Sherre Hirsch

Our son Emet just “lost” his fourth baby tooth. I quote the word “lost” because in reality all four of them had to be pulled by his dentist. The bottom two came out easily with a little gas and a little novacaine. But the top two were a bit of a problem. It turns out the new teeth had already come in a big way so it was going to take more meds to get them out.

Sitting there holding his hand, I thought I was going to faint. It looked ridiculously painful. He held it together very well. There were a few tears  - mostly mine  - and the teeth were gone. Once it was done, he turned to look at me and asked “Is there a tooth fairy?”

Knowing the best mom is the mom who asks the question right back (and therefore deflects any possible answer), I answered “ What do you think?”

“I think there is a toothfairy but  someone in my class said that your parents come at three in the morning and put the money under your bed.”  Before I could answer, he continued, “But I know you and Daddy. You would never get up at three in the morning.”

“Emet”, I said, “you are right. Daddy and I would never get up at three in the morning to do that. “ Technically,  I was 100% honest.  I slid in by the seat of my pants.

Fast forward to four a.m. Emet runs into our room holding the money the tooth fairy had given him and wakes me up.  “ Mom you can not be the tooth fairy! You were fast asleep! Now I know the truth.”

Sometimes when our son Emet is angry he begins to speak about himself in the third person.  And when he’s really upset, we don’t even get called Mom and Dad.  “Emet is feeling angry at Jeff and Sherre.”   Eden also has her own way of venting at us.  Her imaginary friends, Bunky and Maya often feel upset at Jeff and Sherre. Luckily Alia is barely talking so we are not the object of her disdain at the moment  - at least verbally.

I know that for a six and four year old, getting anry is can be confusing.   Telling us directly may be too hard, so it’s not me, it’s “Emet” or “Bunky.”  They worry we’ll be angry or that they will get in trouble.  And while we keep telling them that they are allowed to be angry and that we are ok with how they’re feeling, they don’t quite believe us yet.

And really, who can blame them.  The other day I was having a conversation with a friend and she was giving me some “constructive” criticism.  I’ve been a little short on patience lately with my mom’s illness and a lot of travel for work.  Could I just say, “Sherre is feeling like she wants you to shut up.”  Would my friend say that I am entitled to be annoyed and that she is ok with it?

Could I blame my kids?  They learn from me, couldn’t I have learned this from them?  Would it cause a laugh or destroy a friendship? Don’t answer. I know the answer.  Maybe that is part of the difference of being an adult and being a child. You know when to hold back.  If you have to let it out, you can’t blame your imaginary friend or third self.  You have to own it.

Given the craziness of the past few weeks, I’ve had to own more than a few things - things I have said, things I have done.  I’ve started to being sentences by apologizing for anything inappropriate I might accidentally say.  Maybe it’s time for a few imaginary friends of my own.

Desperately needing time away from our ‘regular’ lives, I made plans for the family to escape to Palm Desert for the weekend after Thanksgiving. When I told the kids, they were ecstatic. Just the idea of going away together thrilled them. So we left on our trip to the desert filled with hope and good intentions.

The first night was a disaster. Our youngest (2) was so excited that she could not sleep - it was her first family vacation. Since we were all in one and half rooms, none of us slept.  So the next morning got off to a bumpy start with three grumpy, tired children, one grumpy, tired me and one grumpy, tired husband.  By the late morning Alia (the youngest) was still awake and I realizing we were not going to survive if she stayed up for three days straight.

So, I drove her back to LA to stay with my parents.  Four hours of driving later, I was back at the hotel, exhausted and ready to collapse. But there was still the evening, when the older kids would be asleep and Jeff and I could have some time for ourselves.  Ha! We ordered dinner and everyone was fast asleep by 7 pm.  So much for day 1.

By the second day we were a little desperate - every one was trying to have fun.  We swam, we ate, we sang, but something was not clicking.  The hotel pools were packed with people, the food was mediocre and it was cold out.  All I wanted to do on my weekend away was get away!  I’ve written about my kid’s love of dogs here before and I thought that a dog movie would be perfect and so that night we went to see Bolt in 3D.  Dogs!  3D!  But taking a 6 year old and a 4 year old at their first 3D film was not so fun. The glasses hurt, the violent scenes more violent than normal. By 7 pm, we all crashed again.  Day 2, down.

By the last day, I just wanted to get home.  By now no one is expecting much; and then, a miracle.  We head out to the pool and it’s empty.  We start down the 60 ft water slide one by one. Finally, in a moment of daring, I ask the lifeguard if we can all slide down together.  I was sure he’d say “no”  - it had been that kind of weekend.  But he said “yes.”  For the next hour, over and over again, the four us went down that slide.  I have never laughed so hard in my life.

Driving home, my husband and I talked about how our horrible, terrible, no-good vacation was saved in the last hour.  Everyone was in a good mood.  And the best part?  The kids only remember is that last hour - all of us together, laughing.

I have two broken records in my house. Yes, that is a euphemism for two daughters that are continually asking me for the same thing over and over again- a dog. I get it. When I was about their age I too was a broken record. Over and over again, day after day, I would ask my parents, “Can we get a dog?” And over and over again, I heard the same reply, “NO, we are allergic to dogs.”  At four I was not sure what “allergic” meant. (My, have times have changed. To have an allergy is part of the lingo at my daughter’s preschool since everyone has “allergies”. But I digress.)

Since I did not know what they meant, all I heard my parents say was “No!.”  “No, we can’t have a dog.” “No, you are not allowed to have a furry, cuddly, unconditionally loving dog living in our house.” Now I am a parent and I am the one saying “No!”

Even my husband is not on my side; he grew up with a dog, Edith, and thinks having a dog teaches responsibility, unconditional love, and kindness to animals. I agree with him wholeheartedly. I think dogs are great. But still the answer is no.

I have my reasons. It turns out I AM allergic. My eyes swell shut, throat itches and I get covered in hives. Sure I have heard there are “hypo-allergenic” dogs. Whatever! I so do not believe it that. But there is a secret (well now not so secret) reason too.

If we get a dog, I know who will be picking up his business, taking him for walks at ungodly hours and schlepping him to the doctor for even the slightest thing - me. I know that even if the dog’s fur and saliva do not cause me to break out every single moment, the responsibility of having a ‘child’ that will never grow up and move out will drive me crazy.

And more, I also know that I will make the dog crazy. Having a dog to call my own! One that I have wanted since I was four! I will smother him with love. I will become that owner that has different leashes for different days, monogrammed collars, serves the dog homemade food and has the vet on my speed dial.

So as long as the question is “to dog or not to dog”, the answer is always going to be no.

Life certainly hit us over the head.

Four months after We Plan, God Laughs  was published my mother was diagnosed with Glioblastoma (GBM) stage 4 brain cancer. I dedicated this book to my mother for her courage and how she overcame so many challenges in her life. Now she is facing her biggest challenge yet, and she and many others suffering with GBM need your help.

Today June 16, 2009, my mother turns 65 years old and the paperback of We Plan, God Laughs with a new epilogue goes on sale.

In celebration , I am donating 10% of the profits to the Art of the Brain Fundto help in the fight against brain cancer.

To celebrate with us:

1.       Buy the paperback of We Plan, God Laughs.

2.       Send this email to three friends and ask them to do the same.

I pray that the new edition of We Plan, God Laughs will heal in more ways than one.

At my son’s sixth birthday party, he stood up on the picnic table and took five minutes to introduce each of his guests. One by one, he went around the party and said each person’s name and how he knew them. When he got to India, the blond blue eyed princess in his class, he paused, took a deep breath and announced, “This is India, my love.”

His friends burst into laughter, but he didn’t. She didn’t either. They’re in love. Why would they laugh?

That night I asked him about it. He looked at me like I was not so smart and said, “I love India.”  As if that was not perfectly clear from the day’s events. He is six  - so what does he know about love?  I started to worry - could he be that precocious?  What has he seen on TV that I do not know about? I live in LA, there are Gossip Girl OMFG poster boards everywhere. I can’t cover his eyes driving carpool! So I asked him, “What does love mean to you?”  I held my breath.

“When I am dribbling the basketball and I drop it, she runs and gets it for me. She is my favorite person to talk to during the day. She is funny and smart. And sometimes we put our foreheads right up next to each other, look in each others eyes and have a concentration of love.”

He was right.

That night my husband and I put our foreheads together, looked into each other’s eyes and had a concentration of love. It was perfect.

A few days ago, we put up a Sukkah - this shoddy, fragile structure in our backyard made with tarp, bamboo and schach (palm branches) for the roof.  We built it to celebrate the holiday of Sukkot (the festival of booths).  Booths, you say?

The tradition is that we eat, sleep, and “live” in our temporary house for eight days to gain perspective on everything that is permanent in our lives. Getting ready for it is a pain - dragging all out dished and food into a hut, convincing our kids that this is fun, the thought of eating in the cold.    But sitting in it on the first night of sukkot, looking back into our living room, I could not help but feel grateful.

We can return to the warm, cozy house in an instant. Inside it is the refrigerator is stocked with holiday food and desserts. The comforters on our beds are waiting for us. Even our favorite sitcoms are just a click away.

Sukkot was working its magic on us and all we had to do was spend a couple hours making a very imperfect structure to “dwell” in temporarily to remember the blessings of our not quite perfect, but pretty amazing permanent one.   I wish this feeling would last forever.

To date I have celebrated 39 Rosh Hashanah holidays. I have eaten a lot of brisket, chicken, apples and honey. And, after all this time, the celebrations have started to blend together. Dinner at home with the family, followed by services, more services, more food etc… for two days every year. Until this year.

As you know my mother was in the hospital recovering from brain surgery this Rosh Hashanah and since she is our matriarch and master host of the first holiday dinner every year - the Martha Stewart of the High Holy Days-   everyone was in a tizzy.

Where would the 22 people that were coming to her house for dinner go? How would they eat? Pray? At first I thought maybe I should just send an email dis-inviting them. Really, under the circumstances they would understand. But my mom would not.  Even if she had just gotten out of surgery.   If I canceled I was worried  she would never forgive me. Not a risk I was willing to take.

I did what any dutiful daughter would do. I brought Rosh Hashanah dinner to her hospital room. Yes, 22 adults and 7 small children crowded her room at Cedars Sinai. She had to sit in a chair; I needed her bed for the buffet.  All her personal items and clothing were thrown into the shower; I needed every single inch of area space for drinks, paper goods and desserts. Sitting on the floor was not encouraged, it was mandated.

It was noisy. It was messy.  It was crowded. Nurses complained. My mother was overstimulated.  The food was cold, the drinks were warm.  But it was a holy-day that no one there will ever forget.  We lost the formality of the dining room, the stress of dishes and what to wear.  No one was just playing along to make the rabbi happy.  When we sang, everyone was huddled together, laughing and joyous - no one was too embarrassed.  When we ate, the food all tasted good.  When we prayed, everyone was present.

When we were just about to end there was a knock on our door. Everyone shushed. An old woman entered. Expecting her to start yelling at us, none of us looked directly at her. Then she spoke. “Was that the shofar blowing I heard?” “Yes, I replied meekly.” “If you get a chance, my husband is down the hall and he would love to hear it, would you mind coming by?”

Yes, this was the most memorable Rosh Hashanah ever.

Every year around the holidays our mail gets flooded with family photo holiday cards. And each year I set them up on the mantle above the fireplace and discuss how much our friend’s families have grown. In years past, we did not follow this ritual. As a rabbi of a large synagogue, sending cards to over 5000 people felt ridiculous.

But now I have not been in the pulpit for two years and so my husband suggested that we too begin the holiday ritual of sending a card with our family’s picture to all of our friends. So I booked a date with a photographer notified all the family and prepared for the hour session.

Of course, it was a nightmare. The photographer wanted to shoot us in the best light, four o’clock in the afternoon. This is the witching hour for children. This is when your delightful little people become devils. No one, except my adorable nephew Zachary who was in love with the camera, wanted to sit still. My step-father was horrified that we were not wearing shoes in the shot. My son hid behind my husband and only popped his head out to make faces.   The baby kept trying to escape.

I felt for the photographer  - and for me. I must have apologized at least twenty times to her - explaining that today was completely abnormal (a lie, but what could I do). But she was a professional and sure enough we managed to get the shot. The next day, through the magic of digital photography, she sent the picture.

Everyone looks perfect. Not magazine perfect.  But we look like a family. Happy, messy, silly, real. We do not look like we posed for a picture. We are not all looking into the camera. Not everyone is smiling. But it’s a great shot. It captures us, all of us as we are.  It is the way a picture is supposed to be and I can’t wait to send it out.

It has been three weeks and four days since my mother went into the emergency room. I know because each day has felt so long.  I keep track without having to count.

Maybe because each moment seems to stick out in my memory. The moment she was in unbearable pain. The moment the Emergency Room doctor told me she had a stroke. The moment I saw my husband’s face when he walked into the ER. The moment she lost consciousness. The moment the nurses took her in for brain surgery. The moment of the code blue because of the heart attack. The moment the oncologist told us she had a GBM (gliobastoma.) You get the picture. Each moment has felt like a lifetime because it has been so painful.

Judaisim worships time. It sanctifies time. Every week we celebrate Shabbat  - 25 hours of rest from our lives  - to recognize that time is fleeting. We are suppossed to hold onto each moment as if it is our last. Each night before we sleep we are suppose say the S’hma (our proclamation of faith) so that our last utterance of our lips is one of praise to God lest we die. Each second counts.

This is all sounds good and in moments of clarity, I feel grateful for the 64 years and 4 months (to the day) that my mother was healthy.  I feel thankful for all the precious moments we have shared. But in my not so good moments, I’m furious.  It is still not enough.

Why is it that it never seems like there is never enough time?  Could there ever be enough?