All About a Barbie

I had the unfortunate experience to find myself in the mall a few weeks ago on my one precious afternoon off.  Apparently, after the age of 45, the punishment for myopia is either wearing reading glasses over your contact lenses, or wearing complicated eyeglasses.  If you don’t know what I am talking about, take a walk to the closest CVS and try on a pair of readers and it will all become very clear.

Anyway, my complicated glasses needed to be adjusted before the Seder, as they were so scratched, I literally could not see the words in the Hagaddah.  I was seated next to a bespectacled mother and her adorable son, who was clutching a bag from the Disney Store. He was begging her to play with his new Anna doll. 

In a hushed voice she suggested, “How about Olaf instead?”

“No, Mommy.  I want to play with Anna!”

“I told you, not until we are in the car.”

“But Mommy, why can I play with Olaf here and not with Anna?”

Now, the little boy is not having a fit, he’s just asking, but the mother is getting that panicky look on her face.  She glances at me, and shoots me that “I’m so sorry” look, and I can see she’s mortified.  I try to come up with an “I understand look,” but I’m not sure she sees me; she’s trying so hard to diffuse her “situation.”  The situation of her little boy wanting to play with a doll. 

When someone finally comes out to wait on us at the glasses repair counter, I offer to let them go ahead of me, but mom decides to take her son out of the store rather than have a scene.

As I wait while they work their magic (aka change the lenses and charge me accordingly)… I think about the playthings I had for my own children. 

Before we even had children, my husband and I had a lot of discussions about how to be as parents.  One of the biggies was no toy weapons in the house. I didn't get much push-back from my husband, though growing up, he and his brother had a bee-bee gun.  He also had some pretty terrible stories about that gun (and bee-bees in the ears) so he was fine with that.  (He had a much harder time with the “let’s go with only cloth diapers” conversation.)

And then we had our first baby.  David was beautiful, perfect little boy.  We filled his room with toys.  No weapons ever came into the house.  Ah, see how easy that is?  Our little house was filled with art toys and building toys and musical instruments. Stuffed animals and train sets.  Trucks and dinosaurs. 

When we learned that I was pregnant again, we got little David a Cabbage Patch doll so he could attend a “big brother” class, and there he learned about changing diapers, feeding with a bottle, and giving babies a bath.  When the class was over, he got a sticker that said he was a prepared big brother, and he barely played with the doll again.

When David was 3 ½ along came his sister, Emily.  He was doting and loving.  None of the typical jealousy that you hear about.  He “read” to her from his favorite books (which he had memorized) and helped pick out what she should wear.   As Emily grew, we stood by our “no weapons” rule with ease.  She was more into the art kits and the stuffed animals, and David, though not the greatest sharer, was always happy to play with her.

One day after a playdate with David’s two best friends, twin girls from pre-school, he came home and asked if I’d buy him a Barbie doll. I was a bit taken aback, and let it go.  I had never been allowed to have a Barbie, I am not into the whole Barbie thing as an adult.  I just don’t think it is a good image for women.  AND let’s face it,  David is a boy.  A few weeks later, David who is only about 4 now, tries a different angle with me.  He suggests that Emily (6 months old) might like a Barbie, because little girls like that.

The next time he has his playdate at the twins’ house, I go and hang out with their mom, who is also nursing a new baby.  We smile as the three kids are playing dress-up together.  And then they are playing Barbie dolls.  For Hanukkah, David’s babysitter asks if she can get him a Barbie, he wants one so much.  I say okay, but get a Ken too.   He is thrilled.  I even make her some clothes on my sewing machine.   Ken’s hands get chewed up by the dog, having been left lying on the floor.

Poor Ken.

Three and a half years later, and we welcome Samuel.  Born on Shavuot, and a gift to our family.  He’s our wild child from day one.  This little guy starts climbing out of his crib and running by 9 months. When David meticulously builds the Brio Train into a majestic web of intertwined tracks, and Emily builds the town center around the veterinary clinic, Sam bull-dozes it with a truck in each hand.  When David builds the marble machine to perfection and Emily times the red marble against the blue one, Sam knocks the whole thing down with the leg of the teddy bear she has just had me sew, and has put a “cast” on.   Sticker books are taken apart, and Sam is covered with Emily’s animal stickers.  David’s school projects are kept up on the mantle of the fire place or on his top bunk bed.  Child-proof gates at the stairs are a joke, more of a barrier for our poor dog than a deterrent for Sam.

But the kicker?  Everything… EVERYTHING has become a weapon.  The snorkel from last summer is a sword.  The hammer from the little workshop is a, well I don’t even know what, but it went everywhere with him.  Every tree branch is a gun or knife.   He gravitated to the Lego sets that had the pirates, or the knights.  And somehow the videos that were once benign Disney videos to the other two suddenly suggest violence to Sam.  He wore a cape every day.  (I had to send him to daycare with a dishtowel tucked in to the back of his shirt or he wouldn't get in the car.)

And then it happened.  My mother-in-law sent Sam, a cowboy gun and holster for his 3^rd birthday.  After that I said yes when my husband wanted to get the costume with the plastic sword and I tried to hide the gun. When Sam played, he put on armor.  Sometimes he got others to join in. Sometimes he just pretended by himself for hours.  As he got older he pretended with little figures.  They’d work out their battles.  They’d fight.  Sometimes little guys would die.  Then they’d get back up again and fight some more. I was more than a little worried about this streak in him, as I had never seen it in my other two children.

Do they even make these anymore??

And we suddenly we had weapons in the house. And more than that.  We had the Lego Pirate Ship. We had the Playmobile soldiers fort.  The Mystic Knights.  Zorro. We had costumes. Battle ships. Videos. 

So what happened to these two little boys and their sister?

Turns out, David is gay.  But that Barbie doll didn’t make him gay.  And letting him play the way he needed to play with no judgement on him undoubtedly allowed him to feel safe, at least at home.  Even at that young age, he identified that it was a “girl’s toy” but he liked it.   He is a teacher, and is deeply dedicated to his work.  His students love him and he makes a difference every day.

Sam is a gentle, peaceful soul. In fact he is a volunteer for Ultimate Peace, a Frisbee Camp in Israel that teaches Israeli Jewish and Palestinian children to work out their differences on the playing field.  Still in college, the only sword is wields is his wit.  He is one of those few people his age that can relate to children, teens, peers and adults. 

And their sister?  Well, Emily did not actually pursue becoming a veterinarian, despite the hints above.  One summer she interned in vet’s office and was so turned off, she changed direction.  She now works for a company that helps people afford solar heating for their homes.  This is her passion, and I kvell to see her thriving in a living that makes the world a better place.

So, did I have to change my direction? Yes. I learned that a child needs to play.  I decided not to put a limit on play, as long as no one was getting hurt.  I may not have quite understood what was happening, but whatever it was, they needed to get out through play.

I also learned that they charge a ridiculous amount for eyeglasses and for the Anna and Olaf dolls. And if your son would rather play with Anna or Elsa, it’s going to be okay.

Let all who are hungry...

Grandma's special plates, the ones I only use for gefilte fish, are already put away.
The seder plate is in the drying rack. 
Silver kiddush cups are upside down on a towel, the sunlight is hitting them just now making them sparkle.
Matzah crumbs are everywhere... as they will be all week.

My house is again way too quiet... this is the way it is now that the kids don't live here.  After the joy of the Seders and having them home, they have gone back to Boston to get back to work. 

As it has happened twice before, one of my three children was not here.  This year, my it was youngest who was not home for Passover, as he was away for his semester abroad.  He actually spent his Seder in Israel, with the same family that hosted me when I was 20, and I loved that.  But of course he was missed.  

I would like to share with you the words he sent to his sister to be read at our Seder table.  

Shalom and Chag Samayach from the holy land.  This is Jacob (Barr), writing while I wait for Yael Betzelel to take to me to her husband's family's Seder near tel aviv.  As it says in the Torah, B'shanah haba'ah b'tel aviv.

Last year at the Seder, Maddie (*point to self*) read us a portion of the New Haggadah edited by Jonathan Safran Foer where he examines the text "Let all who are hungry come and eat," and makes us really consider if we are following this commandment.  Foer  challenges us not to make this another phrase we say because of the holiday, but actually turn it into a reality.  Practically speaking there is no use saying that when you are already sitting down to eat.  Those who are hungry can't hear you.  

I've been reflecting on this since I arrived in Israel (did I mention I'm in Israel?), where I've been coasting on the generosity of friends and strangers for some time now.  I could list many many instances of when Israelis have helped me, fed me, even clothed me.  I went on a four day hike from the Mediterranean to the Kinneret and each night stayed with a different trail angel, a person who lives near the trail and opens his home to travelers.  Sometimes it was planned, sometimes not.  One family invited us in when it was raining, gave us dry socks and shoes to keep, another took us to his kibbutz breakfast, and at our last location a large group of Thai workers at a kibbutz shared their (incredibly spicy and questionably prepared) Thai food with us while they took videos of us eating from across the table.

Did my characteristic pluck and boyish charm help?  Of course.  My unparalleled wit?  No doubt.  But all this aside, I have never felt so welcomed as I have been in the weeks before Pesach. We took a trip to Safed for a shabbat and stayed with the trail angel we stayed with on the hike weeks ago, and before we left he told our group of five that if any of us or any of our friends needed a Seder we were welcome to his and to stay at his house.

I emailed my birthright tour guide from December to ask about small day trips I could take from Tel Aviv and he responded first with an invitation to his Seder and to stay in his house, and second with ideas for trips.  An adult on the Frisbee team I practice with here told the entire team of twenty that if any of us needed a place for the Seder we were invited to his.

The list goes on:  Chabad Rabbis, Taxi drivers, my Israeli friends from camp: All of them ask us not out of courtesy but from a real desire to help us and give us a place to go.  There may be turmoil, political crisis, and absurdly expensive ground beef here, but in some ways the people here really do act like its the promised land.  So b'shanah haba'ah b'yerushalyim, may next year bring us closer to a world where everyone acts with the same genuine care as I've experienced with the people here.   

At a time when I am so caught up in my own work, and then in my preparations for the holiday, I have not been able to stop to be reflective.  I am deeply grateful that my son has.  



The Haggadah he refers to is amazing...  Click here for the link on Amazon.

Gonna Make that Garden Grow

Inch by inch... row by row...

It’s Saturday night at 10:30.  As usual, the night before a Hebrew school night, I’m taking it easy, watching a little tv with my husband before an early bedtime so I can get up at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning (on the only day of the week when I have to).

I say we’re watching tv, but the truth is, he is.  I’m actually on my laptop, furiously scrolling through iTunes, and my humongous library, using key words like “tree," “planting,” “garden,” and so on.  Tomorrow is our first Bagels & Blox program and the theme is Tu B’Shevat, the Jewish holiday of the trees.  I want some background music for our planting activity. 

(Click here to listen to my one of my favorites on the playlist!)

This program has been in the works since I was hired last June.  It’s designed to be an inclusive parent (or grandparent) and child program that introduces your young one to Judaism in a joyful, musical, movement-filled way.  I will co-lead this precious program with the Rabbi and the plan is that we'll work together, building on each other’s’ strengths, engaging both parents and children.  We also hope to build a community for the parents, grow our school, and by extension grow the two synagogues that feed into our school.  But that’s looking too far ahead.  Right now I just want to put together a seamless 45 minutes program for the four children and their parents who signed up for our first session.

In the middle of the night, I wake up and realize that two of our four children have already done the planting activity, when they attended the Tu B’Shevat Seder last Sunday with their older siblings.  Somehow in my half sleep, my brain creates an alternate idea, that would not require any shopping at 7:00 am on a Sunday.  I fall back to sleep, dreaming of juice boxes and alef-bet songs.

Finally the moment is here.  I get to the synagogue early and set everything up.  The children arrive, and three of them are waiting, not very patiently, in the lobby. Little Billy is 2  ½ and he’s used to being here.  He’s a barrel of energy, with white blond curls, and unlikely to stay in one place for more than a few seconds.  He’s all smiles, as usual this morning.  Looks like it Mommy’s turn to wrangle him today.  And sweet shy Kaitlyn.  She and I are buddies, because her older brother also attends our school. She usually likes to show me her shoes, which are typically quite stylish.  She’s attending with her mom and dad today, and so far, is sticking pretty close to them.  She’s 4 and she loves arts and crafts.  Ali arrives and is excited but nervous.  She’s clutching on to her daddy, but curious to see what’s going on.  She comes in to the social hall to see what’s what.  I show her what I’m setting up.   “When I start that music that means it’s time to start, okay, Ali? Then you can come in.” I get a big smile from her.  She goes into the lobby, and I see her warming up to Kaitlyn and watching Billy zooming around. 

The Rabbi finishes cutting up the bagels and setting up the coffee, and juice boxes and it’s nearly 10:15.  He opens the back door, so Sage’s mom won’t have trouble getting her wheelchair up the ramp.  We both do a final check.  Craft materials are set, toys are near the play mat, music is cued, snacks are ready.  It’s 10:14 am.  I hit play and we say to the families, "come on in!"

We give them name tags and welcome them to the foam mat where we will start and finish our morning.  Sage and her mom arrive just then and join us.  Sage is bigger than the others, and not verbal, but is very present and very happy to be there.  Her mom helps her out of her wheelchair and into the circle. Kaitlyn and Billy barely notice.  Ali sensitively asks her daddy if Sage’s legs got hurt.  “They just don’t work very well,” he answers.  After that it’s all about Tu B’Shevat, being together, and having fun.

We begin with a welcome song, and then do a movement exercise led by the Rabbi.  I hear him say "pretend you are a seed" and a round of giggles follows. They sing another song for Tu B’Shevat and it’s time to move to the art table to make trees.  I put on the music, explain the idea, and each child finds a way to enjoy the project.  

Sage takes great delight in feeling the tissue paper crunch and crumble in her hands. Though she cannot tell me with words, already I can tell she is “calling” me over, and I come right away to be near her.  Ali and her dad carefully make a pattern of colors and name them, they take their time, meticulously gluing the tissue paper buds to the branches.  Billy and I break sticks for the others, I show him how to hold his hands close together to break the wider twigs, and he feels super strong; meanwhile Billy’s mom does the project in a zen-like way. And Kaitlyn becomes completely absorbed by the project, so deeply, we have to tear her away when it’s time for bagels.   The Rabbi, who was taking pictures, has stopped to make his own branch and is making a mess with the glue and having a great time with the families.

During snack, the Rabbi and I give each other a look.  Yes.  It’s good.  We are both full of joy.  These are the seeds we are planting now, right now on Tu B’Shevat.  The seeds of joy, love of Judaism, kindness toward others, community.  These children will know their Rabbi and Educator and remember us from sitting on the floor and from glueing tissue paper to a stick, and not just from far away on the bima or (worse) sitting in an office writing programs on a computer.

As our program comes to an end, we teach them Shalom Chaverim.  Peace friends, until we see you again.

L’hitraot!

If you would like to learn more about our B'Yachad program, or our Religious School, located in Pompton Lakes, NJ.  Please check out our website: B'Yachad School.

Fare Thee Well - I Love You More than Words Can Tell

Please click here to get some music going

Let me just start by saying this will be about the Grateful Dead, a band that I, and many others, have been slightly obsessing about. 

And no, not since they made the big Chicago concert announcement in mid-January of 2015... but since whenever it might have been that we were taken gently by hand and helped up on the bus.

Let me continue by saying I will not be ranting about... um... anything.  Not the lineup for the 4th of July shows.  (Go to any Facebook group if you want that.)  Not prices of tickets or the fact that it is IN Chicago itself, or the fact that it's going to cost an arm and a leg to go, get a room, and somehow get tickets for all three nights.  Because they can charge whatever they want and have this thing whereEVER they want and I know I won't miss it.

So what is it?  What's so compelling about the Grateful Dead that we drop everything, go out on school nights, stay in crappy hotels, drive across the country, deplete our bank accounts, and absorb social media like high school sophomores?  Why am I still writing down every song that Phil plays (albeit on my iPhone now) when I know that in less time than it will take me to get home from the Capitol Theatre, it will be posted on at least 2 sites on Facebook, not to mention the great website, Deadheadland.com.   Why do my girlfriend and I giggle like tweens when we spot Bob Weir's bus pull in to the parking lot of the venue he's about to play?  Let's take a little walk down my personal memory lane and see what we can figure out about the greatest band in the land.

Well, would you look at that... Bob Weir's Tour Bus... and isn't that John K. right there?
Yes, yes it is.  We waited for over an hour, but Bobby was taking a well deserved nap in the back, and we never saw him
emerge from the bus.  Asbury Park, NJ   Summer 2014

When I first heard the Grateful Dead, I was in the freshman dorm room of a few friends (one of whom would become my husband) and their goal was to turn me on to the music.  Wisely they chose American Beauty.  I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  I had heard of the Dead, but I only knew Truckin' and I thought the music belonged only to the stoners who cut classes in high school.  I was all about the Beatles, and the Beach Boys and Billy Joel.  Music you could sing along to!  I loved to go to concerts and had seen quite a few already by age 17.   But here was American Beauty, with it's rich textures and it's harmonies.  And yes, songs you could sing, if no one else was around to shush you. Bring on Workingman's Dead, please.  

Workingman's Dead.  So great.  Kids these days don't listen to albums, they listen to songs.  Actually I do too.  But these early albums are so rich and delicious.
(Later, my mind was to be completely blown by Mars Hotel.  BOOM.  But this blog would go on forever if we started talking about every album and every concert...)

I started buying records like crazy, but my boyfriend assured me that the records were nothing compared to a live show.  I didn't quite get that from the few poor 12th generation audience cassette tapes he had, but I was game to go to a concert, and in September of 1978, we got tickets for my first Grateful Dead concert. Interestingly, I'm the one who got the tickets, for Giants Stadium in NJ, even though we were back at school already, in Boston. (And I'm still the one who gets the tickets, all these years later!)  I'll never forget that night, my boyfriend's cute older brother, and his adorable friend drove down from Maine and picked us up at college.  I felt like the belle of the ball, in my chariot, off on an adventure.   They drove through the night, as we slept in the back seat.  We got to NJ, and I directed us to a diner for breakfast.   In retelling the story recently, someone reminded me that we ran into friends of my parents, who did not know we were coming to town.   The concert was not the OMG experience that I was hoping for, although I did love the people and I remember my boyfriend  bought me a rose from a vendor who was passing through the stadium seats.  I was hooked after that.  

So many concerts since that time.  Hundreds. More probably.  Memorable shows.  Musical elipses where I was transfixed.  Transformed.  Taken to another place altogether.  Elevated spiritually and emotionally.  Songs where the words meant so much that tears came to my eyes, or the music was so strong that I had to move away from my seat to dance in an open space.  Magical moments where words I have heard a thousand times before take on new meanings and become entirely relevant to what I had been going through. 

Then: Cal Expo May 3, 1986

And now(ish): Nateva Festival, Oxford Maine, Summer 2010

And then there is the community.  I may as well say that I do not quite "fit" into every community out there in the world.  But finding the Grateful Dead and the community of their fans was like coming home.  When we meet one another out there in the world, and learn that we love the Dead, it's like we are members of a club and we all know the rules.  I admit that sometimes people forget them, or break them. That's disappointing. But mostly I have found a generous, kind, non-judgmental, open-minded, community in the Grateful Dead fan community and that works for me.  People who don't push in line, and will sell their extra ticket for face value (or less).  People who will hug you the first time they meet you, or buy you a water BEFORE they meet you because you are behind them on the concession line and you picked up and returned the dollar they dropped.   

Will Chicago be the real end of a story that had its beginning in 1965?  Who knows.  It will be the end of something for sure, probably stadium shows for the Dead, and for me.  I do believe the kind souls who go by the name of Deadheads will figure out a way to get themselves there.  Hopefully we will get tickets through mail-order, or through the online sales, and not have to pay inflated prices.  (If I have to pay higher prices than the ticket price you might wind up reading a different type of blog soon!)

But I do know that I am going to go, and bring love and light with me.  I will surround myself with the people I love and listen to the music I love.   I'll think about Jerry Garcia, and miss him, as I do all the time, and I will love and appreciate Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann, the "Core Four," as I have for the past 38 years.  I'll love whatever they decide to play, and rejoice in the people they've chosen to play with: Jeff Chimenti, Trey Anastasio and Bruce Hornsby.

"Just dust those dusty strings off one more time..."

Another one from the Cal Expo, May 4, 1986

Yes, this happened. How could I not include it. Dec. 5, 2013

Okay, this show gets my vote for the all time best concert ever. Thanks to DD for finding this. 

Can this really be the end??

Furthur reading on this topic (just click on the links): 
Grateful Seconds  
Grateful Dead For Dummies / Endless Jams
http://www.gratefuldeadguitars.com/

Or try putting Grateful Dead into the search bar for some of my other blog posts about the Grateful Dead. 


And one last thing... who should have been included, in my humble opinion?

Update : I wrote this one week ago.  I mailed in for my tickets on the mail-in date, and now check my mailbox like a crack addict (I guess) because people have started to get what I refer to as the "pink slip," a polite rejection letter from GDTSTOO saying how high the demand is for tickets. For the record, this is the back of my envelope, on top of the album I was drawing on.  For you younger folks, that's a record album, the way we used to listen to music before computers let you magically hear it by just wishing it to play. 

Update March 7, 2015:  It's now been over a month, and I have not received my money orders back, nor have I received what I've come to call "the golden email," that email that so many people received from Grateful Dead Ticket Sales Too saying that their ticket request would be filled. I tried to buy tickets online, and struck out.  So I'm sitting here in limbo.  My confidence that I'd see my fellow fans at the show is starting to waver.  And quite truthfully I feel as thought I've been on a roller coaster ride.  Not a new fun one, but an old one that's uncomfortable (think: Coney Island Cyclone) where the highs are kind of fun, but the twists and turns hurt really bad, and to make matters worse, your best friends, who have always brought you comfort, since 1977, are nowhere to be seen, and the cause of the pain. I have finally reached stepped off the coaster.  I had to.  If I go, I will have a great time, I know.  And if I don't go, I will have a kick-ass party in my back yard, like I sometimes do on July 4 weekend.  I won't go sit in a movie theater and watch what I'm missing.  I won't check my phone every 5 minutes for the Facebook messages and Tweets to see what "final songs" I'm not hearing.  I'll crank that beloved Lewiston show (September 1980) for my guests and try not to sour-grapes it too much. 

You know what they say... If the thunder don't get ya...

Update April 6, 2015:  I received my money order back about 2 weeks ago.  It was too depressing for words.  So I didn't write any.  But it may just be that I will get to go to one of the shows in Chicago.  We shall see.  I have not given up yet.

This hangs in my hallway. The ad from the paper and my rejection letter. 

Final Update:

I didn't make it to Chicago after all. But I got tickets from a good friend and went to the two shows in California. I had a fantastic time. I watched all three Chicago shows on Pay Per View, enjoying the last one at the Capitol Theatre in Port Chester, NY with a room full of Deadheads.  

Me: Wow, so many young people are really enjoying this simulcast, don't you think? 

My son: Yea, mom. That's because everyone your age made it to Chicago.

8/28/17 - I have disabled comments on this post.  For some reason I receive about 20 spam comments A DAY - clogging up my inbox - just to this blog post.  I don't know why.  If you have a real comment, then you are a real human and you will figure out how to get it to me some other way. 

In other news, I just saw Bob and Phil play together at Lockin' via a live stream (thank you Pete Shapiro, YouTube and Lockin' Fest) and it was fantastic. 

Carry that weight

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Throw Back -- Any Day

The other night I had dinner with my parents.

Just me, and my mom and dad... it was really nice having them all to myself.  It was a rare occurrence and I was basking in all that attention.  We lingered over cocktails, and took our time over dinner as well.  We spent a lot of the conversation on my kids (how great they are) and then, over decaf, my mom took out a photo album which blew my mind a little bit.

When I was 8 and my brother was 5, my grandfather Benjamin turned 75 years old. My mom and her sister threw him a surprise birthday party at a local restaurant.  I remember bits and pieces of this, because of a significant moment... that being that I received a swat on the head from my mother for saying something I shouldn't have.

After all these years of having a memory of that night felt more like  a series of fuzzy  snapshots...my grandparents smiling, my itchy dress which didn't twirl, sitting with my older cousin Barbara who I always admired (and still do of course), saying something and having everyone laugh (except my mom), and thinking to myself, "who would ever want cigars for a birthday present?"... I finally saw the photo album of ACTUAL snapshots my dad made for my grandfather after the event.

I guess when my Pop died (nearly 30 years later!) they got the album back, which explains why I never saw these pictures growing up.

So here's a photo essay and a little walk down memory lane in a blog where the pictures speak for themselves.  But just in case, I have added a few captions.

December 2, 1967

The Clinton Inn

Benjamin and Madeleine, aka Poppa Ben and Mom Mad walk in... Surprise!

I'm guessing those little hands are my brother Geoffrey's, but they could be mine.
That's my mom Paula on the left, and her sister, Auntie Jan on the right.

In come my OTHER grandparents, Ysobl, Grandma, and Herman, Pop Pop.
It would be years before this expression would come around, but worlds did collide.

My mom, her mom, and little me, next to my cousin Barbara.

Oh, would I love to know what they were saying to each other.
I'm sure what I was hoping was:
Mom Mad: "I never make Juliet pick up her toys... do you, Ysobl?  Ysobl?"

A fantastic photo of Mom Mad and Poppa Ben.
Or, as I spelled it for years, Pop-A-Ben, probably because of the Rice-A-Roni commercials on tv.

A really great photo of my parents, and my Aunt and Uncle.
L to R: Paula Cantor (30) William Cantor (30) Jerry Spiro (52 z''l) and Janet Spiro (41 z''l)

Pretty typical shot of the grandkids with the birthday man.  Missing is cousin Mark who was a first year at the Citadel.
L to R: Barbara (15), Me (8), Pop, Geoffrey (5), Gary (12) 
Looking good in the bowtie, bro.

Back when I used to pretend I liked cake. 

I had to enlarge this because there's so much going on here.
The big question for me is... what's going on with Uncle Murray and the waitress?

And then it happened... someone gave Pop a box of fancy cigars with a special one on top, wrapped separately.
"Big deal," I said, "One cigar." This shows the moment my mom thwacked me across the head. Barbara, behind me is already laughing.

Unfazed by the head-swat, I wait for a better present to come along. Pop is cracking up, and look at the smirk on Auntie Jan's face!  Little Geoffrey is uncharacteristically sucking his thumb.

Pop-A-Ben, a big fan of the home-made cards.  Whatever my gift was, it had to have been better than a cigar.

Tucked into the photo album is a thank you note from Pop to my parents.  It's so beautiful and grateful.  We were living in Boston at the time and had driven down and kept the whole thing a secret, apparently a very tough thing for me to do.  (Probably still would be.)

 "I have had many surprises in my life but the one at the Clinton Inn was the happiest since all the family were present (except the Plebe)...Juliet and Geoff were remarkable in keeping the secret.  I asked them so many questions and not once did they slip..."

How precious these photos are...thanks Dad for taking them and thanks Mom for letting me borrow the album and scan them all.

Post script...
A conversation after writing this blog...

Me:  Mom, did you read my blog? I think you'll like it.
Mom:  No.  Where is it? On Facebook?
Me: Yes.  I tagged you in it so you can find it.
Mom: Oh, Jewel, you know, I can't seem to find anything on Facebook.  I keep getting a message that says "page not available" or "please refresh page."  You need to come and spend a whole day here and show me how to use it again. 
Me: Nevermind, Mom, I'll just email it to you.
Mom: Okay, I might have time to read it tomorrow between my Pilates class and taking my paintings to hang before the opening of my art show.

Me... (sufficiently humbled) Okay.
Next day, via email...
Jewel, great blog, I loved loved loved it. But you should add that it was Mom Mildred who gave Pop the cigars, which makes the story even worse (better?).

So here is a picture of Mom Mildred, who was Uncle Jerry's Mother, sitting next to my PopPop, not sure why.  She loved us to pieces, and was really like a third grandmother to us.

Left to Right
Unknown Aunt, My Pop Pop (Dad's Dad), Cousin Gary (with Camera) Mom Mildred (Uncle Jerry's Mom)
Pop Pop Herman was not related to either of those two women.  I don't know why he was sitting there.  

Teach them Diligently Unto your Children

I woke up this morning like I do most mornings.  About 3 hours after my husband to a friendly lick on the knuckle by my dog Scout.

It was 8:30 am and he was right, time to get up.  If I chose to ignore this gentle wake up and "hit the snooze" (that is, roll over and ignore him) then the more insidious, double-dog bark alarm would go off in about 14 minutes which is a terrible way to start the day.

I reached for my phone... come on... you all do it don't you?... and oh... yes... right.  My beloved Israel, being defended on Facebook by all my friends and bashed in the real world by pretty much everyone else. Another day of trying to stay away from, but being drawn into the conflict that consumes my heart, my faith and my people.  And trying not to take personally the vitriol, the negativity, the biases that I am reading.

And then it hit me.  I mean it really hit me.

I was meant to come back to being a religious school director at this time for this reason.  To continue the path of peace.

I have always taught peace in my schools, and urged my teachers to do so as well, no matter how we may have felt in our hearts.  Every generation MUST be taught peace, and the faith-based classroom is the perfect place to do it.  You may think that their parents are teaching their children this lesson at home, but I will challenge you with this: if that is the case, then why are we still seeing kids bully other kids for looking different? For being gay? For praying in a different building? Parents continue to teach their own biases, sometimes deliberately, and sometimes not.  It's only with mindful parenting that the cycle stops with the next generations.

But we can challenge it in the classroom.  We can send those kids home with a simple question and maybe, just maybe change the conversation at the dinner table.  Or at least the language.

It's time for me, and the brilliant teachers and Rabbis I will have by my side, to teach peace while we teach everything else we do.  Even if sometimes we feel like we want to have a different discussion.  Because that's where peace will really start.

With our children, and then, with theirs.

Not just in Israel, but in the Ukraine. (Did you see the news today?)

And on the playgrounds in the USA.

And in all places where there are people who need this now.