It was just after Religious School, and I'd run into our rabbi outside his office; he'd stopped to chat with me. Once N's friends had all dispersed, N joined us. Somehow, the topic turned to fruit; I think N was eating a tangerine.
"What kind of fruit has its seeds on the outside?" N asked suddenly. It's a 'riddle' he likes to bring up any time the word fruit arises in conversation; he learned it in his PE class, where the teacher throws them one or two word/logic type puzzles a week.
"A strawberry," Rabbi answered promptly.
I laughed; N is used to stumping people with that one. "Ah, see? Rabbi knew, N!"
N turned to me, rolling his eyes. "Duh, Mom. He's a rabbi. He's supposed to know everything."
Rabbi literally roared with laughter. Wiping his eyes, he patted N on the head. "Hate to break it to you buddy, but I don't know everything."
N looked at him levelly, then shrugged. "But you know God's name," he said. That, clearly, settled the issue; he turned and walked away, while Rabbi and I just looked at each other and grinned.
Dear name-of-God. That kid.
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
Monday, March 28, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
He's Got Skills, All Right
There's ugly stuff going on at our tiny little synagogue. Political, maddening, saddening stuff. Where it will end, no one knows. I'm not sure there's a way back, but I'm not calling the game over quite yet. Where there's faith, there's hope. Or something like that.
But all that's too much for me right now. Too hard, and too long, and too complex, and not really all that much my story to tell. I'm pretty much peripheral to it, though it's been at the center of my thoughts for weeks now.
Which is why, instead, I want to tell you a light little shul story. One that focuses on our temple family, and not on its dysfunction. One that involved laughter to the point of tears, instead of just tears.
This weekend was the bat mitzvah of one of Em's closest friends, the daughter of one of my closest friends there. That meant that all of the key players in my part of our temple's little world were at services on Friday night. And as we are wont to do when we're all together, there was a lot of musical pews going on. Em was in the front row with her posse, all of them cheering on their friend as she led parts of the service. Baroy settled himself a few rows back. I flitted a bit--first next to Baroy, then to quickly whisper to the mother of the bat mitzvah, then to another friend who'd recently arrived. N has never sat in one place for more than 30 seconds during any service. Never. So he was doing his thing, too.
At one point, two of my mom-friends, C and F, were sitting near the back, and N plopped himself down between the two of them. C started idly rubbing his back. After a moment or two, N looked over at F and said, "This feels sooooo good. But you know what would feel better? Two hands!" And then just smiled brightly at F.
C was telling me this story later that evening, and I stopped her at this point. "So how long did it take F to start rubbing his back too?" I asked.
"Twelve milliseconds," she replied. And then started laughing, the kind of laughter that turns into painful gulps of air, tears streaming down your face.
"The thing is," she said, "at that moment, I just sort of flash forwarded about ten years..." And that was all she could get out, until she'd gained enough control to choke out, "I think it's possible that he doesn't really need those social skills therapies, you know? I think it's possible that he's going to be more than just fine."
But all that's too much for me right now. Too hard, and too long, and too complex, and not really all that much my story to tell. I'm pretty much peripheral to it, though it's been at the center of my thoughts for weeks now.
Which is why, instead, I want to tell you a light little shul story. One that focuses on our temple family, and not on its dysfunction. One that involved laughter to the point of tears, instead of just tears.
This weekend was the bat mitzvah of one of Em's closest friends, the daughter of one of my closest friends there. That meant that all of the key players in my part of our temple's little world were at services on Friday night. And as we are wont to do when we're all together, there was a lot of musical pews going on. Em was in the front row with her posse, all of them cheering on their friend as she led parts of the service. Baroy settled himself a few rows back. I flitted a bit--first next to Baroy, then to quickly whisper to the mother of the bat mitzvah, then to another friend who'd recently arrived. N has never sat in one place for more than 30 seconds during any service. Never. So he was doing his thing, too.
At one point, two of my mom-friends, C and F, were sitting near the back, and N plopped himself down between the two of them. C started idly rubbing his back. After a moment or two, N looked over at F and said, "This feels sooooo good. But you know what would feel better? Two hands!" And then just smiled brightly at F.
C was telling me this story later that evening, and I stopped her at this point. "So how long did it take F to start rubbing his back too?" I asked.
"Twelve milliseconds," she replied. And then started laughing, the kind of laughter that turns into painful gulps of air, tears streaming down your face.
"The thing is," she said, "at that moment, I just sort of flash forwarded about ten years..." And that was all she could get out, until she'd gained enough control to choke out, "I think it's possible that he doesn't really need those social skills therapies, you know? I think it's possible that he's going to be more than just fine."
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Worst Part
I am the newsletter editor for our little shul. It's a volunteer job, and like all volunteer jobs, it has its baggage, as well as its delights.
I've always thought that one of the worst parts of the job is compiling the monthly Yahrzeit list--it's an anniversary list of sorts, but of deaths. It lets people know on which night they should light a candle, when to say kaddish. It's a necessary, useful task. But the list I get--though not the one I publish--includes the names of the congregants who need to get the reminder notice from the synagogue. It also includes the relationships of the deceased to those people. And so--as I strip that personal, private information from the list--I am reminded each month of another set of losses. I'll remember how hard S took it when her father passed; I'll notice that H lost two sons on the same day in some distant time, and that they were both in the military. I end up spending too much time thinking about deaths gone by. It's sobering.
But today, I realized that I'm wrong. That's not the worst. Not by a long shot. Because today, I'm compiling the birthday list.
This is my third year editing the newsletter; I've developed some shortcuts. One of those is to pull up the birthday list from that same month the year before, and just add any new members' names, or move a new 18-year-old from the Kids' Birthdays list to the Adults' Birthdays list.
Today? Well, today I had to highlight and delete an entry from the latter list. The name of a man I had great fondness for; a man whose wife I truly adore. A man whose funeral I attended less than two months ago. A man who won't be having a birthday this September. A man whose name will appear on the Yahrzeit list next June or July, where it will make me sigh, but where, maybe, it won't make me cry, because it will be an addition, not a deletion.
I do not like deletions.
I've always thought that one of the worst parts of the job is compiling the monthly Yahrzeit list--it's an anniversary list of sorts, but of deaths. It lets people know on which night they should light a candle, when to say kaddish. It's a necessary, useful task. But the list I get--though not the one I publish--includes the names of the congregants who need to get the reminder notice from the synagogue. It also includes the relationships of the deceased to those people. And so--as I strip that personal, private information from the list--I am reminded each month of another set of losses. I'll remember how hard S took it when her father passed; I'll notice that H lost two sons on the same day in some distant time, and that they were both in the military. I end up spending too much time thinking about deaths gone by. It's sobering.
But today, I realized that I'm wrong. That's not the worst. Not by a long shot. Because today, I'm compiling the birthday list.
This is my third year editing the newsletter; I've developed some shortcuts. One of those is to pull up the birthday list from that same month the year before, and just add any new members' names, or move a new 18-year-old from the Kids' Birthdays list to the Adults' Birthdays list.
Today? Well, today I had to highlight and delete an entry from the latter list. The name of a man I had great fondness for; a man whose wife I truly adore. A man whose funeral I attended less than two months ago. A man who won't be having a birthday this September. A man whose name will appear on the Yahrzeit list next June or July, where it will make me sigh, but where, maybe, it won't make me cry, because it will be an addition, not a deletion.
I do not like deletions.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
God Has an Opinion on Soccer
This is Em's seventh year playing AYSO soccer. She's always been enthusiastic, and she never been a detriment to any team. But over the last couple of years she's really started to come into her own. Last year, for instance, she was asked--though as one of the last picked--to be on one of her division's All Star teams. This year, she's considered a shoe-in.
The problem is, this summer is her Bat Mitzvah, and that involves a whole lot of time and effort, especially starting after the new year. So when we signed her up for AYSO, I made a point of telling both her and Baroy (who's been the assistant coach on her last four teams and may enjoy the games and practices even more than she does) that there was going to be no All Stars this year. She needs to attend Saturday morning services at least twice a month, I pointed out. And there are often Sunday games as well, which interfere with Sunday-morning religious school. That wasn't such a big deal last year, but this year...She really needs to be serious about Hebrew School for just one more year, is all.
Everyone agreed. To my face.
But this season has been incredible for her. She's one of the top three players on her team; the one everyone counts on not so much to score (she scored for the first time this season today, as a matter of fact) but to get plays started, to execute good sharp passes, to play a smart and aggressive game. And so, as the season has worn on, there's been the more-frequent sighing about how soon it's all going to end, with beseeching looks cast in my direction. I was impervious to them. Note the tense there.
Last week, I was talking to our synagogue's rabbi, and I mentioned the post-season soccer moratorium. "Oh, that's sort of a shame," he said, and went on to talk about how he and his son (whose Bar Mitzvah was just two years ago) worked out some compromises that allowed him to play through most of his Bar Mitzvah training.
I mentioned this conversation to Baroy and Em during dinner the other night. "I still don't think All Stars is a good idea," I warned, "but IF we can talk to someone in advance, and IF they understand that Hebrew School comes first and she might have to miss some games along the way...MAYBE we can consider it."
Em looked much too excited, so I tried to talk her down. "I doubt that any coach will want to take on a player who can't fully commit," I warned her. "And like I said, I'm still not sure it's that good of an idea."
"Oh, but Rabbi wants me to play," she countered, a smile playing around her lips. "And that's practically the same thing as God wanting me to play."
I may have rolled my eyes at that. OK, I definitely rolled my eyes at that.
And then came today's soccer game.
I arrived a few minutes late, only to find Baroy grinning at me as I approached our side of the field. He came over to me and whispered, "There's a scout here, looking at Em. A scout from Sectionals."
Sectionals is the group above the 'regular' All Star division. While five girls from Em's team last year went to All Stars (a lot for one team, but still...), only one went to sectionals. And she was the kind of kid who made your mouth drop open when you watched her play.
"Really? A scout? Looking at Em?"
Turned out, he was there for her, and for one other girl on the team. I felt badly for her at first, since she was a little off her game (dealing with, um, ahem, some woman stuff). But then came the third quarter, which is when she scored. And in the fourth she executed a perfect throw-in (you don't often hear people on the sidelines commenting on how good a throw-in is, but this one got cheers), that turned into another goal. Her team won, 2-0.
Baroy didn't tell her about the scout until they came off the field, and you could see her eyes get big and excited. Then she started to laugh.
"Wow, Mom," she said, coming over to me. "There's a scout here from Sectionals and I scored for the first time this season? God must REALLY want me to play in the postseason."
I've gotta say, with all the evidence stacked up right now? It's hard to argue with that particular theology.
The problem is, this summer is her Bat Mitzvah, and that involves a whole lot of time and effort, especially starting after the new year. So when we signed her up for AYSO, I made a point of telling both her and Baroy (who's been the assistant coach on her last four teams and may enjoy the games and practices even more than she does) that there was going to be no All Stars this year. She needs to attend Saturday morning services at least twice a month, I pointed out. And there are often Sunday games as well, which interfere with Sunday-morning religious school. That wasn't such a big deal last year, but this year...She really needs to be serious about Hebrew School for just one more year, is all.
Everyone agreed. To my face.
But this season has been incredible for her. She's one of the top three players on her team; the one everyone counts on not so much to score (she scored for the first time this season today, as a matter of fact) but to get plays started, to execute good sharp passes, to play a smart and aggressive game. And so, as the season has worn on, there's been the more-frequent sighing about how soon it's all going to end, with beseeching looks cast in my direction. I was impervious to them. Note the tense there.
Last week, I was talking to our synagogue's rabbi, and I mentioned the post-season soccer moratorium. "Oh, that's sort of a shame," he said, and went on to talk about how he and his son (whose Bar Mitzvah was just two years ago) worked out some compromises that allowed him to play through most of his Bar Mitzvah training.
I mentioned this conversation to Baroy and Em during dinner the other night. "I still don't think All Stars is a good idea," I warned, "but IF we can talk to someone in advance, and IF they understand that Hebrew School comes first and she might have to miss some games along the way...MAYBE we can consider it."
Em looked much too excited, so I tried to talk her down. "I doubt that any coach will want to take on a player who can't fully commit," I warned her. "And like I said, I'm still not sure it's that good of an idea."
"Oh, but Rabbi wants me to play," she countered, a smile playing around her lips. "And that's practically the same thing as God wanting me to play."
I may have rolled my eyes at that. OK, I definitely rolled my eyes at that.
And then came today's soccer game.
I arrived a few minutes late, only to find Baroy grinning at me as I approached our side of the field. He came over to me and whispered, "There's a scout here, looking at Em. A scout from Sectionals."
Sectionals is the group above the 'regular' All Star division. While five girls from Em's team last year went to All Stars (a lot for one team, but still...), only one went to sectionals. And she was the kind of kid who made your mouth drop open when you watched her play.
"Really? A scout? Looking at Em?"
Turned out, he was there for her, and for one other girl on the team. I felt badly for her at first, since she was a little off her game (dealing with, um, ahem, some woman stuff). But then came the third quarter, which is when she scored. And in the fourth she executed a perfect throw-in (you don't often hear people on the sidelines commenting on how good a throw-in is, but this one got cheers), that turned into another goal. Her team won, 2-0.
Baroy didn't tell her about the scout until they came off the field, and you could see her eyes get big and excited. Then she started to laugh.
"Wow, Mom," she said, coming over to me. "There's a scout here from Sectionals and I scored for the first time this season? God must REALLY want me to play in the postseason."
I've gotta say, with all the evidence stacked up right now? It's hard to argue with that particular theology.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
It's Hard Being a Jew
...just ask N, who came to me on Monday, on day 5 of Passover, and simply wailed, "I really, really, really need some Goldfish! I can't wait any more. I NEED Goldfish!"
(Anyone know of a good Goldfish-related 12-step program?)
For the record: I let him go into the off-limits-during-Passover closet and take some Goldfish. (Clearly, we fall waaaaay south of orthodox in our handling of the holiday.) "It's between you and God," I said. "You do what feels right for you; I do what feels right for me."
"God won't mind," he replied confidently. He considered that statement for a moment, then added, "But if he gets mad at me, I don't care."
Apparently someone wasn't listening during the recitation of the Ten Plagues. Because, when I was his age? I'd pretty much decided it wasn't worth testing the whole 'wrath of God' thing somewhere around locusts. Or maybe boils.
Those Goldfish must have some pretty powerful mojo.
(Anyone know of a good Goldfish-related 12-step program?)
For the record: I let him go into the off-limits-during-Passover closet and take some Goldfish. (Clearly, we fall waaaaay south of orthodox in our handling of the holiday.) "It's between you and God," I said. "You do what feels right for you; I do what feels right for me."
"God won't mind," he replied confidently. He considered that statement for a moment, then added, "But if he gets mad at me, I don't care."
Apparently someone wasn't listening during the recitation of the Ten Plagues. Because, when I was his age? I'd pretty much decided it wasn't worth testing the whole 'wrath of God' thing somewhere around locusts. Or maybe boils.
Those Goldfish must have some pretty powerful mojo.
Monday, April 6, 2009
My Little Literalist
At Religious School on Sunday, the kids did an art project, each making a pair of painted, stained-glass-looking glasses--one each for Elijah and Miriam--for the upcoming seders. The kids who can write in Hebrew wrote those names on the glasses; the rest simply drew flowers and other decorations.
Because it's such a small school, the children all sit around a couple of tables when they do their projects. Apparently S, one of the girls in Em's class--who, it's important to note, has a younger sister named Miriam in N's class--jokingly announced, "I'm writing my sister's name on one of these glasses! That way she'll know it's for her!"
N then chimed in. "I'm gonna do the same thing." It wasn't until he'd completed his masterpiece and proudly presented it to Em that anyone realized "the same thing" wasn't writing Miriam's name on the glass...It was writing his sister's name on the glass.
When his mistake was pointed out to him, he became embarrassed; just because he doesn't always understand word-play jokes, he definitely knows when the joke is on him. When I arrived to pick them up at the end of the day and heard the story, it once again broke my more-or-less-perpetually-shattered heart. I told him to pay no attention; I told him that *I* thought it was a lovely thought, and a beautiful glass, and it would have a prominent place on our table during Passover dinner.
And thus it came to pass that Em officially joined the pantheon of prophets and matriarchs whom we will honor with a ceremonial glass of wine at our seder.
Dayenu.
Because it's such a small school, the children all sit around a couple of tables when they do their projects. Apparently S, one of the girls in Em's class--who, it's important to note, has a younger sister named Miriam in N's class--jokingly announced, "I'm writing my sister's name on one of these glasses! That way she'll know it's for her!"
N then chimed in. "I'm gonna do the same thing." It wasn't until he'd completed his masterpiece and proudly presented it to Em that anyone realized "the same thing" wasn't writing Miriam's name on the glass...It was writing his sister's name on the glass.
When his mistake was pointed out to him, he became embarrassed; just because he doesn't always understand word-play jokes, he definitely knows when the joke is on him. When I arrived to pick them up at the end of the day and heard the story, it once again broke my more-or-less-perpetually-shattered heart. I told him to pay no attention; I told him that *I* thought it was a lovely thought, and a beautiful glass, and it would have a prominent place on our table during Passover dinner.
And thus it came to pass that Em officially joined the pantheon of prophets and matriarchs whom we will honor with a ceremonial glass of wine at our seder.
Dayenu.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Fire on the Mountain!
Friday night I was planning on going to Shabbat services because of a special panel discussion they were planning for afterwards. Em was at a sleepover, Baroy uninterested. But N was dying to come with me, especially after hearing that his friend Zach would be there. This was a potential problem; I had planned some Chanukah and Christmas shopping, and didn't want to drag him along. So Zach's Mom (I'll call her ZM) told me I should drop him at her house--she lives right up the block from the synagogue--and she'd feed him dinner and bring him down to services when they came down.
We drove out there at around 5:30, and I parked the car by the temple and decided to walk up to ZM's house. It was while we were walking that I suddenly noticed something very...well, damn. I'm not sure how to describe it. It looked like an entire section of the ridgeline of the mountains north of us was being backlit. The mountains were outlined in the thinnest of lines of white, white, WHITE light. I would have assumed it actually WAS being backlit by a spotlight or something if I hadn't known that it was an uninhabited area...and if it wasn't such an obviously wide swath of ridgeland.
It was strange. Despite the whole Judaism thing--my increasing interest in theology and even to some degree in the concepts and practices of faith--I am still not very much of a touchy feely 'spiritual' person. (It's actually one of the things I always thought more or less precluded me from being involved in religion...a belief about which my rabbi and others have disabused me over the last few years.) And yet, here I was, walking past my synagogue and watching what I could only describe to myself as some sort of holy light emanating from the ridge. I actually shivered, and pointed it out to N, who was more or less unimpressed.
When we got to ZM's house, I asked her to come outside with me. I wanted her to see what I'd seen, to get her take on it. We had to walk a few houses south of hers to get a view of it, and what we saw alarmed her. What had previously been a thin line of light was now bluging right in the middle, flickering even, spreading as we watched. There were billowing white clouds of smoke above the flickering area, lit up and flickering a bit as well.
"I think that's a fire," ZM said. And while that's not what I'd seen at first, I saw it now. How could I have missed it? Flickering. Smoke. Growing in size.
We returned quickly to her house, wondering whether we should bother calling the fire department, assuming a fire that large would have already prompted many calls from panicked homeowners closer to the site. We decided ZM should call the local fire department--not 911, just the regular number--to see if it had already been reported.
The woman who answered said that no, nobody had called this in yet, and we were puzzled. Really? Could we possibly have been the first? We told her the firemen could come by ZM's house if they wanted on their way up the mountain, so we could show them the area where the fire was, but that it was pretty obvious; they really couldn't miss it. Then we bundled up N and Zach and went back outside to wait, walking down the few houses to where the ridge could be seen. "Funny how we're not smelling any smoke," ZM mused as we turned around, looking up at the rideline to find...
The moon.
The MOON. Which had just risen. Against a white fluffly cloud of...well...cloud. Not smoke. CLOUD.
"Oooookay. I'll tell them not to come then," said the clearly unamused fire department operator, when ZM called back, somehow managing to choke out an apology around the laughter.
"Oy," I said, wiping the tears from my eyes when we finally stopped giggling.
"Oy indeed," ZM said, setting us both off again.
A few hours later, during the panel discussion...after a disastrous attempt on my part to trap a cricket that had somehow made it into the social hall and jumped onto our table, an attempt that resulted instead in the cricket hopping onto several other people, making each of them scream in turn and totally disrupting the entire proceedings...ZM leaned over to me and said, "Well, that was embarrassing."
"Please," I said. "We called the fire department tonight to report the MOON. Nothing else can touch that."
I do have to say, though, that ZM's helpless, doubled-over laugh-weeping--and the many, many heads it turned--as a result of that comment came pretty darned close.
[Amusing postscript: When I got home Friday night, I logged onto Twitter to find a tweet from one of the women I follow, who lives near me. The tweet said, "biggest full moon of the year. go out and enjoy."
I immediately emailed DZ. "So, see? It was unusually big! And probably extra HOT, too. THAT is why we had to call the fire department on it. I feel much better now."]
We drove out there at around 5:30, and I parked the car by the temple and decided to walk up to ZM's house. It was while we were walking that I suddenly noticed something very...well, damn. I'm not sure how to describe it. It looked like an entire section of the ridgeline of the mountains north of us was being backlit. The mountains were outlined in the thinnest of lines of white, white, WHITE light. I would have assumed it actually WAS being backlit by a spotlight or something if I hadn't known that it was an uninhabited area...and if it wasn't such an obviously wide swath of ridgeland.
It was strange. Despite the whole Judaism thing--my increasing interest in theology and even to some degree in the concepts and practices of faith--I am still not very much of a touchy feely 'spiritual' person. (It's actually one of the things I always thought more or less precluded me from being involved in religion...a belief about which my rabbi and others have disabused me over the last few years.) And yet, here I was, walking past my synagogue and watching what I could only describe to myself as some sort of holy light emanating from the ridge. I actually shivered, and pointed it out to N, who was more or less unimpressed.
When we got to ZM's house, I asked her to come outside with me. I wanted her to see what I'd seen, to get her take on it. We had to walk a few houses south of hers to get a view of it, and what we saw alarmed her. What had previously been a thin line of light was now bluging right in the middle, flickering even, spreading as we watched. There were billowing white clouds of smoke above the flickering area, lit up and flickering a bit as well.
"I think that's a fire," ZM said. And while that's not what I'd seen at first, I saw it now. How could I have missed it? Flickering. Smoke. Growing in size.
We returned quickly to her house, wondering whether we should bother calling the fire department, assuming a fire that large would have already prompted many calls from panicked homeowners closer to the site. We decided ZM should call the local fire department--not 911, just the regular number--to see if it had already been reported.
The woman who answered said that no, nobody had called this in yet, and we were puzzled. Really? Could we possibly have been the first? We told her the firemen could come by ZM's house if they wanted on their way up the mountain, so we could show them the area where the fire was, but that it was pretty obvious; they really couldn't miss it. Then we bundled up N and Zach and went back outside to wait, walking down the few houses to where the ridge could be seen. "Funny how we're not smelling any smoke," ZM mused as we turned around, looking up at the rideline to find...
The moon.
The MOON. Which had just risen. Against a white fluffly cloud of...well...cloud. Not smoke. CLOUD.
"Oooookay. I'll tell them not to come then," said the clearly unamused fire department operator, when ZM called back, somehow managing to choke out an apology around the laughter.
"Oy," I said, wiping the tears from my eyes when we finally stopped giggling.
"Oy indeed," ZM said, setting us both off again.
A few hours later, during the panel discussion...after a disastrous attempt on my part to trap a cricket that had somehow made it into the social hall and jumped onto our table, an attempt that resulted instead in the cricket hopping onto several other people, making each of them scream in turn and totally disrupting the entire proceedings...ZM leaned over to me and said, "Well, that was embarrassing."
"Please," I said. "We called the fire department tonight to report the MOON. Nothing else can touch that."
I do have to say, though, that ZM's helpless, doubled-over laugh-weeping--and the many, many heads it turned--as a result of that comment came pretty darned close.
[Amusing postscript: When I got home Friday night, I logged onto Twitter to find a tweet from one of the women I follow, who lives near me. The tweet said, "biggest full moon of the year. go out and enjoy."
I immediately emailed DZ. "So, see? It was unusually big! And probably extra HOT, too. THAT is why we had to call the fire department on it. I feel much better now."]
Sunday, December 7, 2008
The No-Time-For-An-Update Update
Em had an initially Very Disappointing Day today, wherein her soccer team lost its second playoff game in these double-elimination playoffs, ending their (really wonderful for many reasons) season. At the end of the game she was told by her coach that she had apparently missed the cutoff for the all-star league by just a couple of girls; he wasn't at the 'draft' because he was coaching their game, but the report he got didn't include her name.
So it was a double thrill when Coach D called tonight (and left a message on Baroy's cell, AND emailed Baroy as well) to tell Em that she had indeed made the team, and was she interested in playing for him during the All-Star season?
You could have read the fine print on a contract using the glow of delight from her face. Me, I was kind of looking forward to being done with soccer for the year. But I can't begrudge her this. She so loves playing this game, and to be singled out as an all-star, after being the highest-ranked of the younger half of the team...Like I said, I can't begrudge.
Go, All-Stars!
----------
I went to a short adult-ed class at my synagogue this morning, where we talked about Chanukah and its meaning and how to make it more meaningful, etc. At the end, I asked my rabbi about the whole new book thing, and it's official: I need to let it go.
Well, that's giving myself a little too little in the way of credit. What he actually said to me, in short, was that it was perfectly reasonable for agencies/groups/organizations to ask for new and unwrapped toys and even books. But he also said that it was perfectly reasonable for me to respond to that by saying, "In that case, I don't have anything to give you," and to go off and find a group that would be happy to take what I have to offer. And, most importantly, he said that while, yes, there is this commandment to give tzedakah (a Hebrew word which both does and doesn't mean charity), there is no commandment that says I have to give tzedakah to my school district's Healthy Start program. If what I have or want to give does not match up with what they need, I should move on. I shouldn't resent them, but neither should I feel badly for not doing it their way.
And so that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to let it go. I'm even going to try not to make a big (OK, bigger) deal over why I'm not giving to this specific toy and book drive. I'm just not going to give, and I'm going to try really, really hard not to assume that I'm being looked at as a cheap Jew for not giving. I will, instead, bring my gently used books to the places my rabbi suggested today, and if I am asked by anyone at school, I will say that I've already done my charitable giving for the holiday season and leave it at that.
Or, at least, that's the plan.
Now, if I can only stop myself from snarling at the gay-hating evangelical Salvation Army crews outside every single frigging supermarket in the world right now, I'll be damned near eligible for sainthood. If Jews had saints, I mean. And if saints were allowed to curse like sailors.
So it was a double thrill when Coach D called tonight (and left a message on Baroy's cell, AND emailed Baroy as well) to tell Em that she had indeed made the team, and was she interested in playing for him during the All-Star season?
You could have read the fine print on a contract using the glow of delight from her face. Me, I was kind of looking forward to being done with soccer for the year. But I can't begrudge her this. She so loves playing this game, and to be singled out as an all-star, after being the highest-ranked of the younger half of the team...Like I said, I can't begrudge.
Go, All-Stars!
----------
I went to a short adult-ed class at my synagogue this morning, where we talked about Chanukah and its meaning and how to make it more meaningful, etc. At the end, I asked my rabbi about the whole new book thing, and it's official: I need to let it go.
Well, that's giving myself a little too little in the way of credit. What he actually said to me, in short, was that it was perfectly reasonable for agencies/groups/organizations to ask for new and unwrapped toys and even books. But he also said that it was perfectly reasonable for me to respond to that by saying, "In that case, I don't have anything to give you," and to go off and find a group that would be happy to take what I have to offer. And, most importantly, he said that while, yes, there is this commandment to give tzedakah (a Hebrew word which both does and doesn't mean charity), there is no commandment that says I have to give tzedakah to my school district's Healthy Start program. If what I have or want to give does not match up with what they need, I should move on. I shouldn't resent them, but neither should I feel badly for not doing it their way.
And so that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to let it go. I'm even going to try not to make a big (OK, bigger) deal over why I'm not giving to this specific toy and book drive. I'm just not going to give, and I'm going to try really, really hard not to assume that I'm being looked at as a cheap Jew for not giving. I will, instead, bring my gently used books to the places my rabbi suggested today, and if I am asked by anyone at school, I will say that I've already done my charitable giving for the holiday season and leave it at that.
Or, at least, that's the plan.
Now, if I can only stop myself from snarling at the gay-hating evangelical Salvation Army crews outside every single frigging supermarket in the world right now, I'll be damned near eligible for sainthood. If Jews had saints, I mean. And if saints were allowed to curse like sailors.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Not Just a Jew
So there's this guy in my office, and really, he's very very nice, and I feel mean for complaining about him, but...
Oy. If he doesn't leave me alone with the Kosher stuff, I'm going to kill him!
I'm mean. I really am. I know he's just trying to be nice, to find some kind of common ground. Or not-common ground, because he's not Jewish. Insteady, I guess he's trying to find something to talk about with me. Some kind of more personal connection than the weather. It's so sweet of him to try. But I really am going to kill him.
It all dates back to when I took a couple of days off for the Jewish holidays. Soon thereafter, he started pulling me aside when he saw me getting coffee (which is right next to his office).
"Hey, TC, did you know that they have a Kosher kitchen on campus?"
Oh, really? I had no idea. How interesting. I mean, I'm not Kosher, but...it's nice to know that they try. Thanks for telling me.
"TC, some day we should go over to the LunchPlace and I'll show you where the Kosher kitchen is!"
That would be really cool. I mean, like I said, I don't keep Kosher, but, sure, I guess...
"TC, did you see that the Kosher kitchen is sponsoring a dinner Friday night? You should think about going so you could meet other Jewish people from the campus!"
Yeah, well, thanks, but I have to get home and feed the kids, and did I mention, I'm not Kosher, and...
"Hey, TC, come look at the photos I took at the Kosher dinner on Friday night. I have some questions to ask you about the whole Kosher thing. I mean, why did they blahblahblah and when they blabidyblah, why did they bleedledeedoo..."
I do not know. I DO NOT KNOW. I am not Kosher. Not Kosher! NOT! KOSHER!
You know, there's an African American woman in my office as well, and I've noticed lately that there is another coworker of ours who, every time she goes by this woman's office, stops to talk about Obama. It's, well...embarrassing is what it is. Awkward. I wonder where it comes from?
And I wonder whether I'll go directly to hell for being so mean about someone who is just trying to be nice...or whether I'll stop off at the Kosher kitchen first?
Oy. If he doesn't leave me alone with the Kosher stuff, I'm going to kill him!
I'm mean. I really am. I know he's just trying to be nice, to find some kind of common ground. Or not-common ground, because he's not Jewish. Insteady, I guess he's trying to find something to talk about with me. Some kind of more personal connection than the weather. It's so sweet of him to try. But I really am going to kill him.
It all dates back to when I took a couple of days off for the Jewish holidays. Soon thereafter, he started pulling me aside when he saw me getting coffee (which is right next to his office).
"Hey, TC, did you know that they have a Kosher kitchen on campus?"
Oh, really? I had no idea. How interesting. I mean, I'm not Kosher, but...it's nice to know that they try. Thanks for telling me.
"TC, some day we should go over to the LunchPlace and I'll show you where the Kosher kitchen is!"
That would be really cool. I mean, like I said, I don't keep Kosher, but, sure, I guess...
"TC, did you see that the Kosher kitchen is sponsoring a dinner Friday night? You should think about going so you could meet other Jewish people from the campus!"
Yeah, well, thanks, but I have to get home and feed the kids, and did I mention, I'm not Kosher, and...
"Hey, TC, come look at the photos I took at the Kosher dinner on Friday night. I have some questions to ask you about the whole Kosher thing. I mean, why did they blahblahblah and when they blabidyblah, why did they bleedledeedoo..."
I do not know. I DO NOT KNOW. I am not Kosher. Not Kosher! NOT! KOSHER!
You know, there's an African American woman in my office as well, and I've noticed lately that there is another coworker of ours who, every time she goes by this woman's office, stops to talk about Obama. It's, well...embarrassing is what it is. Awkward. I wonder where it comes from?
And I wonder whether I'll go directly to hell for being so mean about someone who is just trying to be nice...or whether I'll stop off at the Kosher kitchen first?
Friday, October 24, 2008
Too Many Sons and Daughters
My volunteer work at our synagogue this year has shifted from my much-hated role as PTA president to a much-more-fitting role as editor of our monthly newsletter. I enjoy it, on the whole. I like being the one to gather up all the photos from our events; I like hearing about what's coming up next month. I like the lists of birthdays and anniversaries; I like compiling lists of people to thank for all the work they put into this potluck or that dinner dance. I especially like putting the (very) occasional bar or bat mitzvah on the cover. (As I've said, we're a VERY small congregation; the bar mitzvah I'll be attending in the morning is the last one we'll celebrate until May or June of 2010...and will kick off a relative flood of them, five in less than six months, which will include my own Em's special day.)
But each month, there's one part of the job that makes me pause and, usually, sigh: the list of yahrzeits for that month. The list I publish is just a series of names, each after a date on the Roman calendar. Because the yahrzeits themselves are calculated based on the date of death on a Jewish calendar, they change each year, and having a published list of when a specific yahrzeit falls is a huge help, a true mitzvah.
But when I get the list, it has more information than that. Mainly, it has a notation to let the user know who in our congregation "belongs to" the person to be remembered. And, again, because we're such a small congregation, nine times out of ten, I can picture the person who will be standing and reciting the Mourner's Kaddish that week. More often than not, I know them well enough to hug or kiss them when I see them--though, since I've only been at this synagogue for a little over three years, I rarely know the person who has passed. Still, it makes me more than a little melancholy to think, "Oh, A always has such a hard time when it's time for her husband's yahrzeit," or "I remember B talking about his father during Lunch and Learn one week; I wonder how long he's been gone?"
Worst, though, are months like this month, when in addition to the "aunt of"s and the "father of"s and the "grandmother of"s there are an ungodly [unfunny pun intended] number of "daughter of"s and "son of"s. Again, these are people I know well--but not well enough to know when they lost a child, or how it happened, or what sorts of holes it left. It makes me want to cry to think that, sometime in the middle of next month, Rachael and her husband are going to say kaddish for their son, that Trudy is going to say kaddish for a daughter I had no idea she had. I wonder if, for them, it helps or it hurts to have to observe this annual, ritual, mourning. And I try not to image what it would feel like if it were me.
But each month, there's one part of the job that makes me pause and, usually, sigh: the list of yahrzeits for that month. The list I publish is just a series of names, each after a date on the Roman calendar. Because the yahrzeits themselves are calculated based on the date of death on a Jewish calendar, they change each year, and having a published list of when a specific yahrzeit falls is a huge help, a true mitzvah.
But when I get the list, it has more information than that. Mainly, it has a notation to let the user know who in our congregation "belongs to" the person to be remembered. And, again, because we're such a small congregation, nine times out of ten, I can picture the person who will be standing and reciting the Mourner's Kaddish that week. More often than not, I know them well enough to hug or kiss them when I see them--though, since I've only been at this synagogue for a little over three years, I rarely know the person who has passed. Still, it makes me more than a little melancholy to think, "Oh, A always has such a hard time when it's time for her husband's yahrzeit," or "I remember B talking about his father during Lunch and Learn one week; I wonder how long he's been gone?"
Worst, though, are months like this month, when in addition to the "aunt of"s and the "father of"s and the "grandmother of"s there are an ungodly [unfunny pun intended] number of "daughter of"s and "son of"s. Again, these are people I know well--but not well enough to know when they lost a child, or how it happened, or what sorts of holes it left. It makes me want to cry to think that, sometime in the middle of next month, Rachael and her husband are going to say kaddish for their son, that Trudy is going to say kaddish for a daughter I had no idea she had. I wonder if, for them, it helps or it hurts to have to observe this annual, ritual, mourning. And I try not to image what it would feel like if it were me.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Old Jewish Ladies
I spent the entire weekend celebrating Sukkot. Friday night we had a pizza party with a group of friends in our host's sukkah, and stayed out much too late, considering Em and Baroy had an early soccer game the next morning. Saturday night we were invited to have dinner with our synagogue's cantor and his wife in their sukkah. Again, we stayed out much too late, considering Em and N had religious school in the morning.
Sunday afternoon, after religious school, I went back to Cantor Bob's sukkah, where I had lunch along with the rest of the synagogue's book club, and discussed our latest read. From there, I went back to the synagogue to help set up for our big Sukkot dinner; Baroy and the kids joined me soon thereafter. Luckily, that dinner was over by 8, though I stayed to help clean up and didn't get home until 9:30.
If it's possible to overdose on Judaism, this weekend would have done it.
----------
As I was setting out dishes of hummus and olives on the tables, Rachael grabbed me by the arm and essentially spun me around. It's sometimes hard to tell the ages of old Jewish ladies, I've found, either because their sheer indomitable will (and weekly visits to the beauty salon) keeps them looking the same year after year, or because, conversely, they are simply so old looking already, it's impossible to see any further aging. Rachael is very much in the former category, but I've got to figure she's closing in on 80, if she's not already there. So the force with which she grabbed me shocked me.
"You need to stop losing weight," she said, getting right in my face. "You need to EAT."
"Oh, trust me, Rachael," I laughed. "I eat."
"I don't like it," she muttered. "You're getting too thin. Promise me you'll EAT."
"I promise, I promise," I said, holding up my hands. (For the record, after losing close to 20 pounds over about a year's time--due entirely to having stopped taking psychiatric meds and due not at ALL to anything I've done about my diet--I haven't lost a pound in months. And, seriously? I'm not that thin. I'm not overweight any more, but I'm definitely not skinny. Still, you know how old Jewish ladies are. And if you don't...they're like Rachael. Almost every single one of them is like Rachael.)
"Good girl," she said, and reached up and pinched my cheek, then laid a kiss on it. "But I'll be watching you, just in case."
--------
When N. returned from the desert table with cookies and a bunch of grapes, he stopped by our table.
"Mommy, who was that old lady who kissed me on the head?"
I laughed. "N, you're going to have to be more specific than that. You just described about half the people in this room."
"The lady. The one with red in her shirt." I was shaking my head. "She kissed me on the head and said I should give you one of my cookies. She said I should make sure you eat. You eat, don't you?"
"Rachael," I said, laughing. "That would have been Rachael."
---------
As we were putting away the last of the salt shakers and bundling up the linen tablecloths for the laundry service to pick up, Sue grabbed me and pulled me into the kitchen, where she had a Vons bag tied up on the counter.
"This is for you. Leftovers," she said. "For all your help."
"Don't we want to give these to [name of homeless shelter we support]?"
"We have plenty of food boxed up for them," she said, waving me off. "I want you to have this. You need to eat."
I laughed. Hard. "Did Rachael put you up to this?" I asked.
Sue looked genuinely puzzled. "No. I just think you're looking too thin lately. Why would Rachael ask me to talk to you?"
"Never mind," I said, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek and taking my bag without further argument.
There is no escaping the old Jewish ladies. Not that I really want to.
Sunday afternoon, after religious school, I went back to Cantor Bob's sukkah, where I had lunch along with the rest of the synagogue's book club, and discussed our latest read. From there, I went back to the synagogue to help set up for our big Sukkot dinner; Baroy and the kids joined me soon thereafter. Luckily, that dinner was over by 8, though I stayed to help clean up and didn't get home until 9:30.
If it's possible to overdose on Judaism, this weekend would have done it.
----------
As I was setting out dishes of hummus and olives on the tables, Rachael grabbed me by the arm and essentially spun me around. It's sometimes hard to tell the ages of old Jewish ladies, I've found, either because their sheer indomitable will (and weekly visits to the beauty salon) keeps them looking the same year after year, or because, conversely, they are simply so old looking already, it's impossible to see any further aging. Rachael is very much in the former category, but I've got to figure she's closing in on 80, if she's not already there. So the force with which she grabbed me shocked me.
"You need to stop losing weight," she said, getting right in my face. "You need to EAT."
"Oh, trust me, Rachael," I laughed. "I eat."
"I don't like it," she muttered. "You're getting too thin. Promise me you'll EAT."
"I promise, I promise," I said, holding up my hands. (For the record, after losing close to 20 pounds over about a year's time--due entirely to having stopped taking psychiatric meds and due not at ALL to anything I've done about my diet--I haven't lost a pound in months. And, seriously? I'm not that thin. I'm not overweight any more, but I'm definitely not skinny. Still, you know how old Jewish ladies are. And if you don't...they're like Rachael. Almost every single one of them is like Rachael.)
"Good girl," she said, and reached up and pinched my cheek, then laid a kiss on it. "But I'll be watching you, just in case."
--------
When N. returned from the desert table with cookies and a bunch of grapes, he stopped by our table.
"Mommy, who was that old lady who kissed me on the head?"
I laughed. "N, you're going to have to be more specific than that. You just described about half the people in this room."
"The lady. The one with red in her shirt." I was shaking my head. "She kissed me on the head and said I should give you one of my cookies. She said I should make sure you eat. You eat, don't you?"
"Rachael," I said, laughing. "That would have been Rachael."
---------
As we were putting away the last of the salt shakers and bundling up the linen tablecloths for the laundry service to pick up, Sue grabbed me and pulled me into the kitchen, where she had a Vons bag tied up on the counter.
"This is for you. Leftovers," she said. "For all your help."
"Don't we want to give these to [name of homeless shelter we support]?"
"We have plenty of food boxed up for them," she said, waving me off. "I want you to have this. You need to eat."
I laughed. Hard. "Did Rachael put you up to this?" I asked.
Sue looked genuinely puzzled. "No. I just think you're looking too thin lately. Why would Rachael ask me to talk to you?"
"Never mind," I said, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek and taking my bag without further argument.
There is no escaping the old Jewish ladies. Not that I really want to.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Deep Thinkers
N turned to Baroy during N's golf lesson on Wednesday and suddenly asked, "Is God dead?"
Baroy, thrown, hesitated, then replied, "You know, N, that's a question that gets asked more often than you'd think on a golf course."
-------
Em, who is 11, decided she wanted to try to fast on Yom Kippur this year; she isn't actually 'commanded' to fast until after her Bat Mitzvah (and wouldn't have been 'permitted' to fast until the age of 9), but I wasn't going to stand in her way. I set a few ground rules: She wouldn't start until morning (since her soccer practice Wednesday night meant eating dinner after the fast officially started), no pushing it if she felt sick (rather than just hungry), and no fasting from liquids (i.e., she was to take sips of water if and when she felt particularly thirsty).
After the family service ended at around noon, Baroy got ready to take N home for the afternoon; I like to stay for some of the other services, and I also find it much easier to fast (or, rather, not to cheat) if I'm around a bunch of other people who are doing the same. Since Em's friend Sass was sticking around as well (her mom--one of my good friends--feels the same way I do), Em decided she too would avoid the temptations of home and stay with me. She went with Sass to the park while I went to the Yizkor and Musaf services, then came back to find me and a tiny handful of people hanging out in the office and chatting. She joined us for a little bit, then went with me to the unique service our synagogue has before we do the Mincha service. (Just for the record, we do an alternate Torah reading from the one mentioned in that article.) They call it a "healing" service, but what it is is a guided meditation--led by J, one of our congregants--built around some Judaic concept. (This time it was the word neshamah, which can mean both 'soul' and 'breath.')
And so, Em not only did her first fast, but she did her first guided meditation...and she loved every minute of it, falling so under the spell of J's voice (not hard to do; he has the absolute perfect voice and delivery for that sort of thing) that she actually drifted off a few times.
After that, it was easy for her; she walked in and out of the sanctuary during Mincha, then joined me again when Baroy and Noah arrived for the final service, the Neilah service, at the conclusion of which our rabbi always does a really lovely blessing over all the congregation's children, who gather up on the bima and who then join in on the concluding blowing of the shofar. Always gives me chills.
And then it was time to break the fast with orange juice (when WILL I learn to just SIP the juice and not gulp it down, sending my body into near shock with the sudden onrush of sugar after 25 hours of nothingness?) and challah. Em drank a bit, ate a piece of challah, and then proceeded to brag to every adult she could buttonhole for thirty seconds about how she'd done her first fast. And they all ooohed and aaahed over her until you practically could have READ by her, she was glowing so brightly.
I stood by, watched, and smiled, so very proud of my girl. Every year, at the Kol Nidre service that sort of 'kicks off' Yom Kippur, our rabbi talks about how many Jews will wish each other an "easy" fast, but that what he wishes us all is a meaningful fast...because, otherwise, why do it at all? Em had a meaningful fast, something I never had--or, frankly, really attempted--until I was in my 40s.
Then we went home and stuffed ourselves with carry-out fried chicken and potato chips. After all, we'd earned it. Especially Em.
Baroy, thrown, hesitated, then replied, "You know, N, that's a question that gets asked more often than you'd think on a golf course."
-------
Em, who is 11, decided she wanted to try to fast on Yom Kippur this year; she isn't actually 'commanded' to fast until after her Bat Mitzvah (and wouldn't have been 'permitted' to fast until the age of 9), but I wasn't going to stand in her way. I set a few ground rules: She wouldn't start until morning (since her soccer practice Wednesday night meant eating dinner after the fast officially started), no pushing it if she felt sick (rather than just hungry), and no fasting from liquids (i.e., she was to take sips of water if and when she felt particularly thirsty).
After the family service ended at around noon, Baroy got ready to take N home for the afternoon; I like to stay for some of the other services, and I also find it much easier to fast (or, rather, not to cheat) if I'm around a bunch of other people who are doing the same. Since Em's friend Sass was sticking around as well (her mom--one of my good friends--feels the same way I do), Em decided she too would avoid the temptations of home and stay with me. She went with Sass to the park while I went to the Yizkor and Musaf services, then came back to find me and a tiny handful of people hanging out in the office and chatting. She joined us for a little bit, then went with me to the unique service our synagogue has before we do the Mincha service. (Just for the record, we do an alternate Torah reading from the one mentioned in that article.) They call it a "healing" service, but what it is is a guided meditation--led by J, one of our congregants--built around some Judaic concept. (This time it was the word neshamah, which can mean both 'soul' and 'breath.')
And so, Em not only did her first fast, but she did her first guided meditation...and she loved every minute of it, falling so under the spell of J's voice (not hard to do; he has the absolute perfect voice and delivery for that sort of thing) that she actually drifted off a few times.
After that, it was easy for her; she walked in and out of the sanctuary during Mincha, then joined me again when Baroy and Noah arrived for the final service, the Neilah service, at the conclusion of which our rabbi always does a really lovely blessing over all the congregation's children, who gather up on the bima and who then join in on the concluding blowing of the shofar. Always gives me chills.
And then it was time to break the fast with orange juice (when WILL I learn to just SIP the juice and not gulp it down, sending my body into near shock with the sudden onrush of sugar after 25 hours of nothingness?) and challah. Em drank a bit, ate a piece of challah, and then proceeded to brag to every adult she could buttonhole for thirty seconds about how she'd done her first fast. And they all ooohed and aaahed over her until you practically could have READ by her, she was glowing so brightly.
I stood by, watched, and smiled, so very proud of my girl. Every year, at the Kol Nidre service that sort of 'kicks off' Yom Kippur, our rabbi talks about how many Jews will wish each other an "easy" fast, but that what he wishes us all is a meaningful fast...because, otherwise, why do it at all? Em had a meaningful fast, something I never had--or, frankly, really attempted--until I was in my 40s.
Then we went home and stuffed ourselves with carry-out fried chicken and potato chips. After all, we'd earned it. Especially Em.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Pious Boy
Em and N were arguing mildly about I-didn't-care-what when all of a sudden I heard Em gasp. "Mom!" she called to me, outrage in her voice. "N just flipped me off!"
I turned to my tiny, grinning, angelic-faced son. "EXCUSE ME?" I boomed. He stopped smiling.
"What did you just do to your sister?"
"I just did this," he said, extending his middle finger upwards, his other miniature digits curving in toward his palm.
"And what do you think that means?" I said, gathering up my strength for the screaming that was about to begin.
Without missing a beat, and without a trace of irony, he replied: "It means I'm pointing up to God in heaven."
I turned to my tiny, grinning, angelic-faced son. "EXCUSE ME?" I boomed. He stopped smiling.
"What did you just do to your sister?"
"I just did this," he said, extending his middle finger upwards, his other miniature digits curving in toward his palm.
"And what do you think that means?" I said, gathering up my strength for the screaming that was about to begin.
Without missing a beat, and without a trace of irony, he replied: "It means I'm pointing up to God in heaven."
Thursday, July 24, 2008
ADD Blogging
Last night I heard rustling outside the front window, and looked out to see one very large adult raccoon climb up into and then back down out of our tree...followed by SIX still-pretty-small offspring. I know I'm supposed to be horrified and freaked out, but they were so cute! Even Baroy was "aaaawwwww"ing all over the place.
It's 7:30 at night, and I cannot decide what to make for dinner. N didn't eat lunch until almost 3, so I'm OK for another half hour or so. But still. I really need to get a handle on this parenting thing. Apparently, nearly 11 years at this gig hasn't been enough.
I'm listening to The Brief, Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao on my iPod these days. This is how I know a book is totally kick-ass: I make up excuses to go for more than one long walk a day, just so I can listen to more of it. I can't tell you why I'm enjoying this book so much, but I am absolutely swept up in this story, and more than a little sad that I'm on the last disc. I hate when good books end.
It's easy to feed me; I eat anything and everything. It's my two guys who are a pain in the butt when it comes to dinner-making.
My new volunteer gig at my synagogue is putting together the monthly newsletter. To say that I'm already enjoying it more than I did heading up the religious school's PTA is a vast understatement. But there's an odd side to it. We're such an exceptionally small synagogue that I know the names--and, more often then not, the faces, the addresses and phone numbers, the children and/or parents of--every person who is on the lists of birthdays and anniversaries, thank yous and donations, condolences and yahrzeits. I now know who needs to light a candle for his grandmother in three weeks, and I know who gave a generous donation to the sisterhood fund. It all feels a little...voyeuristic, somehow
Speaking of yahrzeits, my first one for my father is fast approaching. In fact, his name was near the top of the yahrzeit list I just finished editing. This year, his yahrzeit falls on August 8 (because, as with all things Jewish, you don't commemorate a death based on the Roman calendar, but on the Jewish lunar-based calendar). This means I will be lighting the candle for him at sundown on August 7...which would have been his 70th birthday. That freaks me out a little, but mostly because it gives the whole thing a much larger significance and import than it's likely to have for me, to be honest.
Maybe I'll just make some fish sticks for N. Baroy and I can fend for ourselves.
It's 7:30 at night, and I cannot decide what to make for dinner. N didn't eat lunch until almost 3, so I'm OK for another half hour or so. But still. I really need to get a handle on this parenting thing. Apparently, nearly 11 years at this gig hasn't been enough.
I'm listening to The Brief, Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao on my iPod these days. This is how I know a book is totally kick-ass: I make up excuses to go for more than one long walk a day, just so I can listen to more of it. I can't tell you why I'm enjoying this book so much, but I am absolutely swept up in this story, and more than a little sad that I'm on the last disc. I hate when good books end.
It's easy to feed me; I eat anything and everything. It's my two guys who are a pain in the butt when it comes to dinner-making.
My new volunteer gig at my synagogue is putting together the monthly newsletter. To say that I'm already enjoying it more than I did heading up the religious school's PTA is a vast understatement. But there's an odd side to it. We're such an exceptionally small synagogue that I know the names--and, more often then not, the faces, the addresses and phone numbers, the children and/or parents of--every person who is on the lists of birthdays and anniversaries, thank yous and donations, condolences and yahrzeits. I now know who needs to light a candle for his grandmother in three weeks, and I know who gave a generous donation to the sisterhood fund. It all feels a little...voyeuristic, somehow
Speaking of yahrzeits, my first one for my father is fast approaching. In fact, his name was near the top of the yahrzeit list I just finished editing. This year, his yahrzeit falls on August 8 (because, as with all things Jewish, you don't commemorate a death based on the Roman calendar, but on the Jewish lunar-based calendar). This means I will be lighting the candle for him at sundown on August 7...which would have been his 70th birthday. That freaks me out a little, but mostly because it gives the whole thing a much larger significance and import than it's likely to have for me, to be honest.
Maybe I'll just make some fish sticks for N. Baroy and I can fend for ourselves.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Soul Searching
N came with me this afternoon when I dropped Em off at a sleepover; she’s staying the night with a friend from Hebrew school, and N likes the friend’s mom a lot. So we hung out for a few, and N splashed around in the pool of the girl’s apartment complex—it was 97 degrees there in the valley, at 4:30 in the afternoon.
On the way home, he asked me to turn off the CD that was playing. “I have a question,” he announced.
“Yes?” I answered.
“Where in your body is your soul?”
Where did THAT come from? Where did he hear about the soul? And what is it about moving vehicles that shakes forth these kinds of questions from my kids?
“Well, that’s hard to answer, N. Your soul isn’t something you can see on an x-ray, like your heart or your lungs.”
“Or your bones.”
“Right.”
“So where is it?”
“I’m not sure. It’s not an actual ‘thing,’ so I’m not sure it has a place in the body. There are people who aren’t even sure there is such a thing as a soul, and that’s mostly because nobody can point to it and see it.”
Silence. Kids hate when you give them answers like that, that have no meaning to them.
“You know who might be able to answer that question for you? Your friend, Rabbi. Souls are really about having a little piece of God in you, so maybe he could help you figure out where you soul is.”
“Weeeeelllllll....” That didn’t seem to help much; he wanted an answer then and there. “Doesn’t God know where my soul is?”
“I would guess God would know if anyone does.”
“Good.” Finally, he seemed satisfied. “Then I’m just going to ask God, then. Maybe he’ll tell me.”
And he closed his eyes for a second, then popped them open again. “You can turn the music back on Mama. I can talk to God with the music on.”
-----------
When Em has a sleepover at a friend's, leaving N behind, we let N sleep up in our room if he wants. He always wants. He starts the night on Baroy's side of the bed, where we read books and cuddle until he falls asleep; when Baroy comes up for the night, he shifts N into his sleeping bag.
Because my social butterfly of a daughter has so many sleepovers, this has become quite the oft-played-out ritual.
Tonight, I was putting laundry away in my room when I realized it was already past nine, so I told N to go get his stuffed animals and his special pillow and his sleeping bag. "Don't try to bring them all up at once," I cautioned. "It's OK if you need to make a few trips."
He was gone for a while, but then came bumping up the stairs, carrying a stuffed-to-the-brim tie-dye sack over his shoulder, like some midget Jewish hippie version of Santa. (How he found that sack, I have no idea; it originally contained a flannel sheet set. I thought we'd gotten rid of it ages ago.)
He dumped about two dozen stuffed animals onto the floor, naming them all for me as he went: "That's Spotty, and that's Blackster, and that's Shut-the-Door, and that's Charlie, and that's...I don't remember his name...and nope, can’t remember that one, either." When the bag was empty, he slung it back over his shoulder.
The next two trips were to get the pillow and sleeping bag, but on the fourth and final trip, the sack reappeared. This time, it was too heavy for him to lift. "I have billions of books in here!" he announced.
By then, I had finished with the laundry and had already queued up a movie to watch on my computer while he fell asleep. "Oh, honey," I said, coming down the stairs. "We can't read all those books tonight. I don't even know if we'll get a chance to read any."
He ignored that last bit. "OK. I'll just bring a couple of books, don't worry, Mama."
He returned to his room for a bit, then eventually came upstairs with the sack still over his shoulder, but only his two current favorite library books were in it, books with easy-to-read riddles in them, books we've read a ridiculous number of time. (What time is it when an elephant sits on your fence?)
While he finished setting up his sleeping bag, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and do all those before-bed things; when I came out, he’d fallen asleep in the middle of his stuffed animals, but popped up the second I came into the room.
“OK,” he announced. “Let’s read the Halloween riddle book first.”
“No,” I said. “I’m going to watch my movie. It’s late, and I want you to get into bed here and go back to sleep.”
“But, but...” he protested.
“NO,” I repeated. “Not tonight. We’ll read them tomorrow.”
“No we won’t,” he said, beginning to pout. “You’ll sleep all the time and then you’ll have to do work or something and you won’t read them with me.”
“I will, I promise,” I said. “Even if I sleep in a bit, when I get up, I’ll read to you.”
“But they’re my favorite books,” he said, slightly teary. “And I want to read with you before I go to sleep.”
“No,” I said, not really looking at him, because I was too busy playing with the volume on the movie and fast-forwarding past commercials, and because I was getting annoyed. “Now go to bed, or I really WON’T read them with you in the morning.”
And so he got into the bed next to me, and I turned on my movie, and within three minutes, he was fast asleep, breathing steadily. I looked over at him, and suddenly my heart was in my throat. My beautiful little boy, left behind yet again. All he wanted was ten minutes from me, just a few scraps of my attention, and I couldn’t find it in my heart—I couldn’t find it in my soul—to give them to him. It took everything I had at that point to stop myself from interrupting his sweet sleep and saying, “Let’s read some riddles now. I want to read riddles now. I’m so sorry I said no, again. I’m sorry I put you off. I’m sorry I do it so often.”
But that would have been selfish. That would have been about making me feel better, not him.
Maybe if I knew where my soul was, I wouldn’t keep failing him all the time.
On the way home, he asked me to turn off the CD that was playing. “I have a question,” he announced.
“Yes?” I answered.
“Where in your body is your soul?”
Where did THAT come from? Where did he hear about the soul? And what is it about moving vehicles that shakes forth these kinds of questions from my kids?
“Well, that’s hard to answer, N. Your soul isn’t something you can see on an x-ray, like your heart or your lungs.”
“Or your bones.”
“Right.”
“So where is it?”
“I’m not sure. It’s not an actual ‘thing,’ so I’m not sure it has a place in the body. There are people who aren’t even sure there is such a thing as a soul, and that’s mostly because nobody can point to it and see it.”
Silence. Kids hate when you give them answers like that, that have no meaning to them.
“You know who might be able to answer that question for you? Your friend, Rabbi. Souls are really about having a little piece of God in you, so maybe he could help you figure out where you soul is.”
“Weeeeelllllll....” That didn’t seem to help much; he wanted an answer then and there. “Doesn’t God know where my soul is?”
“I would guess God would know if anyone does.”
“Good.” Finally, he seemed satisfied. “Then I’m just going to ask God, then. Maybe he’ll tell me.”
And he closed his eyes for a second, then popped them open again. “You can turn the music back on Mama. I can talk to God with the music on.”
-----------
When Em has a sleepover at a friend's, leaving N behind, we let N sleep up in our room if he wants. He always wants. He starts the night on Baroy's side of the bed, where we read books and cuddle until he falls asleep; when Baroy comes up for the night, he shifts N into his sleeping bag.
Because my social butterfly of a daughter has so many sleepovers, this has become quite the oft-played-out ritual.
Tonight, I was putting laundry away in my room when I realized it was already past nine, so I told N to go get his stuffed animals and his special pillow and his sleeping bag. "Don't try to bring them all up at once," I cautioned. "It's OK if you need to make a few trips."
He was gone for a while, but then came bumping up the stairs, carrying a stuffed-to-the-brim tie-dye sack over his shoulder, like some midget Jewish hippie version of Santa. (How he found that sack, I have no idea; it originally contained a flannel sheet set. I thought we'd gotten rid of it ages ago.)
He dumped about two dozen stuffed animals onto the floor, naming them all for me as he went: "That's Spotty, and that's Blackster, and that's Shut-the-Door, and that's Charlie, and that's...I don't remember his name...and nope, can’t remember that one, either." When the bag was empty, he slung it back over his shoulder.
The next two trips were to get the pillow and sleeping bag, but on the fourth and final trip, the sack reappeared. This time, it was too heavy for him to lift. "I have billions of books in here!" he announced.
By then, I had finished with the laundry and had already queued up a movie to watch on my computer while he fell asleep. "Oh, honey," I said, coming down the stairs. "We can't read all those books tonight. I don't even know if we'll get a chance to read any."
He ignored that last bit. "OK. I'll just bring a couple of books, don't worry, Mama."
He returned to his room for a bit, then eventually came upstairs with the sack still over his shoulder, but only his two current favorite library books were in it, books with easy-to-read riddles in them, books we've read a ridiculous number of time. (What time is it when an elephant sits on your fence?)
While he finished setting up his sleeping bag, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and do all those before-bed things; when I came out, he’d fallen asleep in the middle of his stuffed animals, but popped up the second I came into the room.
“OK,” he announced. “Let’s read the Halloween riddle book first.”
“No,” I said. “I’m going to watch my movie. It’s late, and I want you to get into bed here and go back to sleep.”
“But, but...” he protested.
“NO,” I repeated. “Not tonight. We’ll read them tomorrow.”
“No we won’t,” he said, beginning to pout. “You’ll sleep all the time and then you’ll have to do work or something and you won’t read them with me.”
“I will, I promise,” I said. “Even if I sleep in a bit, when I get up, I’ll read to you.”
“But they’re my favorite books,” he said, slightly teary. “And I want to read with you before I go to sleep.”
“No,” I said, not really looking at him, because I was too busy playing with the volume on the movie and fast-forwarding past commercials, and because I was getting annoyed. “Now go to bed, or I really WON’T read them with you in the morning.”
And so he got into the bed next to me, and I turned on my movie, and within three minutes, he was fast asleep, breathing steadily. I looked over at him, and suddenly my heart was in my throat. My beautiful little boy, left behind yet again. All he wanted was ten minutes from me, just a few scraps of my attention, and I couldn’t find it in my heart—I couldn’t find it in my soul—to give them to him. It took everything I had at that point to stop myself from interrupting his sweet sleep and saying, “Let’s read some riddles now. I want to read riddles now. I’m so sorry I said no, again. I’m sorry I put you off. I’m sorry I do it so often.”
But that would have been selfish. That would have been about making me feel better, not him.
Maybe if I knew where my soul was, I wouldn’t keep failing him all the time.
Friday, April 25, 2008
God is Mean
Bread is one thing. Bread I can deal with. But I am thigh-deep in PMS-y hormones, and I don't just want a beer...I NEED a beer. And I may not have a beer. Because it has yeast. And yeast makes bread rise. And therefore, that yeasty hop-ish goodness is forbidden to me for another 48 hours, almost to the second. Not that I'm counting or anything. (Make that 47 hours, 57 minutes.)
**********
I've been up in arms these last few weeks about a possibly too silly and definitely too complicated to write out safety issue at my kids' school. Oddly, I seem to be the only one who finds this safety issue upsetting; or, at least, I'm the only one who has been letting it gnaw at her for weeks.
Which is not to say that I've kept quiet about it. When I first heard about the changes that would introduce this safety issue, I wrote a note to the principal and the parent who was spearheading the pilot project I was objecting to, expressing my concerns. I got nothing from the principal, and only a condescending "Well, if you're concerned, then come help us institute the changes!" note from the parent. (Um, no. I think what you're doing is stupid. Why would I HELP YOU do it?)
After the project had been running for a week, it was discussed at a PTA meeting. I stood up and made a rather impassioned speech about my concerns, and it was met with enough head-bobbing that I thought I'd gotten through to them.
Then we went on spring break, and when we came back to school this week...the pilot project had become a permanent policy. Oh, HELL no. I was just NOT taking that lying down.
And so, yesterday, I sent a note to the PTA president--who is a friend of mine, a woman I truly adore--telling her that I was resigning from the PTA Executive Board effective immediately, due to the fact that I was going to have to fight this new policy, starting with the principal, and moving on to the school board and the newspapers, if necessary. And I felt that since the PTA board was a co-sponsor of this program, it would be wrong for me to actively act against the board while being ON it.
Long story short: There is a meeting scheduled for Monday to discuss altering the new program to deal with my concerns, and I've been asked to withdraw my resignation pending the outcome of those discussions.
I am thrilled on one hand...and feeling horribly guilty on the other. Because I think I was a bit of a bully. I mean, I was perfectly ready to follow up on my resignation and wage a one-woman war over this issue; I feel it's that important. But at the same time, I was sort of hoping that by threatening to resign, I'd get some action. And, in fact, my friend told me that she immediately called the principal and said, "We can't afford to lose TC; please do something." And that is what led to the scheduling of the Monday meeting.
So, if in the end I win, then really, any means necessary, right? But there's still guilt in knowing that if I were most any other mother, nobody would have paid me any attention here. Actually, the guilt is in knowing that half the reason I do the things I do at the school is so that I'm NOT any other mother, and that when I need a favor, people are more inclined to do it for me. Or, in this case, when I need to push my weight around, I have enough weight to do it. But is that fair? Does that tarnish the things I do for the school, if they're not really selfless, if I'm sort of saving up chits that I will later call in?
Hey, God, did I mention that I really NEED that beer?
**********
I've been up in arms these last few weeks about a possibly too silly and definitely too complicated to write out safety issue at my kids' school. Oddly, I seem to be the only one who finds this safety issue upsetting; or, at least, I'm the only one who has been letting it gnaw at her for weeks.
Which is not to say that I've kept quiet about it. When I first heard about the changes that would introduce this safety issue, I wrote a note to the principal and the parent who was spearheading the pilot project I was objecting to, expressing my concerns. I got nothing from the principal, and only a condescending "Well, if you're concerned, then come help us institute the changes!" note from the parent. (Um, no. I think what you're doing is stupid. Why would I HELP YOU do it?)
After the project had been running for a week, it was discussed at a PTA meeting. I stood up and made a rather impassioned speech about my concerns, and it was met with enough head-bobbing that I thought I'd gotten through to them.
Then we went on spring break, and when we came back to school this week...the pilot project had become a permanent policy. Oh, HELL no. I was just NOT taking that lying down.
And so, yesterday, I sent a note to the PTA president--who is a friend of mine, a woman I truly adore--telling her that I was resigning from the PTA Executive Board effective immediately, due to the fact that I was going to have to fight this new policy, starting with the principal, and moving on to the school board and the newspapers, if necessary. And I felt that since the PTA board was a co-sponsor of this program, it would be wrong for me to actively act against the board while being ON it.
Long story short: There is a meeting scheduled for Monday to discuss altering the new program to deal with my concerns, and I've been asked to withdraw my resignation pending the outcome of those discussions.
I am thrilled on one hand...and feeling horribly guilty on the other. Because I think I was a bit of a bully. I mean, I was perfectly ready to follow up on my resignation and wage a one-woman war over this issue; I feel it's that important. But at the same time, I was sort of hoping that by threatening to resign, I'd get some action. And, in fact, my friend told me that she immediately called the principal and said, "We can't afford to lose TC; please do something." And that is what led to the scheduling of the Monday meeting.
So, if in the end I win, then really, any means necessary, right? But there's still guilt in knowing that if I were most any other mother, nobody would have paid me any attention here. Actually, the guilt is in knowing that half the reason I do the things I do at the school is so that I'm NOT any other mother, and that when I need a favor, people are more inclined to do it for me. Or, in this case, when I need to push my weight around, I have enough weight to do it. But is that fair? Does that tarnish the things I do for the school, if they're not really selfless, if I'm sort of saving up chits that I will later call in?
Hey, God, did I mention that I really NEED that beer?
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
If I Tried To Tell You
If I tried to tell you about our weekend--really tell you about it--you might not understand. That's what's been keeping me quiet these past few days. Telling you about it and having you not understand would be worse than not telling you at all. Because it meant so much to me, that would hurt too much.
Plus, I'm not good with this kind of writing...the kind about emotions that you can't really label or explain in concrete terms. So, if I tried to tell you about our weekend in the earnest and "please understand me" way I'd like to, I would probably fail. And that, too, would hurt.
So, instead, I'm just going to give you the outline of our weekend, without the attempt at the emotional impact. Most of you, I'm betting, will be able to read between at least some of the lines and understand.
The background: Em, N, and I spent the weekend at a 'family camp' in the Malibu mountains, participating with about 60 of our temple friends in what is known as a Shabbaton. (The weekend was expensive enough to make it not worth dragging Baroy--who wasn't especially excited about the whole 'camp' thing in the first place--along and have to worry about boarding Snug and all that.) Although it was sponsored by the synagogue's religious school, of which I am the PTA president, the Shabbaton was planned by a group of women who allowed me to stay almost entirely on the periphery, and thus I was able to simply sit back and enjoy the weekend without feeling the need to 'work it' at all.
Because of the religious school link, the majority of the participants were parents with school-aged children, and the place we gathered treated our gathering somewhat like a traditional summer camp, with separate bunks for the children (who were divided by gender and had counselors who slept with them) and for adults (also divided by gender, but without the obvious need for counselors to keep us on the straight and narrow), as well as motel-style rooms for those adults who didn't want to sleep apart from their partners or en masse in a room full of bunk beds.
The outline:
1. I slept in a bunk with six other of my girlfriends. (Hint for reading between this line: Even though the bunk was cold and some of my roomies snored, there was a remarkable amount of giggling that went on among us all-over-40 ladies.)
2. Em slept in a bunk with her counselors and six of her girlfriends. (Hint for reading between this line: If Em could LIVE in a bunk with six of her girlfriends, she'd totally do it. She was BORN for this kind of weekend.)
3. After initially insisting that he was going to sleep with Mama and absolutely no way would he sleep in a bunk, and did he say no way? because really, no way...and after being told this was FINE, this was what I expected, it was entirely up to him...N slept in a bunk with his counselors and four of his friends. (Hint for reading between this line: Oh, please. If you don't get the ENORMOUS MONUMENTALNESS of that statement, you know nothing about my son. The fact that I just made up a word like monumentalness should give it away. If not, the fact that I told the two 18-year-old counselors who managed to change N's mind about his sleeping arrangements in under two hours that I was going to buy each of them a car might also give you an idea.)
4. During Friday night services, N found himself outside behind the full-wall plate-glass window that faced the congregation, and decided it was the perfect opportunity to do a little tap-dance while the rabbi was leading us in the Shema. (Hint for reading between this line: Although Em and I are still cringing in embarrassment, I'm pretty sure it was that moment that made N the complete and total darling of not only every member of our congregation, but every staff member at the camp. Man, did those college kids eat him up!)
5. During Saturday morning services, Em and her class got up in front of everyone and led several of the prayers, including the v'ahavta, which is the prayer that follows the shema. (Hint for reading between this line: It was Em's voice leading all her classmates'; she sang with power and understanding. She KNOWS this prayer. This is something that makes me melt with pride...and maybe a little jealousy, since I've been trying to learn it for ages, but can't read enough Hebrew yet to do it right.)
6. During the family activities Saturday morning, Em had a full-scale freak-out at the thought of trying the ropes course/zip line, and yet managed to go a little way up the rock wall, even if she was sobbing throughout and for as much as 10 minutes after. When she'd calmed a little, she went with N and I to tie-dye t-shirts and was so cheerful that people kept asking her if she had allergies, never suspecting that her eyes were swollen from crying. (Hint for reading between this line: Em's ability to bounce back in the face of even self-imposed adversity is awesome. She inspires me.)
7. During the adult activities Saturday afternoon, I went on a hike in the mountains, took a yoga class, was transported through an hour-long meditation that felt like maybe 15 minutes, and then sat at the top of a hill with a small group of my friends as the sun began to set, studying Torah with the rabbi. (Hint for reading between this line: Every single moment of those four-plus hours was sublimely spiritual in a way I don't think I've ever experienced before.)
8. Did I mention that N slept in a bunk? Away from me? With kids his own age? And that he went to every single activity they did, and even participated in some of them? And did I mention that this is absolutely unprecedented? (Once again, no between-the-lines reading needed.)
9. During the Saturday night campfire and sing-along, N--apparently exhausted by the unprecedented monumentalness of the weekend--fell asleep in my arms as I rocked him back and forth. Em, just a few bodies down from me, came over and smoothed the hair away from his forehead and kissed him gently, then kissed me and went back to swaying with her arms around her friends, singing at the top of her lungs. The girls' bunk later went on a late-night flashlight hike, and apparently laid on top of a big rock and studied the stars. (Hint for reading between this line: This is exactly the kind of childhood experience I want for my kids.)
10. Once the kids were settled in with their counselors each night, I realized I was totally and completely off the hook. We kidless grownups were feted with wine and cheese the first night, and martinis and kick-ass guacamole the second in the camp's 'conference center.' We schmoozed and laughed and bonded, and kept marveling over and over at how it was perhaps the first time that we all had been able to really talk without one or more children interrupting for food or water or to have us settle an argument. (Hint for reading between this line: This is exactly the kind of adult experience I want for me. Not every day, and not even every week. But sometimes, being really and truly not-the-mama even for just a few hours is incredibly refreshing.)
11. At the 'closing circle' organized by the camp director, kids and adults were encouraged to share their feelings about the weekend. More than a few voices--including a couple of adult male voices--broke while speaking. (Hint for reading between this line: It's one thing to find a particular experience remarkable. It's another to realize that you're not alone and that, in fact, there are many others who felt exactly as you did, even if you can't really express how you feel. That, I think, is the very definition of gratification.)
Don't get me wrong. I've had wonderful experiences before, and I hope to have many more in the future. This one was different simply in that it was so unexpected. When we do our annual trip to Big Bear, when we travel to visit family, when we went on our cruise a few years back...I have and do look forward to those sorts of events with delicious anticipation. In this case...well, frankly, I looked forward to it with wariness and more than a dose of dread about just how difficult it would be to handle the whole roughing it aspect with N hanging on to my arm for 48 hours and no Baroy around to help me out. So when what came to pass came to pass, when the reality so outstripped what I was anticipating, it almost felt like some kind of cosmic surprise party. ("Really? All for me? Oh, you shouldn't have.")
In other words, this was not the One True Transformative Experience of My Life or anything like that. But still. If I tried to tell you how much it meant to me, how much my mood has lifted and my soul calmed...I'm certain I'd come up short. In fact, I know I have.
Plus, I'm not good with this kind of writing...the kind about emotions that you can't really label or explain in concrete terms. So, if I tried to tell you about our weekend in the earnest and "please understand me" way I'd like to, I would probably fail. And that, too, would hurt.
So, instead, I'm just going to give you the outline of our weekend, without the attempt at the emotional impact. Most of you, I'm betting, will be able to read between at least some of the lines and understand.
The background: Em, N, and I spent the weekend at a 'family camp' in the Malibu mountains, participating with about 60 of our temple friends in what is known as a Shabbaton. (The weekend was expensive enough to make it not worth dragging Baroy--who wasn't especially excited about the whole 'camp' thing in the first place--along and have to worry about boarding Snug and all that.) Although it was sponsored by the synagogue's religious school, of which I am the PTA president, the Shabbaton was planned by a group of women who allowed me to stay almost entirely on the periphery, and thus I was able to simply sit back and enjoy the weekend without feeling the need to 'work it' at all.
Because of the religious school link, the majority of the participants were parents with school-aged children, and the place we gathered treated our gathering somewhat like a traditional summer camp, with separate bunks for the children (who were divided by gender and had counselors who slept with them) and for adults (also divided by gender, but without the obvious need for counselors to keep us on the straight and narrow), as well as motel-style rooms for those adults who didn't want to sleep apart from their partners or en masse in a room full of bunk beds.
The outline:
1. I slept in a bunk with six other of my girlfriends. (Hint for reading between this line: Even though the bunk was cold and some of my roomies snored, there was a remarkable amount of giggling that went on among us all-over-40 ladies.)
2. Em slept in a bunk with her counselors and six of her girlfriends. (Hint for reading between this line: If Em could LIVE in a bunk with six of her girlfriends, she'd totally do it. She was BORN for this kind of weekend.)
3. After initially insisting that he was going to sleep with Mama and absolutely no way would he sleep in a bunk, and did he say no way? because really, no way...and after being told this was FINE, this was what I expected, it was entirely up to him...N slept in a bunk with his counselors and four of his friends. (Hint for reading between this line: Oh, please. If you don't get the ENORMOUS MONUMENTALNESS of that statement, you know nothing about my son. The fact that I just made up a word like monumentalness should give it away. If not, the fact that I told the two 18-year-old counselors who managed to change N's mind about his sleeping arrangements in under two hours that I was going to buy each of them a car might also give you an idea.)
4. During Friday night services, N found himself outside behind the full-wall plate-glass window that faced the congregation, and decided it was the perfect opportunity to do a little tap-dance while the rabbi was leading us in the Shema. (Hint for reading between this line: Although Em and I are still cringing in embarrassment, I'm pretty sure it was that moment that made N the complete and total darling of not only every member of our congregation, but every staff member at the camp. Man, did those college kids eat him up!)
5. During Saturday morning services, Em and her class got up in front of everyone and led several of the prayers, including the v'ahavta, which is the prayer that follows the shema. (Hint for reading between this line: It was Em's voice leading all her classmates'; she sang with power and understanding. She KNOWS this prayer. This is something that makes me melt with pride...and maybe a little jealousy, since I've been trying to learn it for ages, but can't read enough Hebrew yet to do it right.)
6. During the family activities Saturday morning, Em had a full-scale freak-out at the thought of trying the ropes course/zip line, and yet managed to go a little way up the rock wall, even if she was sobbing throughout and for as much as 10 minutes after. When she'd calmed a little, she went with N and I to tie-dye t-shirts and was so cheerful that people kept asking her if she had allergies, never suspecting that her eyes were swollen from crying. (Hint for reading between this line: Em's ability to bounce back in the face of even self-imposed adversity is awesome. She inspires me.)
7. During the adult activities Saturday afternoon, I went on a hike in the mountains, took a yoga class, was transported through an hour-long meditation that felt like maybe 15 minutes, and then sat at the top of a hill with a small group of my friends as the sun began to set, studying Torah with the rabbi. (Hint for reading between this line: Every single moment of those four-plus hours was sublimely spiritual in a way I don't think I've ever experienced before.)
8. Did I mention that N slept in a bunk? Away from me? With kids his own age? And that he went to every single activity they did, and even participated in some of them? And did I mention that this is absolutely unprecedented? (Once again, no between-the-lines reading needed.)
9. During the Saturday night campfire and sing-along, N--apparently exhausted by the unprecedented monumentalness of the weekend--fell asleep in my arms as I rocked him back and forth. Em, just a few bodies down from me, came over and smoothed the hair away from his forehead and kissed him gently, then kissed me and went back to swaying with her arms around her friends, singing at the top of her lungs. The girls' bunk later went on a late-night flashlight hike, and apparently laid on top of a big rock and studied the stars. (Hint for reading between this line: This is exactly the kind of childhood experience I want for my kids.)
10. Once the kids were settled in with their counselors each night, I realized I was totally and completely off the hook. We kidless grownups were feted with wine and cheese the first night, and martinis and kick-ass guacamole the second in the camp's 'conference center.' We schmoozed and laughed and bonded, and kept marveling over and over at how it was perhaps the first time that we all had been able to really talk without one or more children interrupting for food or water or to have us settle an argument. (Hint for reading between this line: This is exactly the kind of adult experience I want for me. Not every day, and not even every week. But sometimes, being really and truly not-the-mama even for just a few hours is incredibly refreshing.)
11. At the 'closing circle' organized by the camp director, kids and adults were encouraged to share their feelings about the weekend. More than a few voices--including a couple of adult male voices--broke while speaking. (Hint for reading between this line: It's one thing to find a particular experience remarkable. It's another to realize that you're not alone and that, in fact, there are many others who felt exactly as you did, even if you can't really express how you feel. That, I think, is the very definition of gratification.)
Don't get me wrong. I've had wonderful experiences before, and I hope to have many more in the future. This one was different simply in that it was so unexpected. When we do our annual trip to Big Bear, when we travel to visit family, when we went on our cruise a few years back...I have and do look forward to those sorts of events with delicious anticipation. In this case...well, frankly, I looked forward to it with wariness and more than a dose of dread about just how difficult it would be to handle the whole roughing it aspect with N hanging on to my arm for 48 hours and no Baroy around to help me out. So when what came to pass came to pass, when the reality so outstripped what I was anticipating, it almost felt like some kind of cosmic surprise party. ("Really? All for me? Oh, you shouldn't have.")
In other words, this was not the One True Transformative Experience of My Life or anything like that. But still. If I tried to tell you how much it meant to me, how much my mood has lifted and my soul calmed...I'm certain I'd come up short. In fact, I know I have.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Starring As...Myself
Tomorrow night Purim begins; Em is 'acting' the part of Queen Esther during the Megillah reading at our synagogue, and has been planning out her costume incessantly. N made himself about a dozen different masks at the Purim Carnival on Sunday, so he's covered, too.
"And what are *you* coming as?" my friend F asked me.
"An overworked, overcommitted, totally frazzled mother of two," I replied without hesitation. "And you?"
And with that, I hope you'll understand when I say that I have no time to write anything more tonight. I'm much too busy getting into costume.
"And what are *you* coming as?" my friend F asked me.
"An overworked, overcommitted, totally frazzled mother of two," I replied without hesitation. "And you?"
And with that, I hope you'll understand when I say that I have no time to write anything more tonight. I'm much too busy getting into costume.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Little Moments of Judaism
1. Last night, Em, N and I were watching the Canadian television version of Anne of Green Gables (which Em and I recently read together), when one of the characters said of another, "She's a real gimlet." At which point N suddenly burst out, "Huh? I didn't know she knows Hebrew!"
"Hebrew?" I asked, genuinely confused for about 30 seconds, at which point I burst out laughing. "Oh, no, sweetie. She said gimlet, not gimel."
My 7-year-old totally knows more Hebrew than I do, even if he's not quite so hot on English vocabulary. I love it.
2. We had a Religious School Saturday morning Shabbat service this morning (followed by a potluck luncheon organized and 'hosted' by yours truly that went very nicely, thank goodness, though the Critical Ladies made sure to let me know about everything I did that wasn't EXACTLY the way they would have done it). We have an exceptionally small religious school--fewer than 30 kids in grades K through 6--so each and every kid got to be a real part of the event. Even N, who is pretty shy when it comes to speaking Hebrew out loud, stood up front and paid attention when his class was asked to do the Shema.
Em's fourth-and-fifth-grade class (all girls) led us in a number of the songs and prayers, and then almost literally fought one another for the privilege of carrying the Torah around before and after the Torah service. In the end, the Religious School Director, who is also a rabbi, let the girls hand it off to one another as they proceeded around the social hall where we were holding the service. They all looked so proud; it was, for most if not all of them, the first time they've been allowed to hold a 'real' Torah.
Still, it came as a surprise to me when, during our nightly "Best and Worst" dinner conversation, Em announced that she had two bests, one being the fact that her friend E had come home with us after services for a playdate/sleepover and the other being "that I got to carry to Torah. That was one of the coolest things ever."
If I ever needed a sign to let me know that this religious education thing is having the sort of effect I hoped it would, it would be hearing my daughter use the words "Torah" and "coolest thing ever" in the same paragraph.
"Hebrew?" I asked, genuinely confused for about 30 seconds, at which point I burst out laughing. "Oh, no, sweetie. She said gimlet, not gimel."
My 7-year-old totally knows more Hebrew than I do, even if he's not quite so hot on English vocabulary. I love it.
2. We had a Religious School Saturday morning Shabbat service this morning (followed by a potluck luncheon organized and 'hosted' by yours truly that went very nicely, thank goodness, though the Critical Ladies made sure to let me know about everything I did that wasn't EXACTLY the way they would have done it). We have an exceptionally small religious school--fewer than 30 kids in grades K through 6--so each and every kid got to be a real part of the event. Even N, who is pretty shy when it comes to speaking Hebrew out loud, stood up front and paid attention when his class was asked to do the Shema.
Em's fourth-and-fifth-grade class (all girls) led us in a number of the songs and prayers, and then almost literally fought one another for the privilege of carrying the Torah around before and after the Torah service. In the end, the Religious School Director, who is also a rabbi, let the girls hand it off to one another as they proceeded around the social hall where we were holding the service. They all looked so proud; it was, for most if not all of them, the first time they've been allowed to hold a 'real' Torah.
Still, it came as a surprise to me when, during our nightly "Best and Worst" dinner conversation, Em announced that she had two bests, one being the fact that her friend E had come home with us after services for a playdate/sleepover and the other being "that I got to carry to Torah. That was one of the coolest things ever."
If I ever needed a sign to let me know that this religious education thing is having the sort of effect I hoped it would, it would be hearing my daughter use the words "Torah" and "coolest thing ever" in the same paragraph.
Monday, November 12, 2007
My cross to bear
We were trolling the not-as-good-as-the-one-on-Saturday, more-flea-than-farmer's market yesterday. I'd gotten some pumpkin-sized yellow peppers and the more-petite red ones, as well as a bag full of not-as-ripe-as-I'd-hoped tomatoes, and was letting the kids have a look at some of the other booths before we headed back home. Em was lingering for quite a while at a hand-made jewelry booth, so N started looking, too.
"I like that one best of all," he announced definitively, pointing vaguely at the counter, mere seconds after he'd joined Em.
"That's nice, dear," I said in my best I-am-actually-paying-zero-attention-to-you-but-am-trying-to-fake-it voice as I peered a few stands over to see if they had mushrooms. (Not a 'shroom to be found at this farmer's market. Feh.)
"I DEFinitely like that one best of all," he repeated. I glanced over at him, only to find him pointing at an easily six-inch-long cross.
Greeeeaaaaaaat. "You like that, huh?"
"Yep. It's the best one here."
The lady behind the counter was watching me now, slightly expectant, figuring on a Christmas sale, I'm guessing. I couldn't resist; I kept her in the corner of my eye as I leaned in toward N and said, in a stage whisper, "It's very nice, but it's not really meant for a Jewish boy like you. That's meant for someone who goes to church, not to temple."
And I smiled sweetly at the clearly eye-rolling lady behind the counter (oh, please, lady; like I'd buy a six-inch-long cross for a barely three-foot-tall boy under any circumstances), took my son's hand, and led him and his sister away from the booth, while he kept repeating, "But it's the best one!"
Thank god for the distraction of a family-size bag of kettle corn. Nothing like a little salt, butter, and sugar to derail a budding Jew for Jesus, I guess.
"I like that one best of all," he announced definitively, pointing vaguely at the counter, mere seconds after he'd joined Em.
"That's nice, dear," I said in my best I-am-actually-paying-zero-attention-to-you-but-am-trying-to-fake-it voice as I peered a few stands over to see if they had mushrooms. (Not a 'shroom to be found at this farmer's market. Feh.)
"I DEFinitely like that one best of all," he repeated. I glanced over at him, only to find him pointing at an easily six-inch-long cross.
Greeeeaaaaaaat. "You like that, huh?"
"Yep. It's the best one here."
The lady behind the counter was watching me now, slightly expectant, figuring on a Christmas sale, I'm guessing. I couldn't resist; I kept her in the corner of my eye as I leaned in toward N and said, in a stage whisper, "It's very nice, but it's not really meant for a Jewish boy like you. That's meant for someone who goes to church, not to temple."
And I smiled sweetly at the clearly eye-rolling lady behind the counter (oh, please, lady; like I'd buy a six-inch-long cross for a barely three-foot-tall boy under any circumstances), took my son's hand, and led him and his sister away from the booth, while he kept repeating, "But it's the best one!"
Thank god for the distraction of a family-size bag of kettle corn. Nothing like a little salt, butter, and sugar to derail a budding Jew for Jesus, I guess.
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