The Difference a Year Makes

[Part II of Beginnings is coming, I promise. It just needs time. It's a both more- and less-heartwarming story than Part I, and it's taking time and emotional energy, neither of which I have much of right now. Instead, let me tell you about my afternoon, via my Twitter feed...]

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The difference a year makes: Got note from RSP teacher asking if it wd help if they sent home extra sci/soc studies books for N to keep home


tinycoconut

  

W/in two hrs, emails back and forth between RSP, classroom tchr, principal, and we'll have books in hand on Monday.


tinycoconut

  

Not my idea; not something I asked for; creative, proactive problem-solving on school's part. I'm stunned...and grateful.


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And, yes, I effusively thanked all parties. Hard to believe it's the same UNIVERSE, much less the same school, though.

Beginnings, Part I

The kids had been back to school for less than two weeks when i met with N's teacher.

I could tell you all about our meeting. I would love to tell you all about our meeting, because I love talking about the good things. But, really, everything you need to know about that meeting was encapsulated in the first minutes of the school year. Actually, it was encapsulated in the first 30 seconds of the school year.

Here's how it went down.

The fourth grade is tiny. So tiny that, with the increased class sizes of the upper grades in our school district, all but eight of the fourth graders fit into one class. (The other eight are in a split fourth-fifth-grade class with a kick-ass teacher; they're the kind of kids who will do just fine there.) Add to that the fact that our school only posts classroom assignments on the morning of the first day of school, and you can just imagine the scene in front of the classroom, with 30-some 9-year-olds squealing and hugging and jumping all over each other in after-the-summer greetings.

And then there was N, standing over with Baroy and me by the parents, watching cautiously from somewhere behind my left hip. Not unhappy, really. Commenting that "all my friends are here!" but not joining in. Not saying hi to anyone. Not even responding when some of the kids threw him a greeting as they passed into the happy throng.

It was OK. Really. That's who he is, and it is OK.

And then it was time to enter the classroom, and he waited until the rest of the kids had formed a line before joining its tail end. He pulled on me; wanted Baroy and me to come in with him.

"I don't think fourth graders are supposed to have their parents come in with them," I said quietly. "See? All the other parents are staying outside the classroom."

He looked unhappy, mutinous. We walked alongside him toward the classroom door, and I held my breath. If he were to make a scene, if he were to refuse to go in without me...

And then we were at the door, and his teacher looked at Baroy and I and smiled, then leaned down to N. "N," she said. "I have all your stuff set up on your desk. It's right there, right in front, right next to where I sit. Your name is there, so you can find it. OK?"

And with that, he just...relaxed. Nodded, headed for the desk she'd pointed to, front and center, right next to the one girl he likes best. (Coincidence? I bet not.) Looked back at us, and smiled, waved. Waved us off; waved goodbye.

Outside the classroom, after watching the door close behind the teacher, Baroy and I looked at each other. Baroy doesn't cry easily, but he had tears in his eyes. As did I.

"Did she just do what I think she did?" he asked. "Did she just give him more accommodations than he got all of last year?"

"She's got him," I breathed. "She understands."

And that is why I don't need to tell you about our meeting. Because she gets him, N's fourth grade teacher. She understands. And that is really all that matters, for now. For the beginning. A good beginning.

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.

Book Talk

[Warning: There are sorta kinda maybe spoilers in here. Not big ones, but...if you're reading any of the books I'm discussing, and are the kind of reader for whom even a vague mention of a plot point might give stuff away, you might want to tread cautiously.]

So now that the bat mitzvah is over and done with, I've been reading. And listening, which I call reading, even if it's done with my ears. And I have some things to say.

First: Who here read Her Fearful Symmetry? Because I have questions. Oh, so many questions. Mostly: What. The. Fuck? Did she run out of ink, and so decide after an entire book of detail and emotion to basically write the last 30 pages in code? More specifically: What was Robert's plan/decision, exactly, there at the end? What did it have to do with Jessica? What did Valentina do or say to Julia that changed her completely? Oh, don't give me that love of a good man bullshit.

Seriously, I hate spending that much time getting invested in a book only to have it make NO SENSE at the end. If you have thoughts--even if that thought is that I clearly am illiterate, and the book made total and absolute logical sense throughout--feel free to drop me a note at ihavethings at gmail dot com. (I think there's an email link over there in the sidebar, actually. But just in case not...) I need to talk about this one with someone.

Second: I should have admitted above that I almost always hate book endings. It's so hard not to disappoint me by wrapping up a story that I'm invested in. I'm trying to think of books whose endings really worked for me, but I'm coming up blank. Anyone? Any suggestions?

Third: I also recently finished Joshua Ferris's The Unnamed. That ending, while not one I'd call out as superlative, didn't disappoint. I actually thought it was a kickass book, to be honest. Well, a kickass book with some pretty big holes in its plot. I mean, the relationship with the daughter? Could that have possibly been less well developed? (Except for the Buffy scenes. Those made me smile.) And, um, what was that whole murder subplot about? But the relationship between Tim and Jane felt so real, in the midst of such an unreal situation, that it didn't really bother me.

Plus, I have a special weakness for Crazy Walking People. And Tim? Pretty much defines that.

Fourth: Have I mentioned that I've started reading these obscure little books about a young wizard? A series about a boy named Harry Potter, and his exploits at school? (Yep, that's me on the cutting edge of literature. Next, I think I'm going to check out this hot young writer I've heard about...Charles, oh, Dickens, I think his name is...) I've been listening to the audiobooks, actually; each time I finish one, we have a family movie night to watch that movie. My goal is to try to get through the last two before Part One of the seventh book comes out in the theaters; I'm a stickler about that sort of thing. Now that I'm done with Her Fearful Symmetry, Half-Blood Prince is up next. Problem is, I more-or-less know what happens in the books; or, at least, I know the major plot points. In other words, I know who dies. And if I thought Order of the Phoenix was difficult to get through as a result of my Sirius love...This one's gonna hurt.

It amazes me--truly amazes me--that I'm enjoying these this much. It amazes me even more that I'm willing to admit it out loud. (My book snobbiness is as much a part of me as my penchant for thrift-store clothes shopping. If you don't know that about me, you don't know me. I'm not proud of it; it just is.)

Fifth: What should I read next? I have a book list that is literally hundreds of books long; I'll never get through them all. Which is why I need suggestions of MORE books from you guys. (If you're a reader, you understand.)

And no, no matter what you say, I'm not reading Twilight.

I'm Trying Not to Read Too Deeply Into These

N's been practicing his cursive this summer by writing little stories, completely unprompted. Here are two he handed me just the other day.

I like to call this first one "Em's vocation"

My family is the best family in the whole earth. I love them so much. My uncles and my mommy and daddy does writing, my sister does playing with her friends, and I play golf. The end.

And Baroy likes to call this one "Oedipus Lives"

Mommy you are the best mommy ever. I love you sososososososo much. You are the best mommy ever. I love you. I hate when you and daddy do kissing and sex. The end.

(Just so you don't labor under the impression that we have constant public orgies in my house, N first asked me, "Mommy, do you and daddy do s-e-x?" before writing this. Glad to know he understands the importance of research in writing nonfiction.)

For Em, On Her Bat Mitzvah

In our synagogue, after the Bat or Bar Mitzvah does their Torah and/or Haftarah reading, they give what is known as a d'var torah--a teaching, a speech. Afterwards, our rabbi calls the parents up to say a few words about their child. Here's what I had to say about my child, who had just done me so proud I could barely breathe, much less speak. Thank goodness I'd written it all out, down to the last comma.

Mazel tov, baby. That was wonderful.

It should have been easy for me to figure out what I want to say to you. After all, I've been writing about you since before you were born. Except, recently, I started trying to collect some of those blog posts and emails, thinking I could condense a little and this speech would be done. I started in the present and worked back, and when I got to 50,000 words in 2007 …

The problem is – and it's a good problem – you have so much passion for life and everything in it there's not really one theme I can focus on. I could talk about the things we have in common. You are, like me, a voracious reader, and I love that we've shared so many books together, starting with The Wizard of Oz when you were just-turned 5, through Anne of Green Gables and The Princess Bride and, most recently, Anne Frank.

You are also a great writer, already. A lousy speller, but a great writer, because you have that elusive thing called VOICE. Yours rings clear in everything you put on paper. (Recycled paper, of course.)

And we all know you're focused on and concerned about the world around you; you made it your mitzvah project. But this is a long-time passion. One of those blog posts was about when you were 9 or so and convinced daddy to change the bulbs in your room into CFLs. When it was done, you ran up and hugged him and said, "I'm so happy now! I'm saving the world one lightbulb at a time!" You even wrote a letter to Governer Schwarzenegger asking him to ban incandescent lightbulbs … and then got INCENSED when he didn't write you right back.

You have, like me, always loved learning. Pretty much every teacher who's ever had you talks about your "enthusiasm," even for those subjects you might not excel at. And, like me, you're super cranky in the mornings. Poor daddy.

But what surprises – and delights – me are the ways in which you are NOT like me.

Watching you out on a soccer field is a revelation. It's not just your incredible skills; it's your competitive spirit. It's how PROUD you are to wear the bruises you get, because you play HARD. I know to stay WAY AWAY from you when your team loses, and especially if you made some kind of small error, because you care so much. And I pity the girl who tries to get between you and that ball. Those hips and shoulders of yours are lethal weapons!

And then there's theater. You fell into that world two years ago, when Uncle Marc and Uncle Glen produced Daddy's play. I suppose it was inevitable; it's in your genes. But while I've always stayed back, an observer, you got right in there, right away, doing all sorts of backstage jobs. You've built sets, for crying out loud; you've literally built mountains! If that's not a metaphor for who you are, I don’t know what is.

And, of course, you can read Hebrew – you can read TORAH. Wow. You have no idea how proud that makes me.

You know, I've often talked about how we joined this synagogue because of you. We came here in September of 2005 for an open house, and you were invited in to Hannah's second-grade classroom to observe while Daddy and I went on a tour and had a mimosa. (Which is when WE knew this was the place for US. But I digress.) I remember you sitting down next to a little girl named Cat; it was her first day here. You walked out of that classroom a little while later, beaming, and said, "I want to go here every time." Done.

Now, mimosas aside, I had every intention of being a drop-off mom, waving to you as you went off to Hebrew school, and maybe coming to services on High Holy Days. Somehow or another, it didn't quite work out that way. Your enthusiasm for being a Jew was too big to allow me to sit on the sidelines. And so, your journey into Judaism has also become mine. I couldn't have had a better guide.

One thing I noticed when I was collecting all those blog posts and emails was that I talk often, constantly even, about how mature you are. How thoughtful, especially in the sense of thinking deeply about things. How much you love your brother, even when you guys torture each other, and how protective you are of him. (Anyone who hasn't heard the story of the time you got on all fours over him and GROWLED at strangers approaching you in a park should stop me later and ask…) And, of course, I talk about how passionate and enthusiastic you are. The line I've written over and over? "When I grow up, I want to be just like Em."

Here's where I should break into "our" song and belt out "You are beautiful…no matter what they say…" but I'll spare us all. Still, it's true. You are beautiful, breathtaking, inside and out. And I DO want to grow up to be just like you.

Don't Know HOW He Puts Up With Me

We're in the bat-mitzvah home stretch now, folks. It's all planning, all the time. ALL THE TIME. No, I don't think you understand. ALLLLLLL THEEEEEEEE TIIIIIIIIIIME.

And so, last weekend, I went for a haircut. Because The Plans said that I should do that a couple of weeks in advance of the date, in case something went Horribly Wrong and I wound up with Bad Hair. (Apparently, party planning causes excessive capitalization. Who knew?) This is an actual concern, because I tend to frequent The Cheapest Hair Places in Town. Plus, I just don't know what I want my hair to look like, aside from Not Bad. So sometimes? It winds up Bad.

Anyway. I sat down in the chair, and the woman cutting my hair--Armenian, I think, and it's relevant only in that she had a heavy accent, and a not-especially colloquial way of speaking--started out great, commenting on how the way my gray hair is coming in makes it look like I've had my hair highlighted. This is exactly how my mother went gray, so I was pleased with the compliment, and chatted a bit with her.

In other words, she was on my good side. Then.

So then we start talking about what I want to do with my hair, and I describe the basic idea, and then I say, "...and lots of layers, because it needs to have some shape when it air dries, since I don't really do anything with it after I wash it."

"Nothing?" she said, skeptical.

"Nothing. I wash it, I brush it, I let it air dry."

"No hair dryer?"

"No hair dryer."

"Not even a little bit of mousse?"

"Not even a little bit of mousse."

She was silent, then set to work. After a minute or two, she said, "And your husband doesn't mind this?"

"Doesn't mind what?"

"That you don't take care of yourself."

Um.

Um.

Um.

She took my silence as a yes answer, and continued. "You're lucky that your husband doesn't care HOW you look. My husband cares that I take care of myself. He wants me to look nice all the time."

And she breathed a long-suffering sigh.

But she wasn't done yet. Oh, no. A few minutes later--as she fluffed up my hair with the mousse she'd INSISTED on using, just to show me how wonderful it is to take care of yourself, I suppose--she once again started in.

"It must be nice that your husband just likes you for you and doesn't care that you don't take care of yourself. He's a good man, your husband, yes?"

Oh, yes. A saint. A frickin' saint.