A Year (Or More) of Shabbats

Mark the Moment

2011-01-07T10:12:00.000-08:00

Shabbat #1 - Just Us.

Menu: Filet of Beef with Tomato, Red Onion and Basil Salad, "Mock" Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Toby's Challah (because it "warms the cockles of my Jewish heart" says Steve even though we are trying to cut carbs), Fresh Fruit

What I Learned:

In 2006 we toured Israel with the American Jewish Committee. Sitting at a cramped cafeteria table on a kibbutz where the tour had stopped for lunch my law school classmate and fellow traveler told me that she was a convert. Really? It was like learning for the first time that a friend had delivered a baby with out an epidural. Or got Botox. Of course I knew it could be done, I just had never known anyone in my own circle that had actually, well, done it. She went on to tell me that she had even visited a mikvah to, in her words, to "mark the moment." Having just spent several days traveling across Israel I was more than a little familiar with the mikvah -- the sacred bath -- though many I had recently witnessed were little more than deep holes in the ground of ancient ruins. I'm sure my mouth dropped wide open when she told me, as I tried to imagine this blond haired, green-eyed girl, dressed in designer jeans in the middle of the desert slipping into something so mysterious.

That stuck with me. Not just the visual, but her reason. The idea of marking the moment of a significant decision. I vowed that if I ever converted, which was far from my mind at the time, I would visit the mikvah too.

Having been to the mikvah, I am still of the opinion that it is pretty darn mysterious and a wee bit intimidating, but well worth the effort. I'm not so convinced, however, that dipping into the mikvah somehow made me a better or more "real" Jew. Just like my wedding -- the vows, the chuppah, the breaking of the glass -- didn't magically make me a better wife.

What those moments did do -- the mikvah and the wedding -- was create a very real and tangible reminder of what I had committed to do.

I've never been one to make a hasty decision. It's as much of a curse as a blessing. Left to my on vices, I would happily stand in the canned soup aisle for a good 15 minutes carefully studying the price, calorie and sodium content of each offering before carefully placing my selection into my basket and pushing on.

Likewise, it was not without serious thought, contemplation, risk assessment and more than a little soul searching that I chose to get married and later convert. And even with all of that consternation I still have moments of doubt, disconnection and, well, buyers remorse. Who doesn't? Should I have gotten the tomato and basil instead of the creamy tomato? Then I settle myself by recalling all of the thought that went into my decision and reminding myself that I am anything but hasty. I think back to those moments ... the one's I marked ... when my choice was made and have faith in myself that it was the right one.

Each New Year's Eve I am always more than a little ready to move on to what's next. This year more than ever. Sure, I'd made my resolutions. I'm one of those. A list maker. But I needed something more. Something to mark the moment.

On that same trip to Israel in 2005, Steve and I purchased a mezuzah our last day in Jerusalem. We brought it home and Steve dutifully hung it on our door, carefully following the directions for blessing the tiny little scroll that I got from the rabbi at our local judaica shop.

This tiny metal box would be my solution for marking our moment -- renewal for 2011.

I checked with my favorite source for hints on Jewish living -- Anita Diamant -- and then, sadly, wikipedia. Was I responsible for some yearly care and feeding of our mezuzah that I could somehow use to mark the moment? Like rotating the tires on my car or vacuuming the coils of the refrigerator -- neither of which I did on any sort of regular basis? Anita was not much help. Wiki told me it should be examined by a "reliable scribe" twice every seven years. So left to my own vices I came up with my own way to mark the moment. Maybe something that will become a tradition at our house.

Before dinner we gathered the kids, lifting each to see the mezuzah nailed to the front door. Something they had passed by thousands of times in their young lives, yet probably never noticed. And something I had never pointed out to them. I explained to them where it came from and what it meant. Then I gave them each a soft rag to carefully dust the metal box. Steve blessed the mezuzah repeating the words he had said six years ago. We passed our challah and then we each touched the mezuzah and repeated together:

May our house be a place of holiness, by welcoming guests, in the bonds of family, with deeds of loving kindess, gifts of tzedakah, and words of Torah.

Sure. The flaking paint did not magically disappear and tulips did not sprout from the frozen ground, but we marked a moment of renewal. Renewed commitment that our home will always be a place of peace and gratitude no matter what 2011 serves up.

It's A Wrap - A Summary of Our Year

2011-01-05T11:52:00.000-08:00

January 31st marked the final Shabbat in our “Year (Or More) of Shabbats” odyssey. While expressing my feelings through my writing has always come fairly easy to me I now find it hard to put to paper exactly how much this experience has changed our life. Nonetheless, in gratitude to all of you who have shared a meal with us, followed the blog, or otherwise supported and encouraged us this is my best effort to sum up our experience.

The Numbers.

Our family slowed down to celebrate Shabbat every week in 2010. We hosted 45 different families for dinner in our home and served 166 people. The dinners included 45 unique menus including an entrée each week that I had never cooked before and well over 100 different recipes. Ben collected 71 cans of food which he delivered to the Food Pantry at our synagogue Central Reform Congregation. I chronicled our experience on a website (ayearormoreofshabbats.blogspot.com) that had over 4000 visitors and 8000 page views from readers all over the world including Israel, Germany, Japan, South Africa, Austria, France, Iceland, Italy and Canada. I started a Facebook Group called ONE dedicated to families committed to having at least one dinner once a week for one year. 106 families – Jewish and not – from across the country joined.

I also broke three wine glasses and one gravy boat and stopped the sink up twice.

What We Learned.

Ben and Sarah knew they were Jewish before we started all of this, but I think they learned more about what that really means. Not only did they learn to recite the prayers, but they learned about the meaning and purpose. They learned about Jewish traditions and created more than a few of their own. They learned to share their table and their toys. They learned that not everyone is Jewish and without knowing it they learned to share their religion and accept and embrace the differences in others. I tried to teach them that while our religion is filled with joyous traditions and celebrations it is also filled with responsibility -- responsibility for showing gratitude and forgiveness and working for peace and repair of the world. Above all, I hope they learned that life requires resilience and that when things are difficult or seemingly impossible; they must pick themselves up by their bootstraps, raise their heads, have faith and march on.

While I can’t speak for Steve, I hope he learned that he is not defined by a moment and that the most important opinions are those of his family, his wife and particularly his children. I think he learned that our family works better when we take time to slow down each week and connect. I watched him develop a renewed Jewish identity that now expands far beyond his previous observance of a handful of holidays. Each week I saw his worries subside – even if only temporarily – as we filled our home and our hearts with new and old friends.

I learned that I need my faith. It is a source of strength -- second only to my children -- that has helped me forgive and has led me to find goodness and gratitude in even the most difficult situations. My faith brought 166 people into my home, each of whom put us one step closer to moving beyond the past. My faith also helped me find a place of quiet contemplation that centered me when the world spun out of control.

I learned that I have a voice. At the start of this project, I did not intend to share what I wrote with anyone other than my family and the evening’s guests; partially because I’ve never been one to share my struggles, but mostly because I figured it just wasn’t all that interesting. I have been awed, humbled and downright dumbstruck by the support I have received from people who have read the blog and in many cases taken the time to tell me personally or in letters that my words were meaningful. I can promise you that the writing has been far more meaningful and cathartic to me.

Opening my home for dinner guests nearly every week made it difficult if not impossible to conceal my shortcomings – not just in my cooking, but in my parenting, housekeeping and a myriad of other insecurities. I learned that the only one that seems to care (or even notice) these shortcomings is me so I’ve let many of them go. I’ve learned that perfection is neither possible nor desirable and I’ve found that it’s much more satisfying to just focus on being real.

Finally, I’ve learned that I am far more resilient than I ever believed I could be. Instead of telling myself it can’t get worse (because it might) I’ve learned to make the best of the hand I am dealt no matter what it is. I’ve learned that harboring bitterness takes a lot more energy than picking up and moving on. I’ve learned what makes me happy.

And I learned I’m a damn good cook.

What’s Next.

Our weekly dinners will continue indefinitely. They have become a part of who we are as a family. And while I do not plan to break the record of 45 different families for 2011, I do plan to invite new and old friends to share Shabbat dinner with us on a regular basis. I plan to continue to write about our experience and will focus on completing some unfinished entries from 2010 and additional entries for 2011. I plan to bind the entire blog into a book for my children and a treasure for myself of the 365 days that will forever be known as “The Year (Or More) of Shabbats.”

Thank You.

Thanks to all of the families – some of whom were practically strangers – who fearlessly shared a meal with us. Many of you were not Jewish, had no idea what Shabbat was, but nonetheless risked bringing your small children to an unfamiliar home for a sit-down dinner. Incredible. Thanks to Rabbi Susan Talve who so magically filled me with faith long before either of us knew it would be my saving grace. Without you there would have never been A Year (Or More) of Shabbats. Thanks to our non-Jewish family and friends and to the organizations I have committed to who understood when we had to forgo Friday events. And thanks especially to my husband who so dutifully drove to Toby’s Challah House each Friday, grilled in the snow and sweltering heat, washed and put away all of the dishes, motivated me to press on in the weeks when I swore I didn’t have the energy, and who so graciously and without question or doubt allowed me to share what has been the single most difficult period in his life. I love you.

Hanukkah Motherlode

2010-12-02T16:53:00.000-08:00

Those of you who know me or follow my blog know that I wasn't raised in a Jewish home. I grew up Methodist and converted shortly before the birth of my second child in 2007. So I'm still pretty new at this being Jewish thing.

Growing up, everything about being Jewish was a bit of a mystery to me. Especially Hanukkah. Robin was my first Jewish friend. I met her when I was six. I knew she was special because she had a swimming pool. With a slide. And she also told me that she got presents for 8 days in a row during a holiday I couldn't pronounce because she was Jewish. As far as I could tell she was living the dream.

I remember the day I learned about the whole Hanukkah motherlode. I marched home, hands on hips and demanded to know why we couldn't be Jewish so I could get presents for 8 days. My mother promptly told me that we couldn't be Jewish because we were Methodist and if I wanted presents for 8 days I could kiss Santa goodbye. (Not to mention a few other key figures in history, but I'm pretty certain she didn't get into all of that. She was never long on explanations.)
Our family moved out of the neighborhood and Robin and I lost touch, but the association of Hanukkah and presents stuck with me.

It's funny how life works out. I wished I was Jewish at age 6 for the wrong reasons and ended up becoming Jewish at 37 for the right ones. Yet somehow those 6-year old dreams made their way back into my first Hanukkah with Ben. Remembering what I had longed for as a child, I made that first holiday about the presents shopping and then wrapping eight little packages for Ben. More things he didn't need and I didn't want to pick up and put away. Even more, as each night passed, my efforts seemed to be more and more lost on the short attention span of a 3-year old who opened the gifts nearly as quickly as he tossed them aside to focus on the "fire" and our pleas that he not blow out the candles. We continued to light the candles each night, but by the end of the week I began to wonder whether I'd wasted my time getting all those gifts. And I began to wonder even more why I had done it in the first place. Why couldn't the storytelling, prayers and candlelighting have been enough? How had my selfish 6-year old priorities made their way into my 37-year old parenting paradigm?

Ben was too young to remember his first (and last) Hanukkah motherlode. These days he and Sarah spend the first night of Hanukkah with all of their cousins, eating latkes, lighting the Menorah, spinning dreidels, getting gelt and opening their special first night present. The rest of the nights we light the Menorah at home. And that's just enough for all of us.

I hope that doesn't make me a Hanukkah scrooge. But mostly I hope that if one of Ben's inquisitive 6-year old classmates asks him about the whole Hanukkah thing he remembers to say it's about the festival of lights ... and not about the presents.

"I Love You Too Much To Argue"

2010-11-20T10:05:00.000-08:00

Shabbat #41

Guests: Grant and Chloe.

Menu: Italian Mini Meatloafs, Three Cheese Pasta, Chocolate and Vanilla Meringues

What I Learned:

Ben (with Dad's help) had the honor of drawing up this week's guest list and menu. He chose his partner in crime Grant and his girlfriend Chloe. (Steve chose meatloaf.) Add Sarah to the mix and Steve and I had plenty of opportunity to practice all of our best "Love and Logic"one- liners.

What? Haven't heard of "Love and Logic?" Don't worry, we hadn't either. It's a program that teaches parents to replace anger and lectures with empathy and consequences. How you ask? In part, through some famous (at least now in our house) one-liners delivered with "compassion and understanding." Things like "Bummer. How sad," "I love you too much to argue," and my favorite ... a long pause followed by "hhhhmmmm" and then silence.

Steve and I more or less parent from the hip, but we decided to give the class a try. Mostly because it was from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. and included free child care. Need I say more? After our first L&L class complete with AV and role playing, Steve and I were chomping at the bit to try out our new skills. Of course it didn't take long. As soon as we hit the front door, Ben headed straight for the fridge. "Sorry Bud, kitchen's closed. Upstairs for jammies." (Yes, my children actually think the kitchen closes after dinner ... a helpful one-liner from my Parent's as Teacher Educator to promote mealtime eating.) And then the meltdown began. So I went for it.

Me: "Ben, I love you to much to argue."

Ben stops dead. Turns and looks directly at me with a suspicious eye as his sister's mouth drops open.

Ben: "Did you you just learn that in class tonight?"

Cheese sticks and apples followed.

Fortunately, I didn't have to put any of the one-liners to use on Friday night. The kids were a dream and once again proved my belief that parenting four little people is actually easier than parenting two as long as half of them aren't yours.

But it was not the happy camaraderie that was the highlight of the evening, it was seeing the four of them together at the table. Both Grant and Chloe had been to Shabbat dinner at our house before and even though neither of them are Jewish, they remembered how we roll. Patiently they sat waiting for their candles to be lit (our custom is to give each child their own set), the blessings to be repeated and the bread to be shared. And that made me happy.

I'm proud that Sarah wants to light the candles and that Ben has nearly learned the blessing over the wine. But I'm even more proud that they are excited about sharing our traditions with their friends. But maybe, just maybe this is even a little bigger than our family.

I hope that Grant and Chloe remember their Friday nights at our house years from now. Not just the couch jumping and popsickle eating, but the candle lighting, friendship and gratitude that we shared. And I hope they remember that even though we did not all share the same religion, they were very much a part of our Jewish celebration. But mostly I hope when they think of their nights here, they'll remember this one-liner:

"Differences are good."

Out of Range

2010-11-18T17:36:00.000-08:00

Shabbat #40

The Grand Canyon, Bright Angel Campground

Menu: Grilled Garlic Bread, Cheese Tortellini with Red Sauce (cooked on camp stove), Dark Chocolate Covered Caramels, Wine compliments of J.P. and the Phantom Ranch Canteen

What I Learned:

Every year more than five million people visit the Grand Canyon. Only one percent make it to the bottom. Last week Steve and I became members of this elusive club.

The view from the edge of the Grand Canyon is breathtaking. To climb down (and out) on your own two feet is life changing ... or at least a memory for a lifetime. For Steve and me, dressed in our tell-tale brand new REI gear, it was all of the above.

A trip down the South Kaibab trail is measured in milestones, not miles. Drop a few switchbacks off the edge and the brisk rim breeze subsides. A few more and the temperature begins to rise. The 360 view from the famous Kaibab Limestone -- dubbed the bathtub ring of the canyon -- can only be explained as otherworldly. And it nearly is with geologic exposures in the inner gorge nearly two billion years old. Skeleton Point provides the first view of the Colorado River and the utter disbelief that such a humble stream of water could have created such a majestic sight. The Tip Off Point literally tips you into the gorge and towards the Kaibab Suspension Bridge constructed from cables carried down on the backs of men when the mules could not manage. A pitch black tunnel leads to the bridge that is the gateway to the famous Phantom Ranch and our home for 3 days: Bright Angel Campground.

To say that less is more when it comes to camping in the Grand Canyon is an immense understatement. Whatever you carry in, you're carrying out and up 5000 feet. (Thankfully our travel companions from Montreal considered the two bottles of white wine a "necessity.") The best thing about camping at Bright Angel is the camaraderie. An instant connection that everyone has traveled under their own power and for their own very personal reasons into one of the seven natural wonders of the world. It's a place where respecting one's neighbors means not hanging dirty socks in trees to dry or banging the lid to the ammo box that holds your food in the early morning. Dimming one's headlamp on a dark trail is an expected courtesy. Campground "Quiet Hours" are from 8 p.m. to 6 a.m. And it's actually quiet but for the sound of the river and the million twinkling stars in the sky.

Regardless of the hour there are noises that you will never hear in the canyon. No cars or sirens. No mindless television. No beeping and blaring video games. And, most notably, no cell phones. Or their companion one-sided cell phone conversations.

You see, there's no cell phone coverage in the canyon. Not because it's impossible. It is. But because some wise person has thankfully preserved a spot where it's still impossible to divide your attention between your phone and life.

And such was life for us ... at least for three days. Undivided attention for Steve. For me. And for the beautiful place we were blessed with the good health to climb down into and, eventually, out of. That alone was worth the miles of hiking and the 5000 vertical feet.

Our guide warned that real life returns quickly once you've hiked to Skeleton Point where spotty coverage resumes. Listen closely and you may even hear the tell tale "You've Got Mail." Steve and I did not succumb to temptation quite so soon. We held off to the top. Seated in the El Tovar Lounge, wine in hand, we hit "Power" and one by one the sea of emails rushed in along with the overwhelming feeling that we'd missed something. A deadline at work. Snack for preschool. The school nurse. A panicked (babysitting) grandparent. We were, after all, integral to the spinning of the world. Right? Well, apparently not. It kept right on spinning. Our colleagues worked on. The kids survived. And the grandparents managed. Perhaps the only thing missed was an extra cheap massage on Groupon ... which I could have used right about then.

So what did I learn? That the world does keeps spinning even if I'm not connected every moment. That if it's okay to sign off for three days in the wilderness, then it is certainly okay to sign off to give all of the things important to me in my life my undivided attention. Like my husband. And my children. And the joke that Ben has to tell me, again, on the way home. All of those precious moments in life that are far more important than whether I've immediately returned a message, mindlessly read Facebook status or otherwise used my phone for some purpose that Alexander Graham Bell surely never intended.

Last year we vowed to slow down on Shabbat. To take it in. And to turn the rest off. We've done a pretty good job in that respect, but there's room for improvement the other six days of the week. I'm ready.

So if you email me and I take a few days to answer, now you know why.

Bringing Back The Block Party

2010-11-05T18:15:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #39

Guests: The Schoemehls

Menu: Manicotti, Roasted Butternut Squash Salad, Meringues, Chocolate Truffles

What I Learned:

COMING SOON

Onlys

2010-10-29T18:18:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #38

Guests: The Steinbecks

Menu: Filets, Roasted Butternut Squash Over Greens, Garlic Mashed Potatos, Mice Cookies

What I Learned:

COMING SOON

50 Before 50

2010-10-06T15:31:00.000-07:00

1. Sleep in the Grand Canyon.
2. Climb a mountain.
3. Take ballroom dancing lessons.
4. Race NASTAR with my father, Ben, Sarah and Steve.
5. Go back to Israel.
6. Ride my bike across a state.
7. Learn Hebrew (again) with Ben.
8. Stay on an ashram.
9. Finish a marathon in 15 more states.
10. Run an ultra-marathon.
11. Go sailing with my Dad.
12. Start a foundation that serves kids and the outdoors.
13. Lead a fundraising effort that raises in excess of $50k.
14. Master a headstand.
15. Run a 5K with both my children.
16. Be a spectator at the Olympics.
17. Ride part of the Tour de France course.
18. Audition for a play.
19. Eat vegetables from my own garden.
20. Learn to bake the perfect challah.
21. Write a book.
22. Finish the kids’ baby books.
23. Go to survival school.
24. Visit at least 10 more National Parks.
25. Complete an adventure race.
26. Paint my face for a football game.
27. Tailgate with the kids at Purdue.
28. Plan a reunion.
29. Organize the Berkeley genealogy records.
30. Help build a house with Habitat for Humanity.
31. Go on an overnight train trip with a sleeper car.
32. Read the Torah.
33. Take the kids to a dude ranch.
34. Buy a fuel efficient American car.
35. Help start a family business that turns a profit.
36. Ride a camel.
37. Build a sukkah.
38. Handwrite 50 letters to impactful people.
39. Get certified in CPR.
40. Ski hut to hut in the Rockies.
41. Rescue an animal.
42. Swing on a trapeze.
43. Renew my vows.
44. Add “dean” to my job title.
45. Speak as an “expert” at a conference.
46. Line dance at a country western bar.
47. Drive cross country in an RV.
48. Spend the night in a lighthouse.
49. Trek to Machu Picchu.
50. Skydive.

Retirement Fund

2010-09-23T18:06:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #35:

Guests: Our next door neighbor Kenny

Menu: Israeli Spiced Grilled Chicken, Tomato & Cucumber Salad with Lime Vinegarette, Sweet Potato Stuffed Kreplach, Sorbet

What I Learned:

COMING SOON

Yom Kippur: Fish Eyes

2010-09-15T08:50:00.000-07:00

I think pretty much everyone has heard of Jonah and the Whale. You know ... the guy who gets himself thrown into the ocean while trying to weasel out of some serious work and ends up in the belly of a whale. There's a lot more to the story, but it was the belly of the whale part that always hung me up. Hearing the story as a child, I wondered whether someone could actually live inside a whale. Could it happen to me? And then there was the whole "gross" factor on the whale puking Jonah onto the shore. Followed by the chorus of "eews" from the Sunday School story circle.

Even today it still hangs me up. What exactly was Jonah doing in that whale the whole time? I'm guessing he was praying, giving thanks for being alive (albeit in a belly) and making amends with G-d. But seriously folks, three days is a long time. There must have been more.

If I were stuck in a whale for three days (and believe me ... some days I actually wish for three days alone ... anywhere) what would I be doing? Besides praying. If it's like anytime else I've felt trapped in a place I didn't want to be, I'd probably obsess about not being able to run. And then I'd obsess about all the things I could be doing ... like billing time, running errands, planning dinner and finally remembering to not send the kids to school in their grubbiest t-shirts for picture day.

And then I'd settle in. Right in front of those two big fish eyes that would be my windows to the world and make a decision.

Would I look out those windows wishing I were someone else, namely someone not trapped in the belly of a fish? Someone else that I imagined was luckier, had better judgment and surely would have not gotten herself into a pickle like me.

Or would I look into the window at my own reflection. Not at the wrinkles and the scar beneath my left eye that I'm still trying to embrace, but inside myself ... the woman who landed herself smack dab in the belly of a whale.

Having spent a good number of my nearly 40 years looking out, I've pretty much concluded that wishing I was someone else does not make it so. If it did I would have been prom queen or "that mom" whose life seems to spin in perfect order. I've let go of my ballot in the box, prom queen validation and am finally beginning to understand that "that mom" who appears to be floating through life is probably paddling like hell underneath just like the rest of us. Wishing for those things now only makes me, well, less hopeful.

I've also spent a good amount of time, particularly lately, looking in. Looking within myself for the reason why I'm sometimes the one stuck in the belly of a whale and making changes to insure I don't end up there again anytime soon. And I can tell you sometimes it's pretty darn hard. Like "throw me overboard so I can wait for someone else to save me" hard. But most the time its been worth the effort with each effort building upon the last. And that's what makes me, well, more hopeful. Not to mention stronger, more honest and more certain.

So if I ever find myself in the belly of a whale like Jonah, I'm planning to use those three days and those two big fish eyes to look in.

Family Camp

2010-09-10T18:12:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #32

Camp Manitowa Family Camp

COMING SOON

To One Sweet New Year ... And One Sweet Kugel

2010-09-10T10:11:00.001-07:00

Rosh Hashanah is my favorite Jewish holiday. For all of the obvious reasons. And for one not so obvious reason.

Mah's Sweet Kugel.

Deb Z. -- affectionately known as "Mah" to an endless stream of daughters and grandchildren -- is my sister-in-law's mom.

It's hands down the best kugel ever. But that's not why I love it so. I love it because it reminds me of, well, everything else I love. Like pasta. And dessert. All rolled into one. Like the first Jewish holiday that I spent with Steve's extended family when I first tasted it. Exactly one year after Steve asked me out on our first date. It reminds me of a house bursting with family. And of my oldest niece Dylan who requests that "Mah" make it for every birthday. And it especially reminds me of Rosh Hashanah, particularly last year's when Rabbi Talve gave me the opportunity to share my own experience with the congregation during the high holiday service. An opportunity that made my family and me stronger. And ultimately led to this Year of Shabbats.

Years ago I asked Deb for her sweet kugel recipe. It went something like "a dash of this, a dab of that" as she rattled it off the top of her head. I gave it a try, but my rendition didn't hold a candle to hers. Just as well. I'd much prefer her original, the anticipation of whether I'll find it on the table at the next holiday event and all of the sweet memories that will follow.

Happy New Year!

Life Lessons and a Side of Fried Butter

2010-08-30T10:18:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #30

Guests: Suzanne and Neil and son A. Suzanne went to elementary school with Steve and I know Neil from cycling. Our sons are close in age and had a near miss last fall at the Meramec School carnival ... but things went swimmingly on Friday.

Menu: Sweet Potato Chips and Mango Salsa, Grilled Salmon with Citrus Salsa Verde, Watermelon Salad, Garlic Couscous, Toby's Challah, Cheesecake with Hand Picked Michigan Blueberry Sauce

What I Learned:

Truth be told, we're more country than country club. Especially now.

Suzanne's known Steve since the second grade. She can attest. Attest to the plaid shirts with the mother of pearl snaps and Wrangler jeans that were Steve's uniform before a certain high school girlfriend (we'll call her Ann) convinced him that penny loafers and pink polos were more fitting for a Ladue Ram football player. Next time you catch me in blue jeans check out my belt. It'll probably be a leather one with a silver sundial buckle and S-T-E-V-E etched across the back - a precious relic from Steve's cowboy days.

While the plaid shirts may be long gone, Steve's love (and mine) of the slower life, the outdoors and the simple things isn't. A reminder of years of sweet childhood memories made in Innsbrook, Wickenberg and Colorado. Of western saddles, barrel racing and campfires. And a chance for us to make new memories with our children.

Our Friday shabbat dinner was followed by an overnight trip to Sedalia, Missouri for the Missouri State Fair. It's one of several trips we've made as a family to various fairs, rodeos, tractor pulls, monster truck shows, and ... yes, now even a demolition derby. I love it because it's impossibly low key. My $3 straw cowboy is the only accessory I need. Blending in beats standing out.

But maybe even more important is the opportunity it gives us to teach our children things they might not otherwise learn ... or a least learn as easily ... at home.

I feel enormously lucky to be able to raise my children in a neighborhood where I can walk them to one of the best public schools in the country; and I value the importance that the school and our broader community and congregation places upon diversity and sensitivity on everything from peanuts to birthday parties, but sometimes I wonder whether it paints a realistic expectation for my kids. Is this teaching them about the world outside of our sometimes hyper-sensitive bubble?

Sometimes I need to be reminded that the energy I put into teaching Ben and Sarah about being sensitive to differences is equal to the energy I need to put into teaching them about how to sensitively respond to situations that are not so diverse. Life outside the bubble. To embrace and share those aspects of themselves that make them different. And to respect the differences in others.

The state fair is a great place to teach those lessons and gorge ourselves on all things fried.

Take the Dairy Barn -- more than a place to teach the difference between dairy cows and beef cows. Ben met a boy not much older than himself that had dedicated hours upon hours to raising the cow he so proudly led into Coliseum for the Youth Guernsey Cow Judging. Wearing pristine white jeans, a button up shirt and a look of determination. A little bit different from the select baseball league he's watched cousin Jake play in all summer, but no less impressive.

And then there was the quest for the "Rodeo" ball cap from a kiosk of cowboy hats adorned with crosses prompting Ben's question: Why are there X's on all of those hats? An opportunity to teach him that just how sometimes we, as Jews, identify ourselves with the Star of David, Christians identify themselves with a cross ... saving (but perhaps teeing up) the more complicated explanations of what those symbols signify.

Or the demolition derby ... which by the way is NOT like Wresting At the Chase; these guys in these cars are for real. When the announcer takes to the microphone to bless the drivers and leads the fans in the Lord's prayer it is a moment to coach Ben on paying respect to a different kind of prayer. Just as all of his non-Jewish friends that have shared Shabbat dinner with us this year have paid respect to his prayers over the bread and wine.

Yeah ... gotta love the State Fair. Fried butter. Funnel cakes. Meat on a stick. And a few life lessons thrown in for good measure.

Judgment Day

2010-08-19T17:47:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #29

Guests: The Garveys

Menu: Liberty Chips and Salsa, Tequila Lime Chicken, Sagaponack Corn Pudding, Deconstucted Guacamole Salad, Key Lime Pie Bars

What I Learned:

I've "appeared" before a judge three times. The first time was a proud moment. Judge Dowd swore me into the Eastern District of Missouri shortly after I passed the bar. The second time was the scariest of my life. Sandwiched between my father-in-law and my husband's best friend, I sat frozen waiting for Judge Jackson to announce whether Steve's sentence would involve a separation from our family. And the third was last Friday when Judge Garvey found me "guilty" of cooking up a killer Tequila Lime Chicken and Corn Pudding.

I've always thought that being a judge had to be one of the hardest jobs in the world. Making decisions that forever change a person's life. (Not to mention all of the people associated with that person.) Basing a conclusion on precedent and argument, even when that conclusion does not reflect your personal convictions. Forever being held to a higher standard in the communty. By my assessment, the only consolation was the black robe that all but eliminated those ill-conceived fashion days.

But now I'm not so sure whether judging is the hardest job. Maybe not judging is even harder.

Having been on the "judged" side of judgment, both formally in a court of law and informally in the court of public opinion I can report that it's not a fun place to be. A federal sentence brings a slew of complications that most people don't plan for. At least we didn't. And while the court of public opinion (and all of its anonymous bloggers) don't quite have the same lifelong impact, their punches still sting.

Prior to 2009, I was guilty of passing my own judgments. I'm not particularly proud of it, though I do think its probably part of human nature. Something about assessing someone else -- judging them as a worse mother, wife, employee, friend -- somehow made me feel a little bit better in all of those departments. Temporarily anyway until I inevitably ended up feeling worse for judging. And making no progress in becoming better in any of the aforementioned departments.

Since 2009 I've change my tune and tried to focus on taking something positive from the situation, because, really, what else can you do when life serves up a crappy hand. I've tried to judge less and improve more. When I feel judgment creeping up, I step back and search for it's source. If the source is a desire to find a weakness in someone else I consider whether I might really be the one with the weakness. And then I spend my energy trying to be a little better. If the judgment is motivated by "sport" or gossip, I hold my tongue and try to redirect my energy to my long (and growing) "to do" list. And if I conclude that my judgment is fair I try my best to share it fairly and offer support and solutions rather than idle criticism. And I own it.

That takes a lot of energy. Which most days I'm short on. Fortunately, it's proving to be productive. And contagious. And generally makes me feel like the road to wherever we are going is somehow a little more tolerable. And less scary.

I hope that my children will learn from me by example and try to do the same. I plan to teach them to leave the judging of others for the folks in black robes. I've already started telling Ben that the only judgment he needs to be worrying about is his own ... good judgment.

Because last Friday's "guilty" ruling on my Tequelia Chicken is the last time I ever want to find myself (or anyone in this family) waiting for a judge's ruling.

Steve's Debut - Guest Blog

2010-08-12T20:26:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #28

Guests: Don and Sarah Jane and son Cal Jr. and Jason and Becca. Hosted by Steve and Sarah while Ben and Rebecca were traveling.

Menu: Flank Steak, Roasted Potatoes, Strawberry Poppy Seed Salad, Toby's Whole Wheat Challah, Angel Food Cake ... all prepared by Steve

What I Learned:

COMING SOON!

Share and Share Alike

2010-08-12T11:51:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #27

Guests: Stacy, Greg and children Molly, Sam and Ben. They live down the block and around the corner. Our girls go to preschool together. Our boys will start kindergarten together. And we belong to the same congregation. Now that's a lot of togetherness.

Menu: Black & Blue Sliders, Confetti Couscous, Peach & Blueberry Spinach Salad, Sliced Watermelon, Princess Cupcakes

What I Learned:

Stacy and I have more than a few things in common. We both have boys. Named Ben. Born on the same day.

I remember when Steve told me this. I had a stomach full of stitches, itching so badly from the morphine that I wanted to peel myself like an orange, but out of my mind happy to be holding my brand new baby boy. Stacy was laying in a hospital bed down the hall probably doing the same. My reaction to Steve's announcement? Blissful indifference. I was in the midst of those precious newborn days, not thinking about the experiences my Ben would share with the boy down the hall with whom he already shared a name.

Turns out they will he sharing more than just a name. And a birthday.

They'll be sharing a school. And Mrs. Fallstrom, the kindergarten teacher. And all of the firsts that kindergarten, elementary and high school will bring. Reading. Writing. Swapping lunches. Playing sports. Dances. Chasing girls -- though hopefully not one another's sisters.

And a neighborhood. Where they'll walk to school. Ride bikes. Play baseball in the Glenridge field. And (sooner than I can bare) be a part of that mob of highschoolers meandering down the street at 3:15 to hang out at Starbucks.

And a synagogue. Where they'll go (and sometimes complain about going) to Shabbat School. And Hebrew School. Study for their bar mitzvahs. And celebrate the coming of age of all of their Jewish friends.

And a friendship that will start with kindergarten and potentially last a lifetime.

Who knows what the future holds. Whether they will be lifelong friends. Confidants. Partners in crime.

But one thing is certain. They'll always share a name. And they'll never forget each other's birthday.

Never Met A Stranger

2010-07-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #26

Guests: Dan and his wife Dana, daughter R. and son I. Dan I and sit on the Joe's Place board together. Joe's Place is a residential home for boys located in the Maplewood Richmond Heights school district. Joe's Place offers a small group of teenage boys what every kid should be able to expect from life: a warm place to sleep, regular meals, and someone to provide guidance and affection.

Menu: Baumann's Smoked Beef Tenderloin, Pasta Ponza, Roasted Asparagus, Icecream with Brown Sugar Bourbon Peach Sauce, Toby's Whole Wheat Challah

What I Learned:

The only thing more unnerving than having an event planner (we'll just call her Susan) and her award-winning BBQ king of a husband to dinner is having a child psychiatrist. Meet Dan. I half expected some kind of parenting intervention. Or at least a make shift Rosrschah inkblot test fashioned out of the grease stained tablecloth. Fortunately neither proved true.

Sitting around the table Dan and his wife did have one rather pointed question: Have any of your dinners totally bombed? The short answer is "No" ... except for maybe the one with my in-laws, but that had more to do with the offending golden raisins in the challah than the company.

And here's the reason.

Steve's never met a stranger. He'll find something to talk about with anyone. Which is fortunate for his sake since I'm the one that makes the guest list.

He's also had a lot of practice at making conversation.

When he ran for office he knocked on every door in the district repeatedly. (If you live in the 73rd you've probably met him.) Undeterred by dogs, drawn blinds or the creepy array of "stuff" that accumulates on some porches, he trudged tirelessly for months leading up to the election. He tells me that this is the reason he won, but I wonder. If it were me opening the door, I would've been questioning the judgment of a 200+ man sweating in the St. Louis summer heat standing on my porch. (I voted for him anyway.)

Sometimes I was a party to this madness, knowing that it was a rare opportunity to squeeze in some "family time" in the thick of the campaign. So I'd schlep Sarah and Ben up and down street after street mostly wondering (while sweating) how I had gotten myself into the whole mess to begin with. Truth is, Ben loved it as much as Steve did, running from one portch to the next.

Never meeting a stranger.

Steve talked about how much it meant to him to have Ben learn about the process. I think he meant the political process and public service. And not the unsolicited door to door visits.

Which apparently was what left a bigger impression on Ben.

The night after dinner with Dan, Ben and a partner in crime (who shall remain unnamed) engaged in their own little door to door campaign. Filling their water guns in the backyard (after attempting to do so in my bathtub), slipping out the backyard cut through, ringing the neighbors doorbell and then giving the resident a big dose of the super soaker. The less than amused homeowner (who of course knew Steve because he knocked on his door) along with his wife marched the offenders by their collars back to whence they came promptly delivering a stern message about safety and respect to the ever so slightly amused adults.

Not my proudest parenting moment. And I am sure a real case study for Dan.

Sunday afternoon Steve marched Ben back to the scene of the crime where Ben delivered a "respectful" apology and offered to pick up the leaves in said homeowners yard for a week.

But the gauntlet really feel when Ben got home.

I took away his T.V.

Now before you go all P.T.A. on me, let me tell you a little bit about this television. I bought it in 1993. It is a 15 inch with a built in VCR. It's not cable ready so pretty much the only thing you can do with it is watch VCR tapes ... which are about as scarce as a full night's sleep when you have two kids. A few months ago my tech-savvy brother-in-law got a load of the T.V. He immediately wanted to know when I was going to purchase Ben an IPad (umm...never) and I think even may have argued that making Ben watch a VCR was in fact punishment.

Then he asked me where our 8-track player was.

Nonetheless, Ben loved that T.V. and the VCR tapes with blockbuster titles like I Love Toy Trains and Big Diggers. Purchased resale of course.

My only mistake in my haste of discipline was telling Ben that he'd lost the T.V. for a week. And not forever. Turns out that things are going so swimmingly without it (which was secretly more of a crutch for me anyway), that I have no intention of returning it and am cracking a plan to tell him that kindergarten does not allow T.V.s in bedrooms. Maybe I'll get his kindergarten teacher (and new best pen pal) to send him a letter backing me up.

But back to Dan's question .... none of the dinners have been a bomb. Not just because Steve is an expert at making conversation, but because we have gone in with an open mind and an eagerness to learn something new about our guests and ourselves. For Steve it has been easy. For me, a person who was content to operate within my safe little circle of friends, it has been a very new experience. And an amazing one. I've met new people (who shockingly are neither runners nor politicians), found a way to connect with the parents of my children's playmates, and created a place in my own home where once a week we can slow down, have gratitude and make new friends.

In the words Martha Stewart, infamous for her entertaining prowess (and other things)...

it's a good thing.

More Time, Less Stuff

2010-07-19T13:28:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #25

Guests: Katie, Aron and their 3 year old son. Katie and I went to high school together. Yet another witness to my "big" hair.

Menu: Chicken and Pineapple Skewers with Mango Salsa, Grilled Plantains with Spicy Brown Sugar Glaze, Coconut Rice, Mango Sorbet with Toasted Coconut

What I Learned:

I met Katie in eighth grade. My parents moved uprooting me from my drama-filled pre-teen existence at one school to another (rival) school down the road where Katie went. Distressing because I'd just made the "Poms" squad and scored Larry Fairchild as a lab partner. The move proved devastating to my future in science and pom-pomming.

This was also right about the time I (along with every other 14 year old girl) began to compare myself to others, keeping a mental checklist of those "must haves." Those things that would most certainly complete my high school experience. Like Guess Jeans. The coveted logo purse. Student council. Senior superlatives. And the almighty "good" hair ... which incidentally did happen to be "big" back in the 80's.

Katie had a lot of the things on the list. She was a cheerleader with the perfectly perky hair to match. Smart. I think she was even on the Homecoming court. And adored because she was impossibly nice. Still is. I lucked into or otherwise earned a number of things on the list as well. Like the lavender Izod sweater from Grandma B. who knew how to spoil me. And the overpriced purse that my Dad made me save for myself. (A lesson I tend to repeat with Sarah.)

I think my high school experience was fairly typical. A dose of teen angst, tossed with a growing desire for what was "in" and a huge helping of "hurry up." Always wanting time to pass faster so I could move up to the high school. Be a sophomore. And a junior. Drive. Vote. Graduate. Move out. Move on.

This pattern continued into college. Chasing grades, internships, boys. All while sporting those horribly unflattering Laura Ashley jumpers. And rolled right into law school, clerkships and eventually the almighty billable hour at the fancy law firm where (with eager greed ) I willed each hour to pass more quickly so I could get to the next.

In that decade I acquired two degrees, a husband, a lot of stuff and a lot less time.

And then I acquired my two kids ... and motherhood changed everything.

These days I'm much happier writing memoirs than memos. And I'll gladly trade more stuff and less time for ... less stuff and more time.

Less house to clean and yard to weed. Less clothes to wash and fold. Less stress and worry that comes with keeping up with too much stuff.

More hours to write, run, cook and travel. More time to spend with my kids. My husband.

More time with my family.

Katie's dad passed away a few months ago. I went to the funeral. He'd been on the board of the Metro West Fire Protection District and the visitation was filled with people, many in uniform. But as I approached Katie it may have well have been just the two of us. Exchanging a hug that silently said "I'm so, so sorry ... I wish there was more time."

That day reminded me again that time is precious. As precious as healthy parents. And that neither should be taken for granted.

So I plan to take the time to squeeze in as many Sunday dinners, Colorado ski slopes, San Diego sunsets and whatever we can dream up boondoggles while the gettin' is good.

Yes ... More time. Less stuff. That's really what I want.

Kindergarten Drop Out

2010-07-13T10:37:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #24

Guests: Us. At Granny and Grandaddy's in sunny San Diego.

Menu: Grilled flank steaks, salad and challah a la Granny.

I was off the hook again this week thanks to our annual summer trip with the kids to visit my mother and father-in-law, affectionately known as Granny and Granddaddy.

My mother in law is one-in-a-million. Beautiful and stylish to boot, she introduced me (for better or worse) to my first real hairdresser and my first (and former) personal shopper. She taught me to love a fine five-course dinner ... and a greasy bag of Crunchers potato chips. Just not at the same time. And she taught me that being strong not only means knowing how to grin and bare it in public, but also knowing how to fall apart behind closed doors and accept the support of family.

All lessons I have tested repeatedly.

Granny and Granddaddy's house in San Diego is designed for, well, Granny and Granddaddy. Not Ben and Sarah. And arguably not even Steve and Rebecca. Which gave me plenty of opportunity to break out all of my "Love and Logic" dialogue to the point where I sounded like a broken record. Praising "good decisions," diffusing melt downs and trying to curtail massive property damage. I even worked in a lesson on respecting the body that G-d gave you right after Granddaddy suggested Ben get a tattoo. Really? What's next? A belly ring for Sarah? He was joking. I think. (And incidentally, as I quickly approach 40 I plan to adamantly argue that Botox does not, in fact, qualify as defacing one's body.)

But when all of my Parents As Teachers tricks fall flat, I reach for my trump card. The threat that always works.

Keep doing that and you won't get into kindergarten!

I'll be the first to admit that this phrase is enormously self-serving. Not just because it (usually) stops the behavior. But because I am secretly hoping, no praying, that somehow, someway the first day of kindergarten never comes.

Of course it's coming anyway. August 17th. Mrs. Follstrom just sent Ben a postcard letting him know.

Dear Ben, Looking forward to seeing you. You can bring your supplies on August 17th. See you soon! Mrs. Fallstrom

And just like that Ben went from being my precious baby boy to a school kid who gets his own mail and schleps his own supplies. Next week I suspect he'll be sneaking out the car and begging for a later curfew.

I remember my first day of kindergarten. We have a picture. Me dressed in my green jeans shorts and patchwork blouse. (How could you not love the 70's?) Pigtails. Lunch box in hand. I was stepping onto the school bus at the top of Cool Meadows. But from the photo you can't even tell if I was upset, scared or the least bit nervous about the milestone because I DIDN'T EVEN LOOK BACK.

Thankfully Ben will not be taking the bus. I'll walk him. And cling to his leg sobbing like a mad woman as he crosses the threshold into independence. Which will likely make it nearly impossible for him to move on without looking back since he'll need to shake me from his leg. Small blessings.

But inside I know that regardless of whether he looks back on August 17th, he will be moving on. And that's scary. A little bit for Ben who has told me he's "nervous," but excited to meet new friends. Particularly big kids. And really scary for me. Not to be too melodramatic ... okay, I'm sobbing like, well, a mother of an almost kindergartner ... but it seems a little bit like the beginning of the end. Each time I think about it I wonder ...

Did I hug him enough? Hold his hand enough? Should I have called in sick more for "Mommy/Ben dates?" Did I teach him everything he needs to know?

Is he ready?

Am I ready?

On August 17th I fully expect to institute, yet again, the lesson of Granny: grin and bare it in public and then come home and fall apart with family. And from experience, I know that each day will get a little bit easier. And I trust I'll find away to support Ben as he grows, so that we grow together instead of apart. But just in case, I'll be sending Ben with his own letter ... to Mrs. Follstrum:

Dear Mrs. Fallstrom:

Please take care of the best thing that has ever happened to me. The person who changed my life. Who gives me strength everyday simply by existing.

And who I promise you in no uncertain terms is cute for a reason! Good luck.

Your friend, Rebecca

You Don't Have to Challah!

2010-06-29T11:55:00.001-07:00

Shabbat #23

Guests: Amy, Jeff and their two sons D. and L. Amy and I worked together in television ... she had a real job and I was just slave labor. Either way, it sounds much more exciting than it actually was.

Menu: Gluten Free! Grilled Flank Steak with Balsamic BBQ Sauce, Grilled Corn, Grilled Peach and Spinach Salad, Brownies with Icecream ... and challah

What I Learned:

On Friday a bit of challah chaos ensued. Toby -- of the one and only Toby's Challah House -- was on vacation. So I sent Steve speeding over to CRC. Stike two. The volunteer CRC bakers were, you guessed it, on vacation. Was there some kind of challah baking convention that no one bothered to tell me about? After conducting a very scientific survey ... on Facebook ... I resorted to picking up a loaf from Whole Foods along with a $4 Stevia-sweetened root beer.

And it was good. The challah that is ... not the root beer. It tasted like crap.

But not so good that I would even consider giving up Toby's.

I first discovered Toby's Challah in 2005 at a Nishmah event on Jewish cooking. Secretly, the real reason I love being Jewish is the food. It is a carb-loving comfort food paradise. Kugels, kashi, blintzes and, last but certainly not least, challah. Especially Toby's whole wheat challah. Yes. You heard me. Whole wheat. Practically a health food.

A few weeks later I ventured out to the source of this heavenly challah just north of Delmar in University City -- my old stomping ground.

Steve and I bought our first house together in University City back in 1995. It's a diverse neighborhood. Lots of DINKs (did that really used to be us???) are drawn there because the houses are cheap(er), but still within walking distance of Clayton. Lots of Jewish families -- particularly Orthodox -- live there because it is within walking distance of a number of synagogues. Back in 95, those tidy houses filled with Jewish families held a certain mystique for me. The way they dutifully walked to services each week. Built sukkahs each fall. Lit candles in their windows. Thing I had never seen growing up Methodist in a less than diverse west county suburb.

And things I expected to only observe from the comfort of my front porch.

Not Toby's.

But that's where I found myself in 2005. On her front porch. Buying a loaf of bread.

The first Friday I arrived I literally thought alarms and lights would start going off as knocked on the door. Alerting her (and everyone else in the neighborhood) that there was an impostor in their midst. Kind of like when Steve first brought me to his (former) Jewish country club. But that didn't happen. (At the country club or Toby's.) And as far as I could tell Toby didn't blink an eye.

Week after week, I showed up for my order and a few minutes of casual conversation. Mostly about motherhood. In 2007 we both had daughters. As I bemoaned childbirth and breastfeeding, I suspect she bellied up to her commercial-sized oven, child slung to her chest and hummed a happy (Jewish) tune as she continued to pump out challahs and other sweet treats without missing a beat. Because, at least from my view, that's the type of woman Toby seems to be. Diminutive in size, but not in strength.

Oh. And did I mention she has a lot of kids of all ages. Obedient ones. Seems like every time I visit they're either studying in the family room or helping their mother. HELPING THEIR MOTHER. Yes folks you heard me. Not watching Wonder Pets or wreaking havoc on one another.

Kind of like my house. Except EXACTLY OPPOSITE.

These days the challah gathering is Steve's responsibility. I'm the chef. He is my Sherpa.

A few weeks ago he called me after his visit.

I don't know whether to be proud or petrified?

(Words that I would prefer not to hear my husband utter after last year's debacle.)

What happened?

Toby invited us for shabbos.

Sure. I was proud. A shabbos invitation from Toby seemed to signify that we were indeed regulars. And certified Jews. Like some sort of stamp of approval.

But equally petrified. Like pee my pants petrified.

My first thought? What if Ben asked for spray butter for the challah? Surely not a kosher product ... and arguably not a food substance at all. What if she discovered that those challahs I'd been buying all those years were only getting a half-baked (though well-intentioned) blessing, me fumbling over the transliteration of the prayer for so long until I finally had it memorized? And forget about my kids doing something inappropriate at the table ... which I would reason excusable by the old adage "kids will be kids." What if I did or said something inappropriate ... because really this is all pretty new to me?

And then I paused.

If I, host of 25+ shabbos dinners in 2010, opener of my not so perfectly tidy home and thoroughly practiced in the art of getting my kids to sit through (at least a portion) of a meal that did not come in a box with a toy was petrified .... how had everyone that we had been inviting these last 6 months been feeling?

Were they nervous too? Apprehensive about bringing small kids to a new place where they would hopefully share? And use utensils? And the potty? All in one night. Apprehensive about doing something that could be categorized as, well, religious? And in some cases, apprehensive about spending an evening in the home of a family they barely knew?

Truth is that even if they were, they came anyway. And they keep coming.

So cheers to all of you who wikipedia-ed shabbat before you came. Who curiously asked if we kept Kosher. Who confirmed, dog-fearing children in tow, that there were no D-O-Gs on premises. Who were delighted to find that we also consider ketschup a food group. Who discovered some new foods with otherwise picky eaters -- kids and husbands included. Who did not fear the lit candles in front of every child. And to all who breathed an audible sign of relief when the children were excused and the bottle of wine was passed.

For you I will go forth to Toby's shabbos dinner proud ... and slightly less petrified.

I promise to write about it. Even the part (which is inevitable) when Ben asks for spray butter and I stick my foot in my mouth.

And maybe I'll make out with an extra loaf or two of challah.

P.S. Hilary (my favorite gardener). If you are reading, I must take you up on the challah baking lesson so that I will be better prepared next time Toby skips town. I'll bring the wine. You knead the bread. Seriously, thanks for your thoughtful, thoughtful offer. I can't wait.

Oh Schvitz

2010-06-24T08:45:00.001-07:00

Shabbat #22: Shabbat Potluck in the Park

Guests: 50 friends and family

Menu: BBQ Burgers, Chicken and Hebrew Nationals and lots of sides compliments of our friends. Check out the Recipe section for new additions

What I Learned:

If friendship were measured in schvitz I'd be one lucky girl. Friday was hot. Africa hot. Actually, on that particular day it was hotter than Africa. I checked. As I prepped for the party, hair frizzing, sundress sticking, I was convinced that we were about to spend our first Shabbat of 2010 alone.

But you came despite the heat and schvitzed right along with us. For that I thank you from the very bottom of my (de-hydrated) heart.

Friday's Shabbat in the Park was the celebration of the half-way point of our one-year resolution. A six month birthday if you will ... with challah instead of cake. The wine flowed (along with lots of water and Capri Sun). The kids ran circles around the baseball diamond, adorned with glowstick necklaces and bracelets. And we shared the blessing of lots of good food and friends.

But for all of the joy that the night held, it was still bittersweet.

Deer Creek Park, the location of Shabbat in the Park, was also the locale of Steve's campaign picnic in the summer of 2008. This isn't why I chose it. In fact, this is why I almost didn't choose it; eventually deciding that any of the memories in might bring back were far outweighed by the convenient amenities for entertaining kids.

But there were memories.

When it came to politics, one of the things I liked least about the process was the campaign. But one of the things I loved most was the campaign staff. All of the college students whose enthusiasm and energy sometimes made me wonder whether they were clear that Steve was running form state rep and not governor. Or president. I think about how they trudged night after night knocking on doors alongside my sweaty husband. Something I never did. Made endless calls. Stood on street corners waving signs. And celebrated his victory at their favorite watering hole the night of the primary.

And I think about how they treated us - me. With a maturity beyond their years they each recognized the boundaries of our family. Intuitively knowing when I needed distance from the chaos of the campaign in order to keep a solid ground under my family and when I needed support. How they adored Ben, who affectionately referred to them as the "running for office guys" even though half of them were women. And how they tossed baseballs endlessly with him in the backyard and put up with the antics (and meltdowns) of a three-year old -- responsibilities that were certainly not part of the job description.

But most of all I think about what those "running for office guys" meant to Steve, each of whom I am certain he would have done anything for.

Oh what a difference a year (or two) makes.

So Friday was a bit bittersweet. Bitter in its reminder of what could have been.

But sweet in memories of the summer of 2008.

And the summer of 2010.

Mascoutah: The Midwest's Magical Kingdom

2010-06-14T11:23:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #21

Guests: Kati, Adam and their three sons.

Menu: Sliced Parmesan and Rosemary Bread with Date Balsamic Vinegar and Rosemary Olive Oil for Dipping, Penne with Sun Dried Tomato Pesto, Pomodoro Siciliano, Watermelon Salad with Mint and Feta ... never got around to the Strawberries with Limoncello

What I Learned:

Theoretically, cooking for a vegetarian should be easy. Boil some water for pasta, toss a salad and call it dinner. But for some reason it makes me anxious. A mix of wanting to satisfy the carnivores and feeling like boiling and tossing is just not enough "work" for me. That somehow it has to be complicated and time consuming to be good.

But on Friday I kept it simple.

I boiled and I tossed. I skipped the flower arranging, opting for a potted lavender that I planted out front the next day. I didn't even make my blue cheese crackers. Just a plate of bread and cheese with my new favorite date vinegar and oil.

But as the clock ticked towards six o'clock I started to get a little nervous. I'd barely dirtied a pot in the preparation. Flour didn't dust the floor. No grease on the stove top. My food processor was the only appliance that got any action and I didn't even wash it by hand.

Had I done enough? It was company after all.

Looking back on the recipes of the past six months, I can assure you that there were several that required a fair amount of time. Like shopping for the meal made with all Missouri products. The crack pie with it's two-plus pages of directions requiring each pie to be baked individually. (A directive that I ignored.) The baklavas made with phyllo -- a dough that didn't take well to my meditative cooking approach. And all of the potato peeling.

And, yes, all of those complicated meals and the conversations that ensued around the table were fantastic.

But so was Friday. And all I did was boil and toss.

Turns out there is absolutely no correlation between time in preparation to enjoyment around the table. We all talked until our kids begged to be put to bed. Ben found (another) new best friend. All of the indoor toys migrated out. And the candles had nearly burned completely down by the time the last dish dropped into the dishwasher.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised by this -- the notion that more is not always, well, more. That sometimes the best things in life are really actually pretty simple.

My children teach me this all the time.

Last year smack dab in the middle of the storm that was our life we decided to take the kids to Disneyland. (Proof that I had indeed lost my mind.) Having heard of friends talk about planning trips to Disney parks -- character breakfasts, fast passes, tram rides, meal plans, crowds, heat -- I knew it was not for the faint of heart. Or wallet. But I bought into it ... the idea of Sarah's eyes turning into saucers at the sight of the Princesses. Ben grinning ear to ear next to Mickey. We loaded up the suitcases, flew across the country and bought four very expensive keys to the magical kingdom ... plus one large stuffed Mouse, two sets of ears, a spinning Buzz Light Year and a princess costume. And at the end of the day there were some "magical" moments.

Was it worth it? I suppose.

Would I do it again? Doubtful.

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure my kids even ever asked to go to Disneyland. Or recognized half the Disney characters when they got there. I think the whole thing had more to do with me believing that if I could plan the most perfect, over the top trip that somehow we would all magically be ... happy.

On Saturday we took the kids to the 18th Annual Optimist Rodeo in Mascoutah, Il. No high-priced tickets, fast passes or flashing lights. Just a makeshift ring constructed in an open field. And, still, Sarah was saucer-eyed and Ben grinned ear to ear. Riveted by the roping and bull-riding with their 10-gallon hats perched upon their 2-gallon heads. Chasing dogs and fireflies. Climbing fences. Eating roasted corn. Watching the kids have the time of their lives, sun setting behind them, I couldn't help thinking that it was nothing short of, well, magical. For all of us.

Proof to me that parenting is a little bit like cooking. Sometimes there's no correlation between preparation and enjoyment.

And that every once in a while simple is good and less is more.

Y'All Come Back Now, Ya Hear?

2010-06-08T14:18:00.001-07:00

Were you worried that I gave up the resolution? Threw in the towel? Succumbed to take out?

Don't be.

It was just a temporary reprieve for birthday celebrations. With a modified Shabbat observance of course.

And two weeks of a cooking reprieve as well.

I guess I ought to be thankful for that. After all, the weekly cooking responsibility, not to mention the shopping, cleaning, chopping, prepping, broiling, basting, baking, wining, dining, candle lighting that has been my life for nearly half a year can be a wee bit arduous.

But truth be told ... I missed it.

And now, I'm a tad bit petrified of having to jump back in again this week. Particularly after reading Julie and Julia on a (way) too long flight back from the south. For months people have been telling me to read this book. (Apparently I'm the only one who hadn't.) And it's a good thing that was the case because I'm pretty sure I would've thought a little longer about the prospect of cooking and writing about each meal. But now that I'm on the hook, I can all but assure you that I will NOT be cooking anything French for the next six months.

Especially not aspic.

I missed the structure of planning and preparing our weekly meal. The way the shopping, table setting and cooking neatly tied down each day of my life all but eliminating the feeling that things could spin out of control.

I missed seeing the table set for company Thursday night. The chairs filled with friends on Friday. The empty candlesticks, weepy flowers and wayward serving pieces that still needed to be put away on Saturday. And Sunday.

I missed picking up all of the inside toys that migrated outside and the outside toys that got in. Returning the dress-up clothes to the trunk. And the sidewalk chalk to the tattered box. Tucking in two tired little people who now assume that every Friday includes candle lighting, challah and lots of playmates.

I missed running with no other purpose than to contemplate the Friday gathering. What we had learned. What I would write. Miles where the worries that still weigh heavy did not slow me down.

And I missed writing. Putting to paper a feeling. And then moving on to deal with the next. Reminding myself and the people I love that this too shall pass. That good far outweighs bad.

And I really missed sharing it on this blog.

Julie and Julia was originally a blog. It was called The Julie/Julia Project. A true story. But as I read it I wasn't thinking about Julie Powell -- the person who was actually living through a year of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I was swept into the story she told. In my mind's eye I imagined her in vintage blouses and comfortable shoes. A tired looking kitchen in her small New York apartment. And her husband who had to eat aspic, maim lobsters and otherwise support his wife as she plodded through 500+ French recipes with emotion ranging from vigor to defeat.

Is my perception of Julie Powell remotely accurate? Who knows. It is primarily a function of my own imagination and experience. My interpretation of her words.

I won't be so presumptive to believe that anyone who reads this blog spends much time conjuring up images of me plodding through a Year of Shabbats. And, frankly, after last year I don't spend much time worrying about my image either.

But I think about you. Of course I have no idea who you are. Sometimes I can see what time you visit. Or where you (or maybe your server) is located. (Who are you in Uruguay?)

But you are more than just numbers to me. You are people from all over the country. And the world. Places that I have never been. And may never go. And I wonder how you found me. And whether something that I wrote sounded familiar. Or made you laugh.

But mostly I just like that you visited. Even if only for the Chocolate Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce recipe. Because somehow it makes me feel like you are rooting for us.

And that feels good.

Grace Period

2010-05-26T08:00:00.001-07:00

Shabbat #20 - Holy Cow!

Guests: Jen and Matt and daughters H. and G., Jodi and Trevor, son B. and daughter T. All preschool parents. Ben was smitten (again) with a fair-haired six-year old guest.

Menu: Blue Cheese-Encrusted Filets with Port Wine Sauce, Spicy Creamed Spinach, Herb Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Blueberry Cheesecake with Lemon Curd

What I Learned:

On Thursday I got a one-line email from an old law firm colleague.

Think about you and glad you are doing well.

My first thought?

Spam.

That if I responded to this message every person I had ever emailed -- regardless of their "state of being" -- would automatically receive this odd congratulatory note of sorts.

After all, had she not read the paper? While I had moved from a complete mess to relatively high functioning, the adjective "well" struck me as a bit, um, premature.

Or was it.

I know I've written a lot about my running. Marathons in particular. And yes. I watch enough Oprah and, more recently, Dr. Oz to know that it's a bit of a control issue. But there are also upsides apart from the physical benefits. Like the post-marathon grace period.

I'll explain.

When a runner meets another runner one question nearly always ensues. Are you training for anything? In St. Louis terms it's equivalent to Where'd you go to highschool? Not meant to be a means of sizing up your new acquaintance, but rather a way to gain a quick perspective. Do they race? What distance? Are they doing a race you've done? But just like the high school question, it's also one that can invoke anxiety? What if there's nothing on the race calendar? Then more questions ensue. Did you just finish a race? Still recovering? Or the really loaded one ... what's next? A sign that what you've done is not nearly as significant as what you plan to do.

Also a sign that your grace period is up and it's time to set a new goal.

Which brings me to the benefit of running marathons. Some view the completion of a marathon as a formidable exertion worthy of a month or two of recovery. An obligatory grace period to the question Are you training for anything? Running a marathon every six months or so means that I am nearly always within this grace period. If I am feeling slow and sluggish, I can respond that I've just run "X Marathon" (which is also a handy cover to my slow(ing) pace). If I'm feeling spry (and speedier) I'll share my future race plan. Either way, my anxiety over the question is all but eliminated. I perpetually straddle the "what I've done" and the "what I'm planning to do" answering as my mood suits.

But life's not always that easy.

On Friday the chatter around the table turned to how we met our spouses. Steve recounted (for the umpteenth time) how we had met as I dropped (for the umpteenth time) clarification.

Him: I asked her to go see Phantom of the Opera - box seats.

Me (yelling from the kitchen): Box seats, SIX WEEKS, from the date he was asking.

Him: I knew she couldn't say no.

Me (still yelling): I had him confused with another guy. An Italian.

And so proceeded the 411 around the table.

Then the conversation turned. To occupations. In talking to Jodi earlier in the evening, I knew that she and her husband had not followed Steve's story. So I braced myself. For the practiced answer that Steve would give. Having watched the answer unfold in company without a background on our situation I knew what was next. The awkward silence. Sometimes followed by the "oh you're the guy" light bulb moment. And nearly always a few questions ranging from the perfunctory to the pointed.

But that's not what happened.

For the first time, finally, someone (other than me) said it.

So what are you doing next?

And just like that our life -- or at least to the extent that it existed around that table -- moved from what he did to what he would do.

His answer? While not nearly as practiced, it was the makings of a new goal.

And an end to the grace period.

Finally.

As for that congratulatory email .... whether I was "well?" Maybe it wasn't so premature after all.

Do Over

2010-05-18T14:08:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #19

Guests: On the eve of my sister-in-law Tami's bat mitvzah, the family ... Tami, Brian, Alan, Carol, Pam, Mel, Melissa, Mark, David, Amy, Phil

Menu: a la French bistro en Glencoe, Il, c'est magnifique!

What I Learned:

Why? Why? Why?

The three opening words of Cal, a 76-year old bar mitzvah.

Why would a 76-year old guy decide to go back and do over what had been done some 63 years ago?

And for that matter, what would drive five other women -- all in various stages of motherhood -- to become bat mitzvahs?

They are the Am Shalom 2010 B'Nai Mitzvah class ... affectionately dubbed "Cal and His Gals."

And as I settled into my front row seat in the Am Shalom sanctuary last Saturday I thought I knew. A 37-year old bat mitzvah myself, I had stood where they were about to stand nearly three years ago. Motivated by motherhood. Inspired by children of friends I had watched experience the rite of passage. Eager for a new intellectual challenge. I expected to feel nostalgic as the women recounted the difficult balance of weekly Torah study and child care. The recorded prayers played endlessly in cars in the hope that the Hebrew would magically be ironed into memory. And I would share a connection with my sister-in-law and the other four women in the b'not whom I had never met. A commitment to something greater than ourselves to guide us through the perils of parenting and beyond.

And I did.

What I wasn't expecting was a 76-year old bar mitzvah. A man. Twice my age.

My first thought?

Awkward.

As I thought back to my b'not and our study with our rabbi - Rabbi Susan - I had a hard time imagining a man in this very female mix. What similarities would we have shared in our discussion of Vayetze, Jacob's Ladder? And what about the discussion in the temple lobby before our weekly meetings? Surely this man, with his mop of white hair, would not have been interested in the banter of thirty-something females ... chasing kids, celebrity botox,the tastiest frozen foods at Trader Joe's.

But from the moment Cal took to the dias I knew I was wrong.

They were lucky.

And so was I.

My words cannot begin to do justice to Cal's story or his delivery that day. But I will do my best to recount. Cal became a bar mitzvah at 13. His most vivid memory? The blue and white bar mitzvah cocktail napkins. No epiphany of manhood. Or added weight of responsibility that came with an independent Jewish identity. In fact, he didn't even have a service. Or read from the Torah. (Neither are required by Jewish law to attain the status of bar mitzvah.)

In 1960 Cal became the custodian of a Torah. A Torah from Russia passed down through the generations of his family. And he treasured it. But at some point he concluded the only way he could truly honor his legacy would be to read from the Torah as a true bar mitzvah.

And read he did.

From that very Torah that he inherited fifty years ago.

His voice ringing out in the sanctuary with the enthusiasm of a 13-year old and the insight of his 76 years.

After the service my sister-in-law told me that Cal had not originally planned to participate in a group service. And that only days before the b'nai mitzvah he had a devastating loss in his family which, perhaps, may have made him reconsider moving forward on that day at all. But on both counts, I feel blessed that he did.

I didn't get to talk with Cal about his experience. Or his study. So I don't know for sure the message he intended his story to convey.

But this is the message I took from it.

In life we don't always get it right the first time. Whether it's because the time isn't right or we have simply fallen short. But if we are vigilant and look for opportunities, sometimes life gives us a do over.

Like a bar mitzvah 63 years later.

And for someone like me looking through the lens of a life sprinkled with more than a few broken promises, shortcomings and regrets, that's a pretty hopeful message.

Mazel Tov to my beautiful sister-in-law Tami, Laura, Yumi, Beth, Jill

and

... Cal.

Kavanot - 11/10/07

2010-05-18T14:07:00.000-07:00

My kavanot from my own bat mitzvah on 11/10/2007 - Central Reform Congregation, St. Louis, MO:

In our Torah portion Va-Yetze, Jacob left Beer-Sheba and set out for Haran. Unlike his grandfather Abraham, he was not searching for God or traveling in response to G-d’s request. In Jacob’s case, G-d was silent. Jacob left Beer-Sheba for reasons that we can all probably relate to … his family relationships were the pits, he was looking for love, and he needed a job.

On the first night of his journey Jacob lays down to sleep and has a dream that a ladder drops down from the heavens. And then G-d stands beside him and makes him great promises about all the lands that will be his. And G-d promises Jacob that he will be with him. And Jacob responds like many of us might have. With skepticism. So much so that he makes a deal with G-d. “G-d, if you remain with me through my travels and I return home safely then you will be my G-d.”

Like Jacob, my motivations for traveling on an AJC trip to Israel in the Spring of 2004 were far from spiritual. My son was 1 ½ and I wanted to get away with my husband. A 10-day trip to far off places was just the ticket. Sleeping in with Steve, lingering over exotic meals, having a few too many glasses of wine and not having to worry about taking care of a toddler in the morning. Heaven. Oh … And somewhere in between I would fit in a few visits to the requisite holy sites.

We spent 4 days in Israel. I saw the sites, ate falafel and generally continued to feel the same way that I had felt about the importance of religion in my life for the last 30+ years. I hadn’t set foot in a church by choice since the mid-70s. When I had to go I watched the clock – even during weddings. My great miracle of Christmas had more to do with vacation days and holiday parties. My religion – to the extent it existed – was a bit more personal. I prayed to myself at night. My Christian friends will know it … “Now I lay me down to sleep” followed by my list of people I wanted to bless … including “Brownie” the neighborhood stray dog and “Chip” my first boyfriend in preschool. Some habits are hard to break.

Our next stop on the AJC trip was Morocco. We arrived on a Friday night. I was exhausted and nauseous from the sweaty van trip into Casablanca. An avid fitness freak in need of a fix, I was also enormously disappointed by the state of the hotel gym which held one decrepit stationary bike. We were scheduled to attend a Shabbat dinner at the home of a local Jewish family. I didn’t want to go. Steve convinced me that I should by promising that they would probably have all of my favorite foods … couscous, olives, cheese. So I rallied and went.

What I saw when we arrived was truly something out of a movie. Women dressed in sparkling robes, food for as far as the eye could see, the finest linens. These were some folks ready for a party. As we sat down to dinner, the men toasted one another with glasses of whiskey as their wives rolled their eyes and kibitzed with one another. But something happened that night. Sometime between the fish course and dessert a ladder dropped from the heavens. I listened to the stories of the slow death that Judaism was suffering in Morocco. Jewish graveyards being relocated to make way for Muslim monuments, synagogues closing one by one, and Jewish children leaving the country for a better life in Europe. I was sitting among, perhaps, one of the last generations of Jews in Morocco and they were doing everything they could go keep the religion alive.

That night Steve and I returned to our hotel and made a promise. If the Jews of Casablanca could go to such great lengths to preserve their religion, we could surely manage to have Shabbat dinner once a week as our little effort. But like Jacob, I was skeptical. Dinner at home every Friday night? What about happy hour? I’m not even Jewish! But Steve was. I had seen the way that he had been moved during our trip. I saw a deeper side of him than I had not known before. So I committed.

We went home and had our first Shabbat dinner. I think I even made a brisket. And slowly a richer life began to unfold for us.

We hung the mezuzah we purchased while we were in Israel. I lit the candles each week and read the prayers. Ben became the official Shabbat match extinguisher. Then I started to study. On my own at first and then with Rabbi Susan and the B'not. I converted. I even moved the date of my visit to the mikvah up before my due date so Sarah would have a Jewish mother. And the day of my conversion, I took Ben into the bath with me and we dunked together as I said the prayers with Steve as my witness.

While my journey may have started because Steve is Jewish, this is not why I am here today. This is why. When we hung the mezuzah, G-d got his foot in my door figuratively and literally. I felt G-d as we sat as a family each Friday night -- talking about the good things in our life and watching Ben take joy in his little victory of getting the match blown out. I knew G-d was with me each time I walked into the temple for a meeting with Rabbi Susan and my five new friends and finally did not feel uncomfortable in a spiritual place. And I saw G-d in the soft golden glow that surrounded Ben as I lifted him from the water that day in the mikvah. I will never forget that moment.

My teaching today is for everyone, not just our Jewish guests. And it is this. Keep an eye out for dropping ladders. Avoid the urge to be skeptical. Crack the door open for G-d or whatever higher power or thought moves you. My wish for you is that in doing so your life will be a little richer too.

I would be remiss without making a few personal mentions. I want to thank Rabbi Susan and the B'not for all that they have taught me … particularly Kara who openly shared her experiences with me. Kara – I think a ladder may have dropped down on the kibbutz that day in Israel.

To all my guests today - particularly my non-Jewish friends many of which have never been to a synagogue including one who affectionately referred to this night at my baklava. It means the world to me that you are here tonight.

Finally, to my husband of 11 years as of yesterday. My service is dedicated to you. Thank you for your support and love everyday and for my two miracles – Ben and Sarah. I love you with all my heart.

Crib Note: Bar/Bat Mitvahs ... Not Just for 13-Year Olds Anymore

2010-05-17T07:59:00.000-07:00

Bar and bat mitzvahs are the coming of age ceremonies traditionally reserved for 13-year old boys and 12-year old girls respectively. (Though girls in the U.S. were not traditionally encouraged or permitted in some cases to have a bat mitzvah until the early 70's.) These events, often the capstone to years of study, mark the moment when young men and women formally accept responsibility for their own Jewish identity. The transition includes the young person being called to read from the Torah during a synagogue service. A celebration with family and friends often follows.

A bat/bar mitzvah service is open to all members of the congregation. But, if you're not Jewish and are lucky enough to receive an invitation to attend it's something you won't want to miss. Each bar/bat mitzvah is assigned a portion of the Torah and shares their own teaching on that portion with the congregation. A teaching that never fails to inspire. But it's the parents' blessing at the end of a service that nearly always brings me to tears. Listening to a parent describe a lifetime of memories at the very moment that their child is literally walking into adulthood -- especially when you have watched that child grow up yourself -- is precious.

These days the transition is no longer reserved for boys. Or 13-year olds.

The b'nai mitzvah I attended this past weekend for five 30-something mothers and one strapping 76-year old fellow -- affectionately dubbed "Cal and His Gals" -- was proof.

Proof that it's never too late to mark a moment ... even when it may be a smidgen too late for a rollerskating party.

*Props to Am Shalom in Glencoe, IL for its ongoing Adult B'Nai Mitzvah classes (See www.amshalom.com). Not in Chicago? Ask your rabbi where you can find an adult b'nai mitzvah class in your community.

Superheroes

2010-05-09T10:32:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #18:

Guests: Megan and her 4-year old son L. And Dane. Megan and I practiced law together at a large firm after we graduated law school. She wised up more quickly than I did following her passions instead of the mighty dollar. But I got there eventually too.

Menu: Roasted Corn & Lentil Salsa, Grilled Steak & Portabella Fajitas with Chimichurri Sauce, Drunken Peppers, Fiesta Salad, Polvorones de Canela (Cinnamon Cookies) with Coconut Sorbet

What I Learned:

On Friday night I was sitting out on my patio turned preschool parking lot when Batman crept around the corner. Okay. So it wasn't exactly Batman. It was L. Dressed as Batman. Full-length cape and all.

In tow? Megan and Dane. It didn't take more than five minutes of casual introductions before Dane began singing Megan's (well-deserved) praises. That L. had wished for a Batman cape. That Batman capes aren't so easy to find in months that don't start with "O." And that Megan had in fact stitched up the very cape that Batman -- I mean L. -- was sporting.

I'll be the first to admit that the cape demonstrated a fair bit of seamstressing prowess -- from the bright yellow felt bat emblem stitched on the back to the drawstring around the collar. (My rendition would have most certainly been fastened with a safety pin. Or duct tape.)

But Dane sang on. Even though Megan and I both knew. There was nothing particularly heroic about cape-making. Moms make things work. That's our job. And when we can't buy capes, we make them.

So our children can be superheroes.

And the irony of it all? This is what our children teach us to do.

Take Ben. In those late night feedings -- just as he dozed back to sleep -- I would whisper to him. You saved me. Not that I thought I was destined for a miserable existence ... though given my sleep deprivation, mean case of "you can look but don't touch" engorgement, and a belly full of staples it was in fact a bit miserable. Rather, I meant that by his birth alone he had managed to deliver a life time's worth of lessons to me. About the strength of my body. And my heart. Big lessons from such a tiny little person.

Had he really saved me? Or was it just mother's intuition? Only time would tell.

A few weeks ago I received a hand-written note in the mail. (Note to self: Bring back the handwritten letter.) It was from Mary Ann. She lives down the street from us (which made U.S. Post delivery even more notable) and she's also our Parents As Teachers educator. She knows a lot about our family. She wrote that she had been following the blog and was enjoying the anecdotes about the children. But it was the closing that got me. She wrote that she hoped things in our home were as positive as I painted them to be.

Well. They're not -- a least not all of the time. Who's life is?

But it's all relative. It's what I've chosen to make of it that's (perhaps) noteworthy. And positive.

By my calculation I get about 18 years with each of my children. At least with them at home. Ben is almost six. Which means I am almost a third of the way through. And you better believe that I am not going to be wasting one moment of that time being negative.

I'm planning to spend it being happy. I'll make every moment count. I'll be forgiving. I'll stand steadfast behind the decisions that best suit my family, even when they are unpopular. I'll be grateful. When things are broken, I'll fix them. I'll take care of myself so I can take care of them. Sometimes I'll choose to be here, even when you want me there. And I will try to be the person I want my children to become. Even when it's tiring. And I think they aren't watching. And when I fail, I will get up the next day and start again.

Ben taught me to do all of these things by his arrival alone.

And maybe that's how he saved me. And us.

So to all of those mothers out there who fix things, forgive, sacrifice, are there when someone else wants them to be here, who stand steadfast - even when it's tiring. And who make capes. So their children can be superheroes.

Happy Mother's Day.

Independence Day

2010-05-06T10:01:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #17

Guests: Shelly, Don, son A. and baby brother R. Catherine and son C. We all know one another from preschool, though up until recently most of our conversations occurred at drop off and pick up. Not around the table. Which turned out to be much more fun. Don, a man of few (albeit brilliant) words, periodically dropping lines like I play in a band. Who knew?

Menu: Antipasto Platter, Chicken Spedini, Roasted Vegetable Pasta Primavera, Mixed Greens, Toby's Whole Wheat Challah, Noci Croccante (Hazelnut Brittle) with Gelatto.

What I Learned:

Ben has known A. and C. just about as long as he has known me. At the ripe old age of five, the three have grown up together. Ben affectionately refers to them as his "best buddies" - so diplomatic in not choosing a favorite. Like a politician.

Yet, for as close as they are they only recently started having "playdates."

This is my fault.

The mere mention of a playdate used to send me into a self-reflective panic.

My initial reaction? Wow. I must really look like I am losing it if someone else is offering to take care of their children ... and mine. Quickly followed by -- Wow. If I let them, then maybe I am really losing it.

Then there was the whole issue of giving the rest of the world a peak behind the curtain.

Was I ready for someone to discover that I was not the put together mom they saw at drop off and pick up? That my day job was primarily a means of promoting personal hygiene and that without it I would nearly always be in sweaty running clothes. If the playdate included lunch, would Ben ask why his did not come in a box with a cheap toy? (Because lots of them did.) Or request ketchup. On everything. A condiment I considered both a fruit and a vegetable, depending on the day. And what about all of the other complications and struggles I carefully kept wrapped up and tucked aside.

And so our "playdates" were mostly at Nana and Papa's. And Judy's. My confidants who knew that "playdate" was code for "I need help."

Until last winter.

Over the school break Shelly called. For a playdate. And I obliged. Not because I had complete confidence that she could care for three kids at once (she is after all a graduate of MIT and Cal Tech), but because I knew it was finally time. Time for Ben's discovery of his own independence to win out over my insecurities.

So I sent him. And he came home beaming. (And if he covered his lunch in ketchup Shelly did not let on.) The next weekend I took Ben and A. to the train show. (Which I worried may have been slightly ambitious on the way there as my car filled with 5-year old animals noises - but turned out to be a breeze.) And then Ben went to C.'s house. And C came to ours.

And I was beaming too. Because I discovered (though it defies all mathematical logic) that sometimes it's actually easier to take care of three kids, rather than two ... as long as one of them is not yours. Maybe because Ben thinks it's uncool to have a meltdown in front of his best buddy. Or because his "old" toys are suddenly cool again if his best buddy deems them so.

These days it's hard to stop Ben from running next door to Keaton's or cutting through the back to Grant's. And when he's not, chances are there's one (or more) additional little people at our house.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Over Ben's fire engine bed hangs a giant bulletin board. Filled with years of artwork, ticket stubs, baseball cards, the trapping of all things boy. And a photo of the four of us at the beach. Ben clutching Steve's leg. Sarah in a sling around my chest. Just weeks old and so small only I know she's there.

On Sunday night I went to tuck Ben into the fire engine. And there he sat. A construction paper heart with a photo pasted to the middle dangled from his finger by a strand of yarn. A picture of Ben hugging A. "I love this kid," he said through his impossibly long eyelashes. And then turned to hang it on his bulletin board. From the same thumbtack that secured our snapshot. His paper heart leaving only my head peaking out from behind.

And that night as I left the room I realized that letting go of my own insecurities would not be my greatest hardship. Not even close. My greatest hardship would be letting go of him.

PSA: The Good China is Dishwasher Safe

2010-05-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

Last week I was asked what was the most surprising thing about our Friday night dinners. My answer? How healing it has been for our family.

But frankly, if you would have told me ten months ago that I would be entertaining in my home. Every Friday. And then writing about it. I would have told you you were out of your blessed mind. (Expletives deleted). I'll spare you the details of my vision. But trust me. It had more to do with bolting the door than setting the table.

Which got me to thinking.

Maybe there was something to this weekly family dinner. Something bigger than our family. It was such a simple, universal concept. Yet so profoundly impactful. At least for us.

So I did a bit of research. Turned out I was right.

As far as I can tell, family dinners (at least according to the research) are practically saving the world. Wanna stop your kid from smoking, drinking and abusing drugs? Serve up a brisket. Improve reading and test scores and even build larger vocabularies? Bring on the beef. One study even credits dinner at home with a feeling of greater personal success and success in relationships -- not only with your children, but your spouse.

Still skeptical?

I don't blame you.

I'm a little suspicious too. Plus, with my kids at only two and five, I'm going to need a good ten years to find out if they were actually right.

So I'm giving you a few more practical reasons ... that won't require you to wait until your kids are 15 to confirm.

Here's what's happening at our house.

1. Entertaining every week has motivated me to do things like clean that dried up spaghetti sauce off the couch.

2. Entertaining every week has also made me realize that no one really cares (or notices) the sauce. And now I care less too.

3. I learned (and confirmed) that the peels of eight potatoes cannot be digested by my garbage disposal.

4. Steve learned (and confirmed) that he can dismantle the kitchen sink, clear a clog, and reassemble pipes. (It only leaks a little).

5. I unpacked and fired up my Cuisinart food processor, Kitchen Aide standing mixer and thirty dollar digital oven thermometer. All for one meal.

6. I started using the good china. And putting it in the dishwasher. Without ruining it.

7. Ben now assumes that he gets to have a friend at dinner every Friday night. Here's to hoping he feels that same way when he is 15.

8. I have recorded almost 6 great months of family memories for my kids. Which is good since I haven't snapped a single photo since Halloween.

9. We always have good left overs on Saturday.

10. I have made new friends, reconnected with old friends. Including my best friend -- my husband.

Still skeptical?

We Will Listen

2010-04-26T11:43:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #16 - Havdalah

Guests: Just us. And cousin L.

Menu: Easy Grill: Steak, Mixed Peppers & Portabellas, Mache with Fennel & Parmesan, Toby's Challah, Chill Frozen Yogurt

What I Learned:

I'm attempting to run a marathon in every state. Saturday I crossed off Tennessee. I'm well beyond believing that anyone actually cares. I'm not even sure I do. I see the members of this elusive club at races. They're easy to spot. Even without their signature red, white and blue "50 State Marathon" singlets. Limping. Listing to one side. White hair. Is this what I'm headed for?

Probably.

I hope.

I signed up for Nashville last year. Before the Shabbat resolution. Steve had originally planned to join me. But he was at home. Collecting a squash tournament award instead.

And that was okay.

I didn't have to lay awake listening to him snore the night before the race. And he didn't have to worry whether I was throwing up in my mouth when they dropped the prime rib in front of me at the tournament banquet.

So I ran the marathon. And then out ran a tornado to make havdalah with the family on Saturday.

And the Nishmah Women's Conference at the J on Sunday.

Nishmah is a non-profit organization with a mission to enrich the lives of girls and women in the St. Louis Jewish community through educational, spiritual and social programming. Ronit Sherwin and Karen Sher founded it in 2005. They're also both mothers. They get it.

Nishmah translates to "we will listen."

We will listen.

Are there three more important words?

I started writing this blog for me. Mostly because I'm not good at organizing pictures. Or recipes. I'm only slightly better at writing. So I figured I would write about our journey back -- for my children. And organize the pictures later when they were gone. It'd also be a handy way to file my recipes.

I showed the blog to Steve. Then I started sharing the blog with our guests. They sent it to friends. People wanted the recipes. And the menu for the upcoming week. One thing led to another. Hits across the country. And few other countries. Emails. Handwritten notes. Hugs. And some tears.

Apparently people were listening. Or at least reading.

Yet, not a single week goes by when I don't think ...

Why am I writing this?

Peggy Orenstein was the keynote speaker and a workshop presenter at the Nishmah conference. Remember Jon Lovitz as the Pathological Liar from the old SNL? (When SNL was actually funny). That's how her bio reads.

My memoir Waiting for Daisy is a New York Times best-seller. And I write ... for the LA Times. And Vogue. And The New Yorker. Yeahhh. That's the ticket! Did you see me on The Today Show? And GMA? Oh ... and I'm married to a film maker.

Except it's true.

Her workshop was entitled Princesses, "Perfect" Girls and Pop Tarts: What the New Culture of Girlhood Means for Our Girls. The title alone made me shake in my knock-off Tory Burch flats.

Sure. I knew that I should encourage imaginary play. With dolls. And trucks. That I should shun Palm Beach Barbie. And push Astronaut Barbie. And beware of all Disney-made child stars. Who will inevitably turn out like Britney. And Lindsay.

But when Peggy, dressed west-coast cool, perched on the corner of a table in my midwest J launched into her case, I got a little scared. No. A lot scared. Who knew that the Disney Princesses were created to take my money? And her innocence? That "toddler" and "tween" were terms coined by marketers. Not my pediatrician. Or that American Girl had released Gwen - the homeless doll- for $95. Was it true that now not only did I have to worry whether Sarah was wearing her bike helmet? But also whether it was a red and green one with a dragon on it. And not her pink Hello Kitty helmet. That went with her pink Hello Kitty tutu. And necklace. And singing microphone.

And so I approached Peggy after. Nervously.

Umm.

(Shuffle knock-off shoes).

I'm not sure I can do this. I don't know where to start. How can I say do as I say ... when I'm not even sure I'm doing what I'm saying?

And this is what she said. Without hesitation. And complete confidence.

You don't have to be perfect.

I took a breath. Maybe she was right? She had, after all, been on NPR. And she was a mother who had gotten a daughter to age seven. So by my standard she was the expert.

An hour or so later we all filed in for lunch. And the keynote address. By Peggy. I started to sweat again. Would I spend the lunch feverishly taking notes on more things to worry about?

But it was different. She was different. Or maybe I saw her differently.

This time she told a very personal story. One that was printed in the The New York Times Magazine eight years ago. I'm certain she must have read it to herself thousands of times. Aloud nearly just as many. But as she stood before us, reading her work, she was real. Speaking with a practiced cadence, but at times pausing. As she swayed -- consciously or not -- behind the podium. Differently than I had seen her in the workshop perched upon the table. She was a woman. And a mother. Who despite (or inspite of) her success had her own struggles.

She told her story. And in the room you could have heard a pin drop. As other women watched. And related. And were validated. That someone had said out loud what they had been thinking. And that felt good. For us. And probably for her.

We were listening.

And that is why I write each week.

Because I have a story. That I am telling.

Because maybe something about it is like yours.

The Promised Land

2010-04-19T10:56:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #15

Guests: Drake and Druanne. Bruce and Sharon. We've known them all since our double income no kid days. Bruce, a home builder, has also made our house a home.

Menu: Blue Cheese Crackers, Grilled Fish Skewers with Chickpea Puree, Greek Caponata, Toby's Challah, Beggar's Purse Baklava

What I Learned:

Steve and I are on our fourth house. And our 14th year of marriage.

A stucco duplex. A stone traditional. One in the suburbs. And, now an urban Tudor.

Seven years ago we lived in the house in the suburbs. It was my least favorite. Mostly because buying it it was not my idea. And typically, when something isn't my idea -- no matter how grand it happens to be -- it forever remains ... my least favorite.

One morning in the study of my least favorite house, I caught Steve surfing the internet. For real estate.

What-cha doin?

Looking at houses.

Really?

You wanna go look?

Those words still hung in a bubble over his desk as our car sped out of the driveway. Just like they had when he'd uttered them 16 years earlier. And we ended up at the jeweler.

I knew exactly where we were going. For years I had poured over the real estate section. Convinced that the "New Listings" somehow held the key to the Promised Land. And I'd run by the beautiful homes. Their manicured lawns with invisible-fenced labs lazing out front. Only steps from school, the park, the coffee shop.

That night we made our offer on our (very) small corner of that Land.

Our humble Tudor needed love. Lots of it. From its tired curb appeal to its green linoleum and lavender painted walls.

But we made it ours. And Bruce helped

Replacing the linoleum with slate. That never shows dirt. Hanging the custom glass door on the marriage-saving second shower. Not to be outdone by the marriage-saving heated front walk that never needs shoveling and the maintenance free yard that never needs mowing. And the back patio with enough room for all of our furniture. Plus the plastic playhouse, half a dozen ride-ons, the basketball hoop, the sand box and everything else the kids can push, drag, or otherwise pull outside. And that I eventually need to push, drag or pull back inside.

Other touches were uniquely mine.

The attic playroom painted sunshine yellow. Filled with toys that never migrate beyond the steep stairs. The fire engine I painted on Ben's bedroom wall. Right next to his tiny fire engine bed. Which I plan to keep him in until he is 18. The ladybugs that dance (almost) all the way around Sarah's room. A project cut short by her early arrival.

And some touches that are just unique.

The "secret" cut-through that Ben takes to Grant's house. The "not in my back yard" Metrolink that captivated him during his (far too short) Thomas the Tank Engine phase. And the million dollar view of the Clayton skyline from my bedroom. Where he lays with me at night playing "who's going to turn their light off" as we gaze up at the towers.

Our house. Small but mighty.

Last fall I caught Steve surfing the internet again. For a new house.

And a fresh start.

A few days later we were back hunting. And we thought we'd found it. Hearth room, master suite, big closets, soaking tub, and a two car garage. All right across the street from Ben's new school.

The next Promised Land.

Almost.

The dining room was two feet to short. (Or my table was two feet too long.)

Where would we celebrate Shabbat?

This was not my house.

My house was around the corner and down the street. On the hill in the shadow of the skyline. With its dancing lady bugs and firetrucks. Its tiny bedrooms and big memories. With the dining room. Big enough for the table. And all the people that sit around it.

That night I thought about what I wanted. And what we needed.

Bigger closets would only be filled with more things we didn't wear. If I ever had enough time to soak in a tub, it's unlikely I'd spend it ... soaking in a tub. And my car would almost certainly be constructively evicted from the spacious garage by the bikes and wagons and ride-ons.

All I really needed (that I didn't have) was a kitchen table. A place where the kids could eat grilled cheese and pancakes. Color and play Candy Land. A place where we could have family meetings. About kindergarten. And curfews. And college.

A simple problem. With a simple fix. A new breakfast nook where we'll eat and color and play and talk. Thanks to Bruce.

And that's a heck of a lot cheaper than a new house.

Today as I sit in my more love per square foot Tudor I know that I have what I need. Even better. I want what I have. And that feels good.

As far as I can tell, fresh starts don't fix families. Families fix families.

And family dinners help.

At least they do in this family.

My Powerful Princess

2010-04-13T17:21:00.001-07:00

Shabbat #15

Guests: Karla and Bill and daughter R, Karla's sister Pam. Karla and I met at dancing school when we were two. Looking back now it was a wee bit like Toddlers in Tiaras, without the tiaras.

Menu: Blue Cheese Crackers, Stuffed Dates, Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic (in honor of our 40th years), Mache and Mint Salad with Fennel and Grapefruit Vinaigrette, Crack Pie

What I Learned:

At my first ultrasound I laid down on the OB's table. And prayed. G-d, please don't let it be twins. At 34 I was barely capable of taking care of myself, let alone two more people ... inside my body or out. G-d or whatever the galactic powers that be agreed. Onto the ultrasound screen popped one little pulsating globule.

Ten weeks later there I was again. Praying. On the table. Please G-d, let it be a boy. Not that I had anything against girls with their hair ribbons, polka dots and all things pink. I just wasn't ready to mother a girl like, well, me. Someone else must have agreed. Again. Onto the screen popped our pulsating globule ... and his package.

Three years and many spit-up, late night, self-doubt, lightening in a bottle moments later I decided that maybe I really could tackle this motherhood thing. While by no means an expert, I had managed to get Ben from the hospital to his third birthday without losing him. He ate. He grew. He talked back.

I was ready.

And back on the table. Praying again.

G-d? Hi. Yeah - it's me again. I'm 37 now and I know that I'm really pushing the envelope on this whole motherhood thing, so all I'm really asking for is just one more healthy baby. Of either flavor. But just in case you were wondering, well, I would really, really like a girl. Umm ... a healthy girl. Thanks.

Six months later my patient miracle arrived.

At dinner on Friday night the conversation inevitably turned to parenting. Girls. Namely, mean girls. (Remember them from high school?) How did they get that way? Surely there weren't mothers out there that aspired to have mean girls. Like fathers aspired to have baseball players. What made girls ... mean?

And what about all of those others traps so uniquely girl? Many of which I had fallen into - repeatedly.

How was I going to save Sarah from becoming the mean girl? Falling into those traps that I had?

An exhaustive researcher and planner by nature, I drove straight to Boarder's the next morning. I'd buy a book. Surely someone had written down the secret formula to raising a well-adjusted, confident, trap-avoiding, nice girl.

Going to the parenting section of a bookstore while in the throws of a parental panic is like going to the grocery store hungry. Nothing good comes of it. I almost wet my pants standing in the child care section - a place I hadn't been since I was pregnant with Ben (and most certainly in a similar panic). Rows of books with titles like "13 is the New 18." Are you kidding me? Had I really gotten that far behind?

That afternoon while Sarah napped I cracked open "The Everything Parent's Guide to Raising Girls." My tidy 300-page solution. Or not.

"Your little girl's attitude will be demanding."

Really. You don't say?

"Give her two choices."

Try twelve. On a good day.

I closed it up and added it to the dusty collection of parenting books. The one's I only open when the preschool sends home a note alerting us to some ailment that is whipping through the room. Which nearly always involves diarrhea.

And then I went back to my original plan.

Before I even had kids I thought a lot about raising them. I'd teach them about being grateful. And respectful. About the value of a dollar. And a friend. I'd tell them that even though it feels good to be taken care of, it feels even better to take care of yourself. And I'd help them learn how to do that.

I believed that those lessons would come fairly easily. And they did.

But there were harder lessons. Some of which were uniquely girl. One's I had been putting off. Even for myself.

Like moderation. Loving myself from the inside out. Worrying less about what others think and more about what I think. And that perfection is neither obtainable nor desirable.

Those were lessons I would start teaching (and living) ... tomorrow.

On Sunday Sarah and I were driving in our 5-mile bubble. While strapped in the backseat, her Lunchable (that I said I'd never buy) scattered onto the floor of the car (that I said she'd never eat in). Red-faced with clenched fists and in perfect context she screamed out:

Damn-it!

(Screech).

So she had been listening to me after all. And no doubt watching too. In that moment tomorrow turned into today.

Finally. A reason (and the best one ever) to attack those uniquely girl lessons that I had been avoiding. For almost 40 years.

So good riddance to obsessing about eating the birthday cake. And then eating it while standing in the kitchen. For only seeing the flaws in the department store mirror. To letting bad hair ruin an otherwise perfect day. To worrying about what someone else thinks when that someone else isn't worrying about me. And to all of the other crazy, time-consuming, wasteful, irrational, insecure thoughts that are so uniquely girl ... and woman. They never made me feel good anyway.

And I know they won't make Sarah feel good either.

A few months ago our friend Taka snapped a picture of Sarah at preschool. There she was. Dressed from head to toe in mis-matched hues of pink, white-knuckled hands around the handlebars of her tricycle bouncing over a wooden bridge. Eyes twinkling with a smile that was half-grin, half-grimace. All while balancing a gold crown adorned with colorful gems atop her head. So uniquely ... Sarah.

My Powerful Princess.

May she always be.

Don't Wish It Away

2010-04-08T18:18:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #14

Guests: Bill and Nancy and their daughter K. Mike and Julie and their daughter E. I run and ride bikes with these folks ... and spared them front row seats to the vomit-palooza that played at the Brown household by rescinding their dinner invitation last week.

Menu: Grilled Lamb Skewers with Chickpea Puree and Mache, Macaroons ... served 2 days later on Easter to rave reviews.

What I Learned:

I consider my running a public service. If I don't do it, I'm not fit to be with. So I run. For your sake. And mine.

When I run I think. In fact, a lot of the time I can't think unless I'm running. Most recently I've been thinking about the blog. Who's coming. What I'm cooking. What I'll write. Even before the guests arrive. I usually end up writing about something completely different. But this week I'll write about what I thought I would write about. While I was running.

I've know the Shabbat #14 crew for almost as long as I've been running. A few years ago Mike and Bill made the transition from pure running to triathlon. And like most endurance-obsessed runners, they started with the mother of all triathlons: Ironman. 2.4 miles of swimming, followed by 112 miles of cycling, topped off by a 26.2 mile marathon. Mike and Bill engaged in this undertaking with a group of similarly-minded men -- no doubt all on the brink of some mid-life crisis. Nancy and I affectionately refer to them as the "boys."

Ironman is like parenting. Once you've done it you can't help but give advice on it. Even if you weren't so good at it yourself. As far as I can tell survival is the only prerequisite to deeming yourself an expert. Just like parenting. But believe me, as a parent (who wants to survive) I'm eating it up so keep it coming. Ideas on toilet training? Frankly, it doesn't really matter much to me whether your kids were raised by wolves. If they're out of diapers, I'm listening.

As a Ironman finisher, I'm no different. So when the "boys" -- one in particular who has since moved to Colorado -- asked me for advice on Ironman, this is what I said:

Don't wish it away.

The months of training will be long. And mundane. And tiring. But be grateful that you are healthy enough to do it. And have friends with screws that are equally loose. Who will ride next to you for hours even though the finish line is nothing more than your parked car and a warm Gatorade. Who never ridicule you when you are dressed in your skin-tight wetsuit. And on those early morning runs before the sun is up, soak in the solitude and the feeling that you are the only one awake. Because you probably are.

On race day. Look up. For a moment take your eyes off the wheel in front of you and count yourself lucky. The day will be hot and painful. And long. But this will make the pay-off even greater. When you cross the line, know that your life will change because you have propelled yourself across 140.6 miles. All by yourself. And, regardless what physical form your body (or that tattoo you had to have) takes, inside you will always be an Ironman.

This has been my approach to parenting.

Don't wish it away.

Adopting this approach got a little easier the second time around. Not that I wished away moments with Ben. I just focused more on what was next, instead of what was now. I figured that if I got to what was next, that necessarily meant that I had survived what was now. And that was a comfort.

It's different with Sarah. I can focus on the now, because I know the next is coming. Fast. When I was pregnant with Sarah I owned my belly in my spandex shorts riding circles around Creve Coeur Lake. Dreaming about the day when she would be riding next to me. When she was born, I cherished the three days alone in the hospital with her. Without the boys. In those wee hours that were neither morning nor night, I rocked my girl. My patient miracle. Who barely needs to be rocked these days. Now I tip-toe into her room while she sleeps, kneel next to the crib and whisper.

If you ever have a problem, come to me. I will help you. Always.

Hoping that these words somehow, by osmosis, will be ironed into her memory, resurfacing at the critical time.

And every morning I tell her she is the Triple Threat -- smart, beautiful and brave. The Trifecta. Because it's true. And I want her to believe its true. Especially when she is 13. And doesn't want to listen to me.

And I look at my almost 40, mother of two with all the signs of childbirth, late nights, worries and doubt ... body. And embrace it. Like I embrace them. Knowing what I am capable of doing. And what I have done.

Yet for all of the similarities between my advice on Ironman and parenting, there is one glaring difference. While the first Ironman may be life changing. The second is just, well, long.

Not so with children.

When I was pregnant with Sarah I confided in Steve. I can't possibily love another person as much as I love Ben. And this is what he told me. Your love is limitless. Don't tell him -- I hate it when this happens -- but he was (shhh) ... right . I love Sarah just as much as I love Ben. For lots of the same reasons. And for lots of reasons that are so uniquely Sarah.

As for a third?

Barring divine intervention (and a whole lot of crazy science) there will not be a third child. A third Ironman? Who knows. But I do like to run.

PSA: It's Not About Me

2010-04-05T10:50:00.000-07:00

Shortly after Ben's first birthday I decided to take him on his first "real" trip to the zoo. Or, in other words, one where he was actually awake. My plan was to enter at the South Entrance. We'd start with the bears and work our way around clockwise. Penguins, apes, bird house, gazelles (why do we have so many of these at the St. Louis Zoo), lions, monkeys and rhinos. Topped off by a hands-on experience at the Children's Zoo. And then an overpriced ice cream cone to reward his hard work.

Surely this kind of trip would seal the deal on his admission to an Ivy.

It all changed the moment we entered. Down came the crossing gate making way for the train blowing it's plan-busting whistle.

Instead of spending the next two hours pointing out mammals and marsupials, we were riding the Zoo train. Round and round. When I finally convinced him to unload in Big Cat Country (without a complete meltdown) he was more interested in the penny smasher than the sunbathing lions. You know. That machine where you drop in a quarter to get a mis-shaped penny ... which isn't really even a penny.

But four years and one more child later I know the day was not loss.

Parenting got a lot easier (not to mention a lot more enjoyable) when I loosened up on the reigns a bit. And resolved that my kids' lack of interest or enthusiasm for my carefully charted itineraries (like the "Zoo odyssey") did not make me a failure as a parent. That I could just roll with it. Continue to give them opportunities to explore the world, knowing that sometimes cranking quarters into a carnival counterfeiter would be (to them) more exciting than Big (and Comatose) Cat Country.

And that's okay.

The same thing happened last week. My best laid plans were put to rest by a house full of sick kids. And a sick mom. Shabbat dinner was in jeopardy. I half considered going forward with the dinner determined not to break my streak. Potentially sending six innocent dinner guests home with their own front row seats to the vomit-palooza we had been experiencing.

But I didn't. Because right now, it's not about me. My plans. My streaks. It's about them.

And us.

And you.

To Nancy, Bill, Kaitlin, Mike, Julie and Elizabeth ... we will reschedule. May you all have a healthy, vomit-free week. Look for a post in a few days about what I would have written had you come.

Crib Note: What's Up with the Matzah?

2010-04-03T08:49:00.000-07:00

Jews eat matzah during Passover. Instead of bread. For over a week. That's a long time for a carb-lover. Now I know why Jews are so manic about bagels -- boiled, crunchy on the outside, chewy in the center. They know what it's like to go without.

Matzah is unleavened bread. Basically a big cracker. Or, for St. Louis folks, kind of like Imo's Pizza... without the cheese (product), sauce and meat. Nothing to get excited about. Especially for a week.

During Passover, Jews forgo all foods with hametz -- basically anything leavened. Yes. Sadly this includes beer. Passover commemorates the Israelites Exodus from Egpyt and slavery. The story goes that the Israelites fled so quickly, their bread didn't have time to rise. Hence matzah. Eaten to remember the Exodus.

Shortly after Ben was born I started thinking more seriously about converting. Going from being a Methodist to a Jew is a tough nut to crack. For one thing, most Jewish services include a significant amount of Hebrew. Yikes. A new language. With new characters. Written backwards. Without vowels. And then there is the whole issue of resolving where the New Testament went.

Maybe I'll just stick with what I know.

That was until a running friend of mine told me about the family service at our temple. She has two older boys and encouraged me to start taking Ben to the weekly service. She said it was short and designed for children. Rabbis Susan and Randy would explain the Jewish concepts and rituals in very simple (think 5 year old) terms. Terms that even a 30-something Methodist would get. And I could come in my running clothes. Sold.

We still go. I went this morning -- in my running clothes. And Rabbi Susan explained what was up with the matzah. In 5-year old terms.

She said that matzah is bread without an ego. And that we eat it during Passover to remind ourselves that even if we are bullied we shouldn't bully back.

I get that. Maybe Ben got it too. Definitely easier to explain right now than Exodus, slavery and the plagues. And lot less scary.

Getting There is Half the Fun

2010-03-31T04:15:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #13

Guests: Nana, Papa, Cousin Mia. Thanks Nana for giving me a break this week and doing the cooking. And condolences to single 30-something Mia for tolerating the kiddos for 3 days -- a very dependable form of birth control.

Menu: Chicken & Dumplings, Apple Brie Salad, Ian's Challah - made special just for us (a story in itself) and Chocolate Bread Pudding (even better cold while eaten standing next to the open fridge Saturday morning)

What I Learned:

The best thing Dad ever gave me was a love of skiing.

He started taking me to Colorado when I was six. Usually twice a year. The school district vacation never seemed to coincide with ideal ski conditions, so I usually got to miss a few days of school. But that was okay.

For two days our orange Datsun with its rooftop ski rack became my classroom. Rambling down Highway 70 I traded off between Auto Bingo and multiplication tables, collected the trappings for my Kansas diorama and tirelessly searched for license plates from all fifty states. Which was possible since people actually drove across the country back then.

Behind us followed a caravan of my parents' ski pals. Cars filled with kids who knew one another outside of the awkward elementary school bubble. Where it didn't matter which lunch table was yours or whether you had the latest lavender Izod sweater. Our parents talked on their CB radios and had their own handles. Dad was Goldfinger -- an ode to his alter-ego James Bond. We hit all the truck stops where our parents ordered up giant cinnamon rolls and chocolate milk -- knowing full well that they would soon be trapped in a car with our sugar-charged bodies.

Oh. And then there was the skiing.

Outfitted in CB Sports down parkas, rear-entry boots and 200cm+ Keastrel skis our parents raced us down mountains. Caught air on Naked Lady. Sat in hotubs in the snowfall. Sipped from wine skins. For a week they were almost, dare I say it, cool.

Ah. The memories of our ski family.

Last year history repeated itself. My dad and I took Ben skiing. We dropped him off at ski school and crossed our fingers. At the end of the day we found him slumped over the snow fencing. How'd it go? (Head pops up.) When can we do it again? Just like 30 plus years before.

This year we brought Ben and Sarah. And it was twice as good.

And twice as hard.

As a parent I now know that traveling with kids is not easy. It's hard labor. Feeding, dressing, equipping, shuttling and finally getting a kid onto the side of a mountain ranks among the most challenging things I have ever done. And then there's the planning. The missed work. The packing. The schlepping. The whining. And the expense.

Dad must have dealt with this too. (Especially the whining.) But he never let on. He drove through white outs. Put on tire chains in snow storms. Carried equipment, lunches, snacks. And me. All without ever raising his voice. Or wasting a moment calling the office, slipping in work. It was our time.

That's the kind of time I want to give Ben and Sarah. Uninterrupted, turned off, powered down, unplugged time. A week when I race them down mountains, catch air, sit in hot tubs, sip from wineskins. A week when I'm, well, cool.

Just like Dad did. And continues to do.

At 67 ... a month shy of 68, Dad placed second in his age group last week at the Nastar Championships. He beat me. Next year, he'll probably beat Ben. And in a few more years Sarah.

I grew up expecting the annual ski trip. And that's what my children can expect too.

Next year maybe we'll even drive. Because getting there was always half the fun.

Crib Note: Tzedak-who?

2010-03-24T08:18:00.001-07:00

In 2006 just before we left for Israel my neighbor knocked on my door. That alone is startling. So rare that someone actually comes to the door these days. But Larry is old school. A year earlier he came with a cozy cab and green tractor in tow. For Ben. I can see them both now. On my patio oasis turned parking lot.

I opened the door. We exchanged pleasantries. And then he dumped a fistful of unfamiliar coins into my hand. For tzedakah, he said as I thought tzedak-who? He wished me safe travels, turned on his heel and headed back up the street.

That night when Steve came home I asked about Larry's visit. As a non-Jew back then, I hadn't a clue why our neighbor had entrusted me to carry his pocket change half way around the world. Steve explained that it was for tzedakah -- righteous giving. That Jews viewed giving as not only a responsibility, but a privilege. An expression of dignity. Steve said that it was customary for Jews to give those traveling to Israel an offering to bring to the deserving there. And that we would be protected in our journey because we were traveling with the purpose of giving.

That explained it. And so I carried the coins with me to Israel. On our last day in Jerusalem Steve gave them to someone at the Western Wall.

According to the Talmud, tzedakah is as important as all of the other commandments put together. So we start teaching about it early. Ben takes a dollar with him to Shabbat School every Saturday for the tzedakah box. I asked Essie (what child would not love a teacher with that name) at Shabbat School, where the money goes. So I could explain it to Ben. Essie told me it has been going to Haiti through a program called Meds and Food for Kids (mfkhaiti.org) based in St. Louis.

And I did explain it to Ben. How his dollar helped buy food and medicine for boys and girls his age in a far away place called Haiti. I pointed it out on the map. He of course wanted to know how the money got there. Which inevitably led back to the endless stream of questions about the US Postal delivery system. How you put a stamp on something, leave it in a box and it gets delivered to another box somewhere else. Without getting lost. Hmm. Sometimes amazes me too.

Our 2010 shabbats have also involved a lot of righteous giving. To me. Even though I insist that our guests only bring themselves, they have brought flowers, wine, nuts. Last week Kelly even brought me The Food Bible.

And I like that.

But it's not about me.

This week when our Shabbat #14 guests asked what they could bring I said yourselves. And a few non-perishables for the CRC Nourish Our Neighbors Meal Program offered through a partnership with the Harvey Kornblum Jewish Food Pantry. Ben will deliver the donations to the satelitte drop off site at our temple each Saturday morning before services. And those donations will get delivered to a deserving family in St. Louis.

That's a delivery I understand. And I hope Ben will understand it too.

So now you know what to bring.

Repairing the World

2010-03-21T12:46:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #12

Guests: Kelly, Ned, daughter S. (4) and son S. (6). Kelly and I went to high school together in the 80's. And have pictures of our 80's big hair to prove it.

Menu: Blue Cheese Crackers and Bison Sausage, Chicken and Morels, Greens with Citrus Vingarette, Toby's Challah, "Crack Pie"

What I Learned:

This week I kept it regional. As in Missouri. Goatsbeard Farm cheese in the crackers served alongside Bowood Farm bison sausage. Organic chicken complimented with Ozark morels. Greens with alfalfa from Sweetwater Farms. Toby's challah. And pie made with Farrar Out Farm eggs and Heartland Dairy cream. Local Harvest Grocery on Morgan Ford hooked me up. Yes. It was a little out of the way. And a bit more expensive. But I wanted to do it for Kelly.

And for my family.

Kelly is one of the most socially and environmentally conscious people I know. And a huge supporter of the Slow Food movement. Don't worry. I didn't know what that was either. (And, no, it doesn't relate to poor service or cold soup.) Slow Foodies promote fresh, local, and sustainably-produced food. They work to counteract fast food and fast life.

Kelly's support of the movement doesn't surprise me. When we had our babies she bought an immersion mixer. To make her own baby food. And she has a compost pile. I think she even used cloth diapers. And while I admire her, the thought of doing all this plus raising the child that is eating the freshly blended organic farm raised summer squash is fairly frightening to me.

That said, I'd like to be more like Kelly. Minus the cloth diapers. But sometimes I get a little glum about my world. Can I really make a difference? Even if I separate my recyclables, does it really matter if the rest of the block isn't doing the same thing?

Take the cup incident.

I run. Everyday. Down Wydown which is perhaps the most beautiful street in the city and a favorite of the running and walking set. On Monday running past a cement light post I noticed a half empty paper cup of coffee. Who leaves half a cup of coffee on the corner -- especially at 6 a.m.? I thought as I ran by. On Tuesday I passed it again. Wonder how long it will take for the bottom of the cup to drop out -- like it does in the console of my car when I get lazy? And I kept running. On Wednesday I passed it. Still there. Can't believe no one picked that up yet. The light turned red. I stopped. And looked at the cup. Then I picked it up, carried it across the street and deposited in the trash can. I was about to pat myself on my back for being so conscious. Until I thought about what I'd done - or not done. How pathetic that it took me three days to do what I should have done on day one? Even if no one else had done it either.

Later that day I drove to Jefferson City. An advocacy day for addiction and recovery was taking place at the capitol. I sit on a board that supports these issues - especially among young people. Mostly through programs in schools and peer to peer teaching. Every once in a while I like to go to these programs. To watch the kids. See them in action. And confirm that all the kids in high school these days aren't as irresponsible and ill-advised as I was.

I wasn't disappointed. I watched Jillian, a junior from Lafayette -- my alma mater, teach her peers how to speak up at city council meetings. Jillian wants people to stop smoking in public areas. She was impressive. A lot more impressive than I was at that age ... or any age.

The 200 plus high school students went to the capitol to talk to their legislators. I went to the floor of the House. Where Steve used to sit. And watched a group of people who chose to sacrifice time with their families and higher paying jobs approve a bill to ban synthetic pot.

Then I drove home with a guy who spent his entire career in prevention -- including 30 plus years as executive director of the agency that taught Jillian how to speak to the city council.

Jews believe in tikkun olam, "the repair of the world." Tikkun olam assumes that the world is not perfect, but that it is perfectible, in our hands.

Jewish words, based in Jewish tradition. But a universal notion.

I spent Wednesday with students and counselors trying to curb the effects addiction. On Thursday I shopped at a local grocer where I bought chocolate made by a former criminal defense attorney who now shares his net proceeds with farmers in Ecquador. On Friday I had dinner with a high school friend who cares enough about sustainable food to eat it ... and explain it.

People who probably pick up the cup on day one. Even when no one is looking.

People who are repairing the world.

The kind of people I want Ben and Sarah to be.

But I've got to be that person first.

So instead of questioning how I can repair the world if everyone else isn't repairing it too, I'm going to assume they are.

And join in.

Work in Progress

2010-03-14T12:24:00.000-07:00

Shabbat #11

Guests: Missy and Matt and their children P. (3) and G. (5). Missy and Matt live around the corner. After dinner we discovered that our kids can use the backyard "cut thru" as a short cut between our houses. Love that.

Menu: St. Patrick's Day Nouveau - Beer Bread, Rosemary & Garlic Grilled Lamb Chops, Steamed Vegetables with Cheddar Stout Fondue, Vanilla Ice Cream with Crème De Mint

What I Learned:

Last Halloween Missy and Matt invited us to their house for a neighborhood party. Although they lived just around the corner and we had children of similar age, we didn't really know each other beyond the polite exchange of hellos.

We arrived with a triple batch of cornbread and Dale Earnhardt and Minnie Mouse in tow. Missy opened the door dressed as a witch with a kid on one hip and a glass of wine in hand. I knew immediately that I was going to like her.

But it got even better.

Missy's house is one of the grandest in the neighborhood. A mustard yellow Mediterranean easily three times the size of our humble Tutor. Lots of curb appeal. Big yard. And a new addition.

She led us back to the addition where the party had gathered. Something was a little ... different. It was unfinished. Well basically. It was framed in with working windows and doors. But plywood floors. Studs for walls. Just a wide open space. Instead of furniture (for the most part) there were Fisher Price climbers. Tricycles. And all of those big, bright toys I’d convinced Ben he didn't really want because I didn't want them in my house.

And there was Missy in her makeshift “kitchen” stirring her yellow squash chili seemingly unfazed by the entire situation. Happily willing to invite the entire neighborhood in for a look. Even though it was still a work in progress.

She was, well, real. And to me this is perhaps the most appealing and authentic thing a person can be.

I was journalism major, but I never became a journalist. I couldn't take criticism well and deadlines scared me. Plus I didn't think I'd be any good at it. So I became a lawyer and learned (later) that criticism and deadlines were the nature of the business. Now I don't practice law and I write for free. Go figure.

I met Steve in law school. On our first date -- ironically Rosh Hashanah -- he told me that he either wanted to be President or a cowboy. Right now both are, shall we say, out to pasture.

Ben and I talk a lot about what he wants to be when he grows up. I tell him he can be anything. He says he wants to be a monster truck driver. I smile and scramble for the "doctor's" bag, paleontologist kit and firefighter costume. (Just so he knows there are options.) But he's steadfast. And if he ends up being a monster truck driver, I'll tell him to be the best one ever. And I'll be his biggest fan.

Which got me to thinking.

Why do Steve and I tell Ben that he can be anything he wants to be, but it’s so hard to take our own advice? Sound familiar? Did we stop dreaming?

In a way, there is something enviable (albeit microscopic, I can barely see it, infinitesimally small) quality about Steve’s situation. He gets to reinvent himself. Start over. And ironically, maybe the worst part of his situation – that the decision to do so was not his – is the best part. He’ll never be that guy (maybe you know him) pining away at a job he doesn’t like instead of following a dream because doing so would be too irresponsible. Too risky.

By dumb luck (or lack thereof) Steve has to to start over. He can be anything he wants to be. Well, almost anything. I don’t think he’ll be a jockey. Or President. But there are still lots of choices. And that’s exciting.

He’s a work in progress.

I hope that Ben does not let his dreams go. I plan to teach him to keep dreaming. And even when he needs to temporarily adapt the dream to accommodate life’s responsibilities, I want him to remember what he wanted to be. And then work towards becoming that person. Because he’s a work in progress too.

After all, there once was a boy who dreamed about flying to the moon. And you know what? He did.

As for me, I love Steve. Even though he’s not going to be President. But I might love him even more if he were a cowboy.

Crib Note: It's In the Ketubah

2010-03-12T13:23:00.000-08:00

A ketubah is the Jewish marriage agreement signed by the bride and groom after the wedding. Like any contract, it outlines the rights and responsibilities of the parties. Oh. And, it's usually really pretty.

Ours hangs in the hall. Check it out when you come. When we moved in seven years ago I spent a fortune framing it to coordinate with the decor.

Steve and I have a running joke. Any time one of us wants the other to do something -- like fix a flat in the rain or watch football instead of the Food Network -- we declare But you've got to ... it's in the ketubah. Until recently as far as I knew it could have been. As many times as I walked by it, I don't think I ever actually stopped and read it. Probably not even on our wedding day.

Jewish or not, maybe you have something like this hanging in your house. Some tangible reminder that a deal was struck. Displayed in a fancy frame.

Last year I found myself needing to cram some forgiveness into my heart. Due to the "nature" of the problem, I couldn't talk about it with anyone. I wasn't into self-help books or Dr. Phil-like philosophy. And I was fairly spiritually inept.

But I was an attorney.

So I went back to the agreement. In search of a provision for boneheaded decisions made by one's spouse. Perhaps some mandated hard labor. Oh. And a basis for forgiveness too.

And here's what it said:

I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine. No man without woman; no woman without man and neither without G-d.

I thought about what those words meant. I'll spare you the details. But generally I concluded we were in it together and that part of being married meant that each of us could make mistakes. And be forgiven. So long as we learned from it. That maybe what felt all consuming at the moment would eventually fall away. And what would be left would be the two of us.

Sure. It wasn't an instant fix. But it was a very simple statement about why we had gotten married in the first place. An excellent jumping off point for forgiveness.

And the best part ...

I now know that forced football viewing is not in the ketubah.

PSA

2010-03-10T07:19:00.000-08:00

Today I'm going to stop walking by that thing I ought to do and just stop and do it.

Crib Note - Eschet Who?

2010-03-08T12:45:00.000-08:00

The thing about Steve -- he's coachable. But I didn't always know this. Mostly because I never tried coaching him. Instead I would do most things myself. And then complain about it. Like a martyr. Sound familiar?

That changed last year. I needed help. He needed penance. So I started asking. Mostly for things that I never liked doing. Like emptying the dishwasher. Cooking (and cleaning up) breakfast on the weekends. Dropping off at preschool. And he was really good at these things. Maybe even empowered that I had finally given up a little control. That he could help.

One day last summer I was flipping through an Anita Diamant book searching for the shabbat blessing of the children -- no doubt in a fit of "mom guilt." And what was beneath the blessing of the children? Blessing of the spouse. Now we're talking. According to the ancient custom, a husband reads or chants to his wife a section from the book of Proverbs called Eschet Chayil. I looked it up. It's long, but it reads in part:

"She invests herself with strength… she opens her hand to the poor and reaches out to the needy…she is robed in strength and dignity and she smiles at the future…give her credit for the fruit of her labor and let her achievements praise her at the gates." (Proverbs 31: 10-31)

Seriously? Am I dreaming? How had I missed this before.

That night before Shabbat I coyly pushed the portion of Proverbs across the table. And I coached him. You don't have to chant the whole thing. Just say "eschet chayil." I'll know what you mean.

So he read it. And he repeated the two words. And then I said "I love you."

That was the first and last time I ever pushed the portion across the table. But every Friday night he says his piece and I say mine. Two words, but we both know what they mean.

And now so do you.

PSA

2010-03-07T08:48:00.000-08:00

Dear Governor Nixon:

If you want to mandate ethical behavior, please don't cut programs for our children. Lessons in personal responsibility start at home and in our schools and should not be reserved for the floor of the House and the Senate.

Your friend,

Rebecca

Good's Inside You

2010-03-06T08:35:00.001-08:00

Shabbat #10

Guests: Our next door neighbors Kelly and JP and their sons K. and S. Our sons play together. I send Ben out the side door and can watch him walk into their kitchen. Through 15 years and 4 houses, they are hands down the best neighbors ever.

Menu: Grilled Flank Steak, Rosemary Roasted Red Potatoes, Spring Greens Salad with Pears and Goat Cheese, S-Mores

What I Learned:

Talk about religion makes me nervous. Mostly because I think someone is just about to ask me to believe something. And asking me to believe (or do) anything nearly always has the reverse effect. Sometimes when I'm driving behind a car with a bumper sticker about G-D and babies I speed up just to see what someone who so publicly announces their position looks like. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for everyone choosing to practice their desired religion -- as long as it doesn't hurt anybody else. I'm just not sure I want to read it on your bumper while I'm driving down Highway 40.

Which makes it all the more ironic that I am writing a blog about shabbat dinner.

Sure there are some overtly religious things that go down each Friday night at our house. We say some prayers, light some candles and bless the kids. But we never set out to talk about religion. Yet somehow it always comes up. Just like last night. Sitting around the table Kelly asked whether we had always done a big to do on Friday night. We gave her the short(er) version about how we had traveled to Israel and Morocco and that the experience had been impactful enough for us to make changes at home. In large part for our children. Kelly connected on the kid part. She and JP did not belong to a church. But it was something they wanted for their children.

Watching the clock tick from 1:30 to 2:00 to 3:00 after being jarred out of sleep by Steve's snoring, I got to thinking.

Why did I want religion for my children?

I was raised Methodist. Our family's attendance was spotty and it stopped altogether after sixth grade confirmation. Back then, my religious take-a-way went something like this: if you are good you can ask G-d for things and he will help you. So I did. Dear G-D, please let me do okay on my math test. Dear G-D, please let Darren like me? These pleas were followed by a laundry list of things I promised to do (or not do). Which I probably ended up not doing or doing anyway. (I think they also told us G-D forgives so I figured He would understand.)

At some point, I stopped asking G-D for things. Not because I lost faith -- though I never excelled at math and Darren dumped me -- it just seemed a bit, well, unrealistic.

Last year I started asking again. I didn't think my pleas were to G-D like before. More to myself. I wanted to find strength to forgive so I did not wake up miserable every morning. I didn't want to be that person who honked in traffic and walked around looking like she always smelled something bad. I wanted to be able to see the good in people. Even when they made bad choices that hurt me. And I wanted to live my life believing that positive things can come out of even the most devastating circumstances. And it started to work.

A few months ago I was driving somewhere within my 5-mile bubble when my son piped up from his car seat.

"G-d's inside us."

(Tire screech.)

"What did you just say? Who told you that?"

"I just knew."

I physically turned around to check that those words (which I take absolutely no credit for) came out of my 5 year old son's mouth. And they did.

Was he right? I don't remember letting G-D in there, but maybe that's who I'd been talking to all those months I was searching for a way to save myself from being miserable and bitter. To this day I'm not quite sure what Ben's words really meant. But I do know whoever it is that's inside there can stay.

And that's what I want for my children.

Something inside them that gives them strength.

In a perfect world, I would be there for each of my children in every difficult moment. But I know that's unrealistic. Sometimes they won't want me there. And eventually I won't be there at all. I want them to find that place within themselves that lets them forgive, that helps them see the good in people and makes them believe that even the most trying situations can reap rewards.

Whether they choose to believe that its "G-D" inside them or "good" inside them doesn't make much difference to me.

PSA

2010-03-05T06:20:00.001-08:00

Defining myself by my regrets would be ... regrettable.

Short Ribs Are Cheaper Than Therapy

2010-03-01T12:33:00.000-08:00

Shabbat #9:

Guests: Susan and Rob and their 5 year old son J. J goes to school with our son. And Susan and Rob are the best company at t-ball and soccer games.

Menu: Blue Cheese Crackers (officially a staple now), Short Ribs Braised in Red Wine, Yukon Mash with Horseradish, Roasted Asparagus and Cherry Tomatoes, Hamentaschen, Roasted Marshmallows

What I Learned:

When someone finds out that I'm hosting dinner every week for a year, the reaction goes something like this. (Cue jaw drop and audible gasp.) Really? That's the plan. Every week? Uh huh. And you're cooking. Yup.

That said, even I was a bit intimidated by our #9 dinner guests. Susan plans and executes some of the grandest charity events in St. Louis. And she has white upholstered chairs in a home she shares with a five year old. To make matters worse, her husband is an award-winning BBQ aficionado.

No pressure there.

Yet even Susan admitted that entertaining at home elicits a certain degree of anxiety. Mostly because, well, its your home. The place where you have gingerly placed your most worldly possessions amidst your clutter and undone projects. Your history in a tidy (or not so tidy) box. Opening it up involves exposure.

I used to hate this sort of exposure. Now it is oddly comforting. It's a chance to share with our friends (and reinforce for ourselves) what we are really about. And the hassle factor. Well the whole dinner hosting thing hasn't complicated my life. It's simplified it.

In 2001, I signed up for a triathlon. A long one. It's called the Ironman. (Clearly named by a guy with a Napoleonic complex). I was woefully unprepared when I committed. But I'd watched athletes propelling themselves through the 140 plus mile course on TV. From my couch, it looked pretty life changing. And I needed a life change. An opportunity to do something that I wasn't sure I could actually do in order to prove to myself that I could actually ... do things.

Finally I had a plan. I followed my training schedule like the Bible (preconversion). Each day there was an achievable goal. The next day was built on the previous day's work. There was structure. And control. Minus the physical discomfort, I'd never felt better.

And now I have a new plan. Hosting a year of shabbats. There's structure. And control. This time for me and my entire family. And that goes a long way when the rest of our life lacks any other semblance of predictability.

The weekly training is simple:

Monday: Plan
Tuesday: Write
Wednesday: Shop
Thursday: Prep
Friday: Cook
Saturday: Rest
Sunday: Reflect
Repeat

I'll break it down. Let's take the short ribs.

Monday I planned. While running. I used to listen to country music while throwing myself a 10-mile pity party. Counterproductive. Now I make guest lists and shopping lists, choose menus, write blog entries and (inaccurately) predict what I expect to write about each dinner.

Tuesday I wrote. After the kids went to bed. I used to spend this time watching repeats of The Real Housewives. Counterproductive. (But I do miss my girls.)

Wednesday I shopped. With Sarah. She drives the rocket cart while I frantically throw things in before the two year old window slams shut. Having never purchased (or cooked) short ribs the delay in the meat department required me to buy her off with Hello Kitty band aids by aisle 12 (again). But I'm still ahead of the game. I used to spend this time wandering aimlessly through Target buying things I don't need.

Thursday I prepped. Set the table. Browned the short ribs while the kids made pizzas. Convinced Steve to clean the pan. And the floor littered with pizza cheese.

Friday I braised and mashed. While Sarah napped. A note on braising for my non-cooking friends. Braising is code for put meat in pan, add liquid, stick in oven for afternoon. Braising is your friend. Steve bought the challah and the firewood and the marshmallows I forgot to buy on Wednesday when the two year old window slammed shut.

Saturday I rested. While running and chasing kids.

Sunday I reflected. While running mostly. And chasing kids.

Then I did it all over again. And it was just as predictable. And that was good.

I really had no business signing up for Ironman. I'd never ridden my bike further than 30 miles and I was like a cat in water. But that didn't matter. I figured it out. I followed the plan. And I was changed by the experience in ways I never expected.

Same goes for hosting a year's worth of weekly dinners. I'm no Julia Child. I'm not even Chef Boyardee. But I can read a recipe. And I'll figure it out. Because I will be changed by the experience. I already have been.

My family will be changed too. How? Well I'm not sure yet. But I have a wish list. I hope Ben and Sarah grow up wanting to spend Friday dinner with family and friends. I hope they make new friends that they will have for years to come. I hope Steve realizes that he is not defined by his regrets and that our friends are our friends regardless. And I hope our friends know that there would not be "A Year (Or More) Of Shabbats" if it were not for them.

As for the short ribs. They were like butter. And at $6.99 a pound they were a heck of a lot cheaper than therapy.

Crib Note - What the Heck is Shabbat Dinner Anyway? (For Our Non Jewish Friends)

2010-03-01T10:55:00.000-08:00

Shabbat is considered a festive day, when a person is freed from the regular labors of everyday life (seriously -- who couldn't use that regardless of religion), can contemplate the spiritual aspects of life (with a glass of wine in hand), and can spend time with family (and friends). Because the Friday dinner is the focal point of the week that begins the observance of Shabbat, expect to find the dining room table set with the good china (what was I saving it for anyway), the (wrinkled) table cloth, flowers and lots of candles (a set for each child - and what kid does not love fire). We do a few prayers in Hebrew (seriously - non-threatening). Steve blesses the wine, challah (Jewish egg bread - yummy) and the children and says eschet chayil ... code for I love my wife because she puts up with me. I say I love you back. We go round the table letting each person share what they were most thankful for that week. Then we eat.

See.

Told you it wasn't that scary.

Dominoes

2010-02-23T13:05:00.001-08:00

Shabbat #8

Guests: Nikki, Ben and their children P. (3) and F. (5). P. is Sarah's best friend and partner in crime ... a pretty important role when you are 2.

Menu: Blue Cheese Crackers, Herb Roasted Turkey Breast, Parmesan Encrusted Mashed Potato Casserole, Sauteed Green Beans with Garlic, Cherry Angel Food Cake, Roasted Marshmellows

What I Learned:

Up until recently I was "that" mom at Sarah's preschool. The one who rarely dropped off and picked up late. Abandoned craft projects and fundraising notes piled high in her cubby. I missed co-op twice ... though I'm honestly not sure I am fit for two hours with a room full of two year olds on my best day. The morning I actually remembered to bring the snack my Trader Joe's Alphabet Grahams were rejected as contraband. Tree nuts ... the ultimate offense. May as well have been crack.

But I was not disinterested. I was disconnected.

Based on my less than stellar showing, preschool seemed an unlikely place to find a dinner date. Until a year of shabbats.

Sarah has good taste. P. is as terrific as her parents. A night I expected to spend talking about our kids (not that this is a bad thing), was spent talking about food, wine, the virtues of The Incredible Pizza Company versus Roberto's and all the other topics that you would expect to cover with a couple you have known for years. The fact that Ben (my Ben that is) was completely smitten with F. was icing on the cake.

Cleaning up the dishes after dinner (and way after the kids bedtime - proof that it was a good night) Nikki gave me one of those pauses. The kind that is typically followed by "how are things" -- my least favorite question. If I say fine -- I'm lying. If I respond, the questions just keep coming. So I usually lie. But that's not what happened.

Nikki told me that she and Ben had seen the story. Ben remembered Steve from college. Nikki and Ben discussed. He seems like a decent enough guy. And he does does drop off at preschool.

And the plan was born. Nikki would casually mention to Steve that Ben had gone to Denison with him. Code for "we knew you then and we think you still might be okay." (Or as Nikki more tactfully put it, "we're sorry about what happened and we're here").

I remember the day Steve came home and reported that Ben had gone to Denison. The two were a few years apart and the acquintance had been distant. That was pretty much the extent of the conversation. I paused just long enough to file the bit of information in the giant abyss of things I should know or might need to know.

Four months later as I was searching for dinner guests I remembered the conversation. Sure our girls were friends, but the fact that our husbands had gone to college together sealed the deal. Even if the preschoolers ended up acting ...well ... like preschoolers, at least our husbands would have something in common.

And that's how my re-connection started.

I began talking at preschool pick up. First to Nikki so she would not think I was crazy for asking a virtual stranger to dinner. Then to the other moms. And the teachers. Instead of sitting in the car, I was sitting cross legged on the preschool floor singing the bumble bee song (which by the way now has far less violent lyrics than back in my day). I arrived (on time) for my co-op with a non-offending snack, plus my very own craft project. "That" mom was gone and this mom was back.

When I was little we lived in a ranch house with a hardwood hall connecting the bedrooms. The perfect stage for setting up dominoes. Judy and I would gather all of our tiny black blocks and carefully line them up. Our designs curved and meandered down the long (or what seemed long then) hallway. Once assembled one of us would hit the first block sending each block tumbling into the next. But sometimes we miscalculated. The dominoes wouldn't connect. One of us had to jump up and tap the next one for the show to continue. In the end we would admire the twisting trail that our dominoes left and celebrate, even if we had to give a few of the blocks a little tap. It didn't matter as long as they all fell down.

I have spent years carefully setting up the tiny black blocks that make up my childrens' experience. Reading to them from birth, introducing the new foods at just the right time, checking off milestones, volunteering in classrooms, providing them opportunities to safely explore their world. But I missed a connection.

Thankfully Nikki tapped the next domino. And the show continues.

PSA

2010-02-17T03:08:00.000-08:00

Dear Mr. President:

Please bring back family dinner. It saves money. It saves calories. It might even save families.

It's saving mine.

Your friend,
Rebecca

A Chip Off the Old Block

2010-02-16T13:17:00.000-08:00

Shabbat #7

Guests: Judy, John and their three kids J. (2), N. (4) and C. (4). Four adults, five kids, all under five. Recipe for disaster, but went off without a hitch.

Menu: Steamed Halibut with Boursin Cheese Sauce, Steamed Asparagus, Israeli Couscous, Toby's Whole Wheat Challah, Cherry Angel Food Cake with Coconut Icing, cookies for kids

What I Learned:

I've known Judy forever. Literally. We grew up across the street from one another. She was my very first friend and I am certain she will be with me to the bitter end.

When I look at Judy I see my childhood. Instead of the sleek-haired, uber-business woman, wife and mother of three, I see the curly-haired girl who raced big wheels, ran around in knock off plastic Dr. Scholl's and spied on her older brothers' parties through the crack in the basement doors. And I was right there with her.

Having a friend to share the trials and tribulations of parenthood with is a blessing. That Judy is the same girl I played "house" with nearly 40 years ago is downright surreal.

These days Judy and I aren't running around in the front yard imagining that we're solving crimes as two of Charlie's favorite Angels. We're chasing kids. And when we manage to squeeze in some adult conversation it invariably relates to a detailed dissection of the various child care options, who ate what when, the closely-related topic of poop, or a careful assessment of whether our children have achieved all of the items on the tidy lists provided in the "What to Expect" series. We busily plan playdates, craft our days around music class, stage "candid" shots for holiday cards and lament that we have not pasted enough pictures next to handwritten memories in our baby books.

But the conversations pretty much boil down to a single question:

Are we doing the right thing?

Memory is funny. I have to struggle to remember what I dressed Ben to be on his second Halloween. Despite thinking at the time that I would never forget the moment, pausing to iron it permanently into my mind. Yet I can remember that Judy's cat JoJo played Baby Jesus in our impromptu Christmas pageant when we were six. (Judy was a year older so I got stuck with the role of Joseph and she was Mary.)

Our lives were unprogrammed. A playdate amounted to our mothers pushing us out the front door and across the street. COCA and Music Together classes were replaced by basement talent shows (yes we charged admission) and duets on Judy's electric organ (she still has it).

A few days after our dinner with Judy, Steve and I took Ben skiing with my Dad. Riding up the lift I saw my Dad standing at the top of the hill next to the race shack. Skis off, hand resting on propped leg carefully standing watch over the skiers out of the gate and down the course.

The same thing happened. I saw my childhood.

I saw an energetic young father (partly because he still looks half his age), who wanted to be the first one on the mountain and the last one off. Who rode next to me on the chairlift sharing granola bars and blowing into my gloves to warm them. The dad that always played one more game of Chutes and Ladders and fixed things no matter how long it took. Had Steve not been sitting next to me and Ben blazing a trail beneath I would have believed that I had turned back time.

Which got me to thinking.

What will my kids remember?

My childhood memories seem to have nothing to do with carefully orchestrated parental planning, bygone holiday cards or baby books that lay tucked away in someone's basement. Energy put into those endeavors was lost on me.

Maybe my time is better spent doing less planning and more being. Avoiding the urge to make every moment "memorable" for my kids. Meeting "down time" with anticipation instead of intimidation.

Thirty years from now when my kids look at me what will they see?

That's a pretty powerful thought.

I'd like them to see someone who is energetic. Someone who will always take one more run. Someone who fixes things.

PSA

2010-02-11T07:19:00.000-08:00

Wow. When I try to spend one night a week teaching my kids about gratitude and generosity, it gets a whole lot more uncomfortable to act like a selfish arse the other 6 days of the week.

Hit Reset

2010-02-06T08:47:00.001-08:00

Shabbat #6

Guests: Rebecca and Jason. Both are graduate students at Washington University in the Social Work School and Business School respectively. Jason worked on Steve's campaign. My son still affectionately refers to him as "running for office Jason."

Menu: Chicken Stuffed with Garlic Herbed Goat Cheese topped with Fire-Roasted Tomato Sauce, Roasted Asparagus and Tomatoes, Toby's Whole Wheat Challah, Angel Food Cake Topped with Strawberries and Kahlua

What I Learned:

Last June I purchased new linens for my bed. This was one of a string of purchases I made in an (unsuccessful) attempt to buy back happiness and peace of mind after all hell broke loose. My Frette sheets are topped with a black silk coverlet, two large euro squares covered in coordinating red silk and a array of cream pillows in varying sizes each adorned with hand sewn flowers. Once made up this is the kind of bed that can only be admired from afar. It is neither kid proof nor drool proof. Just pretty to look at.

Making the bed was never a priority until last summer. Some days it got done, other days it didn't. And if it didn't get done in the morning, what was the point of wasting the effort if I was just going to get back into it that night?

Things are different now. I make the bed.

I have always subscribed to the theory that a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind. So when my mind is cluttered I become extraordinarily orderly. My husband calls this "tazing" -- as in the Looney Tunes Tasmanian Devil -- as I spin around the house like my hair's on fire. If I am tazing (i.e. using ALL of the attachments on Oreck vacuum to eradicate dust from the moulding) this is usually a sign that he needs to ask me what's wrong. Unless of course he knows that he's what's wrong. In that case he just gets out of the way.

Making the bed helps declutter my mind.

A made bed is also harder to get back into. It's a preventive measure. On days that I wake up, recall what has unfolded and and want nothing more than to pull the covers over my head, I will myself out of bed and make it. Quickly. And then I trust that if I can just get a little momentum going I can push through the day.

For the most part this has been a successful approach. But sometimes I hit the proverbial wall. This week I hit that wall. Dead on. Monday was compounded by Tuesday which rolled into Wednesday. By Thursday I was climbing back into my carefully made bed.

All week our Friday dinner loomed over me. The thought of cooking and socializing was almost more than I could bear. I made a few unsuccessful attempts to scare up some dinner guests, but my heart wasn't in it. Not wanting to "let the dream die," I delegated the guest list to Steve. He invited Jason.

I like to compartmentalize my life into tidy fragments. Before college. During law school. Pre-marriage. After kids. And ... post politics. Until Friday, I never really thought that Jason would be a part of "post politics."

Turns out he may just have been the most important dinner guest to date.

I fully expected to spend the majority of the dinner discussing politics. Which for me pretty much means listening and waiting for the opportunity to interject a new topic. Especially now. That's not what happened. Sure, politics came up a time or two, but most of the conversation circulated around Jason and Rebecca and all that is possible when you are young, educated, childless and just waiting for your life to unfold.

Then Jason said it.

"My resolution for 2010 is to go to services once a month."

He was talking about going to temple.

"Really?"

My response was pretty uninspired. But not because I was uninspired. I guess I was just taken aback by the fact that a single, 20-something was talking about religion. Or maybe it was just too much to unpack right there at the dinner table. Whatever the reason, I didn't pursue it. But his statement stuck with me.

During my 20's I was not thinking about religion. In my 30's the possibility of becoming Jewish was all but dropped in my lap. Nearly 40, I am still not sure I would call myself a religious person -- whatever that is.

But I do know this.

On Fridays I am filled with energy -- even when I have been dragging all week -- as I prepare for the night. At the dinner table -- even when Ben and Sarah are crawling on top of it -- I feel peace with our family and friends. Post-politics I have gone to temple a few times by myself hoping to find ...well, hope. Have you ever been crying inside, but holding it together on the outside hoping no one notices, but secretly praying someone does? And then that someone wraps their arms around you and a giant weight is lifted without anyone saying a word? In those dark moments, that's what it feels like to sit in services.

Jason was important not just because he came, but because he made me think about why I made this resolution in the first place. In my first entry I described shabbat dinner as as "a "lifeboat" that helps ferry us out of troubled waters -- even if just for a night." Sort of like hitting the "Pause" button only to "return to the program previously in progress." But maybe it's like hitting "Reset" instead and "restoring the original factory settings."

I hope Jason keeps his resolution.

I know I'm keeping mine.

Will You Marry Me?

2010-02-04T13:10:00.001-08:00

Shabbat #5

Guests: Jill and Brett and their 5 year old daughter C. I originally met Brett and Jill through biking and a mutual friend. We never bike together anymore and seldom see that mutual friend -- proof to me that this friendship is the real thing.

Menu: Chicken Parmesan with Fire-Roasted Tomatoes, Steamed Broccoli, Toby's Whole Wheat Challah, S'Mores

Lesson Learned:

Two years ago shortly after I had Sarah, Ben came home from school and announced that he was "going to marry C. and make her tummy big."

Fortunately Ben is 5 and not 15.

While Ben's actual articulation of his feelings for C. never ceases to amaze me, I am not surprised by the target of his affections. Ben has known C. forever. Literally. Jill and I were pregnant together and spent lots of time bemoaning the havoc that pregnancy wreaks on the female form. When the kids were born we took "epic" stroller walks to reverse these effects and occupy our newborns in a way that did not require us to engage in "tummy time" or "peek-a-boo".

There has not been a time when C. was not Ben's "girlfriend." I can't remember when Ben actually told me that this was so. I am sure I thought it was cute and probably called Jill to report on the budding romance, but I certainly did not suspect that the announcement would be so ... permanent. If I had I most certainly would have marked it in the baby book. (Something I did when I only had one kid).

C. and Ben started out at the same school. (OK - daycare, but calling it "school" makes me feel like a better mother). They were never in the same classroom, but rendezvoused on the playground together. They've celebrated New Year's and birthdays. The best Valentine always goes to C. One year he even gave her a ring pop.

Last fall C. moved onto a new school. I thought that would be the end of the relationship. I was wrong. Just a few weeks ago Ben came home and announced that girlfriends are better than best buddies. Why Ben? Because you can marry your girlfriend and live with her forever. He was talking about C. Pretty profound for a 5 year old. Or a 39 year old.

Not to be boastful, but Ben is a catch. He could get some play on the playground if you know what I mean. But his love for C. is steadfast even after 5 years. Last time I committed myself to someone for that long I married him.

This got me to thinking.

Puppy love at age 5 is cute. Ben's adoration for C. is completely uncomplicated. Which also means it is completely uncomplicated for me. But I know that won't always me the case.

Seems like every time I find myself complaining to a friend with older kids about the trying times of parenting a 2-year old and a 5-year old they have to go and remind me that it only gets harder. Really? Thanks. Then they launch into the same monologue about how the problems get bigger and your handling (or mishandling) of the situation becomes even more critical. Are you serious? Please point me to the closest bridge. I'd like to jump off.

And that whole puppy love thing. Cute when they are 5, but what about when they are 15. Suddenly you're going to need to worry about whether the bedroom door is open.

So I asked Jill. What are you going to do if these two are still exclusive 10 years from now? She told me that while she was sure I would love it, she'd probably encourage C. to cast the line. A bit surprising given that Jill married her college sweetheart instead of sowing her oats into her 30's. Or maybe not. She does know a fair amount about Ben's gene pool.

Me? Well I think it would be pretty great if Ben stuck with C. There is something to be said for going with your first instinct. It's just like at the grocery when you change lines hoping to get a faster check out. Invariably your second choice puts you right behind the guy that needs a price check. Plus, I had a boyfriend in preschool. His name was Chip. I think my mom once told me that he turned out okay. And with a name like Chip I surely wouldn't have missed a lurid story about him on the 5 o'clock news. (Note to self: Google Chip).

Last Rosh Hashanah I stood before our congregation and announced that I was going to slow down. Savor each Shabbat and the moments with family and friends. I'm sticking with that promise. So I won't worry about Ben's love life quite yet. Or all of the other complications my friends keep warning me are coming. Life is complicated enough as it is.

(But if he picks C. I approve).

Throw In A Load

2010-01-27T12:44:00.000-08:00

Shabbat #4: Back at the humble abode.

Guests: Jeff, Stephanie and their son E. Jeff and Stephanie are a "bit" older than us. Over the last two decades we have often looked to them for advice on navigating the marital waters. Jeff made me my first gimlet and Stephanie bakes a mean brownie.

Menu: Matzo Ball Soup, The Very Best Brisket and Vegetables, Toby's Whole Wheat Challah, Raspberry Crisp

What I Learned:

One of the best things about having kids is sharing them. E. is 14 years old and my kids are 2 and 5. Whenever we are all together Jeff and Stephanie get to relive the past and Steve and I get a glimpse into the future. Steve talks football with E. Jeff tosses a ball with Ben. Stephanie reads to Sarah. And I try to convince E. that answering an endless stream of questions from a 5 year old while dressing a 2 year old in a Snow White costume complete with tiara and slippers really is more fun than hanging out with friends. E is a trooper.

He's also pretty special to us.

Aside from defending our "peace disturbing" German Shepard in municipal court, Steve's first act as a licensed attorney was helping Jeff and Stephanie adopt E. (E. knows so I am not letting the cat out of the bag here.) I remember when Jeff asked Steve for help. Without a bit of hesitation Steve obliged. Way back then when Steve agreed he was not a father. Far from it. As a result, he had no way of knowing how significant it would end up being for Steve to help Jeff adopt his only child - a healthy, strapping son no less. Not just for Jeff and Stephanie who became parents, but also for Steve who likely counts that deed as the single best use of his law license. Maybe even the single greatest deed for a friend period. I know I do.

Fourteen years ago I was a little thrown by Steve's hasty offer to help. What do you know about an adoption? Are you sure you can do this? What if you screw it up? Steve didn't think much about those things. He was too focused on helping a friend. As I think back on that moment 14 years ago, I am now not the least bit surprised.

For better or worse, Steve is the kind of guy who can't say no. Especially to a friend. He is loyal. Sometimes to a fault. For the most part, this works out pretty well for Steve and his friends. But every once in a while he is blinded by this loyalty. Whether it is his failure to have the foresight to appreciate the consequences of his decisions or his lack of fortitude to disappoint a friend, sometimes the results are grim. Most recently they were downright catastrophic.

A few winters ago I was getting dressed in the gym locker room. It was one of those bitter January days. I had no socks and cursed myself (out loud of course) for forgetting.

"Take these."

Dangling from the hand of a girl I'd never seen was a new pair of socks. Complete with the little plastic hook that you tell yourself you should cut off with scissors but bite off every time instead.

"Really?" Are you sure?"

"No problem. It all comes out in the wash anyway."

Pulling on the socks, I thought about that phrase: It all comes out in the wash anyway. What did she mean? (I'm an attorney so I can be pretty literal.) Was she expecting me to return them washed? Did her washer worked differently than mine, producing socks on the spin cycle rather than sucking them into the washer abyss? This sock-a-pade stuck with me for years.

Turns out she knew something I didn't fully appreciate back then.

We all make bad decisions. And, regardless of our intentions, sometimes we end up hurting other people. Fortunately, for most of us the consequences aren't played out on the 5 o'clock news.

I think the message from the sock-a-pade was this: if we concentrate on doing more good than harm, we'll come out even (or better) in the end. Give a pair of socks here, get a pair later.

Steve's still got a lot of wash to do. But don't we all. Fortunately (especially for my husband's sake) I'm of the mindset that good deeds are bankable. When I look at Jeff, Stephanie and E. together, I am proud of the role Steve played - however small. In a year filled with struggle and doubt, reflections on the good in my life provides some solace. E. is the personification of that good. At least to me.

Jeff and Stephanie - thanks for sharing.

Home Is Where the Heart Is

2010-01-18T18:33:00.000-08:00

Shabbat #3: Boulder, Colorado. Not too shabby.

Guests: Us. And the wedding party and out of town guests to Elissa and Jason. Elissa is the daughter of one of my closest friends, Nancy. Nancy is the type of friend that I could call at 3am and know that she would come. No matter what. So of course we attended the wedding. And as luck would have it, it was a Jewish wedding complete with shabbat blessings.

Menu: Salmon, salad, roasted vegetables. Oh. And the largest vat of artichoke dip I have ever seen on the appetizer buffet. I literally wanted to strip off my clothes and climb in. But I refrained.

What I Learned: After a few glasses of wine, I was finding it hard not to impart some advice on the soon to be bride. Dangerous territory. Here are the 3 simple rules that I gave.

1. No Secrets.
2. Get Physical.
3. Fix It Now.

The first one is simple. Secrets rot the soul. Avoid keeping them. The second one is downright primal. We all need human touch. A lot. It's the third one that needs a bit more explanation.

We're only 3 weeks into a year of shabbats, but I have already been motivated to start fixing things around the house in preparation for company. Last week I finally replaced the lighbulbs in the china cabinet. They'd been out for a good year. It wasn't an unduly difficult task. It required a trip to Home Depot followed by a total of ten minutes awkwardly maneuvering the tiny little bulbs into their sockets. I was so pleased with myself that I left them on all night and into the next day. When I pulled up to the house I could see my twinkling handy work from the front drive. That motivated me. I bought the Magic Eraser and erased the green crayon from the foyer wall. And then I rotated the two ton coffee table (with the help of the hubby) and vacuumed underneath. None of these tasks where overly taxing (ok ... that table was pretty damn heavy), but I avoided them. Like a lot of those "boy I should really fix that" projects in my house, they initially seemed glaring but then gradually faded from view. And when they did catch my eye, I told myself that I was the only one that noticed so who cares? Turns out I did.

I've learned that the same goes for my marriage. Over the course of 13+ years, my marriage has had its fair share of burned out bulbs, crayon smears and plenty of junk shoved, dropped or otherwise lost under the two ton coffee table. Sure it bothered me. But I figured it was my marriage and if no one else noticed then who cares? Turns out I did. And so did my husband.

Fortunately, we learned to fix things. And fixing begets fixing.

Maybe a new marriage is not so different from a new home. It looks great when you move into it. But if you want to keep it that way you've got to take care of it. You've got to change the lightbulbs and wipe away the crayon smears. And every once in a while you're going to need to ask your spouse for help so you can move that two ton coffee table and vacuum underneath.

Sure, fixing these things requires time, awkward moments and some sweat and tears, but it's worth it. After all, home is where the heart is.

How Ya Doin'?

2010-01-11T16:46:00.000-08:00

First official shabbat of 2010 was on fire ... literally.

Here's the 411:

Guests: John and Susan and their three lovely children. John and Susan were our first "friends" as a couple. Susan and I used to gripe about whether our boyfriends would ever propose. Oddly, the boys eventually wised up and proposed within days of each other. Neither knowing that the other was about to pop the question. We like to refer to John and Susan as our "smart friends" (no offense to our other friends of course). We joke that we're John and Susan's equivalent to reality television. When they need to zone out and rest their brains, they call us. Oh, and neither of them can hold their mai tai's.

Menu: Roast with Red Wine/Dijon Gravy (overcooked again), Roasted Red Potatoes with Garlic and Rosemary, Roasted Broccoli with Dried Cranberries, Parmesan and Sunflower Seeds, Toby's Whole Wheat Challah, S'mores

What I Learned: If you want to get a party started, light a fire. Fortunately this one was out back on the patio in the firepit I gave my husband (in lieu of the lump of coal he deserved - or maybe to destroy the evidence in the future). Despite the fact that it was one of the coldest nights in decades, the four kids happily cinderized marshmallow after marshmallow as we watched (wine glass in hand) from the warm family room.

But I digress. I learned that someone I care about has been suffering with a medical issue for almost a year. Albeit non-life threatening, but scary and unexpected nonetheless. She didn't tell me until now. We've been together. Talked on the phone. It never came up. Maybe I should have sensed something, but I am ashamed to say that I was so wrapped up in my own life that if the signs were there I blew right by them. If she had told me I know I couldn't have done anything - at least in terms of fixing what was wrong. But perhaps it would have made things a little bit easier in some other way. It's complicated. I know I don't tell the people that I care about in our life - not to mention the dozens of people that ask me in a day "how ya doin?" - how I'm really doing. I didn't tell Susan about my dilemma for months. Even if I had she could not have fixed it. Telling her would have made me feel better - at least at some point. The telling part would have been uncomfortable. Probably the reason I didn't do it. Would she support our decision? Refrain from passing judgment? Yes on both counts - as if I really had any doubt.

What if every time we asked someone how they were doing, we actually listened? What if every time someone asked us how we were doing, we actually responded - I mean really responded? Within reason of course. I am not suggesting that we all pour our hearts out to the grocery checker. Clearly it would require a few more minutes. But seems like it would be time well spent. A little dialogue that could potentially lift a burden, clear a conscience or share a victory.

I'm going to give it a try. So next time you ask me how I'm doin' settle in because I might just tell you. And next time I ask you, bring it. I'm listening.

Shabbat Shalom from 20,000 Feet

2010-01-09T11:54:00.000-08:00

So we have already broken the rules.

Our first shabbat of 2010 was neither at home nor with friends. It was from a cruising altitude of 20,000 feet with a few hundred strangers abroad Southwest airlines. But trust me. There was plenty of religion and conversations with G-d going on:

"For G-d's sake Ben, stop sucking on the seatbelt. Do you wanna get H1N1?"
"Please G-d, don't let my IPhone run out. I will not survive without Hello Kitty and Bakugan."
"Where is that G-d damn drink cart?"

Yes. Fun family travel with a two-year old and a five-year old.

But back to those rules.

Before I was "officially" Jewish, a Jew told me that Judaism has a lots of rules - 613 to be exact - but that the majority of Jews never aspire or even attempt to follow them all. (Pretty sure I have already broken a few in this blog.) According to this guy (whose judgement I later questioned when he convinced me to do a 10k in Israel that required a Palestian cabbie to ferry us through West Bank checkpoints to the start), you can choose the rules that work best in your life. This resonated with me. I like rules. They help eliminate decision-making. I hate decision-making. (More on that later.) I also like rules that can be broken. Perfect. Sign me up.

So, it seems only fitting that as of January 1, 2010, I have already broken the rules.

It also gave me another week to decide what I would write about after each shabbat "experience":

1. Guests: I'll tell you a little bit about the folks that came. But not too much out of respect for their privacy. Our plan is to invite a different family every week. Frankly, after the events of 2009 that is a pretty lofty goal, but we are up for the challenge.
2. Menu: I'll tell you what we ate. Maybe I will even include recipes. Everyone knows that I am a runner. What you may not know is that I run to eat. Most runners do. We spend 90 percent of our long runs talking about food. The other 10 percent is spent talking about how many more miles we have to talk about food. I once ran with a guy who told me that he got excited at night thinking about eating a fryed egg sandwich in the morning. So I am definitely going to talk about the food.
3. Reflections: I'll tell you what I learned which is pretty much the point of this whole thing. To learn something about myself, to give my children an opportunity to learn from our friends and to maybe (hopefully) have our friends walk away with a little something more than a full stomach and a hangover.

But maybe I'll change my mind and write about something else.

Because here's the thing. After 39 years I now know that I can change my mind.

Last summer when I was in a very dark place a friend of mine met me for coffee. We talked about my situation and here's what she said:

"Rebecca, you can make a decision. Then you can change your mind."

Really? You've got to be kidding me. For 39 years I have been walking around thinking that all decisions are permanent. I have wasted countless hours weighing options, delaying and avoiding decisions. I have worn myself out in the diaper aisle. "Are Pampers really better than generics?" "Will Sarah love me less if I buy the cheapos?" "Does that make me a bad mother?" You get the picture.

When Suzy told me this a giant weight was lifted. Was it that simple? No, not exactly. But it was the most useful piece of advice I have been blessed to receive. Thanks Suzy. Today I believe in love, have faith and choose happiness. And I also buy generic diapers.

So maybe you will read about Guests, Menus and Reflections or maybe I will change my mind. You'll have to keep reading to find out.

Here's To Fewer Lifeboats

2010-01-09T06:51:00.000-08:00

One of our resolutions for 2010 (and believe me there are MANY) is to share our Friday night shabbat dinners with our friends. Jewish, not Jewish. We don't care. All you need to do is eat, drink and be willing to share in our little social experiment we like to call "A Year (Or More) of Shabbats." This blog will chronicle our (and your) experience.

Since returning from Israel in 2006 (that is a story for another blog) we have been celebrating shabbat as a family each Friday on a fairly regular basis -- at least what I consider to be regular when you have two kids, careers and all the craziness that ensues. In our most challenging times (and believe me there have been MANY), our dinners have served as a "lifeboat" that helps ferry us out of troubled waters -- even if just for a night. In joyous times the dinners are a celebration of all that is precious in our life.

Here's to hoping that 2010 is filled with more celebrations and fewer lifeboats.

Prologue

2010-01-08T14:02:00.000-08:00

In 2006 I went to Israel. My husband was part of an American Jewish Committee trip there and he asked me to come along. My motivations for traveling with him were far from spiritual. My son was 1 ½ and I needed a break alone with my husband.

We spent 4 days in Israel. I saw the sites, ate falafel and generally continued to feel the same way that I had felt about the importance of religion in my life for the last 30+ years. I hadn’t set foot in a church by choice since the mid-70s. When I had to go I watched the clock – even during weddings. My great miracle of Christmas had more to do with vacation days and holiday parties. My religion – to the extent it existed – was a bit more personal. I prayed to myself at night. “Now I lay me down to sleep” followed by my list of people who were important to me (or had been important to me and by pure habit continued to be included in my tiny sliver of religion).

We also visited Morocco. We arrived on a Friday night. I was exhausted and nauseous from the sweaty van trip into Casablanca. We were scheduled to attend a Shabbat dinner at the home of a local Jewish family. I didn’t want to go. After some prodding from Steve, I rallied and went.

What I saw when we arrived was truly something out of a movie. Women dressed in sparkling robes, food for as far as the eye could see, the finest linens. That night, I listened to the stories of the slow death that Judaism was suffering in Morocco. Jewish graveyards being relocated to make way for Muslim monuments, synagogues closing one by one, and Jewish children leaving the country for a better life in Europe. Their Shabbat dinner seemed to not only be a way to honor their religious beliefs, but to preserve them.

That night Steve and I returned to our hotel and made a promise. If the Jews of Casablanca could go to such great lengths to preserve their religion, we could surely manage to have Shabbat dinner once a week as our little effort. Still, I was skeptical. Dinner at home every Friday night? I wasn’t even Jewish. But Steve was. I had seen the way that he had been moved during our trip. I saw a deeper side of him that I had not known before. So I committed.

We went home and had our first Shabbat dinner. I think I even made a brisket. And slowly a richer life began to unfold for us.

We hung the mezuzah we purchased while we were in Israel. I lit the candles each week and read the prayers. Ben became the official Shabbat match and candle extinguisher.

One thing led to another and I ended up converting. And we continued to have our fairly regular weekly Shabbat dinners.

Then everything changed.

In 2009 Steve pled guilty to obstruction of justice in a widely publicized federal investigation. What played out in the media was only the tip of the iceberg. Steve and I spent hours upon hours strolling our two-year old daughter trying to recount where things had gone so totally wrong. And even more hours trying to figure out where we would go next. What did we want for ourselves, for our marriage and for our children?

In September at Rosh Hashanah - the Jewish New Year - I vowed to slow down each Shabbat. To cherish the moments with my family and to appreciate that together we are greater than the sum of our parts.

On New Year’s Eve Steve and I talked again about our resolutions. And so was born “A Year or More of Shabbats.” Our effort to try to put our life back together, reconnect with our friends and family and teach our children that down is not out.

This is our journey.