When a person is born or a person dies the Jewish community rallies with meals, support, and love. When a person is experiencing infertility the community is silent – and those suffering feel they have to be silent.
This is a strange omission, especially considering that the history of the Jewish people is replete with tales of infertility – Sarah, Rebecca, and Rachel all have difficulty conceiving and pray for children.
After being married a little while we soon realized that having a baby was not something that would happen easily for us. Rather than feeling like a part of the community, we began to feel isolated. Friends from the past would say things such as, “We’d love to hang out with you, but then who would our kids play with?”
The road to having children can feel endless and lonely. Watching friends and family have babies while they examine your never growing belly can lead to an intense sadness that only those experiencing infertility can relate to. At an engagement party, someone once came over to us and said “you never change,” pointing to Rachel’s stomach.
After almost three years of many doctor visits, no pregnancies, and thinking it probably wouldn’t happen for us, we did finally get pregnant, only to first have a chemical pregnancy, followed by an ectopic pregnancy. When suffering from pregnancy loss, people are quiet and suffer in silence. There is very little in the way of a support network. Mentioning pregnancy loss or infertility can lead to weird looks rather than sympathetic responses. People aren’t sure how to respond. There are no meals delivered to people suffering from miscarriages, no time for mourning, no time off from work, and people are expected to attend synagogue the week of a miscarriage with smiles on their faces. After all, no one knows the internal struggle that’s going on.
If the topics of pregnancy loss and infertility were less taboo in the Jewish community, people could get the support they need. Dealing with infertility involves a long process of seeing doctors, nightly injections, and early-morning appointments. Many times husbands may not be able to attend the appointments, and wives are left going by themselves. The process may involve missing days of work, additional hormones wreaking havoc on your body, and expensive procedures and medication. For many, adoption may seem like the only answer, but that’s also a difficult, long, lonely road, with expenses that add up quickly.
Ultimately, in-vitro fertilization did work for us and helped us start our family, but many others are not as lucky. Infertility is a lonely experience that changes a person. We will never be the people we were when we first got married. While we knew having a child might be difficult for us, we didn’t realize how long the process would be and the toll it would take on us as individuals, our relationship to each other, and relationships with our friends. At one point after being invited to a friend’s child’s birthday party, we had to leave a little early, and our friend told us, “Don’t worry, it was really only meant for mothers and children anyway.”
The experience of infertility shook our confidence in the Jewish community and some of the friendships we had previously formed. It removed the (possibly naïve) optimism we had when we first got married. After being in the dating scene a little while, getting married seemed like the answer to everything. We would finally be able to fit in and catch up with a community that centers on marriage and children. But rather than fitting in we began to feel more and more isolated. It got to the point that we were jealous of our pregnant pet guinea pig. Our confidence in our community and ourselves was (and still is) shaken.
While the experience of pregnancy loss or infertility will never be easy, perhaps if the topic of infertility were less taboo in the Jewish community, more people would speak up about their struggles and more support could be offered. How can we make the topic less taboo? For starters, synagogues can have lectures to raise awareness of the issue, communities can ensure they include and invite all members for Shabbat meals, especially those who do not fit in as well. Perhaps meal conversations can have less discussion about people’s children, or instead schedule Friday night meals in such a way that kids can be put to bed before the meal or before dessert and the adults can hang out together afterwards. More community events can be offered for people with infertility to interact with each other so that they don’t feel so alone. Synagogues could also organize meals for women who experience pregnancy loss, and communities could organize rides or company for women going to doctors’ visits alone. While there are some support organizations out there, there are few (if any?) Modern Orthodox organizations that help people connect with like-minded couples experiencing infertility.
The more the Jewish community speaks about topics such as infertility and pregnancy loss, the more those suffering from it will feel comfortable reaching out to their community for support and discussing what they are going through. A cultural change like this may not happen overnight, but perhaps future family and friends who suffer will have more support to make the process a little less unbearable. Let’s not allow those in our community to suffer alone and in silence.
“Tzi-tzit tzitzit tzitzit, where are you today?
I need you for a bracha, I need you right away!”
This was a common refrain for my three-year-old daughter Dahlia in the morning as she goes through my closet while I get dressed. She sings the song every morning in her class when each child chooses whether to take a pair of tzitzit, ritual fringes, from the box. In our house she will often playfully put on my tzitzit, but the one morning I spent in her nursery school class, none of the girls chose to.
And that’s just fine. None of the women she knows wear tzitzit, and I wouldn’t be surprised or disappointed if she didn’t either. But with her fourth birthday coming up, my wife and I thought about what tangible rituals might be relevant and meaningful for a little girl.
Enter Atara Lindenbaum, Rabbi Roni Handler, and their JOFA UnConference session on reinventing rituals for early childhood. Atara shared that her daughter began lighting Shabbat candles when she was three, and I thought that was a beautiful idea. In a conversation with Atara after the session, she recommended that we not only engage Dahlia with the ritual, but also make it a bit more of a meaningful ceremony—invite the rabbi or do something special in synagogue. I loved that idea, and with Dahlia’s fourth birthday coming up, we ran with it.
Since we had no template for a ritual like this, I posted a note on Facebook to solicit ideas for how to make this moment special. You can read the full back and forth here, but it spawned debates over how many candles she should light, whether to do the first lighting at home or in synagogue, and whether having the rabbi attend reinforces the perception that a male rabbinic presence is required to legitimate Jewish ritual experience. We received recommendations for what candlesticks to use, blessings to make, and texts to incorporate. It was a great discourse.
What we settled on was a very small ceremony at home with our immediate family and our community’s rabbi. We bought Dahlia a beautiful set of travel ceramic candlesticks, and my sister sent a box of colorful candles. With only a few minutes before Shabbat, I spoke to Dahlia a bit about what it means to be growing up and connected it to Moses’ growing up in the Torah portion, the rabbi said a few words about how Dahlia is now part of a tradition of lighting candles that goes back thousands of years, and then she lit the candles and said the blessing together with my wife Adina. After the rabbi left for synagogue, Adina and I blessed Dahlia, and then we sat down to read some emailed notes from grandparents, aunts, and uncles.
I had imagined that this would be a memorable (and perhaps formative) experience for Dahlia. I thought it would be serene and we would all be present in the moment. But she’s four years old, and within seconds she was much more concerned about her brother taking a balloon than the significance of her candles. And that’s alright. Because I know that again this Friday afternoon, the next, and—please God—many hundreds to follow, she will stand next to my wife, light her candles and say her blessing.
In December, the New York Times printed an article about the new fashion guidelines for state legislators in Montana. In the article, a number of women were cited as frustrated by a dress code that they thought unfairly targeted women, and did not provide an appropriate level of respect and frankly, faith, in the female legislators’ professionalism and ability to follow social norms.
It’s fairly common to read about dress codes that unfairly scrutinize girls’ dress in schools, whether it is a Jewish day school or yeshiva haggling over skirt length and the visibility of collar bones, or a secular school negotiating “leggings as pants” or revealing prom dresses. So I wasn’t fazed by the concept of an unfair dress code, but rather its targeted demographic—adult women professionals, elected officials who could presumably figure out how to dress with decorum, or at the very least, should be able to follow some basic tips from a fashion blog or magazine about what is or isn’t appropriate office attire. Why did they need a list of fashion guidelines handed down from the senior state legislators to tell them how to dress?
It made me wonder: Is there such a thing as a feminist dress code? What would a feminist dress code look like? Is there any way the Montana legislature could have gotten this right, or did the very fact that they were policing adult women’s outfits doom them from the start?
When we critique school dress codes, we often argue that they are overly focused on sexualizing the bodies of women and young girls, but we never hold up the shining example of the perfect feminist dress code, the dress code that those schools should aspire to emulate. Is it because that perfect feminist dress code doesn’t exist?
Most of the time, dress codes seem to be constructed with a focus on covering up women’s bodies and they ignore (or only perfunctorily address) the clothing choices of men and boys. The underlying assumption is that women’s bodies are inherently sexual, and therefore bad, and need to be dealt with, covered up. Whereas men’s bodies, just are, and men need to be dressed “appropriately” but it’s pretty simple to figure out what that means.
Dress codes often have much longer and more detailed guidelines for women. For the men, the core of the instructions might be: no shorts, no jeans, no T-shirts. Whereas for the women it is: no shorts, no jeans, no T-shirts, and then the list continues with a list of body parts: all shirts should have sleeves that cover the shoulder, hemlines should cover the knee, necklines should not be too plunging, etc. The assumption is that women need far more instruction on how to dress appropriately, and what body parts should and shouldn’t be visible, while men should be wearing clothes that are appropriate for the occasion.
So, I repeat my question. What would a feminist dress code look like?
Is it a “balanced” list of restrictions that is a similar length for both women and for men, rather than a list of restrictions on women’s clothes that is twice as long as the men’s list? Is that even possible?
Would it also address the sexuality of men’s bodies? For example—including requirements on the lengths of men’s sleeves and shorts, explicitly prohibiting “Deep V” neck T-shirts for men, or perhaps, prohibiting visible chest hair or undershirts (technically an undergarment, similar to a visible bra strap).
Is it the tone of the dress code? Could we build a dress code that treated both women and men as people who only need a few reminders about the level of formality of a particular environment (e.g no jeans and sneakers, or suits are required), and leave it to individuals to figure the rest out?
Or is it the assumption about the enforcement of the dress code—that the men will be able to follow it naturally and easily, and women will need more guidance and reminders about what is and isn’t appropriate?
So if the Montana state legislature (or your child’s school or camp) were to “re do” their dress code, is there any way they could “do it right?” Could they institute a feminist dress code? Or are dress codes intrinsically sexist and un-feminist?
I’m a runner, a three-time marathoner. Whenever someone asks when I took up running, I say I started 12 years ago. But the truth is that the first time I really ran was for a rabbi: I was 14 and he wanted cigarettes. He was my eighth grade teacher, a towering man, with a full beard, a long black coat and a black hat. He summoned me to his desk, handed me a wad of money, and told me he wanted a pack of Benson and Hedges. And so I became a runner. I ran my teenage guts out, to the store and back, breathlessly handing him his cigarettes and change – all with the rabbi’s stamp of approval.
Today, I am a member of a closed Facebook group for Jewish (mainly observant) female athletes. Most of the postings share victories, milestones and inspirational moments. Members typically offer or ask for the usual advice about running. And then, one member, we’ll call her Sarah, posed the following query:
Anyone have issues with frumkeit [religious observance] and athleticism? For years I didn’t run or do working out [sic] at all because I learned that it was a tznius [modesty] issue, that women shouldn’t run in front of men, and I couldn’t afford a gym. Now I am trying to get in shape and I’m being lax on the no running in front of men rule that I learned, but I am keeping the spirit of it and only running when it’s dark, so I’m not in full view of everyone. Anyone else hold similarly, and had to find a compromise they’re comfortable with?
Questions loomed in my mind: Shouldn’t frumkeit and maintaining one’s health be synonymous? Isn’t athleticism an integral part of overall well-being? Shouldn’t we all be encouraged to exercise? And of course, I was reminded of the time I was given rabbinic approval (minus the actual supervision) to run.
When asked to explain, Sarah added, “It’s for the same reason we don’t dance in front of men- because of jiggling body parts.”
Jiggling. Body. Parts.
In her Facebook comments, Sarah insists a refusal to ask a rabbi for guidance, all the while asserting her desire to be fit and healthy. She shares that she has struck a compromise and runs in the dark so no one sees her. That effort to find a happy middle ground has to be commended as well.
But she never questions the initial premise that women shouldn’t exercise when there’s a chance men will see them and still worries that she is in the wrong.
Those who abide by halakha accept that there are times when women’s voices are silenced or when women are relegated to the other side of the mechitza. Even so, many of us have seen first-hand women’s great creativity in balancing halakhic concerns of modesty and participating in a number of physical activities – including singing, dancing, and exercising. Women will swim during “women’s only” hours or will go to “women’s only” gyms. If they choose to swim in a public venue, in an effort not to expose their skin, they will wear modest “bathing suits” (shirts, skirts and leggings made of water repellent fabric). When running, they may opt to wear long-sleeve shirt and skirt attire, all-the-while covering their hair (if they are married). And while these athletes may not look like the norm, they are doing their best to walk a tight-rope, striking a balance between halakha and health, an effort that should be applauded. There are countless other women of different faith traditions who make similar efforts to accommodate their own religious requirements.
As a runner myself, I love that Sarah wants to run. I want her to feel that same sense of accomplishment as I do when I finish a race or hit a new personal record. If need be, I want Sarah to push back at the rabbis and teachers who tell her women should not run. I want her to challenge them to allow her to exercise her freedom – and to be free to exercise. As someone familiar with the halakha, I want Sarah to remind them that our tradition commands us to keep our bodies healthy because refu’at ha-nefesh and refu’at ha-guf, healing of the spirit and of the body, shouldn’t wait until either is completely broken down – and running has the capacity to heal both the body and the spirit at once. I want to encourage women to take care of themselves and to encourage other women to do the same.
In my mind, the definitive tale of sisterhood was not the conventionally chosen classic, Little Women, but rather the All-of-a-Kind Family series. To eight-year-old me, those books were perfection: I read them like they were scripture. Ella, Henny, Sarah, Charlotte, and Gertie (and Charlie, born later and the only boy) probably shaped my vision of what family and sisterhood should be. True, they were a poor immigrant family at the turn of the 20th century living in the Lower East Side and I was a not poor, not immigrant child, not living at the turn of the 20th century, living in Toronto, but subtlety was never my strong point.
Those sisters did it right. They went to the library, they bought penny candy, and they had Shabbat dinner. Sure, Henny was a troublemaker and Sarah even lost a library book once, but even in their delinquency I loved them.
All this goes to explain that somewhere, deep inside of me, I always thought I’d be a mother of girls. I blame Sydney Taylor and her glorious books. I thought I’d be a mother of daughters. They’d love each other and fight with each other and braid each other’s hair. Instead, I had one daughter (off to a great start, I thought) and then four boys.
My daughter was born five weeks early. We didn’t have time (or foresight) to pick out a name and, perhaps more significantly, figure out how to celebrate her birth with a Simchat Bat ceremony. It turns out that when you grew up as a Modern Orthodox Feminist (all words that are so charged with multiple meanings that I could easily be persuaded to align myself with none of them as well as all of them) and you have a girl, it becomes a pretty big deal. At least, it became a really big deal to me. Add all of that anxiety of how to properly welcome a girl into a society which has no organized ritual in place for girl-welcoming, to sleepless nights and crazy hormones and you have… me and my very patient, very thoughtful husband sitting up at 3 am the night before our daughter’s Simchat Bat collecting prayers, wishes and quotes on how to raise a daughter which we turned into centerpieces on each table. Think Dr. Seuss meets Rashi.
At the ceremony, I stumbled through some Dvar Torah welcoming our baby and expounded on the need to create a way to embrace daughters. I probably talked for too long and maybe got a bit preachy, but we served really good cake so I think people were kind enough to let it slide.
I love/hate the murkiness of raising a daughter in this world. I get it right sometimes and I get it so very wrong some times (like yesterday, I got it wrong yesterday). At what age does she attend a women’s megillah reading with me? Is it okay for me to separate her from her friends in synagogue so that she joins me and my agenda? If she isn’t comfortable with my version of Simchat Torah, do I tread lightly or turn it into a teachable moment? And all of that angst is okay.
What would Sydney say? She has become a de facto guru of mine. I look to her for wisdom. And I read my daughter All-of-a-Kind Family as soon as she could understand the words.
For great content and networking on the subject of ritual innovation, join us for the JOFA UnConference November 23, 2014. Learn more.
When we received our JOFA sukkah poster last week, I excitedly showed my daughters, ages five and ten, the poster of women leaders. They looked it over and the following conversation ensued:
Child: “Do you think Uncle ____ and Aunt ___ would want to hang it in their sukkah?” (We are city dwellers who don’t have our own sukkah.)
Me: “Sure, why not?”
Child, a bit sheepishly: “Well, Mommy, I don’t want to be mean, but the women are a little ugly, don’t you think? Couldn’t they have made them prettier?”
Me: “I don’t think the point was whether they were pretty or not.”
Child: “I am not saying Nechama Leibowitz looked like a rock star in real life, but I’m sure she was prettier as a young woman.”
Me: “Do you think that we’d be having the same conversation about the Baba Sali or Rav Moshe Feinstein? Are they especially handsome?”
Child: [Rolls eyes] “I knew you were going to say that, but I still think they could be prettier.”
And so I thought about it—should the artists have attempted to “airbrush” Nechama Leibowitz?
Why do pictures of older male rabbis look distinguished to most viewers, but pictures of an older Nechama Leibowitz remind us of an elderly grandmother?
This summer the New York Times ran an article about camps that ban “body talk”—among them the Jewish farm camp Eden Village. The article noted that at Eden Village “on Friday afternoon, when the campers, girls and boys from 8 to 17, are dressed in white and especially polished for the Sabbath, they refrain from complimenting one another’s appearances. Rather, they say, ‘Your soul shines’ or ‘I feel so happy to be around you’ or ‘Your smile lights up the world,’ … Signs posted on the mirrors in the bathroom read, ‘Don’t check your appearance, check your soul.’”
While I could see the virtues of checking your soul, rather than your appearance, if I am to be honest with myself, I can’t actually imagine parenting (or living) this way. I do tell my kids they look beautiful, and when they remember to brush their hair, I comment on it. I like hearing compliments on my appearance and I want my daughters to hear those compliments too and compliment others, while not being overly focused on their appearance. This, of course, is a very tough balancing act, made all the more difficult if one has a child who loves fashion and notices everyone’s clothes (as is the case for my five year old).
One of the great virtues of JOFA commissioning this project is that it allows all of us to see women scholars represented on the walls of our sukkot and schools. While there’s certainly some part of me that wishes that my girls didn’t ask “why aren’t they prettier,” I am glad that this sparked the question for them. There is no doubt that children raised as part of a society that thrives on airbrushing will expect conventional beauty from women leaders and scholars, but I hope that we as parents and educators can begin conversations with them that will begin to chip away at some of these notions.
Growing up as the daughter of two teachers, my parents encouraged me to read every kind of book that I was interested in. As a middle schooler I socialized with Charles Dickens, curled up with Jane Austen, ate snacks with the Bronte sisters, decided that I hated every stuffy Victorian who took 150 pages to start a plot, and moved on to their dark Russian cousins, the Tolstoys and Dostoevskys (125 pages to start a plot). One author was off-limits in my house, and his books I had to keep hidden. I kept his books behind the other books on my shelves, binding face-down. This author was Chaim Potok. I actually had no idea why there was a Chaim Potok ban in my house until I started reading his books, and then the CPB (Chaim Potok Ban) made a lot of sense to me. Potok claimed that one could not be Orthodox, or more accurately, one could not fulfill himself creatively and be Orthodox at the same time. And when faced with this decision, one should choose creative fulfillment. Potok made this point in My Name is Asher Lev, Davida’s Harp, and pretty much every other book he had written.
I don’t blame my parents for this ban at all. Every parent has something, I’m sure, that they want to protect their children from. I want to protect my children from Sholom Auslander, author of Foreskin’s Lament, in which he blames his apostasy on the “theological abuse” he suffered as a child at the hands of Orthodox parents and teachers. I pray every day that they should never read one of his books. I know that they will be exposed to anti-religious ideas out there in the real world, but by God, if they are exposed to all those ideas through the tortured, cynical eyes of Sholom Auslander, I will do serious penance. My children will make their own decisions as they get older about what kinds of Jews they want to be, but I don’t want them to arrive at that decision through rage and through pain.
I think my parents were right in trying to protect me from the most devastating reality of being an Orthodox Jew: There are simply some people who cannot be both an Orthodox Jew and creatively fulfill themselves. This may not be devastating to you, but it was to me, and my 1994-future-Broadway-star/pianist self.
Every day I go through mind tricks to calm myself down when I worry that I am not fulfilled creatively. I yell at myself in my brain. I remind myself of my healthy children, my healthy husband, my healthy body (bli ayin hara). I remind myself that my life is wonderful. I have friends that laugh with me, and at me (and both are good things). I remind myself that there is a lot of instability in the world, and a lot of uncertainty and pain, and my children are more fortunate than most other children to have been sheltered from this uncertainty and pain. I remind myself that creative fulfillment is a luxury.
I remind myself that I create art when I teach. And when I write. I remind myself that the very act of conducting my life within a controlled, halakhic environment – that is art.
Five or six years ago, I participated in a small conference of Orthodox educators run by Rabbi Aryeh Klapper in Boston. After a panel presentation, a female attendee at the conference raised her hand and began to lament all the difficulties of her life, and how hard it is that she will never be able to fulfill her dream of becoming a rabbi. I nodded in empathy but supplemented her comments with a statement about how I will never fulfill myself musically – and that I was coming to terms with that.
I never wanted to be a rabbi. I wanted to be Gwen Stefani.
All I said was that I was coming to terms with it, not that I already had. I have entered into a Chaim Potok book, but I’ve chosen the other path — Orthodox Judaism. I will not be a singer, or a pianist (too many gigs on Friday nights and Saturdays). I have chosen a halakhic path. If I had to do it again, I would make the same choice. But I don’t want my daughters to have to make this choice. I want (and here my cursor stays for 45 seconds – what do I want?)
I want my children to express their Judaism in a way that completely and totally creatively fulfills them.
I know some readers of this blog will point out to me that many Orthodox women sing or perform in front of men, but I am not looking for halakhic loopholes or possibilities. I’m waiting until they become mainstream. I know, I know, when there is a rabbinic will there is a halakhic way – but I don’t want to fashion my Judaism according to my will. Self-control is a form of artistic expression. Or so I tell myself.
So for now, here I am, in Potok’s book. I’ve also decided to let my children read actual Chaim Potok books and hope that my own personal choices stand as a (sometimes painful) alternative. But the benefits and the beauty of living as an Orthodox Jewish woman outweigh the fulfillment that I have skipped out on. Maybe. And who knows, one day I might even let Sholom Auslander’s books into my house.
Not anytime soon, though.
My youngest daughter will turn nine in just a few weeks, but I have already begun to actively arrange for her Bat Mitzvah. No, I have not bought her a fancy dress, shoes, and matching hair accessories. I have not put together a guest list of friends and relatives. And no, I have not actually looked at the calendar and chosen a date. So how could I possibly be preparing for her Bat Mitzvah?
In my hometown, the local Orthodox synagogues offer no opportunities for women to engage in ritual leadership. However, for the past few years, a warm and inviting women’s Kabbalat Shabbat/Ma’ariv Friday evening service has been held on a monthly basis in individual homes. Though my daughter is not always excited about going (especially if the weather is nasty or if she is caught up in a good book), I bring her along nonetheless. It is true that she does not yet know all of the tunes. And sometimes, she can only tolerate sitting through the first two psalms, “Yedid Nefesh” and “Lechu Neranena,” before she needs to take a break, returning mid-service for “Lecha Dodi.” But she is there, and the entrancing tunes of erev Shabbat are slowly filtering into her head.
Oftentimes, the prayer leader is a post-Bat Mitzvah teenager. It’s important that my daughter be present to see a young role model in action, to hear a high-pitched (and sometimes wavering) voice, and to witness a girl standing at the amud, podium. And each time we attend, I can see that my daughter participates more and more, that she is able to follow along, that her body sways with the chanting of each psalm, and that the unfamiliar is becoming familiar.
All too often, I hear the following refrain from mothers of sixth graders in my community: “I would really like my daughter to do something meaningful for her Bat Mitzvah—maybe lead at a women’s tefillah service—but she’s too nervous about it and it’s just not her thing.” My plea to each of those mothers is that you make it “her thing.” Start early and go often! Drag your third, fourth or fifth grader along to a women’s celebration this coming Simchat Torah! Remember: Your daughter won’t want to read from the Torah scroll if she’s never touched it, danced with it or peered inside. Or, shlep her to a women’s Megillah reading on Purim. And convince your friends to do the same, so that your daughter will have a cohort of peers to support her as she advances into new territory.
A boy may not begin to practice his Torah reading until the year before his Bar Mitzvah date. But he has been preparing for the event for years beforehand by being present in synagogue where he can absorb the rhythms, music and traditional words of the prayers, and be exposed to the routines of the service. Why should the expectations be different for a Bat Mitzvah girl? With the New Year, I urge you to make a commitment to your daughter and give her a head start!
“Are you going to fast on Yom Kippur?” “Are you going to try not to eat until chatzot, midday?” These were the questions my friends and I were discussing around the age of 10 and 11. We had never considered that there would be a period of time in our future when we would have to ask those questions again. As an 11-year-old, I proudly shared that I fasted before I was obligated. It wasn’t until over a decade later that I would begin grappling with these questions again.
Although the questions remain the same, the circumstances and process for coming to an answer has changed. As a child, I did not ask a rabbi what I should be doing. I knew the general custom and practice amongst my peers, and made my own decision accordingly. I did not feel an ounce of guilt if I broke my fast early. Ironically, the process looks very different for adult women who are either pregnant, nursing, or trying to conceive.
As Yom Kippur is rapidly approaching, a number of articles and posts on this topic have arisen. Maharat Rachel Kohl Finegold, who has spoken on this issue in the past, recently published “Pregnant and Nursing Women Fasting on Yom Kippur-Reflections” on Morethodoxy.
This piece followed her shiur, “Fasting for Two: Who Makes the Call?”, disseminated by JOFA this past Tisha B’Av. Her shiur spurred a great discussion on my personal Facebook wall. Women shared stories of reluctantly fasting, nervous of the effect that it would have on their unborn children or their nursing supply. I recall one woman in particular giving an hourly update of the wails of her nursing child. She had decided that since her child was almost one year old, and eating supplementary food, that she would fast. For whatever reason, her child was refusing solid food on that particular day. The mother had made her decision before the fast, and despite the change in circumstances, would not revisit her decision. It was painful to read her account on that day.
We all make our own decisions of what to eat when pregnant, how to exercise, what to exclude from our diets, whether or not to nurse, etc. Fasting while pregnant or nursing seems to be a decision unlike others. This is one area with which many observant women, throughout the spectrum of the Orthodox community, grapple and are left feeling uneasy no matter the outcome. Guilt is always the result. Women feel guilty for “breaking the fast early” or for not properly nourishing their children. Even if breaking the fast entails eating according to defined shiurim (a halakhic measurement of food permissible according to biblical law) once an hour, the guilt remains. If one chooses to fast for the duration, the guilt remains.
One cannot ignore the spike in pregnant women being admitted to the hospital during and following Yom Kippur. While it may be “okay” to fast while nursing, it can, and has, lowered or diminished milk supply for many women, including a number of women that I know.
A good friend of mine was eagerly following the Facebook discussions born from Maharat Kohl Finegold’s shiur. She had already been nursing her then nine-month-old, and decided to fast on Tisha B’Av. She knew that she wanted to wean him in the coming months, and figured that it would seem inauthentic to eat on Tisha B’Av with that in mind. She was uncomfortable because she felt as if she was trying to rationalize why she should not have to fast without any strong support for this decision. This led to her coming to a stringent decision to completely abstain from water and food throughout the fast day. While she had been nursing her child three to four times a day, her child refused to nurse from the tenth of Av and on. She is not positive why it ended, but, most likely, it was because her milk supply had diminished. Anecdotally, my friend’s story is far from unique.
As children, we were confident in our decisions whether or not to fast, because we were not halakhically obligated. As noted in the articles cited below, there are both halakhic and health factors that mothers should take into consideration. Just as mothers research strollers, baby gear and the like, we should put effort into researching and coming to a decision on whether or not to fast. Mothers asking this question should read the articles mentioned below and think about this decision in advance of the fast day. Making the decision at the last minute contributes to a sense of uneasiness and urgency.
While I am not a medical or halakhic authority, below are a number of items to consider and questions to ask your trusted physician and halakhic authority:
- How far along are you in your pregnancy?
- Is your pregnancy high risk?
- See your doctor or midwife before the fast to ensure that your baby’s prenatal vitals are in good shape.
- Ask your doctor if there is anything else that they think you should know. Are there any risks involved in fasting? Any relevant studies?
- What risks are involved for the child of a nursing mother? For a pregnant mother?
- How old is the child that you are nursing? Does this affect your decision?
- If you need to drink/eat any amount during the fast, what should you drink/eat? (I would suggest a protein drink or the like.) Where should you drink/eat?
- What halakhic options are available to you on general fast days? How do things differ on Yom Kippur?
- While you have a “game plan,” what should be your action plan if your situation changes during Yom Kippur? Will you eat or drink? Will you decide to stay home? What are options or issues that may be a consideration?
Some suggestions to make the fast easier:
- Prepare by drinking extra water the day before the fast.
- If possible, make sure that you will have extra help for your children and any other responsibilities that would put extra strain on you during the fast day.
It is time for us to recognize that our bodies and our children are holy vessels. The same way that we make decisions about where and how to pray, what minhag, custom, to follow, and how to observe halakha, we need to take ownership over this decision.
It has pained me to read and hear the words of women sharing their level of pain or discomfort, or the cries of their nursing children who are hungry. Women who ask rabbis whether they should fast are sometimes told to fast until they become sick or until it would affect their milk supply. Most women, most people, cannot answer that.
The halakhic process is best lived out when we are in dialogue with modern medicine, attuned to our own health needs and have access to well trained, compassionate, and knowledgeable poskim and poskot, halakhic decisors. There is an ever expanding network of Maharats, Rabbis, Yoatzot Halakha and other klei kodesh, spiritual leaders, who welcome a genuine and mutual conversation on these important and sensitive subjects. When we, as women and mothers, are empowered in this conversation the entire halakhic process benefits.
‘Does Fasting Put Pregnant Women at Risk?’
BabyCentre on Fasting in Pregnancy
Doctors: Fasting during all but last weeks of pregnancy increases risks
Effect of a 24+ hour fast on breast milk composition
Fasting on Yom Kippur During Pregnancy by Hannah Katsman
Impact of maternal fasting during Ramadan on growth parameters of exclusively breastfed infants Journal of Fasting and Health. 2013;1(2):66-69
Teshuva from Rav Nachum Rabinovitz, Rosh Yeshiva of Maaleh Adumim
Something you hear a lot from feminist men is that it all started with the birth of a daughter. So powerful is this effect of a daughter on a father that a friend of mine recently told me of her elation at hearing that her synagogue rabbi had a new baby girl—this could only be good news for the women in his congregation!
But for me, that was not the case. I found myself dealing with issues of gender equality in Judaism years before I had kids, and even presented at the 2010 JOFA Conference—a couple of months before I would know what kind of baby was about to join our family. (That baby has grown to become a bright, beautiful, inquisitive little girl!). Having her in my life has definitely concretized some issues of feminism I had never dealt with before (“a girl in a blue stroller?”—“Make-up makeover sleepover!”), but it’s been relatively straightforward for my wife and I to navigate.
For now, our job is fighting the efforts of outside forces to pigeon hole her into pink toys, or “girl activities,” or excessive focus on her external trappings. Her favorite game right now is batting practice, favorite movie is Frozen, and if it was up to her, she’d wear patent leather Shabbat shoes with a tye-died t-shirt and shorts to school. I think we’ve struck a nice balance. As she gets older I’m happy to say that we are part of a synagogue community where women and girls have the opportunity to read from the Torah, lead services and speak from the pulpit. The roadmap is there—we just have to follow it.
But since the birth of my son less than a year ago, I feel the need to be a feminist dad much more, and I’m not as clear on what I need to do. My wife and I are doing our best to ensure that both kids have every opportunity to learn and grow to be the best people they possibly can. We will work our hardest to give them both exactly what they need to grow as committed Jews, contributing members of society, and ultimately to become good parents themselves. But for my little guy there’s something more.
What are the jokes he’s going to hear on the school bus, in the cafeteria and at summer camp? What examples will be set by his teachers, rabbis and other male role models outside the home regarding their attitudes towards female peers? There’s no way to shield him from all instances of misogyny or bigotry, but I do hope we can instill in him core values that will cause him to recoil (or rebuff) upon exposure.
At only 10 months old, he has no clue the uphill battle we will wage together to help him avoid the pitfalls of objectification of girls and discrimination against women. As an Orthodox feminist dad, I will also have to guide him through the still very narrow path those before us have forged on the boundary between traditional Judaism and gender equality.
With my daughter I have the very tangible task of exposing her to as much Jewish practice and leadership experience as possible. But for my son, there’s this amorphous task of helping him realize the importance of others expressing their Jewish selves to the fullest. I’m not sure how to do that, and thankfully I have a strong partner to figure that out with.
This Father’s Day, as I’m enjoying a special cup of coffee and some hand-drawn cards, I will also be reminded that raising our kids is the most difficult and important job we will ever have. And I love it.
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