To All The Kids (Now Adults) At 102nd Street School in Watts

This morning I am listening to Barak Obamas acceptance speech and I am thinking about, Veronica, Ronald Clark, the young children at 102^nd Street School and my mom.

My mom raised me by herself in a middle class neighborhood in Los Angeles called Beverlywood. There were only a handful of African Americans in my elementary school, and in my 4^th grade class there was just Veronica. 

One day she got sick in school. She threw up. I came home and said, “All black people throw up in school.” Shortly there after, when the first self standing magnet school in Los Angeles was created to respond to mandatory integration with voluntary integration, my mom put me on the bus. (It should be known, that at the time I felt like I as being sent to Siberia)

There was no way on this earth that her daughter would grow up with a narrow mind. My mother would not stand for that. This was a school that integrated kids from all over Los Angeles; we were bused us from all of our neighborhoods to the corner of Pico and Arlington. It was the state of California's effort to respond to mandatory busing with voluntary busing. And so I went. My eyes were open. My heart grew tolerant. My life changed.

In my mom's effort to raise me well she went back to school when I was 6 years old and became a child psychologist for the Los Angeles Unified School District. She opted to do her work in what was called at the time, South Central Los Angeles, or historically, Watts. She worked at  102^nd Street School. A school where they had "shoe day." This was a day when she and the social worker went to Payless to buy shoes for those children who came to school barefoot. This was a school with children who, when they saw images of scales on the IQ test and were asked what they were for, they said, "for weighing drugs." This answer was not found in the back of the WISC-R manual. These were kids who lived in the projects, 8 families in two rooms. These were families with children who my mom would bring home now and then. They were “her kids.”

Ronald Clark was one of "her" kids. He was this thin, beautifully dark skinned child with a wild Afro. He lived in a home that I will never know, with alcoholism and drug abuse. I remember asking him what he wanted to do when he grew up and he always said the same thing, “I want to get out of Watts.” We had this sense he would.  You see, he was the most brilliant artist, in particular he designed clothing. His pictures were as professional as any I had seen on TV. He was a true talent. My mom used to tell me that these young boys had no one to look up too. Many had strong mothers, but more had absent fathers and they turned to gangs to belong to a group of boys and men who would take care of them.

My mom took me to her school once. On the way there she said “Elissa, we do not visit poverty, unless you plan on staying. This is not something to gawk at, this is something to fix.”

When we got to the school we had an experience that has forever remained planted in my heart.

Black children from 6 years old to 6^th grade were running up to my mom yelling her name, “Ms. Schiffer, Ms. Schiffer!” And it was such a stark contrast. My blond haired, blue eyed 5”11 mother and these small African American children, literally running after her. Why were they running? They wanted to meet her daughter. They heard she was coming and that she was close to their age. 

I was standing right there. 

Could they not see me?

So they asked, “Ms. Schiffer, where is she?!” My mom stood in amazement.

So I said, “Its me, I am her daughter.” 

 They stared in complete silence. 

They came up to me and touched my long brown hair and looked into my green eyes. They looked back at my mom and looked at me with complete bewilderment. Later I learned why, as one by one they came to her office.

My mother was kind and loving to these children. She took care of them. She was like a good mother; their mother, and remember they were small children.

When they saw me, another small child, close to their age, they saw the opposite of who they were. 

I was a "white girl." 

If I was a white girl then that must make Ms. Schiffer...White.  

How could that be, they wondered? 

White people were not kind, they thought. 

White people were not loving, they pondered. How could this be? 

She stood in stark contrast to all they knew to be true about white people in a world when there was no one they could look up to who was African American. She had a crisis on her hands. I never knew how she dealt with it, but years later when I heard from numerous children, who were going to college, I figured she didn’t do to badly.

Children, who became young adults, would look her name up to find her. They would thank her for her help, her guidance, and often...the shoes. 

Ronald Clark called years after she died and wanted to tell her he "got out." He was going to the Fashion Institute. He was going to make it and he wanted to thank her. I had to tell him she had died, a few years earlier. "Well then," he said, "I want to thank you for letting me be one of 'her kids.' She changed my life."

So when I was watching Barack Obama I hoped Ronald Clark was watching and Veronica and all the small children (now adults) at 102^nd Street School who looked up to my mom as someone they thought was black till they met me.

You have someone now. He is president and history was made yesterday. 

But it was also made 30 years ago, when my mom taught small children to not see color and when she reminded Ronald Clark he could get out of Watts. Lets pay attention to all ways, big and small, that we make history, and together maybe we really can change the world.

Kids Don't Divorce Their Grandparents

Growing up in Los Angeles, a wonderful Saturday morning ritual would take place: My grandmothers, Rae and Mary, would walk to the beauty shop together. This was a fabulous place. Older Jewish women, sitting in rows, with curlers in their hair while others would get their hair teased in an effort to hold to an era that was running from them despite their efforts to hold on. Manicured nails in orange hues would dry in the hair sprayed air. For a little girl it was heaven on earth; every one "oohed" and "aahed" when I would visit and they would go into their purses and some treasure would come out behind the Freedent gum. "She's a shaina maideleh" (beautiful girl) they would say....

When they were well coiffed, they walked to my grandma Marys house and then drove to my house.  "The ladies" (that included me!) would go to Century City; a beautiful outdoor mall in Los Angeles. We would have lunch at Bob's Big Boy and I would get to tell them about my week. We window shopped and my mom and I would walk hand in hand.  Those Saturday mornings are memories I can touch in their vividness. 

My grandmothers loved each other very much, however they were very different women; one from Brooklyn the other from Minneapolis. 

One never learned to drive a car ("Who needs a car, sweetie, God gave me a good pair of feet"), and the other defined independence by the mere fact she had a license to drive. 

One carried her cash in her bra ("No one is ever gonna find it there, sweetheart") and one carried a purse so tightly I was convinced the blood would stop rushing to her clenched fingers.

One never owned a house of her own ("What?! I am from the Bronx, who needs a home?!"), the other a proud homeowner.

They loved each other. They loved me even more.  So when my parents divorced, my grandma Rae (my dads mom) said she did not divorce my grandmother, my mom or me, and nothing would change. The Saturday morning ritual continued, until my grandma Rae could walk no more due to lung cancer. (She never smoked a day in her life by the way).

My grandma Rae died 2 years before my mom. My grandma Mary will be 93 in December.  I don't have parents who would be grandparents to Elon and Eliana.  

My grandma Rae reminded me then as she reminds me now: that the  importance of grandparents in the lives of children has nothing to do with adult choices that lead to divorce. 

So when I asked the kids this morning, what they were doing that was special this weekend with their dad and grandparents, each said the same thing. "It is just special that we get to spend time with grandma and papa." 

That is how it should be. 

The fact that Brian and I are not right for each other has nothing to do with how right their grandparents are for them.  More importantly,  Alan and I create the safe space for them to love their grandparents  because we honor the children and that relationship. We take pride in rising to the occasion when so many people can't even fathom that.

My grandma Rae is kept alive in my ability to appreciate the love my children have for their grandparents. Her essence is in their spirits when they look forward to "just being with them." And the fact is, I would rather keep grandma Rae's memory alive that way, because I wont be caught dead reaching into my bra for a five dollar bill.

Living in the Difference

When my mom died the Jewish holidays changed. Jewish life was at our center and the holidays encased us in this sense of peace and safety that penetrated my senses each year. My mom engaged in Jewish life fully, and was centered by its nuances.

When she died I have described it with the following metaphor: When you go hiking and you jump from one cliff to the other, there is this moment in time when you are between both cliffs. The earth is far below and there is no guarantee you will make it to the other side. You hover over the vastness.

Losing my mom at 16 is that place between the cliffs.

I was pushed off the ledge. Pushed with the force that took my breath away, made my head spin and my heart stop. And there I hovered. I imagined on the other side would be a life that would save me from pain and loss.

On the other side would be marriage. Then, I thought, I will get my Jewish holidays back. I will create my own traditions in the image of my mothers joy and Jewish life in my home will be like it used to be.

It didn't happen.

Ah, I thought, when I land on the other side and I am caught by the arms of motherhood, then...then I will be able to recreate the holidays for my children, and in their eyes I will see my mothers spirit on the chaggim.

It didn't happen.

Ok, I get it now, I was married to the wrong man. I married the right man. So now...now, with the right husband and the kids I will hand carve the holiday and my mom will somehow usher in the palpable sense of centerdness that she created each year for me.

It didn't happen.

Here we are again at the holidays. I have the people: A loving and committed husband, who is a wonderful father and step-father. I have extraordinary children, and even a very loving dog.

I have spent countless years trying to recreate feelings, not so I could be present in the essence of the chaggim, but so that I could try to not feel the pain of my loss. I have been like the small child, who when told to hide in a game of hide and seek, stays visible to all, but covers her eyes and "hides" in the middle of the room. That is what I have been doing.

And grief finds me each time.

Grabs me.

Shakes me.

Grief reminds me that life IS different. I have to live in the difference, lean into it, and I have been running from it all the while.

When I create the details of the chaggim for my family, if I can stop trying to "make it like it was" maybe I can accept it as it is.

So I bought the chicken, the apples, the honey and I will bake the challah. I will set the table with her china and her silver.

I will live in the difference and maybe in that place of bittersweet acceptance, she will seep in through the open place in my heart that has never been filled...and there she will stay, so I can hold on when I need to and let go when I must.

Shana Tova

We Got Tired Pretending We Were Amish

Here in Cleveland, we do snow. We understand snow drifts, snow piles, snow storms, snow flakes, snow fall, lake effect snow and snow that falls just because. 

However, when the wind blows and knocks out the power...that is harder to do.

Sunday, when we lost power, we lit candles and appreciated the quiet hum of the neighborhood. 

Monday morning, when I tried getting ready for work by candlelight I thought:

 I could be in Galveston, so be grateful. This is an adventure.

But when I tried to get my kids up and dressed in the dark, lets just say they seemed to be missing the spirit of adventure. When I didn't want to open the fridge to let the cool air out, I was getting a little crabby as well. When I could not figure out what to feed myself or the kids, saw the shadow of my frizzy hair in the mirror,  knew my make up was probably too dark, and the kids were cranky, I said, "We are going out to breakfast!" 

So there we sat and I tried to make the best of it. 

"Just think, because the power is out, you get a chocolate chip pancake." They looked at me over their milk cups. Four eye rolls. I wasn't winning them over.

So I said, "Lets pretend we are Amish." At least that sparked a conversation and got their minds off the fact that the Amish don't have computers or tv's.  As for me, I was trying to figure out how to save hundreds of dollars of food we just purchased Sunday afternoon. I guess the Amish don't keep kosher.

I was not sacrificing my kosher meat, no matter how Amish I was pretending to be. 

When the kids came home on Monday we still had no power.  I made what dinner I could and we trekked our freezer full of food over to a friends house, where it was sparred. My husband bought ice and put food from the fridge  into coolers and left them closed as well. On Monday night before we went to sleep we noticed that across the street, they had power. For a moment I thought, at least if I was Amish, we would all take care of each other. What kind of neighborhood do I live in? No one checks in with the other side of the street to see if we were OK. Was there anything we needed? I just don't understand that.

By Tuesday morning, we knew we had lost the rest of the food in the fridge and the kids were not happy. My husband, who lives to take care of me and put a smile on my face, found a generator he could borrow, and off he went to get it. 

He cleaned the old gas out. He put the new gas in. He turned it on, and that sweet hum gave him faith in the hope of electricity. He plugged something into it....nothing. He tried again. Nothing. Now we had a generator and even that did not give us electricity. 

All I could think, was that I had to see clients and by this time my hair needed a zip code all of its own. See, if I was Amish I would wear one of those nifty caps and then frizz is a non issue. 

When I came home from seeing clients, I crossed over adventurous, jumped over the crabby, launched over the cranky and was just pissed. 

"They forgot about us," I whined to my husband.

 "No, they didn't. They are helping other people," he reassured me. "We will get our power on soon," he said trying to get me out of Pissyville. To no avail. I was firmly planted there. 

The kids read by flashlight and informed me they were not eating cold cereal again, Eliana was in tears because this disrupts the routine she counts on, and Elon was forgetting his homework at school.  

My husband and I sat down to eat dinner. I popped popcorn on the stove and found a piece of wet cheese at the bottom of our cooler. 

"OK," I said, "I am done being Amish, I want to go to a hotel." 

He looked at me, again trying to rescue me from the land of Pissyville and said, "This will all be over soon, you'll see." 

With the incredulousness of a teenager I thought, "WHAT-EV-ER!"

Well there was day, there was evening, there was darkness and there was light...at about 3:00 am this morning.

Alan went to work and Eliana was with me in bed at 4:30 am, after a terrible nightmare. Hot cereal was served, hair was defrizzed, and makeup was applied so I didn't look like a call girl.  

Ah, life returns to normal. 

Looking Through the Emotional Dust

I was in the parking lot of a local supermarket today and could not help but overhear a mother talking (yelling?) to (at) her adult daughter. 

"They don't want the kind of shoes you have, they want old beaten up shoes. How could you think that they would want your shoes. Don't you know better...."

The conversation trailed off as I walked to my car, hoping to not hear the rest, but also wanting to get a good look at the daughter. Was she looking at her mom? Did she roll her eyes like I did at 16, or do grown daughters not do that with their adult moms? I could not see her face but I did think she was probably grateful that in life, cartoon bubbles don't pop over our heads broadcasting our thoughts for all to read. 

I hear these kind of interactions frequently, just with different words and different players. I hear them at schools and at stores,  from people I know well and random encounters. 

I listen and really, I never judge because I am not on that road. I never will be. 

I feel like an outside observer of an archeology dig that is mysterious to me; one that I may never fully understand, but I am  eager to uncover the treasure, so  I peer through the emotional dust.

I have this image of what it would be like to be a grown woman with a mother.  

I know that my image is of A mother, not my mother. 

I have no idea what kind of woman my mother would have been now that I am nearing 40. Since it is my image, I can make it look and feel like anything I want it to be. I don't have to live with the reality of  strained interactions and shattered expectations that I hear from so many women. I mean if I am going to make it up, it is going to look like those old Folgers Coffee commercials. We sit and talk and love coffee and all is right with the world because all we have to worry about is the quality of our coffee in the percolator. Its my damn fantasy, after all.

Look, I do hear plenty of women talking with deep love and respect for their mothers. I hear of important connections and conversations and  of joy experienced with grandchildren. I hear of shopping, advice taken and advice ignored with a polite smile. I see a process of self reflection that take adult daughters on journeys towards mothers they have previously walked away from.  

I watch it all removed from my self, hovering over experiences wondering what it would be like for me. I can only stay in that place for a moment, because it becomes a painful fantasy. I don't have an adult vision of my mother and so I am forced to create the Folger's commercial. 

Perhaps if I could just remember her voice; hear it in my heart at the times when I ache, maybe then I could live on memory lane for a little bit longer, but for now, I just visit.

My Children Contain Me

I have friends who get this dreamy look in their eyes when they think about the fact that every other weekend my children are with their father. I can see the images in their heads:

She must sleep in.....
Ahh the quiet...
I bet she shops wherever she wants for as long as she wants...
She can eat a meal all the way through...
No fights to breakup...

I am sure there are more images that come to mind, and while some are true, none of it really makes a whole lot of difference to me.

Don't get me wrong, there is one part that is invaluable and a true blessing. I am one of the few couples in my peer group who has every other weekend alone with my husband. We are so fortunate to have this time together (especially with a second marriage) and each weekend we do, we are very grateful and recognize how completely unusual it is.

Even with that, my children contain me. Sitting here and writing, knowing they are not in the house and not coming back until Sunday evening, feels as if a part of me is not breathing. I have often likened it to wearing someone else's shoes; it may be the right size but it has me completely off balance.

There is a reason why children leave home when they are 18. They are ready (for the most part) and we have gone through our own developmental stages where we can get our heads around it, if not our hearts. There is not a mom (and dad) I know who finds it easy to say goodbye at college, but it does make intellectual sense at the very least.

This has never made sense to me.
It has never felt right.
I have waited 5 years for it to feel right.

I think I will be waiting a long time...maybe when they are 18?

Or, maybe not.

A Mom Who Puts Her Children First is Not Anti-Feminist

I like to think of myself as a courageous woman. However, I know with many things I am actually quite a coward. I read and hear women articulating thoughts and ideas about what it means to raise a family; things that may be construed by others as politically incorrect.  I agree with a lot of what I hear and I sit back feeling a mixture of guilt (for having others speak my truth) and relief, that I am not the one being lambasted for my thoughts. 

So, I guess it is time to be courageous.

Lets get the obvious out of the way:

1. Yes, a woman can be a mother and have a powerful job.

2. Yes, a man can stay home with his children and be an effective caregiver.

3. No, we do not ask the same of men when they seek powerful positions, as we do with women and we should.

4. Yes, I know most women need to work.

 What I am going to talk about is not about ALL women, ALL mothers, ALL children or ALL jobs. I am talking about Sarah Palin, her family and the job she is looking at. 

There has been a lot in the news about Palin's 17 year old daughter and her pregnancy. What I hear less about is the 4 month old baby. Why is that? 

Why is it, that we live in a country where it is politically incorrect to say that the baby should come first? 

Why does talking about children first become reason to call people anti-feminist? 

Think about it. Is there really something controversial about saying that children are important and need to be cared for by parents? 

So I will go out on a limb and say something heretical.

Mothers are important. 

They can't be replaced, take it from someone who lost a mother prematurely. We cannot be replaced by dads, grandmas, nanny's, au-pairs, or a babysitter. 

We are different than men. Oh my goodness, did I say that? Yes, we are different. Is this also some anti-feminist statement? No, just a fact. We provide something to children that dads do not, and dad's are very important and they provide different gifts to children as well. Anyone who knows me, know how much I value dads and their impact on their children is profound. When they are absent children are changed forever. That we ignore this when men take on powerful jobs, is an embarassment.

Sarah Palin is running for the V.P of this country. We do not look at the candidate and ask if she can be V.P, we look at her and ask if she can be president. Given the age of McCain, this is a reasonable question to consider here. Her husband is not a stay at home dad. If he was, I would not be writing this. If he was a stay at home dad, who was leaving his full time job to care for his children, then so be it. I have not read that article yet. 

Do we really live in a country, where we say that Palin has a strong work ethic because she went back to work 3 days after delivering her baby? 

Have we become so fearful of being politically incorrect and offending someone that we cant see that there is something wrong here? 

This is a mom who could take the time because she had leave. The state of Alaska would have run just fine for the time she needed to be with her child after the baby was born. 

We get a finite time with our children. Most people in the country don't have choices about being home with their children or going to work. What bothers women, at least the women who are willing to speak, is she does have the choice. She is not going to run for V.P, because she did not have a job and needs to put food on the table. And yes, when you decide to run for the second highest office in the country, you put yourself out there for scrutiny. It comes with the territory. 

I work. My mother worked. I would come home each day and wish she was there. Each day she was not there for me after school, I felt alone and uncomfortable. I understood why she needed to work. I am just sharing what it was like for me. 

We have arranged for our children to be picked up at the end of the day by their dad, step-dad or by me. This is no easy feat for us, but we all work and some how we manage. We have all chosen professions that are conducive for our children to be at the center. Is that heretical also? Is it anti-feminist? Notice, I said "we." I am not the only one figuring it out. 

So, lets not be so surprised we are looking closely at Palin's choices. She is putting herself out there to be looked at, and I will not be afraid to say that moms are invaluable and we need to put our children first. There is nothing anti-feminist about that. And if there is, if I am going to be judged as living in the dark ages because I want to find a way to put my children first, then give me a boar and a club and send me into the cave...just make sure my kids are there too.

Will Lunch With A Woman Over 60 Ever Be Just a Lunch?

I am blessed with friends of all ages. I have a few friends who are in their 60's which makes them the age my mom would have been, had she lived past 41. Now and then we meet for lunch and I try to be completely present for these moments. I talk about my kids and work; things I struggle with. They listen with open hearts and no judgement. (From what I hear, that is not the way an actual mother would listen, but this I will never know).

They say things like "You are an extraordinary mom," and "your children are who they are because of the mother you have been to them."

I wonder if they can hear the open thud in my heart at the end of these lunches, or if they see the ache I feel in knowing they will return to their real daughters and I will be left behind.

I want to learn to leave these lunches with joy for having the privilege to have women in my life who are my moms age. I want to leave these lunches with gratitude and a sense of blessing.

For now, it takes my breath away that after 23 years of not having my mom, I can leave these lunches missing her as if she left me yesterday.

Perhaps it is because she left a 16 year old 23 years ago. Each time I experience I life cycle event in my life, the loss feels new because in that moment the loss is new.

I remember when my kids were 7 months old and for the first time they started to play together. They were on the living room floor in our apartment in Albany, NY. They were smiling and laughing and started to notice that the "other" was doing the same. Elon found a beach ball and pushed it over to Eliana and she screeched in delight as she pushed it over to Elon. I had my first real moment of joy with my babies (after a long bout of post-partum depression) and so I picked up the phone....to call my mom.

She had been gone 13 years and I went to call her. In that moment it was a new loss. I lost the mom who would have taken complete pride in knowing her grandchildren "found" each other and were playing. I lost the mom who would have noticed I was happy for the first time in seven months. 

In that moment I lost her again.

So when I leave a lunch with my dear friend who is my mother's age, I quietly lose her again as I wonder what lunch would be like with my mom as I approach the age that her life came to an end.

That is why, in the field I am in, we no longer talk about stages of grief. If I were to go through grief like a flight of stairs,  I would have been done long ago. 

 

We grieve as we live, and neither is neat, clean and orderly. 

The life long task, is to own self discovery and notice that awareness (even when painful) actually makes life richer, textured and complex in positive ways.

The challenge is to pay attention to the moments of learning and to continue to go out with my friends over 60, because they have so much to teach me.

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The Death of Expectations

I have been thinking lately about the death of expectations. I do not mean to sound morose. Although as a therapist who specializes in grief and bereavement, we "death people" as I have been lovingly called, are actually quite a hopeful bunch. After all, we get to journey with people on a road of discovery that most just hear of.

The death of expectations is an awareness that the images and ideas of how we thought things should be, are just that, images. Lets face it we all have these images. We hold them for marriage, children, work, friendships, our financial solvency, what kind of woman or man we want to be, our weight, our parents....I could go on. Before we have what we want, we can see the image clearly, right? We can almost taste it, we want it so badly. It is clear in our minds eye. Then one day we "have" what we dreamt about. Time passes and the image is this transparent, often blurry thing we cant get a handle on. We can push our hands right through it and sometimes feel its essence. Sometimes we think we understand what we are seeing, but in a different light it changes and we have to start over again.

Our images of the "should be's" conveniently provide us a nice pair of dark glasses which shade us from the true spirit of others. For example, I must admit, that not until recently did I get that each one of my friends meets me where they can. I can meet them there if I choose, but I can't force them to move faster, work harder or think they should dedicate their lives to me because I am terminally unique. In an effort to have my friends conform to my image of what things should be like, I was not able to see the gifts they had to offer...I was busy squinting and adjusting the picture so it could be the way I wanted it to be. That is exhausting and not terribly rewarding.

I also has this image of what life could be like when I had a daughter. I am not a day dreamer, so I did not lay up at night thinking about pink dresses, manicures and girl days at the mall. But once she was here I did think about how we could enjoy our lives together, talking and connecting with each other on some deep level. I would do better than my mom did with me (please hear Harry Chapin at this juncture),
and she and I would have this great foundation
(the butterflies and doves are flying by now)
so when she was 16 and I was alive to enjoy her, I could have that mother daughter relationship I didn't get to complete.

Did I paint my image clearly?

Can you see it?

OK, now for those of you who know my daughter...do you see the problem here?

The universe does not always provide you with what you want, but rather, often, you get what you need, whether you think you need it today or not. Which is why I have to smile now when I think of Eliana's name. Her name is Hebrew and the translation is: My God Has Answered. That is what her name means. Her name is not, My God Has Answered My Prayers, or My God Has Answered Yes, and it is not My God has answered by giving me all I expected. It is simply My God has answered. The answer is a continuous revelation and learning from a daughter to a mother.

God answered with a little girl whose smile lights up a room.

God answered with a little girl who needs me in her way, on her time, and in her space.

God answered with a little girl who connects on her terms. Very few kisses, hugs, snuggles or conversations. These are my images of how it should be. God did not answer me with that daughter.

And there in lies the death of expectation.

I mourn this.

I see what a typical almost 10 year old girl is like, and that is not who I have. I have pretended that this is ok, because if I did not pretend, how horrible am I?

I lost my mom too soon. I wanted a daughter who I could have the relationship I imagined. Is that so wrong?

I expected it.

Who am I, to expect such a thing? But I did. And now, I mourn the death of this expectation.

And there are those of you who read this who will be outraged because you don't have children and I do. You will curse me and say be grateful for your blessings, you have a daughter. I get that, believe me, that is what makes the death of expectations a mix of sadness and deep shame.

Sadness because I need to let go of the "should be's" and guilt for being sad in the first place, since I have been blessed with this extraordinary child and My God Has Answered.

Best Cuts To The Rescue

This smile says it all. When we think we have made mistake as parents, sometimes our children remind us to extend the same forgiveness to ourselves that we so readily give to them.

I Forgave and She Forgot

My cousin wanted to know if she could show my blog to my 92 year old grandmother. After all, what grandma would not want to read her grand daughter's musings? 

I have a complex relationship with my grandmother. My mom died when I was 16 and I went to live with her. 

Note to parents: Get guardians for your kids. 

If you can help it don't let it be the grandparents.  Even though it sounds good in theory, think about it? You have a grieving child  or teen with their unique needs and then you have a grieving parent who as lost a child too soon. How can anyone's process and healing be honored? I was told loud and clear, in no uncertain terms, that her grief was worse than mine. Period. End of conversation. Where do you go with that when you are 16? No where good. That we have a relationship today is a testament to my ability to forgive and her ability to forget.

So what does that mean for us today? Look, I love this woman. She is all I have left from my mom. 

In order for us to heal from the deep bruises we endured by being slammed together when we were grieving, I do not share my pain with her. I can't. She cannot take it in, and to be quite honest, why should she? She has lost both of her daughters. She can leave this world without hearing my angst about parenting, love, loss and so on. 

Pass on the cute stories about my son, when I cut his hair to short. Share the ones that make you smile and laugh. But when you read one that gives you a sense of how my loss shapes my life day in and day out, please remember that in order for her to live her life she has had to take my experience of loss and erase it from her heart. I can live with that. I have to. 

Keeping My Day Job

Last night Elon asked Alan and I if we could give him a buzz cut. He said he knew what "number" on the razor to use. He has seen his dad do it. It is easy. So we thought, this couldn't be too hard. Alan and I are good at many things. We had a temporary moment of insanity and took the razor in our hands. 

We will keep our day jobs.

We watched in horror as well took this beautiful boy and made him look like a child who had some strange illness that caused bald patches and thick patches of hair to remain. He looked into the mirror and burst into tears. He took a shower and I think I heard him cry in there too. Here he is, three days into the 4th grade, wanting to be accepted, and we gave him reason to be embarrassed and self conscious. The only redeeming part of this disaster was that he wears a large kippah and when he put it on, it covered a good part of his hair. I do not think I ever saw him more enthusiastic to wear the kippah. 

I figured a good extra year of therapy was in store for our boy.

This morning, I got to Eliana. "Please say nothing about your brothers hair." "But mommy..." "No butts!" OK.....off to breakfast we go. Eliana sat quietly, her hazel eyes avoiding her twin brothers head. When he left the room I asked her what she thought. "Mommy, it is real  bad."

My heart sunk.

He went to school. If it was Eliana, she would be right here next to me all day. Fact is, if it was me, I would have not gone to school. But we went. Kippah on head and the promise that he would go to the barber after school so they could fix our mistake. 

I called him after school to see how he was. "Mommy, it was fine. I showed Gideon and Maya. They thought it was cool. I'm gonna get it cut real short!" 

So is Alan. He doesn't want Elon to be alone in the little fuzz that will be left on his head when the day is done. Better him than me. I am too attached to my curls. But thank goodness I have a forgiving and resilient almost 10 year old who has a great sense of humor and knows who to show his bald head to and a great step dad who is along for the ride of his life.

For All Those Who Told Me To Write A Book

I have been told by many that I should have been a writer for a living. Of course my grandmother did not think about the fact that supporting myself on my writing would have been problematic. Not that the life of an educator and a therapist is proving to be financially lucrative, but it does bring meaning to my life, and there is no amount of money that can purchase that. Bill collectors do not care about altruism. That should be a title of a book, but I digress. 

So I wondered if I did sit down to write what would compel me? What makes me laugh? What do I think about? What answers am I seeking to the numerous questions I ask? My 8th grade history teacher wanted my hearing checked because I asked so many questions. Little did she know, one day I would have a degree in philosophy. I wonder Mrs. Ray is now? Teaching in a big lecture hall where students leave their minds at the door and tape recorders on the chairs in the back. No questions asked, nothing learned, nothing gained. 

In any case, I have been sending out emails for years to my friends on my ruminations about parenting, in particular, so I I thought I would have this a new forum for my thoughts. I struggle with the ego part of this. That I have something to say that could be construed as important or worthwhile that people would want to read....But I shall put my best font forward.