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.