Archive | Relationships RSS feed for this section

Doing Good

12 Feb

image2

When the world seems to be falling apart, it is comforting to see the people you love trying to put it back together. One of those people is my son.

He’s a quiet kid. He’s shy and unassuming and once you are lucky enough to get to know him, he’s hilarious and kind and genuine. He still needs to work on the regular teenage stuff like being nicer to his brothers or answering me in a more patient tone. But all in all, he’s a truly fine human being and I am honored to have the privilege of being his mom.

In the fall, my son participated in a Midnight Run. Together with his friends and our synagogue he collected necessary every day items we might take for granted: soap, pillows, a warm jacket. On a cold November night, my son and husband drove into New York City and handed out jackets to the homeless. They helped people find the right size coat, the color they preferred, and ultimately the jacket that would keep them the warmest. They handed out jackets until there were no more jackets to hand out. But there were still people who were cold.

A few weeks later, I saw a segment on the news about a company in Michigan called The Empowerment Plan that was making jackets that converted to sleeping bags. The labor hired to sew these jackets is sourced exclusively from homeless shelters. These women are trained and given skills that will hopefully allow them to find full time employment. It was an incredible story to behold. I told my son about the jackets and he began an online fundraiser via Crowdrise to raise $5240 (the cost of 50 jackets plus shipping to NY), so he could continue to help keep our city’s homeless a little warmer.

With the help of many friends and family, more than $6000 was raised allowing for the purchase of nearly 60 coats. And on a cold January night, our family and my parents loaded the jackets into two trucks and drove to Hebrew Union College in The Village to distribute the coats to those patronizing their soup kitchen.

As we unloaded the coats onto a table and started demonstrating them for the people there, a small crowd began to gather. A very tall man was the first person to take a coat, explaining how happy he was because he has not been able to find a warm jacket that fits him in years.

We met a man named Matteo who sleeps in his van and was grateful to now have some semblance of a bed. He marveled at the utility of the jacket and how it was an item fashioned for those in need with respect for those in need in mind. He thanked my son and began to cry.

When a woman named Fatima saw the jacket, she broke into a wide smile and laughter, confiding that this was something she could really use. Her joy was palpable. She took a jacket and returned 15 minutes later just to talk to my son.

“You did this? How did you do this?”

My son explained his fundraiser. Fatima began to cry.

“I can’t believe you did this. You’re only 16. Do you know what you’ve done?”

And then she asked him for a hug. And they embraced.

When the shift was over only 5 jackets remained which we donated to the soup kitchen. Several hours later, after eating dinner at a local restaurant, we started walking back to our car. On the way, we passed Hebrew Union College. Outside was a man in a lawnchair, laughing with his friends, and wearing one of the jackets we gave him earlier that night.

Things have certainly come full circle. To have begun the Midnight Run program in our synagogue and to have ended this coat drive in the basement of a seminary was a beautiful living brush stroke of tikkun olam: repairing the world.

And the world is indeed in need of repair.While the country’s delicate seams have been mercilessly ripped apart, small acts of kindness, like this one, are the thread we all need to sew us back together. Because regardless of where we live or what we own, people are people are people. And yes, you do things for other people. You do it because it is the right thing to do. You do it because you can. You do it because you can make someone’s life better, even if it is just in the smallest way, like a giving a stranger a fresh bar of soap. But you also do it because it makes you feel better too. And it feels good to do good. It does.

My son may not always be the type who sits on my lap to hug me, or who holds my hand while I’m driving and rests his head on it, or who comes into my room to hug and kiss me as a study break. But I hope he is. I will never be too old to accept any of those expressions of love.

Soon my son will be going off to college. When he leaves the home in which he has grown up, I wonder if he is ready for what the world will throw at him. But mostly I want to know that he is a good person. That I am sending my best work, a really good human being, into the world. That he will love and be loved. That he will be kind. That he will help those who need it. And that he will be good. And he is.

My son is already repairing this world, doing great things, and giving back. He’s going to make his mark on this world. In fact, he already has.

Advertisements

Love, Marriage, & Singing in the Car

1 Sep

IMG_5994

19 years and one day ago I married my best friend. He was smart and tall and smart and handsome and smart! He was mildly funny and he was smart. He was nice and good at being Jewish and decent. And he was so smart. Just my type.

We moved through our marriage by years, by 3 homes, by 2 births, by 3 children, by many vacations, by some disasters, by 3 separate times I took the car and drove around for hours until I was less angry enough to return, by the loss of 3 grandparents, by several jobs, by 1 fire, by 6 deceased goldfish, and by multitudes of laughter.

Along the way, I wished on many occasions that my husband be something, actually many things, that he is not. I wished him to be more laid back (he is not!). I wished him to be more thoughtful (so so but perhaps making progress). I wished him to be more fun (……). I wished him to be the kind of person that would crank the music up in the car with me and belt out the very best Sirius radio has to offer (sigh).

I am an unabashed, reckless car singer. Maybe you have driven next to me and seen me so you know. Maybe you have just heard about me. Or maybe you have even heard me over state lines. I am a legend in this regard. It’s not pretty and I am seldom able to get through a song without being told to stop singing but it is what it is and I am who I am and that person is an avid, unapologetic car singer.

I have begged my husband, in and out of 19 years, to please sing with me when a good song comes on (and come on, there are so many!). He will not indulge me. He does not think that it will be fun. I continue with “how can it not be fun?! It’s singing! It’s a great song! Pleaseeeee.” No dice. He simply will not sing.

I compare him to past boyfriends and tell him about the wonderful guys before him who would sing in the car with me and the great times we had. They are so much more fun than he was. He waits for me to finish talking and then changes the radio station to 1010 WINS which we listen to on a 22 minute loop until we die.

In the space of all the songs he is not singing with me, he is helping our kids with their homework, sometimes coming home early so he can properly accomplish this task. He is walking my parents’ dog when I am too lazy to do so. He is running out at night after realizing our sons do not have any food to make lunch for the next day of school. He is volunteering at our synagogue and as a basketball coach for our son’s CYO team. He is shoveling my parents’ driveway when there is a snowstorm so that when they return from vacation, they will have one less thing to worry about. He is doing everything except sing in the car with me.

Until finally, one day, he does. He belts out a song with me in the car. I can’t even remember which song it was. But I will tell you this: it was nothing like I thought it would be. It was terrible. In fact, it was so bad, I begged him to stop before the song was even finished. He can’t sing. He can’t car sing. He can’t even sing badly. I don’t know what the word is for the sound that was coming out of his mouth, but I will never be asking him to sing in the car with me again, even if the song that comes on is “Domino” or “Caravan” by Van Morrison. That dream has died.

Sometimes we fantasize about the things we want in our marriages, our lives, ourselves. The patience we wish we had. The parents we wish we were. The fun, breezy, car singers we want to be. Sometimes those fantasies are better left imagined. I am not going to ask him to be who he is not. But that is ok. Because who he is, is for the most part, more than I could ever ask for to begin with.

Happy anniversary to my tone-deaf beloved. For better or for worse. But mostly, for better.

 

Gratitude

26 Nov

Goodwin_casual-221

 

Possibly one of my top ten favorite words and something I try to keep in mind when confronted with things I’d prefer not to think about because things could always be worse:

G R A T I T U D E

Perspective is so important and today, like every day, I am so grateful for

  1. My children
  2. My husband
  3. My parents
  4. My brother
  5. My extended family
  6. My friends
  7. Good health
  8. James Taylor
  9. Licorice
  10. Music
  11. Warm chocolate chip cookies
  12. When Harry Met Sally
  13. Medicine and science
  14. Taxi
  15. The NYT crossword puzzle
  16. Laughter
  17. Words
  18. Not turkey — I could skip that
  19. Meatballs
  20. My pizza oven
  21. My grandparents. They were the best.
  22. A well told story
  23. Games of all kinds
  24. Good coffee
  25. The University of Michigan
  26. Shehecheyanu
  27. The gym (not while I’m there, only when I’m leaving)
  28. Frizz Ease
  29. Blow outs
  30. Public School
  31. Kindness
  32. Sunshine
  33. Pickles
  34. Bloody Marys
  35. The ocean
  36. My Kindle
  37. WordPress
  38. My GPS even though she sometimes sucks
  39. The freedoms granted to me in the Bill of Rights
  40. Love

Thank you so very much for reading and for your encouragement. I am grateful for you all.

Shehecheyanu.

The Scream Chart

3 Jun

image1 (3)

Raising kids is challenging.

I remember when my babies were babies, strung out on hours of lost sleep and coffee, and patience frayed, I snapped. I screamed at my kids so loudly that I was hoarse for a couple of days. I was plagued by guilt. I was certain that all the hours I spent loving them, playing with them, laughing, watching and rewatching Wiggles videos (that is love for sure) would be outweighed and even forgotten by those intense moments of primal hollering.

I thought myself the only mother that ever yelled at her child. After all, everyone is always on their best behavior when you see them and if they’re not, can you just imagine what kind of monster they must be in their own home? Unable to shake myself of remorse, I asked a wise friend if she ever yelled at her kids. Her reply, which stayed with me, was “we all scream inside our own house.” She was right.

Sometimes we do lose patience. Because we are human. And while I have not lost my voice again since that time when my babies were babies, I still raise it here and there, mostly because no one seems to listen the first 8 times I say something.

Recently, my son complained that there was too much screaming in the house. To be precise, his belief was that one of the five of us, at the very least, yelled every single day. I was surprised at his perception of how our home functions; probably because I’m more of a positive person and definitely because I am his mother. Regardless, he should not feel that way and if, to my horror, that was accurate, we would all have to change because I wouldn’t want to live in that house either. I decided it was time to experiment.

I made a “Scream Chart.” For an entire week, my son was to track our “screaming activity” and assign a tick for anyone who screamed. If someone yelled more than once, they received more than one tick. No one was to behave any differently than usual (not that we are all self-aware enough to act otherwise) and frankly, no one did.

One week later, I approached my son to review the final results of the Scream Chart. Lo and behold, there was very little yelling in our home that week, similar to every other week, except, apparently, for Sunday (I cannot remember what occurred and I am pretty sure I don’t want to either). Indeed, throughout the school week, there were only two incidences of shrieking (although, to be fair, a raised voice counted just as much as outright caterwauling) and one of them belonged to the very son who thought there was too much yelling in the house to begin with.

Perceptions and misperceptions are so important. I hope my son remembers to lean towards the positive memories and viewpoints as opposed to coloring our world with darker shadows just because someone screams here and there. I always tend to remember and view things more fondly (except for laboring 23 hours to deliver this same child; that was pure agony) and I think it has served me well. It has also provided a grounding optimism sorely needed for challenges faced along the way. I explained this to my son. I discussed the value of believing in good and happiness over constant misery. I told him that just because someone in a family gets angry (which happens! people living together are bound to bounce off each other at times!) doesn’t mean it is an angry family.

About a month later, I checked in again with my son. His perception of our family’s life together had thankfully changed. He no longer believed that there was daily bickering and acknowledged that part of the screaming he had to endure was his own. There are so many things I feel I don’t get right as a parent, but I was so grateful to be able to change his appreciation of his own life. He should think better of it. And I am so glad he actually does.

Had that Scream Chart filled out according to my son’s expectations, I would have been devastated. I would hate to think that this family we have created out of love and desire and joy would be so overshadowed by constant conflict. Although 18 years sounds like a long time to raise a child, it moves faster than I would have ever imagined. Those 18 years should be a filled with laughter, beauty, kindness, love, and warm, screamless nights.

The Soundtrack of My Life

30 Jan

IMG_4645

My father is singing Cat Stevens’ Moonshadow to me. I am 3 or 4 or 5 years old. I wonder about the limbless body singing until all the parts of him are gone and he is seemingly nonchalant, perhaps even grateful to be without eyes and a tongue. My father continues to sing the same song to me like a lullaby.

I am in a full body cast in a hospital. I am 6 years old. My mother is sitting, surrounded by sick children, with her ukelele, playing and singing Puff the Magic Dragon. I am proud and yet jealous. I do not want to share her with the rest of these patients. I want her to sing and wrap her oversized heart around only me.

I am in my Mustang convertible while Carole King’s Tapestry cassette plays on a loop. I am 17 years old. I am weeping. My boyfriend is going to college and every single song was written for me. I Feel the Earth Move, So Far Away, Home Again, Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow, Where You Lead, Beautiful. My boyfriend makes several stops to say goodbye to friends while I wait for him in the passenger seat, disconsolate. He gets back in the car and gives me an inscribed locket I will wear until the picture inside is all rubbed out and he breaks my heart years later.

I am lost. I am 18 years old and without a sense of direction. I am listening to Van Morrison’s Moondance album. I am driving my car from Connecticut to New York and it is midnight. I finally find a commercial area where it feels safe enough to get out of the car and make a phone call. I call my father from a  pay phone. I beg him to rescue me. He tells me to find my way home and that it will be good for me. I get back in my car and blast “Caravan.” I circle who knows how much of the tri-state area before I pull into my parents’ driveway sometime after 2 am. I have found my way home.

I am standing amongst piles of boxes in my apartment in Brooklyn waiting for movers. I am 23 years old. The only thing not yet packed is my stereo. I am listening to Nanci Griffith CDs for hours as the movers have forgotten me. By the time they pick me up, I am distraught, fearing NYC condo regulations will forbid me from the late move and I will be temporarily homeless. Two men load up the packaged belongings comprising my life and offer me a ride uptown. I sit in the front seat of the movers’ truck as we drive up the FDR to my new home on East 81st. I lean my head against the window, listening to Nanci Griffith on my walkman, equally terrified and excited about this move. I dislike change even though this is a good one. My parents are waiting for me and it is all ok.

I am getting married. I am dancing with my husband to Ben Taylor’s version of The Beatles’ I Will. We are alone on the dance floor, moving in choreographed rhythm thanks to Ernesto of Arthur Murray’s East 86th Street studio. I can see him counting beats in his head as he leads me. We later break loose to The Emotions’ Best of My Love. We don’t yet know that both songs will feature prominently at the bar mitzvah of our first son.

I am in my apartment on East 75th Street. I am nearing the end of my 20s. I am pregnant with my first child. I am working from home for the day, listening to Counting Crows’ This Desert Life. My belly tightens and my son kicks and flutters every time this album plays. He has good taste. I know I will love him.

I am rocking in a glider in the bedroom of my baby boy. He is sleeping on my chest and I think I might never move. I sing him every song I know and love. It goes like this every night. Sweet Baby James, The Way You Look Tonight, Annie’s Song, An American Tune. I sing him Moonshadow and deposit him back into his crib. He tucks his legs beneath him, looks briefly at me, and goes back to sleep.

I am at the obstetrician’s office. I am alone. I am 7 weeks pregnant. My husband is traveling for business. For days I have had a premonition that my doctor will tell me he cannot find a heartbeat. The doctor squeezes jelly over my belly and after several minutes of searching, says “Lisa, I’m sorry. There’s no heartbeat.” I am even sorrier. Sorry to be right. Sorry to lose a baby I already loved. Sorry. I listen to Eva Cassidy’s cover of Fields of Gold over and over, weeping until I tell myself I have punished myself enough and I turn it off.

I am again rocking in a glider but I am in a new room in a new house beside two new babies to love. I sing them the same songs I sang to my first baby. I sing them Moonshadow. I put them into the same crib so they know each other’s presence.

It is my son’s 10th birthday. I am listening to the Circle Game. I cannot believe I am at the second verse. I do not know where the time has gone. I know I will be at the third verse in six short years. I am dragging my feet to slow the circles down, Joni Mitchell.

It is my birthday. 10,000 Maniacs’ These are the Days is playing on my desktop. We have just returned from dinner with my family and I am making my husband and sons dance with me in the kitchen. I will do this every year as long as they will. I turn up the music as high as it will go and watch my family in the reflection of the windows in my kitchen. They indulge me because it’s my birthday but I hope there is enough time in the song for them to feel how much music can lift you, how it can intoxicate you, how its joy is utterly contagious, how necessary it is to be in love with music: to let it infuse your heart, your mind, your soul. To let it literally play the soundtrack to your life.

The Things We Almost Didn’t Say

18 Dec

IMG_4612

I had a fight with my husband.

We don’t argue often and when we do, it always seems to be about the same things. Sometimes you wait for people to change, but they don’t. Not really.

And sometimes you remember why you fell in love with them to begin with.

What we fought about is not important; the outcome is. For the first time, literally ever, my husband wrote me a love letter. It is, without question, and aside from my children, the most beautiful gift he has ever given me. I have read it and reread it over and over and over. It makes me feel like a teenager. It makes me feel like the luckiest woman in the world to be married to this man. It makes me so grateful to know that I have decades ahead to spend with him.

Arguments are not fun. But sometimes, they are necessary. Quiet conversations about disappointment don’t always pan out. And let’s be honest, I am not a really “quiet conversation” kind of girl anyway. I am passionate and loving and very much a woman. I am also stubborn and impatient and very much a woman. Incredibly, he loves all of that in me. I don’t but he does. That is love.

When you start your life with someone, you don’t really know how it will turn out. You don’t know what kind of father, husband, friend, supporter they will be when you decide to legally bind yourself to them until you die. People evolve, life happens. I am so grateful that, as our life happens, we are still evolving together.

Today is his birthday. He does not want to go out for a nice dinner. He wants to bring home take out food so he has more time to spend with his sons. He is quite a man.

I hope he continues to say the things he almost did not. I don’t want to miss a thing.