started huffing away again. I put it down again. Silence. Touched the bag again and Seth spat out, in a voice dripping with impatience at how annoying I was being, "Just leave it!"
So I left the full bag there, and went to get an empty bag so I could get rid of the wad of tissues in my hand. Seth sputtered, untied the full bag, and put it back into the holder. "It's Not Full Yet. See, there's Plenty of room!" He shook the holder and pressed the garbage down, and picked up the edges of the bag and stuffed in the tissues I'd come to contribute.
So now I just leave the garbage for Seth to take out. He seems happier, but now we have this sloppy stinky garbage sitting around and overflowing in the kitchen. Hey - I thought he was the obsessive compulsive Yekke clean freak in the family!
And it's one more Seth-tendril in my life. I can't just have him 'out of sight - out of mind' when he's not here. Every time I go to throw something out, this Seth hologram appears in the air next to me. Glaring at me. Waiting for me to make a false move. So, instead of just plunking the trash in the bag, and, if it's full, whisking it out the door into the can out front, I have to go through this whole chain of considerations:
"OK. The garbage is full. But is it Seth-full so I can take it out? What if I take it out anyway, and he comes home and finds a nearly empty bag hanging there? What's being more ridiculous - to 'defy' him by taking it out when he wouldn't think it's full enough, or to put a slimy mess down on top of an overflowing bag, or down on the counter next to the garbage because it'll slide down there, anyway? Or to stand here and try to work it all out like this, each time I have garbage in my hand!!!!" So stupid!!!!
If he just wants me to think about him twenty four hours a day, why couldn't he accomplish that by leaving a smile face note in my coffee mug or a flower in my coat pocket? Something nice that would remind me of him when I saw it. Why use garbage?
It was bad enough while we only had the game with the garbage. OK. Israel has a perpetual water shortage. When it was just the two of us, getting ready for bed at the same time, it made sense not to flush for each of our last pees. Fine.
And now, OK, fine. If he hears me in there, he'll call, "don't flush" if he's about to use it right after me. The children and I do that, too.
But lately, he's been yelling, "Don't flush!", very annoyed, every time I do flush. Or, "Why did you flush!!!!" So now, if Seth is home, I pause with my hand on the lever and consider - when did Seth last empty his bladder, I wonder ... is he within earshot?
I've started using the children's bathroom to avoid the issue, but he has eagle ears.
If I'm too rushed to run down the checklist and figure out whether I should flush in a particular situation, I just don't. So we have smelly, yellow, unflushed toilets in the house most of the time. Yuck! Why have modern plumbing and then not use it? Why can’t we just put a pop bottle in the tank the way everyone else does?
When Seth is home I'm frozen. I can't even think of what I want to do, anymore. What I would do if he weren't here. Sometimes I wind up standing in the living room, my mind swapping among things I need to do, but for each one, a dozen possible Seth-reactions slap me in the face.
Newest decree. We're joining the pool at the local college.
The pool is far from the house. Rafi just had tubes put in his ears and isn't allowed to get his head under water. There's no pool there that Eli and Leora can stand in. I can't be with Eli and Leora in the big pool, because I'll be with Rafi in the baby pool that's two-thirds warm pee. There's nothing for Eli and Leora to do in the big pool by themselves, other than hang on to the edge.
Plus, I'M SUPPOSED TO BE TEACHING ELI TO READ THIS SUMMER!!!!! This whole issue doesn't seem to impinge on Seth. We're in an emergency here, and he just drifts around and ignores it. If he thinks I'm not doing things right, couldn't he please give me some ideas. But just to sabotage my efforts ... If Eli can't learn to read this summer, he'll repeat first grade. Socially, that would be a disaster. He's already so much more mature than his classmates. And his teachers agree that just sitting through another year of what didn't help him last year won't do him any good. I'm getting results, but WE NEED MORE TIME!!!!!!
I mentioned to Seth that the pool near the house has a three foot children’s pool with water slides, so Eli and Leora could play on the slides while I was trying to keep Rafi’s ears out of the baby pool. And it's half the price.
Maybe I should have said, "I was just going to suggest that!" and then this swimming thing would have just gone into limbo with all my other ideas.
But why should I have to use child psychology on my husband?
I’m guessing that he wants the prestigious college sticker on the windshield to show that he's a cut above the people who belong to the local pool.
Before we were married, Seth once called me up and suggested we drive over to the supermarket because they had a sale on prunes of all things. I was puzzled, but I went with him, and it turned out that he wanted me to help him bring home some shelves he had ordered.
He has done that often since. "Maybe you want to pick up some fresh pitas at the bakery ... and while you're there, go next door and ask for a brochure at the air conditioner place."
Yesterday, I was thinking about the relative merits of the two pools we could have joined, and I said to Seth, "You know, one good thing about the pool at the college is that your bus from work has a stop right there. So you could stop at the pool on your way home and meet us there."
"Well, obviously, Shlomit! That's the main reason I wanted to join the pool at the college! How would I get to the other pool?"
So why couldn’t he have mentioned that in all the discussions I tried to have? Why can't he just lay everything honestly on the table.
I haven't written in this diary in months. All summer I was just trying to help Eli learn to read. Making up flash card games and computer programs to make the endless drill more interesting. Eli has limitless motivation, poor kid.
Seth is rougher than ever with Eli, and his insults are aimed at Eli’s learning problems: "Stupid! Idiot! Dumbbell! Numbskull! Retard!"
I can spend hours trying to encourage Eli, but one dose of Seth's put-downs undoes it all.
I'm so proud of Eli. It's way more to a person's credit to strive to overcome a weakness, than to be born with strengths.
The high holidays should be a time to pause in your busy life and think about spiritual things. For me, the long hours in synagogue give me way too much time to ponder what's going on in our life.
This year, while singing the beautiful prayer Avinu Malkenu - Our Father, Our King – I wondered what associations my children make to 'G!d the father'. The phrase is meant to convey the fatherly attributes of protection, love, forgiveness, guidance, fairness. To them does the phrase portray G!d as unpredictable, vengeful, selfish, easily angered, punishing, dangerous and frightening?
They see Seth going to synagogue to pray, making sure to eat kosher food, and living by the prohibitions of Shabbat. Seth has the willpower to refuse a bowl of ice cream if he has eaten meat within three hours, but doesn't have the willpower to treat his children decently. Meals on Shabbat start with the father blessing his children. Then all hell breaks loose and he starts in smacking and insulting and accusing. What sort of ritual is that?
What thoughts go through Seth's head on Yom Kippur as he beats his chest and mumbles prayer after prayer for forgiveness for misdeeds. Doesn’t any of it inspire him to change how he treats us?
On Shabbat, we went for our weekly walk and stopped at a playground. Seth had been intensely silent. I can't explain why this silence was different from the silence I live with most of the time, but I felt that this silence was communication, instead of non-communication. We sat on a bench while the children climbed and swung, and I asked, "Is something wrong?" fully expecting him to say, no. Or to just ignore my query.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, without turning his head toward me, and said, "Maybe ..." and then pressed his lips back together again, as though that word had slipped out against his will.
I said, "Something to do with me?"
"Maybe ..." Like a hand puppet who says his line, and then snaps his mouth shut.
"Between us?"
"Maybe ..."
"Would you want to talk to somebody? Should I find a marriage counselor?"
"Maybe ..."
This is what I've been waiting for, isn't it. For Seth to take some initiative toward sorting out what's wrong. With him, with us, with the family.
So yesterday I called Richard, who helped me two years ago. (Seth doesn't know about Richard.) But Richard said he doesn't take private clients anymore, and he recommended a colleague named Sandy. I told Seth I had found someone, and he agreed to go.
So, more than a decade after our last session with Talia, in Tel Aviv, Seth and I went to see Sandy at her house on a moshav near here. I was worried that Seth wouldn't like her, but she seems nice. American. Not humorless and pushy as Talia was sometimes.
“So,” Sandy asked us, “Why are you here?”
Seth shrugged. "I don't know what's wrong," he protested, dismissively.
Sandy looked at me.
"Seth," I told his shoes, "You seem to want to control the rest of us - everything we do. And I agreed to that, back at Talia. But we also agreed at Talia that you would be nice to me, and - most of the time you're not nice to us at all."
Sandy laughed, "I'll give you a C+ for that one, Shlomit. Next time let's have some eye contact!"
I shuddered at the thought. I just shuddered, now, writing this.
"Seth,” Sandy turned to him, “Can you summarize how you see your relationship with the family?"
"Well, first of all, I have no idea what these 'agreements' are, that she's going on about. Who on earth is 'Talia'?"
"Talk to Shlomit, Seth."
"Seth, Talia is the marriage counselor we went to in Tel Aviv." We haven't mentioned those sessions, since, but presumably he remembers the compromise we reached there. After all, we've been living by it ever since.
"Oh, her!" Look of disgust.
I grinned, and apologized to Sandy, "I'm afraid Seth and I share a ... mistrust of psychologists. We have more faith in the efficacy of lasers and computers than in the softer sciences.
"We went to Talia ten years ago. We had been married for four years, and were having … well, we were having exactly the same problems we’re having now, only then, there were no children to be hurt. Seth told Talia that he must control everything in his environment - make all the decisions in the household. That it’s just how he is and he can’t change. So he and I agreed that he would make all the decisions, and that I would obey him, but for his part, he agreed to be nice to me. Because for me, that was what was ..."
"I don't remember any such crazy agreement!" Seth broke in. "I agreed to be nice to you? What kind of stupid idea is that!"
I just stared at him with my mouth open - digesting the implications. When, during the intervening decade, did he conveniently forget all about our agreement? Maybe on the ride home from Tel Aviv. And how many times a week, since then, have I reminded myself that I should live up to my end of the deal, so he’ll find it easier to hold up his end?
"Seth, whether or not there was any kind of formal agreement,” Sandy broke into my thoughts, “do you feel that Shlomit has ... obeyed you ... since you went to Talia?"
He frowned for a second. "Yes, but she was, before that, too." The frown deepened from reflection to annoyance, "But she doesn't seem very happy about it."
"Seth!" I cried, in my shock, having no trouble facing him, now, "It's not the obedience that makes me unhappy! I agreed to that! That part is - well, not so great, but I can handle it. I'm unhappy because you're so mean to us! You hit the children! All the time, for nothing! I would gladly renew the agreement right here and now. Or any other agreement! But stop hitting Eli, Leora and Rafi!"
"I'll tell you something about Shlomit." Seth addressed Sandy with calm control that contrasted sharply with my near hysteria. "Shlomit has changed. She isn't like herself anymore. She's getting to be more and more like her sister, every day." He sat back to watch the effect of this pronouncement.
"Like Kay?" I asked, puzzled.
"Yes. More and more, she's getting to be just like her sister. She's not herself at all any more."
"But you like Kay ..."
"Not when I thought I was marrying someone else, Shlomit!"
"Shlomit," Sandy asked, "are you imitating your sister in some way?"
"Not knowingly. How could I? I only see her every couple of years." I thought for a moment, "I admire Kay. And sometimes, I'll ask myself, 'What would Kay do now?' Like, how she would react calmly and charitably toward an uncooperative shopkeeper. She has more reliable social instincts than I do.”
"Is that the kind of thing you mean, Seth?" Sandy asked.
"Forget I said anything! It's not worth an argument, OK?" Seth grumped. "Then she wonders why I want to keep the talking to a minimum! Look how she tries to digest everything into the ground! All I'm saying is that she's more and more like Kay and less and less like herself as time goes by. I'm just stating a fact. Now let's drop it."
Sandy wrote a few words in her notebook. "I would like to get to know both of you a little better. Seth, we'll start with you. Tell me about your childhood, your family, how you wound up living in Israel..."
It was amazing to hear my husband of sixteen years talk. I really know so little about him. Seth said he always hated growing up in the suburbs. That New York City was so alive. He sees himself as a city person. I never knew any of that. Maybe our town is too small for him, too. Maybe he'd be happier in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem.
So the real tragedy of his cutting off communication twelve (!) years ago wasn't that we couldn't discuss issues, but that there was none of the casual chit chat that lets you know another person's thoughts and dreams.
He also said that when he was growing up, television was the only activity his mother would allow. No puzzles with pieces to get scattered about. Certainly no animals or gardening or papier-machet or whittling or science experiments or cooking.
I gave Sandy a quick summary of who I think I am.
"OK," Sandy said, looking up at the clock. "Time's up for today. For next time - just practice eye contact."
The good news is that he didn't balk at the idea of a 'next time'.
The bad news is that I over-reacted twice - when he said he didn't remember the agreement at Talia, and when he said I'm like Kay. I have to take a cue from Sandy - just sit there and wait patiently for him to come forth with something. I know what I think - I'm here to find out what's going on in Seth's mind.
Sandy started the second session by saying that Seth and I seem to have slipped into ineffective communication patterns over the years. I told her that it was actually a policy established in the third year of our marriage. Seth explained to Sandy why it's better not to bring problems into the open and make them 'real'. Pretty much the way he explained his theory to me back then.
Sandy listened, and admitted that there's some merit to what he said, in that it is possible to over-discuss things and make a mountain out of a mole hill, but that the policy of silence had done us more harm than good over the years.
"You haven't made nearly the progress, in understanding each other, and in becoming a couple, that you should have in sixteen years.
"What I would like to do," Sandy continued, "is to take a recent issue, if you can think of one, that was resolved without talking it through. We'll do a little play-acting, and see how the interaction would have gone with free and open communication between you. Can either of you think of anything?"
Seth shrugged and shook his head.
"Well," I said, "There were the closet shelves I wanted to build ..."
"Oh, we talked about that one!" Seth said, as though catching me in an untruth. "I gave you full freedom to plan those shelves exactly the way you wanted them!"
"Did Seth also have any suggestions about the shelves, Shlomit? Did your final plan reflect Seth's ideas, too, or only yours?"
"Well, the plan reflected only my ideas, but ..."
"So is this how most decisions go? Either they're entirely yours or entirely his?"
"Well, the initial plan was mine and the children’s," I explained, "but instead of contributing his ideas, Seth decided that our plan was no good, so we wound up not doing anything about shelves."
"What was wrong with Shlomit's plan, Seth?"
Seth seemed amused. Bursting with a secret. "Oh ... she hadn't planned any room for the ... uh ... I don't remember what."
"Ironing board," I reminded him.
"So, Shlomit, you weren't willing to adjust your plan to take Seth's idea into account?" Sandy asked almost reprovingly.
It's a good thing Seth interrupted, because I was about to burst out with indignation, and wreck the whole interchange.
"That's not the point," Seth said, smiling. A half chuckle leaking out. Condescending. Self satisfied.
This is a side of Seth I've only seen at these sessions. Maybe it's how he is at work. He seems calm and confident and superior. As though he's the only one who knows what's going on, and he's got to explain it to us. When it's just me, I guess he doesn't feel he needs to honor me with any explanations.
"Sandy, I just use the same techniques at home as I do in the lab," Seth continued. "There are only limited resources available - at work or at home. Same thing. Any resource - money, time, manpower, energy, the attention of someone whose opinion matters, whatever. Any resources that go to somebody else aren't going to be there when I need them. Obviously. So I only did the same thing with Shlomit that I do in the lab, to control the allocation of resources. Asked for a detailed plan, and then found a reason why it's not acceptable. The more detailed the plan, the more likely you can find flaws in it." He sat back. Waiting for applause or something.
"So ..." Sandy said, her mind apparently requiring some time, as mine was, to take that in, "pretty much any plan Shlomit had brought, you would have rejected."
"Yup. You can always find something."
"So, you see marriage as a zero-sum game."
"I guess so, if I understand what you mean by that."
"You don't see that there are cases where you could both win?"
"Only if we both start out wanting the same thing. Otherwise, obviously, if one wins, the other loses."
"Don't you think you lost something from the fact that Shlomit didn't get the shelves she needs? That she must struggle every day with an inconvenient closet? Wouldn't you have 'won' something from her satisfaction and pleasure if you had agreed to put in the shelves?"
"Only in a very very theoretical philosophical sense. I doubt if anyone in the world ever felt good from an opponent's victory, after they had lost a contest, Sandy, as much as it would sound generous of me to say so."
A mere couple of weeks ago, I thought it would be good to know what's going on in Seth's mind. The more I hear, though, the soggier I feel around the middle.
I guess I'm 'the opponent’.
At last night's session, Sandy said, "We got sidetracked a couple of weeks ago when we were going to talk about the children. Shlomit, you disagree with the way Seth relates to them. Would you say that Seth is not a good father?"
I glanced at Seth. Put that way, it sounded bad. But ... "Yes, that's what I'm saying."
Seth interrupted. "Before we continue with this session, Sandy, there's something I've been wanting to say."
"To Shlomit?"
"Yes."
"Seth, you've had all week to talk to Shlomit, if there was something you wanted to say."
"It's impossible to talk to Shlomit. There's no point in trying."
"Is it something related to your treatment of the children?"
"It's related to the whole reason we're here. I just think Shlomit has alot of nerve coming here like this sniveling about how I treat her or how I behave or that I don't let her do this or that. She places her own restrictions on herself. Nobody else is telling her what to do or what not to do, and then she feels sorry for herself because I always win."
"Win what?" Sandy wondered.
Seth relaxed back in his chair. Expansive. Enlightening us. "In any confrontation, both sides want to win. This could be anything. A football game, political campaign ... business deal. And of course a battle on the battlefield, in a war. Now, who's going to win? Whoever has the best techniques. Tactics. Whoever is smarter or maybe bolder. Has more Chutzpah - audacity. Is maybe more experienced, and has learned from past mistakes. Is maybe more willing to take chances. To bend a few rules. Maybe the one who just has better instincts. Or knows to take advantage of his opponent's weaknesses. Knows when to go for the jugular. In business, maybe the person knew to cultivate the right contacts.
"OK. So Shlomit notices, 'Hey – Seth always wins!' Now, what should that tell her? That she's not using the right techniques, right? So wouldn't a normal person change their strategy? Learn from their experiences? We've been married for sixteen years, and she's still going at everything the same mamby-pamby way, and I win every time. She's not stupid. Her SAT scores were higher than mine. It's what you do with it. For some reason known only to her, she sets herself up to lose."
They talk about the feeling of having the rug pulled out from under you. This rug was hiding a deep dark pit, into which I was falling.
So, all the while, when I've been guarding against allowing myself to stoop to the unfair tactics Seth uses, he was ridiculing me for my high standards.
So, hitting the children is just a tactic to get what he wants? (Whatever that is ...) His silent treatments and depressed periods and that hate-look and all of that ... Here, I'm going along feeling so sorry for him, and to him it’s just a legitimate technique for getting his own way.
I finally hit the bottom of the pit. I just sat there, and Sandy just sat there, too, for a moment.
"Um … To continue your analogy, though, Seth," Sandy said, finally, "Football games have rules. So do political campaigns and the business world and even wars between civilized countries. Agreed upon before the contest starts. If one side doesn't follow the rules, it's not a victory, Seth. It's a foul.”
How about if the other side doesn’t even realize that war has been declared?
"Next time maybe I should come in an umpire's uniform!" Sandy smiled weakly, and I got out the check book with a shaky hand.
Isn't this exactly what I thought we had dealt with at Talia? Didn't I agree, then, that I would give him anything he wants, just to avoid the punishing tactics he uses to get it, otherwise? Is there really anything specific that he wants from us, or does he simply enjoy the battles? Are his vague, ever escalating demands only an excuse for attacking us?
Sandy visited us last night, instead of having us go to her. She had said she could help us better if she knew us better, and she especially wanted to meet Eli, Leora and Rafi.
Since Seth and I never go out, and suddenly we're going out every week, and having the neighbor girl over, the children had wanted to know where we go.
I told them that just as there are doctors for when you are sick, there are people who have learned how to make families happier. "We could have a happy family?" Eli asked - amazed that it wasn't just the luck of the draw - some get happy ones, and some get families like ours.
Since then, Sandy has become a household word. During the month that Leora was still in the preemie ward, one-and-a-half year old Eli would repeat, "Le-or-a. Le-or-a." He had no idea what it meant, but it was a new word that he was suddenly hearing all the time. Now it's 'Tell Sandy this!' and 'Ask Sandy that!' all week.
And each week, the morning after we have been at Sandy's, Eli and Leora ask for an update. "What did Sandy say? How long is it going to take?"
So when I told them that Sandy was going to come to our house to meet them, the preparations were as for a celebrity. We baked peanut butter cookies and straightened up and dusted and set out coffee and tea and cream and sugar. They all had their baths early and were in pajamas.
As we sat in the neat living room, waiting for Sandy, I reminded them that if the road to the moshav is still flooded, she might not be able to come.
"Can we look at the pictures from when Grandma and Grampa were here?" Leora asked. Seth started to growl that we shouldn't mess up the house. But the prospect of Sandy's coming emboldened me, I guess, and I said that it would davka be a good non-messy activity.
So we were surrounded by photo albums when Sandy got here.
We got introduced and settled, and Sandy asked the children what interesting things they've done lately.
Leora said, "We don't even have to tell you! Ima takes pictures of every single thing we do!" She rolled her eyes, and then opened an album on Sandy's lap, and she and Eli sat on either side, narrating. Rafi stood in front of Sandy's knees.
"Rafi! You're looking upside down!" Leora pointed out, and brought him around in front of her.
I had been wondering how we would entertain this rare guest, but Leora was doing fine.
After half an hour of conversation and picture peeping, Leora helped Sandy make her coffee, and Eli and Rafi arranged way too many cookies on her plate. Then I took the children up to put them to bed.
When I came down, Sandy said, "I was just telling Seth how delightful your children are, Shlomit. And beautiful! No need to wonder where they got their blond hair! Eli has such gorgeous brown eyes! And Leora is destined to be a beauty. Rafi has that infectious grin!"
"Well," Seth shook his head, "They were showing off for you, Sandy. When you're not here, they're not nearly so well behaved."
"If that's true," Sandy laughed, "it's one for the annals. Children who are showing off are usually a total embarrassment! I know from my own children - when company comes, children can exhibit their worst behavior. No, Seth, your children interact so nicely. They're obviously good friends. It’s heart-warming, the way the older two watch out for Rafi. Leora makes sure everything's going as it should. Eli provides information and ... generosity. They listen to each other. Utilize each others' strengths and compensate for each others' weaknesses. Thank you so much for letting me meet them. They’re really delightful."
Seth looked skeptical.
Sandy left soon after, hopefully not to run into too much rain on the way home. I'm still beaming inside. I know my children are wonderful, but it is always nice to hear someone else say it.
Sandy is encouraging us to try to talk to each other.
Someone who walked in on a session might think that Sandy was trying to encourage two total strangers to get to know each other.
Seth, of course, never has anything he wants to know or to say at the sessions, but I'm full of questions.
"Well, the most important thing I need to know is why he was so depressed or whatever, two years ago. It's hard for me to trust the future, or to relax with him, when everything can turn so bad without warning."
"So ask him."
I turned to Seth, self-consciously, "Well, I’m wondering what put you into that bad mood all winter, that started the … problems … between you and the children."
"When was this, supposedly? I don't remember being in any bad mood. Certainly not one that lasted a whole winter."
"You don’t re…” Careful, Shlomit … “It was the winter that I started this job. I had thought that was why you were so … unhappy. That you wanted me to go back to work, but then when I ..."
"I never said I wanted her to go back to work," he told Sandy.
"Talk to each other," Sandy said wearily, as she does several times a session.
"But I will say that it was obvious that she should."
"Why is that?" asked Sandy, pen poised.
"Four reasons." He counted on his fingers. "Number one, Shlomit is not a good mother, and the children would have been better off in daycare. She's not taking good care of Rafi."
I felt as though someone were draining the blood out of me. Am I living in a fool's paradise?
But Seth was on to finger number two. "Two, I believe that every able bodied adult should pull his weight in society." Which, by raising children poorly, I obviously wasn't doing.
"Number three, if Shlomit were to stay away from computer programming for too long, she would become obsolete and unemployable."
"And number four, just for her own peace of mind. I'm sure it was boring to stay at home wiping tushies all day long. The only reason she quit working is that her sister doesn't work."
The rest of the session went by in a fog. Does he really not know that that winter when I was home with the children was the best in my life? But of course he doesn't. That was also the winter that he was so depressed and out of touch with reality.
When we got to the car, Seth started wondering aloud whether the big puddle on the highway would have receded. As though he hadn't just dropped a bombshell in the middle of Sandy's family room.
"Seth?" I interrupted him, "Do you really think I'm a bad mother?"
"What? Oh. I don't know. No, I guess not. Not really. Aren't you going to start the car?"
So what should I believe? What should I believe about how I am as a mother? What should I believe about what Seth thinks, if he says one thing one minute and the opposite, the next. Or does he say one thing when we have an audience, and another thing when we don't? Or is he planting some ideas in well placed minds in case there's a custody battle some day?
Would he fight to get the children? I'm sure he doesn't want them. Would he try to discredit me? Would he succeed? Cite Eli's learning problems or Rafi's late talking as proof that I'm not raising them well?
"We got sidetracked at an earlier meeting," Sandy said. "We were discussing how the decision making goes in your relationship."
"Look,” Seth interjected, "someone has to make the decisions. What does it matter who does?"
"The two of you could discuss things, Seth, and reach a compromise."
"Right, Sandy. Something that, in all the history of mankind, has never worked. Why do you think they say a camel is a horse designed by a committee. If you dilly dally around discussing who's going to decide each thing, nothing will ever get done."
"But Seth," Sandy asked, "Why do you have to make decisions that affect only Shlomit – what she reads, how she plans her time?"
"Well, I'm her husband. I think I have a responsibility not to sit back and let her make mistakes."
"But Seth, something might be best for you, but something entirely different might be best for Shlomit?"
A knowing look crossed Seth's face. "I know what you want me to say. It would sound open minded for me to agree that I can’t decide what’s best for her. Obviously when I'm deciding for Shlomit, I take into account those factors that apply to her and not to me. I'm not going to expect her to work in a physics lab, or to shave every morning. But I have a responsibility not to let her read trashy books or waste her time."
"I see," said Sandy.
Seth looked smug. Assuming that she saw the logic in what he'd said. I think she just saw what I’ve been putting up with.
Last night at Sandy, I was saying that Seth’s ban on communication isn't working for me, because I always know when I’m displeasing him (all the time) but I never know what I’m doing wrong.
Sandy asked Seth, "When Shlomit is doing something that displeases you, Seth, what do you do?"
Seth tilted his chin up, proud of himself, "I control my temper and wait until she stops."
"Seth, that's not fair!" I blurted out. "How am I supposed to know what I'm doing wrong? I'll just keep doing it again and again, not even knowing that it's bothering you!"
Oof! He has something to tell me that could make everything run smoothly, and he just clamps his jaw and waits until I happen to stop. Except that he remains silent only in words. Non-verbally, he's absolutely screaming complaints and insults.
Once, Seth's mother said, proudly, "When I disagree with something my daughters-in-law are doing, I make sure not to say anything about it."
I said, "Oh, Mom, that's not so good …"
"That's just what Becky said! Why not! I don't want to be one of those mothers-in-law who are constantly nagging!"
My dismay had been that like Seth, her charades and hints and innuendoes and non-sequitors are so blatantly telling me that something is wrong, and yet I'm never sure what it is.
"Hello, Dear! Happy anniversary!"
"Oh. Yeah."
"Well, you don't sound very happy about it."
Seth's mother knows I have no reason to celebrate on my anniversary. Why does she go through the motions?
When I hung up after her phone call I started chanting the little pep talk I have given myself fifteen times before: "Well, this year wasn't so good. I'll have to try harder! I'll be a model wife. I'll lose / gain weight. Be pleasant 24 hours a day. Keep the house immaculate. Keep Eli, Leora and Rafi away from him more of the time. I'll ..."
Wait a minute. If these techniques haven't worked for sixteen whole years of trying, why should I hope they will work now? We're finally talking, at Sandy, but Seth's revelations have only made me less hopeful that things will change. No. The normal things that would cause a normal man to love us and be nice to us just don't work with Seth. They should revoke my masters degree in statistics. I have had a large enough sample size to be very sure of this.
In computers, numbers are stored in base 16 – hexadecimal. For most people, a decade seems a logical reevaluating point. For me, a sixteenth anniversary feels like the end of one period, and the beginning of the next.
I was still standing there by the phone, lost in thought. I have to change something. I have to get off of Seth's emotional roller coaster. But how? Why am I on it with him? I don't care if the grocer doesn't speak to me for days, or if the mailman thinks I'm stupid, or if some guy across town is depressed. How can I distance myself from Seth, emotionally, so that his emotional ups and downs won't affect me so much? So that I can be stronger to defend the children against him.
Last night, I told Sandy - and Seth - how disconcerting it is for me when, after several rough days, when Seth is on the offense, he seems to come out of his funk, but doesn't refer to it. Just acts as though it never happened, while the four of us are still reeling, and he expects us to forget it, too.
"You would feel better if Seth would apologize for his behavior, afterwards?"
"Well, it would let me know where I stand with him. If I realized that his rampages distress him, I could convince myself that he's working to stay out of the dumps. But Seth doesn't apologize."
"Never?"
I glanced at him. "I think it's against the philosophies he developed with Arnold."
"Seth?" As so often happens, Sandy looked to Seth expecting him to object to something I had said, but he was just sitting there looking virtuous. "You don't think it would help your relationship with Shlomit and the children if you would apologize after you have hurt them?"
Tisk. Sigh. "This whole business of 'apologizing'," sarcasm dripping from the word, "You tell me, Sandy. When would I apologize? When would it be appropriate?"
Sandy frowned. In her experience, an apology is almost a reflex. Insincere apologies are more likely than none at all.
"OK," Seth said, patiently. "Either I meant to do what I did, or it was an accident, right? If I meant to do what I did, then of course, I wouldn't turn around and apologize for it. That would be hypocritical. To say I'm sorry I did something when, in fact, I had meant to do it. And if it was an accident, I shouldn't have to go begging for forgiveness for something that wasn't even my fault! What - just to give Shlomit the pleasure of rubbing my nose in it? If someone is going to get all upset about something I didn't even mean to do, or couldn't help doing, that's their problem. There was a whole movie built around the theme, 'Love means never having to say you're sorry'. An apology only makes the other person feel bad."
"How is that?" Sandy wondered.
"To make them feel guilty that they blamed you, when you were only trying to do your best." Seth looked really pained.
"Is that how you feel, Shlomit? Would you feel bad if Seth were to apologize to you?"
I shook my head, and thought a moment. "If I realize that I have hurt someone or offended them or damaged something of theirs, and it's a person whose good will I value, I hope that our relationship hasn't been harmed by what I did. Whether it was something I did by accident, or something I meant to do, but hadn't realized that it would hurt anyone. I regret my deed, and wish I could undo it. Of course, I usually can't, but luckily, there's a socially prescribed alternative. I can tell the other person that I realize I hurt them, and that I regret it - that I'm 'sorry' - and that I hope that it won't spoil our relationship. And that next time I'm in a similar situation, I'll behave differently. You don't always say all of this, of course, but it's implied. And you ask them to pardon you. To reassure you that they won't let your regretted act spoil your friendship. Even though they would be justified in not forgiving you. You're asking them for a favor.
"For a little offense like bumping into them or walking between them and the TV, we shorten it to "Sorry!" or "Excuse me!". But if any element of the apology is lacking, in our hearts, the relationship will be hurt."
"So, Shlomit, you consider that your relationship has suffered from the fact that Seth never apologizes? Even though you know that it's a policy with him, and isn't anything personal against you?"
"No. The relationship didn't suffer from the fact that I didn't hear the words. But for sixteen years Seth has been sending me the message that he doesn't care about our relationship. Each offense - some have been small and some have been very big - just goes by and I have no reason to think he regrets hurting us, or that he'll try any harder in the future. Just blow after blow to the marriage and the family, and to my faith and trust in him.
"Sandy, obviously, if you live closely with someone, you're going to hurt each other and offend each other here and there. For awhile you can be magnanimous and turn the other cheek, but after awhile, the slaps in the face just start to pile up. Even if you want to give the benefit of every doubt, as time goes by, there's less and less doubt."
Sessions at Sandy have provided a window into Seth's thought processes. But that's not what brought me here.
"The main thing we need to work on, Sandy, is how Seth treats the children. We come here and discuss philosophies, but home is still - bad. All the hitting and pushing and insulting. That's my first priority."
"Shlomit and I disagree on child rearing techniques. I don't agree at all with the way she is raising the kids."
I was stunned. "But, Seth! I tried to talk to you about that after the session where you said I’m not a good mother. I don't even have a particular philosophy, Seth. I just want them to be happy. To develop their potential. I want to prepare them for life. I want them to have friends and fulfilling jobs and good marriages and healthy children ... If I'm doing things you don't agree with, we should talk about it. You never seemed particularly interested in them - you just assigned parenting as one of my jobs.” Like the laundry or the floors.
"All I know is," Seth shrugged helplessly, "that I've come home and found Leora bloody."
I gasped and stared at Seth. Then at Sandy, expecting to see my shocked look reflected on her face, but she just looked calm and professional. I guess she has heard everything. The scene I had been imagining switched in a nanosecond - from one where I'm permissively letting the children do as they please and Seth is standing by looking stern, to a scene where I'm beating the children up and Seth is standing by, helpless, hands clenched in worry and a pitying look on his face!
The session with Sandy went on, but I wasn't tuned in. Once when Leora was two she threw an empty plastic baby bottle in my direction, and when I batted it away it hit her in the face and gave her a nosebleed. That was the only bloody incident I can think of. My mind was jerked back to the session, by Seth's statement:
"Once I came home and Shlomit said she'd thrown Leora out of the house because she was mad at her. I had to go look for her."
Sandy looked at me. "I remember that. She was in that cruisin' for a bruisin' mode, and I knew we needed to cool off. I told her to just go out and play for awhile. She was only at the neighbor's. Seth, I think that's a good way to deal with a situation where you might otherwise blow up at a child. I ... I wish you would try separating yourself from them until you can cool off, instead of lashing out."
"OK, then, for next time ..." Sandy was saying.
It was getting to be a habit - Seth says something provocative in front of Sandy, and then he and I talk about it in the car afterwards.
"Seth, I only remember one time that Leora was at all bloody - her nose bleed that time I swatted that baby bottle back at her. Were there other times?"
"Well, not that I know of, but how do I know what goes on around there when I'm at work?"
"Well, you can know - do they seem to be afraid of me?" As they are of you?
Seth shrugged, "It's impossible to know."
What a wasted session.
Sandy asked about our communication style. I said that I often find it hard to comply with his wishes because he doesn't give me enough information. I just don't know what elements of the problem are critical, and which I can be flexible with.
"Like the thing with the garbage."
"Ah, the garbage session!" Sandy exclaimed, grinning. "The common denominator of all marriages. Nobody ever wants to take out the garbage."
"Not at all." I grinned back, "We both want to take out the garbage."
"So what's the problem?"
I told her that Seth doesn't want me to take out the kitchen garbage, but then he doesn't take it out, either, so there's always that overflowing, smelly bag there.
"I told Seth that we could always just buy garbage bags if we run out."
"It has nothing to do with plastic bags, Shlomit."
I looked at him, hoping to finally get an explanation, but he had clammed up again.
"Seth, why don't you just tell Shlomit why you don't want her to take out the garbage. Talk to each other! Answer each others' questions! Communicate!"
"It's very simple," Seth stated. "When I finish washing the dishes, and wipe out the sink, there are little bits of wet garbage on the sponge. I don't want to throw them into an empty garbage bag, because it happened once that there was a hole in the bag and a sloppy mess dripped onto the counter."
"Wait, Seth! If it has nothing to do with saving bags," I was bouncing on the edge of my chair, seeing a light at the end of a tunnel full of garbage, "then we could have a waste paper basket in the living room so there just wouldn't be the volume of garbage in the little bag thing in the kitchen! Then during the day, I wouldn't even have to go near the kitchen garbage, and you can do whatever you want with it!"
Seth gave a disinterested shrug. "I never said you couldn't have a wastepaper basket in the living room."
"Exactly! You never said. But since I had no idea why you don't want me to take out the kitchen garbage, I couldn't even start to figure out a solution that would work for the rest of us, but wouldn’t make you angry."
"You had a problem, Seth, so you came up with a solution to your problem, but you never considered whether your solution is workable for the rest of us. If we had talked, I could have helped you find a way to keep the sink drain glop off the counter without making a bigger mess, and without making the management of garbage such a big deal."
I didn't mention the most obvious solution. Whenever Seth goes on a trip, the first thing Eli does is to get the white plastic waste basket from the shelter, and put it under the kitchen sink, and remove Seth's drippy saggy little bag rack. For two or three weeks we can just have a non-leaking, non-visible, non-problematic place to throw out garbage, just like everyone else in the world.
"Seth," Sandy opened this week’s session, "Shlomit is concerned that you're sometimes short tempered with the children. I would like to investigate how you could improve things."
"I'll tell you, Sandy, when I get home and see school books and clutter all over the living room, and then I go into the kitchen and that's a mess, too, of course I'm not going to be in a great mood. Last week. OK, imagine this. I come home and go upstairs and there are all the children in Rafi's room, and the vacuum cleaner is in a million pieces. Rafi is drying the motor with the hairdryer, and Eli is dismantling the on/off switch so he can show Leora how it works. I ask, "Where's Ima?" and they say she's putting the side back on the washing machine. I go into my bathroom and the top is off the toilet tank. I ask, "What happened to the toilet?" and the three children rush in and start explaining to me how a toilet flushes. I tell you, my mother's house was never like that."
Sandy was trying not to laugh, "I hate to ask, but … why was Rafi drying out the vacuum cleaner?"
"Well," I explained, "we were cleaning Rafi's room, and Rafi was vacuuming, and I had a bucket of water there. And Rafi wanted to see if the vacuum cleaner could suck up the water from the bucket. So we had to dry it all out. Once we started investigating how the vacuum cleaner works, that led to a discussion of pumps, and we went to look at the washing machine, and Leora wanted to know if there's a pump in the toilet tank, and ... well, we lost track of time ..."
"So, does this type of thing ... happen often?" Sandy asked, hesitantly, eyes still twinkling.
"Well, there's always something going on," Seth answered. "Some mess or other. By the end of the week the place looks like a cyclone struck."
"Seth, from the pictures Leora showed me at your house, I get the impression that the children are getting a great deal of enrichment at home. All the projects and picnics and working together ... that song they sang for me …"
"Yeah, and each of these so-called projects leaves a mess in the house."
"And you feel this is the reason you're not in a good mood in the evenings?"
"Yes. The main reason."
"OK! It looks as though we have something to work with. The solution that comes to my mind is for you to have your cleaning lady in for a few more hours a week." She looked from Seth to me. "Oh. You do your own cleaning." I nodded.
"OK, well, maybe you could consider getting someone in. In most families where both parents work, they don't expect to clean their own house, too. Shlomit, do you have any other suggestions?"
I was nodding excitedly. "I once proposed that Seth let me clean up in the evening after the children are in bed. There would still be clutter when he gets home, but only one day's worth."
"Oh, I'm sure Seth doesn't mind when you tidy up ..."
"Yes, I mind! I'm not going to have her crashing around cleaning all evening! I’m tired when I get home, and I want some peace and quiet. Why can't she clean up before I get home from work? Or, not let the children be such slobs in the first place?"
"Before you get home? But Eli and Leora have homework, and there's ..."
"I fail to see why she can't supervise their homework while she washes dishes and picks up the toys and junk."
I was spellbound for a few seconds, staring. That's got to be the first time I've heard Seth admit to a failure.
I was also realizing that during Seth's worst moods the house was neat and tidy. Before we had children, the house was boringly neat. When I was pregnant with Rafi, Eli and Leora were in day care all day, and there was no time for them to mess up the house. During the ten months when I wasn't working, the children and I always straightened up for Abba's homecoming. And Shabbat, which has always been his worst day of the week, is when the house is cleanest and neatest. No. It's not likely that his mood is related to the state of the house, unless inversely.
Sandy broke in. "Shlomit, do you think you could have the house neat when Seth gets home? Straighten up, put the dishes in the dishwasher?" Once again, from our looks, it was clear that we don't have a dishwasher.
"Not without ... I mean ... there's already no time. Seth, I’ll clean up any time you can think of. Just … not when I have to help with homework."
"It's their homework, Shlomit!" Seth explained patiently, "I'm sure the teachers don't give homework that the children can't do on their own."
"Seth, Eli is learning disabled," I said slowly. Saying it aloud brought tears to my eyes.
Seth huffed and looked away. "So you say,” he muttered, disgusted. “He's been babied is his main problem."
"We're getting off onto tangents, again," Sandy interrupted, softly, making a note in her notebook. "Seth, when would you agree to having Shlomit straighten up?"
"After I leave the house in the morning, she can do as she pleases. I leave a little after seven, and she doesn't have to be at work till eight."
"But that's when I'm getting the children ready to go. I could get up earlier and just do the quiet cleaning."
"Shlomit," Seth explained, "if you would make yourself a schedule and stick to it, there would be no reason for you to get up early. Get up at 6:30, as I do. Eli and Leora can dress themselves while you get yourself and Rafi ready. I don't know why it takes you forever to just wake them up. Maybe they need to go to bed earlier."
Yikes! And have an even longer evening with just Seth? And less time with Eli.
"So,” he continued, “what's that - twenty minutes? OK. At 6:50 you go down and put out their breakfast. Make their snack while they eat. As far as I can see that's all you have to do. After 7:10, when I leave, you still have a half hour to spend on the house." He sat back.
I nodded, imagining a morning routine like that. "Seth - that's the kind of morning I'm trying to avoid. That's the kind of morning we have if I get up late, or if one of us is not feeling well."
I looked up at Sandy. "I think," she said, "that a major difference between you two is that Shlomit, you are spontaneous by nature, and Seth, you tend to go by schedules, and to plan, and to do things the same way each time. Maybe that's why you, Seth, are afraid to let Shlomit have any freedom. For next week, I would like Shlomit to do some spontaneous things, so that you, Seth, can see that the world doesn't end when things are run a little more loosely. Shlomit, how about if you cook dinner this Friday night?"
Seth rolled his eyes, "This should be interesting."
“And Shlomit, see if you could find something else during the week that you want to do and … do it.”
I looked at Seth to see how he was taking this idea. “I can’t think of anything …”
“No, DON’T look to Seth for approval! That’s what we’re trying to get away from! I’m not surprised that you can’t even think of anything you might want to do. It’s been so long since you’ve been in touch with what you want. Try it. You’ll like it!”
Seth's mother called yesterday afternoon.
"Hello, Dear, is Seth there? No? Well, could you tell him that we'll be back from our trip in plenty of time to pick him up at the airport on Sunday."
"Sunday?"
"Isn't he coming in on Sunday? He said the ninth."
"Of ... March?"
"No, I didn't think so! Isn't it this month? I thought it was this coming Sunday."
"Oh. OK. Whatever he said, Mom. Yeah, I'll tell him."
"You don't even know when your own husband is leaving to go abroad, Shlomit?"
"I didn't even know he was going anyplace."
"What! Your own husband is flying to America in less than a week and you don't even know about it? Shlomit! How can you be so out of touch with your own husband's plans?"
Well, what am I supposed to do? Ask him every evening if he has any overseas trips planned in the next few days that he forgot to tell me about? Even when we’re in the same house, we might as well be on different continents.
“OK, Mom, I'll let him know that you can pick him up.”
Hey - there's my answer, isn't it. Since Mom's last phone call, on our anniversary, I’ve been looking for a way to get off of Seth’s emotional roller coaster. Well, one way to distance yourself emotionally is just not to tell the other person things you would normally tell them.
In fact, I need look no further than the other side of the double bed to see example after example of how one can stay at the other side of an emotional canyon from someone else. I'll just do as Seth has been doing all these years. I'll stop the little affectionate pats as I pass by him in the house. I'll just stop volunteering information about myself or my life. Stop the one sided conversations. The one sided smiling. Compliments, greeting, apologizing, sharing. I'm living with a master. The children are old enough now to be company. Why flog a dead husband?
When Seth got home, I gave him his mother's message. He told me that, yeah, he would be in the US for three weeks. Behind his back, the children were pantomiming cheers and shouts of joy. They trotted off together to make plans for three weeks of normal living.
Even though I always decline, Jessica and Yehudah call up a few times a year, all the years since we used to be neighbors, to invite me to come down and jam with them. Coincidentally, they called last night. I was about to make my excuses when I realized this would be a perfect ‘spontaneous thing’ to do as my homework assignment for our sessions with Sandy – so I said yes.
It was another rainy blustery night, but that made it feel even more exciting – like Catherine going out onto the moors to rendezvous with Heathcliffe - until I hit a huge pothole when I was halfway there. It had been concealed under a huger puddle, and my high spirits plummeted with that sickening thunk. Sure enough, after going another half a block, it was obvious that my tire was flat. Here I am, trying to get out of my psychological rut, and I fall into a physical one. Well, I wanted an un-planned evening, didn’t I.
As I crouched there in the drizzle, jacking up the car, I realized that the blinking yellow light was coming from a falafel stand with a big neon sign. Every time I drive past this corner, I think of my old friend from work David – he gave this garish sign as a landmark when he described where he lives. Just down that road there. I went to work in a different department just after Eli was born, so I haven’t seen David in eight years. I wonder how he’s doing. How his children and cats and dogs are doing. It’s too bad we got out of touch.
Thinking back to that first job in Israel gave me perspective – how different my life has been for the past eight years, now that I have children, from the first lonely eight years of our marriage.
How would I have made it through those bad times without friends like David and Jessica and Yehuda.
When the car was road-worthy again I debated the wisdom of continuing on my trip without a spare. But hey - what would a spontaneous person do?
I’m so glad I went on – the music and friendship were so uplifting.
OK – gotta start the day. I have a flat tire to have repaired.
"So, Seth!" Sandy smiled, "How did you survive your spontaneous week?"
Seth shrugged. Other than the hootenanny with Jessica and Yehuda, I had cooked pumpkin and brown rice casserole Friday night. The boys and I liked it, but Seth and Leora didn't.
"Shlomit, I would like you to try a bit more each week, to make decisions, and Seth will see that the household won’t fall apart if he doesn't control everything."
"Uh ... Seth won't be here for the next three weeks - he's going on a trip."
"Oh! I wish you had told me a few weeks ago!" Sandy exclaimed, looking down at her notebook. That makes two of us. "I would have structured the last few sessions differently."
So we spent the rest of the session reviewing progress we have made so far, and the long distance we still need to go.
Seth's trip makes a natural break in these sessions with Sandy.
Does it make any sense to continue, afterwards? I was hungry to know how Seth thinks about what happens at home. (Even in my own diary, I can't get away from the euphemisms!) But the more he talks, the more confused and disheartened I feel.
I dread these sessions with Sandy. It was easier to believe that Seth is a poor suffering soul, than to admit that he's just a creep.
Well, we'll see how things seem after his trip.
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Copyright 2020 by Shlomit Weber
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