Category Archives: family

Yom Kippur

Posted on by
Reply

First, to everyone, Jewish and non-Jewish, I wish you happiness, health and prosperity in the year 5770 (or 2009-10).

With the Yom Kippur fast came a blogging fast.  Both fasts have ended.

This Yom Kippur had bloggable moments, some profound and others, well, let’s just say that I have already started the list of sins for next year’s atonement:

Muslim-Jewish Greetings. A Muslim cab driver wished us health and happiness in our new year.  And I told him that we hope that he had had a blessed Ramadan with his family.  There is an advantage to living in NY.  There are no territorial, ideological or historical impediments to honoring other traditions and religions.  (We are cramped in this City, but for purely capitalist reasons.) I am a conscientious objector when it comes to religion (but not tradition), but I see G-d in these ordinary exchanges between individuals of different backgrounds.  These seemingly mundane holiday greetings have transformative power, precisely because they were between Muslim and Jew.

Gay, Muslim and Palestinian. There was a gay Palestinian Muslim at our Yom Kippur services as a guest of our synagogue (we flew some GLBT Israelis here after the attack on a gay center in Israel, so they can feel a part of a huge community of supporters).  Now, that is bizarre on so many levels.  But closeness to community, to spirituality comes with the setting, not the liturgy.  And, I know, I feel more at home in a mosque than in a church.  The lack of iconography (i.e., no depictions of suffering Jews) and the Sephardic melodies are familiar to me.  Spirituality doesn’t, I believe, require belief in a deity, or a particular theology; rather, a sense of essential goodness in (most) people who are inextricably tied one to another because of our inherent humanity.

A River Runs Through It. The rabbi reprised her Rosh Ha-Shanah theme of the colors of the river.  It reminds me of when I tell a joke (or make what I think is a witty comment) and no one laughs.  I assume that no one heard.  I have to remember that everyone heard but no one thought it funny.  So, the rabbi didn’t get that no one could follow her metaphor at Rosh Ha-Shanah, let alone ten days later when people are hungry and have caffeine and nicotine withdrawal.  My head was pounding and all I heard was the light of the river, river, river, and whether we saw the light or not and whether we followed the changing light of the river, river, river.  And I thought, I will wait until the light of the river is a major motion picture but please get to the part where the Shofar is blown and the fasting is over and the pounding in my head stops.  The river, river, river made me dizzy, dizzy, dizzy, AGAIN.  Torture comes in many shapes and size and pretexts.

Our Child, Our Oracle. Ok, so here is the best part of the whole Yom Kippur.  Our son was prone to melt-downs this holiday season.  Maybe it was his bow-tie or his blazer that caused a karmatic imbalance (although he was such a chick magnetic and he was in Heaven being kissed and adored by women old and young). So, we had to leave for a while (to relieve everyone from having to hear the meltdown) but PRECISELY because we wanted to leave, our son then wanted to stay.  My partner asked him to rate his behavior in the children’s service.

Our 7 year-old responded, “Mommy, I was a complete ass.”

Parenting manuals don’t teach you how not to laugh and how not to applaud the razor-sharp analysis even though your child used “bad words”.

Choking back laughter and “bravos” for spot-on analysis, we told him those were not words that we used and his choice of language was not ok.  His response:

“Mommy, I don’t think I am being brought up well.  In good homes, children don’t say such words.”

Ok ok ok ok ok ok, it is Yom Kippur, and we are tired, cranky, hungry and our precocious child has laid down the gauntlet.  My partner says something that adjourns the conversation, so that we can prepare for battle or, more precisely, litigation, with our 7 year-old. I have called in reinforcements.

Share

Dear Mom

Posted on by
1

It’s almost Yom Kippur and I have that rage inside me again.  I am supposed to seek forgiveness and I am still waiting for an apology from On High for making you suffer and taking you away.  Just an acknowledgment of a “Heavenly oops” would work. 

Two of my friends are dealing with the terminal illnesses of their mothers.  I just try to offer my ear because, as you know, it is all of jumble of good, bad, generous and selfish emotions.

The one thing that stays with me always is your last day.  “Your girls” knew from the change in your breathing — the increasingly shallower breaths and the elongation of your breathing rhythms — that the end was near. 

Breathe, two, three, four, five.  Breathe, two, three, four, five.

Breathe, two, three, four, five.  Breathe, two, three, four, five.

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six (phew).  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.

I even went to the medical supply store to get a suction machine to suction out the mucous because it sounded like you were choking and couldn’t clear your throat (I later learned that is known as the death rattle).

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.

At the end, Dad was holding you in his arms and your children were touching your hands and your legs and we watched and we listened. Your breaths were even more shallow and the length between them got even longer.  We stayed with the rhythm and we were breathing with you. 

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven (phew).  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six. . . .

And then you didn’t take the next breath and you were gone.

There was an eternity in that time between the last breath and the next one you didn’t take. 

In that eternity was the difference between life and death.  In that eternity was the secret of what makes a person alive.  What was that infinitessimal change that made the difference between life and death? 

I am not religious (as you know) but I really believe that we helped put your soul on the wings of angels.  And I am glad.  And then I think: angels, shmangels.  I just miss my mom. AND I am waiting for that apology.

Share

Life in a Backpack, part 2

Posted on by
Reply

So, what do you really, really need in life that you can port in a backpack?

The backpack matters only if one thinks one’s will continue life as it was before — more or less — after the momentary catastrophe ends.  And, of course, that one’s family survives.  Otherwise, there is not a damn thing I need that would come in the backpack.

So, I visualized my son’s backpack.IMG00009

water (today there is only sparkling water in the fridge; we don’t usually buy bottled water for eco-friendly reasons) and food (high energy, low bulk) and for two or so days.

IMG00010_Device Memory_home_user_pictures_IMG00011

Some feminine products if it is that-time-of-the-month.  A picture of my parents and siblings taken when I was about five years old — it is a family classic.

All of the life, disability, long term care, homeowner and liability insurance policies (assuming they are worth anything these days).  Passports.  A laptop or blackberry.

Share

The rest of Rosh HaShanah

Posted on by
Reply

Saturday the family came over for our traditional New Year’s lunch.  It was pleasant and generally uneventful.  Which is why I thought aliens had taken over my family.  My sister did not go as far as to say that she agreed with my assessment, but she did note the absence of the usual guaranteed bloggable moments.  The rest of the day was a blur except that I chugged Pepto Bismol.

Sunday, POB (partner of blogger) roused everyone to go to synagogue on the second day of the holiday.  We went Friday night, we went Saturday morning (and dashed home to prepare for the luncheon).  And now we are going to shul for the third day running?  Did I go to sleep a Reform Jew and wake up Conservative?  Is this my beautiful house, Is this my beautiful wife?  How did I get here?  WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Theological arguments were a non-starter.  So, schlepped we did.  Our son was fraying through this.  After all, up to this point he was lovely and gentle and sweet-looking in his oh-so-cute bowtie.  And he is a boy.  And boys need to run around.  A LOT.  But, he was in services, I was chugging Pepto-Bismol, and he was acting out.   

We went to a luncheon at our dear friends’ house that afternoon.  Those present at the luncheon played connect the riffs of the rabbi’s talk on Saturday, to see who could string them all together into one message.  People did brilliant jobs and came up with different conclusions.  (After Friday night, I just played it safe at the children’s services.)

Bottom-line:  Two days of RH are too much for me.

Share

Rosh HaShanah evening chez nous

Posted on by
Reply

Friday night is the birthday of the world.  The world is 5770 years ago, or so the Jewish tradition would have it.  And, since global warming has kicked into high gear, it is not looking so good.  Especially after the immense amount of war casualties this year.  And the fall-out of the financial crises.  The world needs a spa millenium.

Anyway, we sang happy birthday in that Jewish way of taking a happy moment and pointing out how bad the world looks and how bad we look in the world’s reflection.  So, no cake for the world.  Anyway, there is not a cake big enough to fit 5771 candles, so a piece of sponge cake will have to do.

Services start at 6:30pm.  I meet POB (partner of blogger) who pulls out Pepto Bismol from her bag and offers me a swig.  This is not a required Jewish ritual for Rosh HaShanah, but many Jews do use the stuff because we have a high incidence of irritable bowel (that’s part of why we complain so much).  I have been suffering mightily recently and since I read the article on social contagion theory, I am sure that my cousin who has irritable bowel syndrome passed it on to me.  But I digress.

It is hard for a room full of Jews to stop talking so the rabbi’s job is hard.  That’s why there is at least a half-hour flex time between when the service starts and when it REALLY has to start. 

When we walked in, we thought we belonged to the synagogue “servicing the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered Jews, their families and their friends.”  Apparently, that is soooo older generation.  Now the synagogue “serves Jews of all sexual orientations and gender identities”.  Ahhhh.  Wait, there are more than two genders?  This is its own separate bloggable moment.  We have established, however, that POB and I are here, we’re queer and we are out of touch.  Ok, I digress again.

So, we sit through a lovely service (comfortably, thanks to POB and Pepto Bismol).  There is something comforting about the rhythms of the seasons and the traditions and chanting the prayers using melodies and tropes that have gone from generation to generation (even if one generation doesn’t understand that there are more than two genders).  The rabbi gets up and starts speaking.  She uses beautiful imagery but I get lost in the imagery and cannot follow what she is talking about.  I am thinking she doesn’t know either.  First, we learn that the founding of the Hudson River shares a birthday with the world.  400 years ago.  There is probably a cake big enough for 401 candles.  Soooo special.  The river flows in two directions.  The river’s water has lapped these shores as change has to come to the river and Manhattan Island.  Change is not fast, but a slow progression of miniscule changes the cumulative impact of which is only visible in hindsight. This is an excellent metaphor for the process of changing the nation, the world and humanity.  Then, the rabbi gets a little lost in the poetry of light beams dancing on the river and the blue of the river changing with the light.  I am hearing about lots of different blues.  I check my blackberry.  POB nudges me.  I stop messaging and start listening.  Still, lots of blue water lapping the shores while we fail to notice.  Lots of lapping blue that we could notice, but then we wouldn’t make it to work or feed our families.  I am really losing the point here.  I am dizzy.

We get home, where my sister and brother-in-law are staying with our son.  This is their way of observing the birthday of the world — watching videos and eating pizza and lying on the couch.  My sister is wearing my sweatshirt .  Apparently she was cold and didn’t want to hunt through our stuff (remember only two weeks ago, they hunted for a bird caught in our apartment), but knowing me, she could just go to my side of the bed, look down, and find something that was only partially worn that day.  Life is good when your sister knows you and loves you and will wear your slightly worn clothes.

POB and I went to sleep that night exhausted and dizzy, but happy because a new year brings new beginnings (and for me, more bloggable moments).

Share

Buying Challah can be a Contact Sport

Posted on by
Reply

Tonight is the start of Rosh HaShanah and the ten days of introspection, reflection, repentance and atonement, culminating in Yom Kippur.

But today, today, is the day when frantic Jews push and shove to get the ingredients of the holiday meals.

The rule is:  tonight, we start atoning for what we did at the store today.

I went out to get a challah (special bread for Sabbaths and holidays) from the neighborhood bakery on the upper, Upper West Side.  I stand in a long line winding its way outside this adorable store front.  All is seemingly calm until I move into the store as my turn comes up.  I hear in a booming voice:

“I put my order in DAYS ago!! Last name FERNberg. F-E-AWR-N-B-E-AWR-G.  FernBERG.  5 plain, 2 raisin challahs!!!  Do I have to call my husband?”

One woman is so upset that she isn’t being paid attention that she refuses all bakery workers’ efforts to assist her.  She needs to feel oppressed.  This is the kind of stuff that should happen in the privacy of a psychiatrist’s office.

Then a rumor rages rampant that only raisin and whole wheat (oy) challahs were left.  Now, comes the pushing and the shoving.  People step out of line, disgusted.  Then we find out there are plain challahs.  Now people want to step back into line.

Now comes a Talmudic question:  when a person voluntarily steps out of line but under false pretenses, does the person get his or her place back?

Great for Talmud, not for the hand-to-hand combat of pre-holiday upper, Upper West Side.

As everyone climbs over each other (vowing internally to start repentance tonight), I get my challah and leave quickly and, thank G-d, intact.

Share

It is a beautiful morning in a house of mirth

Posted on by
Reply

Mornings are always hectic in our house. But not for me (note to self: be grateful; gloating could get you in trouble).

My partner (POB) is an early riser. My son has to be, too, since he needs to get to school on time. I hear the noise, confusion and (mostly) gentle prodding of our son to get ready. I am still lying in bed with a pillow over my head. Then in barrels our son, ready for some rough-housing in the morning (which he quaintly calls cuddling — even when we play two crashing trains). I rise to the occasion and then fall back in my bed when he scampers off to school.   Off they go to school via bus or subway — more than I could ever manage.

For the first week of school, POB was away on business and our son was anxious about his new school. The cajoling and prodding took a long time. Plus, POB told me that we had to be there a whole 15 minutes earlier than necessary — a lifetime in the morning. Hmmmmm. She now feigns innocence as if I conjured this up out of the air. Obviously, since I was barely compos mentis at these early hours, we took cabs to school.

The minute POB returned from her trip, our son gave me up but said helpfully, “We were running late.” Thanks for the cover, bud.  I appreciate your sticking by me as you rat me out. Note to self: have his aunt, “the vault”, teach him some pointers about secrets.

So, POB is strong, fearless and awake enough to take public transportation.  Our family fisc thanks her.

The good news is that she is adaptive to any situation.

This morning I get an email from POB that recognizes and affirms me in all my frailties and is also practical:

“[Our son] had to use the bathroom on the way to school [NOTE: he never wants to go before he leaves so we get into this problem] so we ducked into McDonalds which took FOREVER so I channeled my inner [me, the blogger] and we took a cab. We made it just in time – and [our son] was truly apologetic so we vowed to launch the Morning Team to better figure this out.”   [Note to self:  keep your head down and don’t make eye contact, lest you are picked for the team.]

An episode in the morning of a house of mirth.

Share

107 year old woman is looking for husband no. 23!!!!

Posted on by
2

107 year old woman is looking for husband no. 23!!!! (Even Liz Taylor can’t beat that.) 

It is so odd on so many levels.  The math suggests an analogy to buying a new car every few years (a new riff on the cash for clunkers campaign) or changing husbands every time your car gets an oil change (no lubes, please).  Her current husband is 70 YEARS younger.  No visual, please.  AND, he is a drug addict.  But that only adds a seamy aspect to this otherwise perfectly rational story. She thinks he is going to leave her for someone he met in rehab.  Isn’t that always the way it is, huh, Britney and Lindsay?  (I am guessing here, because I don’t keep up with either of these “stars”.)

What happened to the other husbands?  Hmmmm. Would she be eligible for health care coverage under the Obama plan if she didn’t live in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia?

The truth is the best fiction.

************************************************************************

KUALA LUMPUR (AFP) – A 107-year-old Malaysian woman says she is ready to marry for the 23rd time because she fears her current drug addict husband might leave her for a younger woman, a report said Monday.

Wook Kundormade headlines four years ago when she married Muhammad Noor Che Musa, a man 70 years her junior in northern Terengganu state, with pictures of the couple’s wedding splashed across regional newspapers.

But Wook is now looking for new love as she fears that Muhammad, 37, who is undergoing voluntary drug rehabilitation treatmentin the capital Kuala Lumpur, will leave her once the programme ends, she told the Star newspaper.

“Lately, there is this kind of insecurity in me,” the paper quoted her as saying, showing a photograph of the smiling, wrinkled-faced centenarian wearing a Muslim headscarf.

“I realise that I am an aged woman. I don’t have the body nor am I a young woman who can attract anyone.”

“My intention to remarry is to fill my forlornness and nothing more than that,” she said, adding that she felt lonely without her husband by her side to celebrate the coming Muslim festival of Eidal-Fitr next week.

Wook said she planned to visit Muhammad on the second day of Eid if her neighbours were willing to drive her to the capital.

Muhammad, who was a lodger in Wook’s house, had previously said it was “God’s will” that the couple fell in love.

Share

An excellent day

Posted on by
Reply

Every morning POB (partner of blogger) brings a mug of coffee for me and puts it on my bedside table, so I have coffee as I am waking up.  I am a lucky person.

I am especially lucky this morning because the coffee is delicious and warm and my body is stiff and sore from my run yesterday and our son bounds into our bed and lunges over me to get the remote control lest we miss one moment of the senseless cartoons available to numb our children’s minds. Warm coffee (as opposed to piping hot) spills all over my jammies.  Even if it were piping hot, I may not have been able to move. POB is already dressed and going out to get some groceries.  No wonder I am tired.  POB’s schedule is enough to exhaust TWO people.

I speak to my cousin who is recovering from major surgery and he says some chicken soup would do him good.  What does POB do?  Starts making chicken soup.  I need a nap now and it isn’t even 10am.

By 10:45am, I am able to limp into the shower.  Then we dash off to our son’s schoolmate’s birthday party.  New school, new friends, new challenges.  Our son is a little scared. We go to the amusement park and we meet up with the group and all is good.  Except amusement parks remind me of horror flicks, sad clowns and freaky sideshows.  There is an odd, clown-like man working at this place and I am as fascinated by him as I am ooked out. 

Then pizza and cake and chaotic running around.  The kids are so friendly and I can see that our son feels right at home.  He has a crush on one girl whom he has known for many years — more than a crush really, because even though he is 7, he asked her to marry him and she said yes.  But he is talking up another girl, too.  Bad form, dude.  It is your first week, so be circumspect with the girls.  The other girl’s mom says that her daughter and my son may be competing for the affections of the same girl. I think, wow, this place is too groovy and hip for words.  But I can tell already that there are back stories.  I’ll ease into those.  For now, I am happy because my son is happy.

POB and I are so happy that we do not want to ruin the moment by discussing wedding plans.  As founding members of the Bridezombies, we have to set a standard for detail avoidance.  We set a high standard.  We are proud.

Family dinner tonight, but my sister and brother-in-law bag out.  My sister cannot seem to follow doctor’s orders (even though she is a doctor) and her foot is not healing.  She over-exerted and now can’t move.  Let’s work through this problem together.

Let’s say you are a competent doctor (as in you didn’t get your medical degree from the internet) and another doctor whom you respect (as in it is ok for the doctor to examine you but not cut into you) tells you to use a cane and stay off your feet as much as possible.  Then let’s say you have a conference where if you were really healthy you would stand all day and present an interesting case (work with me here; I know we are talking about diseases).  So, even though you aren’t healthy, you stand all day and don’t use a cane. 

Ok, so maybe my sister did get her medical degree from the internet.

Bottom line, Sis and the Man cannot come to Sunday night dinner.  I call them afterward to tell them about the fun and the food they missed so they feel really bad.  It is, in fact, the least I could do.  My brother-in-law sends a grovelling email.  A little more grovelling ought to do the trick.

A young cousin comes over.  My son wants to know why he didn’t become a professional hockey player since he played in college.  I want to know, too, because he is depriving the extended family of an element necessary to the true American family.  We need a sports star.  We already have doctors, lawyers, artists, entrepreneurs, felons (ok, only one), mixed marriages, gays and lesbians (ok, only one), etc.  What a crowning achievement for a Jewish family to have a member who suits up in armor and carries a club to do battle on ice and someone keeps score.  But, he is taking the easy way out and going to school, going into debt, to become a professional.  So old school.  Still, he is a lovely guy and it will be great to see more of him.

I am so happy to have (some of) my family together around my table.  I think wistfully of a bigger gathering, one that includes my sick cousin, my dear cousin who is his niece, all together.  I know my cousins who are uncle and niece need to work out their issues, but I love them both and family is so precious.

Share

Family United

Posted on by
Reply

My partner (let’s call her POB, as in partner of blogger) arrived home from a business trip last night and today we are a family happily re-united.  Our son was so happy that life was back to normal that he behaved as a typical 7 year-old, with all the toilet humor and “I never get to do anything I want” whines. Ah, life in all its facets.

We were at synagogue today for Saturday school, which is really an excuse for the kids to get together and play and the parents to catch up.  POB and I saw the rabbi across the room and thought we need to re-start our wedding plans.

It is a great idea to get married but the details get in the way.  We love each other.  We will be happy to have a wedding once the day comes.  Getting from Point A to Point B is the trick. 

Ok, so we need to move forward on this.  Stay tuned for painful details of the Bridezombies trying to plan a wedding for a year from now. I am stressed already.  POB and I decided that we would discuss it during the period between Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur in order to maximize the self-flagellation that goes the repentance and atonement required during these days.

Share