Mayim Rabim

If you read this post and this post, you know that I am now using two forms of birth control, and that I don't always remember to use both. This time I forgot the pill -- for three days! -- and I didn't realize it until I spontaneously started bleeding.

To be fair to myself, I didn't just "forget" for three consecutive days. I take several medications, and I usually put them, along with the BC, in a one-week pill holder. It's a good system, but you do have to remember to put all the pills in at the beginning of the week. And, as I've mentioned, I'm an idiot.

I know, I know. Don't be so hard on yourself, Ruchama! But I went to the mikvah less than a week ago. And I hate that this is my fault.

I came across a comment on beyondbt (a blog for and by "returnees" to observant Judaism) that I found very very disturbing.

as a bt in progress, i just have to say that it’s so hard to fit in sometimes. bt’s do things differently but honestly. we try so hard, and when the ffb community snickers because we might not know as much, it can be a major turn-off.

years ago, i had a horrible experience at a mikvah, where a mikvah lady yelled, yes, yelled, at me because i was having trouble with the bracha. i had only gone to mikvah a few times at that point, and it was still new to me, and i was still getting used to the whole ritual, and because of that one episode, i actually stopped going, and then gradually stopped practicing for many years. it wasn’t until recently that i came back to odoxy.

what the ffb community needs to do, instead of snickering and criticizing, is to give support (yes, i realize that many odox communities are very supportive) and constantly remind themselves that there are jews out here who struggle just to remember the things that most ffb’s learned in kindergarden.

This poor woman actually stopped using the mikvah and practicing T"H and all other mitzvot because a mikvah attendant criticized her for having trouble with the brocha? Instead of helping her? As familiar with the "basic brocha on a mitzvah" (asher kidishanu...) as many of us are, it's generally posted on the wall (in many mikva'ot) for a reason!!!! It's easy to trip up on the words, especially if you can't see the poster without glasses or contacts, or to just blank for a moment, since after all, you're standing there naked, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the water, which I would assume isn't the most comfortable situation for most of us! How dare she!?! (The attendant, not the woman using the mikvah)

Okay, I'll stop steaming out my ears now, and I'll jump down from my soapbox in just another minute, but as I said, I was deeply disturbed by this woman's comment. Before I end, I just want to say, please, please, please, anyone who is in the position of being an attendant, make it easier, not harder! And for G-d's sake (literally), don't yell or intimidate, or laugh or poke fun at someone using the mikvah. We don't want to drive her away from the mitzvah entirely!

It's been a long time. I just today had the werewithall to look at the sight. TH and Mikvah have been so far out of my line of sight for so long I couldn't wrap my head around it.

BH things have been good. And I've been able to see a few(!) positive aspects of not going to the mikvah. I don't miss the counting, I don't miss the bedikahs, I don't miss the last minute before shkiah bedikas, I don't miss tracking down a Rov. I have discovered the joy (and impracticality) of a pedicure with polish! and sparkles! And I don't feel it's frivoulous because I don't have to worry about taking it off in a few weeks!

But of course, now, I've begun dating. And I've begun to think about the idea of being with a man again and the idea of keeping TH again. And while I still miss the idea of going to the mikvah, in some ways it seems ephemeral - hard to nail down, hard to imagine - kind of like when I was single and when I was a kallah. There is an unknown charachter to it - what will it be like to keep TH with someone else? It was intimate, me, my (ex) husband, and the mikvah lady (and occasionally the rov), and that was it. (Okay so that last sentence sounds like Menage a Trois, but you know what I mean).

IMYH I will someday meet my bashert (it should be soon), but what will it mean to keep TH with someone other than my ex? What I mean is that is was something special and intimate between us, how will that dynamic change with a new husband? I get the sense that the first time may feel like I am violating some sacred vow or connection.

For a guy I can't stand. Weird ain't it?

For those who haven't been keeping up, I'm on two forms of birth control now: a low-dose pill and a diaphragm. This is because a medication that I'm taking compromises the effectiveness of the pill. It's just as well that I have backup, because I can be a bit of a scatterbrain. Case in point: Last month, when I came back from the mikvah, I forgot to use the diaphragm.

I tried not to worry too much, since I did have some protection from the pill. I didn't tell my husband, so as not to make him unnecessarily anxious. All the same, I was hoping that my period would come on the early side and reassure me. Usually, it comes on Monday or Tuesday. By Wednesday, I began to get nervous and told my husband.

All the next day I was worried and confused. I knew that we couldn't afford a child and that if I was pregnant I'd have to go off my meds, which might have done some harm already. But the maternal urge is very strong in some women, and I couldn't help feeling a wave of irrational excitement when I thought about having a baby. I browsed the web, reading up on signs of early preganancy and health tips for preganant women. I speculated on whether our apartment was big enough for a young child. And I worried about the lack of responsibility that I'd exhibited in various areas of life in the recent past. Could I get my career back on track? Could I care for an infant? Could I possibly do both at once?

When I didn't menstruate by Thursday morning, I went to the drug store to buy a home pregnancy test. It was too early to get the 99% accuracy that the tests advertise, but Husband and I figured that we might as well have a little bit more information by Shavuot. False positives are very rare even at early stages, and if my reading was negative, at least we'd know that the odds were on our side.

I took the test and set a timer for two minutes, the amount of time it takes to yield a result. My whole body was tingling. I closed my eyes, not sure what I was hoping for. When I opened them, I saw a blue minus sign on the strip. The tingling stopped and my breathing returned to normal. Between the pill and the strip, the odds of my being pregnant were now quite low.

I took another test this morning and got the same result. This didn't surprise me. It isn't uncommon to miss a period when taking horemonal birth control; I've missed one before myself. But this was the first time that I really, seriously thought that I might be pregnant. It's a great relief to know that I'm not, but the irrational part of me that was excited before is now a little bit sad.

Ah, well. I guess this makes up for the month when I had to go to the mikvah twice.

This haunting feeling that something was missing lay over me the whole week. The first inkling that something was strange was when I realized I had a chance of getting that elusive day 5 hefsek! Okay, so maybe it was only day 5 (and not 6) if you don't count the spotting on day 0, but I've always counted this way, and still never gotten a day 5 hefsek taharah before. So I tried anyway, and surprise number two was that it worked!

There was a bit of anxiety over where I'd be going to mikvah (That's a story in itself, which I may post about eventually!) when half way through the week dh uncovered the notice from the local mikvah that it would be closed for repairs.

And that was when I realized. I was perhaps anxious about the hoops I jumped through to figure out how to obtain an appointment (actually making the appointment was the easy part, it was figuring out who to talk to that led me in circles!). I was maybe nervous about the longer drive and timing it so that I arrived on-time. (I can do early and I can do late, but promptness has often been about as elusive for me as that day 5 hefsek.) I was somewhat apprehensive about visiting a mikvah I'd never been to before. But I wasn't the least bit scared.

Now, some of you may be thinking, okay, Desde, this is what, your third post about not being scared of the water? We hear you, you're not scared anymore, get over it, okay? But please understand, being scared of the water has colored my entire life, even before I was observant. It took on additional importance when I first decided that I would be living an Orthodox lifestyle and learned about the mikvah's prominent role in that lifestyle. It gave me panic attacks when I became engaged and started Kallah classes.

It hung over me each time I made a hefsek taharah and started counting the days until my next mikvah visit. I tried not to think about what I was counting toward, trying to instead focus on the reunion with my husband. Each month was a balance of putting off making that appointment so I wouldn't have to think about it, and making it early enough that I didn't have the additional fact of not yet having an appointment to panic about. I forced myself to make the trip to the mikvah. I did my preparations, (actually, I'm surprised that I've never been obsessive-compulsive about the preparations, so that at least I had no excuse besides my fear for not calling myself "ready") and took an extra few minutes to compose myself, searching for something else I hadn't checked, but finding nothing, before calling for the attendant. I then had to compose myself again in the water before each dunk, gathering my courage each time. My fear was so very REAL and so very PRESENT, a constant companion.

I hesitate to say I miss it, but I definitely notice its absence. So I counted the days, without any fear. I (mostly) prepared at home, without any fear. I drove to the mikvah, without any fear. I finished up my preparations there, without any fear. I called for the attendant, made small talk while she checked my hands and feet and picked three million hairs off my back, without any fear. I entered the water, without any fear. I took a moment to compose myself before each dunk... to daven for myself, and others, not to gather courage. And it was a much shallower mikvah than I am used to, so I had to make an extra effort to get all the way under, but I did it without any fear. I did it all without any fear.

And while once I was afraid (ha!) that my mitzvah was somehow diminished through the lack of fear, this time I exulted in my lack of fear. Like a cancer patient in (permanent!) remission who will always be a "survivor," I have survived and surmounted my fear, and while it no longer follows me, it haunts me by its absence, and adds an extra dimension to my observance.

I went to my gyn today and we're going to try me on an extended cycle. I think this is my long-term dream fulfilled. When I first started getting my period I dreamt of designing (and building) a machine that could suck out all the ickyness and let me get on with my active lifestyle. When I added t'h to the mix (it's been almost a year!), my husband wasn't so upset by the constant interruption but I was still dreaming of this mystical machine. I'm sure this will help us get through those last little bumps too... He actually made a niddah joke last night (I had extended this cycle because I just couldn't handle another period *so soon* he hadn't really cared one way or the other. His joke suprised and made me smile). I'm excited. I have a pile of literature to read up on and some questions to double check on the nishmat website. Yay!

I knew it was, on paper at least, the right thing to do. Touch with an erva is forbidden. I was a nidda, and therefore an erva to my beloved fiancée. Every hug, every hand-holding- assur at least derabanan, possibly deoraita. But one magic dip and- not even a derabanan.

We’d stopped being shomer negiah three months into our courtship, with firm agreements as to “this far and no further.” I knew we would never transgress an issur karet, and aside from the terminology of issur and heter, we were both totally committed to not having sex before we got married. Going to the mikva seemed out of the question for us.

For one, it would put me in the awkward position of living out an urban legend, the frum single girl at the mikva. I thought casually about buying a twenty-dollar ring to match my engagement ring, throwing on a scarf and heading out to the suburbs. Or going to the heimish mikva, not all the women who go there wear wedding bands anyway.

I grew up in a very intellectually open household. Knowledge of mikva and sex and holiness was as accessible as the English books on Nidda I devoured as a teen and later in college from the original sources. I knew how to do a bedika, could have told you what was and wasn’t a hatzitza according to who and why. I wanted to go. It would have been so easy. Hafifa at home, clip my nails short, untangle my hair, hide it under a hat- inconspicuous enough in wintertime- pumice scrub on my heels and elbows, scabs carefully peeled away, nail polish meticulously removed.

We decided to go through with it. I sat with him and hugged him one last time. We were going to be shomer negiah through my next period and I’d count 7 clean. Then I’d prep and we’d make the trip out together. He’d be waiting for me outside, I wouldn’t be alone. We were both glowing with the excitement of choosing goodness, righteousness, and purity.

I cut up an old white t-shirt. Inspected the cloths. Made a hefsek on day 7. Bedikot, bedikot, and more bedikot. They hurt a bit, (more than I expected really, I’d used tampons before), even though the cloth was soft and thin.

I got back from work early, about to get in the bath and soak. It had been a cold, grey, unfriendly day and I certainly needed a hug and an its-all-going-to-be-ok more than an unknown trip to a place of utter nakedness where my flimsy disguise could be pulled aside at any moment. Something in the way I’d done my nails, some innocent remark I would let slip- anything could tip the mikva lady off that I wasn’t your standard scarf-wearing-but-modern housewife. I hated more than anything this Sabbatean inversion, this lie necessary to become pure. Sometimes, something just feels weird or wrong, even if it is intellectually honest or a better option halakhically.

I called him and let him know that we weren’t going to the mikva that night. I explained to him that even if he came with me, I would still be utterly alone and exposed, and I didn’t think I could bear it. He understood.

~ Bat Planya

Bat Planya is a very ordinary observant girl in her twenties who reads more than
she should. She lives in a major metropolitan area and has had dreams about mikvaot. She is very into sociology and halakha, although she sometimes struggles with both.

I have a confession to make: I show my questionable bedikot to my father. As I alluded to in my comment to this post, my father is my Local Orthodox Rabbi. Throughout my life I have asked him questions that run the full gamut of Halakha. Why should this change once I got married and had a few more questions?

To be sure, it wasn’t so simple. I remember the first time I had a question. My husband’s Rabbi does not leave near us, so we decided that it would be most convenient to show it to my father who lives in our neighborhood. I walked into my parents' house with my bedikah cloth in my jacket pocket and went straight to my mother.

Me: “Um, Mom? I have a niddah question. Well, it’s actually not so much a question as it is a cloth. Do you think it would be weird if I showed to Abba?”

Mom: “No! He looks at these all the time. It is just a color on a white background to him. It’s no big deal.”

So off I went to show my father. He took it from me, asked me what part of my Shiva Nekiim it was from, and opened the front door to look at it in the light. He squinted, changed angles and squinted again, then pronounced “No good.” (This is the only time he has told me a bedikah is bad, by the way.)

And so our Rabbi-Questioner relationship was further cemented. I will admit it was awkward. And I will further admit that it has not gotten less awkward over the years. Yet, I am happy with our arrangement.

For one, you cannot beat the convenience. We live five minutes apart. I know where to reach him at all times, and he will pick up my calls even when he won’t answer yours. I will never go through the experience of dropping off a bedikah cloth through the mail slot only to find out that the Rabbi is on vacation for three weeks. My father was once away and I had cloth that needed to be looked at, so my husband brought it to another local Rabbi. It took him 2 ½ days to get back to me! He had no idea whether or not I was waiting to go to the mikvah. I cannot imagine going through that on a semi-regular basis.

More importantly, I have proven to myself that I am committed to Taharat ha-Mishpacha as a halakhic entity. Though I understand that it is difficult for any woman to become accustomed to showing her bodily secretions to a strange man, most would admit that there is an added discomfort in showing it to one’s father. Yet, by showing my bedikah cloths to my father I have shown myself that no matter how I may personally feel about it, Halakha is Halakha and to a large extent exists separately from my daily fears and anxieties. It is this great abstract body where the average person cannot distinguish between brown and red and all of that has absolutely nothing to do with your daughter’s sex life. It emphasizes for me that not only am I committed to this particular detail, I am committed to the entire enterprise of Taharat ha-Mishpacha, and by extension, the rest of Halakha as well. And besides, once you’ve shown a bedikah to your father you can show it to anyone.

To confirm the night I visit the mikveh I now need only look out the window. If it is raining then I probably have a mikveh night. Ok, this is a bit tongue-in-cheek, but I just find it highly amusing. I end up taking 3 preperation showers/baths: A bath at home, a shower on my walk to the mikveh, and another shower there. The good news is that it stops raining long enough for me to walk back home. :)

On a serious note, I am having some problems with my calendar. I liked the vertical format I had used in the past and created my current one by hand. It's nice and all, but I'm still looking for the perfect calendar which will integrate discretely with my daily one so that I don't forget my Hefsek Taharah or the bedikot, especially with daylight savings time. Does anyone know if Hebrew calendars exist (preprinted) for various ringed-binder systems? That might help me out. I'm thinking of something with stickers or fill-in-the-circule, but not sure what. Any advice is welcome.

I approached my first after-baby mikvah appointment with trepidation. No, nothing to do with my husband, my feelings had everything to do with the mikvah itself. It had been on the order of 11 months since my last visit, when I had suddenly realized that I wasn't actually afraid of the water anymore. And I worried that I had imagined it, that maybe I was actually still afraid of putting my head under the water. In fact, I wasn't sure if I was more worried about still being afraid, or of having no fear.

As I walked down the steps, I knew that I was not still wary of the water, that I felt no fear at all. The attendant, someone I knew socially but had not seen at the mikvah before, was completely unaware that I had ever been afraid of the water, and I felt no compulsion to enlighten her. I skipped my usual shpiel completely. No explaining that I was terrified of putting my head under, no mention that I had a heter for only one Kosher tevilah, and that having that heter made it possible for me to get the three, et al. No, I simply told her that I dip 3 times, making the bracha after the first dip. Out of habit, I had brought a washcloth with me, so I gave it to her to hold until I would use it to cover my head during the brocha. (Still not sure how I feel about the need for that, but I've fallen into the habit, as I said.)

I composed myself before each dip, formulating my prayers each time, (I can't think while under the water) then pulled myself under by the handrail, letting go before resurfacing.

"Kosher"
"Kosher"
"Kosher"

And then I came out of the mikvah, got dressed, paid her, and went home to my husband.

And yet, was that it? While I don't claim to have felt that deep connection to other women, past, present and future, who have used and will use the mikvah, I've always felt something after, stronger somehow, empowered by the knowledge that I had once again conquered my fear, and the security of knowing that my mitzvah observance was pure: Obviously, I was doing this only because I believe it to be a G-d given commandment. Without that, you wouldn't have gotten me into the building! But this time I hadn't had my fear to overcome. Was my mitzvah somehow lessened by this lack of fear, by not having this huge wall to climb over? When we don't worship idols because we don't have a Yetzer Hara (evil urge) for worshiping idols, are we stronger or weaker than those who felt the pull to worship idols and overcame it?

I don't have all the answers, obviously, but in the days that followed, I realized that I did feel different. Not stronger, as in the past, but somehow lighter. Like a heavy weight I hadn't even known I was carrying was lifted off my shoulders. And I realized that perhaps Becky was right when she suggested that the removal of my fear was my "reward" for fulling the mitzvah in spite of my phobia, and a sign that I no longer needed this fear. And I think that my future mikvah visits won't be less of a mitzvah for me: All those past visits will accompany me, and remain a part of me. I will remember them each time, and I will give praise to G-d for removing my fear... and using the mikvah, like every mitzvah we do, will continue to bring me closer to him.

Okay, so they told me, but I wasn't paying attention. Or maybe I just didn't have the information I could use to process what they told me. I was too busy getting annoyed about doing bedikot, and going to the mikvah, and covering my hair. When I was given a talk about the dangers of emotional distance during harchakot, or when my kallah teacher said, "I know you think it will be just like being shomer negiah now, but it's different when you have that intimacy and then it's taken away," I sort of acknowledged what they said but didn't really process it. How could I? I didn't have all the information. I didn't have the slightest idea what intimacy was.

Well, everything else went better than expected. My first visit to the mikvah was pleasant. Covering my hair turned out to be, while not something I'm thrilled with, not half as uncomfortable or annoying as my mind had built it up to be. I got married, and hugged my husband (husband!) for the first time in the yichud room. And partly because we had agreed we needed time to ease into things, and partly because of our comic cluelessness over how exactly to go about said things, I didn't become a niddah until we had been married for nearly a week. Despite the sheer exhaustion of sheva brachot, it was one of the best weeks of my life. In fact, when I did become a niddah, there was almost a sense of "it's about time" - like life had to become normal again, and this was the first step. I pulled the beds apart and went to shower without a second thought except, "I should probably review the harchakot again."

And then, the first night of the first niddah period of my marriage, I cried myself to sleep. At first I didn't even know why I was crying, but I couldn't hold back the tears.

My misery lasted for about four days before I started feeling normal again, but they were among the most unhappy days of my life – even though I had just gotten married a week ago, even though the week before had been one of the happiest weeks of my life. Then it got better, and I started feeling normal again. I thought maybe it was just the first time, because it was such a shock, because the method of becoming a niddah the first time is so discongruous. (Not a real word, I know, but it’s the best word I can come up with.) About a month later I became a niddah again, and for the first day and a half everything was fine. We were visiting my family, and I was distracted. The misery didn’t start until the car ride home.

I am now a niddah for the third time in my life, and even worse than the pain (crying myself to sleep, check; being ridiculously emotional about other things in my life, check) is the thought of going through this periodically for the next 30 years or so. I can’t do it. I’ve been through a lot in my life, and I think I’m a strong person; but all those problems, no matter how insoluble they seemed, were at least understood. This time, I have no idea what’s happening to me. Why do I feel this way? It’s not like my husband pays less attention to me when I’m a niddah; in fact, he spends a lot of time trying to make me feel better even though he has no understanding of what I’m going through. (And how could he, when even I don’t know what’s going on with me?) I feel like I miss him, but he’s right here.

I need help. I need help in understanding what I feel and how, and – if possible – finding ways to make this less intense, to make me feel better. I know from talking to my friends that there are some women who find niddah nothing more than a mild annoyance, but I know from reading this site that there women who find it as hard as I do (and thank goodness for this site, by the way). So it is here that I turn for help. Does anyone have any wisdom to offer me? Advice? Suggestions? Anything? Please?

- Jamie

Jamie is a recently-married woman in her late 20s. She is Orthodox, and fully committed even if not fully convinced.

I feel burned. I was so excited when I heard about this blog. I loved the mikvah. I loved going, I loved prepping, I loved knowing I was maintaining a mitzvah that goes back so long. My heart stops when I read about mikva’ot found at Masada or buried under buildings in Europe or hidden away cisterns in S’fat. The stories that we’ve all heard about Russian women chipping through the ice in frigid temperatures so they can immerse gives me goosebumps. The danger women put themselves in to immerse during inquisitions, progroms, the Holocaust just astounds me. Would I be as strong as they, I often wondered.

I even liked the wait. The first week of “freedom” – not having to respond to pressure from my husband, not having to feel bad if I wasn’t in the mood, enjoying the space in the bed and the shyness of covering up. The second week of anticipation, building to frustration and annoyance. Isn’t it mikvah night, yet?! Then of course, there’s the actual mikvah night. Full of expectation, nervousness, anxiety, but regardless of how we – ahem – observed the night, finally being able to fall asleep in each other’s arms again. Bliss. I couldn’t wait to write about all that, and share my enthusiasm and maybe, possibly, even get someone else to start observing taharat ha’mishpacha.

Now I just find it annoying and painful. Yet another month in a long, unbroken chain of months of going to the mikvah. A long, unbroken chain that will keep going and going and going until menopause hits. Everything is compounded. I’m dealing with mild depression as a result of the infertility treatments not working, which is pounded into my head each month when I get my period, and then when I get to the mikvah: “YOU’RE NOT PREGNANT. YOU NEVER WILL BE. And you’ll have to do all of this again next month. And again. And again.” So I get more depressed. And because, while I’m niddah, I can’t get any hugs or other physical comfort from my husband, I get more depressed. Then comes the mikvah, and well, you get the idea.

So it makes it very hard to be enthusiastic about mikvah. And very hard to write about it. I had no idea so much time had passed since my last post. I made a commitment to post a certain amount and I have not been able to live up to that. And I didn’t want to be a stick-in-the-mud, only writing “boo hoo, poor me” posts, but that’s all I’m feeling lately. So if y’all will just bear with me, I might not have the most upbeat posts, but I’ll at least try to do better about posting at all.

It’s funny how we mark time as we pass through the different parts of our lives.

As children, we mark time by our birthdays. I’m five and a quarter. Six and a half. Seven and three-quarters. I’ll be sixteen next month. Two more months until I can drive. One more week until I can drink (legally).

As single adult women, we mark time by how long we’ve been single. Gosh, I’m graduating high school/seminary/college, how much longer until I meet the guy? I’m not getting any younger. This is the age my mother got married at. This is the age my sister got married at. My friends are all married, why aren’t I. Two more years and I’ll be an old maid.

And as married women, we learn to count time by the mikvah. Five days until I can try for a hefsek. Seven days of bedikas. What time is the rov answering shaylas? Two hours of preparation time. How many weeks until I’m in niddah again? I’m pregnant – eight months off from the mikvah! A beautiful baby – but six weeks away from my husband.

* * *

Today I got my period. For the second time since the Get. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The first time my period came, it was on yom tov morning, it caught me off-guard, and I cried on and off the whole day. I cried most of that night. The futility of my reproductive organs hit me full-force.

I have struggled most of my adult life with irregular periods, long periods, lack of ovulation and menstruation, and infertility. My first child was born through medical assistance. G-d somehow decided I now merited fertility, and promptly made me pregnant (surprise!) less than a year after my first child was born. After my second child’s birth G-d then decided he would bless me with even better fertility – regular ovulation. With great sadness (because I was nervous to take the chance of having another baby in such a troubled marriage), I started using a diaphragm for birth control after my second child’s birth. And does G-d have a sense of humor? Of course he does. Not only was I ovulating, buy my cycle became much, much shorter than it had been for all my adult life. From 38 days to 31 days. Here I am, more fertile than I have ever been in my entire life, and I can’t get pregnant. The loss felt huge, enormous, overwhelming.

And here I am, divorced (!), extremely fertile, and unable to bring neshamas down from atzilus to asiyah*.

* * *

The first cycle after the Get, I caught myself still counting, habitually. Okay today is the first day of my period, I can try to make hefsek on Wednesday, which means if everything goes right I’ll toivel next Wednesday, but more than likely Friday, how will I make arrangements for Friday night? And then I caught myself. No more bedikas, no more counting, no more “Kosher, Kosher, Kosher.” No one to put perfume on for. No one to come home to. No one to announce to, “I have toiveled myself.” No one to hug.

It was very sad. Very sad, indeed.

This second cycle, I was expecting my period – I knew it would appear any day, my breasts are tender (also a gift from Hashem after the birth of my second child. Hey, thanks G-d.), I have looked at the calendar. My fingernails and toenails are getting long; I usually let them grow until I have to toivel. It still catches me off guard, but not more than usual. The feeling of loss has lessened greatly, mostly because I’m too busy with life to think about it too deeply. I have prepared mentally for the worst (that I will not merit to get remarried and hence not have more children), but am hoping for the best (that within the next year or two I will merit an amazing husband who will want to have more children and be able to support them).

In the interim, I am stuck between the potential and the actual. Between heaven and earth.

*Atzilus – world of “Emanation,” highest of the Four Worlds, connected with etzel, i.e. nearest to the Source of creation, the Ein Sof, hence still in a state of Infinity.
Asiyah – fourth of the Four Worlds, generally translated by “Action.”…Asiyah should be understood as the final stage in the creative process.

At first I was apprehensive about my approaching labor. After all, childbirth would render me niddah, forcing a separation from my husband. After 9 months of being tahor, I dreaded once again being niddah.

But then as the contractions grew more intense, and I shifted into real labor, my focus shifted as well. Shifted and narrowed. I was forced to concentrate on each contraction as it washed over me, and I no longer wanted to prolong labor. My husband's presence in the delivery room was
important to me, but he sort of faded into the background. After all, he could offer me nothing in the way of physical support, being forbidden to touch me once labor began in earnest. But his emotional support was important to me, and very real. I needed him there: If he had been absent, I would have felt the wrongness, but since he was there, it was just part of the bigger picture, part of the harmony of the universe.

And then suddenly the baby was here, (wasn't there supposed to be a pushing stage? I think I missed it!) and being niddah meant nothing at all. I was exhilarated and exhausted, and between the baby nursing and the other kids climbing on me, the better see their new sister, I think if one more person touched me I would have screamed!

And my body is so tired, tired from pregnancy and tired from delivery. I do need time to recover before resuming my physical relationship with my husband. At first the harchakot seemed a bit silly, since I wasn't up for much more than cuddling anyway! But I remembered that he hadn't just gone through childbirth, and so they were mainly for him. And after a week or two, I needed them too, as I began to long for his touch once more, however much my body is not yet recovered.

While I "miss" the physical side of our relationship, I remember that my husband truly is my best friend, and we can relate on so many different levels. In fact, we have to remember to stop talking late into the night so that we can both get the sleep we need!

And I realize again the beauty of this arrangement, that not only gives me time to rest and recover, and helps us to develop the other aspects of our relationship, but also insures that our physical intimacy will resume, without any mixed signals, without each side wondering if
the other is "ready" yet. At some point I'll tell him I've made an appointment for the mikvah, and when I go, we'll both be on the same page, and (more than) ready for our reunion.

(I wrote this some time ago, but had to put it down and today was the first I was able to come back to it - please forgive me if the tenses are off.)

Last night I did the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I went to the mikvah knowing I wasn't going to be using it for a long time.

I went to the mikvah knowing that when I came home I was going to ask for a get.

It's a long time coming in my marriage and I have been trying, doing, changing, and very much turning a blind eye for most of the years of my marriage. But when Rabbonim, Rebbetzins, therapists, and friends all tell you it's time, it's over and it's okay, then it really is okay.

I wasn't sure how I was going to react or be able to do it, and so I asked my best friend to call one of the mikvah ladies (we'll call her R) whom I consider a friend (outside the mikvah) and ask her to come to the mikvah and be my mikvah lady. "Just tell her I need a friend tonight," I said. Mercifully, R said she would be at the mikvah for the first hour, and that she would be happy to help me however I needed.

I splurged and got a manicure and pedicure, because I thought, hey, when am I going to be able to afford this again and when am I going to need these again?

I went to the mikvah and got in the tub. And I talked to Hashem. And I asked for help and strength and wisdom. And I did my prep. Surprisingly, I am usually very madayick (strict) about my preparations, and this time I wasn't. Okay, so maybe that shouldn't be a surprise, but to me it was.

As I lay there in the water, flossing my teeth, Hashem gave me words of strength to repeat to myself. I prepped as fast as I could, so that I wouldn't miss the opportunity to toivel with R. The only other option that night was the tactless Israeli lady because the head mikvah lady (who is a sweet and gentle bubbie) was out of town at a simcha. I didn't think I would be able to do it with Mrs. Tactless (she's the one I wrote about here).

Usually when I prep, I leave my teeth brushing for last because I always call for the mikvah lady first and then brush while waiting for her. Today I didn't want to take the chance. I hurried through my teeth and buzzed for the mikvah lady.

Surprise, surprise, she wasn't there yet. SO GLAD I rushed! I went back over my teeth while waiting. And I waited. And waited. And waited. 30 minutes after I originally buzzed, I buzzed again. I didn't want to take any chances with him "going to sleep because I'm tired." She had just arrived and there were a bunch of ladies ahead of me. Gam tzu L'tova!

So I waited some more and then R finally knocked on my door. I opened the door and she smiled at me. Then she took me into the mikvah room and put her hands on my face and said, "Can you please tell me what's going on shayna maideleh?"

And with that I burst into tears and spilled the whole thing out to her. "I don't think I can do this. This is SO hard R." I said to her. We spoke for about 10 minutes while she encouraged me. She asked me if I had spoken to the Rov about toiveling in light of the situation. I told her I had and he had told me I needed to toivel in case my husband tried to force himself on me sexually(although I doubted he would and he didn't). And plus, I wanted some comfort from him and a hug if you can believe it.

She encouraged me some more. She checked my fingernails and toe nails and I went down to the mikvah. A few times I turned to go back up because I felt like I couldnt' do it. And finally I got to the bottom of the steps and with tears running down my checks I immersed. I broke through the water and covered my head and said the brocha, my voice cracking.

And then I davened. I davened that Hashem should either heal my marriage or show me the right way. I davened that Hashem should help my husband to heal and do the right thing by our children. I davened that Hashem should help me heal from this. I davened that Hashem should help me have strength. And I davened that Hashem should only give me Ohr Ein Sof (Infinite light) and revealed good.

Then I dunked the rest of the times. I came out and R gave me a big hug and said, "You can do this. You're a strong woman. Yasher Koach." I tied my robe around me, put my glasses on and she touched me again, saying it was a segulah (for what I'm not exactly sure as I wasn't getting pregnant that night). She led me back to my room and wished me well. I got dressed and buzzed to the attendant that I was ready to go. She let me out, I washed my hands, had some popcorn, and decided to walk home instead of taking a car service.

I walked out into the hot, muggy night, and I felt truly, for the first time in all my years in using the mikvah, that I had somehow gained that elusive feeling of rebirth and renewal. I felt a new woman, powerful and strong. I went home and told him I wanted a get. I didn't falter or stumble, I didn't cry, I stayed strong. And he said he would give it to me. And I was a new woman.

..Moshiach, of course. But along the way, also awaiting the end of pregnancy and the birth of a new baby. And as the birth neared, I found myself with very mixed feelings.

As the days of non-productive contractions dragged on, (this often happens when you've had a lot of babies, as I have) I found my focus was not on this new life I would (with G-d's help) merit to bring into the world within the next week or so, but on the fact that childbirth would leave me niddah. And all I wanted was for my husband to hold me and never let go.

As he put it, the baby will need me more than he will for a little while, and I'll need the space and time to recover from the trauma to my body (and let's face it, childbirth is traumatic to a woman's body.)

And yet I feel so silly and shallow, because becoming niddah is my focus, and shouldn't I instead be joyfully anticipating the birth of my baby?

It will be hard, though. Hard to not reach for him as he passes by, hard to remember not to pass things to him (after all, it's been 9 months since we had to worry about such things), hard to not be able to hand him the baby. We've done this before, many times, and we'll adjust, settle into the "new" old routine, have somewhere safe to put the baby for passing in most rooms of the house, even remember to put something on the table between us... and although it will be longer than the 2 weeks of a standard cycle, this too shall pass, and mikvah night will eventually come. Somehow knowing all that doesn't make it any easier!

For me, PMS is not pre-menstrual, or post-menstrual (as it used to for me) but now pre-mikveh.

After I get my period ceases for the cycle, I generally get moody : very cranky, irritable, snappish, headaches, total horror to be around. I don't think it's a iron thing.. I've tested fine. Anyway, it generally ends about a week after I stop bleeding. Now, that time frame has different meaning for me and my husband.

Now my husband has something tangible to use to guage my mood swings. Side benefit ? He now is looking forward to mikveh night! This past time *he* wrote it in his calendar and then reminded me of it (since I hadn't added it to my civil/daily) calendar yet. He was quite excited. We still a bit unsure of remembering kisses and things are now ok after I came back but our entire relationship in this time-period has improved greatly. :)

So the last time I went to mikvah, I had an epiphany. The mikvah attendant was new to me (well, new as an attendant, I had met her socially before) so I launched into my usualy spiel about being afraid of the water, and having a heter to only get one Kosher tevilah, but always trying for three anyway, and how having the heter had helped me not need to use it... (For the history of my fear of the water and mikvah use in spite of it, see here, here, and here.)

And while I was talking, I changed the beginning to "When I first started using the mikvah, I was afraid of the water, so..." Half way through, I heard what I had said, and realized that I was not afraid! I hadn't even noticed exactly when the fear disappeared. I'm still not sure I wouldn't be afraid in another setting, were I to try putting my head under water at the beach, for example, instead of for the mitzvah of mikvah. But it didn't matter.

I wasn't afraid!

Naturally, the mikvah lady invited me to come back during the week in a bathing suit and "practice." "It's great that you aren't afraid," she said, "But you should be comfortable." Why everyone always jumps to try to get me there in a bathing suit, I have no idea. I didn't even know where my bathing suits had been packed away, or if they even still fit, not having used them in 10 years or so. (I since found them, just so I would know where they were, but haven't tried them on.) But I wasn't interested, then, or ever. What I really wanted to do was go home and savor the realization that I wasn't afraid!

So that's what I did.

Why is it that when I put on white underwear and start counting I become a walking disaster area? (the same happens when I wear white tops or bottoms too, but I stopped doing that).

I look at ink and I'm covered. I look at a knife and I have a nasty cut. I get bruises everywhere (well, I do that all the time anyway). I get blisters all over my feet. My feet decide to peel everywhere.

It's as if all this stuff *knows* I'm preparing to go to mikveh and wants to make my life difficult.

At my most recent mikveh dip, my feet decided to be nice and stopped peeling, the blisters didn't pop (until after I got home) ... but the few days right before ... I was covered from head to toe in various pigments and cuts.

I am lucky that I've recently had this very nice mikveh lady who is gentle and kind about loose skin and nails. I've gotten lucky and by the time of mikveh I get all the ink and things off.

But it is an interesting phenomenon. Maybe it goes along with all my lost socks...

Before my wedding, I took an extra birth control pill each day for three days. I needed to put off my period for about twenty-four extra hours to be in the safe zone. As luck would have it, I got it the next evening.

It wasn't until a year later that I realized what the implications of this timing were: each year, for the next five years (provided that I remained on birth control), my wedding anniversary would fall during my period. For my first anniversary, I decided to repeat what I'd done for my wedding, taking an extra pill each day for three days. I did it even though the extra pills make me sick to my stomach, because of some silly notion that on your anniversary, you're supposed to have sex.

This year, for my second anniversary, I let it go. Insetad of lingerie, I put on a dress. We went to a nice restaurant, then came home and relaxed. It got me thinking: frum women (who aren't always pregnant) must face this sort of situation pretty often. Nearly half the time (as opposed to my 1/4), the "special occasion" sex touted by secular culture is out of the question. You have to come up with different kinds of presents, different kinds of celebrations. Some might say that's better than always being able to have sex; it gets you to focus on other aspects of your relationship. Still, it must be frustrating.

On the other hand, frum couples get something that secular folks don't: a "special occasion" for sex every month. Maybe that's better than birthdays and anniversaries. You can't have everything...

Unbe-freaking-lievable. My hefsek tahara from DAY SEVEN was no good.

I suppose I should consider myself lucky the one from Day Eight was ok, right? I mean, they could have gone on being red forever. And all the people who helped make it happen: my husband who made the phone calls and drove me over to the rabbi's, the rabbi who made time to see me at 11 PM on a Saturday night, my agent, the Academy, you know, all of that. I am certainly grateful: I do thank all those people.

But I'm also ticked off. This after I got to mikvah a day late last month, and then my cycle ended abruptly on Day 26, leaving me only about 10 days to be with my husband. And the upcoming month is probably our last chance to be together for a good long time, because from what I hear, sex pretty much goes out the window once you're doing IVF. I had a lot riding this month on getting to mikvah as early as possible.

Maybe it was the progesterone I was taking after my last treatment? I don't know. I've been told your period can be heavier afterward, because the progesterone's function is to support your uterine lining building up, so the result is there's more lining to shed than usual. But I'm not sure heavier is supposed to translate into longer. And it's not like this doesn't happen sometimes on a completely unmedicated cycle, too. In fact this period was a lot like the one on Pesach - I chalked that one up to my polyp, but the polyp has been removed.

I don't know what the lesson is supposed to be: learning that it's not under my control? I would think that lesson has been pretty well hammered in through years of infertility. I don't think there is a lesson here, only a challenge. A series of challenges. And right now the challenge is: keeping a lid on my blood pressure.

One Friday night, the subject came up at our table. One of our guests had served as a rabbi for a number of years, and his experiences working with congregants had led him to a particular perspective on the role of the mikvah attendant. He told us that before he had smicha ("ordination"), he was sometimes called upon to assist in various lifecycle ceremonies. At weddings and bar mitsvahs, he said, he always made a point of the fact that he was not yet a rabbi, and that if the family involved needed rabbinic guidance, they should turn to someone else. At funerals, however, he made no such point, and even went so far as to call himself "rabbi." He explained to us that people coping with a relative's death are very vulnerable, and they need the illusion of authority. His feeling was that the mikvah lady plays a similar role, presenting the illusion of authority to women in a vulnerable position. By comporting herself in an authoritative manner, she allows them to feel that they are performing the mitsvah correctly, with the sanction of someone who knows the rules.

My feelings on this asessment are mixed. It is logical, but is it accurate? For my own part, I'm much happier to be helped by one of the assistant mikvah ladies, who don't always seem sure of themselves, than by the head attendent, who has an air of authority -- the assistants make me feel like my sense of vulnerability is shared. In theory, this could be because I'm less concerned about the halachic side of tevilah than other mikvah-goers, but the impression I've gotten from previous discussions of this subject is that my feelings are shared.

It has ocurred to me that observant women today may be too educated to need or want the sort of false authority that their foremothers required. The reality, however, may be more complicated. Perhaps our needs are so different that there is no such thing as a one-size-fits-all mikvah lady. This would mean that no matter how an attendant conducts herself, she will make some women uncomfortable or unhappy.

Unfortunate if true. What do you think?

I was moved by a comment made by "visiting" over here.

I'm repeating her comment here so I can expand on it:

When I got married I was on birth control. When I got off, for the next year, I had a 24 day cycle. I feel this has deep ramifications for the turbulence that I am feeling in my marriage, even now, five years later. I got used to sleeping alone, I got used to not having DH to hold on to or support me physically. I also have a hard time transitioning from famine to flood (as another poster has mentioned.) I harbor resentment toward T"H in general. I harbor resentment toward my DH, when of course it is not his fault.

I ovulated regularly and of course could not get to the mikvah in time. So when I wanted to have sex I was not permitted. With me working and DH working, there were months when we were together once or twice. And of course there is the embarrassment of the mikvah lady looking at you like "weren't you just here?"

For some people, T"H seems to be a beautiful thing. But I wonder if they are just telling themselves that? To me it is not.

Ouch. This woman is obviously still hurting, 5 years later! and I feel for her. I don't think I would have put up with a 24 day cycle for a whole year! But maybe she didn't know there were other (chemical) options to delay ovulation? Maybe she wasn't working with a Rav who knew that and could have directed her to ask her doctor some very important questions? Or maybe she was, and it still took a year to get everything "under control."

But what I really wanted to address was that she grew to resent the halacha, to resent T"H. This pains me the most. Maybe I'm just blessed with a "pollyanna" personality, but I try to see the benefit in even the hard times. Maybe getting used to sleeping alone could be a good thing? Maybe being able to survive without constant physical support from your husband could be a good thing? Maybe you were supposed to take the time to work on the other aspects of your relationship? Maybe you were supposed to... oh, who knows.

As for people finding deep meaning and beauty in their observance of T"H, psychologically, "just telling themselves that" can and often does lead to actually believing it. And if finding that meaning and beauty makes it easier, than that too is only for the good.

No one ever said it was easy to be an Observant Jew. It's much easier today than it ever was... beautiful assortments of head coverings, a plethora of assorted prepackaged Kosher food available, jobs that don't require violating the Shabbos, shuls and mikvahs in practically every sizeable community... but easier isn't easy. We all agree that T"H is hard. And that we don't do it for the benefits, but that they do exist. But if you grow to resent the halacha, well, then you make it that much harder on yourself! I don't resent having to eat Kosher food, although sometimes it would be much easier to not bother. And I don't resent T"H, even when it means I sometimes can't have the physical contact I crave... because it's the way things are, and resenting it would only make me feel worse. Instead I seek to beautify the mitzvos, which in a way makes them easier to do.

I feel like I'm rambling here... did any of this make any sense?

Well. That was a first, and hopefully a last.

I had to miss mikvah night in order to make a shiva call.

We actually got home before the mikvah closed, but only by about half an hour. If I had run straight from the car to the mikvah, I think they might still have felt compelled to let me in.

But I remembered learning that if you haven't been able to start preparing before dark, it's especially important to take a full hour to prepare thoroughly, because there might be an added temptation to rush. It didn't seem right to impose on the mikvah staff to stay late when summer hours are already so late, and especially not this month, when there was no issue of fertility for us.

But I was also not sure it was right to give up when there was a remote chance I could be with my husband that night. I compromised and ran a bath while we tried to call the mikvah. The line was busy until 1 minute before closing time. When I got through, the attendant said they were closed.

I was lucky in that, as I said, it was not an issue of fertility this month. And I was lucky too, although very sad, that there was not a doubt in my mind where I was meant to be that night: at the shiva house, not at the mikvah.

But it was still a little antsy, sitting out the evening, wondering if we would somehow get home in time after all. And even after I knew that wasn't going to happen, and let it go -- it was hard to take seriously the fact that harchakot had to remain in place until tomorrow night. Why can't we just sleep in the same bed tonight? Look, I counted my seven days. I made my last bedikah. I'm an hour away from tehorah.

Except not.

It made me realize that for all I've gotten used to T"H, even found meaning in it, maybe there's some element of it that I still don't buy. Tehorah status normally coincides with my visit to the mikvah, so I've never had to tease the two things apart. I apparently take mikvah night seriously enough to obsess about it. But on a visceral level, do I feel any different after I get out of the water than I did before I got in? Do I really believe that dip in the water is what makes me transformed?

It's still a mystery.

All my menstruating life, I've had irregular periods. I've gone as long as 8 months without a period (I wasn't ovulating), but generally I fall in the 35-45 day range. In fact, over most of my married life, I've had a 33-38 day cycle averaging about 35 days long. Even after my pregnancies I reverted back to my predictable irregular/long cycle.

I have gotten use to it; it has it's pluses and minuses.

Plus - I only get my period about 9 times a year. I have a long Tahor time. I have trouble remembering the harchokas because of it. I usually feel free to not have to worry about is my period coming? Do I need to wear a black skirt just in case?

Minus - I only ovulate about 9 times a year. I have a lesser chance of getting pregnant because I'm ovulating less. Right now, while on birth control, this is not such a big deal.

So I made peace with the whole long/irregular cycle deal a long time ago. G-d and I made a deal - he'll let me have those babies (even with an infertility issue) and I won't complain about not ovulating so much.

But G-d is screwing with the deal now. The last 3 months my cycle has come the day after my benoni or chodesh. That's right. I've got a flipping 30 day cycle now. This is not okay G-d. This is definitely a violation of our deal.

I am not used to this. I've never had a cycle this short in my life. I feel like I barely got home from the mikvah and boom, I'm niddah again. How do people deal with this? Or people with 28 day cycles who can never seem to make hefsek until the seventh day (or later)?

I don't want to try and mess with "nature", I'm taking enough meds as it is, but I would like to try and figure out a way to make my period longer again. I've been menstruating the same way for 15+ years and this is a big change for me.

This is a long overdue post about an experience which I alluded to in my comment to Shifra's post here.

I too had gynecological surgery, which I was told would not make me a niddah even if I had spotting (which I did, but only on the day of and very minimal.) The surgery took place during my shiva nekiim, and five days after I was able to go to the mikvah (I did have to convince my doctor to let me go.) It was strange; I didn't bathe beforehand and some of my stitches were still visible, though they were not a problem. The stranger part, though was that there was no possiblity for sex, and I had been instructed to abstain for another week and a half.

While I am sure this is an interesting experiment for any couple who is observant of both the abstinence and the harchakot of TM, this was particularly interesting for me because of my issues with coming home from the mikvah. I have come to understand that the source of my tension at that time is the sudden change from one extreme to the next. A relationship that does not have even minor physical contact is suddenly transformed into a sexual one, and I don't think I handle the transition well. I blame this more on my own natural desires than on pressure from my husband (there is none) or on the halakhic "suggestion" to have sex on mikvah night. My body screams one thing and the little voice in my head that tells me it's fine to take it slow is overpowered.

The night I went to the mikvah the week of my surgery was different. For one thing, there was no possibility of sex, so I had no internal conflict. Also, I was still weak and sore from the procedure, I probably would not have wanted intercourse even if I had been allowed. With no hormones raging and no preconceived idea of where the night was headed I was actually able to enjoy the entire experience. For the first time I really appreciated the mikvah. I was not madly dashing to get home, and the mikvah itself was rejuvenating after my experience that week. Once I got home I had the time to appreciate the small gestures and the loving touches that don't necessarily lead anywhere (or definitely won't.) While I do appreciate these on some level usually, the feelings were much stronger after a two week separation. I was in an in-between place, and I was willing to take advantage of it at that moment.

I don't think I would wish for that experience again (even without the surgery part.) The next week and a half was filled with the same kind of longing that I experience during niddah, and that much longing is too much for one woman. What I can say is that this experience put the usual mikvah nights into perspective, and has helped to make it the kind of experience that I really want.

Okay, so I’ll put it right out there: sorry I haven’t posted. It hasn’t been a good month. Our first attempt at IVF failed, in spite of everything looking good and going well. So my mind was on things other than t’h and mikvah.

But now my mind is on t’h and mikvah because I got my period and am now faced with going back to the mikvah. I have to say, I didn’t really get what other infertile women were saying about the difficulties of facing the mikvah. On an intellectual level, yes, I got it. But now I understand. I so don’t want to face the mikvah again. And again. And again.

But it’s much warmer now. Maybe we’ll try the beach again.

I do have to say that I am extremely grateful, b"h, that my period came a few days after we got our negative results. It gave me and my husband a few blessed days of being able to hold and comfort each other. The hugs were a blessing.

Does anyone else have this phenomenon? When I come home from the mikvah, I'm STARVING. Ravishing hungry. I frequently eat a huge dinner of steak, mashed potatoes, spinach, etc. when I come home from the mikvah.

My theory is that there is some psychological connection between the chlorinated water of the mikvah and my childhood associations with swimming pools (also chlorinated water). There's something about swimming that makes me hungry - aren't your kids always hungry after swimming?

Does this happen to anyone else? Because maybe I'm just a bit mental with the mental associations.

My goodness, look at all the rebukes to this old request for an online niddah posek! Four in a row, with increasingly admonitory tone. It just goes to show you, I think, that many men have no idea how uncomfortable asking questions can be for a woman.

Yes, we do what we need to do for the sake of keeping the halacha, and yes, the rabbis are only in this l'sheym shamayim (for the sake of Heaven), and ok, in the end we get over it and it's fine. But it's not like it comes naturally! There's no need to lecture us about it.

It took a little while for others to pipe up that an online system for asking niddah questions already existed. It has one of the limitations the naysayers pointed out, namely, a stain does have to be physically seen by someone. But the concept on the whole is quite workable, the value should be obvious to anyone browsing the site, and there was no need to scoff so much.

And it's no coincidence it was created with female consultants, not male. Presumably, many of the same women who are uncomfortable asking a rabbi face to face, would also be more comfortable asking a woman than a man. Whoever came up with the concept, clearly gets it.

Besides, even if such a thing didn't exist, I think they've misunderstood as well as misjudged the question. It's one thing if you know your rabbi in a rabbi-congregant sort of way; it's another altogether if you socialize with him regularly. Or how about if you've married into his family? I wouldn't want to send someone my underwear and then have dinner with him that evening. There are certainly arguments for going to someone you don't know quite that well.

Grrrrr. I assume they meant well, but it ticks me off.

The following is my own unofficial translation of a Hebrew article to which Out of Step Jew linked recently (see "Contributions From Other Sites").

Oppression of Women by Women
or How I Almost Became a Mikvah Attendant:
The overbearing supervision of some mikvah attendants turns mikvah visits into humiliating experiences for women. One woman's personal testimony, which is somewhat funny and very sad.

I'm not the type of person to relate my experiences at the mikvah, or even in less intimate places, but I have to get this off my chest. Here's what happened: I found a nice mikvah. I rang the bell and waited, happily (because there was no line and because in ten minutes I'd be going home) to be called to immerse. I was called. A very nice attendant, smiling, signaled me to hold out my hand. A warning light went on: she was one of those, from the old mikvahs, the ones I'd run away from, where they check to make sure you've cut your fingernails and don't have any specks on your body or loose hairs clinging to your back. I held out my hands, like a first grade student holding out his hands to be checked for cleanliness. The attendant gently passed her finger over a suspicious finger of mine, but she decided to let it pass. Afterward she checked my face, proceeded to my hair, and remarked with a smile that it was short, so surely there was no reason to suspect any loose or hanging hair. I decided to subject myself to the pressure. (Why didn't I say anything? I have a response. I thought of it later, when I was dressed. It's easier to think when you're dressed.) Did she intend to continue checking my entire body? Apparently not. Instead of checking my body, she gave me a pop quiz. The nice, smiling mikvah attendant asked: had I done a hefsek tahara? I answered that I had, only so that she would let me in the water. But she persisted: when? At this point I was seriously nervous. I blanked: what is a hefsek tahara, when the flow of blood stops, or the final self-examination on the seventh day? I gambled on the seventh day. (Why didn't I ask her what it was? I have a response. I thought of it later, when I was dressed. It's easier to think when you're dressed.) I said: this morning. The smile on her face disappeared, and an expression of shock mixed with censure took its place: today?! I understood that the answer I'd given was incorrect. Make a mistake, try again. Like a child trying to guess the answer on an oral exam. What the hell is eight times four? Twenty four, right? Maybe thirty six? If only they'd leave me alone! Finally I said, yesterday morning. The shock on her face increased. Yesterday morning?! I realized that I was stuck, that I wouldn't get into the water, that there was a chance she might send me to the principal, to the religious court, to the chief rabbinate (and that wouldn't be pleasant, I still wasn't dressed, a towel hanging from my body -- how embarrassing). Or maybe, at that point, in the depths of my miserable soul, some consciousness was kindled, some tiny spark of self-esteem, a glimmer of awareness that I wasn't actually taking an exam, and even if I was -- why shouldn't I ask the teacher to give me some hint, even if it meant they would deduct a few points! So I asked: wait, what is a hefsek tahara, is it the end of the flow, or the self-examination at the end of the seven clean days? And the smiling teacher/ supervisor answered with a question: when did your flow end? That kind of question I could answer, without doubt. I straightened up and responded: seven days ago. This almost satisfied her, but then she remembered my previous lie, and asked: wait, then couldn't you have come here last night? My self-esteem was almost entirely restored and I responded, lamely: no, I couldn't have. Somehow, this satisfied her and I made it to the finish line, to the edge of the warm waters.

Big Sister is Watching
I entered the water, and I wanted to stay there, for the life of me, to drown myself from all the humiliation, from all the misery of the situation, and from my own misery. Why hadn't I said to her calmly: excuse me, I want to immerse, and I have no interest in answering these questions, I'm competent in Jewish law and observe it, and that's why I'm here. I'd be happy to talk to you when I'm dressed, whenever we have the time. Instead, I lied like a little girl! I got nervous, I didn't know the answer, I lied twice, and then I had to lie again in order to complete the picture. Why had I allowed her to humiliate me? Why had I taken part in the act? Why did she have to know whether and when I'd done a hefsek tahara? Her authoritative position in combination with her clothing, in contrast to my position as customer/ guest/ beneficiary in combination with my lack of clothing immediately made me an actress with a script that I would not have have allowed myself to be afflicted with under any other circumstances. If I came to the mikvah, presumably I wanted to immerse, presumably I needed to immerse. And what if the attendant had discovered that I hadn't counted seven clean days, would she have sent me home with a note to my parents and a copy for the Master of the Universe? Is this what they teach in the course for mikvah attendants? Is there any other commandment that the authority is so involved in making sure I fulfill properly, to the point of pedantry? Why don't deputies from the religious authorities come to my home from time to time to see what I'm cooking for the Sabbath, and how, and whether I finish all the preparation before the Sabbath begins? Why aren't there examinations of my meat and dairy pots? Why don't they help me avoid speaking badly of people, and prevent me from gossiping -- someone, some Big Brother -- each time I stumble (after all, I do stumble, and I do, after all, need help)?! Why don't they appoint an overseer in the synagogue to reprimand us when we, God forbid, chatter during prayers, or appear unfocused? After all these thoughts, all that was left for me to do was to dry myself off, feel sorry for myself, and be comforted by the fact that it would be another four weeks before the next time, and that at some point I intended to become pregnant again, and that in the more distant future I would be entirely free of this mix of emotions, this purification ritual. When I arrived at home, after being angry at the attendant and at myself and after laughing at the attendant and at myself, I suddenly cried out: I'm going to be a mikvah attendant. If you want to change something, it doesn't help to just complain. I'll be a different kind of attendant, I'll show that it's possible to do exactly what's necessary to help a woman, that I can ask each woman how she wants to be helped and not turn myself into an oppressor in the name of Jewish law and humiliate her. Later, I decided to sleep on it. I woke up in the morning and was no longer certain that I was such an idealist, that I would be able to join some women in the mikvah (since at this point I'm free of obligation for four weeks between immersions), and beyond that, I wasn't certain that I'd be able to be answerable to those women who did want me to examine them, or, worse than that -- I would scratch their bodies trying to locate any obstructions to immersion that remained on them. After all, there was a reason that I didn't choose to study medicine or the related fields, but rather, decided to involve myself in the spiritual realm, right?

Up to this point, I've related my experiences and feelings. Do I have something learned and reasoned to say, or am I just whining? Before I started writing, I said to myself -- if you're going to write something serious, and if you want people to pay serious attention to it, you have check: maybe this really is an exceptional area of Jewish law? Maybe there is some reason that, with regard to this issue, you aren't trusted, and they appoint overseers and examiners to make sure you're behaving properly?! Later, I thought it over and said to myself -- I don't care. Let them say that I don't really understand the subject of the purity of Israel, let them say that I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, let them say that, in the end, the nice mikvah attendant helped me fulfill the law, let them even say that it's an obligation and find proofs for it in the Torah. I'm not out looking for them.

I'm just not willing to take this. I'm not willing to have a woman oppress me, to oppress in the sense of acting as a helper from a position of inequality, under unfamiliar conditions and unnecessarily. I'm not willing to experience humiliation. Let me be clear: I want to immerse. It is a legal obligation and I want to fulfill it like the other commandments. It isn't clear to me why they have to add to my hardship. Why women think that when I'm naked, on the edge of the mikvah, that's the time to quiz me on my knowledge of Jewish law or my mode of religious observance. Why they think that after I've checked myself -- as Jewish law requires -- they have to check me again, in case they find something. After all, we're on our own, and there's no Big Sister to say "nu nu nu" and smile as a sign of approval. Or maybe this isn't something they think up on their own, but rather, something they teach them in preparation for the job? Then why is this what they teach them? And why don't they think a little for themselves and rebel or object, or at least temper this behavior a bit -- after all, they're dressed, they can think comfortably, weigh issues and make decisions. True, you could look at my formative experience and conclude: in the end, it's your problem that you got nervous and lied. The fact that you're a liar doesn't mean that world, or Jewish law, or the religious establishment has to change. Work on the way you respond to pressure, you could say, be mature. You could. But it seems to me that my little lies aren't only my problem. I go around lying or feeling sorry for myself or dreaming about being a mikvah attendant. Other women simply don't go. Everyone has her own struggles, but it seems to me that for most of us this is a struggle, and not exactly a religious experience, this mikvah. And if not -- then say so, after all, hardly anyone ever talks about it! And one more thing -- this is really what I think and feel, and I really want set this matter right in order to fulfill the commandment of immersion and not in order to mar it or to rebel. Really, I'm not lying about this (I'm dressed).

My husband directed me to this on the web today and it looks interesting. I wonder if he is 'threatening' to send me off for a week every cycle on a relaxing retreat? How I wish!

I found this a positive aspect of their break:

Each month, during their period, women leave for the Bashali.

Hazrat Gul, mother of one son, looks forward to her break from the
routine of housework.

"We make rice, chapattis, eat lots of food and sing all day," she
says. "It's fun because it's all girls and no men."

But, like many mikvehs, sadly it isn't all sparkley white tiles and luxurious baths...

Why in the world anyone would choose to follow all the intricacies of TH when it seems that they engender so many difficulties and inconveniences? What follows is, of course, my personal viewpoint, and I realize that others' views may differ. I do not intend to address here the extreme emotional anguish experienced by someone going through infertility or other special conditions. I believe some of the following may apply even then, but I leave it up to those
actually there to judge for themselves.

Many times on this site I have seen comments alluding to the difficulties involved in keeping Taharat Mishpacha and the suffering engendered by it. This may sound a bit strange to some of you, but I must admit I never really saw things this way. Sure, there are difficulties approximately equivalent to those of a shomer shabbos person who wishes he could go to the football game on Saturday. Or the average somewhat observant Jew who gets a terrible headache while fasting on Yom Kippur. So why do you continue to fast, if it causes you such suffering?

There are several possible answers to this question. One answer is that on the whole the benefits of living "the Torah way" out-weigh the difficulties. It's sort of like choosing schools – one has a nicer building, better teachers, and higher academic standard. But it's far away, has very high tuition, and has a crummy yard. If only you could choose the location of school A, the yard and tuition of School B, and the other features of School C, you'd be all set. But you can't. You're stuck. So you settle for School C despite its obvious drawbacks. But how could you send your kids there – isn't it really expensive? Sure, there's a price to pay, but Judaism is a package deal, and if we choose to accept it, we must accept it all.

The above "cost-benefit" approach, is one way of looking at things. However, it's not really the way I believe we were meant to view our mitzvah observance. Rather, we must realize that whatever challenges Hashem puts in our path, they are there for a reason, and try to accept them B'simcha (with happiness) even when on the surface they seem difficult. We can't possibly know what's best for everyone, yet we're smart enough to realize that if we did know the whole plan from beginning to end we might see things differently. Since we acknowledge that only Hashem is privy to all the details, we realize that only He can know what's truly in our best interests.

Back in the days when shomer Shabbos Jews in America were fired from their jobs every week for refusing to work on Saturdays, many of course reluctantly stopped observing Shabbos. Yet even among those families who demonstrated tremendous mesirus nefesh to continue observing Shabbos, only some succeeded in passing these observances on to the next generation. What distinguished these families from the others? Their attitude! There were those families who would come home every Friday with their notice from work, and moan and groan over how difficult it is to be a Jew and what tremendous sacrifices it requires. Others in equivalent situations would remark on what a tremendous zchus (privilege) it is to be doing Hashem's will despite the apparent hardships, acknowledge that Hashem really knows what's best for us, and proceed to observe Shabbos B'Simcha. It was the latter families who merited children and grandchildren who continued to observe mitzvos despite their inherent challenges.

So, where does this leave us? Obviously, none of us are perfect or have perfected our emunah and bitachon (faith and trust) to their utmost. And I see nothing wrong with discussing with others the hardships entailed in keeping TH if this helps us better to handle the challenges. However, in conjunction with the "gripes" we might be doing ourselves a favor if we continually remind ourselves of the unknown benefits as well, and leave the rest in Hashem's very competent hands...

~SYBA

SYBA is a thirtyish mother of several (kein yirbu). She is still getting over the culture shock of moving to the most uniformly Yeshivish city in the world just days after graduating from an Ivy League University...but she is very happy to be there...

Several of the discussions here lately have me thinking about when and why people believe it's proper to ask for heterim (leniencies) -- not just in matters of taharat hamishpacha, but birth control, and all the other things that come up in a relationship between husband and wife.

On the one hand, the fact that it's sometimes hard to keep the halacha -- sometimes very, very hard -- is sort of the point. It might seem wrong to onlookers that we follow halacha even when it denies what seem like basic human needs, even when it conflicts with what seems like basic human kindness. It might even seem wrong to us, sometimes. And yet, what would be the value of observing halac