I like all the big awards shows: the Emmys, the Golden Globes… My mother and I have a tradition, if we are not together then at each commercial we call each other and discuss the award, the speech and, of course, the clothes. So this year, as I was watching the Golden Globes, I was left speechless on the phone.
An actor who shall remain nameless (I do not want to speak Lashon Hara - wicked tongue) was glorifying drugs from the podium. I know that it has happened before. I am not that naïve. But for some reason this year when he started with “How cool is it that I was just doing cocaine in the bathroom with a so and so,” I was disgusted.
Why this year did it bother me more than ever?
Is it because the tradition will also soon include my daughter and I talking at the commercials? I can’t let her watch this kind of talk. Or is it that an actor is paid to act. I do not want to hear about his illegal antics. If the drug thing is just part of the act then it is inappropriate and if it is not, then it is even more so.
We all know that we live in a society where our celebrities are our children’s heros. And as a mother, I never want my child to see someone they look up to glamorizing drug use.
A brief message to the upcoming Oscar winners: When you win, you are being rewarded for your acting. Be gracious, humble and brief. Most importantly keep your illicit activities to yourself. If you have to keep acting, to do that, keep acting. My kids are watching.
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.
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.
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.
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.
This summer my son Emet learned to swim. He could “ice cream scoop” and be water safe, but this summer with the great instruction of Brooks at Tumbleweed Swim School, he learned to do freestyle, backstroke, and even to dive into the water. As a mother it was thrilling to watch him reach this landmark. But as a rabbi I could not help thinking about the teaching from the Talmud (the Oral tradition of Judaism) that says as parents we are obligated to circumcise our son, redeem him, educate him, find him a wife, give him a profession and lastly - teach him how to swim. I will admit the last one seems a bit odd in the grouping. But when the Talmud was compiled, the main mode of transport was by boat. Swimming was essential. Even though boat is my least preferred mode of travel, this summer I felt as if I put a check on this the all important list. Emet was circumsized at his bris on the 8th day of his life. He was redeemed at his pidyon haben on the 31st day of his life in front of 500 people. And this summer he learned to swim. (I am assuming that since I had a proxy for the first command, I was okay to have a proxy for this one too.) Even though it may be a while before I make another check on the list, it seems with half of my list complete, my husband and I are well on our way to raising our child. I will keep you posted on the progress in the other areas along the way.
I just finished Jennifer Weiner’s latest book, Certain Girls. You probably recognize her name as she wrote the book In Her Shoes which was made into a major motion picture with Cameron Diaz. Anyway, here is the weird thing: I finished the book and I am not thinking about the storyline and I can barely remember the ending. I am thinking about the structure. One chapters alternate between the mother’s and daughter’s point of view. And all I keep thinking about is how I could get so lucky that my daughter would keep a diary that she let me read. I could know what she’s done, what she’s thinking, what she wants. Mind you my oldest daughter Eden does not write. She is three. But knowing that I was a difficult teenager and expecting no less from my own children, I keep thinking that I have 10 years to convince her that this is a great idea. Would this not be the greatest mothering tool; getting to share your kid’s innermost thoughts. Invasive and controlling? Yes. But thirteen is a very hard age. Even harder today than it used to be with drugs, the internet, increased peer pressure. With this tool, I’d be in the know. Who she is hanging out with? What she is doing or not doing? Which week she hates me? The weeks she’s not talking to me would be so much easier - it would spare me hours of unnecessary angst. Reality check: it is so not happening. Like any teenager in her right mind is never going to ever alternate authoring a diary with her mother. But I can always dream.
My son’s favorite book in the entire world is The Scrambled States of America by Laurie Keller. It is this hilarious book about the states deciding to have a party and trade places since they are bored with their current positions. I could read this book 20 times in a row and still my son would ask for more. So last week, I am invited to attend the Book Expo of American at the LA Convention Center. Before I was an “author” I did not even know this event existed. Now that I know I hope I get to go every single year. It is a trade show featuring publishing houses from all over the world - thousands of them. Each one has a booth in which they showcase their new fall and winter books to book buyers, stores, tv bookers, magazines and everyone else in the book industry. It is the book equivalent of what Sephora is for makeup junkies and candy stores are for sugar addicts and heaven for book readers. At the expo every book that is being published in the fall is on display and you are encouraged to take home free books. Free always makes me nervous but nevertheless I managed to fill two complete bags worth of books that were so heavy I could barely make it to the car. Then I found out the coup d’ gras. Laurie Keller has a new book coming out in the fall. The Scrambled States of America Talent Show. She will be signing them over the weekend and I send a dear friend in my stead to secure a copy. By Monday I have decided that I am the coolest mother in America. I am reading a book that is not even for sale yet to Emet. And it is signed to him and Eden. I try to explain this to him over and over again, how special this book is, but he does not care. All he wants is for me to read it to him. Finally I give up and start reading the story. He laughs out loud. It is even better than the first. After the third reading and it is time for lights out, Emet whispers to me, “thanks for the book mom, it’s great.” For a moment all is right in the world.
This has been a pretty amazing few weeks. I was in New York with my husband, parents and in-laws when the book came out. My kids are in school and stayed at home. I missed them every second I was gone and told them that when I was on TV, every time I blinked, I was telling them that I love them.
Emet, my son, keeps thinking I am going to wink. No, I tell him, blink. Blink. I can only imagine what my interviewer on The Today Show, Hoda Kotb, would think if I started to wink at her.
Backstage at the Today Show is a hoot. I see Nora Jones getting ready in the room behind me. She is there to promote her film debut. She is reserved, pretty and young. Suddenly I feel my age. Right then, I hear in the background a segment about turning forty. Anne Marie, my makeup artist (or should I say Meredith Viera’s make up artist) is fixing my face. She asks how old I am. 39. “You look great, and no botox,” she says “A lot of sunscreen,” I reply.
I’m feeling a little star struck when I hear George Clooney was just there, when Rocco D’Spirito leans in and asks if I am really a rabbi. I want to seem funny and cool, but can’t think of anything. Instead I ask what he is cooking. “Hamburgers, not kosher.” “Too bad.” Then he confides in me that it is a burger competition and he is not feeling very competitive. I tell him now to worry, while I have never tasted his cooking, I am sure he will take it. Apparently, even Rocco needs a boost of confidence when he’s about to be on TV in front of millions of people.
Now I’m a bit nervous and am grateful when I look up and see 20 tween tap dancers and their mothers and coaches are practicing their steps only a few yards away from me. They are adorable and I feel proud for them. I hope my daughter is watching. She would like the tapping much more than my talking.
I am skirted up to the green room; suddenly, I am on and it’s done. 5 minutes and it felt like 5 seconds. How did I do? My publicist and friends are eager to dissect. Did I notice that Hoda and I matched? Did I get all the right points in? What was it like? Did it feel long or short?
Yes, yes, great, short. All that runs through my mind is “Did I blink enough?”
I love the Oscars.
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 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.)
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.”
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?
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.
This summer my son Emet learned to swim. He could “ice cream scoop” and be water safe, but this summer with the great instruction of Brooks at Tumbleweed Swim School, he learned to do freestyle, backstroke, and even to dive into the water. As a mother it was thrilling to watch him reach this landmark. But as a rabbi I could not help thinking about the teaching from the Talmud (the Oral tradition of Judaism) that says as parents we are obligated to circumcise our son, redeem him, educate him, find him a wife, give him a profession and lastly - teach him how to swim. I will admit the last one seems a bit odd in the grouping. But when the Talmud was compiled, the main mode of transport was by boat. Swimming was essential. Even though boat is my least preferred mode of travel, this summer I felt as if I put a check on this the all important list. Emet was circumsized at his bris on the 8th day of his life. He was redeemed at his pidyon haben on the 31st day of his life in front of 500 people. And this summer he learned to swim. (I am assuming that since I had a proxy for the first command, I was okay to have a proxy for this one too.) Even though it may be a while before I make another check on the list, it seems with half of my list complete, my husband and I are well on our way to raising our child. I will keep you posted on the progress in the other areas along the way.
I just finished Jennifer Weiner’s latest book, Certain Girls. You probably recognize her name as she wrote the book In Her Shoes which was made into a major motion picture with Cameron Diaz. Anyway, here is the weird thing: I finished the book and I am not thinking about the storyline and I can barely remember the ending. I am thinking about the structure. One chapters alternate between the mother’s and daughter’s point of view. And all I keep thinking about is how I could get so lucky that my daughter would keep a diary that she let me read. I could know what she’s done, what she’s thinking, what she wants. Mind you my oldest daughter Eden does not write. She is three. But knowing that I was a difficult teenager and expecting no less from my own children, I keep thinking that I have 10 years to convince her that this is a great idea. Would this not be the greatest mothering tool; getting to share your kid’s innermost thoughts. Invasive and controlling? Yes. But thirteen is a very hard age. Even harder today than it used to be with drugs, the internet, increased peer pressure. With this tool, I’d be in the know. Who she is hanging out with? What she is doing or not doing? Which week she hates me? The weeks she’s not talking to me would be so much easier - it would spare me hours of unnecessary angst. Reality check: it is so not happening. Like any teenager in her right mind is never going to ever alternate authoring a diary with her mother. But I can always dream.
My son’s favorite book in the entire world is The Scrambled States of America by Laurie Keller. It is this hilarious book about the states deciding to have a party and trade places since they are bored with their current positions. I could read this book 20 times in a row and still my son would ask for more. So last week, I am invited to attend the Book Expo of American at the LA Convention Center. Before I was an “author” I did not even know this event existed. Now that I know I hope I get to go every single year. It is a trade show featuring publishing houses from all over the world - thousands of them. Each one has a booth in which they showcase their new fall and winter books to book buyers, stores, tv bookers, magazines and everyone else in the book industry. It is the book equivalent of what Sephora is for makeup junkies and candy stores are for sugar addicts and heaven for book readers. At the expo every book that is being published in the fall is on display and you are encouraged to take home free books. Free always makes me nervous but nevertheless I managed to fill two complete bags worth of books that were so heavy I could barely make it to the car. Then I found out the coup d’ gras. Laurie Keller has a new book coming out in the fall. The Scrambled States of America Talent Show. She will be signing them over the weekend and I send a dear friend in my stead to secure a copy. By Monday I have decided that I am the coolest mother in America. I am reading a book that is not even for sale yet to Emet. And it is signed to him and Eden. I try to explain this to him over and over again, how special this book is, but he does not care. All he wants is for me to read it to him. Finally I give up and start reading the story. He laughs out loud. It is even better than the first. After the third reading and it is time for lights out, Emet whispers to me, “thanks for the book mom, it’s great.” For a moment all is right in the world.
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