"It's Not My Thing"

Life throws us all curve balls.  I actually have no idea what that means, because baseball is not my thing, but I think it means we all find ourselves in situations where our tried and true skills are not helpful, and we have to figure out how to navigate  in new ways which we might not have expected.

That is why I was so surprised today when my son didn't want to calculate the measure of the third angle of a triangle because, in his words, "math isn't my thing."  How could math not be his thing?  I've been a math teacher almost my whole life (not taking into account the times when I wasn't.)   Therefore, all my children have to be math people too.  Otherwise, it just doesn't add up.

So I told him that.  I explained that it is impossible to exist as a function of half my DNA, and not love math.  I told him his love for math should go from n to infinity.  I told him that if math isn't his thing, then he better make it his thing.  Because it is so important, for school, for the SATs, for college, for the process of logical thinking, and for proof that he really is my son.  Then I decided to ask a non-math question: WHY does he think math isn't his thing?

So he said he likes to be more abstract.  He said when he answers a math question, I take him literally and don't take into account the nuance in his answer.  He said he feels that math is lacking in hyperbole and metaphor.  But isn't the unknown variable a metaphor, I asked?  Not really, he said, because there is only one right answer.  He would rather work on subjects that allow him to come to his own conclusion than to the expected conclusion.

Well, all that doesn't really speak to my logical side, but maybe its time for me to embrace my metaphorical side.  Because he is my son, and although he does have my math genes in there somewhere, they are expressing themselves very differently than I expected.  It might not be the outcome I was looking for, but it's a shining star of an outcome nonetheless.  A very welcome curve ball indeed.

Things Are Not What They Used To Be... And They Never Were

Nostalgia is the practice of remembering the good things about the past and forgetting the bad.  I just made that up, but that doesn't mean it isn't true.

Take high school, for example.  Which adult doesn't long for the teenage years, when we could spend all day with our best friends and our skin didn't have the hint of wrinkles yet?  I am constantly amazed at my high school students, who don't appreciate their good fortune of being so young.  I wonder why they seem so tense.  Tests and papers cannot be nearly as stressful as bills, child care and work deadlines.  And they get to spend all day with their group of friends, so why do they complain about cliques and bullies?  Looking back at my high school years, I remember feeling empowered to make the right decisions about my future.  So why do these young high school students seem so lost?

Childhood is another great example of something that looks better when you're on the other side of it.  An early bedtime is a dream for most adults, but not as much appreciated by the children on whom it is enforced.  I remember fondly the days filled with the freedom to do whatever you like.  So why are my children complaining that they are bored?  A childhood memory that stands out the most for me is jumping on the couches in our living room, I can clearly picture my hair bouncing and a big smile on my face.  And although I am sure that episode ended with my mother yelling at me to stop, I cannot remember that part.  The good memories stand out and take over our perspective.

Motherhood isn't always as it seemed either.  I observe my friend's baby crawling on the floor, trying to eat her rattle and stopping every two minutes to give anyone looking at her a big baby grin. I remember those beautiful days when my youngest was that age.  I remember the ecstatic smiles, the joy my baby would have just from someone looking at him. The newness of life, the excitement of bathtime, and the wonder at everything was such a pleasure to behold.  I share these thoughts with my friend, the new mom, and I wonder why she isn't sharing in my excitement.  Why is she nodding in half agreement with a partial smile plastered on her face?  Why she is yawning as I speak, and why does she look like she was too tired to remember to match her clothing?  I don't remember being that tired.  I just remember my baby's bouncy curls and mile-wide smile.

10 Years Ago Today

Has it already been ten years since that beautiful September morning?  When I woke up to the bluest sky I had ever seen, and thought that I would take my seven month old baby to the park when I got home from work?   Ten years since those sweet thoughts turned to horror?  Since I took the crowded subway into Manhattan, a subway that would be empty for the next week?  Ten years since I heard my husband's frantic voice on the phone, saying, thank God you're okay, and then wondered how many husbands and wives never got that relief?  Ten years since I thought for a scary moment that I might not make it home to my young son?  Ten years since I hugged him so tight with relief when I finally made it back to Brooklyn, that it made all those standing around me cry?  Ten years since I cried for all those babies whose parents didn't get back that day?  Since the towers turned into a pillar of smoke before our shocked eyes?   Ten years since I wondered how many people were killed in those buildings?  Ten years since the city was covered in ash?  Ten years since 343 firefighters bravely rushed into the towers?  Since hundreds of volunteers came to ground zero to help search for any possible survivors?  Ten years since the hospital where I worked prepared to accept and treat hundreds of wounded?  Ten years since no wounded ever showed up?   Ten years since every surface in Manhattan was covered with missing person posters for weeks after the attack?  How can it be ten years, when the memories are as fresh as if it just happened?

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

Bedtime runs pretty smoothly in my house most days.  I tell my kids often about the importance of a good night's sleep for their physical and emotional health; and so when I say, "Time to go to bed!" they know why and (sometimes begrudgingly) comply.  And I am happy they do, because next comes my free time, so relaxing and enjoyable that I lose track of time and often find myself awake until the early hours of the morning.

Dinnertime is also pretty cooperative.  Brown rice and and salad for sides are tolerated because I often point out the benefits of healthy eating, and the negative effects of eating badly.  But when they see me sneak some oreo cookies after dinner, it is a little more difficult to explain that behavior.  "In moderation it's okay," I say, as I give them each one cookie.  The rest I save for myself later.

They also know that when it comes to computer time, they must first do their schoolwork and then play their games.  Business before pleasure.  It is very tempting to click away from Word and onto MonkeyQuest, but I don't hover over them.  I trust them to use self discipline so that I am free to browse celebrity gossip sites and online shopping sites while procrastinating writing my blog and checking on my children's online schoolwork.

Hey, I'm a Mom, not a Saint!

Lessons from Tisha B'Av

Most parents will agree that their main wish is for their children to be happy.  Successful, good people, but mostly happy.  And most parents will agree that the last thing they would do is actively teach their children how to mourn.  Which normal parent, who wants their children to be happy, would teach them how to sit on the floor and reflect on tragedies until tears spill from their eyes.  Yet this is exactly what religious Jewish parents, including myself, do once a year on Tisha B'Av, the day when the Temple was destroyed and many other tragedies befell the Jewish people throughout the years.

Yesterday, over two thousand years since the first Temple was destroyed, I sat with my children on the floor as mourners do and read them the story of the events leading up to and following the destruction.  As we do every year on this day, we cried together.  And I couldn't help but wonder, why am I teaching my children how to cry?  We are living in good times, why not focus only on our good fortune?

In addition to a painful history, the Jewish people also have a history of celebrating life, even in the darkest moments.  Woven into the mourning is a feeling of hope.  The wedding scene in the movie Defiance illustrates this idea very well.  A group of Jewish partisans during WWII were barely surviving in the forest, skeletons of their former selves, and most of their relatives killed by the Nazis.  Nevertheless, when young love finds itself, the Jewish partisan group makes a wedding for the new couple, singing and dancing in the cold Russian forest while snow falls on them.  This scene cuts back and forth between the celebrating and scenes of another member of their group fighting alongside Russian partisans at the same time the wedding is taking place.  The contrast between the wedding and the war was very poignant.  My son watched the movie with me, and he asked, breathlessly, "Why are they making a wedding during such a terrible time?"  But that is exactly the secret to Jewish hope: never giving up.  Dancing with strangers instead of relatives at a wedding deep in the Russian forest during the Holocaust. There is always reason to celebrate life, no matter how dark the times are.  It is not a tragic story, it is an inspiring story.

This is message of Tisha B'Av: hope.  More than 2000 years have passed since the destruction of the Temple, and yet we have not given up on it.  We still mourn this great loss.  Just as we still have hope that it will be rebuilt.  We never give up our hope.

By teaching our children to mourn the destruction of the Temple, we are teaching them to have hope.  Hope that we will survive, hope that it will be rebuilt, hope that we will one day rejoice with as much emotion as we now mourn.  I want my children to be happy people.  But I want the happiness to come from within, not to be dependent on circumstance.  This way, they will be able to find joy and hope even in the darkest moments of their lives.  In times of war and poverty, Jewish parents taught their children to find joy in their lives.  In these times of peace, however shaky that peace is, I am grateful to have my children naturally understand joy and instead to teach them how to mourn.  And I am grateful to be able to pass onto them our Jewish legacy of hope and survival.

Where Do Our Thoughts Come From?

I just stubbed my toe, and that's when it occurred to me: the first thought that pops into your head shows who you are!  The first thought that popped into my head was to use arnica to prevent bruising.  That was a very surprising thought, so much so that it distracted me for a moment from my pain (see! arnica works!)  The reason it was a shock is because I have never been a fan of  homeopathic remedies.  I am all for tylenol and ice packs.  And sometimes even an epidural, when the situation calls for it.  But here in California, homeopathic remedies are part of the common culture, and even doctors send their patients to Whole Foods instead of CVS.  When I first moved here, I was resistant to trying any of it.  But over time, more and more mothers have told me they use Rescue Remedy to calm their children (and their own nerves,) or that Arnica will prevent bruising, or that a little colloidal silver in a child's ear will get rid of an ear infection.  I heard it often enough, and eventually, this information made a little home for itself in my own head, and now these ideas are my own.

The place where you live, and the messages you hear over an over, have a significant impact on your thoughts.  It took a few years, but I have become a real Californian, in thoughts and actions.  I have a bottle of Rescue Remedy and a vile of Arnica in my medicine cabinet.  Not to mention that I use controlled, deep breathing to relax when I'm stressed.  And I think this is great, because, first of all my toe already stopped hurting and I only took the Arnica 10 minutes ago, and second of all embracing your city's culture is great.  As long as it is done with common sense. When will I consider myself to have gone completely over the deep end?  When I hear myself saying, "Marijuana isn't any worse than alcohol."  That's when.

Leiby Kletzky, A"H

My heart sits heavily in my chest, and my breathing doesn't come as naturally as it usually does.  This morning, every parents worst nightmare became a reality when 8 year old Leiby Klatzky was found brutally murdered.  He was one month shy of his 9th birthday.  His parents let him walk home from daycamp himself for the first time.  His mother must have been very nervous waiting for him to make it safely home after his first time walking alone.  Every parent knows that feeling, barely breathing until your kid makes it home safely.  But Mrs. Kletsky never got to breathe that sigh of relief upon seeing him running to her, cheeks flushed and proud of himself for being so independent.  Instead, two days of searching came to a bitter end as she and his father laid him to rest tonight.

Every parent is shaken to the core by this disturbing story.  The internet is abuzz with the news.  And, sadly, some people see this as an opportunity to point fingers.  I am reading comments online judging the parents and saying that it is wrong to let a child of 8 or 9 walk home alone.  This conversation is going on while his funeral is taking place.  Where is the consideration and respect for a mourning family?

There are two sides to every argument.  Some people say it is dysfunctional to hover over your children and never let them become independent, and some people say it is not worth the risk to let your kids go outside alone.  There are valid arguments on both sides.  But this is certainly not the time to make those arguments.  Nor do they need to be made, because for the rest of their lives, Mr. and Mrs. Klatsky will be battling that nagging thought that he was not ready yet to walk alone.  May God grant them strength to get through this terrible tragedy.  My thoughts and prayers are with them.