The Blessings of Today


Yesterday I watched the live stream of the funeral of an eighteen-year old boy named Ezra Schwartz, son of Ari and Ruth Schwartz. Ezra was studying in Israel for the year and was returning from working on beautifying a natural reserve dedicated to three teens kidnapped and killed by terrorists last year, when a terrorist gunned him down. It’s a tragedy that hits very close to home because I too have an eighteen-year old son who spent three months in Israel last spring. Additionally, I was born and raised in a community only twenty minutes from Ezra’s and I have spent time in Ezra’s community which in so many ways is a replica of the community in which I currently live.

During the funeral, some of the eulogists touched on the milestone events that Ezra’s parents will miss, the wedding that Ezra will never have, the family that he will never father. There are no words for how gut wrenching it was to hear those speakers.

Last night my eighteen year old came home from college after being away for three months and today we spent much of the day together and as the day wore on, I found myself thinking, with an ache in my heart, of all the things Ruth Schwartz will miss; not the big things like weddings and births but just the simple delight of being reunited with an eighteen year old son.

She will miss the unique joy of an eighteen-year old boy, as I have for the last three months. I missed the evolution of my son’s facial hair of which he is so proud, brought to us courtesy of No-Shave November, the sort of facial hair, which more closely resembles dirt than it does a beard. I have missed finding empty drinking glasses all over the house because each time an eighteen-year old boy is thirsty, he takes out a fresh glass and leaves it precisely where his thirst has been slaked. I have missed the dirty clothes squirrelled in a corner of the room, oh so close to the hamper, but just NOT in it.

I missed the bald faced statements that epitomize this arrogantly sure, yet fiercely uncertain time of life when one day they know exactly what they are about and the next day they have not a clue. I missed the “on demand” feedings of a young body that needs to be fuelled often and copiously. I missed the daily comings and goings; the breezing in and out of the house with, “I’m meeting X here and Y there.” I missed looking across the table and feeling love wash over me for this creature solidly caught somewhere between a boy and a man.

And because in my son’s temporary and short-term absence, I missed all these things, I know that Ruth Schwartz does as well and from one mother to another- I can only say how deeply sorry I am for her pain. On this Thanksgiving eve I am as grateful as I’ve always been for all the blessings of life, but this year I will count my blessings more carefully and hold them more tightly.

If this tragedy teaches us anything, it is, that all any of us really have is today.







Thank You, Thank You, Thank You

Screen Shot 2015-10-20 at 9.40.27 PMI’m not going to mince words; it makes me irrationally joyful to get birthday greetings via Facebook.

As far as I can tell there are at least five categories of birthday greetings/greeters on Facebook. The first birthday salutation, which I call the “bare basics birthday greeting”  is the most rudimentary of the lot. It is a simple and unvarnished, “Happy Birthday.” It’s almost transferable in its anonymity except for the fact that it’s written on your wall, on your birthday. It doesn’t take a tremendous amount of thought, but it’s still lovely that someone took a moment out of his/her day to say happy birthday to you.

The next level of greeting is, “Happy Birthday, Helene (substitute your name here).” This type of post is a step up from the bare basics birthday greeting because the use of your name clearly indicates that this greeter has definitely thought about you as they had to figure out your name before posting.

Next up is what we’ll call the “additional sentence” poster. These posts say, “Happy birthday (your name)” and then an additional sentence follows that salutation. The follow-up sentence generally says, “Have a nice day.” or “Have a great day.” or “I hope it’s a good one.” Now these posters deserve a bit more praise than category one and two posters because they have gone the extra mile in wishing upon you not only a happy birthday but also a great or happy day.

As an aside, I think this is the perfect spot to mention a subcategory of the “additional sentence” poster, those who wish you a “Happy, happy birthday or just “Happy day” or Happy, happy, happy.” It seems to me that these posters also deserve a tad more credit because they took the time to wish you that extra modicum of happiness.

At the top of the birthday greeter’s pyramid are those of your friends who mention something that is personal to you, post a picture with you in it, mention that they love you or use an exclamation point or any other punctuation in their post. I call these posters the “whole enchilada” posters.

Let’s not even get to the etiquette of how to appropriately respond to Facebook birthday greetings. My 18-year-old son says there is a simple rule, everyone or no one. In my case if you have jumped the gun and begun the day by liking the first few posts individually, you can really get yourself into heaps of trouble because when the greetings start pouring in you just can’t continue “liking” them all.

So my answer is a large thank you to everyone because I truly, truly loved each and every greeting. From the bare basics posters to the whole enchilada posters-I love you all and appreciate your good wishes.

Oh, and one more thing, if you forgot to post, no worries, there’s always next year.

The Next Chapter


This weekend we dropped number two son off at college. This is not my first rodeo so I was somewhat prepared for the flood of emotion that comes with this process. Despite the fact that I’ve been feeling weepy for the last week or two, the actual separation went surprisingly well, even though I did feel that familiar lump rise in my throat as we watched him walk away.

If we moms had to explain to our kids why we get misty-eyed, we’d say, or as I can only speak for myself, I’d say:

My heart is so full of love for you that it aches like a physical pain and it’s that almost unbearable fullness that brings tears to my eyes.

I will miss you and almost everything about you, your sense of humor, your long, rambling convoluted diatribes, even your closed bedroom door. But it’s not just you I’ll miss, it’s the light and life you brought into this home and your friends who also became dear to me over the years.

I will miss the way we were. Things will change between us now. We will always be mother and son but I will become an increasingly less important person to you, as it should be.

I will worry about you because I desperately don’t want you to ever feel lost or alone but I am certain that you will experience those “lost and alone” days. Everyone has them. Thinking about the times that you will not be okay and the fact that I can’t make you okay makes me terribly sad.

I am not worried that you will not succeed. In fact, it’s just the opposite. I have no doubt that you will succeed and that success will lead you further from me. Again, it is as it should be, but sad, nonetheless.

That moment when you walked away from us, we went one way and you went the other. You walked into a bright new chapter of your life where the possibilities are almost endless. I was walking away from a piece of my heart and the poignancy of that moment is not lost on me.

I know that we will all soon adjust and I will be able to see this more clearly as a beginning for both of us and not as an end and, as we drive away I look back and hope that I’ve done most things right or right enough, that you make wise choices and that fortune goes your way more often than not.

What I Wish I Had Known


With high school in the rear view mirror, my middle son prepares to embark on a three month pre-graduation trip, and as he gets set to fly the coop, here are five things I wish I had known as I held that six and half pound bundle in my arms eighteen years ago:

1) The child they hand you in the hospital is not a blank slate.
Not by a long shot. That infant you take home has all the trappings and qualities of the adult he will one day become. You cannot make them in your own image. My children were uniquely themselves, in a way I couldn’t even fathom, on the day they were born. All you can do is help them become their best selves and embrace them as they are.

2) This parenting gig is not a sprint, it is, most definitely, a marathon.
You are going to be parenting for a long, long time. If you enjoy it, it’s a journey and if you detest it, it’s a very long haul but either way you need to preserve your stamina and your children’s stamina, so don’t talk to your first grader about college and don’t worry about it either. Believe me, you’ll be jumping off that bridge sooner than you think.

3) It’s hard to screw this up. By the time I had my kids the word “parent” (to parent) had morphed into a verb. We were all “parenting” rather than just being parents. When I was growing up, “parent” was solidly a noun, as in what you become when you raise a child. And then it got so complicated with attachment parenting, helicopter parenting, no-rescue parenting. The battles raged on about breast versus bottle, co-sleeping versus not, potty issues, working versus stay at home parent issues. There was so much external noise that I almost missed the inner voice, the one that really mattered, the one that whispered, “He’s yours and you know what’s right for him.” Listen to your gut.

4) Define the qualities that are most important to you. It’s easier to look backward than forward. Try looking forward and thinking about the qualities you want the eighteen-year old version of your baby to possess. These qualities will be different for everyone, so try not to judge others. Some people feel that learning a musical instrument is critical, and others place a premium on sports or religion. Don’t try to convince someone else that your ideas are the only ones or the best ones. If something is important to you, insist that your child puts quality effort into it.

5) It takes a village or at least a few other mothers. In each of my children’s lives, I’ve been truly blessed with fellow moms who have literally saved me. From my first bout with post natal depression to the strangling fatigue of sleepless nights-I couldn’t have done this alone. With my first child, we moms pretended that the playgroup we organized when they were three weeks old, was for the babies, even as we lay them drooling on the floor barely able to hold up their heads. At the end of the day, that group was about the moms more than the kids. You need a lifeline, reach for it and you will be enriched beyond measure.

The New Normal


My son forwarded an email to me the other day. It read,

“Dear Andrew and Roommate,

Congratulations, your applications for rental have been approved.  Thank you for choosing XXX for your new home!”

Your new home address is….”

Could the email be any clearer, putting into words what we already understood to be true? Our eldest son, soon to be a college graduate is moving on, not in a temporary, “I’ll be home for the summer” kind of way but in an “I no longer live in your house, and if all goes well, never will again,” kind of way. He’s moving to a new city in a new state to do exciting things with his life and this development, while joyful and thrilling is also a bit heart-stopping for me.


It is not startling because our son is not ready to make his world debut. He is. He is as prepared for this transition as any young man his age can be. More prepared than many, I would even say. Often the most responsible person in the room, he is THAT kid, the one who at sixteen made copies of his teen tour itinerary for his group of friends before they set out on their journey. We moms laughingly reminisce that his friends had no worries as they fully expected Andrew to have copies available for everyone on the trip.

There is much written about the angst of sending your children off to college and indeed college is a huge step in a young adults first foray into independence but truth be told, when kids go off to college their home address is still your home address. Family vacations are planned around school breaks. Certainly college affords parents a break from daily hands-on parenting but in reality even though your children may be physically away from you they continue to be “all yours.” When someone asks a college student where he/she lives most will still give their parents’ address.

This post graduation move feels palpably different. It is different. This strikes me as a “Wonder Years” moment: a moment beyond which the new normal lies. The problem with all of these “milestone” moments is that while they happen bit by bit, they come upon you suddenly and leave you not knowing quite what to make of them.

When my son was barely bigger than a babe in arms we had a bedtime routine. I would place him in his crib and then I would sit in his rocking chair and I would prompt him, “Let’s talk about your day.” He would begin with, “I woke up this morning…” and often would get no further than that before he would digress and eventually chatter himself to sleep as I slipped away. As he got a little older, in a classic bedtime stalling tactic, he would beg, “Don’t go yet. Talk about my day.” He knew that I was a sucker for developing “communication skills” and his plea would always get me to stay at his bedside for just a little while longer.

I’m glad I stayed those extra moments. Perhaps he and I have always known that the hardest part of our relationship would be the letting go.

Public Enemy Number One-Not Me

About a month ago, with husband and kids in tow, I was returning to frigid New Jersey from balmy Palm Beach, Florida. I was already in a funk when a TSA agent pulled me out of an airport security line for “extra screening.” The agent pointed at me and said “palms up.” With my usual smooth eloquence I said, “huh” so the TSA agent repeated, “palms up,” at which point I complied and she swabbed my hands with some device and told me I needed to wait for the results before proceeding. It was neither humiliating nor terrifying but it was, and here’s the understatement of the decade, preposterous.


Security is a serious business. I understand that sometimes it can be inconvenient, intrusive and seemingly arbitrary and really I’m down for all that. In light of the fact that TSA doesn’t know me I thought I should let them know that when it comes to extra screening they are not only barking up the wrong tree when it comes to me, they are not even in the right forest.

Here are the top five reasons why TSA need never again swab my hands for traces of explosives.

5) As a child I cried and begged for a chemistry set because I thought that they looked like such fun but when I got one as a gift I cried all over again because that chemistry set was, without exception, the most disappointing gift I’d ever gotten. It was not even a little fun. You see chemistry has never been my ish, leading inexorably to the conclusion that my fate as a person incapable of making a bomb was sealed long ago. 

4) I am a fifty-year old woman whose perpetual state of being is drop-dead exhaustion. Removing my shoes in a security line while standing and at the same time getting my coat off, my electronics out of their cases and onto the conveyer belt and my pockets emptied with people breathing down my neck is the stuff of my nightmares. By the time I’ve done all that, I’m all in. Doing all of the above whilst simultaneously master minding criminal activity…for goodness sake, I can’t even remember where I packed the toothpaste.

3) I can’t even maintain a lie about my Starbucks alias (see previous blog posts). If I were up to no good would I be waltzing through security without breaking a sweat? When the Israeli security agents for El Al Airlines ask me if I packed my own suitcases, even though I did I get so nervous I feel like I’m going to vomit.

2) I travel with my children, the very children whom I’ve spent the last 22 years cherishing and nurturing. I take care of every last detail of their lives. From years of sleepless nights, loose braces, badly broken out skin to hellish school projects, I have poured body and soul into these children. I have given them my life’s blood and I can assure the TSA I am most certainly not building explosives and stewarding my children onto an airplane with those explosives. When I decide to take these kids out they will know it. There will be no ambiguity and there will be no trace of explosives on my fingers because I will be ripping their hearts out, as any self-respecting Jewish mother would do, not blowing them up on an airplane. Common sense, people, common sense!!!

1) To be perfectly honest, loud noises followed by puffs of smoke terrify me.

TSA, you have my admiration, respect and thanks but you can just go ahead and cross me off the list of people you need to worry about because, trust me; you’ve got bigger fish to fry.

I am not now, nor will I ever be #publicenemynumberoneorevennumbertwo.



bombeck writers workshop

To Blog or not to Blog

To those who think blogging is easy, I’m here to tell you it’s not.


In blogging, as in life, I try to live by the adage “know your audience.” It’s never my intention to hurt anyone’s feelings but trying to get it right makes writing a tougher gig than I thought it would be.

There was the hilarious post I wrote about airport security. After being stopped by security I listed several cogent reasons why the TSA need never pull me aside for extra screening because I promised that I had no intention of ever skyjacking a jet or blowing one up mid-flight. Unfortunately, five minutes before I went to hit the “publish” button on that particular post, Malaysian Airlines 370 went missing rendering my post perfectly inappropriate. I mean the whole situation was probably a tad worse for the passengers of 370 than for me but you have to admit the timing was awful.

Then, there was the blog post about the sixth grade state report and that one had me chuckling the whole time I was writing it. But when I showed it to the hubby who likes to ask me questions he already knows the answers to, maybe because he thinks I’ll have an easier time answering them, he asked, “Are you on the Board of Trustees of the school?”  “Yes.” “Do you think it’s appropriate to mock the teachers who are trying to teach your child?” “Well, I guess not.” And then, the sad realization that, crap, another blog post bites the dust.

The blog post burial ground is starting to look like a landfill in Staten Island without the seagulls.  Don’t be offended Staten Islanders. First there are the nascent ideas which I often get while driving or in the shower and those ideas are frequently brilliant. Yet as soon as my hair is dry or I reach my destination the kernel of brilliance has disappeared deep into the recesses of my fifty year old brain. There are the posts that tried to be funny and utterly failed, the ones that started off promisingly and two sentences in forgot where they were going and never found their way back.  Then there were those posts that even for an open person were a bit reminiscent of a gaping cesspool and were fortunately subject to the family veto for over sharing.


And, while we’re on the subject, there are the friends and family who periodically read over a blog post for me. Thank you, I adore your feedback and I love you but sometimes…The feedback often goes like this, “I would flesh that out…” You would?” I ask.  “What would you write?” “I don’t know but I would just…you know…beef it up a little bit.” Hmmmm. Or my middle son shrugging his shoulders, “just not that good mom.” “What would you do?” I ask plaintively  “Make it better,” he says helpfully. The hubby’s feedback is often my favorite because of it’s startling lack of nuance and complexity and he can’t be bothered with the flesh it out concept…his response is often just “NO.” It’s hard to misunderstand that comment.

And, then there are the critics. It’s amazing how easy it is to be cruel on the Internet.  I wrote a post that if I had to raise my eldest child again I’d be less of a jerk. Someone commented something to the effect of you certainly seem like a jerk or once a jerk always a jerk. Was that really necessary? I’m actually surprised that there haven’t been more of those types of comments but I do wonder why people bother posting nasty comments. Seems somewhat pointless.

So during the weeks when it seems that there is no post, rest assured blog fans there really is one and it’s quite clever and ingenious but alas it did not pass the smell test.

It’s making friends in the landfill.