Ready, set, off to camp she goes...

So, she did it. My daughter. She went to sleep away camp. I’ll hold off on confirming that it’s a roaring success, because she just left today… but I’m confident that I will be saying just that on Friday when I pick her up at the end.

Last year, when I broached the idea of a one week sleep away camp, she told me NO in no uncertain terms. She wasn’t ready. This year, when we revisited the idea, she jumped enthusiastically at the idea. She was ready. Yay!

I took the hint. I signed her up. As it was still winter, we waited. We talked about it from time to time and she became increasingly excited. When she expressed concern about the unfamiliarity of the camp, we signed up for a mother/daughter weekend to get acquainted. Together, we attended an overnight at the camp. We went swimming. We ate in the dining hall. We saw the sleeping quarters. We enjoyed an art project. More importantly, we got our “What if” questions answered, replacing them with simple and reasonable solutions. Concerns disappeared. Yay again.

Then summer arrived. I attacked the shopping/packing list and we packed the final stage together. She wasn’t nervous. She was EXCITED!

And then it was the day before departure.

She had been asking me, for ages, to dye her hair a cool color like bright pink. I had agreed, but life logistics had competed with following through. In light of her camp departure, I suggested that we do it before camp. She loved the idea and we spent a few hours dying a chunk of hair pink. She was thrilled with the results. She wore it proudly.

We are not a family who co-sleeps or stays with our kids until they are asleep. We leave them, awake, and they fall asleep on their own. The night before departure, however, she was WIRED. And I do mean wired. She was nervous. Finally… it’s hit her. She’s going to camp and there’s no way she’s falling asleep on her own.

I crawl into bed with her and rub her back, intending to leave after a short time, but she disagreed. She decided that our house has a new rule. The night before week long sleep away camp, mommies fall asleep with their kids. And since it was a new rule, I obliged. We cuddled and fell asleep. When I woke up a few hours later, she was snoring and dreaming. I left and she didn’t notice.

Today, she got on that bus with a smile. When we arrived at the location, she helped haul her stuff with no fuss. She cooperated with the lice check. I had to grab her for a goodbye hug and kiss. Then she was off.

And yes, that is when I started to cry. She boarded that big bus with dark windows and it sat there as the check in line dwindled to nothing. I couldn’t see her, couldn’t touch her, but she was there. Just out of my reach. Already gone but still right there.

She’s gonna do great. I know this. But I’m gonna miss her.

Tamir Rice and race in our society

Recently, a twelve year old boy name Tamir Rice was shot and killed by police officers. He was in a park, alone, playing with a toy gun. The gun was a close replica of a real gun, and the red plastic that identified it as a toy had been removed.  Eyewitnesses say he was pulling the gun on people passing by. When the police arrived, he pulled the gun and was promptly shot. He later died from the injuries he sustained. 

The court did not convict the police officers, in regards to the shooting. There is significant disagreement as to whether this decision brought justice or not.

My intent here, in this blog, is not pass judgment… on anybody. I was not there. I am not a police officer. I did not know Tamir Rice. My goal is to express a sincere and profound sadness for the entire event. 

While I was contemplating how to approach this blog with respect, I repeatedly returned to the process of humbling myself. Reminding myself that my skin is white, as is my children’s. Neither of my children, my son or daughter, is lightly to be discriminated against due to skin color. My daughter potentially for gender, but not race.  While I have (currently) and will likely have (in the future) plenty of reasons to worry about my children, race will not be the basis for this concern. My child based sleepless nights will have an entirely different source. 

The Cleveland police department released the surveillance video of the event. Initially, I was undecided as to whether or not to watch it, finally deciding in favor. What I saw made me heart weep.

My heart wept for the parents of this child, who will have to bury their young son, a process no parent should ever have to suffer. I, personally, cannot imagine the pain of burying a child and I don’t ever want to. Just the thought of it makes me want to cry. 

My heart wept for the child, who (for whatever reason) didn’t refrain from pointing his toy weapon at the officers; although he had probably been told so many times that it was a terrible idea. If I had a penny for every time I repeat commands to my children, ones that they still don’t follow if I’m not looking, I’d be a millionaire. Tragically, 12 year old boys are not known for their sound decision making and he won’t grow up to be mad at his younger self.

My heart wept for the police officers, who joined the police force with the intent of contributing to society, not taking a child from it. Men who have loved ones of their own, and who had to make a snap decision with little to no proof. Perhaps they even have their own 12 year old child at home, and that face was the last thing they saw before they pulled the trigger. If either of those officers were my husband, I’d want him to come home to me. Would it be any less painful for me (and our children) to bury my husband/their father, had it been a real gun and the kid had pulled the trigger? 

My heart wept for our society. All of us. Every single one of us. We live in a world where race is such a barrier to civilized interaction. Some like to say that racism is no longer an issue. They are delusional. Of course it’s a problem. It’s a raging problem. The miscommunication between cultures does not allow for the open conversation that would actually help. If I were to claim that being white does not provide me and my children a higher level of safety in public, I would be lying and/or blind.

Let me tell you a story.

When I was working in a public high school, there was an incident where an older white teacher and a younger black student disagreed about an issue of discipline. I never knew learned the details of their disagreement. The teacher became stern and the student became agitated. He talked back, gesturing wildly with his hands and raising his voice. The teacher claimed that she had been assaulted. The student replied that she was lying. 

They were both right. The teacher did, authentically, feel assaulted. The physical proximity of the student, combined with the volume of speech and size of hand gestures, made her feel unsafe. She felt assaulted. The student, however, had no intent of making her feel unsafe. He simply reacted like a teenage boy with lower capacity to control his emotions. He was mad, furious. He didn’t feel heard, and so he kept attempting to make his point. His methods did not win him favor with his teacher. 

In an ideal world, there would have been a space in the middle. A space where the student could feel heard without explosive behavior and the teacher could feel in control of her classroom without being inflexible. As a person, I understand them both and have no intent of taking sides. 

Racism is a dangerous thing. It’s real. It’s out there. The perpetrators of it, often times, do it without intent and without knowledge of having done it.  They do and say things that land badly, even though their intent was good. With a safer society, however, the offended could speak up and educate the offender. The offender could explain their intent and offended could explain their reaction. A middle ground could be reached, with both compromising a bit. Both sides acknowledging the need to meet in the middle and respect the diversity of our communities. In the case of the student and teacher, perhaps the student could have felt safe to apologize for scaring her, and the teacher could have found a way to understand the true intentions of the student’s actions. 

Perhaps the police officers could have made a different choice when they approached the kid, one that gave them more options in the middle ground. Perhaps the kid could have had his “oh shit” moment earlier and realized it was time to stop making silly choices.  Perhaps..Perhaps…Perhaps…

I am not so naïve as to believe that all offenders are accidental. Some, on both sides, are intentional and unapologetic. They are proud of their stance on hate and have no desire to change. This saddens me profoundly and the commentary I have on these individuals has no place in this blog, as it would ruin the optimistic tone that I am determined to maintain. 

The question I ask myself is this. If the kid with the toy gun had been white , and that where the only difference, would it have ended differently?  

How an 80's band saved my marriage

Once a month, in a venue near my home, there is a convergence that occurs. Three seemingly standard middle aged women enter a time machine. The world stops turning and rotates backwards, approximately 30 years.  Grown men play air guitar and grown women wear mismatched fluorescent and jelly bracelets.  Big hair returns to being all the rage. Socks and earrings no longer to need to worn in matching pairs. Strangers young and old bond over the lyrics of music from a decade long gone.

This phenomenon has saved my marriage.

Experts worldwide profess that the single best way to have a healthy relationship is to be a healthy person in that relationship. It’s not rocket science, if you think about it. Nobody is going to make you happy unless you are actually happy with yourself. We've all been there. We get home from a terrible day at the office and zoom in, directly and instantaneously, on the one thing our partner failed to do. It doesn't matter that they made dinner, moved the laundry and mailed that package you didn't have time for. They forgot to pick up the dry cleaning… and that makes you mad, because you NEEDED that shirt for tomorrow. No, you don’t think you are being unreasonable. The other 25 shirts will NOT be OK for tomorrow. NO, you WILL NOT calm down. Please stop asking.

I could lie to you and say that I never make my husband’s life miserable when feeling frustrated. That really would be a tremendous lie. It would also be a lie to say that he doesn't do the same to me from time to time.  We are human, after all. We live in the same house, together, day after day. We share our lives, our finances and our children. We are intimately connected to each other, so that the other is immediately impacted by our current condition. It’s inevitable, really.

When the kids were born, six years ago, our marriage changed tremendously. In many ways, it became stronger than ever before. We had extended stay NICU babies, for one. Anyone who has experienced the NICU with their babies knows how tremendously difficult the experience is. Leaving my babies in the hospital, day after day, tormented me. It broke my heart. And so, I let my husband feel it with me. I can’t imagine it was terribly pleasant for him, but he stood by me and we emerged stronger than ever.  When he needs something from me, he only has to ask once, when it really counts. I can’t speak for him, but I can only assume that my willingness to see his priorities as our priorities has strengthened his bond to the relationship as well.

As anyone with kids will know, however, the change in marriages post children is not all good. Both partners get wrapped up in the daily grind, and there’s precious little time for socializing independent of young ones. Date nights, Happy hours and girls’ nights out become scarce, long before you have the time and energy to realize it. Sometimes, you are both too tired to even desire adult conversation by the time the kids are in bed, with your partner or anyone else.

When my twins were very little, I was honestly too exhausted to even realize or admit that my former self had gone completely into hibernation. I simply did not have the time or energy to address it, and I was being practical. If it didn't have a solution, I didn't have time to dwell on the problem. Formerly a very social person, my social life dwindled.

But then, something very small yet very important came to pass. My neighbor, a lovely woman within my age group, invited me to an 80’s concert. She knew I enjoyed 80’s music and the tickets were free. She wanted to party with a friend who would appreciate it, and she thought I fit the bill. She was completely on target. We had a blast. We danced, we sang, we lost our voices and stayed up way too late. The next day, a weary and happy woman dragged herself out of bed, having almost forgotten that she wasn't a teenager anymore.

And a tradition was born. We began researching local 80’s bands and started attending them regularly. We recruited another woman on our street and indoctrinated her into the club. And then there were three. Along the way, we found a favorite band and we block off their local dates in advance on our calendars. We inform our husbands and children that we will be otherwise engaged, and we dress up in fishnet gloves, legwarmers and blue eye shadow. For the first time in my life, perching on the edge of 40, I am a band groupie. Perhaps I should be embarrassed at how happy this makes me, but I’m not. It makes me happy, completing a part of my being that has been woefully ignored for significantly too long. And you want to know the best part? It has spilled over into my life as a wife and a mom. Now, when I’m making dinner and the kids are driving me crazy, I take a deep breath and put Pandora to an 80’s station. I dance, the kids dance with me, everyone laughs. The irritation lifts away. The house that my husband returns to is one of happy chaos, mostly void of discipline and frustration.

So, OK, maybe it hasn't save my marriage. Perhaps it has simply reignited an essential part of me, the part that really saw my husband missing the crazy wife he married. And found her.

Learning to read and taking a new adventure...

My kids are in kindergarten and they are learning to read. They are officially learning how to decode the lines, squiggles and dots that we have arbitrarily given sounds; so that they can pronounce and read the words that we have arbitrarily assigned meaning. I mean, really, why does the thing that goes and says “vroom” have to be called a car. Why can’t it be a “coche” or “voiture” or even a “gobox”. (Yes, I made up the word “gobox”, but I did it on purpose, to prove a point.) . Further, why do the sounds have to be shaped like that? Why can’t “SH” look like ש? It does in Hebrew. It’s all arbitrary. We’ve been practicing with low level books and with the sight word cards provided by the teachers. We’ve also been supplementing the phonics based education they have been receiving for the last few years in preschool. 

 

For many, teaching their kids to read in an academic event. They think about report cards and grade level appropriate tasks. They think about how well their child will be able to complete higher level tasks in school and in the world. I, however, have a slightly different perspective. It’s not that I don’t see my kids as needing to feel intellectually confident in their world. I do see that as important. It’s just that I see this goal as a secondary goal for reading. 

For me, the primary goal of reading is to have unlimited adventures, information and creativity at your fingertips. For me, reading is not a task. Reading is privilege. It’s too cold and rainy to play outside? No worries. Pick up your book and read about a tropical island while you sip your hot chocolate. Let your mind go where your body can’t. Don’t know something and feel like you should? No worries. Research it and write your own story or report using that information as a foundation. Feeling frustrated that somebody doesn’t understand your point of view or simply need to transmit information to another person? No worries, write them a note. 

Words, on paper (or screen, as it may be) are power. They are imagination. They are information. They are access to a larger and more complex world, both fictional and actual. I suppose I need to take into account that I am 1) a highly uncompetitive person and 2) a writer. This most certainly impacts my position on this matter. That said, I imagine most child caring adults get a thrill from watching their children be creative and interesting. My kids, for quite some time now, have been drawing pictures and dictating the accompanying story to me. We have even laminated and bound (ok, taped together) a few of them for our bookshelf. I can’t wait until they can complete the drawing and picture independently. I can already see their faces when they come bursting into the room, book in hand, insisting that I stop what I’m doing and be read to. 

I can’t wait to see what impact reading has on my children’s already fantastic imaginations. They may actually change the world. Imagine that.

A parents guide- Teaching your kid to vote with dignity

Today was voting day. As voting takes place in school cafeterias, there was no school. This is not news to anyone, but it only really becomes relevant when the hard truth hits parents. If they want to vote, they have to bring their kids with them. Hmmm…

When my kids were younger, this proved very interesting. It’s hard to focus on shopping in Target with two little kids running crazy, much less on a political ballot. This year, however, the scene looked distinctly different. 

When we left the house, I took advantage of the car ride to explain the concept of voting. I explained that we have people in offices that make decisions for us, and that we have the chance to say who we think should have that job. I explained that not everybody agrees on what a good decision looks like, so we have choices on who we think is best for the job. 

I illustrated the point by talking about breakfast foods. I figured that a simple, concrete example would be best. We talked about how my kids had chosen different breakfasts this morning. My son wanted waffle with peanut butter and my daughter wanted French toast. (As they both come from frozen, there’s no harm in making two breakfasts, even on a busy morning.) I explained that a “vote” was unnecessary, as I was willing to make two different choices. What if, however, I were not willing? What if one person got to choose what everyone had for breakfast? Who would be a good person to make such a choice? Would it be the person who is nicest? The one who is really good at listening? The one who knows what everyone likes, so they can pick the choice that is most represented? How would they choose? 

They asked me some good questions and then we entered the polling place. I told the kids that I needed to be able to think, so that I could do a good job. They nodded earnestly. It was pretty adorable. I asked them to sit down next to my voting booth and they complied instantly, waiting quietly for me. The lady working the table was totally impressed. (I was a little stunned myself, to be totally honest.)

When I was done, about to leave, we ran into a neighbor and friend. We don’t get to see her very often, so we stopped to chat for a moment before she went to work. We both enjoyed it, and I realized that I had another lesson to teach my children about voting. This neighbor/friend and I do not agree on politics. Sometimes we talk about current issues, to see what the other side believes, but our conversations rarely convert the other. At the end, we agree to disagree and move on happily.  And so, I asked my children to listen one more time and I began to talk about …well... food. 

I reminded them that Daddy likes mustard, but that he likes the spicy kind, while mommy likes the regular yellow mustard. They (the kids) don’t like mustard at all. My daughter despises tuna fish, while my son adores it. My daughter loves potatoes, while my son cringes at the idea of eating them. My point? Simply because a person disagrees with us does not make them less intelligent or wrong. They simply disagree. Oh, and we can still like them. Heck, we may even love them.

My kids nodded earnestly. They got it. Really got it. Ok, no… they don’t get it to the level that an older child or adult gets it, but they got the basic idea. They understood that opinions are huge. They are part of what makes a person valuable, and our diversity is what makes us interesting. 

I love that they got it. I’m so proud.

Rockin' your (advanced) age...

I’m not particularly a gossip column kind of girl, but I am into facebook. As a result, I am exposed to all sorts of news, due to the variety of interests represented by my facebook friends. Recently, pictures of actress Renee Zellweger have been popping up like crazy. Why, you ask? Well, for those of you who don’t know, she suddenly appeared with a new face. Yes, a new face. The previously skinny face of the Bridget Jones has been replaced by a fuller and more “adult” looking version. She’s basically unrecognizable.

Some articles are taking this opportunity to soapbox the dangers of injectables and other media is commenting negatively on how “old” she looks. As unfortunate as it is, Renee was forced into making a public statement. Yeah, because everyone should have to make a public media statement about how their face looks. Right. 

I was intrigued, so I read it. She talks about how she has never been happier or healthier, and that she is finding a way to enjoy her life in a way that she didn’t find possible in previous years. I have no idea if she used injectables, as she didn’t address it in her statement, nor do I care. Here’s what I care about. 

Assuming she is telling the truth, she’s happy and healthy. This is good news.   

 

A few months ago, I had the opportunity to browse the bookshelves in a bookstore. As I rarely “browse” anything anymore (being with two 5 year old kids the majority of my time), this event stood out as noteworthy to me. As I ambled through the aisles, investigating titles and covers, I marveled at the sheer number of books written. If you really ponder that thought, it’s amazing. After all, there are only 26 letters in the alphabet and they have the potential form in so many combinations to create such potential for imagination. Books transport you to another place, another time, and another life. They are magic. Pure magic. 

The next day, I was at the gym on a treadmill with an attached TV. I was listening to music, but I glanced at the screen from time to time as it is strategically placed in front of me. Towards the end of my workout, a commercial came on that I hadn’t seen before. It began with Cindy Crawford and moved on to Debra Messing and was captioned as “Rocking the forties”. It was selling an anti-aging skin cream. Hmmm. Both ladies were interviewed on the product. I didn’t have the sound, so I didn’t hear their commentary, but I can imagine from their facial expressions and hand gestures that they were proclaiming its greatness. They then showed the before and after pictures. (Insert irritated sigh here). Debra Messing’s “before” photo was untouched by photo shop and she wore limited makeup. Her “after” shot was fully made up and most likely photo shopped as well. 

Hmm… No wonder there was such an improvement. Can you say “false advertizing?”

I found myself irrationally irritated by this commercial and I’m not at all confused as to why. I am turning 39 in June. Ok, I’m not 40 yet. I am, however, close enough to put myself in the category of women this ad is targeting so I’m going to take some mathematical liberties with my commentary. 

I fully intend to “rock my forties”, but it will have nothing to do with flawless skin and a perfect waistline. Sure, I wouldn’t mind looking cute in my bathing suit or taking a little better care of my skin, but that’s certainly NOT what will determine if my 40’s are rocking. 

My 40’s will be rocking if I am, in the grand scheme of things, doing well and continuing to make myself a better person. Am I finding the time to be a good friend, despite crazy life demands and hectic schedules? Am I good mom and wife? Do I find the time to hang out with my kids and husband? Do I make people laugh and smile? Do I spend time with my extended family? Am I using my brain? Am I continuing to use my experience in education to enhance the learning experience of my students?  Being a writer, I’d love to publish something one day. I would never object to “rocking my forties” including a published book with my name on it. 

And I’ll tell you for free that when my kids see me and their faces light up, it’s not because my anti- wrinkle cream worked. It’s because my face represents love, warmth and security. They love me just as much when my face is a mess and my hair is a disaster. 

I don’t know much about Cindy Crawford, but Debra Messing is someone that I have always admired professionally. That woman is hilarious. Her facial expressions are out of control. I remember her role on “Will and Grace” and she was a riot. She could cheer up my grumpiest day. And I don’t care if she has wrinkles because if she laughs at life as frequently as she makes others laugh, they will probably have more wrinkles. 

One of my favorite parts of growing older is that I am growing continually less concerned by how I am perceived by strangers and non essential people to my life. Not to say that I don’t feel it’s important to present yourself well in the world. Quite the contrary, I believe it to be extremely important. I believe that when you do a job, you should do it well. I believe that you will be noticed for how you treat the people around you and for the respect you command. I believe that it’s essential to be kind, classy and professional in your daily life.  I believe that “looking good” is part of how you present yourself to the world, and that presenting well tells others that you put value in being classy. This is especially true in a professional setting.

But wrinkles? Really? That’s the BIGGEST problem I’m going to face in my forties? Oh no. Someone might notice my WRINKLES? Crap, man. My forties are officially unrocked! No saving me now! 

And I find myself wondering about Cindy Crawford and Debra Messing (and the women they represent). I don’t mind if they want to take good care of their skin to feel good about their appearance, but are they nice people? Are they fun? Are they nice? Do their friends know that they can count on them in a pinch? I hope so. Otherwise, really, what’s the point?