Packing lists

Some people think we live in the past, but I know we live in the future: why else are we so happy on the day before vacation even though we’re at work, and so down putting our things back in the suitcase, even though we’re still on vacation?

I’m totally mentally already on the plane to Israel – clothes are laid out all over, sunscreen is zipped into plastic bags, I have lists on my lists of things to do before we leave.

I’ve bought the Handi-wipes for cleaning hands, the Cottonelle wipes for cleaning other parts, the travel sized everything, and even already packed my makeup. I found Bulldog’s travel journal (please force your kids to write one, it’s the cutest thing ever to revisit later; last year’s California trip was tonight’s bedtime story!) and put that in a suitcase. I’ve been having daily conversations with our travel coordinator, Donna (who is a Godsend – if you need help with an Israel trip, Uncommon Israel is the way to go: donna@uncommonisrael.com)  All this preparedness is making DB wonder where his wife got to.

This is where you come in: what should I absolutely not forget to pack – and don’t say passports, they are out and at the ready!

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Father’s Day with my Pops

For previous Father’s Days I’ve written about my relationships with my dad and my step-dad. But this year I want to write about my father-in-law. I just don’t know if I can do it without crying.

The first time I met DB’s dad and stepmom, about ten days into our relationship, I thought maybe they were a little crazy about the desserts. They kept talking about the pies, how many pies would be enough and what time to pick the pies up so they wouldn’t be cold when we ate them. The person sent to get the pies arrived with the pies, and as you native New Jerseyans have already guessed, they were pizza pies.

That same night, Pops (I wasn’t calling him that quite yet) drew me into a corner for a a conversation alone for a long while. I became hooked on all the Ramers that night, and especially Pops. As we were leaving, he hugged me and I leaned into his ear and whispered, “I’m going to marry your son.” Okay, I wanted to, but didn’t – but only because I just didn’t want to come across as the crazy new girlfriend.

His devoted parental love for me was what I needed when I met him at 21, and what I still need now. When he tells other people that I married DB just to get a great father-in-law, it’s not untrue. I needed a family as much as I needed a partner at 21, and his was close and loving and made me feel welcome from the start.

Pops and I have dates. We go out to lunch several times a year, and DB’s not allowed to come. He knows this because his father tells him, “And you’re not allowed to come.” Once, last year, Big Girl got to come as she was off from school that day. But usually it’s just us. I talk, he listens. He talks, I listen. We are Gentle Tellers Of Uncomfortable Truths and we are Supporters of Mushy Proportions. I have to say I don’t really get tired of being told I’m his favorite child. I do remind him, however, that he feels this way because he didn’t raise me as a teenager.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads every every dad-related relationship – you know you’re important, and you’re more important than you know. Especially you, Pops.

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Calling all would-be authors!

This is great, from jewishstorywriting.com:

Dare To Win $2,500!

Do you tell stories to your children or grandchildren? Can you weave an enchanting Jewish tale about doing good deeds? Do the kids laugh? Wait with baited breath for you to continue?

Well then Dare To Win $2,500 – Write up your story and send it in!

JewishStoryWriting.com is looking for Jewish Children’s Stories that deal with the theme of feeling and caring for other Jews. Your story can be true or make believe, scary (but not too scary) or funny, take place in a quaint Shtetl or a bustling city. As long as it’s well written, can hold the attention of kids, and helps them understand how what they do can affect other Jews – WE WANT TO READ IT.

 Whether you’re a professional writer or a gifted novice here’s an opportunity to have your story read and, if you’re the first place winner, published and distributed world wide.

And even if you don’t win first prize ($2,500), there’s always second prize ($250) and third prize ($150). Hey, you can send in two stories and double your chances.

 Dare To Win $2,500 and enter our JEWISH FAMILY MATTERS contest at JewishStoryWriting.com now.

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Four two-kid weekends

For three weekends this spring, Big Girl (who thinks she’s outgrown this moniker but now that she’s 5′ 6″ it’s even more apt) has been away. Once at a USY regional convention, and the past two weekends in a row at Shabbatons for school. Last weekend, the all-high-school Shabbaton, and this weekend a day school choir competition (the competition was last night and she texted, “it went well.”). And Mother’s Day weekend, Bulldog went with my mom to Maryland to see my sister and finally get to be the biggest cousin in the room. He loved it, and they loved it.

So it’s been an interesting preview into having one in college. You know all that hype a few weeks ago about how three kids affords you the highest stress level? My initial reaction was that it is bunk, your stress level is whatever it is, and, as Bill Cosby said, “I have five kids because I didn’t want six.”

I have friends with five kids (they went for the fourth and got twins). She works. He works — a lot. She parents. He parents. He volunteers. She volunteers — a lot. And they’re pretty darn cheery. I met them when they had two kids, and now with five I haven’t noticed a discernible change in their stress level. Okay, since the youngests have been toilet trained they may stand straighter (from lack of carrying a heavy diaper bag). And I have friends with two kids and they’re always stressed. But they’ve always been stressed.

The last two paragraphs being said, I will tell you that these weekends, with a third fewer children to schedule, transport, worry about and worry each other, have been GREAT. Quieter. With interesting conversations and less “he’s looking at me” and “make her stop it.”

I went spring shopping alone with each of the older kids. We went out to breakfast with just Bulldog one morning. Mother’s Day evening the teens and the adults, not having to choose a PG family movie, watched Dazed and Confused. I highly recommend waiting until the youngest in the room is 13 to see this movie, but I highly recommend this movie!

And I highly recommend, and am grateful for, this opportunity for some unforced, everyday togetherness. This morning Skater and I went out for an early breakfast alone. Big Girl comes back today at noon. Bulldog and DB are at a cub scout all-day outdoor thang (I wish them luck, as the weather is wet today). While waiting for our food, I asked Skater what he liked about himself. I don’t think his answers would have been as candid with five at the table. I can’t share them all, but I liked when he said “My freckles,” because I feel genetically responsible for them. My favorite, of course, was “Being Jewish. Being Jewish is fun.”

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You’re not tired

I’m tired. I’ve had several weeks to get used to being a working mom, but it’s not easy. Errands I used to do in the morning, I have 1.5 hours to do in between leaving work and getting home to meet Bulldog from the bus. DB asked me to do two things for him the other day. Pick one, I answered.
Every time I whine to myself that – mentally, existentially, and sometimes physically -  ”I’m tired,” I hear my dad answer me, no you’re not.

It’s actually not my dad’s voice I hear, but some nine year old I never met. My dad used to ride long distance bike rides, including the annual TOSRV ride in Ohio. It’s a two day, 210 mile ride from Columbus to Portsmouth and back. (It’s what inspired me to ride the Hazon ride a few years ago.) One year he brought home this story:

He was riding part of the way with a family consisting of a dad with his two sons, 11 and 9, who were riding a tandem bike. When they got to the Portsmouth high school they were to spend the night in, the 11 year old flopped onto the grass to relax. The younger one wanted to ride around and explore but he needed his brother to ride the bicycle-built-for-two. Having just ridden 105 miles, the older old said no. “Get back on the bike,” said the nine year old. “You’re not tired.”

So here I am, stuck with a plucky kid’s voice in my head. And I’ll get back on the bike and ride, cause I’m not tired. Yes I am. No I’m not.

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No reason to whine

I have a hard time complaining. Not that I can’t, oh boy I can when I want to. My kids are messy, my husband is cheap, I’m always cold, I’m sick of being lactose intolerant. See, I can complain. It’s just that mostly I have a hard time justifying my own complaints. My messy kids are really wonderful most of the time, they do their homework, they are kind to others, and once in a while we have amazing bonding moments (like yesterday when Big Girl and I spent 15 minutes laughing our heads off looking at my high school yearbooks. A sample question: Why didn’t anyone put down their area code when they wrote in their phone numbers?) And before you write something in the comments below, Mother, I know they are messy because I’m messy.

My husband is cheap because he had no money growing up, which has ensured that he works hard, saves a lot, drives a Chevy instead of a BMW, and then we get to take amazing trips, both with his job and going to Israel as a family this summer. He believes a penny saved is a penny-plus-interest earned. I’ve learning to remind him that we’re not going broke when he complains because I bought myself a pair of shoes I didn’t really “need.” What I haven’t learned is to pay cash and trash the receipt.

So how do you find a balance in getting things off your chest and not sounding like a spoiled brat? For me, it’s knowing your audience. I only vent about a topic when I know it will get me sympathy, not eye-rolling. I wouldn’t rag on my children to a friend with current infertility issues. But I want who I confide in to tell it to me straight, too. When I first started this blog, I wrote about getting my attitude about Thanksgiving adjusted. But I knew going into that conversation my friend wasn’t just going to say ‘poor baby.’

So there’s my quandry. Which has resulted in a rambling blog post about whining because what I want to whine about I can’t whine about on a public blog.

What do you whine about and who do you whine to?

 

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Talking to kids about disaster

When I was first approached to write this blog, I made it clear I’m nobody’s parenting expert. How can I, a writer who’s a reasonably flawed parent, hand out advice?

But, as my rabbi says, ‘when I’m giving a sermon, I’m giving it to myself,’ and that’s how I feel about dishing out advice here as well. So while I feel qualified to remind you to check on your daughter’s skirt length, helping other people heal with their children is beyond my ken.

Luckily, Patricia Stern has a bunch of smart letters after her name indicating that this is exactly in her wheelhouse. She is the clinical coordinator for Child and Adolescent Services at the Jewish Family Service of MetroWest New Jersey. And what she has to say about Boston’s tragedy and how to speak about it with your kids is straightforward and reassuring.
I’m always glad that you read my words. Now go read hers.

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Bar mitzvah ashtray

I have a weird occasional hobby: If I find a kipa with a particularly old bar mitzvah date in it, I try to find the owner and return it. I’ve only done it twice (so does it really count as a hobby?) but there’s this new Internet thingy out there that makes it easy to find people, as long as their name is more unusual than David Levine or Rachel Goldstein.

So it was so sweet to see this on Tumblr: an ashtray “stolen” from Allan Abrvanel’s bar mitzvah. I’m pretty sure bar mitzvah party favors don’t include ashtrays nowadays. Click on the story behind it, too. It’s great.

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Israel’s birthday party for little kids

I love going to Yom Ha’Atzmaut celebrations, but sometimes they can be geared toward older kids and adults. Here’s a great way to include the little ones:

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No I’m not relieved

People keep saying a variation on “Oh, you must be so relieved the bar mitzvah is over.” Why? Why would I be relieved that my son is not walking around the house belting a Torah portion? Why would I be relieved that no one is coming to my house to do my hair?

I’m not relieved, but I’m not unhappy either. Life goes on, day to day, and the days between March 16 and now have been incredibly full. Pre-Passover cleaning, Passover itself, and intertwined, starting a new job. Now that Pesach has been passed over, this week is the Yoms (Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, and Yom Ha’Atzmaut) with all the community events that go along with those days. And my daughter is in her high school musical this Thursday and Sunday.  And I just started prepping the kids’ bathroom for being renovated, starting tomorrow. And by prepping, I just mean removing anything not nailed down and finding a different spot for the stuff.

So I’m not relieved. Besides, I have 700 photo proofs to go through to create an album – and maybe you remember how long that took me last time?

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