In accordance with our family's summer tradition, we took the boys on a meticulously orchestrated two-week road trip this past August. Because the experience is by design less about our destination and more about the adventures along the way, we are always thrilled to integrate pleasant but unexpected detours into the plan as we go.
Like every family hitting the highway, we happen upon less than desirable digressions as well. While these range from petty annoyances to more problematic inconveniences, they tend to serve up some of the most memorable moments of the trips. Sometimes, they even provide meaningful life lessons that we bring home like souvenirs actually made in the U.S.A.
We felt the full impact of that sentiment just outside Pittsburgh last week as we were preparing to head home.
My husband took the van for a little pre-trip snack while I walked with the boys up the street to a Get Go, a well-equipped convenience store. With the tank full, he soon joined us, parking the car in the lot. The boys hit the bathroom, bought drinks and selected RedBox movies for the ride.
We all moved sluggishly, dreading the return to our scheduled, busy lives. Vacation was over and it was time to go home.
But the car had other plans. It, too, was not quite ready to head back to New Jersey. Like its family, it had little interest in revisiting the days of shuttling to and from school and lessons and practices or wrestling with oversized shopping carts at Costco. Who could have imagined that a Toyota Sienna had feelings?
I took the boys back inside -- out of the heat and away from all those moving cars. We took note of the ironic Get Go tagline: Get In. Get Out. Get Going. My dears, we weren't moving. Under my breath, I uttered a quick prayer that it please, please, please be nothing more expensive or complicated than the battery.
Deep down, though, I understood the van's emotional response to our vacation's end. I shared its eagerness to get back on the open road, to chase the wind and allow the insouciance that travel affords to consume us.
Yes, I called AAA anyway. Meanwhile, my husband ran up the road to a conveniently located AutoZone, from which he returned with battery-powered jumper cables (the very same ones we'd forgotten at home). As my youngest hovered nervously, he set them in place and voila! The car turned over.
Then it died....again. The next attempt produced nothing but a screeching sound that signed the battery's death certificate. I called AAA back to confirm that their roadside assistant had a battery on board.
"Yes, ma'am. Our trucks are always equipped," the agent assured me.
After a not unusual wait of slightly more than an hour, we giggidly greeted the repair man as he parked astride our van. The gas fumes combined with the sweltering heat sent the boys back inside once again for drinks, making themselves comfortable at the little tables in the airconditioned store. One played with his Rubiks cube. The others investigated which snacks were kosher.
I just held my breath, then bought a scratch-off lottery ticket.
The good news was this: It was, in fact, just the battery. The bad news was that AAA trucks are, occasionally, not always so equipped. The repair guy had used the last one on his previous call. But our roadside hero left and returned in a flash. We were set to leave in no time, finally fulfilling the Get Go promise to Get Going.
Our automotive delay left us with the odd sensation of hovering between two states of mind: vacation and reality. Though of the less desirable sort, this unplanned distraction surely had us thinking. We began to wax nostalgic as soon as we left the parking lot, already missing the freedom of the journey while supressing our anxiety about what awaited us at home.
While the boys watched their movies, my husband and I gathered our composure and compiled the lessons learned while packed in a van with the boys for two weeks as we made our way more than halfway across the country.
Here is our list:
Whether at home or on the road, always have in hand what you need to keep your battery -- both the one under the hood of your car and the one that sits somewhere between your heart and your stomach -- charged.
Every break from the every day, be it long or brief, local or remote, is a gift.
Don't leave the wisdom garnered on a journey behind in the hotel room.
Family adventures are limited and priceless, so take too many pictures, especially if your children insist you should not.
Never speed up time. It passes quickly enough without human intervention.
And finally, this pearl: Pay your AAA bill on time.
Making My Days Happy with Decoupage
Friday, September 7, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
Clearing House and Mind
With the August sun bearing down upon me, I spent this past week cleaning. I don’t mean your average sweeping and dusting kind of cleaning or your mother-in-law is coming cleaning or even find every crumb pre-Pesach cleaning. I mean scorched earth, take no prisoners, it’s like we’re moving cleaning.
But this particular cleaning cycle was less about dirt and more about the things that have cluttered up my life. The time had come to simplify, to have less and to breathe more. My intention was to empty shelves and closets, finally making the hard decisions about what should stay and what should go. In the process, I’d hoped to clear my mind, too.
Armed with a case of garbage bags and a few cartons, I set to work.
I started with the library in the den. Letting go of books - my beloved books! -- meant determining which ones really mattered to me and which ones did not. They’d long been a happy conglomerate, a collection gathered over the course of a reading life. Staring at the teeming shelves, I felt like a surgeon readying a patient for an amputation.
Some choices were black and white. College textbooks and the skinny paperback on the metric system that I bought at the fifth grade Scholastic book fair, for example, spelled an unemotional goodbye. A hardback edition of Little House in the Big Woods, a gift from the Waldenbooks store manager after a shelf fell on my eight-year-old self, was an unquestionable keeper.
The sports-themed, much-read paperbacks from the boys, so symbolic of these young years of their lives, presented a struggle. In the end, my eldest pointed out that they would be available in digitalized versions for my grandchildren down the line. The boys chose, instead, to cling to their favorite picture books, like Everyone Poops and Pete’s a Pizza. By the time we were done, we had filled two cases.
With a handle on the den, I moved down to the basement. I tossed a stack of shoe boxes after transferring the miscellany of photos they contained into albums. I sold the rocking chair in which I’d rocked my babies, and gave away the foosball table, once a popular novelty that had lately been taking up valuable space. Afghans torn beyond recognition went to needle crafters patient enough to fix them and the “Dora the Explorer” videos to families with working VCRs.
My husband began to fear what he might find at the curb upon his return home each evening.
A friend visiting for the weekend helped me with my own closet. Her message was clear: What is too big, I should hope never to wear again. What is too small will be out of style by the time it fits me. I rehung what remained – not very much indeed – and bagged the rest to give away.
Even the boys got in on the action. We tackled their closets and bookshelves, their toy chests and desks. It was they, in fact, who cheered me on when I decided to send the foosball table packing. In the process, we each became all too aware of how much excess was weighing us down.
The laundry is still daunting, but now there’s less of it. My sons see the empty space where clutter once stood and realize how many more friends they can have over to watch football. And I have reclaimed a carpeted area on which to play Xbox Kinect Soccer with my husband (he always wins) and to watch him play with the boys (they always win).
Throughout the process, we took evening breaks to watch the Olympics. Still, almost magically, our living room filled up with garbage bags designated for the charities coming to collect them. As the pick up deadlines loomed, the score from “Chariots of Fire” began to play in our minds, and before we knew it, our bag tally rivaled the Team U.S.A. medal total.
Decluttering should be an Olympic sport. After all, the process began with pole vaulting over piles of unneeded accessories and turned into a long-distance relay. There was some synchronized swimming, too, as we made our way through the muddy waters. Like a lithe high diver, we took a leap of faith, believing that we would get to the bottom of it all.
Summer is now in the home stretch, the final sprint toward the school year and shorter days. We are off soon for our annual family road trip which, not unlike clearing out a house, is about simplifying, moving forward, and figuring out what really matters. But at least we will, G-d willing, return to a reasonably clean, more manageable house.
If you are interested in receiving daily updates from the field about our family adventures, please email me at mypaperedworld@gmail.com and I will add you to the distribution list for those posts.
Enjoy the rest of your summer.
But this particular cleaning cycle was less about dirt and more about the things that have cluttered up my life. The time had come to simplify, to have less and to breathe more. My intention was to empty shelves and closets, finally making the hard decisions about what should stay and what should go. In the process, I’d hoped to clear my mind, too.
Armed with a case of garbage bags and a few cartons, I set to work.
I started with the library in the den. Letting go of books - my beloved books! -- meant determining which ones really mattered to me and which ones did not. They’d long been a happy conglomerate, a collection gathered over the course of a reading life. Staring at the teeming shelves, I felt like a surgeon readying a patient for an amputation.
Some choices were black and white. College textbooks and the skinny paperback on the metric system that I bought at the fifth grade Scholastic book fair, for example, spelled an unemotional goodbye. A hardback edition of Little House in the Big Woods, a gift from the Waldenbooks store manager after a shelf fell on my eight-year-old self, was an unquestionable keeper.
The sports-themed, much-read paperbacks from the boys, so symbolic of these young years of their lives, presented a struggle. In the end, my eldest pointed out that they would be available in digitalized versions for my grandchildren down the line. The boys chose, instead, to cling to their favorite picture books, like Everyone Poops and Pete’s a Pizza. By the time we were done, we had filled two cases.
With a handle on the den, I moved down to the basement. I tossed a stack of shoe boxes after transferring the miscellany of photos they contained into albums. I sold the rocking chair in which I’d rocked my babies, and gave away the foosball table, once a popular novelty that had lately been taking up valuable space. Afghans torn beyond recognition went to needle crafters patient enough to fix them and the “Dora the Explorer” videos to families with working VCRs.
My husband began to fear what he might find at the curb upon his return home each evening.
A friend visiting for the weekend helped me with my own closet. Her message was clear: What is too big, I should hope never to wear again. What is too small will be out of style by the time it fits me. I rehung what remained – not very much indeed – and bagged the rest to give away.
Even the boys got in on the action. We tackled their closets and bookshelves, their toy chests and desks. It was they, in fact, who cheered me on when I decided to send the foosball table packing. In the process, we each became all too aware of how much excess was weighing us down.
The laundry is still daunting, but now there’s less of it. My sons see the empty space where clutter once stood and realize how many more friends they can have over to watch football. And I have reclaimed a carpeted area on which to play Xbox Kinect Soccer with my husband (he always wins) and to watch him play with the boys (they always win).
Throughout the process, we took evening breaks to watch the Olympics. Still, almost magically, our living room filled up with garbage bags designated for the charities coming to collect them. As the pick up deadlines loomed, the score from “Chariots of Fire” began to play in our minds, and before we knew it, our bag tally rivaled the Team U.S.A. medal total.
Decluttering should be an Olympic sport. After all, the process began with pole vaulting over piles of unneeded accessories and turned into a long-distance relay. There was some synchronized swimming, too, as we made our way through the muddy waters. Like a lithe high diver, we took a leap of faith, believing that we would get to the bottom of it all.
Summer is now in the home stretch, the final sprint toward the school year and shorter days. We are off soon for our annual family road trip which, not unlike clearing out a house, is about simplifying, moving forward, and figuring out what really matters. But at least we will, G-d willing, return to a reasonably clean, more manageable house.
If you are interested in receiving daily updates from the field about our family adventures, please email me at mypaperedworld@gmail.com and I will add you to the distribution list for those posts.
Enjoy the rest of your summer.
Friday, July 13, 2012
If You Give a Girl a Checklist
In the early weeks of summer, I found myself fantasizing about all the things I would accomplish in the extra hours these longer days have to offer.
Like a child, I set a mighty weight upon the season’s shoulders, expecting it to hold more promise than its mere two-month cycle could possibly contain. But unlike the learn-to-do-flips-against-the-wall sort of goals of my children, my July-August expectations tend to be of the fix-it-sort-it-organize-it ilk.
Hey, a girl’s entitled to dream…
My bubble burst quickly, though, and I have been forced to accept the harsh fact that a summer day is still a mere twenty-four hour period, just like its fall-winter-spring cousins. I hardly manage to squeeze in my regular work and family obligations, let alone painting the den and rearranging the book shelves.
Despite my best intentions, little distractions that devour time by the mouthful have been popping up all over the place.
For example:
While writing an article, I stumbled upon the word lammergeyer in the dictionary. Eurasian vultures, in case you’re wondering. My eyes continued to play pinball on the page until I happened upon the only slightly more useful lambrequin, which I learned is a sort of valance. What I got out of that little exercise was writer’s block.
I closed the computer and popped outside for a breath of humid air to clear my mind. Scanning the yard, I realized that the pine trees were shedding needles in the brutal heat. I decided to water them, but the hose, I quickly discovered, had a leak and I had to table that plan.
On the way back to the house, I checked out the side garden and noticed that the deer had decimated the flora. Determined to put an end to the all-you-can-eat breakfast, I grabbed a shovel and my gardening gloves from the garage, and set out to conquer the hostas. Once they were gone, I could see that the prairie grass had taken over. I pulled that up, too.
With piles of discarded greenery to gather, I left to fetch garbage bags from the basement. Since the load in the washing machine had finished while I’d lingered outdoors, I scrubbed the dirt from my nails and opened the dryer, which I found full of towels. I folded them and put the wet wash in to dry before grabbing the bags to clean up the mess I’d made in the garden.
Before heading upstairs, I selected a few items from the pantry from which I planned to concoct a reasonable dinner. While dropping them on the kitchen counter, I smelled something funny. My investigation revealed a wet rag of vague provenance among the potatoes in the wicker basket on the floor. In a house of boys, that alone wasn’t enough to raise an eyebrow, but it did require me to empty the basket and sort the tubers, leaving a trail of potato dirt on the kitchen floor.
I swept, of course, and decided to wash the floor, too. I went back to the laundry room to rinse out the mop and empty the bucket in the slop sink, but in the process, managed to soak myself with dirty floor-potato mud water. I tossed my filthy clothes into the washing machine and ran upstairs to get dressed again.
En route, I broke my Golden Rule: Never look in the boys’ rooms while trying to accomplish something else.
There was a silver lining to my misstep, however. I managed to solve the mystery of my missing coffee mugs. After making their beds, sorting their laundry, and discarding a trail of snack wrappers (no, I don’t let them eat in their rooms), I looked up and noticed how nice the place would look if I just added a lambrequin above their windows.
Before I knew it, it was almost time to pick everyone up from camp. The day had come and gone. I looked over my checklist – twice! – but there was nothing I could cross off. Not one item. I’d accomplished nothing.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and took a few deep breaths, grateful that at least my distracted dictionary trolling hadn’t been entirely for naught. While gazing out the window, I could have sworn I saw the afternoon breeze carry my ambitious agenda off into the distance.
So I made myself a cup of iced coffee and tried to come to terms with this Summer of Distraction. After all, I may as well find some way to use those extra hours of daylight.
Like a child, I set a mighty weight upon the season’s shoulders, expecting it to hold more promise than its mere two-month cycle could possibly contain. But unlike the learn-to-do-flips-against-the-wall sort of goals of my children, my July-August expectations tend to be of the fix-it-sort-it-organize-it ilk.
Hey, a girl’s entitled to dream…
My bubble burst quickly, though, and I have been forced to accept the harsh fact that a summer day is still a mere twenty-four hour period, just like its fall-winter-spring cousins. I hardly manage to squeeze in my regular work and family obligations, let alone painting the den and rearranging the book shelves.
Despite my best intentions, little distractions that devour time by the mouthful have been popping up all over the place.
For example:
While writing an article, I stumbled upon the word lammergeyer in the dictionary. Eurasian vultures, in case you’re wondering. My eyes continued to play pinball on the page until I happened upon the only slightly more useful lambrequin, which I learned is a sort of valance. What I got out of that little exercise was writer’s block.
I closed the computer and popped outside for a breath of humid air to clear my mind. Scanning the yard, I realized that the pine trees were shedding needles in the brutal heat. I decided to water them, but the hose, I quickly discovered, had a leak and I had to table that plan.
On the way back to the house, I checked out the side garden and noticed that the deer had decimated the flora. Determined to put an end to the all-you-can-eat breakfast, I grabbed a shovel and my gardening gloves from the garage, and set out to conquer the hostas. Once they were gone, I could see that the prairie grass had taken over. I pulled that up, too.
With piles of discarded greenery to gather, I left to fetch garbage bags from the basement. Since the load in the washing machine had finished while I’d lingered outdoors, I scrubbed the dirt from my nails and opened the dryer, which I found full of towels. I folded them and put the wet wash in to dry before grabbing the bags to clean up the mess I’d made in the garden.
Before heading upstairs, I selected a few items from the pantry from which I planned to concoct a reasonable dinner. While dropping them on the kitchen counter, I smelled something funny. My investigation revealed a wet rag of vague provenance among the potatoes in the wicker basket on the floor. In a house of boys, that alone wasn’t enough to raise an eyebrow, but it did require me to empty the basket and sort the tubers, leaving a trail of potato dirt on the kitchen floor.
I swept, of course, and decided to wash the floor, too. I went back to the laundry room to rinse out the mop and empty the bucket in the slop sink, but in the process, managed to soak myself with dirty floor-potato mud water. I tossed my filthy clothes into the washing machine and ran upstairs to get dressed again.
En route, I broke my Golden Rule: Never look in the boys’ rooms while trying to accomplish something else.
There was a silver lining to my misstep, however. I managed to solve the mystery of my missing coffee mugs. After making their beds, sorting their laundry, and discarding a trail of snack wrappers (no, I don’t let them eat in their rooms), I looked up and noticed how nice the place would look if I just added a lambrequin above their windows.
Before I knew it, it was almost time to pick everyone up from camp. The day had come and gone. I looked over my checklist – twice! – but there was nothing I could cross off. Not one item. I’d accomplished nothing.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and took a few deep breaths, grateful that at least my distracted dictionary trolling hadn’t been entirely for naught. While gazing out the window, I could have sworn I saw the afternoon breeze carry my ambitious agenda off into the distance.
So I made myself a cup of iced coffee and tried to come to terms with this Summer of Distraction. After all, I may as well find some way to use those extra hours of daylight.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Ice Cream for Dinner
The calendar passed into June when I wasn’t looking, so now I’m busy wrapping teachers’ gifts and ironing labels onto the waistbands of camp shorts at warp speed. Though there are still finals to take and essays to write, summer is about to be crowned king. You can practically wrap your hands around the excitement pulsing through the house.
What I love most about summer is what goes missing. Evening extracurricular activities come to a halt. I can stow my nagging voice that asks if homework is finished, tests have been studied for, permission slips signed. For two whole months, I can just be that cool mom who shouts “Nice shot!” from the kitchen window.
On the other hand, what I dread most about summer is what goes missing. Clearly defined bedtimes become a thing of the past. Schedules, those backbones of structure, suddenly bend and flex. In their absence, the fine line between chaos and order ends up with sunscreen in its eyes.
Still, I know how therapeutic it can be to let a little air out of our extensively programmed bubble, despite the potential to throw our lives into disarray. As the stress of school recedes into memory, the house becomes more disorganized, yet more peaceful. The boys are better rested, too, now that they can slough off sleep naturally, not on the mad dash to the school bus stop.
Like sunflowers, they grow taller as July chases August. Their muscles become more defined, their shoulders broader, from hours in the pool and on the basketball court. They glow, their skin bronzed with youthful exuberance. To my amazement, they also mature, because there is opportunity to dream dreams and imagine the impossible, activities for which exams and practices leave no time.
The older they get, the faster the school years seem to fly. Suddenly, my first grader is finishing his freshman year of high school. My toddler is entering middle school and his baby brother is right behind him. Kiddie pools are history, though water balloons have not been entirely eclipsed by teenage ennui.
For now, my boys are still Boys of Summer. As each new school grade chips away at their youth, the summer hiatus helps them to cling to it a little longer. These hot months compose a sweet, sticky moment that slows down time long enough for them to enjoy the magic and wonder of their days.
I remember the exact instant when that feeling first escaped me, when that last bit of my youthful spirit fled in the night. I initially embraced its absence, naively thinking it a sign of my arrival at independence and adulthood.
Then I woke up one Monday morning at the end of June and realized that nothing had changed while I was sleeping. It was not the first day of a two-month break. Work just picked up where I’d left it the previous Friday. Summer had come, but it no longer intended to transform my day-to-day existence.
Gone were those carefree hours catching fireflies, running barefoot through the sprinkler as the blades of grass tickled the balls of my feet. Responsibility had replaced insouciance, clouding that part of me that secretly longed to chase down the ice cream truck and build a sandcastle. Out of necessity, I soon learned to forget all of the promise that summer once held.
These days I spend a lot of my time thinking about the future, about how my children will do in school and how they will fare in the world. So I struggle to let the summer pass unscathed by my worries. I allow the boys to play basketball until the sun goes down and to stay up late watching movies. I ignore the muddy footprints left behind as the screen door slams again and pay no heed to banisters sticky from melting ice pops.
Unbeknownst to them, the boys exude an aura of freedom, and for me, it is summer’s greatest gift. This time, I intend for their shouts of joy to jar my memory of the magic that can still be a part of my adult, mature, responsible life. Rather than mourn those feelings of wonder that long ago escaped me, I hope to recapture them, like fireflies in a jar at dusk.
I will poke holes in the lid to keep them alive, setting the jar on the counter as I offer the boys ice cream for dinner. And then I will join them.
What I love most about summer is what goes missing. Evening extracurricular activities come to a halt. I can stow my nagging voice that asks if homework is finished, tests have been studied for, permission slips signed. For two whole months, I can just be that cool mom who shouts “Nice shot!” from the kitchen window.
On the other hand, what I dread most about summer is what goes missing. Clearly defined bedtimes become a thing of the past. Schedules, those backbones of structure, suddenly bend and flex. In their absence, the fine line between chaos and order ends up with sunscreen in its eyes.
Still, I know how therapeutic it can be to let a little air out of our extensively programmed bubble, despite the potential to throw our lives into disarray. As the stress of school recedes into memory, the house becomes more disorganized, yet more peaceful. The boys are better rested, too, now that they can slough off sleep naturally, not on the mad dash to the school bus stop.
Like sunflowers, they grow taller as July chases August. Their muscles become more defined, their shoulders broader, from hours in the pool and on the basketball court. They glow, their skin bronzed with youthful exuberance. To my amazement, they also mature, because there is opportunity to dream dreams and imagine the impossible, activities for which exams and practices leave no time.
The older they get, the faster the school years seem to fly. Suddenly, my first grader is finishing his freshman year of high school. My toddler is entering middle school and his baby brother is right behind him. Kiddie pools are history, though water balloons have not been entirely eclipsed by teenage ennui.
For now, my boys are still Boys of Summer. As each new school grade chips away at their youth, the summer hiatus helps them to cling to it a little longer. These hot months compose a sweet, sticky moment that slows down time long enough for them to enjoy the magic and wonder of their days.
I remember the exact instant when that feeling first escaped me, when that last bit of my youthful spirit fled in the night. I initially embraced its absence, naively thinking it a sign of my arrival at independence and adulthood.
Then I woke up one Monday morning at the end of June and realized that nothing had changed while I was sleeping. It was not the first day of a two-month break. Work just picked up where I’d left it the previous Friday. Summer had come, but it no longer intended to transform my day-to-day existence.
Gone were those carefree hours catching fireflies, running barefoot through the sprinkler as the blades of grass tickled the balls of my feet. Responsibility had replaced insouciance, clouding that part of me that secretly longed to chase down the ice cream truck and build a sandcastle. Out of necessity, I soon learned to forget all of the promise that summer once held.
These days I spend a lot of my time thinking about the future, about how my children will do in school and how they will fare in the world. So I struggle to let the summer pass unscathed by my worries. I allow the boys to play basketball until the sun goes down and to stay up late watching movies. I ignore the muddy footprints left behind as the screen door slams again and pay no heed to banisters sticky from melting ice pops.
Unbeknownst to them, the boys exude an aura of freedom, and for me, it is summer’s greatest gift. This time, I intend for their shouts of joy to jar my memory of the magic that can still be a part of my adult, mature, responsible life. Rather than mourn those feelings of wonder that long ago escaped me, I hope to recapture them, like fireflies in a jar at dusk.
I will poke holes in the lid to keep them alive, setting the jar on the counter as I offer the boys ice cream for dinner. And then I will join them.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
A Band of Brothers
Now that the cheesecake and blintzes are behind us, I started thinking about a few non-dairy matters that came to mind over Shavuot.
While we were reimagining that earth-shaking moment when we stood together beneath Mount Sinai, I began to wonder what it would have been like if I’d actually been there at the original Matan Torah with my crew. The very thought stirred the beginnings of a debilitating headache.
Sadly, my creative imagination cannot control itself, so it carried me back to the desert despite my protestations.
I found myself among an endless sea of men and women swaying in a spiritual trance, their hands reaching heavenward. A palpable energy charged the atmosphere. We were quaking in anticipation. This was a defining moment for us as a people. Nothing would ever be the same.
But I looked down and the bubble burst. None of this seemed to register with my boys. Not a blip of expectation was pulsing through their veins.
Rather than awaiting their birthright with open arms, they were instead indisposed, which is to say they were verbally sparring. At first, I tried to ignore them, keeping my focus on Moshe’s gradual descent from above. Then I pretended the boys belonged to another family, but did not expect to pull that one off for long.
Meanwhile, their high velocity harrumphing towards one another continued. I scanned the crowd, anxious that others were disturbed by the ruckus, but no one seemed to be. Shrinking into myself anyway, I could not help but note that all the other children were silent.
Maternal curiosity being what it is, I listened in to hear what my sons were saying, distracting myself from the scene at the top of the mountain. I was stunned by the wealth of possible ways one can express the fond sentiment “my brother is stupid” in English. I shhed them, but that did no good. They were either ignoring me or simply could not hear over the bolts of lightning.
Oh boy, I thought, steeped in my own embarrassment. They have no shame. It’s not like we were back home in our own tent. Every member of our people – generations past, present and future -- was huddled together with us, and my crew was missing it all. Quickly, I put these considerations by the wayside as the situation deteriorated.
The name-calling had descended into the realm of poking and prodding, while the crowd – luckily – had eyes only for those heavy tablets Moshe was now schlepping down from heaven in our name. For a moment, I was dismayed when I learned that “thou shalt not needle thy brother” had not made it to the Top Ten.
Before I could cry out “I will do and I will listen,” we reached rock bottom over in our corner. The poking and prodding had transformed into full-blown wrestling. I was deeply grateful that the crowd was busy accepting the commandments, leaving me reasonably convinced that we had not been noticed at all. Still, I dipped my head in shame.
Most painful to me, though, was that the boys had squabbled their way through the show of a lifetime. I mourned the fact that so much had come and gone without a moment’s acknowledgment by their quarrelling selves.
Then, suddenly, I caught the eye of another mother in the crowd. She arched her eyebrows at me in solidarity, and I realized she had seen everything. But wait. She began to shrug her shoulders, and with the swoop of her palm presented to me the truth I’d been unable to see before: her children, too, were in the midst of a sibling confrontation.
Huh, I wondered.
It was almost contagious. One by one, mothers began to eye one another, each of us silently saying the same thing. Funny, how we were all blinded by our own children’s antics. Looking around more clearly, I took note that the only perfectly behaved children were the ones who were allowed to bring a DS to the ceremonies.
Turning back to the spiritual scene at hand, I let go of my embarrassment and took it all in, briefly allowing myself to be filled with the power of the awesome moment. Shame, I realized, that I’d let myself be so distracted.
As we began to scatter and head back to our tents, I overheard my boys say to one another, “Guys, wasn’t that cool?” as if they hadn’t been fighting the entire time. As if they’d witnessed anything.
It is possible, I realized, that they’d been paying attention after all, that I’d only magnified their little spat into something dramatically Shakespearean…or biblical.
“Yeah, bro,” I hear them continue. “Let’s go get some ice cream.”
“Later, Mom.”
Later, boys.
While we were reimagining that earth-shaking moment when we stood together beneath Mount Sinai, I began to wonder what it would have been like if I’d actually been there at the original Matan Torah with my crew. The very thought stirred the beginnings of a debilitating headache.
Sadly, my creative imagination cannot control itself, so it carried me back to the desert despite my protestations.
I found myself among an endless sea of men and women swaying in a spiritual trance, their hands reaching heavenward. A palpable energy charged the atmosphere. We were quaking in anticipation. This was a defining moment for us as a people. Nothing would ever be the same.
But I looked down and the bubble burst. None of this seemed to register with my boys. Not a blip of expectation was pulsing through their veins.
Rather than awaiting their birthright with open arms, they were instead indisposed, which is to say they were verbally sparring. At first, I tried to ignore them, keeping my focus on Moshe’s gradual descent from above. Then I pretended the boys belonged to another family, but did not expect to pull that one off for long.
Meanwhile, their high velocity harrumphing towards one another continued. I scanned the crowd, anxious that others were disturbed by the ruckus, but no one seemed to be. Shrinking into myself anyway, I could not help but note that all the other children were silent.
Maternal curiosity being what it is, I listened in to hear what my sons were saying, distracting myself from the scene at the top of the mountain. I was stunned by the wealth of possible ways one can express the fond sentiment “my brother is stupid” in English. I shhed them, but that did no good. They were either ignoring me or simply could not hear over the bolts of lightning.
Oh boy, I thought, steeped in my own embarrassment. They have no shame. It’s not like we were back home in our own tent. Every member of our people – generations past, present and future -- was huddled together with us, and my crew was missing it all. Quickly, I put these considerations by the wayside as the situation deteriorated.
The name-calling had descended into the realm of poking and prodding, while the crowd – luckily – had eyes only for those heavy tablets Moshe was now schlepping down from heaven in our name. For a moment, I was dismayed when I learned that “thou shalt not needle thy brother” had not made it to the Top Ten.
Before I could cry out “I will do and I will listen,” we reached rock bottom over in our corner. The poking and prodding had transformed into full-blown wrestling. I was deeply grateful that the crowd was busy accepting the commandments, leaving me reasonably convinced that we had not been noticed at all. Still, I dipped my head in shame.
Most painful to me, though, was that the boys had squabbled their way through the show of a lifetime. I mourned the fact that so much had come and gone without a moment’s acknowledgment by their quarrelling selves.
Then, suddenly, I caught the eye of another mother in the crowd. She arched her eyebrows at me in solidarity, and I realized she had seen everything. But wait. She began to shrug her shoulders, and with the swoop of her palm presented to me the truth I’d been unable to see before: her children, too, were in the midst of a sibling confrontation.
Huh, I wondered.
It was almost contagious. One by one, mothers began to eye one another, each of us silently saying the same thing. Funny, how we were all blinded by our own children’s antics. Looking around more clearly, I took note that the only perfectly behaved children were the ones who were allowed to bring a DS to the ceremonies.
Turning back to the spiritual scene at hand, I let go of my embarrassment and took it all in, briefly allowing myself to be filled with the power of the awesome moment. Shame, I realized, that I’d let myself be so distracted.
As we began to scatter and head back to our tents, I overheard my boys say to one another, “Guys, wasn’t that cool?” as if they hadn’t been fighting the entire time. As if they’d witnessed anything.
It is possible, I realized, that they’d been paying attention after all, that I’d only magnified their little spat into something dramatically Shakespearean…or biblical.
“Yeah, bro,” I hear them continue. “Let’s go get some ice cream.”
“Later, Mom.”
Later, boys.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
The End of a Ritual
When our boys were little, bedtime rituals were a sweet treat I savored at the end of each day. They involved all of the usual – the reading of stories, the singing of lullabies, some snuggling, and plenty of kisses to noses and foreheads and puffy little cheeks.
After the singing, I would ask G-d to grant the boys a few things. First on the list was their father’s metabolism. The next item was my hairline. Last, though surely not least, I would humbly request that all of their challenges be surmountable with minimal angst.
I’d leave their rooms, only to be called back moments later for one more thing, then another: an urgent question that had to be answered, a riveting tale from the playground that could not wait to be told in the morning, or that old standard, a parched throat that desperately required a glass of water.
Then, suddenly, something changed.
My eldest had just returned home exhausted from a late soccer practice. After showering and inhaling a dinner fit for three, he announced that he was heading to bed. On his way up, he turned to me and gave me his lunch order. I promised I’d be right up.
A few minutes later, I poked my head into his room as he was turning off his reading lamp. He rolled over and muttered something I presume was goodnight. I asked if he wanted me to sing, and he replied that no, he was good. I asked about his day, and he croaked out an I’m so tired, mom. I just stood there, staring at the back of his head.
No singing? No tales from the day? Okay, I haven’t exactly tucked him in for years, but what kind of ritual was that? This was the last bastion of his little boy-ness. Everything else about him was solidly young man. I was simply not ready to let this one go.
I managed to sneak a kiss on his temple, even as my heart and my stomach were changing locations within me.
What I needed at that moment was a strong cup of cinnamon tea, so I stumbled down to the kitchen. As the bag steeped, I sat astride a laundry basket of my first-born’s clothing, wondering how we’d jumped so quickly from receiving blankets to all things American Eagle in men’s sizes. I knew only that I’d been made redundant.
Abruptly. Unexpectedly. And, in my book, prematurely.
Wow. It stings, I tell you.
At first, I believed my pink slip had come from out of the blue, but I soon had to face the music playing in my gut. I may be sad. I may be indignant. Even my eldest may have an occasional pang (though he’d never admit it) for his younger self.
But here it is: Bedtime rituals are simply not built to last until the boys leave for college.
While I consider this fact for a spell, I am called from out of the darkness:
Hey, Mom?
My spirits lift. I practically skip up the steps toward his room. For that instant, I am again hopeful.
Do you have any blue ballpoint pens I can take to school tomorrow? I’m all out.
Really? That was it? He’s got to be kidding!
Back I sink, promising to leave a pack for him on the kitchen table, right next to the box of Fruity Pebbles he takes for breakfast.
At least there’s that drop of little boy left in him. For now, anyway, I still need there to be.
(Happy Mother’s Day!)
After the singing, I would ask G-d to grant the boys a few things. First on the list was their father’s metabolism. The next item was my hairline. Last, though surely not least, I would humbly request that all of their challenges be surmountable with minimal angst.
I’d leave their rooms, only to be called back moments later for one more thing, then another: an urgent question that had to be answered, a riveting tale from the playground that could not wait to be told in the morning, or that old standard, a parched throat that desperately required a glass of water.
Then, suddenly, something changed.
My eldest had just returned home exhausted from a late soccer practice. After showering and inhaling a dinner fit for three, he announced that he was heading to bed. On his way up, he turned to me and gave me his lunch order. I promised I’d be right up.
A few minutes later, I poked my head into his room as he was turning off his reading lamp. He rolled over and muttered something I presume was goodnight. I asked if he wanted me to sing, and he replied that no, he was good. I asked about his day, and he croaked out an I’m so tired, mom. I just stood there, staring at the back of his head.
No singing? No tales from the day? Okay, I haven’t exactly tucked him in for years, but what kind of ritual was that? This was the last bastion of his little boy-ness. Everything else about him was solidly young man. I was simply not ready to let this one go.
I managed to sneak a kiss on his temple, even as my heart and my stomach were changing locations within me.
What I needed at that moment was a strong cup of cinnamon tea, so I stumbled down to the kitchen. As the bag steeped, I sat astride a laundry basket of my first-born’s clothing, wondering how we’d jumped so quickly from receiving blankets to all things American Eagle in men’s sizes. I knew only that I’d been made redundant.
Abruptly. Unexpectedly. And, in my book, prematurely.
Wow. It stings, I tell you.
At first, I believed my pink slip had come from out of the blue, but I soon had to face the music playing in my gut. I may be sad. I may be indignant. Even my eldest may have an occasional pang (though he’d never admit it) for his younger self.
But here it is: Bedtime rituals are simply not built to last until the boys leave for college.
While I consider this fact for a spell, I am called from out of the darkness:
Hey, Mom?
My spirits lift. I practically skip up the steps toward his room. For that instant, I am again hopeful.
Do you have any blue ballpoint pens I can take to school tomorrow? I’m all out.
Really? That was it? He’s got to be kidding!
Back I sink, promising to leave a pack for him on the kitchen table, right next to the box of Fruity Pebbles he takes for breakfast.
At least there’s that drop of little boy left in him. For now, anyway, I still need there to be.
(Happy Mother’s Day!)
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Our Garden
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An explosion of color from the garden.
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If I ignore the high pollen count, these are blissful moments to cherish.
When we moved into this house, it wore a sad pall after more than a decade of neglect. Though I will save the tale of woe and repair for another post, suffice it to say that our friend Jeff lovingly called the place a “dump” upon first inspection.
But it was the state of the large garden that unsettled me most. This house was about to anchor me --- a city girl at heart – right in the thick of suburbia, and I wanted the silver lining: the regal boughs of a glorious maple, the swath of green grass blowing in the summer breeze, and the raucous garden exploding with color.
There were four-foot tall weeds with an endless intestinal network of roots that I tried in vain to yank out of the ground. They resembled a jungle in a Rousseau painting and I spent more than an entire day conquering them. Even now, so many years later, I catch a small one popping up and pounce immediately, lest it get the best of me.
Once I cleared the area, I positioned two burning bushes at either end. They provide a spiritual anchor to the garden, and their bright red leaves in autumn make my heart leap out of my chest. It is shameful, but without seeking expert guidance or solid botanical knowledge, I have added more flowers and greenery over time, foolishly planting what feels right with completely blind faith.
A few years ago, I planted Chinese lanterns because I loved them as a child, but like difficult memories, they have become all-consuming. To that I added spearmint, because I find the aroma breathtaking, and the nana tea I steep with its oily leaves can trick me into thinking I’m sipping it at a café in Jerusalem. Alas, the spearmint and the lanterns are stubborn, kindred spirits. Each spring, I am required to wrestle and tame them into submission.
One fall I planted hostas, which settled in during the winter and learned to thrive in our frightful sun while staring down the deer who feast on their lush leaves. Then came lemon balm, because I’d been wooed by its soothing properties, and roses for their scent and their thorns, because I wanted to flash some mojo. Chicks and hens followed, because I needed to show my maternal side, and silver mound, just because its name sounds so tender to me.
Eventually, I dug in with some boxwood because I needed something that didn’t make a statement.
Later I planted the lavender, because my husband spent happy childhood summers on the Istrian coast, where it grows wild. Finally, I stuck in some heather, because the tag said it was South African, which reminded me of my friend Carmel, who would tell me to stop attributing so much meaning to each inch of the garden and just enjoy it.
So I did, and I am. In the wee hours of the morning, I head outdoors to observe in complete silence what nature has wrought on the side of our house where weeds once reigned. The image – a random assortment of plants that might not agree with a skilled gardener -- paints a happy memory. It is that explosion of color, I sought. Though nothing fancy, it makes me a little more grateful for what the suburbs has to offer.
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