The Hasidic Feminist vs. The Anxious Mother

Twenty minutes before Shabbos last week I was changing my two little kids into Shabbos clothes when I smelled a dirty diaper. I quickly checked the baby and was relieved to see a poop. (I know, weird things moms say.) We were about five days into potty training my almost three year old daughter and I was hoping it wasn’t coming from her. Just in case, I told her we were going to try to use the potty. I took her into the bathroom and pulled down her tights and underwear to find a huge, disgusting you-know-what.

In my haste to get her clean I somehow got poop over my baby’s feet, her whole leg, the diaper, the bathroom floor, the outside of the toilet and believe me when I say I was hysterical at this point. As I am screaming to my husband for reinforcements, I hear him struggling to get our five year old (strong-willed) child into his white shirt. I glance at the clock– 5 minutes until candle lighting. After getting everything clean and spraying down both kids in the bath, I stand up to find poop all over my silk skirt (I know, why am I wearing silk!?). Cue more hysterical screaming. 

We light the Shabbos candles in a flash and my husband runs out the door for shul. As I am sitting on the armchair watching my little toddler smash silverware onto the Shabbos plates because he somehow managed to climb on the table I had just set, my heart is pounding. I force myself to take slow, deep breaths and challenge the thoughts that someone is surely going to get hurt right now or something is going to break. I feel like I am using the tools I have been working on with my somatic coach and soon I will be able to calm down.

Of course, this is the moment my five year old decides he wants to have mommy time and jumps on the top of the armchair while smashing his elbow into my neck. The tears spring to my eyes and I instinctively push him off me onto the couch. The baby has come over at this point and as I am about to get up to find a safe place to be, he playfully falls on me knocking his rock hard skull into my cheek bone. For a moment, I am stunned in pain. I look around to check that the baby gates are locked by the stairs and I run into our little powder room, the only place in our partially renovated townhouse that has a lock on the door. I sit on the little stool in the bathroom, my back against the wall, my face inches from the door, finally feeling safe for a moment. Emotions are rolling through me- rage, resentment, fear, anxiety, confusion, guilt. Oh, the guilt. 

Why can’t I handle my kids? Why can’t I handle just. being. with. my kids? Why do the normal crazy things my kids do make my body feel like I am being chased by a bear? Why do I want to strangle them sometimes? If this is a normal part of motherhood, then why can’t I manage? 

A few months ago I decided to really build my platform as “The Hasidic Feminist”, a project where I can share my research on Jewish Womanhood and my personal story going from a radical, liberal feminist to a Hasidic mother with a PhD.  It has been exhilarating speaking on podcasts, getting public speaking gigs around the country, and starting to publish a monthly newsletter. But when moments like the one above happen, and they are not infrequent, I feel like a fraud. Especially when people reach out to me to do coaching with them. Who me? Coach you? I don’t know how this life works. I am barely managing my own life. 

Sometimes when I casually mention to people that I have anxiety, even people that I think know me, they react with a look of surprise. Uh, oh, I think, am I that woman that other people think has it all together? The women I look at and feel like– if only I had that kind of husband or those kinds of kids then I would have my life together. 

My wise mentor (who actually does seem to manage the chaos, but I console myself that maybe after nine kids I will also have learned something) told me early on that I am not a fraud; rather, we always teach the things that we need to learn. That resonated with me. Of course this is the whole motivation for my work in feminism. I wanted to figure out why I am a woman. What does it mean that I am a woman? How could or should this gendered experience form the contours of my life?

After a crazy Shabbos morning (following the crazy Shabbos evening) my husband suggested that I lean into all the parts of myself in my public work. Instead of mentioning anxiety here or there or trying to conceal it (which is not my style anyway), just make it part of what I study and speak about. It is not “The Anxious Mother” Chava (worried, heart pounding, fuming) verses “The Hasidic Feminist” Chava (intellectual, sophisticated, capable), but rather The Hasidic Feminist and The Anxious Mother in a way that is productive and authentic to them both. From what I understand, most people have some level of anxiety in this day and age. It is an unfortunate product of a crazy world and the sky high expectations we have for ourselves. I feel like the only way is through. 

To be fair, as I sat in that tiny bathroom hearing the kids playing and screaming outside, I did draw upon my inner strengths. I did find a thought that diminished the rage and calmed my body. And in that opening I saw a path forward. I took a deep breath and unlocked the door. “Kiddos! Who wants an important Shabbos job?” Eyes light up. “Me, Me!!” And we are off again, making it work, growing, learning, and just showing up even when it feels impossible.