Welcome back, air

Last night, I breathed in air from both nostrils. If that wasn’t gift enough, immediately following the smooth inhalation of fresh air up the entirety of my nasal orifice, I then exhaled carbon dioxide through both nostrils concurrently. Sometimes, I need a few days of nostril blockage to appreciate the gift that is a clear nasal passageway. Isn’t that always the case-that we don’t appreciate what we have until we don’t have it? Well, acknowledging the functionality of my body was long over due. I made it to the end of an entire day without sneezing or sniffling or shoving an olbas oil inhaler up my nose in a vain attempt to menthol-ate my nostrils. Sweet, sweet air, how I’ve missed you. And you came to me uninterrupted and in the nick of time for Mother Nature took an enormous snow dump on my driveway last night, and I had to take a deep breath and shovel the mini van out of her frozen feculence.

If I’m being honest, I only shoveled a small portion of the driveway. After every snowfall, young gentlemen arrive like snow fairies from the sky and offer to shovel for a reasonable fee. I am happy to support local entrepreneurs who will do the work that we so loathe-even if it means I have to raid Asher’s piggy bank to come up with the cash. After they completed the task, I had to clear the car of snow. My neighbors kindly informed me that in 2009, New Jersey added a law to the books that makes it illegal to drive with snow on top of the car-something about endangering drivers when the shelf of ice slides off your car and flies into the windshield of the car behind you. Yeah, ok. For legal and practical reasons, I had to clear the 18 inches of snow off the car and then off the driveway. And after weeks of sickness and only just breathing out of both sides of my nose, I’m tired. Are you playing your violins for me? It’s tragic, isn’t it--all that physical work for such a delicate flower such as I am. Luckily, I survived to write another day.

And here I sit in front of the fire with my headphones on drowning out the carnage of brother to brother combat taking place before my very eyes on the sofa. Pandora provides a pleasant soundtrack to sibling skirmishes. Soon, there will be tears, and I’ll be forced to remove my headphones and intervene. Until then, I choose to enjoy the fire and the music and the air flowing in and out of my nose.

Ice and sick and beating the odds

It was a glorious day in New Jersey. The freezing rain pelted the tops of my head and momentarily froze my brain upon contact. I had to take deep, relaxing breaths after I got home from this morning’s harrowing school run. Though I did not pile into a tree or hit anyone else, I felt like Indiana Jane and the Suburb of Doom. Ploughing through frozen slush in the mini-van, I tried to keep an eye on the road through pellets of ice against my windshield. I avoided as many other drivers as possible lest anyone else swerve in my general direction without warning. Visibility was low and tension was way high. Somehow blasting the radio at teen-aged volumes made me feel more secure behind the wheel. The classic rock station distracted me from the short films of death previewing in front of my eyes. This weather blows.

And yet, I wasn’t in a hurry to return to my warm(ish), dry home for it had become a house of sick. Asher has a fever and has been attached to the sofa like a dryer sheet to fleece unable to tear his glassy eyes away from the television. Gabriella spent the better part of last night conducting an orchestra of chunder in our bathroom only to lie completely immobilized all day in bed. I failed to block out her tortuous sounds of biological upheaval throughout the evening leaving me tired from a night without sleep. I do not play house nurse very well. To be fair, the two of them require little when they are as pathetic as they are. If the weather were nice, I would have left them to stew in their own spores of sick, but I was stuck in the house, on call and on my own while Levi got a couple of hours of preschool after a delayed start. It would have been peaceful if it weren’t for the occasional plea for juice.

A few nights ago, I suffered from the same illness that struck Gabriella. She was less than empathetic. The morning after my volcanic episodes, I told her that I was still feeling fragile. She countered with, “We really need to clean out the play room.” I managed to find a reservoir of energy enough to fuel a ferocious tirade, but I’m not convinced that Gabriella understood how delicate I truly was. It’s not her fault that my people have learned to carry the world on our shoulders, suffer in silence and string together cliches in our darkest hours. How could she know? This morning when I asked Gabriella how she was feeling, she whispered, “Like crap.” And of course I said, “Sounds like the perfect time to clean out the play room.” She was not amused, and I quickly ran out to get her some ginger ale.

Apparently, January 24th is the worst, most depressing day of the year, according to British psychologist Dr. Cliff Arnall. He actually calculated variables like weather, debt, time since Christmas, etc. to determine that we are at our most low on the third Monday of January, the 24th. And he did this fancy math in the name of PR to help companies promote travel packages. Feeling down after Christmas? Have you let your resolutions slide, already? Does your life generally suck? Book a vacation, why don’t you?

Well, I read this article only after getting home after my car took a wrong turn on the way to preschool and ended up driving around Reykjavik. And it was shortly after I had removed all the layers, defrosted and delivered a mango juice to my ailing son that I began plotting trips over the coming months. Must get out of town over President’s Week. Don’t forget to book air fare for a Bar Mitzvah in April. And somewhere in between those two dates, Gabriella and I will be celebrating a 10 year wedding anniversary. We may not make it to a sandy beach any time soon, but there is adventure in our future; hopefully enough to get us through the most miserable time of the year. I’m also looking into purchasing a portable phototherapy light to turn my frown upside down.

Good luck on the 24th! Here's hoping we can all beat the odds.

Debbie Friedman

Debbie Friedman died yesterday, January 9th. If you are not Jewish or a musician, you might not know that Debbie Friedman was a composer and musician whose influence on Jewish music was profound. She infused the sounds of 60s and 70s folk music into prayers and songs making Jewish music contemporary and accessible to North American Jews of all ages. She made over 20 albums and sang at Carnegie Hall as well as countless other synagogues, churches and concert venues.

It was my sister Rachel who emailed me the news. If you didn’t know already, Rachel is always the first person to alert me to deaths of all famous people be they actors, sports figures, politicians or musicians. The subject line yesterday read, “HUGE death”. Debbie was strictly A-list.

I knew who Debbie Friedman was but I had never seen her in concert, and until today, I couldn’t name 5 of her songs. So, I went surfing on the web. “That one is hers?” “She wrote that song?” “I had no idea that was a Debbie Friedman song!” I must have listened to an hour’s worth of Debbie Friedman songs by the time I called it quits.

As I’m scrolling through videos taking in her androgynous style, if you can call it style, I thought to myself, “Hmmm. Folk singer, lesbian or both?” Sometimes, it’s difficult to make these kinds of important distinctions. And I went web searching once more. It took me ages to find a couple of obscure references to the fact that Debbie Friedman was a lesbian. Yet, in the growing list of articles announcing her death last night, not a single one made mention of the fact that Debbie Friedman was gay or that she might have been survived by a partner.

The director of our Jewish preschool called while I was writing this blog. She wanted to know if I could sub for a teacher in the morning, but before she could even say, “Hello,” I asked, “Did you know Debbie Friedman was a lesbian?” She did. “Ok, well don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to assume that if YOU knew she was a lesbian, most everyone else probably did, too.” She agreed that was a fair assumption.

I called Rachel.

Deborah: Did EVERYONE know Debbie Friedman was a lesbian?

Rachel: No.

D: Did you know?

R: No. Do we actually know this for a fact?

D: Seems to be common knowledge. I mean, if our preschool director knew, it’s likely lots of people knew. Word on the street is that she initially wanted to be a cantor, but congregations refused to hire an out, lesbian cantor, so she took it on the road. But why is it that not a single article mentions that she’s gay or that she was shafted by her own people because of it?

R: That’s not who she is, Honey, just like that’s not who you are.

D: True, but it needs to be said.

R: But why should it matter?

D: It shouldn’t, but it does. If being gay were not an issue in any synagogue, it wouldn’t matter. But until then, we have to hold up our upstanding, gay Jews and say, ‘Hey! This one’s a winner! Her love of Judaism was infectious, and her music enabled so many of us to connect to our religion, find a deeper meaning in our prayers and have fun singing Jewish songs. And she was a lesbian. And it shouldn’t matter.’ But no one is saying it. Why?

R: Sounds like you’ve got the scoop. Get writing.

D: Are you trying to get rid of me?

R: There’s a chance I might get lucky tonight. Hey! Are you writing this down? Stop it!

D: It’s been so long since I’ve been able to suck a blog out of you.

R: Well, maybe you should have posted that story I told you about the slit log.

D: Yeah. I did write that one up. It’s on my PC somewhere, and ever since I switched to Mac... What was the story? Evan wanted to play the slit log?

R: He wanted to stop taking piano lessons, but we said he had to take an instrument. He decided he would play the slit log, instead.

D: Well, maybe I can work that story into this post. I bet Debbie Friedman played the slit log....if you know what I mean.

R: Nice.

D: Maybe I’ll bring a slit log to services this Shabbat in honor of Debbie Friedman. I’m leading the children’s services this week. We’ll sing some of her songs, and I’ll tap out the beat on the slit log, and I’ll say: ‘Debbie Friedman wrote that song, boys and girls, and she liked vagina. And now, she’s dead. Shabbat Shalom!'

R: Good luck with that.

D: Thanks. Good luck, tonight. Hope Ron plays your slit log.

R: Thanks.

The secret word is FUN

I was yelling at my children again while driving home from the grocery store. Asher and Levi were getting on each other’s nerves, and they were fraying the very ends of mine. On such occasions, I can sometimes tune them out. At other times, I might crank up the volume of the radio until my ears are throbbing to the beat of the music and I have successfully drowned out their nagging voices. While the music is blasting, the boys either stop their evil-doing and laugh and squeal and beg me to turn the music even louder or they’ll stop their evil-doing only to focus on a common enemy - me. They’ll whine and cry and kick the seats in protest. And, then there are the very rare moments when I’ve reached a state of mom-vana.

Mom-vana: The state of ultimate happiness resulting in supreme zen mothering; like nirvana but higher, more evolved. Buddha should try locking himself in a house with small children and see how easy it is to transcend all suffering.

If I happen to be in a state of mom-vana, I can speak with kindness to my darling children and gently redirect them from negative behavior to peaceful conversation or educational activities we can enjoy together. Sadly, the state of mom-vana eludes me most days.

On that day driving from the grocery store, I stopped at the traffic light, whipped my seething, contorted face around and chewed them both a new one. At which point the 4 year old said, “Just calm down, Mom.” And I laughed. And then they laughed with me. And I realized that we all needed to chill out. “You’re right, Levi,” I said. “I need to calm down.” Since then, I’ve been making more of an effort to do just that.

“Is that so, Deborah? And how’s that working for you?” I hear you sneer. Well, just ducky, thank you. I’ve turned a corner because I now:

1. Let myself off the hook for having bad days and not being the model mother 24/7.
2. Allow my children to have bad days, too, without researching strategies to prevent all forms of misconduct every time they melt down.
3. Make memories.

A note about #3. I lose my shit sometimes, but I don’t want my kids to look back and say, “All I remember about childhood is that Mom used to lose her shit a lot.” I want them to say, “Sometimes Mom used to lose her shit, but remember all the fun we had?” In an effort to feel like I was actually in control of this parenting gig and not in a constant state of reaction, I decided to seek fun and make memories....even if that meant going sledding.

After Gabriella and I saw The Pee Wee Herman Show on Broadway, we decided that Asher would get a kick out of the show, too. We got the Pee Wee’s Playhouse DVD box set to test the waters, and sure enough, Asher loved Pee Wee. Last week, Gabriella took Levi to see a movie, and I took Asher to see Pee Wee; his first Broadway show. He sat motionless and mesmerized throughout the entire performance. I actually couldn’t tell if he was enjoying it until the very end when he stood up with the rest of the audience to give the cast a well deserved standing ovation and an enormous smile.

This wasn’t just any Broadway experience, mind you. Thanks to our magnanimous stage manager friend, Lois, Asher (and I) went backstage after the show and uncovered all the amazing secrets of the playhouse. Lois showed him how the puppeteers operated the puppets and how the deep fried onion rings seemed to catch fire and how Pee Wee flew. That’s right boys and girls, Pee Wee flew way up Mecca Lecca HIGH!

Magnanimous Lois and her apprentice


And just when we thought we couldn’t stand another minute of excitement, Lois asked Asher, “Would you like to meet Pee Wee?” And we were off to seek out Pee Wee. Along the way, we met Melissa who maintains the costumes and Josh the sound guy.

Melissa presents Asher with Jambi gems

“Look who’s coming, Asher,” I squeaked. Miss Yvonne was just as gorgeous off stage as on, and she chatted with Asher for a spell. Before we met Pee Wee, Lois introduced Asher to Jambi and Cowboy Curtis and Bear, too. “Wait!” as Pee Wee said to the King of Cartoons in his show, “Let me pick up some of the names you just dropped.” You’ll forgive me for sharing. It was truly a magical experience.

I got all misty-eyed when Asher met the cast. He was very personable, and the performers were all incredibly sweet with him. More than once, a cast member said to Asher, “You look like you could be related to Pee Wee!” “It’s a Jewish thing,” I said. Other than that, I tried to keep my big yap shut so that Asher could drive the conversations and make his own memories.

Thank you Lois for enabling the memory making. You rock!!
Thank you to Melissa for gifting Asher some rare and magical Jambi gems. Thank you Miss Yvonne, Cowboy Curtis, Bear and Jambi for giving Asher your undivided attention and for fielding his questions thoughtfully. And thank you Pee Wee for being such a mensch.

Resolutions shmesolutions

Every year I go out of my way to avoid celebrating the new year. It’s not that I have anything against New Year’s Eve festivities. I’m usually too spent from everything that precedes December 31st--not to mention too big for my britches after all the festive gorging. So, by New Year’s Eve, I’m tired, it’s cold out, I have nothing to wear and all I want to do is curl up in front of a fire and ring in the new year at home in my slippers. I boycott all New Year’s Eve parties.

I also feel very comfortable boycotting New Year’s resolutions. January 1st is probably the worst time of year to commit to anything new. Like many of us who indulge over the holidays, health and fitness tend to be popular resolution themes at this time of year. Well, I’m not about to go jogging in the snow or shlep to the gym in the dark hours of the morning. I don’t even like to go sledding with the boys. What can I say? I’m slothful.

But when there’s a snow storm in New Jersey over winter vacation, I have no excuse but to layer up and out-of-body-experience myself to the sledding hill. This past weekend, I had the luxury of only taking Asher while Gabriella and Levi buddied up in the city.

At this point in time, sledding is still an activity in-tandem for the first few runs. Asher refused to go down that hill unless I was right behind him. Going down the hill isn’t such a torture (insert obvious joke about how much fun it is to go down). It’s the death-defying hike back up the icy slope that has me muttering curse words every time I discover a new muscle in my leg that punishes me for waking it out of a deep sleep or whimpering with every misstep causing me to wipe out face first into the snow.

Asher was particularly wary of hurling himself down a steep, slick, snowy hillside with only the padding of his jacket and snow pants to protect him from the elements and other sledders-gone-wild; go figure. Yet, I had used up all of the year’s allotted empathy, and I tried to convince him that all would be well. “Get on that sled, Asher. There’s nothing to fear. And anyway, you don’t have far to fall,” I tell him. He didn’t buy it.

Invariably, I ended up back of that fucking sled holding on to my terrorized child wishing I was anywhere else. I wished I were at home with others of my kind--the indoor kind-sipping a cocktail and making fun of all the poor souls out in the cold. But instead we’re surrounded by sporty ski-types with their color coordinated ski outfits juxtaposed with our mismatched jackets and snow pants and accessories that were clearly purchased a la carte; those ski-types sport their ski-goggle tan lines and ski lift badges still hanging on their zippers from the family ski trip to Stowe last week. While they speed down the hill on their snow boards, we try to get to the bottom in one piece and pretend to enjoy surrendering all control.

The last few runs were Asher’s and Asher’s alone. He finally found the courage to go solo. And while he had a fine time, he missed my company. Shortly after he graduated to independent sledding, he decided it was time to go home - and have hot chocolate, and I was happy to oblige.

Note mismatched ski outfit

But the subject at hand was New Year’s and making resolutions. I’m resolved in my strategy to make goals throughout the year as opposed to making resolutions on this one occasion. I guess you could say that my New Year’s resolution is to continue to check in with myself and change whatever needs changing all year long. You could say that if you absolutely had to assign me with a resolution. Whatever gets you through the day. If making resolutions for yourself also gets you through your day, then good luck with whatever you put in place to make 2011 an outstanding year.

Happy New Year!