The Unsinkable Molly Brown
My mom always compares herself to Maggie Brown, otherwise known as the Unsinkable Molly Brown. Molly was traveling on the Titanic when it hit the iceberg. She refused to leave, helping others to board the lifeboats, and had to be convinced to get into Lifeboat No. 6. She was dubbed "The Unsinkable Molly Brown" by historians because not only did she help in the ship's evacuation, she also took an oar in her lifeboat and insisted that the crewman in charge go back to try and save more people.
Born poor to a family of Irish immigrants, she married J.J. Brown who became wealthy after their marriage when he discovered a substantial ore seam. Molly was an amazing woman. In 1901 she was one of the first students to enroll at the Carnegie Institute in New York. She became fluent in French, German and Russian. In 1909 she ran for the U. S. Senate. Throughout her life she used her wealth to fight for women’s rights and suffrage and to improve social services. She worked with Judge Lindsey to help destitute children and establish the United States’ first juvenile court which helped form the basis of the modern U.S. juvenile courts system.
I’m not sure that mom knows Margaret’s entire history but she does admire her for being a survivor who never let anything bring her down--who always picked herself up and moved on. That pretty much describes my mom as well. She may not have run for Senate but she has accomplished amazing things in her life despite the horrors that she lived through. Now mom is facing the challenge of getting older. But still she sees herself as unsinkable and I’m on the sidelines cheering her on.
Mom lives in independent senior housing near us. She exercises everyday, including practicingTai Chi, but her greatest love is walking. Even now when she depends on a rolling walker, which she calls her Mercedes, she tools around at a pretty good clip. But her greatest challenge these days is her balance which can desert her without warning.
Last June on her 88th birthday, she woke up feeling weak. Steve and I were with her in her apartment when she walked to the window. Suddnely she lost her balance and fell over hitting a table. She broke three ribs. I always tell her that she never does anything half way. She couldn’t just pull a muscle or perhaps fracture one rib—nope—mom goes for breaking the whole rack. When people heard about her accident they winced and said, “Oh broken ribs. That’s so painful and you can’t do anything for them but wait till they heal.” The doctors were determined to give her pain killers but she would only take Tylenol. Within a week she was off the Tylenol and buzzing around the rehab place like a speed demon. Each day when we came to visit we would have to search for her because she was always out somewhere strolling. She was the marvel of the floor.
Then a few weeks ago, once again while Steve was within six inches of her, she fell this time on the pavement. When I got to the emergency room and saw her I nearly keeled over and had to run for a chair before I fainted. She looked like someone had worked her over.
She took one look at my white face and said, “So I guess I must look gorgeous!”
I answered, “Well mom, I would cancel that beauty pageant appearance that you had planned.”
Shatz just looked at the two of us and laughed. He knew that we needed our silly jokes to get us through. But when she told me that she wanted a mirror to see what she looked like, I put my foot down.
“You don’t need to see what you look like right now”, I told her.
“Hey you know me,” she answered. “The Unsinkable Molly Brown!”
Later on as we waited in the hall for her to be admitted, she suddenly said, “You know all these ambulance drivers are really handsome!” One of the nurses heard her and cracked up. I smiled relieved to see that her spirit was getting her through this latest set back. I sure could have used some of that spirit. In the end she had to get seven stitches over her eye and suffered a fractured pelvis. Once again we waited for her stay in the hospital to end so we could get her to rehab and home.
But this time has been harder. Because of her fractured pelvis, walking, the one thing that gets her through the rough patches, is painful. When we come to visit she looks sad or exhausted and my heart hurts to see her this way. We bring her food and flowers, take her for walks, talk to her and that helps for a bit but some of her spirit seems to have abandoned her. Each morning when I wake up I say a prayer that today will be the day that she feels a bit stronger, today will be the day when she will look at me with that look I know and love so well--the one that says, “Don’t worry, I’m not giving up, after all I’m the Unsinkable Molly Brown.” Because I can’t even allow myself to think that she isn’t.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Sick Days
Sick Days
People can be divided into two basic groups: Those who can handle being sick and those who cannot. In our family Steve is the one who suffers in silence and I’m the total wuss. Well, maybe not total. If I’m not running a fever I’m up and working but I’m not happy and I let everyone around me know it.
This past week Steve once again proved to be one of the, oh-just-suck-it-up half of the sick world. The Sunday after Thanksgiving he began showing all the symptoms of an affliction that through the years we have affectionately called, crashing. Crashing occurs when you’ve pushed yourself beyond your usual limits and become so tired that only sleeping through an entire week-end can cure you.
The first time that I encountered this phenomenon was shortly after we were married. Before kids, our week-ends were for reserved for errands and chores but mostly we just relaxed. On Sundays Steve would wake up early, eat breakfast, go back to sleep for a few hours then join me for the rest of the day.
But this particular Sunday he kept sleeping and sleeping, showing no inclination of arising. I had no idea what to do with myself, so I decided to bake a honey cake from a recipe I had found in that day’s newspaper. As the wonderful aroma wafted through the apartment I kept thinking that it would surely awaken Shatz who would be eager to gobble it up.
Little did I know the smell was making him sick. Later he explained that whenever he had to stay up late for a long stretch of time he would be fine for a while but eventually the lack of sleep would catch up with him and he would crash. To this day he can’t stand the thought of honey cake.
So last Sunday he thought that he was in crash mode but then it stretched into Monday and Tuesday and then Wednesday, despite all his efforts to pretend as if nothing was wrong. Each morning he was still sleeping when I left in the morning and each afternoon when I came home he looked worse. But he kept popping Advils and insisting that he would be, “Fine, just fine!”
On Wednesday I couldn’t take it anymore and I forbade him to go to his tutoring appointment though he kept insisting that the Advil was keeping him going. It wasn’t until I reminded him that maybe the parents of the kid he was tutoring wouldn’t appreciate him getting their kid sick, when he gave in and made a doctor’s appointment.
His doctor’s initial diagnosis was a tick borne infection called anaplasma (fancy huh?) and dosed him with antibiotics. But I couldn’t relax until his tests came back. I stayed true to my paranoia that entire weekend imagining Shatz with some horrible, incurable disease, even though we could see that the antibiotics were working. Maybe that’s why I’m such a marshmallow when it comes to sickness—I always assume that it’s going to be deadly.
I seem to be surrounded by sickie heroes lately. Last week I wondered why I hadn’t heard from my boss, Mike, for a while when he finally called. He had been suffering from Shingles--that delightful virus that attacks anyone who has had chicken pox, especially those of us over 50. When I had heard that there was a vaccine available I was first in line at my doctor’s office and then bugged Steve mercilessly until he got one too. When I told Mike that there was a vaccine available (talk about shutting the barn after the horse has escaped) he said, “Yeah, I know. I was scheduled to get one this week!”
I felt so sorry for my poor boss until he told me that, despite the shingles, he was going to be in Washington D.C. that week-end. I thought to myself, “Oh no not another misguided hero!” assuming that it was for business. But when he told me he was going to D.C. for the Patriot’s game, all my pity flew out the window. Pain or no pain, this guy was going out of state to attend a football game. There’s a limit to pretending you’re not sick.
Why can’t these guys understand that there’s a certain beauty in giving in to sniffles and sneezes? In embracing the fever and simply lying in bed and groaning like a wounded animal while your husband scurries about getting you tea and cold compresses and cough syrup. At least you’re making only one other person miserable and not an entire office. Who hasn’t wanted to club the person in the cubicle next to theirs who coughs and hacks his way through an entire day, spreading their cheery germs to the world? No amount of hand sanitizer in the world is going to prevent you from catching whatever rotten virus it is that they’ve brought in to share with their co-workers.
So everyone, I beg you, embrace your inner child and stay home when you’re contagious. Stop fighting the fact that you feel like you’ve been run over by a truck—let’s face it you’re not going to get much done in your condition anyway. Get into your jammies, grab a tissue box and the remote and bid the world farewell for a couple of days. Because believe me, no one loves a sick hero.
People can be divided into two basic groups: Those who can handle being sick and those who cannot. In our family Steve is the one who suffers in silence and I’m the total wuss. Well, maybe not total. If I’m not running a fever I’m up and working but I’m not happy and I let everyone around me know it.
This past week Steve once again proved to be one of the, oh-just-suck-it-up half of the sick world. The Sunday after Thanksgiving he began showing all the symptoms of an affliction that through the years we have affectionately called, crashing. Crashing occurs when you’ve pushed yourself beyond your usual limits and become so tired that only sleeping through an entire week-end can cure you.
The first time that I encountered this phenomenon was shortly after we were married. Before kids, our week-ends were for reserved for errands and chores but mostly we just relaxed. On Sundays Steve would wake up early, eat breakfast, go back to sleep for a few hours then join me for the rest of the day.
But this particular Sunday he kept sleeping and sleeping, showing no inclination of arising. I had no idea what to do with myself, so I decided to bake a honey cake from a recipe I had found in that day’s newspaper. As the wonderful aroma wafted through the apartment I kept thinking that it would surely awaken Shatz who would be eager to gobble it up.
Little did I know the smell was making him sick. Later he explained that whenever he had to stay up late for a long stretch of time he would be fine for a while but eventually the lack of sleep would catch up with him and he would crash. To this day he can’t stand the thought of honey cake.
So last Sunday he thought that he was in crash mode but then it stretched into Monday and Tuesday and then Wednesday, despite all his efforts to pretend as if nothing was wrong. Each morning he was still sleeping when I left in the morning and each afternoon when I came home he looked worse. But he kept popping Advils and insisting that he would be, “Fine, just fine!”
On Wednesday I couldn’t take it anymore and I forbade him to go to his tutoring appointment though he kept insisting that the Advil was keeping him going. It wasn’t until I reminded him that maybe the parents of the kid he was tutoring wouldn’t appreciate him getting their kid sick, when he gave in and made a doctor’s appointment.
His doctor’s initial diagnosis was a tick borne infection called anaplasma (fancy huh?) and dosed him with antibiotics. But I couldn’t relax until his tests came back. I stayed true to my paranoia that entire weekend imagining Shatz with some horrible, incurable disease, even though we could see that the antibiotics were working. Maybe that’s why I’m such a marshmallow when it comes to sickness—I always assume that it’s going to be deadly.
I seem to be surrounded by sickie heroes lately. Last week I wondered why I hadn’t heard from my boss, Mike, for a while when he finally called. He had been suffering from Shingles--that delightful virus that attacks anyone who has had chicken pox, especially those of us over 50. When I had heard that there was a vaccine available I was first in line at my doctor’s office and then bugged Steve mercilessly until he got one too. When I told Mike that there was a vaccine available (talk about shutting the barn after the horse has escaped) he said, “Yeah, I know. I was scheduled to get one this week!”
I felt so sorry for my poor boss until he told me that, despite the shingles, he was going to be in Washington D.C. that week-end. I thought to myself, “Oh no not another misguided hero!” assuming that it was for business. But when he told me he was going to D.C. for the Patriot’s game, all my pity flew out the window. Pain or no pain, this guy was going out of state to attend a football game. There’s a limit to pretending you’re not sick.
Why can’t these guys understand that there’s a certain beauty in giving in to sniffles and sneezes? In embracing the fever and simply lying in bed and groaning like a wounded animal while your husband scurries about getting you tea and cold compresses and cough syrup. At least you’re making only one other person miserable and not an entire office. Who hasn’t wanted to club the person in the cubicle next to theirs who coughs and hacks his way through an entire day, spreading their cheery germs to the world? No amount of hand sanitizer in the world is going to prevent you from catching whatever rotten virus it is that they’ve brought in to share with their co-workers.
So everyone, I beg you, embrace your inner child and stay home when you’re contagious. Stop fighting the fact that you feel like you’ve been run over by a truck—let’s face it you’re not going to get much done in your condition anyway. Get into your jammies, grab a tissue box and the remote and bid the world farewell for a couple of days. Because believe me, no one loves a sick hero.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Holiday Cheer
Holiday Cheer
Holidays are funny things. Thanks to our Norman-Rockwell-Hallmark state of mind we expect that they will be all American perfection complete with abundant food, well behaved children, and gifts that we’ve always longed for. No one argues, no one is cranky or dissatisfied or sad. We create a minefield of disillusionment for ourselves. Every year we think our holidays will live up to some ideal and every year they fall short. What is the saying? Madness lies in doing the same thing over and over again and always expecting a different result?
I’m as bad as the next person when it comes to holidays. When the girls were little I’d decorate the house within an inch of its life. For Halloween every piece of the living room was covered in pumpkins, witches and ghosts. During Chanukah menorahs and dreidels were everywhere--in the window, on the fireplace in the front hall. Even Valentine’s Day wasn’t safe from my expectation that this time everything would be chocolate-and-roses perfect.
And of course it never was. It couldn’t be. Something was always missing. We were lucky that it was never the essential comforts like food or shelter—but rather something that we never got around to doing or saying or accomplishing. A curse of ridiculous expectations.
I always felt that Thanksgiving was especially disappointing, perhaps because it is the quintessential American holiday with visions of large dining room tables crammed with happy people waiting to dig into a magnificent turkey. Problem was, we were never a big family—it was usually just the four of us sitting down to the smallest bird I could find. There were a couple of years when we were invited to friends’ houses, but Lisa and Mariel rebelled. They wanted to stay home and never get out of their pajamas until I called them to the table.
As they got older though, things got complicated. They each had their idea of what we should be eating, especially after they became vegetarians, and they wanted to help cook the meal. Now I know that sounds like a fantastic scenario—the entire family cooking together—but the reality was not so rosy. Mariel would insist on making at least three or four different breads and desserts, all of them requiring the oven, while I tried to figure out how we were all going to share said oven and our limited counter space. And Lisa would also come up with her specialties which required major preparation and, of course, the oven.
So the day would disintegrate into a constant chorus of: “When are you going to be finished in there I need to peel the potatoes, cook the stuffing, mash the yams, bake the corn bread??!!!!” Eventually one year it all culminated in the great soup debacle when we ended up eating at 7:30 at night, cranky, miserable and generally out of sorts—not exactly the feelings you want to associate with Thanksgiving.
Every year I dreamt of having Chinese take-out for Thanksgiving dinner, or having the whole meal catered, or simply going out to a restaurant, but every year I got voted down with the words, “Don’t worry mom, this year it will be much better you’ll see.” Sigh.
So this year, once we invited our friends Mike and Mary from Georgia to join us for the holiday, I knew that it would either be a disaster or the holiday that I was always longing for. I didn’t suffer under any delusions that it was going to be perfect since I had no time to even think about anything until our friends got off the plane. Steve and I cleaned the house, ordered all the food and drink and figured it would work out somehow. And to my utter delight, for once, it did.
This time we had one more chef in the kitchen to add to the usual mayhem, Steve, who took on the chore of the salads and veggies. I took a deep breath, made up a prep schedule, brought in an extra table for a work space and we were off. It helped that Mariel got up at 4:30 in the morning to bake. That girl is nothing if not determined when it comes to her baked goods. We told her that she was crazy to bake so much since we had an apple pie for dessert. Afterwards, when we realized that the pie had somehow never gotten into our shopping bag, she flashed an I-told-you-so grin at us. I promised everyone apple pie for Chanukah.
We sat down for our meal at 4:00, exactly when we had planned. That has never occurred in our entire history of Thanksgiving dinners. Lisa wanted to take a picture of the clock. And we did all the Hallmark things—we made toasts giving thanks for our good fortune, we stuffed ourselves, we laughed, we ate, we relaxed. For the first time that any of us could remember, it was truly perfect. I still have no idea why. Was it because we were so excited to have Mike, Mary and mom with us that everything else just fell into place? Was it our perfected cooking skills and schedules? Was it the wine?
I don’t know and I don’t care. All I know is that when people ask me how my Thanksgiving was, for the first time in a long time I smile and answer, “Perfect.” Because it was.
Holidays are funny things. Thanks to our Norman-Rockwell-Hallmark state of mind we expect that they will be all American perfection complete with abundant food, well behaved children, and gifts that we’ve always longed for. No one argues, no one is cranky or dissatisfied or sad. We create a minefield of disillusionment for ourselves. Every year we think our holidays will live up to some ideal and every year they fall short. What is the saying? Madness lies in doing the same thing over and over again and always expecting a different result?
I’m as bad as the next person when it comes to holidays. When the girls were little I’d decorate the house within an inch of its life. For Halloween every piece of the living room was covered in pumpkins, witches and ghosts. During Chanukah menorahs and dreidels were everywhere--in the window, on the fireplace in the front hall. Even Valentine’s Day wasn’t safe from my expectation that this time everything would be chocolate-and-roses perfect.
And of course it never was. It couldn’t be. Something was always missing. We were lucky that it was never the essential comforts like food or shelter—but rather something that we never got around to doing or saying or accomplishing. A curse of ridiculous expectations.
I always felt that Thanksgiving was especially disappointing, perhaps because it is the quintessential American holiday with visions of large dining room tables crammed with happy people waiting to dig into a magnificent turkey. Problem was, we were never a big family—it was usually just the four of us sitting down to the smallest bird I could find. There were a couple of years when we were invited to friends’ houses, but Lisa and Mariel rebelled. They wanted to stay home and never get out of their pajamas until I called them to the table.
As they got older though, things got complicated. They each had their idea of what we should be eating, especially after they became vegetarians, and they wanted to help cook the meal. Now I know that sounds like a fantastic scenario—the entire family cooking together—but the reality was not so rosy. Mariel would insist on making at least three or four different breads and desserts, all of them requiring the oven, while I tried to figure out how we were all going to share said oven and our limited counter space. And Lisa would also come up with her specialties which required major preparation and, of course, the oven.
So the day would disintegrate into a constant chorus of: “When are you going to be finished in there I need to peel the potatoes, cook the stuffing, mash the yams, bake the corn bread??!!!!” Eventually one year it all culminated in the great soup debacle when we ended up eating at 7:30 at night, cranky, miserable and generally out of sorts—not exactly the feelings you want to associate with Thanksgiving.
Every year I dreamt of having Chinese take-out for Thanksgiving dinner, or having the whole meal catered, or simply going out to a restaurant, but every year I got voted down with the words, “Don’t worry mom, this year it will be much better you’ll see.” Sigh.
So this year, once we invited our friends Mike and Mary from Georgia to join us for the holiday, I knew that it would either be a disaster or the holiday that I was always longing for. I didn’t suffer under any delusions that it was going to be perfect since I had no time to even think about anything until our friends got off the plane. Steve and I cleaned the house, ordered all the food and drink and figured it would work out somehow. And to my utter delight, for once, it did.
This time we had one more chef in the kitchen to add to the usual mayhem, Steve, who took on the chore of the salads and veggies. I took a deep breath, made up a prep schedule, brought in an extra table for a work space and we were off. It helped that Mariel got up at 4:30 in the morning to bake. That girl is nothing if not determined when it comes to her baked goods. We told her that she was crazy to bake so much since we had an apple pie for dessert. Afterwards, when we realized that the pie had somehow never gotten into our shopping bag, she flashed an I-told-you-so grin at us. I promised everyone apple pie for Chanukah.
We sat down for our meal at 4:00, exactly when we had planned. That has never occurred in our entire history of Thanksgiving dinners. Lisa wanted to take a picture of the clock. And we did all the Hallmark things—we made toasts giving thanks for our good fortune, we stuffed ourselves, we laughed, we ate, we relaxed. For the first time that any of us could remember, it was truly perfect. I still have no idea why. Was it because we were so excited to have Mike, Mary and mom with us that everything else just fell into place? Was it our perfected cooking skills and schedules? Was it the wine?
I don’t know and I don’t care. All I know is that when people ask me how my Thanksgiving was, for the first time in a long time I smile and answer, “Perfect.” Because it was.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Will You Marry Me?
Will You Marry Me?
A couple of weeks ago I was at the Department of Education in Malden doing a STAR reading training when I heard my phone ring. I checked to see who was calling, since I was expecting a call from my assistant telling me that my GED school was on fire. Thankfully it turned out to be from Steve, so I waited until break time to see what it said. And there was the most unexpected message:
“Dan just phoned to ask our blessing so he could ask Mariel to marry him this week-end.”
I gave a little yip and almost dropped the phone. Everyone began asking me what happened. I answered, a bit dazed, “My daughter’s about to get engaged.”
Engaged? My baby? How was that possible? True, she and Dan have been going out for almost seven years so you couldn’t say that they were rushing into things, but she’s only--------24. Twenty-four! Then I realized that when I was 24 I had already been married for three years and widowed for one, so perhaps 24 wasn’t so young after all. But still---my baby?
I got home that evening and began interrogating Steve.
“Tell me, tell me everything!” I demanded. “Every last detail!”
“There isn’t much to tell,” he insisted. “He called me to ask our blessing and said that he was going to ask her this week-end when they went on their hiking trip.”
“There must be details!” I wailed. And then I realized that Dan was an engineer just like Steve and so there probably weren’t any details and wouldn’t be any even if I held their feet to the fire. But then Steve added one: “Make sure you don’t say anything to Mariel because it’s going to be a surprise.”
Oy. I had to sit on this knowledge and not say a word. It was a good thing that they were leaving the next day so that I wouldn’t have to keep my big mouth shut for too long. I was making dinner when Mariel came home, excited about the trip. They were driving to New Hampshire’s White Mountains to hike the Appalachian Trail. They would also be camping on the trail at night. To me it sounded completely crazy but I have never been the rugged type. When Shatz and I went camping we settled in at Kampground of America (KOA) sites where civilized showers and electricity were available. We weren’t exactly pioneers.
When Dan arrived later that evening I gave him a long hug. He looked happy yet nervous that I would let something slip and ruin his plans. But I was good. I kept relatively quiet—except for when I said good night to Mariel and kept babbling about how wonderful I knew the trip would be. Steve gave me a warning look so I shut up and kissed her good-night.
Mariel and Lisa have always left us their itineraries when they’re off exploring—airplane schedules, hotel addresses—things I can understand--but this time Mariel left us a map of the trail complete with compass points and markings of the mountain that they would be hiking. I had to laugh. It made as much sense to me as Egyptian hieroglyphics did before the Rosetta Stone. She also warned us that there was no cell phone reception in the White Mountains so we probably wouldn’t hear from her that week-end.
That evening I realized that Steve had also proposed to me on a camping trip and the symmetry of it appealed to me. Then he had the nerve to say, “How do you know she’ll accept?” I nearly decked him.
“Don’t say things like that! It’s not romantic! Why would she turn him down for heaven’s sake???” Engineers—harrumph!
Mariel called the next night. When I heard her excited voice I knew that, despite her father’s predictions, she had accepted Dan’s proposal. It seems that the first day on the mountain had been cold and miserable, but once they were up there was no turning back, so they suffered through the night. The next day Dan proposed on the mountain, giving her a lovely sapphire ring because he knew how much the geologist he loved hated diamonds.
She also told us that Dan had bought a geological favorite of hers—a bright yellow sulphur rock—and planted it on the trail for her to find. When she saw it however, she thought it was plastic because she knew that sulphur wasn’t indigenous to the White Mountains. When she began questioning it, Dan gave up that plan and simply asked her to marry him.
They spent the night in a lovely inn and celebrated being together. I guess engineers do have some romantic bones in their bodies.
“It turns out everyone knew but me!” Mariel told us later. “He asked Lisa for advice on how to ask me, (She wisely said, “Anything to do with rocks!”) and told his parents and you. I was the only one who didn’t know.”
We’ve joked that in order to feel more settled, they should get an apartment in Iowa since Dan works in Connecticut and Mariel attends school in Arizona. But they’re not worried. They’ve heard the story too many times of how I lived in Israel and Steve lived in Boston and yet we ended up together. They’ll be their own rock, the foundation that they will build the rest of their lives on.
A couple of weeks ago I was at the Department of Education in Malden doing a STAR reading training when I heard my phone ring. I checked to see who was calling, since I was expecting a call from my assistant telling me that my GED school was on fire. Thankfully it turned out to be from Steve, so I waited until break time to see what it said. And there was the most unexpected message:
“Dan just phoned to ask our blessing so he could ask Mariel to marry him this week-end.”
I gave a little yip and almost dropped the phone. Everyone began asking me what happened. I answered, a bit dazed, “My daughter’s about to get engaged.”
Engaged? My baby? How was that possible? True, she and Dan have been going out for almost seven years so you couldn’t say that they were rushing into things, but she’s only--------24. Twenty-four! Then I realized that when I was 24 I had already been married for three years and widowed for one, so perhaps 24 wasn’t so young after all. But still---my baby?
I got home that evening and began interrogating Steve.
“Tell me, tell me everything!” I demanded. “Every last detail!”
“There isn’t much to tell,” he insisted. “He called me to ask our blessing and said that he was going to ask her this week-end when they went on their hiking trip.”
“There must be details!” I wailed. And then I realized that Dan was an engineer just like Steve and so there probably weren’t any details and wouldn’t be any even if I held their feet to the fire. But then Steve added one: “Make sure you don’t say anything to Mariel because it’s going to be a surprise.”
Oy. I had to sit on this knowledge and not say a word. It was a good thing that they were leaving the next day so that I wouldn’t have to keep my big mouth shut for too long. I was making dinner when Mariel came home, excited about the trip. They were driving to New Hampshire’s White Mountains to hike the Appalachian Trail. They would also be camping on the trail at night. To me it sounded completely crazy but I have never been the rugged type. When Shatz and I went camping we settled in at Kampground of America (KOA) sites where civilized showers and electricity were available. We weren’t exactly pioneers.
When Dan arrived later that evening I gave him a long hug. He looked happy yet nervous that I would let something slip and ruin his plans. But I was good. I kept relatively quiet—except for when I said good night to Mariel and kept babbling about how wonderful I knew the trip would be. Steve gave me a warning look so I shut up and kissed her good-night.
Mariel and Lisa have always left us their itineraries when they’re off exploring—airplane schedules, hotel addresses—things I can understand--but this time Mariel left us a map of the trail complete with compass points and markings of the mountain that they would be hiking. I had to laugh. It made as much sense to me as Egyptian hieroglyphics did before the Rosetta Stone. She also warned us that there was no cell phone reception in the White Mountains so we probably wouldn’t hear from her that week-end.
That evening I realized that Steve had also proposed to me on a camping trip and the symmetry of it appealed to me. Then he had the nerve to say, “How do you know she’ll accept?” I nearly decked him.
“Don’t say things like that! It’s not romantic! Why would she turn him down for heaven’s sake???” Engineers—harrumph!
Mariel called the next night. When I heard her excited voice I knew that, despite her father’s predictions, she had accepted Dan’s proposal. It seems that the first day on the mountain had been cold and miserable, but once they were up there was no turning back, so they suffered through the night. The next day Dan proposed on the mountain, giving her a lovely sapphire ring because he knew how much the geologist he loved hated diamonds.
She also told us that Dan had bought a geological favorite of hers—a bright yellow sulphur rock—and planted it on the trail for her to find. When she saw it however, she thought it was plastic because she knew that sulphur wasn’t indigenous to the White Mountains. When she began questioning it, Dan gave up that plan and simply asked her to marry him.
They spent the night in a lovely inn and celebrated being together. I guess engineers do have some romantic bones in their bodies.
“It turns out everyone knew but me!” Mariel told us later. “He asked Lisa for advice on how to ask me, (She wisely said, “Anything to do with rocks!”) and told his parents and you. I was the only one who didn’t know.”
We’ve joked that in order to feel more settled, they should get an apartment in Iowa since Dan works in Connecticut and Mariel attends school in Arizona. But they’re not worried. They’ve heard the story too many times of how I lived in Israel and Steve lived in Boston and yet we ended up together. They’ll be their own rock, the foundation that they will build the rest of their lives on.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Snoop A Loop
Snoop-A-Loop
Our dog Snoopy has routines that he follows religiously. Every morning he performs his yoga stretches, visits the trees, then has breakfast. After begging for his extra piece of cheese, he goes back to sleep for the rest of the morning. Upon awakening he drives Steve crazy until our neighbor, Cheryl comes to take him for his walk and play-time with her dog, Princess. Upon his return he bounds up the stairs as if the hounds of hell were after him, and barks for his dinner until he gets it. The routine is sacred.
So a few weeks ago at dinner time when, instead of hearing a rambunctious, bounding pup all we heard was silence, we were worried. This was not our Snoopy. There was no running, no enthusiastic barking, and absolutely no interest in his dinner. And then, when I reached down to pat his back, he screamed.
I pulled my hand back as if it were burned. Five years ago Snoopy had a herniated disc in his upper spine that caused him so much pain that he couldn’t breathe without whimpering. So Steve and I gave up vacation money that we had saved for years (farewell Italy) and used it to make our pup better. After an operation and six weeks of rest, our dog seemed fine.
The doctors warned us that Snoopy would eventually suffer from another disc problem. They also told us that he was no longer allowed to climb stairs, jump, run, or do anything that could exacerbate his condition. In other words he had to give up being a dog and spend his days sitting around the house reading the paper and watching the soaps. We knew that there was no way that we were going to force him to give up his doggy life, so we let him be happy, knowing that one day we would have to pay the price.
For years, every time he had trouble climbing stairs or winced when picked up, we were transported back to the painful week when we thought we lost our dog. And each time we wondered if this was the day that we had dreaded for so long. But then he would seem fine, so we did some convenient forgetting until the next instance. But this time it didn’t look like the pain was going away.
The next morning before leaving for work, I sat on the floor with my arms around Snoopy saying good-bye. I was sure that he was not going to come home from the vet. I tried to imprint the feel of his ears and his furry smell into my thoughts. I kept wondering how we were going to tell the girls, especially Mariel, who hadn’t been home in months and was coming to visit the next week.
At work I tried to keep busy and not check my phone every few minutes. I knew that Shatz would call when he had news. I kept rewinding the tape of putting our pup to sleep, in my mind. When my phone finally rang, I was afraid to answer, but unbelievably the news was good. Snoop did have a herniated disc but this time Dr. Holmes didn’t recommend surgery; just rest, vitamins to build up his bones, and physical therapy.
“Physical therapy????” I yelled at him, wondering what kind of expensive crackpot cure for dogs this was, for heaven sake. But Steve told me that right after Snoop had been x-rayed they had gone to the Sterling Impression Animal Rehabilitation Center of New England in Walpole for his first session.
“If I hadn’t seen it, I never would have believed it,” he told me. “I had to carry him in there but after they finished his therapy he walked out on his own, looking a lot like his old self. It was unbelievable.”
That night Shatz elaborated. “The first thing they did was put a heating pad on him to loosen his muscles. Then they massaged him and he absolutely loved that. They stretched him out on a ball, did all kinds of core strengthening exercises and even gave him laser treatments.”
“I saw this guy walking around in a bathing suit and I couldn’t figure it out until I saw the doggie swimming pool for hydrotherapy. You never saw so many happy dogs in your life and Snoopy was one of them. Of course he was pretty loopy on pain meds at the time but still, all I could hear during the massages were his pleasure groans.”
When Snoop and I walked into his next session, the therapists called out, “Hi ya Snoop a Loop!” It seems that they give every pup a nickname as well as amazing patience and care. By his third and last session I had fallen in love with them all and though I was relieved that he didn’t need any more therapy, I realized that I would miss watching them work. Snoop was his old self and neither I nor his vet could believe he had healed so quickly. She told us that we had to make sure that from now on he didn’t jump down from anything so we’ve been busy keeping him off couches. But for the first time in years I know that if this happens again it only means rest and therapy—no panic, no surgery, no last good-byes. Our Snoop a Loop still has a few good years ahead.
Our dog Snoopy has routines that he follows religiously. Every morning he performs his yoga stretches, visits the trees, then has breakfast. After begging for his extra piece of cheese, he goes back to sleep for the rest of the morning. Upon awakening he drives Steve crazy until our neighbor, Cheryl comes to take him for his walk and play-time with her dog, Princess. Upon his return he bounds up the stairs as if the hounds of hell were after him, and barks for his dinner until he gets it. The routine is sacred.
So a few weeks ago at dinner time when, instead of hearing a rambunctious, bounding pup all we heard was silence, we were worried. This was not our Snoopy. There was no running, no enthusiastic barking, and absolutely no interest in his dinner. And then, when I reached down to pat his back, he screamed.
I pulled my hand back as if it were burned. Five years ago Snoopy had a herniated disc in his upper spine that caused him so much pain that he couldn’t breathe without whimpering. So Steve and I gave up vacation money that we had saved for years (farewell Italy) and used it to make our pup better. After an operation and six weeks of rest, our dog seemed fine.
The doctors warned us that Snoopy would eventually suffer from another disc problem. They also told us that he was no longer allowed to climb stairs, jump, run, or do anything that could exacerbate his condition. In other words he had to give up being a dog and spend his days sitting around the house reading the paper and watching the soaps. We knew that there was no way that we were going to force him to give up his doggy life, so we let him be happy, knowing that one day we would have to pay the price.
For years, every time he had trouble climbing stairs or winced when picked up, we were transported back to the painful week when we thought we lost our dog. And each time we wondered if this was the day that we had dreaded for so long. But then he would seem fine, so we did some convenient forgetting until the next instance. But this time it didn’t look like the pain was going away.
The next morning before leaving for work, I sat on the floor with my arms around Snoopy saying good-bye. I was sure that he was not going to come home from the vet. I tried to imprint the feel of his ears and his furry smell into my thoughts. I kept wondering how we were going to tell the girls, especially Mariel, who hadn’t been home in months and was coming to visit the next week.
At work I tried to keep busy and not check my phone every few minutes. I knew that Shatz would call when he had news. I kept rewinding the tape of putting our pup to sleep, in my mind. When my phone finally rang, I was afraid to answer, but unbelievably the news was good. Snoop did have a herniated disc but this time Dr. Holmes didn’t recommend surgery; just rest, vitamins to build up his bones, and physical therapy.
“Physical therapy????” I yelled at him, wondering what kind of expensive crackpot cure for dogs this was, for heaven sake. But Steve told me that right after Snoop had been x-rayed they had gone to the Sterling Impression Animal Rehabilitation Center of New England in Walpole for his first session.
“If I hadn’t seen it, I never would have believed it,” he told me. “I had to carry him in there but after they finished his therapy he walked out on his own, looking a lot like his old self. It was unbelievable.”
That night Shatz elaborated. “The first thing they did was put a heating pad on him to loosen his muscles. Then they massaged him and he absolutely loved that. They stretched him out on a ball, did all kinds of core strengthening exercises and even gave him laser treatments.”
“I saw this guy walking around in a bathing suit and I couldn’t figure it out until I saw the doggie swimming pool for hydrotherapy. You never saw so many happy dogs in your life and Snoopy was one of them. Of course he was pretty loopy on pain meds at the time but still, all I could hear during the massages were his pleasure groans.”
When Snoop and I walked into his next session, the therapists called out, “Hi ya Snoop a Loop!” It seems that they give every pup a nickname as well as amazing patience and care. By his third and last session I had fallen in love with them all and though I was relieved that he didn’t need any more therapy, I realized that I would miss watching them work. Snoop was his old self and neither I nor his vet could believe he had healed so quickly. She told us that we had to make sure that from now on he didn’t jump down from anything so we’ve been busy keeping him off couches. But for the first time in years I know that if this happens again it only means rest and therapy—no panic, no surgery, no last good-byes. Our Snoop a Loop still has a few good years ahead.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Day of Atonement
Day of Atonement
It’s hard to believe that a year has passed and I am sitting in Temple once again asking God’s pardon for my behavior during the past year. Things are slightly different this year. Last year we joined my mom at her place of worship; this year she came with us to our service at Temple Beth Abraham. Since we’ve joined TBA we’ve gone through the gamut of holiday experiences. The first year we placed Mariel in the baby sitting room and Lisa attended children’s services. Soon enough they were both attending young adult services. And finally they sat with us in the “grown up” seats.
Through their college years, if they couldn’t come home for the holidays our numbers would shift from four to three. Then finally it was just me and Steve. One thing never changed though—we’ve always sat in the same seats, row FF on the aisle, toward the back in the social hall.
Our sanctuary can hold about 200 people, which is fine for regular services throughout the year, but on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur there’s a full house so we open up the dividers at the back and add twice as many seats in the social hall. This year was different for us not only because mom joined us but also because we exchanged our seats for ones up front in the sanctuary, so that mom could be a bit more comfortable. Strangely enough it changed my perspective as well. When you sit at the front of the class you pay more attention to what’s going on.
This year has been stressful. There’s never a moment to un-hunch my shoulders, relax and think. I’m in constant motion, up too early, running too quickly, asleep too late. Sitting in Temple with Steve and mom, listening to Rabbi David, I was forced to keep still. Forced to think, listen, and remember why I live the life I do.
In his sermon on Yom Kippur, the Rabbi spoke of two Hebrew words: Yesh and Ain. Both mean one thing in their secular, everyday use and another in the spiritual world. Everyday Yesh means, “there is”, or “I have”. Everyday day Ain means, “I don’t have” or “nothing”.
But when the philosophers speak of Yesh they mean all the ridiculous material trappings of the world that we bog ourselves down with. The “stuff” that George Carlin used to talk about that we constantly buy to keep ourselves from feeling nothing. The philosopher’s Ain means nothing just as in the everyday world, but this “nothing” allows you to be empty and open to the spiritual everything. So empty that you finally have the room and the space to think and to concentrate on what is truly important. And as I sat there I realized that I was guilty of filling my home, my closets my mind, my life, with a whole lot of worthless Yesh.
I’ve become afraid of the silence that comes with sitting still and so I have filled it with busy-ness, with running back and forth, with lists and must-do actions. I don’t know if it is the fear of failure, the fear of getting older and not having the time to do accomplish everything, or perhaps the fear of death itself. I tell my students that one of the chief precepts of the Jewish faith that I hold dearest is Tikkun Olam—repairing the world, leaving the world a better place than how I found it. Perhaps I’m afraid of not being able to do enough repair work in the short time that I have left.
It also seems strange to me that even as I try my best to repair the world, it is becoming even more hostile to me as a Jew. According to a press release from the ADL,
The number of anti-Semitic incidents in Massachusetts increased by approximately 16% in 2010 according to newly issued statistics from the Anti-Defamation League’s (ADL) annual Audit of Anti-Semitic Incidents. The League’s Audit counted a total of 64 incidents in Massachusetts during 2010, a rise from 55 over the previous year. The Massachusetts results mirror disturbing statistics showing anti-Semitic incidents remain constant nationally.
“ADL’s Audit shows that anti-Semitism is still a contemporary priority,” said Derrek L Shulman, ADL Regional Director in New England.
But on this Yom Kippur I try to forget the world that hates me for being Jewish. I try to concentrate on the Yizkor, or memorial service when we come together to remember our departed friends and relatives. For me the heart of this service is the prayer at its beginning. As Rabbi Jacob Philip Rudin writes, “Yizkor is for letting the music come back softly and sweetly. Yizkor is to hush us and to heal us.”
The memorial service prayer tells us that:
Each person is like a breath,
Our days are as a fleeting shadow.
In the morning we flourish and grow up like grass,
In the evening we are cut down and wither.
So teach us to number our days,
That we may get us a heart of wisdom.
Mark the person of integrity, and behold the upright,
For there is a future for the person of peace.
Peace. Ain. Nothing. The quiet hush that brings us the strength to ignore the hatred and to continue repairing a bit more of the world each day.
It’s hard to believe that a year has passed and I am sitting in Temple once again asking God’s pardon for my behavior during the past year. Things are slightly different this year. Last year we joined my mom at her place of worship; this year she came with us to our service at Temple Beth Abraham. Since we’ve joined TBA we’ve gone through the gamut of holiday experiences. The first year we placed Mariel in the baby sitting room and Lisa attended children’s services. Soon enough they were both attending young adult services. And finally they sat with us in the “grown up” seats.
Through their college years, if they couldn’t come home for the holidays our numbers would shift from four to three. Then finally it was just me and Steve. One thing never changed though—we’ve always sat in the same seats, row FF on the aisle, toward the back in the social hall.
Our sanctuary can hold about 200 people, which is fine for regular services throughout the year, but on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur there’s a full house so we open up the dividers at the back and add twice as many seats in the social hall. This year was different for us not only because mom joined us but also because we exchanged our seats for ones up front in the sanctuary, so that mom could be a bit more comfortable. Strangely enough it changed my perspective as well. When you sit at the front of the class you pay more attention to what’s going on.
This year has been stressful. There’s never a moment to un-hunch my shoulders, relax and think. I’m in constant motion, up too early, running too quickly, asleep too late. Sitting in Temple with Steve and mom, listening to Rabbi David, I was forced to keep still. Forced to think, listen, and remember why I live the life I do.
In his sermon on Yom Kippur, the Rabbi spoke of two Hebrew words: Yesh and Ain. Both mean one thing in their secular, everyday use and another in the spiritual world. Everyday Yesh means, “there is”, or “I have”. Everyday day Ain means, “I don’t have” or “nothing”.
But when the philosophers speak of Yesh they mean all the ridiculous material trappings of the world that we bog ourselves down with. The “stuff” that George Carlin used to talk about that we constantly buy to keep ourselves from feeling nothing. The philosopher’s Ain means nothing just as in the everyday world, but this “nothing” allows you to be empty and open to the spiritual everything. So empty that you finally have the room and the space to think and to concentrate on what is truly important. And as I sat there I realized that I was guilty of filling my home, my closets my mind, my life, with a whole lot of worthless Yesh.
I’ve become afraid of the silence that comes with sitting still and so I have filled it with busy-ness, with running back and forth, with lists and must-do actions. I don’t know if it is the fear of failure, the fear of getting older and not having the time to do accomplish everything, or perhaps the fear of death itself. I tell my students that one of the chief precepts of the Jewish faith that I hold dearest is Tikkun Olam—repairing the world, leaving the world a better place than how I found it. Perhaps I’m afraid of not being able to do enough repair work in the short time that I have left.
It also seems strange to me that even as I try my best to repair the world, it is becoming even more hostile to me as a Jew. According to a press release from the ADL,
The number of anti-Semitic incidents in Massachusetts increased by approximately 16% in 2010 according to newly issued statistics from the Anti-Defamation League’s (ADL) annual Audit of Anti-Semitic Incidents. The League’s Audit counted a total of 64 incidents in Massachusetts during 2010, a rise from 55 over the previous year. The Massachusetts results mirror disturbing statistics showing anti-Semitic incidents remain constant nationally.
“ADL’s Audit shows that anti-Semitism is still a contemporary priority,” said Derrek L Shulman, ADL Regional Director in New England.
But on this Yom Kippur I try to forget the world that hates me for being Jewish. I try to concentrate on the Yizkor, or memorial service when we come together to remember our departed friends and relatives. For me the heart of this service is the prayer at its beginning. As Rabbi Jacob Philip Rudin writes, “Yizkor is for letting the music come back softly and sweetly. Yizkor is to hush us and to heal us.”
The memorial service prayer tells us that:
Each person is like a breath,
Our days are as a fleeting shadow.
In the morning we flourish and grow up like grass,
In the evening we are cut down and wither.
So teach us to number our days,
That we may get us a heart of wisdom.
Mark the person of integrity, and behold the upright,
For there is a future for the person of peace.
Peace. Ain. Nothing. The quiet hush that brings us the strength to ignore the hatred and to continue repairing a bit more of the world each day.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Read For Your Life
Read For Your Life
Noisy, excited kids filled the room. They moved from box to box searching for something they hadn’t read before. Some of the younger kids found their perfect book and plopped down to read, unable to wait for their parents to purchase it, let alone till they got it home. Parents read to young children while their older siblings still hunted. Welcome to the used book sale at the Canton Public Library—an event that many wait for all year.
I spoke to teachers who came to buy for their classrooms, ecstatic upon finding a class set of “Goosebumps”.
“This is the only way that I can afford to send my students home with books,” one third grade teacher told me. “Some of them have never owned a book in their lives.”
That wasn’t true of the kids who were there that Saturday morning. These were the fortunate ones brought up in houses filled with books. They visited the library every week for story time, or research, or to graze the stacks for the sheer pleasure of reading.
“Mom, look at all these books!” one little boy screamed excitedly as he walked into the room.
“But dad, I want more books,” a young lady pleaded with her father upon being told that she had enough and they had to leave.
I totaled up paperbacks and hard covered books, fiction and non-fiction, mysteries and classics. Four paperbacks or two hard covered books for a dollar-- people couldn’t believe how little cash they had to hand over. “Are you sure?” they asked me again and again.
“Oh yes”, I assured them as I bagged their purchases. “Just promise me you’ll enjoy them.”
Many kids struggled to narrow down their selections. Even as a parent would ask, “Are you sure you’re going to read this?” They would answer, “But mom you don’t understand, I need this book!”
How often do you hear a kid say that? Families carried out bags of books, all of them smiling, all of them excited about going home to read. Others went on to the adult room to collect yet more books. These are families who understand that reading is the gateway to the future, to success, to the world. These are kids who will probably not drop out of school.
They are the opposite of my GED students, who dropped out at 16 or 17 and are struggling to keep their heads above water. When I ask them if they like to read they look at me as if it was a trick question.
When I ask them what they read, they tell me the newspaper--the horoscope or the sports pages. Some may pick up a magazine, a few read the Bible. When I ask if they read novels, they give me the look that they reserve for crazy people though they are too polite to tell me so.
There will be a hearing in the State House discussing whether kids should be able to drop out of school at 16. Boston City Councilors Tito Jackson and John Connolly are sponsoring a home rule petition that would force students to stay in school until they are 18 years old. In his September 24th column, Boston globe journalist, Adrian Walker quotes Jackson as saying,
We won’t let them drink or smoke or vote at 16, but we let them drop out of life at 16. This is about what’s best, what’s right, and what’s responsible for our kids.
The best part about this legislation is that raising the drop out age to 18 is not its only aim.
The state legislation, proposed by Representative Martha Walz, is far more comprehensive. It calls for raising the dropout age gradually to allow school districts to develop strategies for teaching kids who have given up on traditional classrooms.
It’s not enough to simply pass a law to raise the drop-out age. We also have to figure our why so many of our kids want to drop out. The graduation rate in Boston is only 63% and even those who graduate struggle in college. Connolly has talked to teachers who tell him that kids as young as 12 are already planning to drop out when they’re 16. We need to understand why they are already disengaged at 12 years old and we have to develop programs that will keep them in school. This is everyone’s problem. Walker points out that,
Mounting evidence says dropouts are far more likely to be unemployed, live in poverty, or end up incarcerated than their peers who graduate from high school. A study in 2009 by Northeastern’s Center for Labor Market Studies put the average income of high school dropouts at less than $9,000 a year. Jackson says that comes with a heavy price tag for taxpayers, when some of those dropouts stray.
“We spend $11,000 a year to educate a student but $46,000 for incarceration,’’ he said.
The price is high whether you look at it financially or socially. Disengagement begins earlier than 12. It begins when there is no one to read to a child, to take him to the library, to introduce him to the thrill of words flying across a page. Any program we develop to keep our children engaged must be based on reading. Any child who believes that she needs books like the air she breathes will find her own way in the world.
Noisy, excited kids filled the room. They moved from box to box searching for something they hadn’t read before. Some of the younger kids found their perfect book and plopped down to read, unable to wait for their parents to purchase it, let alone till they got it home. Parents read to young children while their older siblings still hunted. Welcome to the used book sale at the Canton Public Library—an event that many wait for all year.
I spoke to teachers who came to buy for their classrooms, ecstatic upon finding a class set of “Goosebumps”.
“This is the only way that I can afford to send my students home with books,” one third grade teacher told me. “Some of them have never owned a book in their lives.”
That wasn’t true of the kids who were there that Saturday morning. These were the fortunate ones brought up in houses filled with books. They visited the library every week for story time, or research, or to graze the stacks for the sheer pleasure of reading.
“Mom, look at all these books!” one little boy screamed excitedly as he walked into the room.
“But dad, I want more books,” a young lady pleaded with her father upon being told that she had enough and they had to leave.
I totaled up paperbacks and hard covered books, fiction and non-fiction, mysteries and classics. Four paperbacks or two hard covered books for a dollar-- people couldn’t believe how little cash they had to hand over. “Are you sure?” they asked me again and again.
“Oh yes”, I assured them as I bagged their purchases. “Just promise me you’ll enjoy them.”
Many kids struggled to narrow down their selections. Even as a parent would ask, “Are you sure you’re going to read this?” They would answer, “But mom you don’t understand, I need this book!”
How often do you hear a kid say that? Families carried out bags of books, all of them smiling, all of them excited about going home to read. Others went on to the adult room to collect yet more books. These are families who understand that reading is the gateway to the future, to success, to the world. These are kids who will probably not drop out of school.
They are the opposite of my GED students, who dropped out at 16 or 17 and are struggling to keep their heads above water. When I ask them if they like to read they look at me as if it was a trick question.
When I ask them what they read, they tell me the newspaper--the horoscope or the sports pages. Some may pick up a magazine, a few read the Bible. When I ask if they read novels, they give me the look that they reserve for crazy people though they are too polite to tell me so.
There will be a hearing in the State House discussing whether kids should be able to drop out of school at 16. Boston City Councilors Tito Jackson and John Connolly are sponsoring a home rule petition that would force students to stay in school until they are 18 years old. In his September 24th column, Boston globe journalist, Adrian Walker quotes Jackson as saying,
We won’t let them drink or smoke or vote at 16, but we let them drop out of life at 16. This is about what’s best, what’s right, and what’s responsible for our kids.
The best part about this legislation is that raising the drop out age to 18 is not its only aim.
The state legislation, proposed by Representative Martha Walz, is far more comprehensive. It calls for raising the dropout age gradually to allow school districts to develop strategies for teaching kids who have given up on traditional classrooms.
It’s not enough to simply pass a law to raise the drop-out age. We also have to figure our why so many of our kids want to drop out. The graduation rate in Boston is only 63% and even those who graduate struggle in college. Connolly has talked to teachers who tell him that kids as young as 12 are already planning to drop out when they’re 16. We need to understand why they are already disengaged at 12 years old and we have to develop programs that will keep them in school. This is everyone’s problem. Walker points out that,
Mounting evidence says dropouts are far more likely to be unemployed, live in poverty, or end up incarcerated than their peers who graduate from high school. A study in 2009 by Northeastern’s Center for Labor Market Studies put the average income of high school dropouts at less than $9,000 a year. Jackson says that comes with a heavy price tag for taxpayers, when some of those dropouts stray.
“We spend $11,000 a year to educate a student but $46,000 for incarceration,’’ he said.
The price is high whether you look at it financially or socially. Disengagement begins earlier than 12. It begins when there is no one to read to a child, to take him to the library, to introduce him to the thrill of words flying across a page. Any program we develop to keep our children engaged must be based on reading. Any child who believes that she needs books like the air she breathes will find her own way in the world.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Powerless
Powerless
Sometimes I fool myself into thinking that I’ve got life all worked out, figured out, and straightened out. Then suddenly I can’t dry my hair or have my morning coffee, can’t turn on the computer to check my mail, can’t even open the garage door to get my car out. When the electricity is off--when I flick switches but nothing comes on but a sudden headache, I’m reminded of how helpless we’ve become without our electric conveniences. We’ve become so dependent on them that we’ve forgotten how to do the most basic things when they’re not available. Our world has gotten too advanced for its own good.
Steve and I have been incredibly lucky when it comes to natural disasters. We have never been in the path of floods, fires, tornadoes, earthquakes or tsunamis. We’ve had too much water in the garage, ponds in the back yard, trees down and wasps on the porch, but they’ve all receded in time and have been quickly forgotten. Even with our latest storm, Irene, one of our trees hit a power line rendering us powerless for the day, but we didn’t have to suffer through a dark week.
I’m not sure when I started becoming so nervous at the threat of a storm. Maybe once we had kids I couldn’t bear for them to be frightened. Or maybe it was just a part of getting older and more anxious. I used to love watching a storm from the other side of a window. Now I can’t bear to watch, imagining the trees falling on the roof or the house floating away. I just want it to be over. And maybe it began when it seemed like everything in the house and my life was being controlled by computers.
Computers were the reason that I let my reason run away with my brains before the year 2000. Remember the Y2K crazies? Everyone was sure that at the stroke of midnight we would all be doomed. Every computer in the world would stop working, locusts would ravage our crops, the earth would crack open and the four horsemen of the apocalypse would finish us all off. Everything I read warned me to get cracking and stockpile food, water, money, batteries and chocolate. This went on for an entire year till I finally gave in and began collecting bottled water, canned goods and candles, hiding it all in an unused closet. I knew that Steve would laugh hysterically if he knew what I was doing but I couldn’t help myself—the panic had set in.
December 31st Steve went to bed early and Mariel and I sat up to greet the new year. Unfortunately I hadn’t realized that this night was special for Mariel. She was excited about the new millennium. I ran around the house looking for old noisemakers and funny hats, ginger ale and champagne glasses. We turned on the television to watch the clock ticking everywhere on the globe. Slowly the year 2000 rolled in gently around the world with celebrations and fireworks--no locusts, no tsunamis, no apocalypse. Thanks to my clear eyed little girl I began to see how ridiculous my fears had been. When Steve found out about my stash the next day he nearly split his sides laughing.
So when the weather forecasters began churning up the fear machines a week before Irene, I remembered Y2K and all the times when their forecasted deluges had turned into drips. I ignored it all—up until the day when I had to do my food shopping. Then a little bit of the old panic tickled me and I bought a case of water, some candles and went searching for D batteries. The battery wall had been stripped clean. We would have to do without.
I kept hoping that Irene would disappear like the other scares but this time the forecasters were right. I watched our unwanted guest and wondered how long she would stay. At 11:00 I heard the crack. A second later the power blew out. I ran to the window and saw exactly what I expected to see—one of the large willow branches had broken off and hit the power lines. Those beautiful willows have been the bane of our existence since we moved into this house. Every time we have a storm I pray to the goddess of willows.
We spent the dreary day wondering when we would get our power back. I made plans for the food in our freezer and getting to work the next day. I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate, worrying that something else would happen. By 4:00 Irene calmed down and began her exit. Then at 6:00 the NSTAR cherry picker accompanied by Police Chief Kenny Berkowitz came to cut the limb loose. It was then that I found out that we got our power back so quickly because the senior housing complex next door was blacked out as well. We all stood there watching the limb come down and the power come on.
We were so lucky. No one was hurt and there was no damage to the house. The next day standing on the train platform listening to the crowd’s horror stories and realizing that many of them still had no power, I silently thanked whoever had watched over us. And today I bought some D batteries—for next time.
Sometimes I fool myself into thinking that I’ve got life all worked out, figured out, and straightened out. Then suddenly I can’t dry my hair or have my morning coffee, can’t turn on the computer to check my mail, can’t even open the garage door to get my car out. When the electricity is off--when I flick switches but nothing comes on but a sudden headache, I’m reminded of how helpless we’ve become without our electric conveniences. We’ve become so dependent on them that we’ve forgotten how to do the most basic things when they’re not available. Our world has gotten too advanced for its own good.
Steve and I have been incredibly lucky when it comes to natural disasters. We have never been in the path of floods, fires, tornadoes, earthquakes or tsunamis. We’ve had too much water in the garage, ponds in the back yard, trees down and wasps on the porch, but they’ve all receded in time and have been quickly forgotten. Even with our latest storm, Irene, one of our trees hit a power line rendering us powerless for the day, but we didn’t have to suffer through a dark week.
I’m not sure when I started becoming so nervous at the threat of a storm. Maybe once we had kids I couldn’t bear for them to be frightened. Or maybe it was just a part of getting older and more anxious. I used to love watching a storm from the other side of a window. Now I can’t bear to watch, imagining the trees falling on the roof or the house floating away. I just want it to be over. And maybe it began when it seemed like everything in the house and my life was being controlled by computers.
Computers were the reason that I let my reason run away with my brains before the year 2000. Remember the Y2K crazies? Everyone was sure that at the stroke of midnight we would all be doomed. Every computer in the world would stop working, locusts would ravage our crops, the earth would crack open and the four horsemen of the apocalypse would finish us all off. Everything I read warned me to get cracking and stockpile food, water, money, batteries and chocolate. This went on for an entire year till I finally gave in and began collecting bottled water, canned goods and candles, hiding it all in an unused closet. I knew that Steve would laugh hysterically if he knew what I was doing but I couldn’t help myself—the panic had set in.
December 31st Steve went to bed early and Mariel and I sat up to greet the new year. Unfortunately I hadn’t realized that this night was special for Mariel. She was excited about the new millennium. I ran around the house looking for old noisemakers and funny hats, ginger ale and champagne glasses. We turned on the television to watch the clock ticking everywhere on the globe. Slowly the year 2000 rolled in gently around the world with celebrations and fireworks--no locusts, no tsunamis, no apocalypse. Thanks to my clear eyed little girl I began to see how ridiculous my fears had been. When Steve found out about my stash the next day he nearly split his sides laughing.
So when the weather forecasters began churning up the fear machines a week before Irene, I remembered Y2K and all the times when their forecasted deluges had turned into drips. I ignored it all—up until the day when I had to do my food shopping. Then a little bit of the old panic tickled me and I bought a case of water, some candles and went searching for D batteries. The battery wall had been stripped clean. We would have to do without.
I kept hoping that Irene would disappear like the other scares but this time the forecasters were right. I watched our unwanted guest and wondered how long she would stay. At 11:00 I heard the crack. A second later the power blew out. I ran to the window and saw exactly what I expected to see—one of the large willow branches had broken off and hit the power lines. Those beautiful willows have been the bane of our existence since we moved into this house. Every time we have a storm I pray to the goddess of willows.
We spent the dreary day wondering when we would get our power back. I made plans for the food in our freezer and getting to work the next day. I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate, worrying that something else would happen. By 4:00 Irene calmed down and began her exit. Then at 6:00 the NSTAR cherry picker accompanied by Police Chief Kenny Berkowitz came to cut the limb loose. It was then that I found out that we got our power back so quickly because the senior housing complex next door was blacked out as well. We all stood there watching the limb come down and the power come on.
We were so lucky. No one was hurt and there was no damage to the house. The next day standing on the train platform listening to the crowd’s horror stories and realizing that many of them still had no power, I silently thanked whoever had watched over us. And today I bought some D batteries—for next time.
Friday, August 19, 2011
The Corner of My Eye
The Corner of My Eye
This summer I’m obsessed with a creature that I usually only see out of the corner of my eye. Fast, furious, almost mythical, it shows itself randomly. I may wait for days and then it arrives and leaves so quickly that I’m never really sure that I saw it at all. A hummingbird.
This little bit chipped off in brilliance, as the poet D.H. Lawrence called them. He imagined them as they,
Raced down the avenues, before anything had a soul,
While life was a heave of Matter, half inanimate,
Whizzing through the slow, vast, succulent stems…..
He writes of them as huge prehistoric monsters that eventually became the tiny bits of jeweled feathers that they are today.
I blame my friend Nancy for this new love. She has always had a red feeder attached to her porch window that attracts hummers. For years I’ve wanted one as well, but I never took the time. Then last year we hung a pink-purple fuchsia outside our porch and watched amazed as a tiny bird hummed through its flowers. We never saw another one, so this year I was determined to buy a feeder.
I wandered around the huge store wondering which one to buy--- the intricate brass one? The multilevel bird-apartment building? The simple red plastic feeder that cost the least? Luckily I found a salesperson who told me that hummingbirds cared only for the color red and the nectar in the feeder. She discouraged me from buying the “special” hummingbird food, telling me to mix up my own sugar water and sent me happily home.
Steve and I filled our feeder, hung it outside next to the fuchsia, and foolishly sat down to wait. But hummingbirds come on their own schedule and waiting does nothing to encourage them along. We waited in vain. For days.
According to Wikkipedia, hummingbirds are,
among the smallest of birds, most measuring in the 3–5 inch range. They can hover in mid-air by rapidly flapping their wings 12–90 times per second. They are also the only group of birds able to fly backwards. Their name derives from the characteristic hum made by their rapid wing beats. They can fly at speeds exceeding 15 miles per second.
With the exception of insects, hummingbirds while in flight have the highest metabolism of all animals, a necessity in order to support the rapid beating of their wings. Their heart rate can reach as high as 1,260 beats per minute. They also consume more than their own weight in nectar each day, and to do so they must visit hundreds of flowers daily. Hummingbirds are continuously hours away from starving to death, and are able to store just enough energy to survive overnight.
Our feeder hasn’t been the riotous hummingbird success I had hoped for. Nancy tells me that they probably come when I’m not looking. I try to be patient as I peer out of my kitchen window searching for them as I might a long lost lover. Then suddenly one arrives and I stand holding my breath afraid to scare him off with any sudden noise. If I’m lucky he will visit the feeder and the fuchsia and then back to the feeder before speeding away. Once I saw two of them and I thought I’d die from happiness. Lisa actually heard the hum of their wings one afternoon when she sat on the steps to the porch. Lucky woman.
When we were at the Notchland Inn we saw myriads of hummingbirds come to their windows all day long and into the evening. I would forget to eat my dinner so enthralled was I with their constant dance. Though I realized that the inn attracted them because of their many feeders and expanse of gardens, still I was jealous of their surfeit. But then I realized that either I had to plant and care for a garden of my own or be satisfied with the few hummers that visited. Perhaps I’ll plant a few more of the flowers that they love and learn to accept the few that come, with joy.
All summer long I’ve been thinking that these birds remind me of something else in my life but I couldn’t think what until my mind wandered the other day. My other obsession this summer has been the students who will be starting classes in my GED school this September. I’ve attended meetings, gone to conferences, exchanged e-mails, and wondered all summer long how to attract them to school and more importantly, how to keep them there. That’s when I realized that they shared my hummingbirds’ attitude, outlook, flower-to-flower life.
My students--all energy and motion and flash, searching from place to place, school to school to find what they want—somewhere safe to return and remain to get what they need. They talk quickly and earnestly, rarely stopping, trying to convince me and themselves that they’ll do it this time, succeed where they’ve failed so often, stay still long enough to survive through the night and the next day. The predators are always there, violence and poverty, sapping their strength and resolve. And all I can do is hang out feeders and plant a bit of garden and be quiet so as not to startle them or frighten them away--always watching them from the corner of my eye.
This summer I’m obsessed with a creature that I usually only see out of the corner of my eye. Fast, furious, almost mythical, it shows itself randomly. I may wait for days and then it arrives and leaves so quickly that I’m never really sure that I saw it at all. A hummingbird.
This little bit chipped off in brilliance, as the poet D.H. Lawrence called them. He imagined them as they,
Raced down the avenues, before anything had a soul,
While life was a heave of Matter, half inanimate,
Whizzing through the slow, vast, succulent stems…..
He writes of them as huge prehistoric monsters that eventually became the tiny bits of jeweled feathers that they are today.
I blame my friend Nancy for this new love. She has always had a red feeder attached to her porch window that attracts hummers. For years I’ve wanted one as well, but I never took the time. Then last year we hung a pink-purple fuchsia outside our porch and watched amazed as a tiny bird hummed through its flowers. We never saw another one, so this year I was determined to buy a feeder.
I wandered around the huge store wondering which one to buy--- the intricate brass one? The multilevel bird-apartment building? The simple red plastic feeder that cost the least? Luckily I found a salesperson who told me that hummingbirds cared only for the color red and the nectar in the feeder. She discouraged me from buying the “special” hummingbird food, telling me to mix up my own sugar water and sent me happily home.
Steve and I filled our feeder, hung it outside next to the fuchsia, and foolishly sat down to wait. But hummingbirds come on their own schedule and waiting does nothing to encourage them along. We waited in vain. For days.
According to Wikkipedia, hummingbirds are,
among the smallest of birds, most measuring in the 3–5 inch range. They can hover in mid-air by rapidly flapping their wings 12–90 times per second. They are also the only group of birds able to fly backwards. Their name derives from the characteristic hum made by their rapid wing beats. They can fly at speeds exceeding 15 miles per second.
With the exception of insects, hummingbirds while in flight have the highest metabolism of all animals, a necessity in order to support the rapid beating of their wings. Their heart rate can reach as high as 1,260 beats per minute. They also consume more than their own weight in nectar each day, and to do so they must visit hundreds of flowers daily. Hummingbirds are continuously hours away from starving to death, and are able to store just enough energy to survive overnight.
Our feeder hasn’t been the riotous hummingbird success I had hoped for. Nancy tells me that they probably come when I’m not looking. I try to be patient as I peer out of my kitchen window searching for them as I might a long lost lover. Then suddenly one arrives and I stand holding my breath afraid to scare him off with any sudden noise. If I’m lucky he will visit the feeder and the fuchsia and then back to the feeder before speeding away. Once I saw two of them and I thought I’d die from happiness. Lisa actually heard the hum of their wings one afternoon when she sat on the steps to the porch. Lucky woman.
When we were at the Notchland Inn we saw myriads of hummingbirds come to their windows all day long and into the evening. I would forget to eat my dinner so enthralled was I with their constant dance. Though I realized that the inn attracted them because of their many feeders and expanse of gardens, still I was jealous of their surfeit. But then I realized that either I had to plant and care for a garden of my own or be satisfied with the few hummers that visited. Perhaps I’ll plant a few more of the flowers that they love and learn to accept the few that come, with joy.
All summer long I’ve been thinking that these birds remind me of something else in my life but I couldn’t think what until my mind wandered the other day. My other obsession this summer has been the students who will be starting classes in my GED school this September. I’ve attended meetings, gone to conferences, exchanged e-mails, and wondered all summer long how to attract them to school and more importantly, how to keep them there. That’s when I realized that they shared my hummingbirds’ attitude, outlook, flower-to-flower life.
My students--all energy and motion and flash, searching from place to place, school to school to find what they want—somewhere safe to return and remain to get what they need. They talk quickly and earnestly, rarely stopping, trying to convince me and themselves that they’ll do it this time, succeed where they’ve failed so often, stay still long enough to survive through the night and the next day. The predators are always there, violence and poverty, sapping their strength and resolve. And all I can do is hang out feeders and plant a bit of garden and be quiet so as not to startle them or frighten them away--always watching them from the corner of my eye.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Skunked
Skunked
The day we brought Snoopy home from the animal shelter was memorable for all the wrong reasons. After years of hearing our two girls constantly harangue us with, “Please can we get a dog, please, please, please can we get a dog, please we’ll take care of it please!?” I finally gave in because Mariel worked so diligently at the Dedham Animal shelter putting her money where her dog was so to speak.
Years of reading Charlie Brown comics had convinced her that her pooch had to be a beagle and she would name him Snoopy, of course. I figured it would take months for anyone to bring a beagle into the shelter so I was safe. And I was until the fateful rainy Saturday when I got the dreaded call from Mariel, “Mom he’s here, he’s here, he’s finally here!” For a moment I was confused—who was here? The Messiah? Elvis?
Then suddenly before she answered I knew—“Snoopy mom! He’s at the shelter barking like crazy!”
Oh joy. Good fortune had whacked me in the head. I had hoped that perhaps a few years would pass by and Mariel would get over her dog fixation, but no such luck. The dog was here.
When I went to the shelter to meet our long awaited beagle, Mariel told me that we had to make our minds up quickly since there were two other people who wanted him. I almost told her that they could have him, but then I saw her face. A mom can’t go back on her word—like Horton the Elephant she’s faithful 100%. So I patted the yelping, nervous, skinny little dog on the head, looked him in the eyes and sighed, “Welcome to the family Snoops.”
The shelter expected us to take him home immediately but after much panicky pleading on my part they agreed that we could pick him up the next morning so that we could stock up on doggie necessities. When we walked into the pet store I had no idea what we were supposed to buy him—a receiving blanket? A trust fund? But soon enough our cart was filled with all kinds of requisite pooch stuff and the necessary Excedrin for me.
The next day, after a panicky night when I told Steve that there was no way I could take care of a dog, and he convinced me that if I had raised two kids I could surely deal with a dog, we brought him home. It’s funny that I have no memory whatsoever of the day but the night is burned into my memory never to be forgotten no matter how long Snoopy and I may live.
I took him out for his first night time walk around the block. He was no great pleasure to walk—always tugging at the leash anxious to smell the entire world immediately—when suddenly he went nuts, barking hysterically at something under a car. Before I could stop him he managed to get under and then I suddenly saw what it was he was barking at. There was no way this could be happening, I thought wildly. I haven’t even had the dog for a day and already he’s arguing with a skunk!! And before I could react, that unmistakable scent filled the air and Snoopy was right in the middle of it.
I dragged him home yelling, screaming and crying. Steve took one look at me and then the dog and just shook his head. The only thing that saved us was the advice that our friends, Wayne and Roxy gave us that night seven years ago. Forget tomato juice--Roxy gave me the only recipe for skunk deodorizer that works: one quart hydrogen peroxide, ¼ cup baking soda, one teaspoon dish soap. I scrubbed the shaking, shivering, scared-out-of-his-wits animal, wishing I could return him from whence he came.
Ever since then I’ve kept a supply of hydrogen peroxide around in case Snoopy ever decided to tackle another skunk, but thankfully he never has. Silly thing that I am I thought he had gotten older and so very much wiser in the ways of skunks. Then last week Shatz was letting him out for his final nighttime visit to the trees when I heard my husband yell, “Oh no! no! Snoopy! No!” I raced down sure that the dog had run into the woods but instead saw that it was much worse.
It seems that a skunk had been calmly feeding at the bottom of our bird feeder when Snoop took off after it expecting it to run as animals usually do when he chases them. I’ve often wondered what Snoopy would do if the animal he chased stayed put and didn’t run. I found out that night because this critter didn’t budge, just kept calmly munching while Snoopy charged head first into his hindquarters. And there it was—the odor that could sink a thousand ships—all over my dog’s head.
I told Shatz to keep him in the garage while I prepared the royal hydrogen peroxide bath for my idiot dog. As I scrubbed him down, I looked at my poor shivering Snoop and asked, “Don’t you ever learn?” Oh well. If it’s any consolation, at least he waited seven years to get skunked again. Tomorrow I’ll have to restock my hydrogen peroxide.
The day we brought Snoopy home from the animal shelter was memorable for all the wrong reasons. After years of hearing our two girls constantly harangue us with, “Please can we get a dog, please, please, please can we get a dog, please we’ll take care of it please!?” I finally gave in because Mariel worked so diligently at the Dedham Animal shelter putting her money where her dog was so to speak.
Years of reading Charlie Brown comics had convinced her that her pooch had to be a beagle and she would name him Snoopy, of course. I figured it would take months for anyone to bring a beagle into the shelter so I was safe. And I was until the fateful rainy Saturday when I got the dreaded call from Mariel, “Mom he’s here, he’s here, he’s finally here!” For a moment I was confused—who was here? The Messiah? Elvis?
Then suddenly before she answered I knew—“Snoopy mom! He’s at the shelter barking like crazy!”
Oh joy. Good fortune had whacked me in the head. I had hoped that perhaps a few years would pass by and Mariel would get over her dog fixation, but no such luck. The dog was here.
When I went to the shelter to meet our long awaited beagle, Mariel told me that we had to make our minds up quickly since there were two other people who wanted him. I almost told her that they could have him, but then I saw her face. A mom can’t go back on her word—like Horton the Elephant she’s faithful 100%. So I patted the yelping, nervous, skinny little dog on the head, looked him in the eyes and sighed, “Welcome to the family Snoops.”
The shelter expected us to take him home immediately but after much panicky pleading on my part they agreed that we could pick him up the next morning so that we could stock up on doggie necessities. When we walked into the pet store I had no idea what we were supposed to buy him—a receiving blanket? A trust fund? But soon enough our cart was filled with all kinds of requisite pooch stuff and the necessary Excedrin for me.
The next day, after a panicky night when I told Steve that there was no way I could take care of a dog, and he convinced me that if I had raised two kids I could surely deal with a dog, we brought him home. It’s funny that I have no memory whatsoever of the day but the night is burned into my memory never to be forgotten no matter how long Snoopy and I may live.
I took him out for his first night time walk around the block. He was no great pleasure to walk—always tugging at the leash anxious to smell the entire world immediately—when suddenly he went nuts, barking hysterically at something under a car. Before I could stop him he managed to get under and then I suddenly saw what it was he was barking at. There was no way this could be happening, I thought wildly. I haven’t even had the dog for a day and already he’s arguing with a skunk!! And before I could react, that unmistakable scent filled the air and Snoopy was right in the middle of it.
I dragged him home yelling, screaming and crying. Steve took one look at me and then the dog and just shook his head. The only thing that saved us was the advice that our friends, Wayne and Roxy gave us that night seven years ago. Forget tomato juice--Roxy gave me the only recipe for skunk deodorizer that works: one quart hydrogen peroxide, ¼ cup baking soda, one teaspoon dish soap. I scrubbed the shaking, shivering, scared-out-of-his-wits animal, wishing I could return him from whence he came.
Ever since then I’ve kept a supply of hydrogen peroxide around in case Snoopy ever decided to tackle another skunk, but thankfully he never has. Silly thing that I am I thought he had gotten older and so very much wiser in the ways of skunks. Then last week Shatz was letting him out for his final nighttime visit to the trees when I heard my husband yell, “Oh no! no! Snoopy! No!” I raced down sure that the dog had run into the woods but instead saw that it was much worse.
It seems that a skunk had been calmly feeding at the bottom of our bird feeder when Snoop took off after it expecting it to run as animals usually do when he chases them. I’ve often wondered what Snoopy would do if the animal he chased stayed put and didn’t run. I found out that night because this critter didn’t budge, just kept calmly munching while Snoopy charged head first into his hindquarters. And there it was—the odor that could sink a thousand ships—all over my dog’s head.
I told Shatz to keep him in the garage while I prepared the royal hydrogen peroxide bath for my idiot dog. As I scrubbed him down, I looked at my poor shivering Snoop and asked, “Don’t you ever learn?” Oh well. If it’s any consolation, at least he waited seven years to get skunked again. Tomorrow I’ll have to restock my hydrogen peroxide.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Thirty Five Years
Thirty Five Years
Thirty six years ago Steve and I sat on a swing set in an Indiana campground discussing the impossibility of getting married. Actually I was the one talking impossible—Steve was trying to convince me of the possible. All I saw was us living on opposite sides of the ocean enmeshed in families and jobs that tied us to our homes. We couldn’t just get up and walk away from all of that—could we? Every time I would lay down the definitive argument against our being together, he would find a reason that we could and should. So what could I do but answer, “Yes I do” to his “Will you marry me?” then cross my fingers and hope for the best?
And it has been the best. During the years I have asked myself endless questions about my life but never have I questioned us. We’ve been so very lucky. I know it every time I’ve come home from days spent apart, or simply looking across the dinner table every evening. I must have done something awfully good in a former lifetime to have deserved this.
I was always sure that by the time we reached our 35th year together life would be easier--a leisurely winding down. Instead it has become more challenging. I’ve been thinking lately that maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. We’ve never been the sort of people who can relax for longer than a day or two. We enjoy moving, working, discovering, and discussing it all at the dinner table at the end of the day. In fact even Steve’s marriage proposal came at the end of a month long cross-country camping road trip.
We hadn’t thought of how we would celebrate this anniversary. There have been years when I thought it would be so wonderfully romantic to renew our vows, but lately that has struck me as very unnecessary. We renew our vows every time we wake up, go to work, walk the dog, have dinner, pay the bills. Our life is our vow. But then our family surprised us with a long week-end at a New Hampshire Inn. Have I mentioned yet how lucky we are?
When I looked up The Notchland Inn on the web, the pictures revealed something straight out of a fairy tale—a place where happily ever after is taken for granted. Lush gardens surrounded the house and spilled out along the paths and grounds. A hammock swung lazily on the front lawn, the White Mountains towered in the background—too good to be true, I thought. Some photographer knowing all the right angles. But I figured that if it was half as good as it looked I’d be thrilled.
Part of the package deal for this get away, was Matt and Lisa. While we were gone they would house sit their country home in Canton (who knew that a porch overlooking woods would count as country?) and walk and feed the Snoopster. So we took off feeling relaxed for the first time in a long while. We decided not to plan anything for the following days and simply do whatever we felt like at the moment. This was a new experience for us. Steve was the guy who had planned our Hawaii vacation down to the minute, including a bike ride up some mountain to watch a God forsaken sunrise on the morning that we landed.
It was also strange knowing that we could depend on Madame Gipps (otherwise known as our GPS system) to get us there. No maps, no AAA Triptix—it was all freeing and a bit frightening.
When we hit the switchback road in Franconia Notch we knew we had finally returned to the mountains. And when we saw our first sign announcing the National Forest we knew we were close. Then suddenly after a quick turn there it was—a Victorian granite mansion resting at the foot of the mountains. And yes, there were the gardens and the hammock and the gazebo—everything that had appeared in the pictures only lovelier. “This is going to be just fine,” I whispered to myself.
But it was when we were greeted by the two resident Bernese Mountain dogs that we knew the next few days would be everything that the web site had promised. Crawford and Felanie, two huge, furry, bears with eyes you could drown in, outdid even the Inn’s owners, Ed and Les, in hospitality. I would look for them when I woke up in the morning and search for them in the evening to wish them good-night. I almost snuck them in the car on the way home but Ed objected.
And so we had the most atypical week-end of our 35 years together. Unplanned, relaxed, pampered, and alone. We ate breakfast accompanied by the constant parade of hummingbirds that flew to the feeders hung outside the dining room windows, celebrated with champagne and strawberries in the gazebo, licked our fingers at dinner and sighed at the breezes that blew through our magnificent bedroom windows. And there were mountains in those windows—the White Mountains that were the backdrop for our anniversary week-end. But best of all there was quiet talk about our lives—where we had been, what we had done and all the years that we had yet in front of us—all our happily ever-afters to come.
Thirty six years ago Steve and I sat on a swing set in an Indiana campground discussing the impossibility of getting married. Actually I was the one talking impossible—Steve was trying to convince me of the possible. All I saw was us living on opposite sides of the ocean enmeshed in families and jobs that tied us to our homes. We couldn’t just get up and walk away from all of that—could we? Every time I would lay down the definitive argument against our being together, he would find a reason that we could and should. So what could I do but answer, “Yes I do” to his “Will you marry me?” then cross my fingers and hope for the best?
And it has been the best. During the years I have asked myself endless questions about my life but never have I questioned us. We’ve been so very lucky. I know it every time I’ve come home from days spent apart, or simply looking across the dinner table every evening. I must have done something awfully good in a former lifetime to have deserved this.
I was always sure that by the time we reached our 35th year together life would be easier--a leisurely winding down. Instead it has become more challenging. I’ve been thinking lately that maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. We’ve never been the sort of people who can relax for longer than a day or two. We enjoy moving, working, discovering, and discussing it all at the dinner table at the end of the day. In fact even Steve’s marriage proposal came at the end of a month long cross-country camping road trip.
We hadn’t thought of how we would celebrate this anniversary. There have been years when I thought it would be so wonderfully romantic to renew our vows, but lately that has struck me as very unnecessary. We renew our vows every time we wake up, go to work, walk the dog, have dinner, pay the bills. Our life is our vow. But then our family surprised us with a long week-end at a New Hampshire Inn. Have I mentioned yet how lucky we are?
When I looked up The Notchland Inn on the web, the pictures revealed something straight out of a fairy tale—a place where happily ever after is taken for granted. Lush gardens surrounded the house and spilled out along the paths and grounds. A hammock swung lazily on the front lawn, the White Mountains towered in the background—too good to be true, I thought. Some photographer knowing all the right angles. But I figured that if it was half as good as it looked I’d be thrilled.
Part of the package deal for this get away, was Matt and Lisa. While we were gone they would house sit their country home in Canton (who knew that a porch overlooking woods would count as country?) and walk and feed the Snoopster. So we took off feeling relaxed for the first time in a long while. We decided not to plan anything for the following days and simply do whatever we felt like at the moment. This was a new experience for us. Steve was the guy who had planned our Hawaii vacation down to the minute, including a bike ride up some mountain to watch a God forsaken sunrise on the morning that we landed.
It was also strange knowing that we could depend on Madame Gipps (otherwise known as our GPS system) to get us there. No maps, no AAA Triptix—it was all freeing and a bit frightening.
When we hit the switchback road in Franconia Notch we knew we had finally returned to the mountains. And when we saw our first sign announcing the National Forest we knew we were close. Then suddenly after a quick turn there it was—a Victorian granite mansion resting at the foot of the mountains. And yes, there were the gardens and the hammock and the gazebo—everything that had appeared in the pictures only lovelier. “This is going to be just fine,” I whispered to myself.
But it was when we were greeted by the two resident Bernese Mountain dogs that we knew the next few days would be everything that the web site had promised. Crawford and Felanie, two huge, furry, bears with eyes you could drown in, outdid even the Inn’s owners, Ed and Les, in hospitality. I would look for them when I woke up in the morning and search for them in the evening to wish them good-night. I almost snuck them in the car on the way home but Ed objected.
And so we had the most atypical week-end of our 35 years together. Unplanned, relaxed, pampered, and alone. We ate breakfast accompanied by the constant parade of hummingbirds that flew to the feeders hung outside the dining room windows, celebrated with champagne and strawberries in the gazebo, licked our fingers at dinner and sighed at the breezes that blew through our magnificent bedroom windows. And there were mountains in those windows—the White Mountains that were the backdrop for our anniversary week-end. But best of all there was quiet talk about our lives—where we had been, what we had done and all the years that we had yet in front of us—all our happily ever-afters to come.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
The Me-Phone
The Me Phone
Those of you have been reading my columns through the years know how enthusiastic I am about embracing any new technology that comes along. I love the newness, the challenge, the unexplored frontier. There’s nothing I relish more than learning that a device that I depend on everyday to make my life easier is being upgraded with new bells, whistles and an entire drum and fife corps. Yep, that’s me, drooling at the thought that I will be spending weeks figuring out yet another plastic piece of buttons and frustration.
To the advertisers credit though, they no longer mention time-saving when describing some new piece of software, because they know that it’s going to take most of us a long, long time to learn how to use their newest creation. Instead they wax eloquent on how it will expand your life and your ability to live it. You will move on a cloud of information that seamlessly ties your life together so that you can text, tweet, blog, and cook a roast simultaneously.
Still, I do covet some new technology. I enjoy my Kindle. It’s wonderful not having to lug a heavy book to work each morning. However that enjoyment is tempered by the fact that I have to keep an eagle eye on the battery icon. I’ve had mornings when I turn on my book to find that it has turned off because I haven’t powered it up the night before. Things like that don’t happen with a real live book.
This latest rant is the result of having to upgrade my phone. My new phone is now smarter than I am or will ever be. My old phone was getting old and quirky, (kind of like me) not receiving calls or voice mails till hours after they had been sent, and whispering it’s ring so that I never heard it unless I taped it to my ear. Work has also become more complicated so that I have to check e-mails throughout the day.
Earlier in the year Lisa had gotten a new phone when her contract had run out. They were offering a free smart phone and reduced data package fee so we took it. I kept thinking that I should get one as well, but I was feeling particularly over- hassled and the thought of the month-long learning curve daunted me. I figured that the company would offer a similar package in a few months and I would upgrade then. However unbeknownst to me the company would be introducing a new smart phone and so would not be offering any new deals for a while.
Steve had done his research and found out that the best phone that we could afford was the low-end Apple iPhone. So suddenly I was the owner of a sma-h-t new device that could do so many things that I was completely intimidated, outsmarted, and incredibly nervous to even touch the damn thing. I was thinking that maybe I should be getting that PhD that I had been thinking about, if only to keep up with my phone.
I spent just enough time with the salespeople to shred the last of my already fragile ego to bits, then left holding my new device nervously and with the appropriate awe. When we got home I searched through the box desperately looking for the manual. My usual routine when I get a new phone is to sit at the kitchen table with said phone and manual and spend a few hours figuring it out.
Alas they no longer include a manual. All you get are a few tiny pages to “quick-start” you then you are directed to go on-line. I grumpily found the website only to discover that it basically regales you with all the neat stuff that you can buy to play even more joyfully with your phone. “But I need directions!!!!” I screamed.
Shatz suggested that I look up a generic user guide on-line and thank goodness that worked. He also wondered, only half jokingly, if an, “iPhone For Dummies” book had been published. I was beginning to hope so. I spent some time on the site, learning the basics: how to text, take a picture, retrieve voice mail, fricassee a chicken, and then proceeded to spend the next week feeling like a total idiot.
How have we gotten to such a state that merely answering your phone has become a vehicle for utter embarrassment? I’ve spent the week apologizing to people for looking like a jerk, explaining that I’m learning a new phone. Their responses have ranged from eye-rolling from the younger set, to utter respect from the older generation, who have shared their new-phone horror stories or confessed that they need a new phone but are terrified of getting one.
I have learned that my phone’s touch pad is so sensitive that if I breathe on it incorrectly I am calling the police station. That no matter how long I search on my on-line manual to solve a problem the only sure way to get a question answered is to find a citizen of the younger and cooler generation to solve it for me. They were born with these phones in hand.
And I? I was born in another world with rotary phones, dials and knobs and plugging things in and using them without an advanced degree. I’m so doomed.
Those of you have been reading my columns through the years know how enthusiastic I am about embracing any new technology that comes along. I love the newness, the challenge, the unexplored frontier. There’s nothing I relish more than learning that a device that I depend on everyday to make my life easier is being upgraded with new bells, whistles and an entire drum and fife corps. Yep, that’s me, drooling at the thought that I will be spending weeks figuring out yet another plastic piece of buttons and frustration.
To the advertisers credit though, they no longer mention time-saving when describing some new piece of software, because they know that it’s going to take most of us a long, long time to learn how to use their newest creation. Instead they wax eloquent on how it will expand your life and your ability to live it. You will move on a cloud of information that seamlessly ties your life together so that you can text, tweet, blog, and cook a roast simultaneously.
Still, I do covet some new technology. I enjoy my Kindle. It’s wonderful not having to lug a heavy book to work each morning. However that enjoyment is tempered by the fact that I have to keep an eagle eye on the battery icon. I’ve had mornings when I turn on my book to find that it has turned off because I haven’t powered it up the night before. Things like that don’t happen with a real live book.
This latest rant is the result of having to upgrade my phone. My new phone is now smarter than I am or will ever be. My old phone was getting old and quirky, (kind of like me) not receiving calls or voice mails till hours after they had been sent, and whispering it’s ring so that I never heard it unless I taped it to my ear. Work has also become more complicated so that I have to check e-mails throughout the day.
Earlier in the year Lisa had gotten a new phone when her contract had run out. They were offering a free smart phone and reduced data package fee so we took it. I kept thinking that I should get one as well, but I was feeling particularly over- hassled and the thought of the month-long learning curve daunted me. I figured that the company would offer a similar package in a few months and I would upgrade then. However unbeknownst to me the company would be introducing a new smart phone and so would not be offering any new deals for a while.
Steve had done his research and found out that the best phone that we could afford was the low-end Apple iPhone. So suddenly I was the owner of a sma-h-t new device that could do so many things that I was completely intimidated, outsmarted, and incredibly nervous to even touch the damn thing. I was thinking that maybe I should be getting that PhD that I had been thinking about, if only to keep up with my phone.
I spent just enough time with the salespeople to shred the last of my already fragile ego to bits, then left holding my new device nervously and with the appropriate awe. When we got home I searched through the box desperately looking for the manual. My usual routine when I get a new phone is to sit at the kitchen table with said phone and manual and spend a few hours figuring it out.
Alas they no longer include a manual. All you get are a few tiny pages to “quick-start” you then you are directed to go on-line. I grumpily found the website only to discover that it basically regales you with all the neat stuff that you can buy to play even more joyfully with your phone. “But I need directions!!!!” I screamed.
Shatz suggested that I look up a generic user guide on-line and thank goodness that worked. He also wondered, only half jokingly, if an, “iPhone For Dummies” book had been published. I was beginning to hope so. I spent some time on the site, learning the basics: how to text, take a picture, retrieve voice mail, fricassee a chicken, and then proceeded to spend the next week feeling like a total idiot.
How have we gotten to such a state that merely answering your phone has become a vehicle for utter embarrassment? I’ve spent the week apologizing to people for looking like a jerk, explaining that I’m learning a new phone. Their responses have ranged from eye-rolling from the younger set, to utter respect from the older generation, who have shared their new-phone horror stories or confessed that they need a new phone but are terrified of getting one.
I have learned that my phone’s touch pad is so sensitive that if I breathe on it incorrectly I am calling the police station. That no matter how long I search on my on-line manual to solve a problem the only sure way to get a question answered is to find a citizen of the younger and cooler generation to solve it for me. They were born with these phones in hand.
And I? I was born in another world with rotary phones, dials and knobs and plugging things in and using them without an advanced degree. I’m so doomed.
The Me-Phone
The Me Phone
Those of you have been reading my columns through the years know how enthusiastic I am about embracing any new technology that comes along. I love the newness, the challenge, the unexplored frontier. There’s nothing I relish more than learning that a device that I depend on everyday to make my life easier is being upgraded with new bells, whistles and an entire drum and fife corps. Yep, that’s me, drooling at the thought that I will be spending weeks figuring out yet another plastic piece of buttons and frustration.
To the advertisers credit though, they no longer mention time-saving when describing some new piece of software, because they know that it’s going to take most of us a long, long time to learn how to use their newest creation. Instead they wax eloquent on how it will expand your life and your ability to live it. You will move on a cloud of information that seamlessly ties your life together so that you can text, tweet, blog, and cook a roast simultaneously.
Still, I do covet some new technology. I enjoy my Kindle. It’s wonderful not having to lug a heavy book to work each morning. However that enjoyment is tempered by the fact that I have to keep an eagle eye on the battery icon. I’ve had mornings when I turn on my book to find that it has turned off because I haven’t powered it up the night before. Things like that don’t happen with a real live book.
This latest rant is the result of having to upgrade my phone. My new phone is now smarter than I am or will ever be. My old phone was getting old and quirky, (kind of like me) not receiving calls or voice mails till hours after they had been sent, and whispering it’s ring so that I never heard it unless I taped it to my ear. Work has also become more complicated so that I have to check e-mails throughout the day.
Earlier in the year Lisa had gotten a new phone when her contract had run out. They were offering a free smart phone and reduced data package fee so we took it. I kept thinking that I should get one as well, but I was feeling particularly over- hassled and the thought of the month-long learning curve daunted me. I figured that the company would offer a similar package in a few months and I would upgrade then. However unbeknownst to me the company would be introducing a new smart phone and so would not be offering any new deals for a while.
Steve had done his research and found out that the best phone that we could afford was the low-end Apple iPhone. So suddenly I was the owner of a sma-h-t new device that could do so many things that I was completely intimidated, outsmarted, and incredibly nervous to even touch the damn thing. I was thinking that maybe I should be getting that PhD that I had been thinking about, if only to keep up with my phone.
I spent just enough time with the salespeople to shred the last of my already fragile ego to bits, then left holding my new device nervously and with the appropriate awe. When we got home I searched through the box desperately looking for the manual. My usual routine when I get a new phone is to sit at the kitchen table with said phone and manual and spend a few hours figuring it out.
Alas they no longer include a manual. All you get are a few tiny pages to “quick-start” you then you are directed to go on-line. I grumpily found the website only to discover that it basically regales you with all the neat stuff that you can buy to play even more joyfully with your phone. “But I need directions!!!!” I screamed.
Shatz suggested that I look up a generic user guide on-line and thank goodness that worked. He also wondered, only half jokingly, if an, “iPhone For Dummies” book had been published. I was beginning to hope so. I spent some time on the site, learning the basics: how to text, take a picture, retrieve voice mail, fricassee a chicken, and then proceeded to spend the next week feeling like a total idiot.
How have we gotten to such a state that merely answering your phone has become a vehicle for utter embarrassment? I’ve spent the week apologizing to people for looking like a jerk, explaining that I’m learning a new phone. Their responses have ranged from eye-rolling from the younger set, to utter respect from the older generation, who have shared their new-phone horror stories or confessed that they need a new phone but are terrified of getting one.
I have learned that my phone’s touch pad is so sensitive that if I breathe on it incorrectly I am calling the police station. That no matter how long I search on my on-line manual to solve a problem the only sure way to get a question answered is to find a citizen of the younger and cooler generation to solve it for me. They were born with these phones in hand.
And I? I was born in another world with rotary phones, dials and knobs and plugging things in and using them without an advanced degree. I’m so doomed.
Those of you have been reading my columns through the years know how enthusiastic I am about embracing any new technology that comes along. I love the newness, the challenge, the unexplored frontier. There’s nothing I relish more than learning that a device that I depend on everyday to make my life easier is being upgraded with new bells, whistles and an entire drum and fife corps. Yep, that’s me, drooling at the thought that I will be spending weeks figuring out yet another plastic piece of buttons and frustration.
To the advertisers credit though, they no longer mention time-saving when describing some new piece of software, because they know that it’s going to take most of us a long, long time to learn how to use their newest creation. Instead they wax eloquent on how it will expand your life and your ability to live it. You will move on a cloud of information that seamlessly ties your life together so that you can text, tweet, blog, and cook a roast simultaneously.
Still, I do covet some new technology. I enjoy my Kindle. It’s wonderful not having to lug a heavy book to work each morning. However that enjoyment is tempered by the fact that I have to keep an eagle eye on the battery icon. I’ve had mornings when I turn on my book to find that it has turned off because I haven’t powered it up the night before. Things like that don’t happen with a real live book.
This latest rant is the result of having to upgrade my phone. My new phone is now smarter than I am or will ever be. My old phone was getting old and quirky, (kind of like me) not receiving calls or voice mails till hours after they had been sent, and whispering it’s ring so that I never heard it unless I taped it to my ear. Work has also become more complicated so that I have to check e-mails throughout the day.
Earlier in the year Lisa had gotten a new phone when her contract had run out. They were offering a free smart phone and reduced data package fee so we took it. I kept thinking that I should get one as well, but I was feeling particularly over- hassled and the thought of the month-long learning curve daunted me. I figured that the company would offer a similar package in a few months and I would upgrade then. However unbeknownst to me the company would be introducing a new smart phone and so would not be offering any new deals for a while.
Steve had done his research and found out that the best phone that we could afford was the low-end Apple iPhone. So suddenly I was the owner of a sma-h-t new device that could do so many things that I was completely intimidated, outsmarted, and incredibly nervous to even touch the damn thing. I was thinking that maybe I should be getting that PhD that I had been thinking about, if only to keep up with my phone.
I spent just enough time with the salespeople to shred the last of my already fragile ego to bits, then left holding my new device nervously and with the appropriate awe. When we got home I searched through the box desperately looking for the manual. My usual routine when I get a new phone is to sit at the kitchen table with said phone and manual and spend a few hours figuring it out.
Alas they no longer include a manual. All you get are a few tiny pages to “quick-start” you then you are directed to go on-line. I grumpily found the website only to discover that it basically regales you with all the neat stuff that you can buy to play even more joyfully with your phone. “But I need directions!!!!” I screamed.
Shatz suggested that I look up a generic user guide on-line and thank goodness that worked. He also wondered, only half jokingly, if an, “iPhone For Dummies” book had been published. I was beginning to hope so. I spent some time on the site, learning the basics: how to text, take a picture, retrieve voice mail, fricassee a chicken, and then proceeded to spend the next week feeling like a total idiot.
How have we gotten to such a state that merely answering your phone has become a vehicle for utter embarrassment? I’ve spent the week apologizing to people for looking like a jerk, explaining that I’m learning a new phone. Their responses have ranged from eye-rolling from the younger set, to utter respect from the older generation, who have shared their new-phone horror stories or confessed that they need a new phone but are terrified of getting one.
I have learned that my phone’s touch pad is so sensitive that if I breathe on it incorrectly I am calling the police station. That no matter how long I search on my on-line manual to solve a problem the only sure way to get a question answered is to find a citizen of the younger and cooler generation to solve it for me. They were born with these phones in hand.
And I? I was born in another world with rotary phones, dials and knobs and plugging things in and using them without an advanced degree. I’m so doomed.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite
Don’t Let the Bedbugs Bite
I couldn’t stop laughing. Steve called out from the living room wanting to know what was so funny. All I could do was point to the article in Sunday’s Boston Globe about a new book by Adam Mansbach aimed at sleep deprived parents called, “Go the F**k to Sleep.” Although it looks deceptively like a children’s book, it is aimed at parents with offspring who will go to any lengths not to go to sleep at night. According to the article’s writer, Beth Teitell, the book,
Hit the top spot on Amazon’s bestseller list in May — five months before its original publication date. It pulled off the incredible feat of going viral before it even came out, after author Adam Mansbach gave a reading in Philadelphia in April at the Fourth Wall Arts Salon, and parents in the audience told their exhausted friends, who told their exhausted friends. The book leaked online, and many parents reported having it forwarded to them by multiple friends. The intense interest prompted Akashic Books to move up the official release to June 14 — in time for Father’s Day. Akashic initially planned to print 10,000 copies but ended up printing 50,000 in the first run. By the publication date there will be 275,000 copies in circulation.
Can you imagine that? The book hasn’t even hit the book shelves, yet 275,000 parents are laughing exhaustedly, hysterically, probably with feelings of great relief that they are not monsters. Because let’s face it, who among us would ever admit to another parent that we would like to tell our dearest children, “Just go the f**k to sleep already!!” We may think it in the depths of our mortified psyches, simultaneously beating ourselves up for being horrible parents and for using such “descriptive” language to our beloved progeny, but let’s face it, every parent who has ever faced a child who refuses to go to sleep has thought it at one time or another.
Mansbach, an otherwise serious writer and poet and, the father of a young child who wouldn’t go to sleep, said he thinks his latest work resonates because it lets parents know they’re not alone.
And that’s the crux of the matter. The fact that many of us are raising our children alone with self help books taking the place of supportive families. We all feel that failing at parenting is a shameful thing--after all, we had this child and so we should automatically know how to raise it.
I’ve been there. When Lisa was born, Steve’s Dad had just died and his mom lived in Florida. I have no siblings and my parents lived in Israel. I had been working full time until Lisa came so all my friends were working women and none were parents. When Lisa was born in December we spent our days alone with just each other. Still, we were doing okay with the exception of one thing—Lisa was not a sleeper. She hated to nap, hated going to sleep at night and unbelievably, also woke up in the middle of the night. I was so sleep deprived that when I was driving and came to a red light I would think to myself, “I’ll just close my eyes till it turns green.”
Our pediatrician blamed me. She told me that I shouldn’t feed her at night, I shouldn’t rock her to sleep, sing her to sleep, cajole her to sleep, but should just put her in her crib, walk out the door and let her sob herself to sleep. I hated the woman.
Eventually we did tough it out and after two nights of crying Lisa caught on and slept. Miracles did happen. But then the champ appeared—Mariel. Compared to Mariel, Lisa was a lightweight. Mariel would wake up every night, her yells waking us all. Every night my little angel would sob, scream, and worst of all call out pleadingly, “mommy, daddy!” I was a wreck. Steve bought me a Walkman to plug up my ears, but even locked in the bathroom with the fan’s noisy whirring and the music at top volume, I could still hear her. I felt like the lowest scum on earth. And the only advice we kept getting was, “She’ll just have to cry it out.” Light years later I read that according to Doctor Rosen, associate medical director of the Center for Pediatric Sleep Disorders at Children’s Hospital sBoston,
About 1 out of every 4 children age 10 and under have sleep issues. These range from night terrors to sleepwalking to “behavioral insomnia’’ of the type described in Mansbach’s book. Despite the prevalence of sleep problems, Rosen said, less than one-quarter of parents with affected children seek medical help. The rest, apparently, are just toughing it out — or are self-medicating now with Mansbach.
I could have used that book back then for a laugh and the realization that I wasn’t a horrible parent, just an exhausted one. Mansbach’s book may seem extreme to some, obscene to others, but it does a good job of reducing the guilt monster. If anything, it seems more obscene to beat yourself up over normal life stuff. We’re all just doing the best we can. And if it takes a shockingly funny book to jolt us back to normalcy then I say, bring it on and goodnight moon, goodnight guilt and good night guilty parents everywhere.
I couldn’t stop laughing. Steve called out from the living room wanting to know what was so funny. All I could do was point to the article in Sunday’s Boston Globe about a new book by Adam Mansbach aimed at sleep deprived parents called, “Go the F**k to Sleep.” Although it looks deceptively like a children’s book, it is aimed at parents with offspring who will go to any lengths not to go to sleep at night. According to the article’s writer, Beth Teitell, the book,
Hit the top spot on Amazon’s bestseller list in May — five months before its original publication date. It pulled off the incredible feat of going viral before it even came out, after author Adam Mansbach gave a reading in Philadelphia in April at the Fourth Wall Arts Salon, and parents in the audience told their exhausted friends, who told their exhausted friends. The book leaked online, and many parents reported having it forwarded to them by multiple friends. The intense interest prompted Akashic Books to move up the official release to June 14 — in time for Father’s Day. Akashic initially planned to print 10,000 copies but ended up printing 50,000 in the first run. By the publication date there will be 275,000 copies in circulation.
Can you imagine that? The book hasn’t even hit the book shelves, yet 275,000 parents are laughing exhaustedly, hysterically, probably with feelings of great relief that they are not monsters. Because let’s face it, who among us would ever admit to another parent that we would like to tell our dearest children, “Just go the f**k to sleep already!!” We may think it in the depths of our mortified psyches, simultaneously beating ourselves up for being horrible parents and for using such “descriptive” language to our beloved progeny, but let’s face it, every parent who has ever faced a child who refuses to go to sleep has thought it at one time or another.
Mansbach, an otherwise serious writer and poet and, the father of a young child who wouldn’t go to sleep, said he thinks his latest work resonates because it lets parents know they’re not alone.
And that’s the crux of the matter. The fact that many of us are raising our children alone with self help books taking the place of supportive families. We all feel that failing at parenting is a shameful thing--after all, we had this child and so we should automatically know how to raise it.
I’ve been there. When Lisa was born, Steve’s Dad had just died and his mom lived in Florida. I have no siblings and my parents lived in Israel. I had been working full time until Lisa came so all my friends were working women and none were parents. When Lisa was born in December we spent our days alone with just each other. Still, we were doing okay with the exception of one thing—Lisa was not a sleeper. She hated to nap, hated going to sleep at night and unbelievably, also woke up in the middle of the night. I was so sleep deprived that when I was driving and came to a red light I would think to myself, “I’ll just close my eyes till it turns green.”
Our pediatrician blamed me. She told me that I shouldn’t feed her at night, I shouldn’t rock her to sleep, sing her to sleep, cajole her to sleep, but should just put her in her crib, walk out the door and let her sob herself to sleep. I hated the woman.
Eventually we did tough it out and after two nights of crying Lisa caught on and slept. Miracles did happen. But then the champ appeared—Mariel. Compared to Mariel, Lisa was a lightweight. Mariel would wake up every night, her yells waking us all. Every night my little angel would sob, scream, and worst of all call out pleadingly, “mommy, daddy!” I was a wreck. Steve bought me a Walkman to plug up my ears, but even locked in the bathroom with the fan’s noisy whirring and the music at top volume, I could still hear her. I felt like the lowest scum on earth. And the only advice we kept getting was, “She’ll just have to cry it out.” Light years later I read that according to Doctor Rosen, associate medical director of the Center for Pediatric Sleep Disorders at Children’s Hospital sBoston,
About 1 out of every 4 children age 10 and under have sleep issues. These range from night terrors to sleepwalking to “behavioral insomnia’’ of the type described in Mansbach’s book. Despite the prevalence of sleep problems, Rosen said, less than one-quarter of parents with affected children seek medical help. The rest, apparently, are just toughing it out — or are self-medicating now with Mansbach.
I could have used that book back then for a laugh and the realization that I wasn’t a horrible parent, just an exhausted one. Mansbach’s book may seem extreme to some, obscene to others, but it does a good job of reducing the guilt monster. If anything, it seems more obscene to beat yourself up over normal life stuff. We’re all just doing the best we can. And if it takes a shockingly funny book to jolt us back to normalcy then I say, bring it on and goodnight moon, goodnight guilt and good night guilty parents everywhere.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Our Garden of EdenOur Garden of Eden
Our Garden of Eden
We’ve just finished reading two short stories by Mark Twain entitled, Eve’s and Adam’s Diary. Twain describes Adam as a man with little imagination, caring only about building structures and animal husbandry and Eve as intelligent, imaginative and courageous but also vain and self important. The task that Eve loves best (besides naming all the animals) is taking care of the park, as she calls the Garden of Eden. I thought to myself it’s a good thing that in our family things are reversed because if it were up to me to maintain our “grounds” we would have put down Astroturf long ago.
I love grass, trees, and flowers—I just don’t want to be the one who takes care of them. I like to work outside for an hour or so and then go back in the house for some iced tea. Because of this poor Steve is the one who takes care of our great outdoors. It wasn’t like that when we first bought our house. I would plant impatiens everywhere and water them faithfully all summer. I fertilized, planted, weeded and generally, “took care”. But I learned early on that planting anything in our rocky New England earth is a challenge. Lisa learned that too--the hard way.
One beautiful September day Lisa saw bags of daffodil bulbs in the supermarket and pleaded with me to buy them. Since Mariel adored Lisa and did everything that she did, she also began to beg. I warned them that bulbs weren’t easy to plant and that I didn’t want to be the one who ended up digging all those holes.
“Of course not mommy, we’ll do everything and they’ll be so pretty, please, please, please…..” two pairs of eyes gazed at me hopefully. I gave in and bought a couple of bags of daffodils, some fertilizer, gardening gloves and two planting tools. From the size of their smiles you would have thought that they had just won the lottery. Lisa had visions of a front yard filled with yellow flowers and Mariel, well Mariel was just happy that Lisa was happy. She had no idea of what she had just signed on for and neither did Lisa.
The next day I showed them how to dig the hole, where to place the bulb and the fertilizer and warned them that the digging would be tough.
“Don’t worry mommy,” Lisa told me. “Mariel and I will do it. You won’t even know we’re out here.”
I left them wondering how long it would be before the first call for help. Sure enough I soon heard Lisa screaming at Mariel that she’d better get back and help or she would tell mom. I closed my eyes and put my fingers to my forehead feeling the beginnings of a headache. I knew that I was going to be on my knees digging holes before the day was through. I pretended not to hear what was going on, fervently hoping that those two would work it out in some way that would not involve me.
Soon I heard the door slam and Lisa yelling, “Mom!!! Mariel won’t help me plant the daffodils even though she promised. She broke her promise. You have to come outside and make her help me!!!!!!”
I tried to tell Lisa that Mariel was too little to be digging roles in impossibly rocky soil where the rocks outnumbered the dirt 100 to 1. But Lisa was having none of it. For her, breaking a promise was unheard of. So then I tried to explain that Mariel was too young to even know what a promise, or the breaking of one, entailed. But my explanations weren’t going over very well so I went outside to search for the truant daffodil planter.
I found her in the sandbox, digging happily. She looked so adorable sitting there with her pail and shovel but I had another offspring to placate so I knelt down and asked her why she wasn’t helping Lisa.
“It’s too hard, mommy,” she told me. “It hurts me, I can’t do it.” I kissed her and told her to have a good time in the sandbox and then I turned to the ball of fury beside me who was insisting that I had to make Mariel do it! I took her aside and explained as best as I could that Mariel just wasn’t old enough and that I would help her. She wasn’t happy with that. She thought that Mariel had broken a sacred rule and gotten away with murder. But the two of us went out and dug holes for the rest of the afternoon and planted all the bulbs. I may have cheated by throwing in as many as 10 in a hole just to get rid of the darned things.
Happily, that spring many of the daffodils sprang up and gave us great joy. Lisa proudly told everyone that she had planted them and Mariel added, “And I did too!” I thought Lisa would strangle her, but strangely enough she kept quiet—but she never volunteered to plant anything again. And Mariel--Mariel ended up being Steve’s landscaping helper, raking, spreading mulch and weeding. Unfortunately now that she no longer lives at home the only helper Steve has is me. And the only thing I’m good for is bringing him a cold glass of water.
We’ve just finished reading two short stories by Mark Twain entitled, Eve’s and Adam’s Diary. Twain describes Adam as a man with little imagination, caring only about building structures and animal husbandry and Eve as intelligent, imaginative and courageous but also vain and self important. The task that Eve loves best (besides naming all the animals) is taking care of the park, as she calls the Garden of Eden. I thought to myself it’s a good thing that in our family things are reversed because if it were up to me to maintain our “grounds” we would have put down Astroturf long ago.
I love grass, trees, and flowers—I just don’t want to be the one who takes care of them. I like to work outside for an hour or so and then go back in the house for some iced tea. Because of this poor Steve is the one who takes care of our great outdoors. It wasn’t like that when we first bought our house. I would plant impatiens everywhere and water them faithfully all summer. I fertilized, planted, weeded and generally, “took care”. But I learned early on that planting anything in our rocky New England earth is a challenge. Lisa learned that too--the hard way.
One beautiful September day Lisa saw bags of daffodil bulbs in the supermarket and pleaded with me to buy them. Since Mariel adored Lisa and did everything that she did, she also began to beg. I warned them that bulbs weren’t easy to plant and that I didn’t want to be the one who ended up digging all those holes.
“Of course not mommy, we’ll do everything and they’ll be so pretty, please, please, please…..” two pairs of eyes gazed at me hopefully. I gave in and bought a couple of bags of daffodils, some fertilizer, gardening gloves and two planting tools. From the size of their smiles you would have thought that they had just won the lottery. Lisa had visions of a front yard filled with yellow flowers and Mariel, well Mariel was just happy that Lisa was happy. She had no idea of what she had just signed on for and neither did Lisa.
The next day I showed them how to dig the hole, where to place the bulb and the fertilizer and warned them that the digging would be tough.
“Don’t worry mommy,” Lisa told me. “Mariel and I will do it. You won’t even know we’re out here.”
I left them wondering how long it would be before the first call for help. Sure enough I soon heard Lisa screaming at Mariel that she’d better get back and help or she would tell mom. I closed my eyes and put my fingers to my forehead feeling the beginnings of a headache. I knew that I was going to be on my knees digging holes before the day was through. I pretended not to hear what was going on, fervently hoping that those two would work it out in some way that would not involve me.
Soon I heard the door slam and Lisa yelling, “Mom!!! Mariel won’t help me plant the daffodils even though she promised. She broke her promise. You have to come outside and make her help me!!!!!!”
I tried to tell Lisa that Mariel was too little to be digging roles in impossibly rocky soil where the rocks outnumbered the dirt 100 to 1. But Lisa was having none of it. For her, breaking a promise was unheard of. So then I tried to explain that Mariel was too young to even know what a promise, or the breaking of one, entailed. But my explanations weren’t going over very well so I went outside to search for the truant daffodil planter.
I found her in the sandbox, digging happily. She looked so adorable sitting there with her pail and shovel but I had another offspring to placate so I knelt down and asked her why she wasn’t helping Lisa.
“It’s too hard, mommy,” she told me. “It hurts me, I can’t do it.” I kissed her and told her to have a good time in the sandbox and then I turned to the ball of fury beside me who was insisting that I had to make Mariel do it! I took her aside and explained as best as I could that Mariel just wasn’t old enough and that I would help her. She wasn’t happy with that. She thought that Mariel had broken a sacred rule and gotten away with murder. But the two of us went out and dug holes for the rest of the afternoon and planted all the bulbs. I may have cheated by throwing in as many as 10 in a hole just to get rid of the darned things.
Happily, that spring many of the daffodils sprang up and gave us great joy. Lisa proudly told everyone that she had planted them and Mariel added, “And I did too!” I thought Lisa would strangle her, but strangely enough she kept quiet—but she never volunteered to plant anything again. And Mariel--Mariel ended up being Steve’s landscaping helper, raking, spreading mulch and weeding. Unfortunately now that she no longer lives at home the only helper Steve has is me. And the only thing I’m good for is bringing him a cold glass of water.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Rain, Rain
Rain, Rain
I swore to myself that I would not write about the weather, after all what could be more boring than writing about the weather for God’s sake? Maybe talking about the weather and that’s exactly what everyone in Boston has been doing for almost two weeks now. That’s because New England is proving Mark Twain wrong this month. You remember what he said? If you don’t like the weather in New England just wait ten minutes and it will change, or something to that effect. Well, we’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting and all we’ve gotten is rain. I admit that sometimes it changes to mist or fog but it’s all basically the same soggy mess!
A few weeks ago, my class read one of my favorite short stories, All Summer in a Day, by Ray Bradbury. He imagines Venus as a planet where the sun appears for only two hours every seven years.
Thousands upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal falloff showers and the concussions of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands. A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again. And this was the way of life forever on the planet Venus…….
We talked about what it would be like to live in a place where it was forever raining. We all agreed that eventually we would go mad. None of us could conceive of a life without sun. In the story, Bradbury describes a class of nine year olds who can’t remember it at all. Only one of them, Margot, who had come to Venus with her parents when she was older, remembers it. The constant rain had, “washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. She was an old photograph dusted from an album, whitened away.” The other children bully her because she once lived on earth and knew the sun’s joys. When the sun’s two hour time finally comes after seven sodden years, they lock her in a closet out of sheer spite.
I know it’s ridiculous but I’m beginning to feel like Margot. The rain has washed all the color out of me and left me wanting to do nothing but sleep. I walk to work each day and see the white and pink crabapple flowers that had recently filled the sky now covering the sidewalks in a dripping, slippery, mess. None of the dogs being walked want to stop to say hello and sniff my hand-- they keep their heads down, determined to finish their walks and go home. I put my umbrella up and then feel silly because I’m the only one with an open umbrella, so I close it only to feel the mist settling on my shoulders and soaking my coat. This morning I wore a hat and kept my umbrella open for extra measure. I was tired of arriving at work looking like a drowned mutt.
Since it’s May the City of Boston has long ago shut off the heat in all of its buildings, so there’s the added pleasure of being not only damp but cold as well. It reminds me of winters in Israel when it would rain for weeks and the cold would settle in your bones for days. Yesterday it was so cold in my classroom that my chalk kept breaking against the board in my shivering hand. We decided that the warmest place was the elevator and I seriously considered moving the class in there. Today I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater but it’s not really helping.
I’m so sick of listening to myself complain. I keep reminding myself that our trees look absolutely lush, our fuschia is a crazily budding invitation to hummingbirds everywhere and our lawn, or what passes for a lawn at our house, is as green as it’s ever going to be without putting down astro-turf. I’m also grateful that we’re getting this weather now and not in June, because each year after Memorial Day I plant my impatiens and geraniums and would hate to lose them to a deluge. That happened one year when, after I had spent more money than I care to remember, all of my plants were washed out by a rainy June and I had to replace them all. Hopefully this rain will be a memory by next month.
And I keep reminding myself to be grateful that I do not live along the Mississippi where I could lose my home at any moment to a cresting river. Nor am I in the midst of a draught where wild fires are threatening. I am here in New England where all we are living through is a mildly uncomfortable dampness and lack of sun. Surely I have some backbone in me to withstand these minor discomforts?
That’s what I’d like to think of myself but in reality I am miserable. And if the sun came out now I would behave like the children in Bradbury’s story, “squinting at the sun until the tears ran down my face, putting my hands up to that yellowness and that amazing blueness, breathing that fresh, fresh air and savoring everything.”
I swore to myself that I would not write about the weather, after all what could be more boring than writing about the weather for God’s sake? Maybe talking about the weather and that’s exactly what everyone in Boston has been doing for almost two weeks now. That’s because New England is proving Mark Twain wrong this month. You remember what he said? If you don’t like the weather in New England just wait ten minutes and it will change, or something to that effect. Well, we’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting and all we’ve gotten is rain. I admit that sometimes it changes to mist or fog but it’s all basically the same soggy mess!
A few weeks ago, my class read one of my favorite short stories, All Summer in a Day, by Ray Bradbury. He imagines Venus as a planet where the sun appears for only two hours every seven years.
Thousands upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal falloff showers and the concussions of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands. A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again. And this was the way of life forever on the planet Venus…….
We talked about what it would be like to live in a place where it was forever raining. We all agreed that eventually we would go mad. None of us could conceive of a life without sun. In the story, Bradbury describes a class of nine year olds who can’t remember it at all. Only one of them, Margot, who had come to Venus with her parents when she was older, remembers it. The constant rain had, “washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. She was an old photograph dusted from an album, whitened away.” The other children bully her because she once lived on earth and knew the sun’s joys. When the sun’s two hour time finally comes after seven sodden years, they lock her in a closet out of sheer spite.
I know it’s ridiculous but I’m beginning to feel like Margot. The rain has washed all the color out of me and left me wanting to do nothing but sleep. I walk to work each day and see the white and pink crabapple flowers that had recently filled the sky now covering the sidewalks in a dripping, slippery, mess. None of the dogs being walked want to stop to say hello and sniff my hand-- they keep their heads down, determined to finish their walks and go home. I put my umbrella up and then feel silly because I’m the only one with an open umbrella, so I close it only to feel the mist settling on my shoulders and soaking my coat. This morning I wore a hat and kept my umbrella open for extra measure. I was tired of arriving at work looking like a drowned mutt.
Since it’s May the City of Boston has long ago shut off the heat in all of its buildings, so there’s the added pleasure of being not only damp but cold as well. It reminds me of winters in Israel when it would rain for weeks and the cold would settle in your bones for days. Yesterday it was so cold in my classroom that my chalk kept breaking against the board in my shivering hand. We decided that the warmest place was the elevator and I seriously considered moving the class in there. Today I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater but it’s not really helping.
I’m so sick of listening to myself complain. I keep reminding myself that our trees look absolutely lush, our fuschia is a crazily budding invitation to hummingbirds everywhere and our lawn, or what passes for a lawn at our house, is as green as it’s ever going to be without putting down astro-turf. I’m also grateful that we’re getting this weather now and not in June, because each year after Memorial Day I plant my impatiens and geraniums and would hate to lose them to a deluge. That happened one year when, after I had spent more money than I care to remember, all of my plants were washed out by a rainy June and I had to replace them all. Hopefully this rain will be a memory by next month.
And I keep reminding myself to be grateful that I do not live along the Mississippi where I could lose my home at any moment to a cresting river. Nor am I in the midst of a draught where wild fires are threatening. I am here in New England where all we are living through is a mildly uncomfortable dampness and lack of sun. Surely I have some backbone in me to withstand these minor discomforts?
That’s what I’d like to think of myself but in reality I am miserable. And if the sun came out now I would behave like the children in Bradbury’s story, “squinting at the sun until the tears ran down my face, putting my hands up to that yellowness and that amazing blueness, breathing that fresh, fresh air and savoring everything.”
Saturday, May 14, 2011
The Ideal Life
The Ideal Life
Part of being a trainer who teaches teachers, is supporting them when they go back to their classrooms to begin implementing the techniques that you have taught them. You exchange e-mails, speak on the phone and then eventually visit their classrooms to see them in action. It’s always a nerve wracking experience for a teacher no matter how many times you insist that you’re only there to help them get the hang of the new methods. When someone is sitting in your classroom taking notes, support is the last thing on your mind.
I know. I’ve been there countless times. And though I’ve gotten to the point where it doesn’t bother me much, there’s still that flutter in my stomach that screams, “You’re being judged and found wanting!” So I always visit with a smile and laughter, heck I would strew flowers and candy before me if that would make the teacher feel calmer. I thank everyone for inviting me into their classroom and then I try to melt into the woodwork.
I’ve enjoyed making the rounds watching talented teachers and eager students. The last lesson that I observed was in vocabulary. To an outsider teaching vocabulary sounds like a piece of cake. They envision the usual, “Here’s a list of words, use them in a sentence and there’s a quiz at the end of the week.” The words are learned for that week and then completely forgotten. Students consider them “test” words, not to be confused with real world stuff.
This new method helps students make the words their own—to use them, play with them, experiment with them, everything but forget them. One of the exercises involves much class discussion as the students use them in their own contexts. That day the first word that the teacher wrote on the board was, “ideal”. She explained that it meant, perfect. She told the students that she lived just a few blocks from the school and so it was an ideal location for her--she could walk to work. Then she turned to her class and asked them to describe their ideal home or job.
The room became very quiet as each student thought for a moment and then it burst into life. They couldn’t get the words out quickly enough. One woman described her house in the suburbs, where it was quiet, surrounded with grass and flowers and had a white picket fence. I couldn’t help but think, yeah just wait till you’ll have to mow that lawn, paint the damned fence every year, trim the hedges and put down mulch. Another described a mansion complete with swimming pool. Yet another added a gym and a movie theater to their mansion insisting that it would be ideal. The homes got bigger and fancier with every telling.
Their ideal jobs were all about little work, late start times, vacations, and of course tons of money. One woman finally spoke up and told the class that her ideal job was to have one, and when she finally got one, to work hard and feel that she earned her salary and maybe did a little good for the world. They were all quiet after that.
What a perfectly rotten word: ideal. It’s been the bane of my existence for a long time now. If only this would happen, or that would change, everything would be perfect. If only I got that job, that apartment, finished that degree, got the raise, lost the weight--you know the litany. I’m always out there ruining what could be a wonderful time with, perfect. It happened again this Mother’s Day.
As you know, my mom now lives only a few minutes away from us instead of across an ocean, so now we can celebrate all kinds of, “firsts”. The first time we’ve spent birthdays together, the first Thanksgiving, the first spring, the first Passover, and of course the first Mother’s Day. Do I relax and enjoy them like most people? Of course not. I have to make it ideal. No turkey is juicy enough, no cake is sweet enough, no flowers are fragrant enough. I haven’t spent any of these firsts with my mom for forty years so now they all have to be perfect to make up for all the lost time.
I outdid myself on Mother’s Day. Early on I decided that this day would be all about mom. I planned a meal composed of the dishes she loves, searched for the most beautiful roses, made sure we had champagne and orange juice for her favorite mimosas. I anguished over the card, the gift the cake the everything. This would be perfect if it killed me. And it just about did.
I was so tight that day you could see me quiver. Nothing was too small to obsess over. That evening I was the perfect wreck—exhausted, depressed and ready to cry. I thought about the day before when mom and I had spent a perfectly lovely, lazy day getting our nails done and having lunch—impromptu and relaxed.
It was an epiphany—maybe even the perfect epiphany. Maybe, just maybe, I could banish ideal and perfect from my vocabulary along with the guilt that accompanies them. Because as my dear friend, Nancy told me, “Guilt is self indulgent when you really have nothing to feel guilty about.” The most perfect advice I’ve ever received.
Part of being a trainer who teaches teachers, is supporting them when they go back to their classrooms to begin implementing the techniques that you have taught them. You exchange e-mails, speak on the phone and then eventually visit their classrooms to see them in action. It’s always a nerve wracking experience for a teacher no matter how many times you insist that you’re only there to help them get the hang of the new methods. When someone is sitting in your classroom taking notes, support is the last thing on your mind.
I know. I’ve been there countless times. And though I’ve gotten to the point where it doesn’t bother me much, there’s still that flutter in my stomach that screams, “You’re being judged and found wanting!” So I always visit with a smile and laughter, heck I would strew flowers and candy before me if that would make the teacher feel calmer. I thank everyone for inviting me into their classroom and then I try to melt into the woodwork.
I’ve enjoyed making the rounds watching talented teachers and eager students. The last lesson that I observed was in vocabulary. To an outsider teaching vocabulary sounds like a piece of cake. They envision the usual, “Here’s a list of words, use them in a sentence and there’s a quiz at the end of the week.” The words are learned for that week and then completely forgotten. Students consider them “test” words, not to be confused with real world stuff.
This new method helps students make the words their own—to use them, play with them, experiment with them, everything but forget them. One of the exercises involves much class discussion as the students use them in their own contexts. That day the first word that the teacher wrote on the board was, “ideal”. She explained that it meant, perfect. She told the students that she lived just a few blocks from the school and so it was an ideal location for her--she could walk to work. Then she turned to her class and asked them to describe their ideal home or job.
The room became very quiet as each student thought for a moment and then it burst into life. They couldn’t get the words out quickly enough. One woman described her house in the suburbs, where it was quiet, surrounded with grass and flowers and had a white picket fence. I couldn’t help but think, yeah just wait till you’ll have to mow that lawn, paint the damned fence every year, trim the hedges and put down mulch. Another described a mansion complete with swimming pool. Yet another added a gym and a movie theater to their mansion insisting that it would be ideal. The homes got bigger and fancier with every telling.
Their ideal jobs were all about little work, late start times, vacations, and of course tons of money. One woman finally spoke up and told the class that her ideal job was to have one, and when she finally got one, to work hard and feel that she earned her salary and maybe did a little good for the world. They were all quiet after that.
What a perfectly rotten word: ideal. It’s been the bane of my existence for a long time now. If only this would happen, or that would change, everything would be perfect. If only I got that job, that apartment, finished that degree, got the raise, lost the weight--you know the litany. I’m always out there ruining what could be a wonderful time with, perfect. It happened again this Mother’s Day.
As you know, my mom now lives only a few minutes away from us instead of across an ocean, so now we can celebrate all kinds of, “firsts”. The first time we’ve spent birthdays together, the first Thanksgiving, the first spring, the first Passover, and of course the first Mother’s Day. Do I relax and enjoy them like most people? Of course not. I have to make it ideal. No turkey is juicy enough, no cake is sweet enough, no flowers are fragrant enough. I haven’t spent any of these firsts with my mom for forty years so now they all have to be perfect to make up for all the lost time.
I outdid myself on Mother’s Day. Early on I decided that this day would be all about mom. I planned a meal composed of the dishes she loves, searched for the most beautiful roses, made sure we had champagne and orange juice for her favorite mimosas. I anguished over the card, the gift the cake the everything. This would be perfect if it killed me. And it just about did.
I was so tight that day you could see me quiver. Nothing was too small to obsess over. That evening I was the perfect wreck—exhausted, depressed and ready to cry. I thought about the day before when mom and I had spent a perfectly lovely, lazy day getting our nails done and having lunch—impromptu and relaxed.
It was an epiphany—maybe even the perfect epiphany. Maybe, just maybe, I could banish ideal and perfect from my vocabulary along with the guilt that accompanies them. Because as my dear friend, Nancy told me, “Guilt is self indulgent when you really have nothing to feel guilty about.” The most perfect advice I’ve ever received.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Cause and Effect
Cause and Effect
I’ve been teaching writing structures coupled with graphic organizers for the past week. Do those phrases mean anything to you at all? Though it all sounds rather esoteric it’s really pretty basic stuff that helps students how to comprehend what they’re reading. Our students insist that they read just fine but ask them a question about what they’ve just read and they come up blank. Imagine yourself tackling a scientific abstract, decoding the words but not having a clue as to what you’ve just read. That’s the experience that many adult readers have when they read anything outside of their comfort zone like a soap-opera reality novel, or tabloid. I also have students who insist that, “I can read the Bible just fine, so why can’t I understand the class assignments?”
That’s when I try to explain that they’ve read the Bible so many times they’ve practically memorized it. It’s familiar and so poses no challenge, whereas the novel that I have just plunked in their laps is alien territory. I’ve heard students mutter under their breath that the book I’ve just given them is garbage—“This crap makes no sense whatever!” The only way that I can get them to continue is to tell them that this is the crap that they are going to see on the GED exam so they are going to have to learn to understand it somehow. That’s when the panic sets in. They can’t understand how, this language that they’ve been speaking all their lives, could betray them so completely.
That’s where the comprehension tools come into the picture. I explain to them that it’s easier to learn something new when they already know something about the topic, but when they know nothing about the topic it’s harder. I introduce them to strategies like questioning, summarizing, scanning, text marking—a veritable fount of organizing tools. I tell them that in the beginning it’s clumsy and awkward but if they practice enough, they’ll eventually do it automatically with any text that they encounter. That’s when I get the, this-woman-is-out-of-her-mind look.
We spent weeks on summarizing—recognizing the main thesis and important points, paragraph by paragraph, then graphing it on an organizer that was divided into columns with appropriate headings. We summarized movie plots, television shows, our days, even our lives, trying to come up with the bare bones of any story. We talked about details and where they belong or don’t belong, we read paragraphs about hypnosis, stunt people, diamonds and fashion. At one point I thought that if I drew one more “About/Point” (summarizing) or “K-W-L” chart (I already know, I want to know, I learned) I would spit up.
But then we read a Langston Hughes story and amazingly, when I asked questions at the end, they knew the answers. I was in shock.
“You did it!” I yelled. You understood exactly what he wanted you to understand! I’m so proud of you!”
Luckily class was over because to teach anything after that would have been anticlimactic. I didn’t even want to analyze for myself why this time had been successful: If the story level was easier, if they had had a goodnight’s sleep, if the moon was in the seventh house and Mercury aligned with Mars, I just wanted to enjoy the moment.
Then we began to practice writing GED essays. I began with the usual: Thesis statement, supporting details, concluding paragraph using yet another organizer when Jamie called out, “Oh you mean the hamburger!” Even for Jamie that was an unusual statement to throw out in the middle of class.
“Okay, you’re going to have to explain that,” I told her.
“You know, you draw a hamburger with the top bun, the middle stuff then the bottom bun and you name them, introduction, conclusion, stuff like that.”
I loved it. So I drew the top introduction bun, then moved on to the lettuce, tomato, and cheese supporting statements and finished off with the conclusion bottom bun. They kept telling me that I was leaving out the pickles, ketchup, mayo and mustard, I answered that I was now officially starving and in the end we had our own graphic organizer.
And then one of those once-in-a-blue-moon teaching moments happened when they realized that all the summaries that they had practiced, all the stories they had read, all the organizers that they had drawn were helping them create their own burgers.
“So it’s kind of like what we’ve been reading only we’re writing it now,” Ani said. “So it’s connected.”
“Yes, God yes!” I told her.
I wanted to take that moment and store it gently in a jar to take down on the days when it all goes wrong and I’m ready to give up. Usually I’m the one connecting the dots for them, trying to make them see how it’s all of a piece. But now, for the first time, they did it themselves.
On Friday they went off to take a practice GED test sponsored by Roxbury Junior College. The stakes were high because if they did well they would receive a scholarship for a free GED test. If they did well it meant they had a chance at passing this pernicious test and getting on and up with their lives. If they did well it meant, that for the first time, they really were making those connections. I’m saying a little prayer.
I’ve been teaching writing structures coupled with graphic organizers for the past week. Do those phrases mean anything to you at all? Though it all sounds rather esoteric it’s really pretty basic stuff that helps students how to comprehend what they’re reading. Our students insist that they read just fine but ask them a question about what they’ve just read and they come up blank. Imagine yourself tackling a scientific abstract, decoding the words but not having a clue as to what you’ve just read. That’s the experience that many adult readers have when they read anything outside of their comfort zone like a soap-opera reality novel, or tabloid. I also have students who insist that, “I can read the Bible just fine, so why can’t I understand the class assignments?”
That’s when I try to explain that they’ve read the Bible so many times they’ve practically memorized it. It’s familiar and so poses no challenge, whereas the novel that I have just plunked in their laps is alien territory. I’ve heard students mutter under their breath that the book I’ve just given them is garbage—“This crap makes no sense whatever!” The only way that I can get them to continue is to tell them that this is the crap that they are going to see on the GED exam so they are going to have to learn to understand it somehow. That’s when the panic sets in. They can’t understand how, this language that they’ve been speaking all their lives, could betray them so completely.
That’s where the comprehension tools come into the picture. I explain to them that it’s easier to learn something new when they already know something about the topic, but when they know nothing about the topic it’s harder. I introduce them to strategies like questioning, summarizing, scanning, text marking—a veritable fount of organizing tools. I tell them that in the beginning it’s clumsy and awkward but if they practice enough, they’ll eventually do it automatically with any text that they encounter. That’s when I get the, this-woman-is-out-of-her-mind look.
We spent weeks on summarizing—recognizing the main thesis and important points, paragraph by paragraph, then graphing it on an organizer that was divided into columns with appropriate headings. We summarized movie plots, television shows, our days, even our lives, trying to come up with the bare bones of any story. We talked about details and where they belong or don’t belong, we read paragraphs about hypnosis, stunt people, diamonds and fashion. At one point I thought that if I drew one more “About/Point” (summarizing) or “K-W-L” chart (I already know, I want to know, I learned) I would spit up.
But then we read a Langston Hughes story and amazingly, when I asked questions at the end, they knew the answers. I was in shock.
“You did it!” I yelled. You understood exactly what he wanted you to understand! I’m so proud of you!”
Luckily class was over because to teach anything after that would have been anticlimactic. I didn’t even want to analyze for myself why this time had been successful: If the story level was easier, if they had had a goodnight’s sleep, if the moon was in the seventh house and Mercury aligned with Mars, I just wanted to enjoy the moment.
Then we began to practice writing GED essays. I began with the usual: Thesis statement, supporting details, concluding paragraph using yet another organizer when Jamie called out, “Oh you mean the hamburger!” Even for Jamie that was an unusual statement to throw out in the middle of class.
“Okay, you’re going to have to explain that,” I told her.
“You know, you draw a hamburger with the top bun, the middle stuff then the bottom bun and you name them, introduction, conclusion, stuff like that.”
I loved it. So I drew the top introduction bun, then moved on to the lettuce, tomato, and cheese supporting statements and finished off with the conclusion bottom bun. They kept telling me that I was leaving out the pickles, ketchup, mayo and mustard, I answered that I was now officially starving and in the end we had our own graphic organizer.
And then one of those once-in-a-blue-moon teaching moments happened when they realized that all the summaries that they had practiced, all the stories they had read, all the organizers that they had drawn were helping them create their own burgers.
“So it’s kind of like what we’ve been reading only we’re writing it now,” Ani said. “So it’s connected.”
“Yes, God yes!” I told her.
I wanted to take that moment and store it gently in a jar to take down on the days when it all goes wrong and I’m ready to give up. Usually I’m the one connecting the dots for them, trying to make them see how it’s all of a piece. But now, for the first time, they did it themselves.
On Friday they went off to take a practice GED test sponsored by Roxbury Junior College. The stakes were high because if they did well they would receive a scholarship for a free GED test. If they did well it meant they had a chance at passing this pernicious test and getting on and up with their lives. If they did well it meant, that for the first time, they really were making those connections. I’m saying a little prayer.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Guilting the Lily
Guilting the Lilly
Ah, guilt. The bottomless well that never dries out. We give it, we get it, sometimes we ask for it when we do really stupid things. But the worst, the very worst, is the guilt that we give ourselves courtesy of the “should” voices in our heads. The, you-should-be-doing-this or inversely “you-shouldn’t-have-done-that.”
Years ago I participated in a mom’s group to convince myself that my new-mom fears were normal. It seemed to me that someone in my family was always being short changed because of our new baby. Either the house wasn’t clean enough or the laundry wasn’t done enough, the meals weren’t gourmet enough or the romantic life with my husband was definitely not romantic enough, especially since I tended to fall asleep in the middle of dinner.
I listened to our facilitator tell us that women were forever “making nice” to everyone but themselves. “We’re always making sure that everyone is happy but when was the last time you made sure that you were happy?” I remember thinking that she was nuts. I only had a few hours everyday to do everything so why would I ever waste that time on me? The very idea made me uncomfortable. And after all these years I’m still not completely comfortable with the concept. Guilt keeps me nicely in line.
You would think that by now women would have learned not to let guilt run roughshod over them, but if anything it’s getting worse. According to Francie LaTour’s article, The Bad Mother Complex in the March 13 issue of the Boston Globe,
……..a mommy blogger can make an entire career trafficking in guilt, wearing her failures like badges of honor: “I let my infant watch five hours of TV!” “My toddler dunked his head in the toilet!” Whether you’re a blue-suit executive, a bank teller, or Dr. Phil, we all know about family, work, conflict, and guilt.
Years ago I was deliriously happy working as a computer programmer at a small engineering company. The job made me feel like I had died and gone to heaven. Unlike my former teaching gig, there was no showing up at 7:00, no twenty minute lunches, no cafeteria duty, and no endless take home work. I had a whole hour for lunch, dealt only with fairly rational adults, and best of all, I left my work at work. When I was home I wasn’t marking papers and preparing brilliant lesson plans. The lines were definite and distinct—work was work and home was home and never the twain did meet. As a result I was sane, relaxed and guilt free.
But when Lisa was born it all changed. I had been given a very generous six months leave and then I could return part-time for six months. It sounded very reasonable at the time. That was before two things happened: New mommy guilt and very few available day care slots. Every day brought new opportunities for guilt even while at home full time with my baby. Later on when I began searching for daycare, it body-slammed me. Even if the place was clean and staffed with loving caregivers, it was not good enough for my princess.
I ended up becoming a stay-at-home-mom for many years but even then I dealt with a level of am-I-a-good-enough-mom? guilt. But when I began to work part time I faced the real stuff. In LaTour’s article she cited a study done by researchers at the University of Toronto. It threw new light on:
the guilt question by quantifying the emotions we experience as work and family boundaries become increasingly blurred and measuring the effect those emotions have on our psychological well-being.
In this study, published in this month’s issue of the Journal of Health and Social Behavior, about 1,800 American workers were asked how often they were contacted outside the workplace by phone, e-mail, or text about work-related matters. According to the findings, frequent contact by bosses, co-workers, or clients led to increased feelings of guilt — but only among women.
The guilt had nothing to do with women’s actual ability to navigate competing obligations at work and at home; on the contrary, the study found that logistically, women were able to juggle the two spheres just as well as men. It’s how women felt about themselves while doing that juggling that set them apart.
We women can handle the work load it’s the guilt load we can’t manage. We’re always making nice and taking care of everyone but us.
Both my girls are now grown and independent. You would think that I would be guilt free. You would think wrong. I still feel awful if I have to work when Lisa or Mariel want to spend time with me. I’m still the horrible mother who can’t do enough. Added to that is a new frustration that whispers in my ear, “You should have gone back to work earlier so that the family’s finances would be more secure and you could be helping your kids more!” That was finally laid to rest last week when Mariel confided that amongst all her friends, she was the only one who was brought up in a happy family. This time she was the one bugged by the guilt monster whenever she told her friends that she loved spending time with her parents.
Guilt--no matter which road women choose it’s there. The gift that keeps on giving. It’s time we wrapped it up and labeled it, return to sender.
Ah, guilt. The bottomless well that never dries out. We give it, we get it, sometimes we ask for it when we do really stupid things. But the worst, the very worst, is the guilt that we give ourselves courtesy of the “should” voices in our heads. The, you-should-be-doing-this or inversely “you-shouldn’t-have-done-that.”
Years ago I participated in a mom’s group to convince myself that my new-mom fears were normal. It seemed to me that someone in my family was always being short changed because of our new baby. Either the house wasn’t clean enough or the laundry wasn’t done enough, the meals weren’t gourmet enough or the romantic life with my husband was definitely not romantic enough, especially since I tended to fall asleep in the middle of dinner.
I listened to our facilitator tell us that women were forever “making nice” to everyone but themselves. “We’re always making sure that everyone is happy but when was the last time you made sure that you were happy?” I remember thinking that she was nuts. I only had a few hours everyday to do everything so why would I ever waste that time on me? The very idea made me uncomfortable. And after all these years I’m still not completely comfortable with the concept. Guilt keeps me nicely in line.
You would think that by now women would have learned not to let guilt run roughshod over them, but if anything it’s getting worse. According to Francie LaTour’s article, The Bad Mother Complex in the March 13 issue of the Boston Globe,
……..a mommy blogger can make an entire career trafficking in guilt, wearing her failures like badges of honor: “I let my infant watch five hours of TV!” “My toddler dunked his head in the toilet!” Whether you’re a blue-suit executive, a bank teller, or Dr. Phil, we all know about family, work, conflict, and guilt.
Years ago I was deliriously happy working as a computer programmer at a small engineering company. The job made me feel like I had died and gone to heaven. Unlike my former teaching gig, there was no showing up at 7:00, no twenty minute lunches, no cafeteria duty, and no endless take home work. I had a whole hour for lunch, dealt only with fairly rational adults, and best of all, I left my work at work. When I was home I wasn’t marking papers and preparing brilliant lesson plans. The lines were definite and distinct—work was work and home was home and never the twain did meet. As a result I was sane, relaxed and guilt free.
But when Lisa was born it all changed. I had been given a very generous six months leave and then I could return part-time for six months. It sounded very reasonable at the time. That was before two things happened: New mommy guilt and very few available day care slots. Every day brought new opportunities for guilt even while at home full time with my baby. Later on when I began searching for daycare, it body-slammed me. Even if the place was clean and staffed with loving caregivers, it was not good enough for my princess.
I ended up becoming a stay-at-home-mom for many years but even then I dealt with a level of am-I-a-good-enough-mom? guilt. But when I began to work part time I faced the real stuff. In LaTour’s article she cited a study done by researchers at the University of Toronto. It threw new light on:
the guilt question by quantifying the emotions we experience as work and family boundaries become increasingly blurred and measuring the effect those emotions have on our psychological well-being.
In this study, published in this month’s issue of the Journal of Health and Social Behavior, about 1,800 American workers were asked how often they were contacted outside the workplace by phone, e-mail, or text about work-related matters. According to the findings, frequent contact by bosses, co-workers, or clients led to increased feelings of guilt — but only among women.
The guilt had nothing to do with women’s actual ability to navigate competing obligations at work and at home; on the contrary, the study found that logistically, women were able to juggle the two spheres just as well as men. It’s how women felt about themselves while doing that juggling that set them apart.
We women can handle the work load it’s the guilt load we can’t manage. We’re always making nice and taking care of everyone but us.
Both my girls are now grown and independent. You would think that I would be guilt free. You would think wrong. I still feel awful if I have to work when Lisa or Mariel want to spend time with me. I’m still the horrible mother who can’t do enough. Added to that is a new frustration that whispers in my ear, “You should have gone back to work earlier so that the family’s finances would be more secure and you could be helping your kids more!” That was finally laid to rest last week when Mariel confided that amongst all her friends, she was the only one who was brought up in a happy family. This time she was the one bugged by the guilt monster whenever she told her friends that she loved spending time with her parents.
Guilt--no matter which road women choose it’s there. The gift that keeps on giving. It’s time we wrapped it up and labeled it, return to sender.
Passover in a Box
Passover In A Box
I’ve seen Passover for Dummies and how-to books on how to approach the Passover holiday. But this is the first time I’ve ever seen a seder- in-a-box. According to Lisa Wangsness’ Boston Globe article on Tuesday, March 29, JewishBoston.com is offering its first do it yourself seder kit to Boston residents this month. (A seder is the festive Passover meal where everyone tells the story of the Israelite’s exodus from Egypt.)
“Seder-in-a-Box’’ includes just about everything but the food and the guests: a Seder plate, a basic Haggadah, a leader’s guide, recipes, a shopping list, instructions for setting the table, and a matzo cover. Oh, and some green plastic frogs, representing one of the 10 plagues.”
“We wanted to take the guesswork out of it for people who have never done it before,’’ said David Levy, the editor of JewishBoston.com.”
At first Levy said the website’s advisory board of people in their 20s and 30s debated whether to host a big Seder for their peers in the Boston area. They wound up deciding it would be better to help people learn to do it themselves.
“There’s not the pressure of what someone else thinks a Passover Seder should be,’’ Levy said.
I hate to say it but I agree with Levy about Passover pressure. I’ve experienced two kinds. The first occurs when you invite non-Jewish friends to your seder. You want them to have fun and enjoy themselves yet learn something of your heritage without coming off as a total nut-job who throws green plastic frogs around or wears sunglasses to represent the plague of darkness, things I am not ashamed to say, our family has done in the past and continues to do to our great enjoyment!
The second kind is when you invite your parents over when all they have experienced is a traditional seder and there you are with those green frogs again. Oy! It’s enough to make a woman give up. And just imagine what would happen if you invited both to your seder at the same time.
There you are, desperate for everyone to understand what is going on, so you read your Haggadah (the book of the Exodus story) in English to the disapproving glare of your more traditional guests who want to know why the Hebrew has disappeared from Passover. And because you remember how you used to fall asleep during parts of the seder, you skip certain parts, even as your traditional guests want to follow the dictum of reading every word. Ever heard of a rock and a hard place? Here you’re between a matzoh ball and a brisket.
Then there’s the issue of the wine. According to tradition the only permissible wine is Manischewitz Concord Grape, a wine so sweet that you could feed it to a hummingbird. Manischewitz is part of our seder, I can’t imagine not pursing my lips at that first incredibly sweet sip, but we also serve other wines for those who prefer their libations a bit more tart.
But back to our box seder. Who would use such a thing?
Wangsness writes, Sara Greene and her husband are hosting a Passover Seder for the first time at their home next month.
She is writing her dissertation, he is a medical resident, they are the parents of a 7-month-old infant, and the holiday begins on a weeknight. When she saw the link on a friend’s Facebook page, she did not hesitate: She ordered a “Seder in a Box.’’
“We’re having all these people over, and I haven’t done it before,’’ she said. “The Seder plate has a lot of things on it. You have to kind of remember to get all the different aspects of it.’’
Yes indeed that seder plate has so many things on it--six in fact. But the things that it needs to hold are written on the plate itself. Surely a medical resident and a PhD candidate can figure it out. And it’s not as if the plate requires eye-of-newt and toe-of-frog (there go the frogs again, we’ve got a theme going here) it’s basically simple around-the-house-stuff like salt water, parsley and an egg. How difficult can that be?
However our family puts one item on our seder plate that would make a traditionalist shudder—an orange. The reason for its presence is an article that I read years ago, which stated that women were adding oranges to their seder plates to challenge an old dictum of the rabbis that a woman leading a seder is like an orange on a seder plate—she doesn’t belong. That orange is my bit of rebellion. Then again we’ve been doing it for so long that it has become a tradition in our family.
Part of me understands when Rabbi Michele Lenke of Temple Beth Shalom relates that she had someone in her office who had never hosted a Seder and was fretting about how to do it properly, “People have so many memories of different Seders, and I think they so desperately want to do it right,’’ she said.
But what they don’t understand is that though the Haggadah gives us the script for the “right” seder, the important part of the celebration is the group of people that is sitting around the table, retelling the Passover story, passing on old traditions and starting new ones. And most of all, celebrating not only freedom and rebirth, but family and friendship.
I’ve seen Passover for Dummies and how-to books on how to approach the Passover holiday. But this is the first time I’ve ever seen a seder- in-a-box. According to Lisa Wangsness’ Boston Globe article on Tuesday, March 29, JewishBoston.com is offering its first do it yourself seder kit to Boston residents this month. (A seder is the festive Passover meal where everyone tells the story of the Israelite’s exodus from Egypt.)
“Seder-in-a-Box’’ includes just about everything but the food and the guests: a Seder plate, a basic Haggadah, a leader’s guide, recipes, a shopping list, instructions for setting the table, and a matzo cover. Oh, and some green plastic frogs, representing one of the 10 plagues.”
“We wanted to take the guesswork out of it for people who have never done it before,’’ said David Levy, the editor of JewishBoston.com.”
At first Levy said the website’s advisory board of people in their 20s and 30s debated whether to host a big Seder for their peers in the Boston area. They wound up deciding it would be better to help people learn to do it themselves.
“There’s not the pressure of what someone else thinks a Passover Seder should be,’’ Levy said.
I hate to say it but I agree with Levy about Passover pressure. I’ve experienced two kinds. The first occurs when you invite non-Jewish friends to your seder. You want them to have fun and enjoy themselves yet learn something of your heritage without coming off as a total nut-job who throws green plastic frogs around or wears sunglasses to represent the plague of darkness, things I am not ashamed to say, our family has done in the past and continues to do to our great enjoyment!
The second kind is when you invite your parents over when all they have experienced is a traditional seder and there you are with those green frogs again. Oy! It’s enough to make a woman give up. And just imagine what would happen if you invited both to your seder at the same time.
There you are, desperate for everyone to understand what is going on, so you read your Haggadah (the book of the Exodus story) in English to the disapproving glare of your more traditional guests who want to know why the Hebrew has disappeared from Passover. And because you remember how you used to fall asleep during parts of the seder, you skip certain parts, even as your traditional guests want to follow the dictum of reading every word. Ever heard of a rock and a hard place? Here you’re between a matzoh ball and a brisket.
Then there’s the issue of the wine. According to tradition the only permissible wine is Manischewitz Concord Grape, a wine so sweet that you could feed it to a hummingbird. Manischewitz is part of our seder, I can’t imagine not pursing my lips at that first incredibly sweet sip, but we also serve other wines for those who prefer their libations a bit more tart.
But back to our box seder. Who would use such a thing?
Wangsness writes, Sara Greene and her husband are hosting a Passover Seder for the first time at their home next month.
She is writing her dissertation, he is a medical resident, they are the parents of a 7-month-old infant, and the holiday begins on a weeknight. When she saw the link on a friend’s Facebook page, she did not hesitate: She ordered a “Seder in a Box.’’
“We’re having all these people over, and I haven’t done it before,’’ she said. “The Seder plate has a lot of things on it. You have to kind of remember to get all the different aspects of it.’’
Yes indeed that seder plate has so many things on it--six in fact. But the things that it needs to hold are written on the plate itself. Surely a medical resident and a PhD candidate can figure it out. And it’s not as if the plate requires eye-of-newt and toe-of-frog (there go the frogs again, we’ve got a theme going here) it’s basically simple around-the-house-stuff like salt water, parsley and an egg. How difficult can that be?
However our family puts one item on our seder plate that would make a traditionalist shudder—an orange. The reason for its presence is an article that I read years ago, which stated that women were adding oranges to their seder plates to challenge an old dictum of the rabbis that a woman leading a seder is like an orange on a seder plate—she doesn’t belong. That orange is my bit of rebellion. Then again we’ve been doing it for so long that it has become a tradition in our family.
Part of me understands when Rabbi Michele Lenke of Temple Beth Shalom relates that she had someone in her office who had never hosted a Seder and was fretting about how to do it properly, “People have so many memories of different Seders, and I think they so desperately want to do it right,’’ she said.
But what they don’t understand is that though the Haggadah gives us the script for the “right” seder, the important part of the celebration is the group of people that is sitting around the table, retelling the Passover story, passing on old traditions and starting new ones. And most of all, celebrating not only freedom and rebirth, but family and friendship.
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