Please tell me that did not just happen...

It was a beautiful Easter day. Although not my holiday, it is a day I happily celebrate with my in-laws and we always have a terrific time. There is food galore, a frenzied and exciting Easter egg hunt, lots of laughter and more love than can fit in the house.

In the midst of the chaos and excitement and heat-wave that was Easter 2017, I excused myself to the go the bathroom. The window was open and I sat there for a moment, enjoying the sounds of the kids squealing outside. Then I picked up my phone and checked to see if I had any messages. I may have also scrolled through Facebook.

I stood up, washed my hands, checked my lip gloss and promptly dropped my phone in the toilet.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I have never moved so fast in my life. I retrieved my device, dried it as best as I could, ran outside to tell everyone and promptly put my rose gold beauty in rice (at the suggestion of almost everyone there).  

And then I was to wait 24 hours to check my phone.

After about 15 minutes, I started to sweat. And it had nothing to do with the temperature. I am so attached to my phone that not being able to look at it when I wanted to was actually giving me a panic attack. My hands were clammy and my mind was distracted. Even though there was nothing I needed my phone for right then, I was immobilized with fear as to what I would do if my phone was soon going to just be used for parts. 

Several hours later when we got home, I was able to check my iPad for urgent issues. Other than that, I had to wait.

Life without my phone was calmer. Life without my phone was less distracting. Life without my phone was scary! All I wanted to go was look up "What in the world am I supposed to do without my phone?!?!?!"

About an hour ago, I held my breath and powered up my electronic friend. The screen came to life. Everything seemed fine. There were a few rice kernels wedged into places where they did not belong, but with a thumbtack and patience, I got them out. All seems fine.

And now? Now I am writing about the experience while it is fresh in my mind. My daughter is in the room with me waiting for me to play with her. And my phone? It's sitting on the desk next to me safe and dry. There it will stay when I hit "publish" and go play with Miranda. There it can stay for the rest of the day. There are a lot more important things in this world than my phone.

Six years ago on Easter weekend, we lost Allie. Four years ago on Easter weekend, we found Miranda. This time of year is supercharged and I do not need to add to it with my reliance on my phone. I get it, universe. Lesson learned. Either leave the phone where it is or for crying out loud, make sure the toilet lid is closed!

On Death and Dying

Miranda turned 4 on Friday and virtually overnight, she has changed. While always interested in the world around her, in the past week, she has become more perceptive and more inquisitive. She no longer accepts my reply of "just because" or "because I said so". Suddenly she wants more.

She has always confused butterflies with her sister...she thinks they are one and the same. I have tried to explain that Allie was a person, a baby, and that we use butterflies as a way to remember her and honor her. She always nodded but I knew she did not get it. I never pushed the issue because I also knew she was too young.

Last night, right before bedtime, she asked about Allie the butterfly and wanted to know why she was in heaven. I explained that she was there because she died. I am not sure I ever used the word death before, but I sensed it was time.

Her eyes opened really wide and she said she didn't want her to die. Then she was worried that she might die.

With a tear rolling down my cheek,  I tried to explain that all living things die eventually. That the birds and the trees all around us are alive now but that one day they will die, too. I reminded her that our cat Zoe was once alive and now she only lives on in our hearts. I reminded her that my dad, Pop Pop Jim had also died and so did her Great Aunt E who loved her very much.

She understood it more than I thought she could. Within a few minutes, we were back to brushing teeth like nothing had happened at all. And maybe that is how it is supposed to be. Maybe I am not supposed to make a big deal out of it. Death is just another part of life, after all.

I worry so that my daughter is going to have her share of difficult conversations. But maybe what is difficult for me is not so tough for a 4-year-old. Maybe if we start the conversations now, they will be less severe than if it waited until she was older.

"I will explain it to you when you are older" was a phrase I heard so often growing up. Maybe keeping the truth from me did not do me any favors. Or maybe it did and that is why I am who I am today. I am not sure there is a way to know.

So I will continue to be as honest as I can with Miranda until she asks too much of me or asks me something I simply do not think her little brain can handle. Until then, I guess I will just do my best. I think that is fair!

Hannah Rose

When I was in third grade, I met a girl in my Hebrew school class that would change the course of my life forever.

At nine years old, this girl and I were mostly concerned about getting our ears pierced - something both of our dads strictly forbid. She had blonde straight hair and I had dark curly hair. While we did not look like sisters, we both felt that connection right way. She had three brothers and I had two and we were both sorely in need of a girl to confide in.

Our friendship grew and grew over the years. Our brothers became friends. Our parents became friends. We went to the shore together. I rode in my first limo with her and spent summers swimming in her outdoor pool. I called her parent's mom and dad and they were very much like parents to me. I slept over her house every weekend and we spent rang in many New Year's Eves together.

We celebrated out Bat Mitzvah's together. I remember her Sweet Sixteen party like it was last month and not several decades ago. I remember each and every New Kids on the Block concert. I remember walking around the mall on Friday nights just because. I remember it all.

We were in our synagogue's youth group together and had our first crushes together. She fell in love first and I was envious and worried about what it might do to our friendship. It only strengthened it. I signed the ketubah (marriage contract) at her wedding and she and her husband, in turn, signed mine (although many many years later!).

Estelle and I have been friends for as long as I can remember and I can't imagine what my life would be like without her by my side.

Noam was instrumental in getting me a job that opened up many doors for me. I made a lot of friends, build up a nice resume and oh yeah, also met the man that would later be my husband.

When Estelle called to tell me she was pregnant, I already knew. I had dreamt it. I also knew her name. I can't explain it - I am the least clairvoyant person there is...and yet I knew the world was soon going to meet a girl named Hannah Rose.

Hannah turned thirteen this past December. And this past weekend, she celebrated her Bat Mitzvah.

It's hard to put into words what the weekend meant to me. Friday night, my mom and I went to synagogue services and sat with another friend that has been with us on this journey for almost as long. We watched the evening unfold and took it all in.

The next morning we went back to synagogue. Gary and Miranda came, too. Miranda sat through almost two hours of services that were mainly in Hebrew. That is no small feat for an almost-four-year-old! She drank it all in and I hope that experience will excite her about her upcoming Jewish education. I think it did.

And Hannah? Well, that little girl is not so little anymore. She was poised and confident and radiant, just like her mom. I was so proud of her and so proud to know that I played a little part in the history of her life.

Estelle and Noam were beaming. There were tears of happiness and joy. I practically wanted to freeze time.

That night, we partied. We celebrated and laughed and cheered and cried a little bit more. Hannah has her whole life ahead of her and has a solid and strong foundation on which to build her whole life. Her younger brother, Zach, who just turned eight (and thus not so "young" anymore) was enjoying the attention that both he and his sister were receiving and they were both so amazing. 

Estelle's brothers and their wives and their kids were all having a great time. Noam's siblings and their families were spreading contagious smiles. It was a full-circle moment for me in that I went from the kid that danced the Wang Chung at Estelle's Bat Mitzvah to "one of her parent's friends" at Hannah's Bat Mitzvah.

We all held hands as we danced the hora and the feeling in the room was electric. Years of Hannah studying and practicing and learning. Years of Hebrew school lessons and tutoring and rehearsing over and over and over.

I look at this family that Estelle and Noam have made and I burst with pride. Then I look at my own family and think about how lucky I am. How lucky we all are. 

Judaism is more than a religion to me. It introduced me to my oldest friend and her family. I love the traditions and the culture and the spirituality of it all.

I am so proud of Hannah. I am honored to be a part of her life. I can't wait to see what's in store for her next. Something tells me with her parents and her brother by her side, it will be!

Hannah's Baby Naming

Miranda and me "striking a pose"

The Proud Family!

What a night!

  

Jewish Confessional

Since I am Jewish, I do not take or go to Confession. If I did, I feel like every other time I would go, I would say, "Bless me, Rabbi, for I have sinned. I ate a box of Girl Scout cookies...again."

I am not making light of confession; rather, I am illustrating exactly how big of a deal my weight is to me.

That's right. To me. Because I finally get that no one else really cares. As long as I am healthy and happy, no one gives a crap what size jeans I wear.

I have lost and gained so much weight, so many times, that I have stretch marks of every shape and size. Some of from being pregnant, but most are from bagels and pasta. And ice cream. And in college, lots of ramen and macaroni and cheese.

These days, I am busy taking care of my daughter and making sure my family is doing well. I am also trying to build my writing career. I got a new client last week and I am already doing work for them. I simply do not have time for the self-loathing that I have been doing my whole life.

When I am thin, I am not thin enough. When I am fat, I am too fat. So I am trying something new.

I do not want to be thin. I do not want to be fat. I just want to be me.

Zumba!

I tried my first Zumba class this morning. I figured those skills would give me the energy to keep up with Miranda on the playground or at the pool this summer. With sweat rolling down my face, moving left, swaying right, I looked into the mirror and saw my reflection smiling back at me. It was a tired smile, but it was a proud smile. I am taking care of me.

I started cooking. With the help of my brother and sister-in-law, I am cooking healthy recipes that my whole family seems to enjoy. With the help of my best friend since high school, I made fish for the first time last week. It was so good, Miranda picked it up and ate it with her hands. Then she devoured the string beans that went with it. Huh??

My mom tried her best with me, but I was stubborn. I refused to eat or try certain vegetables just because. Miranda is stubborn, too, but I am hoping if we set the precedent when she is young, she will never know the difference between good food or bad food. She will just know how we eat at home. And then I can rest easy knowing that I am giving her the best foundation that I can.

None of this is easy. I guarantee you we will have pizza night again - sooner rather than later. And when I am cooking, I like to have a nice glass of wine with me. We also still have Girl Scout cookies in the pantry and several boxes on order from my niece. For the first time, I know I do not have to get rid of everything in the house. I just have to make smarter choices when I can. And when I can't, it's ok. One meal at a time...one day at a time.  It's not a perfect system, but it's sure better than how I have been living.

"Bless me, Rabbi...I have made an awful lot of mistakes but I think I finally found a way to fix them."

My shopping partner

Passion

I was recently asked what I was passionate about. I did not even have to think about it. I am passionate about my family.

My first daughter died at 37 weeks, a mere three weeks before she was due to be born. I did not know that could happen in this day and age and I was devastated.

My second daughter was adopted two days after she was born. Originally, I did not know if adoption was the right path for us and I was scared and anxious and afraid.

Both of these girls, the one I dream about when I close my eyes and the one I hold in my arms when I am awake, have made me a mom and have helped me come alive.

A mother, to me, does everything she can to make sure her child is safe. She loves unconditionally and gives completely.

I missed out on being a mom to my first daughter.  Although she made me a mother, I feel like I never got to be her mom.  With my second daughter, I had to learn how to do everything as if it was my first time around because it was. There was nothing easy about any of it and yet I enjoyed it (and still do!) more than I ever thought possible.

Maybe it has nothing to do with death and loss and grief. Maybe I just see this amazing child and know that she deserves it all.

I want my living child to grow up strong and loved and confident and fierce. I want that with my whole heart. 

Yesterday, we took advantage of the unseasonably warm temperatures and went to the local zoo. My sister-in-law and nieces joined us there. I could not stop smiling. Despite all that we have been through, we were just a couple of moms, taking our kids on a little adventure, passing the time with laughter and love and memory making. It was nothing and everything at the same time.

There was a time that I did not think we were going to be able to raise our children together. I worried that I would never parent a living child. I thought I would be lonely forever.

I am so happy that I was wrong.

My passion is my family. Those of my blood and those of my heart. To me, they are one and the same.

 

This Is Us

Much has been written about the new NBC drama, This Is Us. It’s a heartfelt show that really resonates with viewers far and wide. Many are calling it one of the best new shows of the season. I am one of those viewers.
 
The core of the show is the mother and the father. They are pregnant when the show begins and expecting triplets. They are excited and scared and nervous and anxious.

Unexpectedly, one of the babies is born still. They have to mourn that loss and learn how to move forward with their lives.
 

Expecting to bring three babies home from the hospital, they are heartbroken.  

As luck would have it, there was a baby who was brought to the hospital on the same day that the other babies were born who was without a home. 
 

They adopted this baby and brought him home and into their family.
 

As the children start to grow, each faces unique situations that make them who they are. 

The show is shown in the present as well as the past so that the viewer can see all the different versions of the characters.
 
One child, the only daughter, has struggled with her weight her whole life. She often felt like an outcast and tried every diet imaginable. She even flirted with gastric bypass surgery on a recent episode.

The biological father of the adopted child comes back into his son’s life. We later learn that he is gay.

So why do I care? Why does this show matter to me? It’s just television, right?

Well, my first daughter was born still. My second daughter was adopted. I was seriously considering bariatric surgery (met with the surgeon and everything) up until about three weeks ago. And my father was gay.

I like to think that my life experiences are so unique, but it turns out that many of the themes of my life (love, loss, hope, fear) are so common that they made a TV show about them.

It is interesting to see how Hollywood deals with some very real issues. I have been impressed with how they have handled a variety of topics. Plus the show was just renewed for two years, so it’s not going anywhere.

This show is a great escape for me. Sometimes I laugh. Often times I cry. These fictional characters have given a very real glimpse into my life. I applaud this new show and the perspective it brings.

Hate

It seems that the current political climate has brought out the worst in us. Everywhere I turn, I hear stories of hate. 
 

In 5^th grade, I was riding the bus home from school as I always did. A neighborhood boy chucked a penny at my head and told me that I should take it because my people were used to taking money from others.  Money that did not belong to them. I rubbed the place on my scalp where the penny hit and I felt tears well up in my eyes. What was he talking about? I knew I was different because I didn’t celebrate Christmas like the other kids on my block, but did different mean bad? And why was he so angry? I never understood it. I still don’t.

My mother was born in Brooklyn but raised in a small town in Pennsylvania. One year, while working her way through college and a department store, someone noticed her name tag and figured out (correctly) that she was Jewish. They asked her where she was hiding her horns. She was aghast. Her what? The customer was not being mean. Not at all. She just heard that Jewish people had horns and wanted to know where hers were. I think she also asked if she had a tail.

Ask any minority for a story of ignorance and hate and you will find they have more than one to tell.

When my non-Jewish husband and I first started to date, I told him early on that Judaism was a part of me. It is as much a part of me as my skin and bones.  He asked if I wanted him to convert to my religion. I replied that it was not necessary, unless he wanted to be Jewish. I can live in a house and a family that shares different views, as long as I am still free to have mine.

Why does ignorance breed hate? Why can’t we all get along? Am I naïve to think that a world in which we embrace our differences is a better world than one in which we are afraid to send our children to school or afraid to be out alone walking at night?

I have a young daughter. I do not want anyone to ever throw pennies at her. I do not want anyone to ask her where she is hiding her horns or her tail. I do not want anyone to dislike her right away simply because she has different religious beliefs as those around her. Or because she was adopted. Or because of this thing or that thing.  I want her to be proud of who she is. I am proud of her every day, because she is true to herself. It's easy to be when you are on the brink of turning 4!

I want a world that is safe for her. I worry more and more that what I want for her is quickly slipping away. That scares me so much more than I can say.

Let’s learn to love more and hate less. Wouldn’t we all be better off that way?