Erin Writes...

Simchat Torah

2010-10-03T11:32:00.000-05:00

In Jewish life, we celebrate a string of holidays in the fall; Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, then Simchat Torah. Rosh Hashanah is our new year, and ten days later we observe Yom Kippur, together known as the High Holy Days, days marked by prayer and reflection, feasts and fasting. We remember those who lack food, and vow to live a better life in the new year. At Sukkot we move from the indoors of the sanctuary, to outdoor decorated huts where we celebrate the harvest, and remember our ancestors who lived in such huts as they wandered the desert. And at the end of this festival comes another, Simchat Torah, my favorite of them all.
Simchat means joy, and this holiday is about the joy of Torah. If you think of all the Jews of the world as a family, then our Torah is our most treasured heirloom. It has been passed down from generation to generation for thousands of years, and on this day we pass it on to our children, take it out, parade it around, and generally get a little crazy.
My youngest, my Chief Executive, is in kindergarten this year, so at Simchat Torah she and her other kindergarten friends observed their consecration, when we handed them small replicas of our treasured Torah, marking the beginning of their formal Jewish education.
Then came the fun part. At Simchat Torah we take out our Torahs and dance seven laps around the sanctuary. There's often wine involved, klezmer music, and a lot of spinning and hopping. After the fifth trip, we pause, and we gather all the children into the middle of a large gathering space, and all the adults form a circle around them. And in this circle we unroll our Torah scroll, a long roll of parchment paper, hand written in Hebrew text. As dozens of adults help to hold up the scroll surrounding the children, our rabbis become like grandparents pulling out a treasured family photo album, pointing out stories that get repeated every year, remembering ancestors long gone but ever and always part of the family. They walk around the unrolled scroll and point to specific events. "Here's where Abraham nearly sacrificed Isaac,... oh, and here are the Ten Commandments... building the Temple... oh! and right here is where we left Egypt and sang on the shores after crossing the Red Sea..."
Every year our head rabbi re-tells the story of this particular Torah. He stands up a bit on his toes and raises both eyebrows, his voice animated, so proud of this treasure of ours, and he tells the kids how members of our own congregation held quills and wrote some of the letters in our Torah, that their own labor and attention went into creating this special treasure of ours. This year he went on to explain that if one letter of our Torah were incomplete, we would consider it unkosher, and that if we give that much care and attention to the letters of a document, think how much more we care for each other. If one member of our community is hurt, we consider ourselves broken, and we do whatever we can to care for each other.
As the Torah remains unrolled, a member of the congregation then reads the last reading of the year, the last few verses of Deuteronomy, and dramatically, in the same breath, runs from one end to the next to read the first verse of Genesis, symbolizing that we are never done reading and studying this treasured scripture. As the Torah scroll is then rolled again, we go back to singing and dancing in two more loops around our sanctuary. My oldest daughter, in true Butterfly form, makes up her own moves, spinning and kicking with graceful arm swirls, less and less conscious of herself as we go. Dancing in loops evolves into general dancing and celebration, the Simchat Torah after-party. The crowd thins, but the die-hards stick around for Hebrew line dancing until they're too tired and thirsty to go on.
I love all of our fall holidays. At Rosh Hashanah we dip apples in honey and hope for a sweet new year. At Yom Kippur we take the food we wood have eaten ourselves and give it to those less fortunate. We alternate between festive meals at home with our families and reflective, thoughtful worship together. We spend weeks giving thanks for the most basic gifts of food and shelter. But at Simchat Torah it's like all of our reflection and joy culminates and we're so happy just to have our traditions and to pass them on to our children.
For my girls, I hope in all the celebration they left knowing that they are inheriting a beloved tradition, and that they are part of a community that cares for them, celebrates their milestones, loves to teach them, and would consider itself broken were they ever to find themselves in trouble or in need.
That they can grow up here, and even when they're teenagers, they can hang out with their friends, dancing and singing, and having a good time.
That our Torah is a treasured gift, to be treated with reverence, but also to be brought out and celebrated, paraded around and enjoyed.
But at the end of the day, on Simchat Torah, what I took away, what I hope they took home with them, is that being Jewish is a lot of fun.

The Skinny Jeans Committee

2010-10-03T10:37:00.000-05:00

Last year I bought some new jeans. A friend of mine complimented them, said they were very flattering, then thought a second, tilted her head, and said, "you, know, you might be a candidate for skinny jeans." I loved her word choice, and I couldn't help but picture the committee in charge of the approval process.

"Hello, so, you think you might be qualified for some skinny jeans?"
"Um, yes, I was told I might be up for consideration."
"Sure, well, you're qualified physically- you're definitely in that twelve year old boy build category, so we're OK there. However, I can see you're over forty, so we'll just need to go over a few questions before we finalize your case. First question...

Where do you typically wear jeans?
A. Daily, while doing my physically demanding outdoor job
B. At home while I'm making my homemade applesauce, tending to my organic garden, or leading the neighborhood kids in creative art projects.
C. Only on Fridays when it's allowed at work

"C. Definitely C."

"OK, can you describe your fashion sensibility? I'll give you a few options here...

A. Fitted yoga gear is really the best way to show off my sculpted, toned body.
B. I love what Ann Taylor is doing with beige this year.
C.Sometimes I check to see if my clothes match.
D. It's all about pushing the envelope, cutting edge, questioning convention ..."

"That would be B."

"Great. You're what we'd call qualified, but functioning at a remedial level. We'll just need to review some basic policies with you. Now, you understand that the jeans are not to be worn in combination with appliqued sweatshirts, or any tent-like garments?"

"Right."

"And it is expected that you wear your actual size, not two sizes too large. Also, this permit does not allow you to resurrect jeans from 1986 and use safety pins to tighten them down at the ankle."

"Oh, OK. Wait. Do you have a pen? I need to write down that part about wearing my actual size."

"Yes. So as long as they fit, they were manufactured within the last five years, it looks like you'll be OK. Now before we sign off, do you understand that this permit is only good for five years?"

"No, I didn't realize that. Do I apply for renewal after five years then?"

"No, these will actually be completely out of style in two years. However, due to your age, you're allowed to wear them up to five years. Enjoy your jeans."

I Hope You Know That This Will Go Down on Your Permanent Record

2010-09-24T21:34:00.000-05:00

My daughters' birthdays are happy occasions for all the obvious reasons; I love the family gatherings, the photos, decorated cupcakes and a mound of Disney-themed toys secured in industrial strength plastic wires. They always leave me a little sad too, though, because they remind me that I was not there for the most important birthday, the one where they were actually born. I can't tell them the story of that special day when they entered the world, because I know so little about it myself.

I had an especially hard time when my oldest, The Butterfly, turned five. I dreaded it. I had a sinking feeling that she was in for a rough year and there was nothing I could do about it. I felt like I needed to warn her or protect her somehow. Fortunately for my own sanity and perhaps hers, I had a moment of insight sitting in the bathtub the night before her birthday. I realized that my sadness and dread had nothing to do with the year ahead of her, and everything to do with the fact that the year I turned five happened to have been a pretty shitty year for my family. My parents divorced, we moved to a crappy little shack in a northern Minnesota town that makes Minneapolis look balmy and tropical, and we had a freak accident at home that landed me in the hospital for a month. Once past that psychological hurdle, I was able to get up the next morning and enjoy her special day, December snowstorm and all, knowing that my suffering had been very specific, and would certainly not be her fate.

Then again, this summer, I had a similar feeling when my youngest turned five. She was so excited about this birthday, so proud to be big enough for kindergarten in the fall, ready to leave baby stuff behind, strutting around tying her own shoes and swimming the front crawl like a little pro. I had conquered my feelings of "oh no your life is about to change forever" angst.... so why was I feeling all sad and ominous again?

You know how the first year in particular, and really the first several years are so pivotal, so crucially important as a parent because of all the ways your precious baby is growing and developing? The prenatal vitamins, nutrition, car safety, nurturing, touch, bonding, immunization, hearing Mommy's voice, hearing Daddy's voice, learning to trust, learning your native tongue... all forming the foundation of your child's development for years to come. They're the don't fuck this up years, am I right?

So when my children hit their fifth birthdays healthy and developing normally I should have been thrilled, high-fiving my pediatrician, and trying not to gloat in front of the other parents. Sure, nutrition and care safety and early reading skills and social skills and role modeling and not choking on pennies is all still super important. But we're past age five. We've made it this far. I should be ecstatic. Phew! Yay responsible parenthood! Right? So what's my big issue? Why the angst over turning 5?

Here's why. When was your earliest memory? Do you have a glimpse of an event from when you were three, maybe a fleeting vision of an afternoon at a park when you were four? Maybe a birthday gift, a smell or a name is in there, all fuzzy and nostalgic? But by the time you get to five you have actual, real memories. Your kindergarten teacher's name. The color of your bedroom, and how it bugged you that your younger sister got to stay up as late as you. The name of the kid you used to walk to school with (back in the day when the way you ensured a five year old was safe walking to school was to pair him up with a big mature first grader). You also remember your parents. You remember your dad's goofy sideburns and your mom's frosted hair, threats to TURN THIS CAR AROUND and watching Mary Tyler Moore and not getting why your parents thought it was so funny.

When the girls were babies my mistakes may have had awful potential consequences, but at least they weren't remembered. I could plop an eighteen month old in front of the TV and feel a little guilty for not doing something more stimulating, but she doesn't remember that now. Now it's for reals. Now they're remembering stuff. I try very hard to create special memories for them. We make pancakes on Sundays, sing together in the car, and of course we took tons of pictures and gave lots of hugs and "I'm so proud of you" 's on the first day of school. But I also yell. I have stood next to my car shouting "letsgoletsgoletsgo!!!" at the top of my lungs. I have walked out of stores with two little girls in tears because I would not let them have gum. And I have been boring. Responsible, structured, organized... boring. I do not make up songs to make picking up toys more fun. We do not have pajama days where we eat dessert first and make crazy art projects out of noodles. I do a lot of laundry and we take baths and go to swimming lessons and pick up toys.

And this is why their turning five is so scary for me. It's because all my actions are now going down on my permanent record. They're old enough to remember me. Not fleeting, fuzzy, iffy glimpses. Actual memories complete with what I wore, where we were, what I said, and how they felt. They'll remember disappoinments, humiliation, anger, and the routine and boredom that comes with having a mom who is, sadly, not Mary Poppins. I don't even worry about traumatic memories. I'm not worried that they'll end up in therapy trying to recover from neglect, violence, or true trauma. And I think if I do it for enough years in a row they'll remember homemade challah on Rosh Hashanah, driving them to monthly gatherings with our Ethiopian friends, and all the other little traditions. But I picture them getting together in college and saying "remember how mom used to freak out if one of us couldn't find our shoes, and she'd go on and on about that's why we should always put our shoes away?" I fear the little home videos forming in their minds right now will be terribly unflattering.
And there's no going back. They are forming memories as you read this. Years from now, when people ask them about their childhoods, their stories will start around the time they turned five, and could include any given day; any boring, routine, crabby, irratioal day.
Scary.

More on Miley Cyrus

2010-07-09T22:32:00.000-05:00

boom boom clap
boom boom clapdeclap
boom boom clap
boom boom clapdeclap
Here is something you can do, if you're 5 or 82...

These are the lyrics, this is the music, that has had me all in a twist. We are now the proud owners of our second Hannah Montana CD. While there's still a part of me that is cringing over my sweet little six year old, with her very prominent front tooth gap, lisping along to songs about boys, something occurred to me as I was lifting some sheets from the washer into the dryer the other night. I was thinking about my recent birthday, which made me think about my friend Laurie who will celebrate hers in a few days, and I remembered how we spent our time, back when we were eight years old and nearly inseparable.

We went to see Grease in a drive-in theater, and then when Laurie got the soundtrack, listened to it again and again and again (this is pre-VCR days!). I eventually got the record for my birthday too, and it was a prized possession. We knew every single word to every single song, and not just the ones that many years later became popular and got mixed into various medleys... I'm talking "Beauty School Dropout" and "Hopelessly Devoted to You." Every last word.

Do you remember the plot of this movie? Let's see... a boy and girl reunite at school after a summer fling (so far pretty squeaky clean), the girl meets up with a girl gang that smokes and pierces each other's ears in the bathroom, and the boy hangs out with a gang who is clearly up to no good, which you can tell because they wear black leather jackets and comb their hair a lot. The lead bad girl, Rizzo, says she "feels like a defective typewriter" because she skipped a period. There are lots of great songs and dancing, all very bee-boppy and malt-shoppy. And then there's Greased Lightning. You know... the song with the word "pussy" in it. They bleep it out when they show it on TV but it's in there. And the moral of the story? Well, the big happy ending comes when the innocent shy girl learns that she's really going to need to slut it up a bit if she's going to win and keep the attention of the young and skinny John Travolta. Once she realizes that and learns to dress and dance like she's 25, complete with dangling cigarette, everyone's happy and celebrates at the all-school carnival. Yay!

Now, you'd think that all that exposure to such harmful messages and images would have turned me into a girl gang member, a slut, or at least... a smoker! But the truth is, it did no such thing. I still love those songs, I own a copy of the movie, and I have great memories of laying on the floor, looking at the snapshots on the album cover with Laurie, singing along to every song, and trying to decipher some of the less appropriate lyrics. And yet, there's no way I'm pulling that movie out for my daughters to watch. Yet.

Why is that? Typically each generation becomes more liberal, more open and flexible than the one previous. But on some fronts I think it's the opposite. I watched Three's Company (you can find 80 kinds of inappropriate in one episode of that show), Grease, and Charlie's Angels. But I am so reluctant to let them view or listen to something that doesn't match up with what I want them to learn and be exposed to.

If you're starting to worry that I've gone all Amish, and our daughters are going to be uncool and sheltered, don't worry. Even though I fret over their hearing songs about boyfriends and watching TV shows where people call each other stupid, in my heart I know it's all a part of growing up. How can they learn to navigate a world of conflicting values and messages if they're never exposed to them? How can they learn that it's not cool to slap your friends if they don't see it happen on iCarly and have a chance to think about it? And how can they have great childhood memories if everything they're exposed to is manufactured, sanitized, and programmed to teach wholesome values? I may not be ready yet to get out the Grease DVD, but as I mentioned in my last post, they've seen School of Rock, and they're digging their new Hannah Montana CD.
Come to think of it, it may be time to get a hold of Linda Ronstadt's "Blue Bayou." Because when Laurie and I weren't serenading the beauty school dropout, we were singin the blues, every word, by heart...

I been cheated, been mistreated...
When will I...I... be loved
(duhgada duhgada duhgada duh....)

The Standard Rich and Famous Contract

2010-06-27T14:05:00.002-05:00

The outside world of girly pop culture infiltrated our home as soon as our oldest daughter could talk. We chose not to work too hard on fighting this, and eventually actively participated by buying Disney Princess, Hello Kitty, and eventually Barbie items ourselves. Our limits on what TV and movies were allowed had less to do with holding up certain moral standards or any kind of gender-neutral agenda, and much more to do with what we found to be too annoying and therefore intolerable to us. So we never did Barney, and watched a bare minimum of Dora (my apologies to her many fans- I'm all for bilingualism, just not for shouting all lines in an annoying, repetitive monotone). We're not big fans of the Fresh Beat Band, (but I would gladly see the Imagination Movers in concert, and actually kind of get a kick out of iCarly) and we tried to avoid Hannah Montana for as long as possible.

However, I think we've officially lost that battle too, and while I want to blame our mass media culture and the Disney powerhouse, the truth is, it's my own doing. It started when I bought our oldest daughter a HM CD for Hanukkah. She'd been talking about her incessantly, all her friends knew the songs, and I had to admit the music didn't bother me- it was the TV show with the dad in his bathrobe and creepy soul patch that bugged me. So it started with the music. But our dear daughter, who loves singing, dancing, and "rocking out", and who can do the "pop it lock it" dance routine by heart loves her Hannah Montana, and really really really really wanted to see the show too. So I acquiesced and, in addition to the CD from December, bought a DVD of a few achey-brakey episodes of the show.

Some people deal with these influences by forbidding them in their homes. I understand and actually really respect that approach. It draws a clear line between what you believe and value and what the rest of the world is into. I have chosen, instead, to go for the counter- influence. What do I mean? I mean I'm choosing not to fight with my daughters over Hannah Montana, because A) the MOMD thinks that's kind of fruitless, and mean to make our kids be the ones who are left out and A2) I have to admit he tends to be right about that sort of thing and B) when my mom wouldn't let me watch Charlie's Angels, I just watched it at my friend Laurie's house, and still bought the bubble gum cards and pretended to be Charlie's Angels with my friends whenever we got the chance (even though they always made me be Sabrina, because I wasn't blonde, and I didn't have long hair like Kelly, but my role always bothered me because everyone knows Sabrina's the smart one, not the pretty one). Instead, whenever they get enamored with something that makes my stomach turn a little bit, I introduce something else.

When they were in a brief High School Musical phase, I ordered them a DVD of "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" starring Mr. Donny Osmond. They actually loved that, learned all the songs, memorized the story and made their friends play it at school. This apparently went slightly awry when N's best friend T did not appreciate being told that his coat had to be dipped in blood and he would be sold to Egyptians. I also got them "the Sound of Music" and "Fiddler on the Roof" - obviously beautiful, classic, timeless musicals. Unfortunately I sort of forgot about the Nazis and violence against Jews in both movies, so found myself having to explain some painful themes. But we still love the singing and dancing!

So as an antidote to Miley Cyrus, the 14 year old who has boyfriends and a celebrity lifestyle, with plenty of snotty, sarcastic dialogue that gets big laughs, I picked them up "School of Rock" and "the Muppet Movie."

"School of Rock" rocks. I love Jack Black and his encyclopedic music knowledge, and deep reverence for rock stars and rock music. The music is funny and watchable, and the special features has a great scene with Jack Black and Miranda Cosgrove doing a kick-butt rhymy-clappy game that I think we'll need to re-watch and learn ourselves. N, our youngest, looked wide-eyed at one point and said "Mommy, that teacher is telling them not to follow the rules!" I sort of felt my dad would have been proud of me, exposing my kids to a tiny dose of anti-authoritian stick-it-to-da-man-ism.

Which brings me to "the Muppet Movie." It's one of the all-time greatest movies made for kids but entirely watchable and re-watchable for adults. It features cameos by some of the all-time greats of comedy and theater- Steve Martin, Milton Berle, Bob Hope, Elliott Gould, Richard Pryor, Madeline Kahn, Mel Brooks, Dom DeLouise, and many others.

At the end of the movie, Kermit and all his friends finally arrive in Hollywood, and they approach the great Hollywood director, played by none other than Orson Wells. He smokes a cigar, looks huge and intimidating, and after Kermit timidly explains where they've come from and what they seek, he buzzes his secretary and says one of my favorite lines... "bring my friends the standard Rich and Famous Contract..."

I guess this is why I love these classics, and why I foist them on my children. Because I want to rock out with Jack Black, I love seeing Donny singing that heartbreaking ballad in prison, and I share Kermie's dream. I'd like to leave the swamp, go to some director behind a desk, and request the standard Rich and Famous contract, then put on a big musical number featuring rainbows and a band. Or... I could just write this blog, develop a giant following, become beloved by millions (or at least dozens?), create demand for a lucrative book deal, ... I may be getting ahead of myself. Besides, if I got rich and famous I might have to wear a blond wig, rendering me completely unrecognizeable, and create an alter ego with a rhyming name, right?

Curious... what do you consider to the all-time classics, the shows, movies and music that should be required viewing for today's kids?

Pounding the Pavement

2010-06-19T22:49:00.000-05:00

I'm a terrible fundraiser. Even for the best cause in the world I have trouble asking people for money. Perhaps it's the midwesterner in me. Perhaps it's just a skill I lack. But despite my lack of ability in this area, in May I joined several friends, all adoptive parents of Ethiopian children, in a walk to raise money for Parkinson's disease. One of the moms made matching purple tshirts that read "Pounding the Pavement for Parkinson's." We were a visible group with about a dozen kids, mostly Ethiopian, ranging from around four to twelve years old, all in our purple shirts, walking in a short spin around a playground before we settled in to eat bagels, listen to music, and enjoy the gathering. All of our kids clamored to the mic at the center of the event when our group won 2nd place for best sign at the event.
So when my oldest asked why were doing all this, it became the day that I explained to my daughters that our friend, one of the mothers in this group, has Parkinson's disease.
"Yeah, but why are we walking? Why are we all wearing these shirts?"
"Ummm, well... We're all here to give money to those people at those tables. They're going to use the money to try to make our friend better."
"OK, but why are we walking?"
"We're walking because that's something we can do together. See all these people with the stickers on their shirts with someone's name on them? Everyone here has someone they care about who has Parkinson's. So it's nice to be around other people who have someone they want to get better too. We have our friend, and we also have our aunt J."
"Oh, OK."
I got home that day, told my husband about the shirts, the prize for our sign, what it meant for our group to be together, then reminded him I'd be away for a few hours the following Sunday to join a friend for a walk for Cystic Fibrosis. My friend lost a cousin to the disease and is passionate about supporting research and treatment. We laughed a little bit about the spring season of walks, and even joked that if we did a walk for every disease that one of our friends and family has, we'd be busy every weekend.
I know, sounds really crass, but the truth of that kind of hit me. We do not have to extend very far at all into our circle of immediate family and close friends to find multiple sclerosis, Parkinson's, cancer, lupus, diabetes, mental illnesses, and heart disease.

I don't really know how to process all of this. I actively ward off disease by doing the things I've been taught my whole life; not smoking, eating fairly healthy food, getting regular checkups, you know, all the required stuff. But these kinds of diseases defy all of that prevention and sneak up on perfectly health law-abiding citizens. The fact that I can't keep them from happening to me to or to people I love messes wtih my sense of how things ought to be.

So what do I do with that? How do I explain to my kids that people we love have terrible diseases that are going to get worse instead of better, through no fault of their own? How can I reassure them nothing will happen to me, and that I'll be healthy and able to take care of them forever? How do I not lose sleep fretting over who could be next, and with what?

I think the answer is that there is not much to be done.
Eat your vegetables and get your exercise.
Educate yourself and go to the doctor every now and then.
Keep your friends company, adn when someone gets sick, bring over a hotdish every now and then.
Raise funds or at least throw in what you can spare.
And then you get together with your friends, put on your matching purple t-shirts, and you pound the pavement.

Erin's Brain- a Short Tour

2010-04-29T23:03:00.000-05:00

Thoughts in January...
I really need to work on my career. It's time to start networking, joining some professional organizations, maybe even start updating my resume. If I just spent an hour at home, a couple nights a week, that wouldn't be so bad.

February...
I have got to find a publisher for my book. It's been sitting there for two years. Friends reviewed it, everyone was so encouraging. People keep asking what I'm going to do with it. I should really get that going before Oprah retires altogether...

March
It's definitely time to start exercising. I'm headed for arthritis or a stroke if I just sit in front of a computer all day. I'm not running at 5 am. Can't do it right after work and sacrifice dinner time with the family. Ditto for right after dinner, I'm too full then. I could do it at night. What's to stop me from getting on the treadmill after the girls are in bed? I know! I'll only DVR shows I really want to watch on the basement TV, so I have to watch from the treadmill. If I do just three nights a week, that's still better than my current zero...

Late March
I keep saying we should be eating better, but then I don't cook anything and we eat at Chili's twice a week. Gross. Time to get out the cookbooks. I know! I'll bring the girls grocery shopping, and teach them to love the colorful variety of the produce department, let them help me cook more.

Later in March
Woohoo! I've watched half a season of Grey's Anatomy from the treadmill. I'm awesome. Everyone should do this...

April 1
I really need to start gardening this year. It's time to get off the Neighborhood's Most Unsightly Yard List. Just a little hedge-trimming, some cute gardening gloves for the kids... how hard can it be?

Very late March
Hmmm... seems like I'm spending a lot of time reading other people's blogs and feeling the need to comment everywhere on everything... it's almost like I've got an opinion on every topic people are talking about... it's almost like I should really be writing my own blog... wait a minute. I have my own blog. Perhaps if I were to write in it more often... If I updated once a week I'll bet I could really get this up and running....

April...
then if I got my blog really running, I could find someone to publish my book...

A little later in April...
You know what would be cool? A block party. We've lived here for six years, and I can't remember my next door neighbors' names. On Desperate Housewives everyone knows everyone... not that I want someone on the block to die every year, but still... Maybe if I put a friendly little postcard in everyone's mailbox, some people would think it's a cool idea and help me plan it. It wouldn't really be that much work, would it?

May
Why am I running on the treadmill all the time? We only get five months of decent weather a year. I should be enjoying it outside. I could run alongside the girls while they ride their bikes. I wonder if they're ready to take off their training wheels. Maybe I should research how to teach kids how to ride a two-wheeler... I'll bet there's a parenting blog out there with that kind of stuff...

June
I am so overwhelmed. There's never enough time in the day. I need to stop working so hard, starting all these projects. Why do I always have to be working on some big goal? Maybe at night I should just punch out, read a book... what's wrong with some TV? I don't have to keep in touch with everyone I've ever met...

July
Is it too soon to buy school supplies? I wonder if the PTA is really like it always is on TV, with all the snooty moms running crazy fundraisers, making everyone feel inferior? Why hasn't the school sent out any back to school information? How are we going to meet the teachers? What if they don't understand how bright the girls really are?

Food Revolution

2010-04-26T21:28:00.000-05:00

Don't worry. The MOMD knows that Jamie Oliver is my boyfriend. I'm enamored all over again because he is on a mission to get people (and schools!) feeding their kids real food with real nutrients. I'm a little embarrassed about being such a disciple, but it's my parents' fault, really.

When my little brother and I used to take the Grehound from St. Paul to Duluth, MN, returning from visits with our dad, he would send us with snacks. No, not fruit roll-ups. Those hadn't been invented yet. Not Cheetos. No, our snacks were little baggies of sliced green peppers and carrots, and perhaps some whole wheat crackers and cheese.

At home it wasn't much better. There was no pop (that's Minnesota for "soda"), not an Oreo in sight, and even our macaroni and cheese was made of macaroni and... cheese, which Mom shredded using one of those rectangular shredders with four different ways to mutilate your knuckles.
So my brother and I suffered. We never got to eat anything that danced on TV, had a colorful box or a theme song of its own, and had to hang out at the neighbors' to score a popsicle or some Chef Boyardee.

And you know what? They were right. Jamie is right. Excessive sugar, salt and fat makes you crave sugar, salt and fat. Kids deserve food cooked at home. And I'm trying. Yes, they recognize our family at Chili's, and I'm personally a big fan of Noodles, Inc. Many days I just can't seem to get it together to assemble a few ingredients, and the family eats Greasy Crap From NoodlesChipotleChilisPapaMurphysWendys more often than I'd like to admit.

But tonight I was proud. Tonight we had Pasta Dish Made From Random Items I've Been Meaning to Use Up (others might call it pasta primavera. Ingredients: Some swirly shaped pasta, asparagus, sliced shallots, cubes of 2 leftover chicken breasts, and sauce made of olive oil, flour, milk, cheddar, and Romano cheeses). It was tasty. It had something with protein and something green in it.

Check out the Food Revolution. He's onto something.

Home Team

2009-08-10T20:07:00.000-05:00

As it turns out, both of my kids appear to be destined for the varsity team. In something. I have spent the summer watching their athletic abilities sprout, and I am fascinated. They didn't get them from me. That's the thing with adoption. When you adopt your kids, you don't literally, physically pass on traits to them (duh). When I was a kid, my dad liked to pinpoint where everything about me came from. Any undesirable trait he declared accusingly "you get that from your mother." Conversely, he took personal genetic credit for anything about me that he was proud of. I count my kids fortunate that I can't play that game.

So why am I so fascinated and proud as I watch them this summer, marveling and commenting at every sprint, every game of catch or leap into the pool? The Butterly, my oldest, has such arm strength that she can swing from a bar, hooking her legs at the top, hanging upside down, re-positioning her arms and swinging back and forth for a half hour without a break. She effortlessly supports her own weight, swings and bends and flips, balancing with every move. She is built like a gymnast- short, sturdy, with strong arms and a fast run. I'm pretty sure she's the Ethiopian Mary Lou Retton. She is an artist though, lost in her own thoughts, and will swing from those bars or make up dances, doing handstands and cartwheels to the tune of whatever it is she hears in her head.
The Chief Conservation and Housework Advisor, who is four and proud of it, runs like a runner, elbows in, chest forward, knees up. The glee on her face when she learned to jump into a pool and bob to the surface on her own was beyond happiness, beyond fun, beyond pride. She played catch with some friends of ours, firmly catching and throwing a soccer ball with focus not normal for her age. She can dribble a basketball. She has the obsessiveness and determination of athletes, repeating the same motion again and again until she has mastered it, beaming when she is satisfied with the results.

I wasn't like that. Perhaps my body's instruction manual was lost in the mail. I was tall and thin. I remember hearing the word "gangly" in reference to my physique. I was afraid to hang upside down from the monkey bars because I might fall. I wasn't a fast runner and took a long time to learn to ride a bike. My basketball playing could best be described as "flailing about." This is how I know I had nothing to do with their abilities, and it's why I have no place taking such personal pride in what they can do. And yet I do. As if I had been their personal coach. As if I had personally injected each of them with the special abilities they possess. How cool is it that a child of mine has calluses on her hands from the monkey bars, can run for blocks, or according to her own reports, kick the soccer ball farther than anyone else?

One of the cool things about being a mom is that I get to take pride in my kids' accomplishments and talents, whether I really deserve to or not. When your kids are biologically yours, you never really know what traits came from you or what is just "theirs." I know I didn't literally, physically give my kids any of their abilities. But I still get to watch them come out, and I still get to watch that look on their faces when they're doing something they're really good at. And that's pretty damn cool.

Preserving the Language

2009-04-19T18:56:00.000-05:00

I've decided on names for my kids, you know, so I can refer to them all I want, but preserve their privacy. My oldest, my five year old daughter, is the Butterfly, as she is known to flit from activity to activity, friend to friend. I considered Senior VP, Barbie and Mermaid division, since all things girly; princesses, fairies, mermaids, rainbows, and hearts are her passion in life.

My youngest, age 3, is our Chief Conservation and Housework Advisor, the CCHA . She does not allow anyone to leave a room with the lights on, and would rather help me clean a toilet than watch cartoons with her sister.

I'm not the kind of parent who longs for my children to return to babyhood, reluctant to allow them to grow up. I am enjoying them more and more as they get older, and I welcome every little task that they learn to do for themselves. So I've been surprised lately to be sad as I notice their speech becoming more clear, more sophisticated, old mispronunciations and grammatical mistakes disappearing as the weeks go on. Why would I be sad about this? Why would I mourn this obvious sign that they're growing up and learning to express themselves?

I certainly didn't mourn the loss of diapers, bottles, or bouncy seats. I was thrilled this year to give up the 80-point restraint carseats for simple boosters. What's going away that has me so down?

It's a language, or at least a dialect- a unique version of English with alternative vocabulary and pronunciation, spoken only in the small, distinct region of my own home. And it's dying out. The tiny tribe that calls Miss Marie Miss Arie, and special things " 'pecial keengs" is rapidly being assimilated into the larger, more influential culture around it. So, while I have no interest in blogs or magazine articles where parents share all the darndest things their kids say, I feel the need to document this unique dialect before it disappears altogether.

Long ago we lost 'pecial keengs and Miss Arie. We lost Aunt Lori being Lorlie, and yogurt as logurt. Strawberries are no longer dawbellies, and bala-loons are just balloons now. The optus has become octopus and the ipsy pie-doo is a full-blown itsy bitsy spider. Dappa was once grandpa, and the name Omi, which then became Yomi, then Nomi, is now Naomi.

Some remnants, thankfully, remain. My youngest will hold my chin and say "I want to tell you a question." Ethiopia is pronouced Epiopia, or Efiopia. And neither child, with their vocabularies, words in other languages, and full sentences, can pronounce the word "use." The Butterfly says "nooze" as in "Can I nooze that?" or "I was noozing that!" The CCHA says "ooze." The word "regular" came out "reg-le-ar" just today. "Th" sounds still elude them both, so thankfully they say "fank you" and "firty" (for thirty) or "togever."

But these little touches are disappearing fast. Soon they'll be talking like reglear people, blending into the general population, hardly distinct in their speech. Fankfully, they continue to ooze some 'pecial words, for at least a little while.

Twenty Five Things

2009-02-07T11:13:00.000-06:00

Following in the footsteps of my friend Erica, Danny Evans of Dad Gone Mad, and probably a ton of other people who were in on this long before I clued in, here are 25 random things about me.

1. I have a deep and abiding love for good stand-up comedy and good comic writing. I love when smart and funny come together. My faves? Dave Barry, the late George Carlin, Jon Stewart, Steve Martin, Maria Bamford, Lewis Black

2. Even better is when comedy and music are combined. If you can be funny and set it to music, I'm in love. Steve Martin, Monty Python, Tom Lehrer, the Smothers Brothers, any musical Simpsons episode, a Mighty Wind, Little Shop of Horrors... you get the picture.

3. My brother and I are both left-handed. I get very excited when I see other people, especially famous people, who are left-handed. Check out Jon Stewart, Tom Cruise, Martin Sheen. I'm pretty sure it's a sign of creative genius.

4. I really, honestly, sincerely like my in-laws and enjoy spending time with them. My MIL rocks.

5. There are some things that are wildly popular, even addictive for others that I just can't get into. Among them... any form of Coke, Pepsi or Mountain Dew, and any reality TV show, especially those based on talent contests, feats of strength and crazy stunts, strangers living together and weeding each other out.

6. I am in the process of converting to Judaism. It has been a long journey, but joining the Tribe feels like home, and I do love my matza and kugel.

7. I wear a Chai around my neck, the Hebrew word for Life. The necklace was a childhood gift from my Bubbi (grandmother). I put it on, before even considering converting, when I first learned my brother would be deployed to Iraq, about 2 1/2 years ago. I'll consider taking it off when I know he's home safe, and for good.

8. Although my house is kind of a mess right now, and is always a work in progress, I find messy, cluttered surroundings very stressful. As a kid, before I knew how to alphabetize, I used to pull the books off my shelf and arrange them in order of size. This seemed to relax me.

9. I have spent time in the following of our Great States: Montana, California, Texas, North Dakota, but only becasue my car broke down, Illinois, Iowa, Missouri, Maine, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Massachusetts, Wisconsin. I'm sure I'm forgetting some.

10. I dated the MOMD for 6 weeks before he proposed and I accepted. In September 2009, we'll celebrate 10 years of marriage, 10 years plus 10 months of knowing each other. Sometimes when you know, you know.

11. I hated being single. For someone who had always prided myself on being really independent and capable, I had a really hard time being alone in my 20's.

12. Being a mom to my two daughters is amazing, and holding them and kissing their little heads makes me want to melt. And yet right now, I am in my room hiding from them because I can't think straight with them hanging all over wanting to be around me all the time.

13. I have been writing, in one form or another, since I was six years old. I was well into my 20's before I grasped that I was good at it.

14. I have written a book called You Are Ethiopian Now, a memoir of my experiences with infertility and adopting two little girls from Ethiopia. I'm working on getting it published.

15. A friend pointed out to me recently that I seem like I should have been an English major in college. I didn't major in English or anything else that I did especially well because in my warped little mind, that was like cheating. If it's not hard for you, then your succes doesn't count.

16. I have been in these fine countries on our little planet: Canada, France, Germany, Switzerland, Luxembourg, Austria, Ireland, India, Malaysia, and Ethiopia. I'm sure I'm not forgetting any. How could you forget an entire country?

17. I'm a bit of a grammar and punctuation snob.

18. I don't think I could limit myself to one favorite food. I love all baked goods- cookies, cakes, muffins, good bread, but also strong flavored and spicy foods like Indian, Ethiopian, Thai, anything with peanuts or pineapple, cilantro, or lime in it. I love salmon, high quality chocolate, pasta, bread pudding, and most desserts.

19. I am not a fan of fat-free, sugar-free anything (unless, like an orange, it's supposed to be like that), never got on the low carb bandwagon, and I prefer butter over margarine.

20. Due to the above, as well as family history, despite my pretty normal height and weight, I am likely a heart attack waiting to happen.

21. I used to be a runner, but I can't call myself one anymore.

22. I love naps.

23. About the biology thing... My dad was sick when I was growing up, and I had a lot of questions about that. He always explained why he had to take this med or that med, and why he couldn't eat certain foods, and how your kidneys are supposed to work. I think that was the birth of my fascination with the human body and its workings, and I did love studying all about cells, the chemistry of how food is broken down, how our muscles are attached and how chemicals fire around in our brains. I can be a bit of a science and nutrition geek. I try to keep this to myself, you know, so people will still want to be my friend.

24. I used to be a bit of a granola-head tree-hugger, complete with long hair and plaid shirts from Eddie Bauer, but I have sort of given that up for a cushy life in the suburbs.

25. Although I grew up in Duluth, MN, one of the most hideously cold and always-uphill locations on the planet, and chose to stay in MN for college and well, the rest of my life, I hate winter and hate being cold. But I also hate moving. Does that count as #26?

Now it's your turn. Do it in your own blog, your Facebook page, comments below or an email to me, but write your 25 things!

Meet My Family

2009-02-07T10:39:00.000-06:00

I have become a big fan of a guy named Danny Evans, who writes Dad Gone Mad, a really funny blog (warning to friends who prefer their blogs squeaky clean- this one isn't). He is incredibly honest in his writing, and I believe, to protect the innocent, has given nicknames to his immediate family members. Danny, I hope you'll forgive me for blatantly stealing this technique, as I will, from here on out, refer to my husband as The Man of My Dreams, or MOMD. I have two daughters with distinct, energetic personalities, and to protect them as well, they will be assigned nicknames. I just haven't thought of the perfect names yet. How to capture beautiful, exhausting, engaging, energetic, expasperating, smart, dictatorial, irrational, into a quick little name? Not sure, and still working on it.

I also have a brother, 18 months younger than me, a Sergeant in the Army, who left for a year in Iraq just last week. He will be referred to as Sergeant Baby Brother. I have a mother, and well, let's just call her Mom, shall we? Mom lives in New Hampshire and is married to my step-dad. I can never keep track of what continent they're currently visiting, or which step-sibling is visiting them. They are quite a jet-setting pair of 60-somethings.

Right now the daughter I'm considering calling The Tiniest Dictator is sitting next to me, ready for a little heart to heart conversation. "Mommy why do you put your makeup in here? Mommy what's in here? (opening wallet). Why are your coins in here? Mommy, I have an owie on my foot (pointing to invisible tiny spot on tiniest toe...)
The other one, age 5, likes to compose songs and sing out loud. I leave you with today's lyrics:

I love her so much
She's bigger than a squirrel
Don't be a rattlesnake!
Don't be a rattlesnake!

Stay tuned.

What I'm Reading

2009-01-31T10:01:00.000-06:00

I'm back in the blogging habit, writing about writing, Judaism, Ethiopia, parenthood, and the cool and interesting things I think are worth sharing. I know some awfully talented people, some in real life, and some through their writing or blogs. Welcome to my neighborhood...

Lynn Laumann is the most talented photographer I know. She specializes in portraits, and works out of her studio in Waconia, MN. Check out her site, her blog, and better yet, make an appointment and a trip to this little town west of Minneapolis to get some family photos done right.

Stacy Bellward has written a beautiful book called Tsion's Life. Many of us grew up on images of an Ethiopia dominated by starvation and disease. As parents who adopted children from Ethiopia back in 2004 when the program was in its infancy, Stacy and I, and many like us, have opened our eyes to the landscape, the spicy, satisfying food, and a culture centered on family and hospitality. Stacy took it a step further and launched Amharic Kids, a site featuring her own books and other resources for adoptive families with Ethiopian kids.

Me? Well, I have written a book titled You Are Ethiopian Now. The book stores have how-to adopt books, and stories of Chinese adoption, Russian adoption, and of adults searching for birth families, but nothing of my story- adopting from Ethiopia at a time when that option was brand new. I'm working on looking for a publisher. In the meantime, I plan to write here in the evenings and on the weekends. I welcome your comments.

Writing Like My Heroes

2008-01-24T20:34:00.000-06:00

In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamotte describes how writers imitate the authors they most admire, especially after having read them recently. I am soooo susceptible to this. I just finished Bright Lights Big Ass by Jen Lancaster, and I want to add the word asshat to my vocabulary, and develop a much more sarcastic, funny, snarky tone. Years ago when I read Bridget Jones' Diary and was blown away by this novel that actually reflected what my life was like, Iwanted to begin sentences with the word "am" (Am imitating famous writer now. Daily calories, 2700. ) and incorporate the words fuckwit and wanker into my vocabulary. I read at least one Jodi Picoult novel every year, and always close her books convinced that it's time to write a novel about a pressing issue of our time with a legal twist, and illustrate how it tears families apart and affects those we love. I read Annie Dillard and despair that I can never be successful unless I learn to describe, in excrutiating detail, every living thing within a ten-mile radius of my home. Tom Robbins makes me want to write stories with inanimate objects as characters.

So how do I reconcile this? Well, I recognize that Jen Lancaster doesn't write like Jodi Picoult, who doesn't write a thing like Anne Lamott, who doesn't write like Brenda Ueland, even though they're all brilliant in their own right. I think it's a pretty common struggle for writers. It's called finding your voice. It's a matter of confidence, really: the confidence to choose your own words and know that they're the right ones to get your point across, and the confidence that your way of doing it is valuable somehow.

I still really want to make better use of words like asshat and wanker, because they're such great words. But my husband says I shouldn't curse- not because it's offensive to him or to anyone else in our circle of friends, but because it just doesn't sound right when I do it.

Are there other writers out there? To quote a favorite line from one of my favorite movies, who are your influences? (Bonus points if you can name the movie)

Thoughts on appearances

2008-01-21T16:02:00.000-06:00

I just read this waiting mother's thoughts on external beauty and while I would never do something so extreme as what her mother did to her, I do feel sometimes we focus too much on our children's beauty. I think my two daughters are the most beautiful children on the planet, but I sometimes cringe when people dwell on this. I cringe even more when they speak in generalities about how beautiful Ethiopian people are, or even worse generalities about all people of color. More than once a well-meaning acquaintance has squealed "Oh, I just love little ethnic babies!" It's an absurd comment, really, because we are all ethnic. We all came from somewhere. But I cringe because the sentiment has a patronizing quality to it.

One of the things I write about in my memoir is that I never want to be one of those kinds of people... the kinds who turn their personal lives into some big issue and lecture people all the time about what words are OK to use. But I have realized that there are a handful of issues that get on my nerves, and I hope this will be a place where I can voice them without coming across as strident or overly sensitive. Everyone I've encountered has been so positive about our adoption of our daughters. But I think I'm going to need to rant just a little bit about some of those things. And the post above really rang true for me and made me think of one of those issues.

Curious to hear what others say about commenting on the beauty of Ethiopian children, or children of other ethnicities. Has it happened to you or to your kids? How do you respond?

Most depressing day of the year?

2008-01-21T12:25:00.000-06:00

I heard on the radio today that a researcher has determined that today is the most depressing day of the year. Why? Christmas bills are arriving, there are very few, if any, days off of work coming up, it's almost time to work on taxes, and at least here in Minnesota we're experiencing the coldest week of the year and we're still not seeing much sunlight in a given day.
I think this guy has hit on something. Lewis Black has a great bit about taking extreme measures just to see a little color at this time of year. Everyone I know aruond here finds this a difficult time of year. Not only is it cold, but we've had wintery weather since Halloween. A snowy December is kind of charming. Now it's getting old.
But ultimately I find this news heartening for the same reason I kind of like December 21, the shortest day of the year. In December, every day from then on gets a little longer, and we get a little bit more sunlight. Every day after today, the supposed most depressing day of the year, should get a little better. The cold will come to an end and we'll start to see some sun. The bills will get paid eventually. The sun will come out tomorrow, Annie...

Writer's Strike

2008-01-20T20:53:00.001-06:00

I don't know if others feel this way, but the writer's strike has been great for me. I'm not a fan of reality TV, so the 6-8 hours per week that used to be dedicated to my list of personal must-see shows are suddenly free. In short, I'm getting a ton of writing done. I am seriously considering culling those 6-8 hours once my shows are back on.
With two small kids and a full-time job, my time for writing is after 8 p.m. on weeknights, and maybe for an hour while they nap on weekends if I'm feeling really motivated.
If you had to give up a portion of your TV watching routine, what would be the first to go? What would you cling to no matter what?
A couple of years ago I finally stopped watching ER. I never started with Private Practice, thankfully, but I can't seem to let Grey's go.

Resurrecting my blog

2007-12-30T18:48:00.000-06:00

I have written a memoir of my experiences adopting my two girls, but I find that I still occasionally have more to say on the subject. More importantly, I find that so many people have questions about the hows and whys of adoption, and sometimes they're shy or self-conscious about asking. This blog seems like as good a place as any to answer questions and talk about what it's like to be the mother of two beautiful Ethiopian girls.

I hope the many links I've provided will be helpful to anyone who is curious about adoption, Ethiopia, or writing. Also check out the Favorites section where I've linked to people I think are brilliant, talented, funny, informative, helpful, or all of the above.

My family got wonderful, long-awaited news this week. On Monday, January 14, my brother returned home after 15 months in Iraq with the Army's 1st Cavalry Division. We are so proud of him, and so thankful to have him home safely. My heart goes out to all of the families who are still waiting for that day when their soldier comes home. And of course even moreso to those who have lost someone, or whose soldier has been injured in the line of duty.

Another cool piece of family news is that my stepfather wrote a book that is being released this week in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday. The book is King: Pilgrimage to the Mountaintop. I am so proud to be related to the author of this book. Check it out!

Ciao.

email poem dated Sept 23 1996

2005-04-18T21:04:00.000-05:00

I wrote this to a co-worker when we were doing customer service work in an insurance company. There were three of us who used to write poems to each other for entertainment. We called them "poerms" after an early typo. We always wrote in the e e cummings no-punctuation, no caps style.

its boring
on mondays and youre not here
to write and write
and offer some cheer
when its cloudy and cold
and im down in the dumps
and people in stretch pants are
dressed like frumps
for a day of work with no joy
and no life
oh by the way
how is your wife?
i wish you could bring me some
humor some laughs
or some nice cold beer
served in caraffes
were not terribly busy in the land of hearts
but im clicking along
and doing my part
to send out the contracts
and clean up the messes
and change the phone numbers
and the addresses
but its easier when you can stop and read
something funny
from your friend in deed
from your friend named mike
who works down below
who likes to write poerms
to make the day go
faster and faster
lickety split
please cheer me up mike
i feel like #@$%.