Give me your worst

Have you ever noticed, when someone starts a conversation with "I must be the worst parent ever, because..." what usually follows is great parenting practice?

Here are some recent examples:

"I must be the worst mommy in the world because I fed them macaroni and cheese from a box last night."

This, from a mother of many, who creates elaborate Shabbat meals every week, is only two loads away from an empty laundry basket, and has chaperoned nearly every field trip in countless years of her kids' lives at school. Oh, and they were home late that night because of an unscheduled doctor's appointment.

Yeah, she should have made them all wait for salad full of cruciferous vegetables glistening with antioxidants, cut on the diagonal.

"They're going to hate me because I wouldn't let them go to both birthday parties on the same day. It was all just too much for me. "

News flash: All parties are optional, with perhaps the exception of one's own. It's okay, in fact, it's good, to model moderation in one's social life. Any host who doesn't understand this, is worth seeing less, anyway.

"I'm such a bad mother. I ducked a play-date because I can't stand the other kid's mother. I'm going to ruin his social life."
Or, she's going to refrain from ruining her own. This is a complicated situation, but it's not bad parenting to respect her own boundaries.

"I'm the worst mother ever. I told him he had to walk home from soccer practice. I've only been to half the games because his sister's piano lesson is at the same time, across town. I told him I can't be everywhere. He told me the other mothers are always there."

I don't believe him. And even if he's right, and all the other mothers are there, so what? I mourn for the time when kids could play games without adult interference.

In the U.S., kids are so supervised, scheduled, monitored and chaperoned that it's rare that they get the opportunity to referee themselves and organize their own games. It's enough that we know where they are, and that they're safe. Why can't they have some experiences without an authority figure structuring and framing them? Not every kid-initiated activity degenerates into the Lord of the Flies.

It's also important for the child to know that his mother is human, and has limits.

===
All of these decisions could have gone another way, and still have had reasonable results. It might have been better (or not significantly worse) to have used whole wheat pasta, carpooled to the parties, arranged a group play-date that minimized contact with the odious parent's lovely child, or developed a relativity-defying transporter that allows a parent to attend multiple simultaneous events. I don't know. Neither did they.

Being a parent means making countless decisions. Every choice has its trade-offs. (Otherwise, it wouldn't have been much of a choice, would it?)

When a thoughtful, invested and intelligent person wields decision making power, inevitably there will be mistakes. It's important to be open to evaluating the result and cost of our judgments.

When we become parents, we switch teams. We become 'them'. I think these "worst mother ever" stories originate from a holy empathy born of our previous affiliation.

We put on the Parent Hat, make the decision, then remember what it felt like to wear the Kid Cap. When we hold our ground, while respecting change the color of our team jerseys. The Worst Evers understand good sportsmanship.

Seeking feedback from choices requires depth and courage. If droplets of remorse are allowed to accumulate, it's possible to drown them, given the staggering quantity of small choices in a typical parenting day. These Worst Mom Evar stories serve an important purpose. They help us drain each other's buckets.

Meanwhile, don't get me started on those who proudly tout their systems, clearly convinced they've outsmarted childhood.

It's whenever I think (however briefly) I've "solved parenting" that the Universe promptly delivers a whack upside my head - like banging on a radio to get better humility reception.

I'm not saying there's no place for a positive evaluation of a great result, or that satisfaction is impossible. I'm not advocating neuroticism. It's just that complacency and smugness are incompatible with the authenticity and flexibility required for any important relationship.

So, give me the parents willing to consider their imperfections, those with active feedback-reception-loops who test their results and their measurement scales. Give me those capable of introspection, adaptation, and a sense of humor.

Go on, give me your worst. They're the best.


============================
Mazal tov to MamaBlogga on her new baby! This post was written in response to her "New Normal" themed group writing project.

Oh, and speaking of guilt and parenting decisions, Catherine presented this wrenching story today at her blog (coincidentally named "Her Bad Mother").

How not to fix a broken doll. And why.

Two years ago, my mother took one of my children out for a whole day to celebrate the child's birthday.

(Let's call this particular child "X", to protect the innocent guilty privacy of all involved. )

That shopping trip is a precious and treasured memory for X. It included a trip to the library, an ice cream cone, one very long shopping trip to multiple stores in which she was allowed to choose her own birthday present, and most valuable: time alone with Grandma to discuss anything and everything, without the interruptions or audience of X's siblings.

The present-choosing took *hours*. Even Grandma, a paragon of patience and a vetran shopper, used the word "angonizing" to describe it. As is her loving and indulgent way, Grandma gave full attention to X's detailed discourse on the merits and features of each candidate as it was considered for the role of Birthday Present.

With Grandma's enthusiastic encouragement, a choice was finally made: A porcelain doll with clear hazel-green eyes ("just like yours, Grandma!"), a peach ribbon bow in her golden hair, and pearl earrings. Her pale buttercup satin dress was covered with a peach and white pinnafore, was finished with a delicate lace trim that matched the long bloomers that modestly peeked out from the dress' hem.

X loved that doll.

The doll never received a proper name, other than "The Special Doll That I Picked Out On My Special Day with Grandma." (Hereafter I'll refer to it as "TSDTIPOOMSDWG", but the reader should note that X never omitted a syllable from that name.)


TSDTIPOOMSDWG accompanied X to bed for the first few nights. But, shortly thereafter, she was relocated to the nightstand, because, as X explained "It's hard to sleep with her because I don't want to mess up her hair. This way, if I wake up at night from a bad dream, I can look at her and then I'll have a happy dream."


So, you get the idea. TSDTIPOOMSDWG meant a lot to X, and not for purely materialistic reasons.

====

About a month later, after school, a paint-stripping wail of agony came from X's room, piercing my standard-issue Maternal Background Noise Filter from two floors away. I was in her room, awash in adrenaline before the first neurons of conscious thought could fire. I heard that scream with the ears of a mother bear whose cub is caught in a hunter's trap.

I yanked open the door of her room. All I could think, as I saw her standing with her back to me, was, "She's standing. Thank G-d, thank G-d, thank G-d. Whatever happened, she is well enough to stand. Thank G-d, thank G-d." I took a breath, while flipping through my mental file cabinet for all the possible injuries that would still allow a person to stand upright. (The software for randomly accessing potential catastrophies is also standard maternal issue.)

She turned around. In her hands was TSDTIPOOMSDWG, in pieces, her dress cut to shreds.

It was that moment, that I noticed X's youngest sister, then a toddler, eyes wide and cowering in the corner of the room.

I turned away, willing myself to take a breath before reacting, and used this time to survey the room. That was when I saw the pair of scissors on the floor, near TSDTIPOOMSDWG's nightstand.

Somehow, the toddler got into X's room with a pair of scissors and cut up the TSDTIPOOMSDWG's dress and broke off her arms, all while X was in school for the day.

What followed is a blur of recriminations, guilt, consolation, accusations, and regret. I know I did my best, in reaction to that tableau that remains a tear smeared memory.

I still ache from the emotional whirlwind of that incident. If it were just any doll, I would have understood the violation, comforted X, and punished the toddler, eventually finding some way to point out, however delicately and after an appropriate delay, that the doll was, after all, just an object, however valued, and not a person, a relationship, etc. I would have guided the toddler to repentance, and X to forgiveness, and done my best to catalyze healing between them.

But TSDTIPOOMSDWG was not just a thing. TSDTIPOOMSDWG was a symbol of X's indepencence, her special time with Grandma, her own space in a sometimes crowded family.

So, while I did get around to all those things mentioned above, I first spent some time wallowing with X in her pain. And then dived into my own pool of guilt. How could this have happened on my watch? Why wasn't I watching her better? Was this an act of malice on the part of the toddler? What kind of mother am I, if my toddler is capable of targeting and destroying her sister's beloved posession?

And so, before healing, before forgiveness, before perspective, awash in guilt, before even a time-out for the toddler, I took a sobbing X and broken TSDTIPOOMSDWG to our craft and sewing shelves looking for some solution, any solution, anything that would just Make It All Better. The toddler followed behind at a safe distance and watched us, thumb in mouth.

I scoured my fabric stash and pulled out every bit of lace from my copious supply, asking X if she to help me choose an acceptable substitute. Nothing satisfied. Whenever irritation sprouted in me, I'd look, in turn, from X's eyes, red-rimmed and burning from injustice, to the fearful and stunned expression from the toddler in the background, to TSDTIPOOMSDWG, armless and stoically staring at the wall.

Sniffling, X resigned herself, and agreed to a few bits of lace that would make a dress. "But what about the arms?" she sniffled. I had no idea. "Let me think about it a bit. We'll figure something out."

====

Over the next few days, a partial healing began. I kept the broken doll in my room, and attempted to make a new dress for TSDTIPOOMSDWG, while secretly searching the internet for either an exact replacement for the doll, or a good tutorial for repairing her arms. I found neither.

Time passed, and TSDTIPOOMSDWG became a permanent temporary resident of the bookshelf over my desk. I turned her face away from me, so I wouldn't have to make eye contact. Her presence was a testimony to my many failures.

More time passed, and, like all clutter, she started to become transparent to me. She blended into the background chorus of unfinished tasks, misplaced items, and other detritus of procrastination that hum a white noise of regret in my bedroom.

Over the past two years, every so often, X would look up at TSDTIPOOMSDWG, sigh, and then look at me, biting her lip, but never asking when they'd be reunited. Twice, I moved TSDTIPOOMSDWG to a higher shelf, cowardly hoping to avoid this. Once, I put it in the garbage can, only to retrieve it within the hour.

Why was I keeping this terrible reminder on my shelf? What was the point of having this painful totem of strife within daily view? Why couldn't I just throw the stupid thing away? Wouldn't that be best for everyone involved?

====

Two days ago, on Saturday afternoon, X came to my room, in tears, and stared pointedly up at the bottoms of TSDTIPOOMSDWG's patent leather shoes, just barely visible from their high shelf.

I braced myself.

"I have to tell you something, but I'm afraid you're going to be really mad at me," she said.

"Okay, I'm ready. Tell me."

"You know that doll? The Special Doll That I Picked Out On My Special Day with Grandma a long time ago? The one that [sister] ruined?" she started.

Hanging my head, expecting her to ask for a repair status report, justifiable after a two year delay with no progress on my part, I told her, "I remember it."

"Well, I told you a lie. " Eyes both flaming and wet, she explained, "I was the one who broke the arms. [sister] cut up the dress, and when I saw it, I was so angry at her that I broke TSDTIPOOMSDWG's arms to make sure she'd get in even more trouble. I was afraid you'd only be a little bit mad at her and not understand if you saw the dress cut up, so I broke the arms off and said she did it," she sobbed.

I grabbed her in a big hug. "Did you tell your sister? Did you apologize?"

She nodded, and moaned "but I feel so BAD. "

I told her, "I'm really proud of you for telling the truth. That was really, really hard to do. You feel bad because you did something wrong. Good people feel bad when they do the wrong thing, and you're a good person."

And, many hugs and earnest discussions later, relief spread between the sisters, from me, and over the entire episode.

====

Yesterday was the 17th of Tamuz on the Jewish calendar; a fast day that ushers in a three week period of mourning for the destruction of the Temple. The 17th of Tamuz commemorates the date when the walls of Jerusalem fell.

This is the same Temple whose destruction is recalled at Jewish weddings with the smashing of a glass. Some people have the custom to have a hole in a wall, or leave one wall of their house unfinished, in its memory.

It is said that in the Time of Redemption (for which Jews hope and pray daily) , these Three Weeks will be turned from a time of fasting and mourning into holidays of feasting and joy.

Tradition tells us that the Second Temple was destroyed because of baseless hatred. I've always liked Rav Kook zt"l's response*** to this, that redemption will therefore come through baseless love.

However, "baseless love" is one of many psychological ideals that are easier to demand than achieve. (How many times have you been cut off in traffic by a car sporting a "Practice random acts of kindness" bumper sticker?) Other than holding a placard and campaigning for it, how is it to be achieved?

====

The saga of TSDTIPOOMSDWG gave me a better understanding the value of the Three Weeks.

Just as we tear a hole in the wall of our house to commemorate the destruction of the Temple, just as mourners ritually tear their garments, we tear open these three weeks of the calendar to expose and remember our grief.

X's broken toy was a painful reminder for all of us. But, had I buried it in the garbage, or had I been able to find a quick replacement on-line, or even if I had been able to figure out how to make a passable repair, the pain would have remained forever buried, like shrapnel in a wound.

X's confession gives me hope and a potential recipe for baseless love.

Our healing was possible because the reminder didn't disappear, and when she was ready, she was able to break down her own walls of denial, fear, and guilt, and discovered within the courage to repent.

We keep the Three Weeks, painful as they are, as a reminder of our relentless and human tendency for failure in judging others favorably, for holding grudges, for tearing the arms off our relationships in retaliation for grievances real and imaginary.

The Three Weeks sit on our shelf, recurring every year, to remind us that we have work to do, and that the potential for healing is possible.


May this year be the year we find our way to a true healing.



======
* If it weren't refering to idolatry and all, I'd be tempted to draw a comparison between TSDTIPOOMSDWG, who has become a personal icon, now, of love and healing, and the Venus de Milo, a goddess of love and beauty. Watch me exercise restraint.

** I want points, also, for leaving out any reference to Tehilim/Psalms 137:5. You're welcome.

*** I've also seen this attributed to the Besht, and others. It's in Rav Kook's Orot Hakodes, but may also be elsewhere. If someone has a definitive citiation, please let me know. I'd like to get it right.

I believe our children are the future... (What energy crisis?)

How many times after chasing an active toddler, or watching a teenage boy absent-mindedly doing chin-ups on any available door frame, have we sighed, "If only all that energy could be used for Good..."

How long before this technology can be adapted from floor to mattress? Future generations of parents will insist that their kids continue to jump on their beds.

In Praise of Parallax

Emily (age 7) has discovered oatmeal. It is her new favorite breakfast.

On Monday, her older sister and veteran oatmeal fan, Hannah, taught her how to make it. (We have an instant water dispenser, which makes this very simple.)

Yesterday, after witnessing Emily's less-than-successful first solo attempt (result: oat soup), I subjected the girls to a lecture entitled, "Best Practices in Measuring Cup Management: Theoretical Approaches and Practical Concerns".

It was a multi-media presentation (diagrams on the refrigerator door) complete with a live demonstration with audience participation (we moved our heads around while looking at some water in a measuring cup) and a question-and-answer period at the end of the session.




I know it was well received, because this morning, Abigail (age 9) serenaded Emily with:

"Measure from the bottom of the meniscus - that is how to pour the water for breakfast..."

This original composition is best appreciated when rendered by someone whose natural mispronunciations make it rhyme. ("menist-kist", "brefkist")

After they left for school, I settled down to read my e-mails.

I subscribe to more e-mail newsletters than I can read. To keep my inbox clear, I set up filters that collect newsletters in a folder. I read what I can when time permits.

This morning, I received a copy of an internationally-distributed-sometimes-inspiring-and-profound-Torah-portion-related newsletter that I usually just skim, apparently forwarded by my rabbi, Rabbi G., directly to me.

Mine was the only e-mail address in the "to" field, yet he hadn't written an introductory note. I hadn't spoken with him in over a month. This was the first time he forwarded something from the Internet to me.

Rabbi G. often contacts me by e-mail, but his messages are usually very focused and specific one-sentence notes that ask or answer a question or request. When he sends e-mails to the whole shul, they are always short and action-oriented.

Clearly there was something in this newsletter that demanded my attention, something he assumed I'd want or need to know, something I'd notice and understand immediately when I saw it. It had to be something that needed no explanation.

Ignoring all the barking e-mails in my inbox, I studied this (long) newsletter, trying to discern its message for me. I read and re-read the divrei Torah, thinking about each sentence, testing its applicability to my life - and to my imagination of Rabbi G.'s perception of my life.

I read all of the classifieds, donations, and dedications, looking for names of relatives and close friends. Did someone die? Did a family member make a sizable donation? What was the last question I asked Rabbi G.?

Could the parenting advice column be what he wanted me to read? Was this his way of telling me something, gently preparing me for something about a friend or loved one?

My anxiety mounted. I was missing it. It was still too early in the morning to call him and ask for clarification.

Maybe it was meant for someone else. Maybe it was a slip of his mouse, sent to me in error. Perhaps I'd soon receive another e-mail, this time with an explanatory note.

On my third reading, I figured it out.

The newsletter was not sent by my rabbi, but from the e-mail address of one of the newsletter's editors who shares my rabbi's surname. Not Rabbi G. G., but Rabbi D. G.

The newsletter editors must have had a problem sending this issue, and sent it as a forward from a personal address. Thus it fell through my e-mail filters and into my inbox. I had never noticed that the editor of this newsletter had the same last name as my rabbi. Since they use "BCC", each recipient gets an copy as the only recipient address in the "to" box.

I took a deep breath, and indulged my inner Winnie the Pooh with a smile. "Silly old bear."

Later this morning, talking to a friend on the telephone, I caught myself sharing a couple of points mentioned in that newsletter.

I had this information to share, only because I read the newsletter so carefully. This only happened because I thought mistakenly it was addressed directly to me.



Changing my perspective changed my measurement of the value newsletter's content. Unlike the water in Emily's oatmeal, when I looked at the newsletter from a different point of view, I really did get more out of it.

My "parallax error" in perception resulted in better accuracy!

Sacrifice, Survival, and Hope

I just read the speech William Safire wrote for President Nixon to deliver if the first lunar landing was unsuccessful. What would the world be like, if that speech had to be delivered?

Reading that speech, I'm overwhelmed at what was risked in the quest for human achievement and knowledge. Our finite understanding of the world takes their success for granted.

Notable amongst my father-in-law's many contributions to the world, he was in charge of the Command and Service Module on Apollo 11. Thus, all things moon-shot-related feel very personal to our family. The heroism of the Apollo astronauts affected the world, our country, and our family.

Today is Veteran’s Day in the United States. This holiday was instituted to thank living veterans for their service, "to acknowledge that their contributions to our national security are appreciated, and to underscore the fact that all those who served - not only those who died - have sacrificed and done their duty."

Every veteran represents a condolence letter composed, but not sent; an epitaph written but not inscribed. What would the world be if they didn't take that risk?

My father-in-law escaped Nazi Germany in 1939. He was nine years old. His parents sent him and his eleven year old brother in a car with a driver, without luggage, to visit relatives in Holland.

At the border, SS officers pulled the boys out of the car, beat them, and interrogated them about their parents' whereabouts. They didn't know. Thank G-d, they were released, and made their way to safety. My husband's grandparents followed the next day, dressed in evening clothes, using a similar ruse. They, too, arrived safely. Thank G-d.

They left a country in which the family had prospered for generations, in which their great-great- grandfathers were buried, without plans or material possessions.

Meanwhile, in the U.S., my mother-in-law’s father, aged 16, lied about his age, so he could enlist in the U.S. Army.

My father-in-law made it to Palestine, and fought in Israel's War of Independence as a teenager.

As a young adult, he came to the United States, again with nothing. To support himself, he moved refrigerators. Eventually, he decided to study engineering. He got his Ph.D., and worked for NASA.

Heroes abound. Not only my debts, but my debtors are incalculable.

This morning, I drove my son down dusty unpaved roads to the middle of a U.S. National State Park, to participate in a 10 mile hike with his shomer shabbat Boy Scout Troop.

He came home this afternoon, cheeks red with enthusiasm and vigor. I looked at him, his kippah (yarmulke) and shirt covered in the dirt of the trail, and marveled at this miracle, this living victory, the direct result of the sacrifice, survival, and hope of so many.

So today, I'm awash in images flags and tombstones, and the free soil they mark. From the family graves, to the flag of Israel, to the field of U.S. flags at Arlington Cemetery, to the flag Neil Armstrong planted on the moon, to the dirt on the embroidered U.S. flag patch attached to my son’s Boy Scout uniform.

May I never take this ground upon which my family, my children, and our future stand for granted.

May those currently at risk in the name of freedom come home safely, that all prewritten eulogies may be torn up for confetti.

May we soon see the day, when the only heroes needed are those that offer themselves to further humanity's reach, rather than to escape from its grasp.

I've conquered an obsession. Well, sort of.

The victory isn't really over my napkin obsession, but rather over the storage of its resulting output.

As I've mentioned, I have a "thing" for making dinner napkins. Maybe it's a clever and frugal way to add a touch of personality and elegance to our table. Or perhaps it's a barely controlled obsession. Most likely, it's a flimsy excuse to fondle fabric.

We have a lot of napkins.

We have dedicated dinner napkins for many holidays. I have matzah-napkins for Pesach, fall foliage napkins for Sukkot and Thanksgiving, Chanukah napkins, and Purim napkins made from a wonderful Robert Kaufman "Mardi Gras" fabric.

I make them from (often clearance-table) novelty fabric in the children's birthday party themes. As you can imagine, with five children, a number of the themes have been repeated for multiple parties, an added bonus. We have napkins with cats, princesses, ducks, horses, dolls, Winnie the Pooh, numbers, machines (for Jonathan's "engineering" themed 10th birthday party), butterflies, various sports, bears, and bats (the winged mammal).

I've also made a bunch of generic birthday and celebration napkins, just in case time, inspiration, or the fabric store is unavailable.

I have sufficient out-of-the-way storage for these "special occasion" napkins. I even have room for a few more birthday themes, just in case someone chooses something not covered by the above list. The children enjoy re-using their special napkins throughout the year, as a special treat, for minor celebrations, such as a great test score, or to make the breakfast table special for a sleep-over friend. It isn't hard to retrieve them for special occasions.

The storage problem was with our everyday/shabbat napkins.

I find it hard to pass by a beautiful fabric on the clearance table without considering how it would look as dinner napkins. When a favorite tablecloth tears or stains, it's hard not to salvage its remains for the napkin stockpile.

Thus, the stash accumulates.

For the past seven years, I've kept the everyday napkin cache in a free-standing shoe organizer, on a high shelf in the mudroom. Each shoe-hole holds about 3 dozen napkins. It worked well enough, but it was a bit too high up for the children to reach (I have to stand on a chair to reach the top compartments), and the build-up surplus hoard inventory has outgrown it.

Until this week, the only solution I've seriously considered is a Twelve-Step-Program. (Hello. My name is Carolyn and I'm a napkin-o-holic.)

But therapy will have to wait. I've found a much better answer, the offspring of the marriage of my napkin hoarding and my other favorite obsession: recycling packaging materials.

After 13 years of sending my kids to school, I'm physically incapable of throwing away an empty egg carton or tissue box. I get hives when forced to discard plastic berry containers. It's not that I'm such an environmentalist, but rather that I'm in touch with my Inner Toddler: I often enjoy the box as much as its contents.

It's not only my fault. The teachers are complicit. They encourage and reward my hoarding behavior, accepting this stuff gratefully and sending the children home with fantastically creative and educational projects made from it all. When I see what they can do with a paper towel tube, it becomes impossible to throw one away.

One reason I don't home-school, is that I need the school as a recipient of my bounteous collection of egg cartons, berry boxes, fabric scraps, shopping bags, oatmeal canisters, and bottle caps. We'd have to rent an apartment, leaving our home to house the warehouse of "good garbage" if I had no way of reducing its stock.

That is why I just happened to have, on hand, over a dozen empty Kleenex boxes.

On Tuesday morning, I moved the Kleenex box pyramid designated for the kindergarten from the dining room table, in order to sit down with a great audiobook and finally attack the napkin ironing backlog from the holidays.

(Our dining room table has a heat-resistant pad on it. I put a tablecloth on the table on top of this pad, and do my ironing on top of that. This gets the tablecloth ironed "for free", lets me sit at a comfortable dining room chair when ironing, and allows me to use the entire surface of the table as a huge ironing board.)

So, I moved the boxes to our front hallway to await their transformation to objects d'arte.

This hallway is about eight inches wider than its doorway, leaving a dead space of about 5.25" on one side and 2.75" on the other. I know these dimensions by heart, because I've measured dozens of times in the eight years we've lived in this house. Wasted space in such a central location bugs me, in principle.

Finding a 5" deep shelving unit and a useful purpose to match this spot had eluded me. Until Tuesday morning.

Gretta looked at me curiously as I squealed in satisfaction at two simultaneous wonderful discoveries: The Kleenex boxes fit perfectly in the hallway, and the ironed napkins fit perfectly in the Kleenex boxes. She followed me upstairs, as I collected supplies, including a pair of 30" x 40" foam core boards (cost: about $11).

Her excitement matched mine, until she learned I wasn't building yet another dollhouse, but rather something for myself.

I'm (almost) embarrassed to admit how happy this made me. The napkin overflow is stored conveniently, the hallway dead space is used, and the Kleenex boxes are recycled. And I can pretend that I don't qualify for a jacket that ties in the back for just a bit longer.

(Construction details that made this work:

• Brick "legs": The bottom shelf is mounted two inches above the bottom and back walls, allowing "legs" made of stacked bricks to hold it stably in place.
  
  The depth of the foam core & Kleenex boxes is just as wide as the hallway, but about half an inch wider than the hallway at the floor, due to the floor wall boards.
  
  The brick "legs" are just taller than the floor wall board, allowing for the floor under the foam core shelves to be swept.


• Fabric cover is not yet finished/hemmed, as I hope to install a "real" wood shelf with brackets about a foot above the foam core, and cover that. This will give another shelf of storage, and prevent heavy objects from being placed on the foam core structure.


• Fitted top shelf: Above the foam core shelf, I made a separate layer of foam core, cut to fit exactly inside the molding and with a rounded edge at the corner. This made the shelves look built-in, when hidden by the fabric.


• Picture hangers: The foam core shelves are secured to the hallway wall by a pair of picture hanging hooks, poked through the back of the foam core about 5" from the top shelf, each about one-third of the width from the edges. I experimented with picture wire, but it made a gap between the wall and the structure. Hanging it directly on the hooks was more secure.)

Cave of Hope and Blessings

People call the Machpela the "Cave of the Couples" or "Cave of Pairs" because of the four husband-wife teams buried there.

Instead, I think of it as a Cave of Brothers, an optimistic symbol of the attainability of family harmony. Despite lethal rivalry, conflicting interests, and fundamental philosophical differences:

• Yitzchak (Issac) and Yishmael (Ishmael) joined together to bury Avraham there.
• Yaakov (Jacob) and Esav joined together to bury Yitchak in it.
• Yosef (Joseph) and his brothers traveled together from Egypt to bury Yaakov in it.
• After the Exodus from Egypt, the whole nation together brought Yosef's 200+ year old bones to the land of Israel (and perhaps back to this cave) for burial.

The theme of brothers reconciling to bury their father is repeated for each of the Forefathers and Yosef. The Forefathers' biblical biographies are stories of real men, not angels without strife. We study and admire their strength of character as they struggled with their brothers and faced extreme difficulties.

We celebrate their ultimate victories: not over their brothers, but in overcoming themselves. The strength of our nation was built on a foundation of generations men who vanquished interpersonal strife for the sake of brotherhood and common purpose.

When someone dies, we say "may his memory be for a blessing." In our thrice-daily prayers, we bless G-d in the names of our Fathers, each of whom ended his life with the respect and cooperation of his sons. When they gathered together in their father's memory, they became a blessing.

The midrash tells us that this Cave is the threshold to the Garden of Eden. Why? For me, this is meant to show that reconciliation and healing interpersonal relationships are prerequisites for experiencing spiritual perfection.

Hope lives in this tomb. May they rest in peace.

I feel the need to apologize to the World...

...because last night's uninteresting first World Series game is my fault. I've been praying for a four-game sweep because I want my dining room table back.

Have I mentioned there is a television on my dining room table?

If you ever spent time in Boston, you'll understand how one can be a Red Sox fan absent any interest in baseball.

Where did that come from?

Gretta, who is three years old, came into my bedroom this morning and said, "It's almost time to bring the [older] kids to school. Therefore I need shoes."

"'Therefore'?!!" I repeated, giggling.

"Therefore. It means 'that's why'", she explained patiently, before repeating the first sentence.

Are our speech patterns so stuffy and bloated that a three year old uses "therefore" in conversation? Oy.

Confessions of a Blogaholic: The Blogger's Vidduy

When we sin against another person, we have to ask forgiveness directly of him. We are not allowed to ask G-d for grace or mercy until we have made attempts to receive forgiveness from the person we have wronged.


This is something we're supposed to be doing year-round. Consider the ideal a "just-in-time-inventory" of apologies, where the supply repentance keeps up with the quantity of transgressions, without back orders. Unfortunately, none of us realizes this ideal.


Before Yom Kippur can function as a day of atonement, we must make things right between one another.


That's the rationale of the "asseret ymei teshuva", the period of the Jewish calendar between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. This time is set aside to take stock, ask and grant forgiveness from one another, and resolve conflicts.


It's a quiet and serious time, a time for healing relationships. It's a time for introspection and for reaching out. In contrast to secular new year's custom, we celebrate the Jewish New Year by making amends, rather than resolutions.


Four months ago, when I started this blog, I would have thought it silly - perhaps inappropriate - to include "virtual" relationships in this interpersonal reckoning. Since then, however, I have discovered how interconnected and personal bloggers' interactions can become.


In this short tenure, I have come to feel close to a large number of people I've never met.

We follow the details of each other's lives with the concern of dear friends. We carry on extended relaxed sometimes life-changing conversations and unlimited passionate debates. We anticipate the publication of their next post like children waiting for treats.

We agonize, cheer, and kvell as families full of children grow and mature, yet we only know them by their nicknames. Their idiosyncrasies, habits and talents are know to us only through the details revealed by and limited to the perception and understanding expressed by their parents.


Despite differences that would otherwise separate us, we listen and we react. We learn from people who we never expected to know. They provide us access and insight to worlds and worldviews of which we otherwise would have been unaware. We change each other's minds.

Another strange subset includes bloggers whose articles I read regularly, but react only in my own head. For whatever reason, I've lurked. I have never commented, or sent an e-mail to these authors. Yet I think a lot about what they have to say.


There are the blog-less commenters whose profile links lead nowhere, and the commenters who we feel we know well, but only from what they've said on another writer's blog. They don't know that they effect us, that they are characters in our story, too.


There are the readers who are family or friends from our"real" life community who we know are out there, some of whom share their thoughts in comments, some privately, and some not at all.


And then there are the anonymous lurking readers, who intrigue and motivate without saying a word. When they eventually reveal themselves, they bestow a precious gift.

As a result of blogging, I care deeply about a bunch of people I don't ever expect to know.


It's natural to feel a connection with an author or someone with whom one corresponds. However, the bond between bloggers feels qualitatively different from the relationship between reader and author in more conventional venues.

• Blogs articles are published quickly, without benefit or hindrance of an external editorial filter.
  
• They are interactive, yet impose no obligation to interact upon the reader.
  
• A blog's articles reach a worldwide audience immediately. They are exposed to completely untargeted markets.
  
• There is no intermediary deciding whether or not an author should post.


• "Rules" about structure and content are minimal.


• Blogs surprise us. They are written in real-time. When we are left dangling over a cliff of suspense, the writer is hanging with us, also wondering what the next post will hold.


• Authors appear suddenly, disappear with or without warning, and reappear at will.


• We drop in unexpectedly and are not surprised to find we are welcomed immediately. It is like instantly joining an infinite set of communities.

All human relationships involve the risk of discord and the potential for growth. The nature of the Internet multiplies both the reach and the risks inherent in communication. We often forget that there are people behind the text.

While it is impossible to ask for mechila (forgiveness) to an anonymous multitude, in "virtual" life, just like in "real" life, you do what you can. Thus, it makes sense that many Jewish bloggers have included apologies and requests for forgiveness from their readers during this season. Some of these were delivered pro forma, some anguished, some meticulously delineated.

One of my favorites is lighthearted yet heartfelt, and very clever, by Mother in Israel. It is formatted like the vidduy, the formal confession of the Jewish liturgy. Here's another great one in a similar format at Stepping off the Spaceship, also inspired by Mother in Israel.

Continuing in Mother in Israel's style, I'd like to adopt all of hers and add follow suit.

Dear Readers, please forgive me for any transgressions I've committed against you, including but not limited to:

• For the author who sent me and review copy of her latest book. I told you I'd write an honest review of it only IF I liked the book. It's sitting on my night table, heavily annotated, with coffee stains on many pages and sticky notes stressing its spine. You probably think I hated it. I was flattered to receive an advance copy, and delighted with your text. I'm just waiting for an opportunity to do it justice. I'm sorry it has taken this long.
• For lurking, both actively and passively
• For approving comments between other tasks, and forgetting to answer them in a timely fashion
• For the memes I've ducked, and those I owe and plan to complete
• For the material you've sent me that I haven't figured out how to work into a post yet
• For the great post ideas and questions that were e-mailed to me but that I have yet to implement
• For the post suggestions that I don't plan to execute, because they are out of my scope
• For grammatical errors and silly assumptions
• For posts that were rambling and self-indulgent
• For that time I left the yeast out of the recipe (it's fixed now)
• For posts that were oblique and incomprehensible
• For articles full of untranslated Hebrew and Hebrish
• For the many times I published an article, only to revise and correct it every 2 minutes for the next three hours, resulting in a flaky, changing publication
• For wasting time that I should have been writing, obsessively checking traffic statistics instead
• For a haphazard, incomplete, and overlapping category structure
• For reading when I should be writing, and for writing when I should be reading
• For broken links not fixed and graphics mysteriously disappeared
• For questions unanswered and questions answered poorly
• For offering unsolicited advice
• For the appearance of having 'it' all together when I show systems that work for me. (I don't generally share the ones that don't, and it can make for a false impression.)
• For those who came here from entering specific and explicit keywords in search engines, but landed on an irrelevant page, that had nothing to do with what you were seeking
• For never contacting and thanking the two ladies who ordered Juggling Frogs clocks at the same time. You made my day, and I lost your contact information. I hope you're both enjoying them.
• For being disappointed when traffic statistic show a high unique hit-to-pageview ratio, assuming that the readers all came briefly and don't want to stay
• For being disappointed when traffic statistic show a low unique hit-to-pageview ratio, assuming that all the traffic that day came from one curious reader and that nobody else wants to visit
• For bad puns, both intentional and inadvertent

For all these mentioned here, and those mentioned there, for those I don't know about, for those that I don't realize bother you, and for those that I forgot to mention, Dear Reader, I ask your forgiveness.

A sink full of holiday dishes to wash....

For the first seven years of our marriage, we spent Rosh Hashanah with my husband's Uncle David and Tante Ursula. It was one of the highlights of our year.

Then we moved home to Massachusetts. While our hearts filled with joy to be near our parents, we always feel a bittersweet lack on Rosh Hashanah away from Uncle David and Tante Ursula.

Whatever we manage to provide for our guests at our own Rosh Hashanah table, our best results are but an ambitious imitation of theirs. Whatever we happen to get right is due to witnessing the sparkling and passionate conversations, learned and inspiring divrei Torah, spontaneous and harmonious singing, delicious and elegantly presented meals, the atmosphere of generosity and appreciation, and the overall kedushah (sanctity) of their home.

As a young bride I found Tante Ursula's kitchen inspiring. I still do. It was spotless and efficient, yet open and warm. It was overflowing with both love and every tool necessary, yet it was without clutter or waste. It was a serious workplace adorned with fresh flowers and posters from the family's many travels. Visitors felt as comfortable relaxing over tea on the sofa, as stirring the soup while the pomegranates were being peeled.

The kitchen table held a freshly starched tablecloth in a bright, colorful floral pattern that was both elegant and uncontrived. It was perfectly ironed - without a wrinkle - yet not the least bit stiff. Her kitchen table was a place to linger for a chat after breakfast, to work a crossword, to polish silver, or to play a very unorthodox game of Scrabble.

On my first visit we had been married exactly one month. After dinner the first night of that first Rosh Hashanah, as Tante Ursula and I were putting the stock pots away, she paused and looked meaningfully at me. She said that when she was first married, her aunt told her, "One should always clean the bottom of one's pots just as carefully and as well as the inside."

Since we all hail from solid yekkish stock, earnest housecleaning advice certainly could be taken at face value. And Tante Ursula isn't prone to religious sermonizing. Her insights are more likely to be revealed via reflection on her irreverent quips or ironic turns of phrase. She keeps her soap-boxes neatly stacked in her closet.

Likely due to the Rosh Hashanah mood, or perhaps from the intensity of its delivery, or maybe because my eagerness to collect whatever wisdom from them I could absorb, I knew immediately that this advice could only be about everything but the pots.

The first part was easy. The outside of the pot is what's visible in public. If this is messy, others will make assumptions about its contents and about the cook. Yet nobody knows what's really goes on inside someone else's pot.

Clearly, the inside of the pot is our private behavior, either at home with family, or in solitude. The cleanliness of the inside of the pot is vital to the integrity of the meal. If you don't clean the inside of the pot, even the most savory roast will be spoiled. Washing the outside at the expense of cleaning the inside is an indication of misplaced priorities.

But the bottom of the pot? What difference could it possibly make if there is a stain that nobody sees, that never touches the food? Who has time to scour the bottom of their pots?

I have to admit, my first internal reaction to Tante Ursula's advice as we said goodnight, and I retired to the guest room, was dismissive. Whatever she was trying to tell me about homemaking, philosophy, or morality seemed like an exercise in over-achievement, a recipe for nurturing obsessive compulsive disorder. Even for a newlywed yekke with little responsibility and a very small apartment.

Overnight, however, the idea stewed and simmered (sorry, couldn't resist!) In shul, as I listened to the shofar blowing on that first day of the first Rosh Hashanah of my married life, I was preoccupied with Tante Ursula's pots.

The shofar, the trumpet-like instrument made from a ram's horn, is the main symbol of Rosh Hashanah. In fact, when the holiday is mentioned in the Torah, its name is "the time of the shofar blowing", not "Rosh Hashanah".

On Rosh Hashanah, we read the part of the Torah that describes Abraham's binding of his son, Yitzchak, to be sacrificed at G-d's command. First, G-d calls to Abraham. Abraham responds, "Hinneni" ("Here I am") , the rest of the events of the Akieda proceed. Eventually the ram stuck by his horns in the thicket is discovered, and everyone (except the ram) lives either happily thereafter or not, depending on whose interpretation you prefer.

Similarly, the sound of the shofar heralded the events at Mount Sinai. Just before the Torah was revealed to us, as one nation, we said a plural parallel to "hinneni", "Naaseh v'Nishma", ("We will do and we will hear/understand.")

This phrase, "Naaseh v'Nishma" represents Judaism's focus on the value of behavior before belief. Belief, understanding, and faith are experienced as a result of action. Performing a good deed with imperfect motives is preferable to refraining from acting, waiting until the motives are pure. Ultimately, over time and through repetition, proper motives will come to accompany proper behavior.

What a relief that ones merits can accrue directly from actions, which are concrete and observable! How liberating to be free of the need to produce faith on demand, or to expect it of others. We, the nation of Israel, struggle with G-d. We are not judged by the current status of the struggle, but by our willingness to engage in it, and by our behaviour.

I have always taken refuge and found comfort in this approach, because the "naaseh" part is in my hands. I control how I behave. That second part, the "nishma" - the belief, the understanding, the faith - often eludes me. When asked about personal issues of faith, I'd respond, "I'm working on 'naaseh' for now."

And that's why Tante Ursula's pots rattled me.

Does it matter if there is a mismatch between the spiritual level of one's thoughts if one behaves well both in public and in private? Is it enough to concentrate energy on the outside and inside of the pots, neglecting the bottom? Can't the bottom of the pot wait until later? How urgent is the status of the bottom of the pot?

A person could go a lifetime, never giving much thought to the condition of her pot bottoms. The kitchen would likely function well enough, wouldn't it?

However, it is difficult to imagine someone who takes care to clean the bottoms of the pots, not having spotless pots overall. This is analogous to one whose spirituality doesn't translate into good behavior. Such misguided values result in a meal we would not be eager to share.

Judaism's behaviorist philosophy leads me to imagine that even someone who never intended to take care of the cooking parts of her pots, would experience an improvement in this area. Scouring the bottom of a pot makes it impossible to ignore the parts that touch food.

The private, ineffable, "non-functional" aspects of one's spiritual life, like the bottoms of the soup pot, deserve the same diligent scrutiny and thoughtful attention as the outside. Tante Ursula's subtle lesson struck me then, and has stayed with me since.

It is of the most religiously motivating ideas I've experienced.

While distance prevents us from spending Rosh Hashanah with them, we think of them often during the holidays (and throughout the year). And for me, particularly when faced with a sink full of Yom tov dishes to wash.

I wish Uncle David, Tante Ursula, their children and grandchildren, the readers of this blog, and all of Israel a chatima tova. May a year of health, happiness, prosperity and peace be sealed for all of us.

May we all have the time, energy, and inclination to clean even the bottoms of our pots.

UPDATE (September 24, 2007): This article was also published at BeyondBT. Additional discussion may be found in the comments on that page.)

Teenage chicks gone wild: An adolescent gang is terrorizing our neighborhood.

Remember the turkey chicks? They've grown a lot over the Summer and have become a marauding horde, terrorizing the neighborhood's tidy lawns and flower gardens.

They're almost as tall as Emily now. The smallest is taller than Gretta.

The local residents are much less amused with them than they were in May.

On a related note, Mother in Israel says "teenagers are a tikkun". As I have a teen, a tween, and three 'in the wings', (my apologies - couldn't resist the ornithological pun) I find this attitude very helpful. "Tikkun" is a much better -more accurate and more positive - word than "nissayon" (test/trial) which I had been using.

A trial is an opportunity to fail, to be found lacking, to be found guilty. (Okay, it's also an opportunity to succeed, to be found competent, to be found not guilty, too. But show me a parent in the trenches of adolescence who sees it that way, and I'll show you someone whose confidence gives me an involuntary shudder of superstition. Sometimes, bliss is ignorant.)

Instead of thinking of this time as a trial, I'm going to try to think of it as an opportunity to repair. Instead of thinking of it as the bill coming due for how much trouble I caused my parents, I'll (attempt to) see it as an opportunity to 'pay down the balance' that I owe them.

Which brings me to my revision of the "Parent's Curse". The Parent's Curse is when parents see their child misbehaving, and say, "May you have kids just like you."

This always bothered me, not only because of the incredibly distasteful idea of cursing your own kids, but also because of the astounding short-sightedness of wishing for ill-behaved grandchildren.

Instead, when I to catch them doing something extraordinary, I offer them my Parent's Blessing: "May you have kids just like you." (G-d forbid they have kids just like me! If they do, I'm not babysitting.)

(Please give me 10 points for having the restraint and good taste to refrain from referring to "leaving the nest" or calling grandchildren "a feather in my cap". See the Savage Chickens: The Optimist Cartoon and Savage Chickens: Therapy Hut Cartoon for more foul advice.)

Rose Colored Glasses: Pink is in the eye of the beholder

Just before putting on her play sunglasses, Gretta said, "Look out, Mommy! You're gonna be all pink!"

Would that perspective were as easy to manage and share as a pair of sunglasses.

A friend called to vent this morning, about an interaction with a mutual friend that kept her up all night, agitating about her responses and replies. I know and care about both parties involved.

Both women are caring, loving, sensitive people. Both mean well. They are friends, and only want the best for one another.

The problem is they both know what's best for the other person. They just disagree about what that is. As a result, each feels the other disapproves of her life choices. And they're both right about that.

Yet the criticism they each sense comes from love and friendship.

It's as though one is wearing green sunglasses and the other blue. They're both looking at the same garden, yet can't understand why the other person continues to insist on describing the flowers by the wrong color.

If only they could switch glasses for just a moment, they'd understand.

Department of Communication Disorders, indeed!

Disgruntled Julie has become linguistically isolated from her family, due to too much time twiddling cell cultures in the lab.

Twenty two years ago, when I was an engineering student, I worked at my school's Department for Communications Disorders, wiring the Psychoacoustics Lab, and maintaining the computers and other electronic equipment used in the lab's basic research.

Mike was an engineer who returned to school to get his Ph.D. in Audiology. This was a bit unusual, as most of the graduate students in the department did not come from a technical background. He shared an office with Mary and Elaine, two 'normal' (i.e. non-geeky) students.

One day, when a series of intermittent noise problems were messing with my network, corrupting data and distorting waveforms, I went to whine and moan about it discuss it with Mike.

ME: I'm having a world of noise problems on the bus. Everywhere I look there are transients. The bus is overcome with transient noise..

MIKE: Did you check to see if the bus is grounded?

ME: I'm trying, but I can't I didn't see any shorts on or near the bus. There are transients all over the bus. If I could just find a way to reduce the noise to an acceptable level... If it were less noisy, I think I'd be okay. The question is, how much noise can the bus stand?

MIKE: (joking) I think you have a poltergeist.

ME: It's so frustrating. I can't figure out how to get rid of this persistent transient noise.

(Throughout this conversation, I noticed that Mary and Elaine were taking an unusual interest in our discussion. They both turned their heads left and right, as if watching a tennis match. )

MIKE: Have you swapped bus connections? What about swapping busses?

ME: Yeah, I've looked at getting different connectors, but I'm convinced it's a systemic problem. I have to try something more drastic. If the bus is blown, I'm in for a world of trouble. {sigh}

I probably should just get rid of the bus now, and hope that the transients disappear. It's not clear what's causing the noise. I wish I knew where it is coming from. The transients might be coming from elsewhere in the system. Swapping busses is probably not worth the effort...yet. It's a good idea, though. Thanks, Mike, I'll keep that in mind.

As I was leaving the office, Mary and Elaine shared a pointed look.

MARY: (alarmed) What are you going to DO?!

ME: (resigned) I'm going to do whatever it takes to get those transients off the bus and stop the noise.

At this point, Mary, Elaine, Mike and I all looked at one another in confusion. Eventually we figured out that while Mike and I were discussing interference from fluctuating unwanted voltages on the wiring for the lab's computer communications network, Mary and Elaine thought we were talking about mounting frustrations with unruly homeless people riding public transportation.

I can only imagine how this would have been received if it had happened today, post September 11th!

Color coded labels help pre-readers (and the rest of us) sort laundry

This is our laundry sorter. A few years ago, I labeled the sections, hoping everyone would sort their laundry. It didn't work.

A couple of days later I realized why it couldn't work. I expected children who weren't fluent readers to read the labels as a matter of course. Fluent readers absorb messages on written signs unconsciously. Those who have just learned how to read, don't.

With the sense of smell, either (1) we first know that the toast is burning, and if asked, will say we knew this because we smelled it, or (2) we smell something amiss, sniff deeply to take a larger sample, and then, if we can't identify it, say "does anyone else smell that?" or "What is that smell?" In both cases, we are aware of the odor in the room without choosing to be.

Being a fluent reader means having a 'sense of text'.

With my laundry basket labels, I forgot that small children must exert effort and choice to read.



As soon as I changed my labels to color coded signs, the kids willingly (and almost accurately) began to sort their laundry.

When I am frustrated with the family's seeming unwillingness to implement one of my 'systems', I often find that the problem is the system, not the users.

My husband is an idiom mangling machine

I love my husband's slightly intentional malapropisms. He is full of them:

• "If it were any closer it would bite you". This is what he says when witnessing my frantic search for the eyeglasses that are hiding on top of my head. As a child, my husband mistakenly learned this, instead of the saying, "If it were a dog, it would have bitten you." For years, he insisted his version was correct!
  
  Thank goodness for the pointless-argument resolving properties of the Internet.



• "That's like six of one and a dozen of the other." For years, I thought he was being sarcastic when he said this. He's a mathematician for crying out loud! A few years ago, when I thought its casual irreverence particularly inappropriate, I called him to task.
  
  He blinked at me, the picture of befuddled innocence. It then dawned on me that he had inaccurately encoded the idiom. (We'll be married 20 years next month; I should have known better. )
  
  I carefully explained that the real idiom is "six of one and half a dozen of the other."
  
  Looking at me with profound relief, he said, "That one never did make any sense to me."



• My personal favorite: "We'll burn that bridge when we get to it." This one conflates "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." with "Don't burn your bridges."

The mangled idiom is sometimes more insightful and nuanced than the aphorism it replaces. I often prefer my own garbled and misunderstood song lyrics to the original, correct versions, when I learn of my mistakes.

After all, "Perception is in the eye of the beholder."

Thanks for the wake up call... Embracing Insomnia

A neighbor's party woke me at 2:30 this morning.

We live in Studentville, USA, so it wasn't an unprecedented event. But July is usually a slow month for Thursday night (um, Friday morning) alcohol-inspired noise fests. I wasn't expecting it.

While I do have five kids, aged 3-15, they are mostly past the nightly-parent-waking stage (sharing dreams good and bad, asking for a glass of water, shrieking when a housefly invades a bedroom...)

And everyone has been healthy lately. We haven't hosted a moonlight tag-team vomiting competition in many months. Thank G-d.

So when the post-midnight festivities got out of hand last night, I was a bit out of practice. Luckily, the lessons learned from years of on-the-Mom-job training kicked in immediately. It was like falling off a bicycle; you never forget how to do it.

I know when a night's sleep is shot. And I know better than to fight a wounded sleep.

My strategy is to let a shot sleep die with dignity. Rather than attempting resuscitation, I fast-forward the grieving process, moving as quickly as possible to acceptance.

The trick is to eschew any hope of going back to sleep. Once I accept my involuntary awakened state, I embrace insomnia as an unexpected (and thankfully, rare) visit from a good friend. I can do this, because I remember:

Nothing is as efficient as a mother with a found hour.

I defy any veteran Air Traffic Controller or seasoned White House Events Coordinator to match the productivity of a mother with a cancelled medical appointment. With the focus of a laser beam, she will carve more errands and phone calls from that hour than they could list on their color-coded Gantt charts.

And if the impromptu hour of slack falls on a Friday morning, watch in awe as she choreographs a complex ballet of accomplishment: A chorus of appliances - laundry machines, oven timers, bread machines, standing mixers, and laser printers - humming in harmony, with the challah dough rising in the foreground. All while she's on hold with the insurance company, changing a diaper, closing the refrigerator with her foot.

Professionals make it look so easy.

In the middle of the night, however, the devices enlisted must be quiet, in order to let the rest of the family sleep. Yet there are still plenty of opportunities to be my own elf - to do vital favors for the sleepy person I'll be in the morning.

In the wee hours this morning I showered and got dressed, tidied and inventoried personal care supplies, discovered that we're down to the second-to-last container of my favorite toothpaste, caught up on 15% of overburdened Google feed reader, filed 3" of benign paperwork backlog, and started this blog post.

I spent about two hours writing and rewriting lists in my little notebook, and generally 'emptied my head.' It was cathartic and refreshing. I reveled in being able to finish a sentence in my own mind.

As I ordered my favorite toothpaste on-line, a wave of gratitude engulfed me. I realized that I have been my car only once in the past three weeks. I love the Internet.

During the school year, I often quip that I need to buy that bumper sticker that says:

If I'm such a stay-at-home Mom, why am I always in the car?

Sandwiched between the academic year-end frenzy of June and the September's dramatic double onslaught of the Jewish holidays and the return to school, summer is our oasis.

During the school year, our calendar is stuffed overfull with obligations and commitments. In the Summer, we luxuriate in extending or cancelling activities, subject to the whims of the weather and our moods. In Winter, we march to time's drumbeat. In Summer, time is our languid dance partner.

My answering machine has zero saved messages. I love summer vacation.

Summer does come with open windows, however. Through those open windows came the party noises that woke me last night. It's a package deal.

So, thank you, dear youthful neighbors, for giving me a few moments to meditate on the good fortune that allows my family to enjoy our unstructured summer schedule. Thank you for your gift of an unscheduled pause to appreciate of the blessings of the Internet. Thank you for the few hours of sleepy solitude.

I hope you found this morning's construction workers' 7:15 a.m. jack-hammering just as inspiring as your nocturnal celebrations were for me. Perhaps it gave you time to introspect on the deeper significance of a hangover. Maybe you found this an opportune time to sweep the street of the glass from the bottles that broke as your guests departed at 4 a.m.

I smile when thinking of the City of Boston's gift to both of us: the opportunity for you to share this moring's spectacular sunrise with me.

Have a great morning.

Morning always comes.

This was the view from my bedroom window, July 25, 2007, the 10th of Av.
May we never lose faith in the coming of the next sunrise.

Horror and the Distant Stranger

I turned off the radio. Again.

Another horrifying case of child abuse has captured the media's attention. It happened in a nearby town, so the news is unrelenting. Again.

The announcer repeats the graphic description of the abuse on the half-hour. It is presented with justified outrage; augmented by sensationalism. We receive frequent updates revealing horrifying details as they are discovered. We are bombarded by breaking news of the unfolding legal investigation and resultant administrative finger-pointing.

Analysis is shared; opinions are offered. Recriminations abound. Justifications are put forth and rejected. Empathy, solutions, and accusations are presented in turn.

I learned of this abuse indirectly, from thirty miles away, days after it happened, over the radio. I don't know any of the people involved. I have no business or friends or reason to visit the town where it happened. I doubt I've been in that town. Maybe once when I was a child, to buy fish. I pass it sometimes on the highway. Heretofore, the town was a highway exit to me.

And yet I ache. We all ache. We all ache for the distant stranger. We ache for this three year old girl, in memory of the previous child, and in anticipatory despair for the next.

Caring people don't turn a deaf ear to suffering. Individuals of conscience stay informed in order to be in a position to prevent future crimes. We pray for the wisdom, strength and courage to confront evil when faced with it. Yet I have to do something to shield my heart, or it will break.

From previous experience, I have developed a self preservation ritual for when I find myself awash in news of human cruelty: I turn off the news and turn to my checkbook.

I can't make this not have happened. I'm not responsible that it did. I am not guilty. I am accountable, however, for my reactions to it.

It's a lie to think, "I can do nothing to help that girl." I can fund the efforts of and express support for those who are working to heal trauma, educate parents, and identify crimes. I can do his from my armchair. I can do this in my quiet living room. I can do this with the radio OFF. If nothing else, I can do this.

My best protection against succumbing to feelings of despair is the realization that I am not impotent.

This isn't news. Who hasn't found comfort and motivation from the words of Rabbi Tarfon, recorded in the Talmud, masechet Avot, "You are not required to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist from it"?
( לא עליך כל המלאכה לגמור, ולא אתה בן חורין ליבטל)

If you're in Massachusetts reacting to the recent New Bedford case of the three year old girl, I recommend making a donation to the Massachusetts Children's Trust Fund.

May it this case be the last.

Top 10 acceptable answers to "Does this outfit make me look fat?"

Why are husbands some people so flummoxed by the perennial spousal inquiry:

Does this outfit make me look fat?

This question has been characterized as unanswerable, as the Ultimate Marriage Koan.

Ridiculous. Ladies are able to ask and answer this all the time, without imploding relationships. We're not afraid of it, because we know how to communicate within the range of acceptable answers. It's not hard. Really.

In the interest of eliminating connubial stress and adding to the peace of the Universe, I will reveal to spouses worldwide what every teenage girl already knows.

Read further, dear groom, and never sleep on the couch again:

If the outfit looks even remotely acceptable, the answer is an enthusiastic 'No.' You get double credit for adding "Of course not, you look great in everything." Fifty point bonus for wolf whistles.

Of course, the hard part comes when the outfit is sub-optimal.

It is at this point where newlyweds amateurs unsuspecting chumps husbands find themselves held hostage by the deceptive aphorism "Honesty is the best policy." Nonsense.

I'm not suggesting you dance with dishonesty. I simply ask you to scout the ballroom before embracing Truth. You need not sacrifice your integrity to please your spouse. This is a false dichotomy. It is possible to both save your marriage and sidestep sin.

Here is where a poor sap beleaguered husband person of conscience can get tangled in the tentacles of a Manichean dialectic between a brutal appraisal of the outfit and avoiding certain spousal alienation. This is not the time to expound on the inherent evils of polyester knits. This is not the time to share dietary wisdom. This is not the time to suggest joining a health club.

You need to give her a truthful answer to the question she's actually asking. She's asking you, "Are you going to be happy to be seen with me in public?" She's asking, "Do you love me, even though I'm growing older?" She's asking, "Are we still the same bride and groom?"

If you can't answer those questions in a complimentary manner, then you've got bigger problems than being ten minutes late for a dinner party.

Without further ado, I, a certified wife, hereby share with the global community of clueless husbands you, the top ten acceptable answers to the question:

Does this outfit make me look fat?


10. It looks fine to me.

9. You look so much better in the green dress.

8. That skirt would make Twiggy look fat. [insert more up-to-date reference as necessary]

7. I'm the wrong guy to ask. I only see you, the Love of My Life.

6. Fishing for compliments, honey? You're beautiful.

5. I don't know if it does; I just know I envy it!

4. If I say 'yes' does that mean I get to eat your dessert tonight?

3. I'm not sure. How do these pants look on me?

2. Who's coming tonight? Should I be jealous?

1. I love you.

There. Was that so difficult? Now go forth and compliment. I'm off to declutter my closet.

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This post was included in the Carnival of SAHMs