Family

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Man Up

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Before our trip to Israel this past April, my sister told us about an interesting activity they enjoyed. They went to an anti-terrorist training presentation. We thought it would be something different that our kids would like, so we booked a visit. We knew that each participant would have the opportunity to shoot a gun. Cool, right?

We asked some friends if they wanted to join us but they were concerned that their daughters would be freaked out. My daughter caught wind of this.

“What if I’m too scared?” she asked me.

“Come on – girls can do anything,” I told her.

I am not an uber-feminist, but I’m also not a fan of the notion that girls have to be shrinking violets. It’s one thing to be nervous about shooting a gun – that’s understandable, regardless of your sex. But I didn’t want her to think she had a girl card that she could throw anytime she wanted, no questions asked. Was she actually afraid or did she think she was supposed to be scared and she was sticking to the script?

My mother, who was as traditional as they come, gave my sister and I a book when we were young called, “Girls Can Do Anything” –   be soldiers, policewomen, doctors, astronauts, and firefighters. That was 40 years ago – it’s even more true today. Plus, I hate to tell my daughter this, but if she thinks shooting a gun is scary, wait until pregnancy and childbirth – life experiences truly not for the faint of heart. Being a mother is both exhilarating and terrifying. Better to learn early that life is full of daunting things. So dammit, we were going to be tough like the Israeli soldiers who would teach us about anti-terrorist training. And hopefully we’d like it.

It happened to be guys, not girls, who taught our session. They were former soldiers who looked “straight out of Central Casting,” as my sister said. They were swarthy, brawny, passionate and super cool. My daughter clung to me and my husband as the demonstration began, her eyes wide with curiosity and trepidation. I was hopeful she was going to be alright.

Then came the live counter-terrorism demonstration. Three men, playing the part of terrorists, came running through our group as the soldiers shouted for everyone to get down. I could see my daughter across the compound, lying on the floor, lip quivering, fear and misery in her eyes and on her face. My poor baby. I felt bad and was eager to get up and comfort her. But I had other thoughts as well.

“Please don’t let those mothers be right,” I pleaded in my head. What kind of mother was I to put my daughter in a scary situation, just to make her tougher? What was I trying to prove?

I willed my daughter to toughen up, not have a nervous breakdown and dissolve into a pile of tears. She got up, came over to me and said she did not like this at all. I assured her that we were totally safe and that they were just acting – like a performance.

This seemed to mollify her and to my relief, she calmed down. She shot a handgun and a sniper rifle. She wasn’t bad either. I think she felt reluctant pride that she had rallied and faced her fear. Or maybe she just knew that I desperately wanted her to be okay. I asked her about the experience the other day. She seemed ambivalent about the whole thing, so apparently she was not obviously scarred.

I knew she could do it and I couldn’t be prouder. That’s my girl.

 

 

 

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On My Watch

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I was so excited for my eldest to return from his three-month Israel adventure, that I had not anticipated how life would change upon his return. While away, he turned eighteen, so there went the provisional driver’s license with it’s midnight curfew.  I didn’t think about the mild unease with which I would fall asleep the nights that he is out. Who knew that the sweetest sound in the world is the garage door opening, announcing that he has returned home? I don’t even care that the dog barks – it’s as if he too rejoices that the teenager is home safe and sound.

My boy left as a single fellow and returned with a girlfriend. How delightful, yet odd to see him with a significant other and to hear him use the royal “we” when talking about  he and his gal-pal.

Last week I accompanied him, probably for the last time, to the pediatrician for the annual check-up. Before I left the room for their private exam and discussion, the doctor was talking about routine shots and upcoming immunizations. I was aware that he was talking to my son, not me; his gaze had been averted to the other adult – his patient – in the room. I was just a bystander. Appropriate, yes, but I felt a little adrift as I was gently cast aside.

Then there is the other single, yet attached, man in my life – my father. I go to sleep worrying about my young man and wake up thinking about my older man. While he is in the country and nearby, I make sure to call him each morning. Living in a house full of people, I take for granted that people will know whether I have woken up or not. When he is in Israel, I am grateful for his lady friend to watch out for him.

As my father empties his house and prepares to leave his life in the U.S., all of his mail and packages are delivered to my house.

“I feel like I’m Dad’s front desk,” I told my sister.

He regularly calls to tell me which things are going to be delivered, when to expect them, and then calls to see if they came. It’s charming and amusing. He’s on my watch, and I’m happy to keep him happy.

I have to admit that sometimes I feel acutely aware of my sense of responsibility and the loss of even the illusion of control. Piled on top of taking care of the other people and things in my life, I am wound a little tighter. This month my father will return to Israel and my son will go work at a sleep away camp. I will breathe a small sigh of relief and wish them both a wonderful time as I look forward to a good night’s sleep – at least for a little while.

 

 

 

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Spring Forward

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Spring makes me think of my late mother more than any other season. Everything is in bloom, the world is lush, full of promise and rebirth. She loved nature and beautiful things – spring is the perfect combination of these elements. The pain of grief subsides with time but spring brings my own grief to the forefront. It doesn’t help that this spring we are going through the remainder of my mother’s possessions as my father prepares to sell the house.

When my mother died in 2013, I clung to anything that belonged to her, thinking that if I had her things close by than she would remain close by too. I wrapped myself in her coats and carried her purses. I had a closet full of her clothes that I thought I would wear, which I quickly learned had her smell when I opened the closet door. It was my own, private mini-shrine in a seldom used closet in my home. On the rare occasion when I got out the iron, I could inhale and feel my mother’s presence.

Mother’s Day happens to fall in spring, but that day isn’t harder for me than every other day I miss my mother. Since we went to the cemetery last year, the first Mother’s Day without my mother, my daughter assumed we were going again this year. So we did. My husband, children and I actually had a nice visit with “Bubbe.” We cleaned off her headstone, pulled some crabgrass and told her what was going on in our lives. I shed a few tears.

Now it’s the small things that make me feel happy and think of my mother. Her key-chain, flower pots from her deck, knickknacks. a recipe in her handwriting, a pair of earrings. In her art studio I found her credit card from Garfinkel’s, a now defunct department store that was the height of elegance in its day. My mom was so sad when the store closed – she wasn’t a big shopper but she appreciated fine quality. The credit card was propped on a little metal stand, her tribute to times gone by. Now it makes me smile to think of her whimsy in keeping it.

I recently made a new recipe – a sushi salad. My husband describes it as a “deconstructed California roll.” I feel like my grief has changed into deconstructing Rita. My mother wasn’t a puzzle that needs taking apart, but as we break up her house I remember and experience her many parts and layers, which only further reveals her beautiful essence.

The clocks spring forward and so do I.

 

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A Glimmer of Hope

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Something unexpected happened while we were in Israel recently. We were having a Passover Seder in a banquet hall with several other families from our Jewish day school. There was a lull in the evening as people were eating and going back and forth to the buffet. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my sixteen-year-old son with special needs sitting on a sofa talking to someone. Not just a family member or a family friend, but a girl, and a teenage girl at that. A lovely younger sister of my older son’s classmates, with health challenges and issues of her own. What struck me was that they actually seemed to be engaged in conversation – something that is generally difficult for my son to sustain.

It was so adorable – it almost made me weep.

“What’d you talk about?” his siblings and I grilled him afterwards.

“We actually had a lot in common,” he said matter of factly. “We talked about tv and movies.” Ah, that made sense as these are some of his favorite things to discuss.

Still, I was touched at the sweetness of the interaction which allowed me to see my son in a different light – as a young man with the possibility of courtship. I felt as if I was channeling my mother and grandmother when I described what, to me, was a momentous event to my friends…”It was just darling,” I gushed.

The evening passed and the moment faded into a warm memory. Until I received an email from the young lady’s mother saying that her daughter wanted to go see a movie with my son. Be still my heart! I was elated. His life is rich with family, family friends, friendly professionals, and lovely volunteers. But it is rare that he gets invited to do something socially with a good old-fashioned friend.

“I want to go,” he eagerly stated.

“Do you know how to behave like a gentleman?” I joked with him.

He assured me that yes, he did. I was giddy with anticipation of the big “date,” although my son did not like to be teased about it and of course viewed it for what it was – going to the movies with a friend, who happens to be a girl. I showed restraint around him, spilling over with excitement to my sister, father and girlfriends.

It turned out to be a lovely, uneventful outing. After their dads helped buy the tickets, the two friends sat and watched a movie while happily munching on popcorn. Truth be told, my son hogged the popcorn, his companion reported when we picked them up.

“It was just so delicious,” he sheepishly admitted.

So much for his gentlemanly behavior. He acted like a typical teenager – rather than being thoroughly annoyed by this fact, I was overjoyed. Next time we’ll spring for the jumbo tub of popcorn. I can’t wait.

 

 

 

 

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Ruh-Roh

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This post will either amuse you, because you can relate to it, or repel you – because you can’t. We’ve had our dog for a year and half. We crate trained him until recently, which meant that he was in his crate when we’d leave the house periodically throughout the day and he slept in it at night. Gradually he became house-trained so we trusted him to roam freely and not destroy our house. It was then time to let him loose at night. But where would he choose to sleep? This being our first dog, we didn’t have any idea how to handle sleeping arrangements.

Surprisingly, the children did not want him in their rooms. They have single beds and felt he wouldn’t fit comfortably. Interesting how they wanted us to get a dog so badly but then pulled the “not in my room” when it was crunch time. So the bedroom doors were closed and the dog was left to wander around the house to figure out where to sleep. He chose the his favorite steps near the front door. The problem was he could see outside and would bark whenever he saw deer or anything else – usually at 2:00 a.m. So much for that experiment.

I decided to let him try sleeping on our king size bed. And wouldn’t you know it, he liked it. He was quiet throughout the night. Slept like a baby – actually, better than a baby. There was no crying or tossing and turning, no paws in my face or kicks to my kidneys. He was just a black, furry twenty-five pound ball of cuteness at the foot of our bed. The truth is – I kind of liked it too. My husband? He won’t admit it, but I think he doesn’t hate it.

“Dad likes the dog better now that he’s sleeping in your bed,” my children observed. I have noticed that the dog likes to sleep late, like my husband, which I think adds to their bonding experience. Like father like sheepadoodle son.

“How did this happen? The children never slept in our bed, but now the dog is?” he asked.

Go figure. It’s true – we were never proponents of the family bed. We were just too selfish and cherished our own comfort and sleep. We thought it was important for the kids to be able to soothe themselves, or something like that. Maybe we’re failing our dog and he won’t be able to self-soothe. Nah – he happily slept in a crate for 18 months. He’s a pack animal and now we’re his pack. I bought a doggie bed for the bedroom floor, or anywhere outside of my bedroom, to no avail.

I have polled friends about where their dogs sleep. Dogs in the parental boudoir seems to be a common practice. I think we’re stuck with this sleeping arrangement for now, with the lack of privacy and all.

Never say never, I’ve learned. It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.

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Cookies

 

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My parents were married for fifty-four years until my mother’s death in 2013. It was a strong partnership and a loving marriage. I’m told that people who have good marriages are more likely to marry again as they’ve had such a positive experience with the institution.

So it’s not surprising that my father has a lady friend, and a very nice one at that. We recently had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. She too was married for a long time and was widowed around the same time as my father. I am pleased that my father has a companion, is not lonely, and continues to have an active, full life.

Intellectually, I am all in. Emotionally, however, it took me a little longer to get there.

A couple of months ago I was with friends who inquired after my father. They wondered if I had seen a picture of his lady friend and were surprised when I said I hadn’t, nor did I particularly want to. “Why not?” they wondered.

“If I see a picture, that means three things,” I answered.

a) this person actually exists

b) my mother is dead, and

c) my father has a girlfriend

“So, no, I don’t really need to see a picture. I’m good.”  My logic was sound and my denial fully intact. What was the harm in believing my parents were away on vacation?

Lo and behold, what happened a few days later? My father sent my siblings and I a picture of his friend. Funny how the universe works. God must have been gently nudging my emotions to catch up with my intellect, which of course they did. I’m fifty-one years old, not ten. While it’s weird to see my father with someone other than my mother, it’s good-weird. My sister called me after receiving the picture via email too.

“Did you see the picture?” she asked.

“Yeah, I saw it,” I said.

We agreed that this woman looked like a normal, nice person. My sister told me she got up from the computer, walked into her kitchen, and made a beeline to the counter where a plate of cookies sat that she had specifically not been eating all day. You know where this is going…she proceeded to eat the whole plate.

Emotional Eating 101 – your mom dies and your dad moves on with his life. How could cookies not make you feel a little better?

I have been hearing many stories from other people who have lost a parent and had similar experiences with a parent in a new relationship. One woman told me, “I’ll make you feel better – my father married my mother-in-law.” Wow, she wins the gold medal in the unusual second marriage category. Most everyone tells me how glad they are that their surviving parent has someone to share their life with. Those whose parents were never in another relationship lament that fact. I am thankful for my dad’s run of the mill widow-meets-widower story.

I am no longer in denial. I realize my father isn’t trying to find me another mom; he has simply found a companion for himself. Hard to believe, but it’s actually not about me. It’s a good life lesson – one that goes down easier with a big plate of cookies.

 

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Checking In

checking in

My graduated senior has been gone for just over a month on his grand “Capstone” trip to Israel and Eastern Europe. He is with 80 of his classmates and by all accounts seems to be having an amazing time. I rarely call him and only occasionally text him. I am comfortable letting him explore life and experience it separate from me. Sure, I miss him but feel glad he is out doing wonderful things and not sitting in my basement.

Something interesting seems to be happening, however – the teenager who wanted to be with his friends 99% of the time and only spent occasional moments with me now actually reaches out to check in with home base occasionally. And not just to tell me he is fine or to ask for money. He wants to share his experiences with me – imagine that. I’m pleasantly surprised and happy to hear from him.

As you would imagine, learning about and seeing the sites where the atrocities of the Holocaust occurred is emotional for anyone. An almost-18-year-old, on the cusp of adulthood is no exception. He is in the throes of forming his identity as a Jewish young man and finding his place in the world, while looking at the past and thinking about the future. Heavy stuff, for sure.

He face-timed me from Poland so he could tell me everything he had done and seen. He told me that one of his teachers was awesome, and that he found him so “compelling.” Compelling? Really? When did he start using that word? We had a great conversation as he tried to capture his experience for me. I hung up after twenty minutes and felt a moment of complete bliss. I knew it wouldn’t last, but in that moment I felt joyful about the man my son is becoming. He didn’t sound like a spoiled, entitled teenager but rather an adult who feels deeply and is interested in learning about his history, culture, and religion.

A few days later he texted me pictures from Prague with the caption “absolutely stunning.” I have never heard my son use the word “stunning” or known him to be aware of, much less be so moved by landscape in his life. It’s quite a kick to see your offspring become someone who you can picture yourself hanging out with and it’s a welcome relief to have a reciprocal conversation full of adult topics and not just housekeeping issues.

I have no delusions that the road ahead will be perfect and rosy. My son is a typical young man and we are typical parents. I at least feel optimistic about the future. Hopeful, I guess. It beats feeling gloomy. So much of parenting is full of angst and agitation – I’ll take the good moments when they come my way and savor them. I  hope he keeps moving forward and checking back in.

 

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Open Up

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I recently met up with some old friends I haven’t seen for years. It was so fun to reconnect with them. Driving home I flipped through my mental Rolodex, thinking of all the people I’ve befriended in my life (if we don’t have actual Rolodexes anymore, can I still keep my mental Rolodex?) Then my husband was channel surfing the other night and came across a Seinfeld episode. I was drawn to the TV – it felt like running into old friends who were a huge part of my life. So much so that a real (not TV) friend who I worked with during the Seinfeld years recently sent me an obituary of an actor who played a character on Seinfeld (Mr. Kruger,) as if he was our mutual friend. I guess, like all the Seinfeld characters, he sort of was.

I cherish my friends, each for their special qualities and the joy they bring to my life. While I’m not necessarily actively recruiting new friends, I am open to whomever might cross my path. Sometimes you meet someone and there’s a spark – a connection, if you will. Wow, you think, I would like to get to know this person better. Many people say they don’t have time to see the people they already know; how could they possibly interview and “date” new people? When I meet someone new and there’s a spark, I am magically able to make room in my life. It’s funny how that happens.

In my middle-age I am an odd juxtaposition of intolerance and openness. I can be cranky and set in my ways, yet I can also be excited about life and open to new experiences and people. I think of myself as a social misanthrope, although my truly misanthropic friends scoff at this description of friendly old me.

I’ve turned to yoga – something I never thought I would do. I’ve been practicing on and off for three years at the same studio. One of my favorite instructors talks about the line between effort and ease in yoga practice – I’m all about trying to achieve that balance, in yoga and in life. I like the idea of stretching myself to experience new things, becoming a stronger person in a way that feels manageable yet sometimes a little uncomfortable to me.

Sure, many people are most comfortable with people who are like them- same neighborhood, same schools, kids the same age, etc. That’s where many of my closest friends come from too. But I also like hanging out with different people.

For instance, if you had told me ten years ago that I would be hanging out with many religious Jewish women, I would have said you’re crazy. Lo and behold, here I am – immersed in organizations that provide wonderful services for my son with special needs and a group that takes women to Israel as a means to inspire and empower women with Jewish values. We may dress differently, have different lifestyles and varying levels of religious observance but our desire to achieve the same goals brings us together and makes for some wonderful relationships.

I can be a closed book or open to new chapters. For me, it’s the characters that make the book really interesting. Thanks to all the characters in my story.

 

 

 

 

 

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Today University

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My kids and I tagged along on my husband’s business trip to Mexico last week so we headed to the airport on a cold, snowy morning for a 7:00am flight. We trudged through security and were making our way to our gate among the tide of travelers.

My husband is six-feet tall, giving him a better view of the world than 5-foot-4-inch me. “There’s Katie Couric,” he casually said. Sure enough, not five feet in front of me was Katie. I was so excited. Katie Couric is an iconic celebrity in my world. I was a fan of the Today Show in my earlier adult years. I followed Katie’s life – the birth of her daughters, the early death of her husband to colon cancer. She was raised in the Washington area (Virginia, actually) so I always felt a connection for a hometown girl. It looked like some other people had recognized her and were chatting and walking with her.

We kept our onward movement and ended up walking next to Katie. She looked at us and smiled.

“Hi Katie,” I said.

Thus began a lovely interaction.

“Were you here visiting family?” I asked.

“Actually, I interviewed Rand Paul. He’s running for president,” she replied.

She remarked how she was surprised that so many people had recognized her this early morning as she felt she looked terrible.

“Katie, you look like a regular person,” I assured her.

“I’m Susan and this is Brad,” I said. “Since we know your name, it seems only fair that you know ours.”

We chatted about our upcoming trip. Then Katie told us that her mother had died recently and they had sold her house.

“My mother died too and my dad’s selling their house,” I commiserated.

She was so lovely and nice and normal. It was such a thrill for me. I called my sister when we changed planes. Our mother was a huge Today show fan. We used to joke that she studied at the University of the Today Show, where she got much of her news and information. She always thought that my husband looked like Matt Lauer, although Katie did not mention the resemblance.

After Katie left, our kids asked, “Who was that?” Of course, they had no idea the magnitude of the celebrity sighting. They sort of understood after hearing me tell the story to several people at the meeting we attended.

“I can’t believe you did that,” one of the spouses said. “I would never do that – I would worry that I was bothering her or intruding on her privacy.”

I think I’m a pretty good reader of people and felt like taking a risk. Katie was open and receptive to chatting. If she wasn’t, I would have left her alone. We were walking to our destinations the whole time – I did not ask for an autograph (does anyone even do that anymore?) or take a selfie with her. We were just two people making a connection that cold, early morning. I like to think my mother got a huge kick out of my celebrity sighting from her grand view up in heaven.

“Maybe your mother sent her,” another spouse suggested. Maybe she did.

I like to take occasional chances. If not Today, than when?

 

 

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Soiling the Nest

Soiling the Nest

My son’s departure date is fast approaching. He just graduated from high school and is going on a three-month learning experience in Israel and Eastern Europe. I vacillate between being irritated by him/looking forward to his leaving and adoring him/being excited for his adventure/feeling a smidge sad that he’s going. Just the other day he came back from a four-day youth group convention out of town. It was just starting to snow and I was cooking delicious treats, looking forward to being snowed in with my family.

“I’m going to spend the night at my friend’s house,” he announced, “I haven’t seen my buddies in five days.”

“Okaaay, but you’re going to spend three months with them,” I reminded him. I had hoped he would want to spend some time with us, and then felt a little pathetic, like a dog waiting for scraps of attention. I had a brief pity party and then I remembered being seventeen. I preferred my friends’ company to my family’s for a long time. My son has clearly crossed the line of wanting to be with his friends more than with his family. I know it’s normal and appropriate, but sometimes it bugs me. How could he not want to be with us? Aren’t we as awesome as we think we are? I also find annoying his occasional intolerance of my benign inquiries, like “what are your plans for the day?” I’m an awful, intrusive mother – obviously.

I was venting to my sister about my mixed emotions. “Sounds like he’s soiling the nest,” she said.

Precisely. I have heard about this phenomenon and am now experiencing it firsthand. Obviously, he is not literally soiling our home. Psychologists say graduating seniors may struggle with vulnerability and self-doubt about being equipped to fling themselves into the daunting unknowns of the next stage of life.  They cannot directly confront their sadness about saying good-bye to the familiar “knowns” of childhood. How could they take flight, so weighed down by such emotional burdens? Better to fling off all that drag and fixate only on enhancing the “good riddance” of their good-byes. Better yet, why not soil the nest on the way out, “gifting” US with an easier “good-riddance to you too”  good-bye ?!  The more toxic and messy they are, the easier transitioning to the next phase will be, for them, and for us.  I know we’ve got a fairly mild case of nest soiling. My son is not toxic or even particularly messy. He is generally sweet and thoughtful. But I gotta say – I’ll be kind of glad when he goes. This waiting period is hard. Ripping the band-aid off seems the better way to go.

The parties are over, the important talks have been had, with emphasis on “Don’t do anything to embarrass yourself, your family or your school.” Let’s face it – it’s about him, but it’s also about us – the parents. No big to-do or send-off as we cross the line of this next milestone in the life of our family.

There have already been inquiries from his siblings about the use of his empty bedroom. Looks like some nest-reorganizing is in our future. At least until what’s-his-name comes back.