Susan's Musings

My No-Sweat Marathon

The reverse is true as well. Not too many years after having children, you spot them saying or doing something and realize that they are sounding or acting just like you. If the child is sounding warm, loving and intelligent that leads to a metaphorical pat on the back. If the child sounds whiny, angry and immature, the result is much less pleasant.

Then there is the shot out of the blue, when a child does something and you can only shake your head and say, “Where in the world did that come from?”

This is exactly the reaction my husband and I had when our perfectly warm, loving and intelligent daughter, Miriam, announced that she had signed up to run a marathon to raise money for Leukemia/Lymphoma research. Now, during her growing up years, Miriam saw us bicycle, occasionally hike and go sailing every chance we got. Barring a frantic sprint to make a plane, she never saw us run.

Yet, here she is, increasing her mileage each week as she trains in below freezing weather in Manhattan, along with about one hundred members of her team. Most of them have run half marathons or in some other way built up to this event. Not Miriam. Once she decided to run, she jumped in the deep end. Those genes are perfectly recognizable as coming from her father. I’m afraid I need to take responsibility for the competitive spirit that forces her to not only run, but to run farther and faster than the others. Perhaps I should have sometimes let her win at Candyland.

The truth is that we are intensely proud of her, even as we question her sanity. Miriam has a crowded schedule juggling a full time job, after-work-hour supplementary jobs, and a busy social life. Unlike the rest of her running mates, she doesn’t run on Shabbat and so needs to fit in extra hours to make up that time.

This may be Miriam’s first venture into running but it is not her first undertaking supporting causes that she finds worthwhile. At ten, she, along with her sister and two friends, set up a lemonade stand to raise money for the Make a Wish Foundation, which does an amazing job granting special trips and experiences to very ill children. Miriam, her sister, Ruthie, and their friends Sarah and Shayna opened for business in front of the local supermarket and manned it for many days. While it certainly helped the bottom line that Sarah and Shayna’s father, radio personality Michael Medved, announced the location of the lemonade stand on his show, the girls worked hard and none of them ever suggested running the stand for their own benefit. They were thrilled and justifiably proud when they mailed in a check for a large amount. This current endeavor is larger than that one, but the combination of spunk, charm and stubbornness that made the lemonade stand a success is still in evidence.

Running a marathon doesn’t even make the bottom of my “things I want to do” list. I don’t even read detailed coverage of the Boston Marathon. Which makes Miriam’s current marathon obsession one of the perks of motherhood. When one of your children, who constantly provides you with fragmented glimpses of yourself in the way she sounds and acts, does something so outside your own comfort and interest zone, it is a world-expanding occurrence. I can experience new sensations and pursuits vicariously without any of the accompanying pain or discomfort. And I can support a good cause without even depleting my entire store of sugar. 

You are welcome to read Miriam’s marathon story and/or help her reach her goal at http://pages.teamintraining.org/nyc/vancouvr10/mlapindbqu.
 

One NIght of Fun?

Last Tuesday night was just plain fun. Endless pundits have analyzed Scott Brown’s victory but for me, while I am very concerned about the many issues confronting our nation, the bottom line was straightforward: David vs. Goliath.  An easily dismissed, good guy brought down an arrogant, inflated and heavy-handed party machine. Now comes the hard part.

I recently enjoyed a January 25th Wall Street Journal Marketplace section article which I believe might have captured the best advice I could offer the incoming Senator. The Marriott chain of hotels is adding some boutique hotels to their brand. While Marriott clearly has its concerns about losing a well crafted image by branching out, the owners of the boutique hotels have the opposite concern; will they lose their individuality? One quote in the article jumped out at me. A prospective hotelkeeper says, “The key for us is to maintain our appearance to the public that we are still an independent brand and not part of a chain that tends to get rooted in what I’ll call sameness.”

Now, there are some huge plusses in sameness. As a prospective hotel guest, I like knowing that my room will be predictably clean and pleasant. A large chain’s tried and tested web site is a plus. Being able to rely on quality control measures inspires confidence. At the same time, it is less exciting to stay at a hotel that looks exactly like the hotel one has stayed at in ten other cities. Large chains simply can’t offer the charm and personality of smaller hotels. During our family’s travels, one of the most enjoyable overnight experiences we have had was at a small bed and breakfast in Oregon. We also have had nightmare experiences at similarly unique places. If the boutique hotel owners and Marriott can craft a deal providing the guarantee of top notch service and accommodations without sacrificing the singular experience of a boutique hotel, both sides and the consumer will win.

Which brings me back to Scott Brown. Doesn’t he face the same challenge? Last Tuesday’s election was a repudiation of the president and the bait and switch game he played with the American public. When Barack Obama promised transparency during his election campaign, most Americans thought would apply his transparency promise to governing processes. As it turned out he meant transparency in national defense, putting American lives at risk by making security information public while his health care bill was being secretly crafted in closed sessions. It became clear over the last few months that his calls for bipartisanship meant embracing Hugo Chavez while shunning Republicans. His party deserved to lose and it did.

But the Republican Party did not necessarily win. Scott Brown won, conservative fiscal principles won and Americans won. The election held as strong a message for Republicans as for Democrats.

The November 2008 election which took place over a year ago was a wrenching one for me. As a child, my mother used to take me with her when she voted. I actually have no idea for whom she voted in any election, but she transmitted the message that voting is a solemn privilege and responsibility. In the last presidential election the choice was between two candidates, each of whom I thought would be disastrous for America, though in drastically different ways.

 After much discussion with my husband and hours of deliberation, for the first time in my voting experience, I left the section for president and vice-president unmarked. This was the opposite of apathy; it was an intentional message. No matter what party I am registered with,  I am an independent voter. Don’t take my vote for granted. I think a lot of other Americans might feel like me.

I see last Tuesday’s Massachusetts’ vote as giving the same message. Mr. Brown is a Republican and his challenge will be to be a team player while still retaining an identity as a man of integrity and principle. Unfortunately, almost by definition in politics, there will be times those two needs will clash. What will he do if the party asks him to campaign for a candidate whom he thinks will make a poor elected official? Or to trade his support for a bad bill in order to get someone else’s vote for a good one?

Will the Republicans only rejoice in the Democrats well-deserved comeuppance? Or will they recognize that the entire game of politics and power is becoming repugnant to many Americans? The answer will affect Senator Brown. The choices he makes when party and principle clash will tell us if last Tuesday night was a step towards America’s salvation or just a fun evening. 

How Dare You?

This past week my daughter brought her homeschooled six year old son in for his state-required annual evaluation. Now, Emily (name changed upon request) may have her own family and business and present herself to the outside world as the competent adult she is, but she is still one of my babies. This is to say that the possibility exists that I might not be totally objective when a bureaucrat assaults her.

But to my mind, when an arrogant, rude, officious, taxpayer funded “expert” evaluator has the gall to suggest that Emily is anything less than a supremely competent and talented mother and teacher, that official is saying more about herself than about my daughter.

I don’t expect this pen-pusher to be familiar with Emily's high school record, or know that she attended college on a complete academic scholarship. She has no way of appreciating that while in college majoring in biology, the administration implored Emily to enroll simultaneously in the School of Education and get a teacher’s license. Obviously, she isn’t aware that after attending a few education classes Emily felt that the standards for the courses were so appallingly low and the ideology level so high that it would be a waste of her time to enroll.

It is also unrealistic to expect this administrator to know that while a full time student in college, Emily simultaneously taught geography in a private junior high school and was called in by a puzzled principal who told her that in all the years that he regularly asked students what classes they especially enjoy, he had never before had anyone, let alone a majority, answer “geography”. Nor was this taxpayer-funded woman present six years later when some of the girls from that class ended up on a bus with Emily’s younger sister and proceeded to sing the songs Emily had taught them naming all the countries of Africa and Asia.

The official had no way of knowing any of those things. But she did see a six year old reading, writing and doing math at an advanced level for his age. She ignored those things and instead berated my daughter for not having dated worksheets and reams of tests.

She observed a child excited and enthusiastic about history. That was unimportant. She scolded my daughter for having a method of instruction that didn’t correlate with the authorized forms she was meticulously filling in. 

She faced a youngster who reads and writes a second language in addition to English. First graders aren’t supposed to do that, so it was immaterial.

Similarly, my grandson's fascination with and knowledge about airplanes and his understanding of the processes by which plants and vegetables grow was irrelevant; all that mattered was the lack of “official” science curricula.

All of which helps explain why large swathes of public education are a mess. There is no doubt in my mind that the children in the state in which Emily lives would benefit more from having Emily coach and evaluate their teachers rather than being evaluated herself. Quite frankly, I think any unbiased outside observer would agree.

News Stories and Other Works of Fiction

The Age of Maturity 

There's a Skunk in the Cinnamon

For years realtors have seduced prospective home buyers by warming a foil packet with cinnamon and brown sugar in the oven. Restaurant owners know that certain colors stimulate appetite and mall owners are aware that picking the right music to play in the background can encourage sales.

But, of course, in the end whatever defects the house has are still there, the food presented still needs to be tasty and the goods offered in stores need to be attractive and well priced. If the smell, sight and atmosphere of a place enhance a good experience they are a bonus; if they are meant as smoke and mirrors to hoodwink naïve individuals and cover up flaws they are unethical.

When it comes to public safety, these types of shenanigans are dangerous. How many people are shocked, just shocked, that while law-abiding passengers dutifully tossed out their water bottles and hand creams before boarding a plane this past Saturday, a terrorist ignored the rules? Probably the same people who believe that not letting passengers out of their seats for the last hour of a flight will really solve the problem.

But, like you, I lead a busy life. There is family to take care of, a back-log of work which requires attention and bills that need to be paid. We have, over the past few weeks, received greetings from friends updating us on their families’ growth and activities. We had a chance to see much of our own family. Had we been able to master the time/space/money continuum we could have attended the wedding of three friends’ children last week. There are many blessings for which to be grateful.

If I truly focus on the massive terrorist network out there or the health bill that was rammed through the Senate, or the arrogance, incompetence and corruption of those in office in this country and around the world, I would have to turn my life upside down and react. I don’t even know what form that would need to take, as I see no wise leadership on any horizon.

I feel like a mother in 1862, busily canning fruit and making sure that her sixteen-year-old son wears a sweater when he’s outside. Those are her immediate concerns; what can she do about the threats looming on the horizon? It is far easier to smell the cinnamon sugar, while enjoying the décor and music.

Too Much Quiet?

“Does it ever feel too quiet, after so many years of having a full house?”

My friend, Avivah, who is homeschooling her nine children sent me the above question. It’s one I get asked pretty frequently. Variations on the theme are the questions as to whether I am bored or at loose ends since my children are no longer at home full time.

Many years ago, when my children were all under eleven and I could barely picture an empty room let alone an empty house, I was speaking to my somewhat older friend, Zahava. At that point her children included some who were married. Zahava is a very loving mother whose face lights up when one of her children walks in the room. When her eldest daughter moved with her husband and baby to the opposite coast I made a comment suggesting that my friend must be feeling sad. She looked at me in amazement and said, “My daughter is doing exactly what I raised her to do, doing what it takes to build her own home. I’m thrilled.”

Zahava’s words helped me realize that even when changing diapers or teaching a young one to tie shoelaces, I wasn’t actually raising children; I was raising adults. Items like toilet training or helping a child learn to cope with winning or losing a game might be short term goals; but they are only resting points on a longer path. I often told my children that I was more interested in their happiness at thirty than at thirteen, forty rather than fourteen, etc. But that was a message to me as well. The time that sometimes seemed endless while I was intensely focused on my children, would, with God’s blessing, actually be a relatively short period of my life. I could give it my all, and have time for other things at a different stage.

Perhaps this is a roundabout answer to the original question. The direct answer is that, for right now I relish the quiet in the house. I loved the years when, as a homeschooling mom, I almost never had the house to myself (with occasional forgetful moments of how fortunate I was) and now I delight in being able to listen to a Torah teaching or read a book without interruption. I enjoy being able to lay out some sewing or a project and finding it the next day exactly as I left it. I am having a great deal of fun and deriving much satisfaction from working in our business. I certainly wish I could have a “do-over” for some of my less than stellar mothering moments, but for the most part I feel that I put close to full time and effort into a job that has moved on to its next phase, and I am in my next phase as well.

I love talking to my children and seeing them and I fervently wish that some, if not all, of them will establish their own homes close to ours. I suffer when one of them needs me because they or their families are under the weather or struggling in some way. But, when everyone is at peace, building his or her life as I prayed they would, I find the quiet of the house cozy, stimulating and inviting.

Another Truth Universally Acknowledged

It was Shabbat afternoon, the lunch meal was over and we were sitting around the table, chatting and playing games. While we missed our distant offspring, my husband and I felt fortunate to be surrounded by our son, three of our daughters, two sons-in-law and a majority of our grandchildren.

Chatting may not be the right word. It would be more accurate to say that those adult members of the group who shared a bloodline were laughing hysterically, shrieking with excitement, and talking over one another. Time out for breathing was not on the agenda.

I remember when I was young, sitting with my cousins, watching my mother and her siblings behave in totally uncharacteristic ways. Alone, each was a responsible, level-headed adult with a healthy sense of humor. But when they got together, an explosive reaction resulted -- their funny bones were pumped on steroids. We, the cousins, watched in amazement and some bewilderment as our parents shared memories and jokes that not only predated us, but also seemed to suggest circles of attachments and affections that were beyond our comprehension. The tears would roll down their faces and the general hubbub was worthy of Times Square.

As Jane Austen said in her novel, Mansfield Park,

Children of the same family, the same blood,
with the same first associations and habits,
have some means of enjoyment in their power,
which no subsequent connexions (sic) can supply…

My husband often says that we get an insight into God’s reaction when His creations are kind to each other by knowing how we, as parents, feel when our children treat each other well. There were so many times when our children were young when their actions suggested that anyone was preferable to certain siblings; that the moment they could each go their own way, they would; and indeed, that if we weren’t vigilant blood might be shed. To see them seek each other out whether we are present or not, and to watch them support, encourage and enjoy one another, is the greatest gift they could give us.
 

Mixed Curses

One of the mixed blessings of business travel is getting a copy of USA Today delivered to your hotel room door every morning. Then there is the mixed curse of having easy access to TV. If you aren’t familiar with the phrase mixed curse, I do believe I just made it up. Since my dictionary definition of the phrase mixed blessing says, “an event, situation, etc. having both advantages and disadvantages,” I am defining mixed curse as an “event, situation, etc. having both disadvantages and advantages.” Like the proverbial half-full and half-empty glass, they may be technically identical but reflect completely different states of mind.

I truly believe that one of the greatest gifts my husband and I gave our marriage and our children was not having a TV in the home. The belief is reinforced every time I am in a hotel and see what is on. And what has been on for the last few days makes clear to me that the greatest issue of our time, at least for this week, is Tiger Wood’s infidelity. Fortunately, this morning’s USA Today offers help in understanding this subject.

In the article titled, “Why some men keep cheating,” the journalist interviews psychologists and other infidelity experts on the topic of serial infidelity. They discuss the issue using the words, “insecurity,” “narcissism,” opportunity,” and “entitlement.” Missing from the discussion are the words,” “wrongdoing,” “weakness of character,” and one of my favorites, “sin.”

There is an advantage at getting to peek at the media that millions of my fellow citizens consume each day. But it is a mixed curse that I can only take in small doses.
 

One Gift is Worth a Thousand Words

From an early age I was aware that a dresser drawer in my grandparents’ apartment housed a box with my name on it. Inside was a tablecloth, hand embroidered with pictures and, in Hebrew, the words “In honor of the Sabbath and Holidays”. Just as she had once done for my mother and aunt, my grandmother spent hours stitching this special cloth for me. I don’t know if she did the work when I was an infant, toddler or child. I do know that during those years when I was busy looking at a different drawer, the one which my grandparents stocked with Archie and Superman comic books, my grandmother was envisioning my being grown up and setting a festive table for my family. 

Though she was no longer alive by the time I got married, I brought my grandmother’s priceless wedding present into my marriage. In the years since, I reverently lay out the tablecloth for holidays and for special occasions such as when a newborn is spending his or her first Sabbath in the family. Each time I unfold the tablecloth from its original box, slightly battered from various moves, I am transported back to a time when my grandparents’ love enveloped me. I am a better wife, mother and Jew when the cloth is on the table, as its presence spurs me to act in ways worthy of my grandmother’s devotion. 

Many years ago, in the hope of passing that chain of affection down to another generation, I embarked on a quest to hand craft a Sabbath tablecloth for my first born daughter, lovingly named after my grandmother. A slight glitch developed as our family grew and I realized that the limited time I had to work on the cloth was when I was in the hospital for a day after childbirth or on vacation. Both those times were in short supply. 

Of course, I wanted such a treasure for each successive daughter as well. I knew I was in trouble when around the time of my eldest daughter’s twelfth birthday I finished her gift and realized that if I took twelve years to embroider something for my other girls, my youngest would be an octogenarian by the time her gift was completed. 

After boxing up the first tablecloth I immediately started on the next one and managed to have it done in time to serve as an engagement gift for my second daughter. But our six daughters are relatively close in age and I was in real trouble. Fortunately, as the children grew and needed less hands-on attention, I had more opportunities to grab time to work, even if it was only ten minutes before falling asleep. 

Our third daughter requested a wall hanging depicting a panoramic view of Jerusalem rather than a tablecloth. I readily agreed, relieved at the smaller size though the intricacy and complexity of the work was greater. I didn’t make it in time for her engagement or wedding, but it graced the wall of her new home during her first year of marriage. Before I completed that needlework, daughter #4 threw us a curve ball and got engaged. I hadn’t even begun to contemplate her gift! Last week, I finally finished her challah cover (the covering for the Sabbath bread), once again smaller than a tablecloth but incredibly detailed and elaborate. She and her husband should be able to open the package before their second wedding anniversary. 

As I’m quite sure was true of my grandmother’s efforts, much more than time and effort have gone into these gifts. The hundreds of hours spent on each one, as well as on the bag I needle pointed for my son’s bar mitzvah to hold the articles he uses in prayer, and on the gifts I have yet to begin for my youngest two girls, are meant as a way for me to encourage and care for my children when I can’t be with them in person. Each piece of handiwork speaks to my conviction that they will be true to their faith and families.  Each stitch carries a prayer, each thread an overflowing pool of love.

Baby TV

The Disney Company, which since 2001 has marketed Baby Einstein videos to parents of babies, recently announced that it was offering a refund on those items. That made me think of a piece I penned just over a year ago, before I began writing Susan’s Musings. While I’m glad that others are acknowledging what I knew, any pleasure is diminished by a recent Nielson study reporting that 2-5 year olds spend an average of close to 32 hours a week on TV and other electronic viewing. In light of these two factors, I think it’s time to publish my technically out-of-date, but oh so relevant piece.

In what one can only hope was a Halloween prank, the New York Times published a front-page story on October 29th informing America of a new study on babies and visual media. It seems that an overwhelming percentage of babies six months to two years old watch television, videos or DVDs for a median time of two hours daily.

What is most frightening is that the parents interviewed are not ignorant and negligent, but rather educated and accomplished. The same mothers who might look condescendingly on a previous generation that unwitting responded to claims that their children would benefit from scientifically monitored formula rather than utilizing the old fashioned and imprecise method of breast-feeding, are potentially causing more harm than their grandmothers did.

I have a few questions for those parents who are running out to buy the latest DVD in order to give their child a strong start in life.

To the mother in the article who said, “You want to make sure you’re doing everything you can for your child, and you know everyone else uses `Baby Einstein, ` so you feel guilty if you don’t,” I pose the question as to whether she understands the implicit messages in that statement. Firstly, that she is an unintelligent woman incapable of assessing a situation independently, and secondly that peer pressure should be the deciding factor in all of life’s decisions. I doubt those are messages she intends to pass on, but I have no doubt her daughter will learn from her example.

To the physician mother who doesn’t worry that hours of watching will stifle her children’s creativity, I ask whether she questions why the Disney line she likes is known as Baby Einstein, Shakespeare, Newton, Galileo, etc., when each of those gentlemen achieved the heights they did without a minute of video watching in their own childhoods.  I sense a scam and so should she. A con job where the most highly educated generation of mothers in history are being convinced that they cannot teach those small people they love how to count, recognize the alphabet, or even colors, shapes and sizes without the assistance of experts. Why is it that their grandmothers were fully capable of teaching those lessons through daily interaction, perhaps while unpacking a grocery bag filled with smells, tastes, shapes and colors while baby “helped,” and yet their granddaughters feel incompetent at the same task?

Most importantly, I ask parents to assess the possible consequences of their babies’ media habits. For a generation that avoids alcohol and tobacco from the moment it begins thinking of pregnancy and straps infants into car seats for the baby’s very first ride, there seems to be an amazing willingness to flagrantly experiment in this electronic area without realizing the damage it may be inflicting. Perhaps media is totally benign? But if it’s not, and ten years from now longitudinal studies reveal massive problems, no one will ever be able to return the damaged child for a second shot at infancy. What a sad commentary it is that an educated, talented group of young parents has been persuaded to abdicate responsibility in their most important task, raising the next generation, and instead be manipulated by corporations and “educational specialists” who see them as cash cows.

At best TV or video watching is a waste of that most precious commodity, time, but that gentle interpretation is probably false. What do I see as the most virulent consequences? I shiver at the idea of a generation trained almost from birth to “respect and obey the voice in the box,” or to give Pavlovian responses to computer instructions rather than to learn that enjoyment comes from interacting with another person. Do parents truly want their children to sit passively as images pass in front of them, rather than being actively involved in the world? Were families stronger and friendships more valuable when people sat and read books aloud, played games and discussed important issues or in recent times when millions fooled themselves into thinking they had close friends because they watched a TV show by that name? I doubt whether a child raised with fast moving entertainment, even masked as education, is going to have the patience, attention span or empathy needed to build relationships. People, after all, are so human. They get insulted, have bad days and are simply unpredictable. It takes continuous effort to relate to others, while machines are controllable. If they’re not, they can be replaced.

Aside from a distressing lack of confidence in themselves, there was one other answer that emerged from the article as to why parents were letting their babies watch the box.. TV and videos are effective babysitters. That honest answer is easily understandable. I used to pack for plane trips with my children with the precision and organization that goes into preparing a platoon for Iraq. I was armed with books, crayons, snacks, puzzles and games as well as with the knowledge that my participation was going to be needed to keep any of those supplies interesting for an extended period. It is much simpler to supply each child with two DVDs and his own machine. It is painstakingly slow and messy to make supper with a toddler’s help, and easier to divert the child with TV. It can be boring to read the same story for the thirtieth time in a week, while the computer reads it as if it was the first time.

But in the final analysis, physically conceiving and birthing a child is the easy part. Raising that child to be a caring, affectionate, intelligent, inquisitive human being is hard work. No media creation can do that. The earlier an introduction is made to an electronic medium, the harder that task becomes.
 

Hogwash! 

One of the guidelines at our Shabbat table is the “one conversation” rule. Unlike a dinner party where the polite thing is to converse with the person on one’s left and right ( I confess that my notion of dinner party protocol may be shaped by novels written in the 19th century), we want everyone at the table involved in one discussion. To that end, we try to gather a congenial group and to raise issues of general interest.

 Well, every rule has an exception. I can think of more than one occasion when our close friends Liz and Brian were over and the conversation turned to some principle of physics. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Brian is a brilliant physicist. His wife, Liz, might never have studied physics had she not married him, but in order to share more fully in his life, she has become quite a student of physics herself. My husband has a physics background and our son, Ari, majored in that subject in college. 

I can think of a few times that I, along with some of the other guests, were totally befuddled by the conversation this group started. While we all have perfectly respectable I.Q.’s and can speak intelligently on many subjects, when the physics talk began it left us behind. Despite that fact that we couldn’t all participate in, let alone understand, the topic under discussion, it was fascinating to listen to the exchange of ideas. 

In contrast to this, I remember one meal when we had three visitors whose words made absolutely no sense to me. Since they were all bright individuals, my first thought was that the conversation was over my head. After listening for a while longer I concluded that it wasn’t a lack of understanding on my part, but rather that our guests were spouting nonsense, influenced by a seminar they had just attended. 

I felt the same way when I read a recent interview with the actor Woody Harrelson. He was asked how he felt working on a film that had army support, considering the fact that he was against the Iraq war. His response included these words, 

“It was a good experience for me because it’s one thing to consider yourself pro-peace, like I consider myself…" 

Excuse me. What exactly does it mean to be “pro-peace”? There are valid and cogent reasons to either support or oppose specific military actions. Good people who articulate arguments on both sides are “pro-peace;” they differ on how best to achieve it. 

One of the steps on my road to homeschooling was listening to my daughter’s third grade teacher expound on how SSR would be a vital part of the classroom experience. SSR? I found out that stood for “sustained silent reading,” or in simple language – reading quietly to oneself. Considering that my daughter and her classmates would happily read from morning till night and turning reading into a time-limited, mandated school subject could only diminish the pleasure they got from books, I decided that in this case labeling reading SSR was an attempt to make an everyday activity sound complicated and in need of professional supervision. 

Similarly, depending on my mood, I either laugh or cringe when I see an area labeled a “gun free zone.” It would be more honest to label the location a “law abiding citizen gun free zone”. Fantasy play may be valuable for toddlers, but it is dangerous for adults. 

I love having Brian and Liz over and I am perfectly happy to be exposed to differing points of view. Unfortunately, our public discourse is filled less with people explaining cogent views to others and more with senseless babble designed to squash intelligent discourse. Words are too often used for propaganda purposes rather than enlightenment, to obfuscate rather than illuminate. In our years of homeschooling we provided our children with many hours of SSR. We also devoted many hours to twaddle detection, hopefully ensuring that they will be able evaluate what they read and hear.

House of Shame

It is true confession time.

A few weeks ago I wrote of the joys of meeting new friends by having strangers stay over for Shabbat. I sincerely meant what I wrote, which put me in an awkward situation when the very day after that blog appeared a close friend asked if we could put up a family of six that he knew. They would be visiting our city in a few weeks time.

Both my husband and my instincts were to say yes. Not only does our beloved friend hardly ever ask us for favors but we also knew that our Shabbat would be enhanced by anyone he found interesting.

But… For the past seven weeks we have been travelling for at least a few days every week. It has been a wonderful combination of business trips interspersed with the fall holydays shared with our children, but we have done little more in our house than run in, pick up some fresh clothing and run out. It is a mess. It is a mess with an empty refrigerator and piles of dirty laundry. It is a mess with an empty refrigerator, piles of dirty laundry and mountains of unsorted mail. You get the picture. Not only that, but the family was to arrive two days after our latest trek from the airport when the house definitely needed to take second place because we are under a tight deadline to tape a new audio CD. Not to mention that the abundance of bedrooms in our house have one by one turned into business space where it would be impossible to put small children without hours of tidying.

But…Shabbat is not supposed to be only a respite from a busy week. It is also a time for fellowship and feasting; long conversation and learning. And in the frantic pace of our lives we have lost some of that. Maybe this was an opportunity to recapture Shabbat as we love it?

Two weeks ago, at a Shabbat class I was teaching in the synagogue in Los Angeles that my husband and I served from many years, I spoke of my dilemma. How do we balance what we would like to do with what it is possible for us to do? How do we decide if aiming high will send us flying or if doing so will cause us to tumble to the ground?

The room was filled with women who have known me for a long time. Some of my friends shook their heads and said, “You’re going to do it.” Others shook their heads and said, “If you do this it’s going to wipe you out.” And my husband and I kept on trying to figure out a way to make this work until finally, reluctantly, we told our friend that we just couldn’t help by hosting the guests.

I don’t feel good about our decision, but I do know it was the correct one. There was simply no way to fit everything that needed to be done into the hours available. So, I am not really eating my words. I wholeheartedly look forward to a time when business pressures are less intense and we can once more open our home and fill our Shabbat table with guests. For now, knowing what I’m aiming for will have to suffice.
 

Pink and White Tyranny

Confessions of a Shopaholic was playing on a recent flight I found myself on. It may have been amusing, but it didn’t strike a chord in me. I am eminently capable of walking through a department store – especially an expensive one – without being tempted to buy. My weak spot is used book stores. I have difficulty walking away empty-handed.

And what gems I have found! One of my favorite discoveries was a copy of Pink and White Tyranny. While Harriet Beecher Stowe is universally known for Uncle Tom’s Cabin, she was a prolific author with other volumes to her credit. Pink and White Tyranny tells the tale of a New England citizen accustomed to competent, intelligent, God-fearing, principled and diligent women such as his sister. On vacation he meets and marries a different type of girl, one whose entire life training has been to catch a husband; she is a bit of mindless pink and white fluff.  The book is sad and humorous; depicting his arrival home with his new wife and his slowly growing comprehension that he has made a disastrous choice in his life partner.

The book should be heralded today as a feminist tome. Just as she railed against slavery in her best-seller, in this book Mrs. Stowe makes a passionate case for cultivating women’s minds rather than focusing only on their beauty. Yet I doubt if Pink and White Tyranny is going to enjoy a resurgence of popularity. Unlike the typical hero of today’s fiction, the protagonist doesn’t end up divorcing his unsuitable mate and starting anew with a partner who is his equal. His wife doesn’t end up rebelling against her upbringing and becoming the CEO of her own company while finding true love with a more forward looking man. Instead, the protagonist acknowledges both his stupidity and his responsibility and concludes that walking away from a commitment would only add another wrong to his life’s reckoning. His wife stays ignorant and self-centered, only realizing that she wasted her life once it is too late.

Ancient Jewish wisdom tells us that divorce is one of life’s realities. A few lives may indeed improve immeasurably after a divorce. Nonetheless, divorce is always a tragic reality that causes suffering to both people and God. There is great harm in allowing the idea of divorce to become culturally neutral or normative. The hero of Pink and White Tyranny decides that it would be unmanly and unethical to send away his wife in the hope of salvaging his own chance for happiness, In contrast, today’s novels often deal with divorce as an accepted and even lauded factor of life. In “chick lit” in particular, second marriages tend to provide sunshine and light that was absent from the first. We tend to define “normal” by what we know. I am grateful to be able to read books from a time when society as a whole treated marriage with the respect and seriousness that it deserves.

Those Wonderful Twos

Warning: My husband insists that people do not want to hear stories about my grandchildren. If I stretch my imagination, I concede that there may some people who feel this way.  If he is accurately describing you, I suggest that you skip this week’s blog.

I am standing accused of favoritism. Any parent with more than one child expects such a charge, but this time while my daughter is the accuser, it is not on her own behalf. She has noticed that I twinkle when her youngest son talks to me.

Here is the fun part of being a grandmother. I can admit that she is absolutely correct. I don’t have to explain that just as each finger is different but all are necessary, each child is different, etc., etc., etc. or rush to read up on child psychology. I can simply own up that when Gavi, who at 3 years of age doesn’t pronounce his “r’s” correctly, calls me Glandma, I melt.

Even when my husband and I stayed overnight giving Rebecca and her husband, Max, a chance for a very short getaway and Gavi woke me at 3 a.m. to tell me that, “Something vely scaly happened,” I was enchanted.

Part of the reason for this partiality comes from experience. Our youngest daughter had trouble with her “f’s” at that same age. All her siblings remember encouraging her to say words that started with “f”, because it was just so cute. Fabbos Foos (Shabbat shoes) was a particular favorite.

Had my oldest child, or maybe even our second or third, had difficulty with pronunciation, I would have been busy figuring out if she needed speech therapy or worrying about whether this would impact her future success. But time teaches lessons and having a number of children and then grandchildren teaches you to cherish the childish idiosyncrasies and imperfections, for they pass all too quickly. Maybe speech therapy will  be needed. It doesn’t matter. Those precious toddler years when children begin to articulate their thoughts and analyze their world, captivate me.

For the record, let me state that I love all my grandchildren and each has his or her personal qualities to adore.  But right now at this very moment, while I enjoy seeing Yosef’s confidence when he challenges me to a game of SET, marvel at Eliyahu’s construction abilities, find Bayla’s cuddles endearing, treasure Eli’s questions and am charmed by Adina’s first steps and kisses, I do admit that Gavi tugs most powerfully at my heartstrings. Those older than him have had their turn at that wondrous stage of development and those younger than him will reach it soon enough.

Rebecca needn’t pick up cudgels on behalf of her other children and nephew and niece. At some point Gavi’s speech will become clearer, his curls may be cut off or straighten out and he might even wriggle when I kiss him. I will still love him, but I probably won’t turn into a pile of mush when he speaks.
 

Strangers No More

It’s not unusual these days to hear someone boast that they have more than 1,000 friends. Of course, they have never met these buddies as they are Internet “friends”. Given the opportunity, most people might even be horrified at the idea of actually meeting many of their “friends”.

We have an alternative way of making friends. It’s called travel. My husband and I just spent a few nights as guests in the apartment of people we didn’t know. Naturally, after staying at their home they are no longer strangers. Over the years we have experienced the other side of the coin, hosting scores of unfamiliar visitors at our own home.

You see, Sabbath-observant Jews don’t drive for 25 hours, from just before sunset on Friday or a holyday’s onset, until about an hour after sunset on Saturday nights or the holyday’s end. Sharing in a family event means that all the guests need to stay within walking distance of the festivities. Because most people who pray at a specific synagogue live within a walking distance radius, communities spring up around the house of worship. When someone in a community has a celebration, the neighbors accommodate their guests. In different circumstances, if you are on a business trip or have missed a plane connection and you can’t make it home before the Sabbath, or if you are visiting a town for a medical procedure, finding a place to stay in a religiously observant neighborhood is highly desirable, if not a necessity.

It is not at all unusual for us to get a call from one of our children asking if their neighbor’s aunt’s son-in-law’s business partner can stay with us for Shabbat. Sometimes a reticent voice is on the phone, timidly putting out a feeler having heard that we live in the area its owner needs to be in over the weekend. Most synagogues have a volunteer who fields calls from those coming from out of town and needing a place to stay. Shabbat is a home centered happening.

Over the years we have met hundreds of interesting people who have added spice and variety to our Shabbat day and table. While we did have two unpleasant encounters that left us eagerly anticipating the day’s end, those experiences have been far outweighed by positive ones.

Stories abound of marriages and business partnerships that have resulted from these types of guest situations, and of course each guest becomes a potential host when you find yourself in his or her neck of the woods.

In our case this past week, our daughter Rena and her husband Yoni invited us to spend the holydays of Shmini Atzeret and Simhat Torah with them. While their apartment could accommodate us, it couldn’t do so terribly comfortably. So, they asked their new neighbors to put us up. As Sabbath hospitality system veterans, this couple readily agreed and graciously welcomed us. Should they ever visit the northwest, we hope to be able to reciprocate.

Many people look at laws such as the no-driving-on-Sabbath rule as restrictive and oppressive. For those of us who opt into the system these laws are seen as opportunities. This particular one is an opportunity to forge new friendships and expand one’s circle of acquaintances in a far more meaningful way than a click of a computer button can yield.

Outdoor Luxury

Around the world, Jews are in the middle of celebrating the holyday of Sukkot, known in English as Tabernacles.

For one week, we move out of the house as much as possible and into Sukkot or temporary dwellings constructed exclusively for this holyday. Various specifications, such as a roof made solely of branches, mean that we are exposed to the elements while sitting in the Sukkah (singular). While in the land of Israel Sukkot comes at a lovely time of the year, in other parts of the world people sometimes find themselves sitting in parkas with gloves and hats sharing the Sukkah with bugs and drizzle. We spend as much time as possible in our outdoor domiciles, eating, entertaining and studying.

But, paradoxically, as we spend so much time in our Sukkah, this is not a “roughing it” experience. We wear our finest clothing, bring out our best cutlery and crystal, and cook our most scrumptious recipes.  Unlike a camping trip where our expectation is to endure a certain amount of discomfort, living in a Sukkah is in no way associated with deprivation.

Of all the year’s holydays, Sukkot is given the appellation, Z’man Simchateinu or “the time of our happiness.” While there are many spiritual injections that Sukkot provides, perhaps one of them is the message that happiness comes from within us rather than externally. When struggling with poverty or battling an illness, it is tempting to think that we would be happy if only that obstacle could be overcome. Some of us think the only impediment to happiness is 25 pounds of excess weight or a different spouse. I am not trying to minimize genuine, formidable challenges. But the human condition is such that happiness doesn’t correlate with the ease of our life. We all know of lottery winners whose riches led to despair, of Hollywood stars living miserable lives, and others whose good fortune is equaled by their wretchedness. Thousands born with the blessing of good health and beauty torment their bodies in ways that those who don’t possess those particular gifts are hard put to understand.

At the same time it is easy to find people whose circumstances should seemingly engender depression, but who greet each day and all those they meet with smiling faces. No one wants to deliberately impose poverty, ill health or sorrow inducing conditions in order to see how well any individual would face an ordeal. Without assembling such an experiment,Sukkot provides a reminder of how ephemeral security really is and how the safety we feel in our homes is actually an illusion. At the same time it reminds us that God is found in all places and that as long as we have His shelter, we are never abandoned and unprotected. That reality strips away any pretense that our happiness is dependent on “if only,” making this truly the happiest time of the year.

Mysteries of Love

My husband picked up some groceries for me last week, which led me to ponder one of the mysteries of love. One of the signs of a healthy marriage is when you relate to behavior from your spouse with amusement or even affection, while that same action would irritate you if it came from anyone else.

Let me elaborate. There is no rational reason that I can’t tell one car from another. Early in our marriage if we needed to take two cars somewhere, my husband would say, “Just follow me.” After a few times when I ended up miles away, trailing a stranger, it became clear to both of us that color is just about the only distinguishing characteristic of cars to which I relate. I can tell a Volkswagen from a Hummer, but anything more subtle eludes me. Living as we do in an area where people frequ