I’ve always loved to play dress up. I’d attribute this to growing up in the theater, but my husband shares this affinity and his parents were not actors. Childhood photos show me in a variety of hats, outfits made of treasures found in my parents’ closets, and costumes fashioned out of boxes and construction paper. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, my husband was donning cowboy boots, face-paint, football helmets, dresses, and Ghostbuster costumes.
As an adult I’ve found the same satisfaction in dressing up for new roles. My ink-stained fingernails as an art student in college, my kneepads and bruises from my days as a dancer, the pantsuits I wore to my first office job, my preschool teacher leggings and tunics… all of them costumes donned proudly as I stepped into these different roles. Dressing a part was no longer pretend, but there was still play in it.
Mike and I started dating in the summer of 2009. At this point I was playing the role of indie film co-producer. Set up by close friends (thank you, friends!), we knew only bits about each other. One of the bits I knew was that he is Jewish. The following winter I celebrated Hanukkah for the first time. The child I nannied at the time is also Jewish. I learned the prayers in Hebrew with their family, practicing what I remembered of them on the subway ride between the West Village and our apartment in Williamsburg, surprising Mike by knowing them better than he did and insisting we light candles together.
The sounds and cadence of the prayers were new to my tongue. They tumbled out of my mouth like incantations, the ritual helping set the tone. We made a menorah out of playdough and birthday candles. We lit the shamesh in our tiny room at the back of the railroad apartment where we spent our first few years as a couple, sending magic out into the air. Pretending.
I’m not sure when I learned what the prayers meant, but I recognized the feeling. It was the heat that would wash over me every morning that I stood silently among my peers as they pledged allegiance to a flag that held a different significance for my family. Liberty and justice? Maybe for some. Now, here I was thanking God for miracles and blessings that did not belong to me and that I did not believe in. My father in particular was vociferously against organized religion. Though my parents continue to insist on pretending that Santa is real, ideas of God as anything other than a delusion were roundly rejected throughout my childhood. My parents have softened a bit since then, but praying felt like an act of rejection. Lost in play, I had not considered that the words I was singing held meaning.
Mike has also had his moments of pretending as we’ve grown together and into each other’s families. He feels it as he speaks Spanish with our kids. There is fun in it and joy, and also discomfort. When we got married, I assumed that combining our cultures would be simple. I knew many families that celebrated Christmas and Hanukkah. It is simple only on the surface. Celebrating Christmas was as fraught for Mike as praying was for me.
Growing from multiculturalism to interculturalism within our family system is a process. How our cultures dialogue, adapt, and exchange is anything but straightforward. Sometimes there is ease and joy. Often there are bumps and bruises. Time and again my gut roils unexpectedly and I can choose to face the information it contains or to turn away and keep pretending. If you’re a frequent reader of this newsletter, you know which I tend towards.
This year we lit candles all eight nights of Hanukkah. On nights Mike was out, I did it alone with my children. Twice we lit the candles together with my parents. I have found I can say the prayers knowing what they mean without feeling like I am giving up a part of myself. It may not look that different from the outside, but on the inside there is comfort. And I am not pretending.
A NOTE: I am loath to leave you with the idea that there is always a resolution. Or conversely that it is always necessary to face the conflicts that rise to the surface as we parent together. Coparenting is a verb. It is an action. Ongoing and ever presenting us with opportunities to stretch. AND there are times that call for putting our emotional resources towards getting through the day, week or year.
In the spirit of supporting your growth, all of the classes at Pueblo are designed to create space for identifying and working through these opportunities as they come up, at the pace that makes sense for you. The suggestion of reflecting together about how you imagine the first few months with a baby (from our All About Your Newborn course), can look like planning or it can develop into a conversation about what each of you need to feel seen, heard, and supported.
Know a family expecting or raising babies or toddlers? Our suite of classes and guides now includes: