May He Who Is Without Sin...

So here we are in the midst of these deeply serious Days of Awe, a period of introspection, of seeking forgiveness, of turning toward our better selves, of letting go of our sins so we can start a new year on a better footing, with a clean slate, as it were.

But what if we have no sins?  What if there is nothing we have done for which we need to seek forgiveness, from either man or God?  What if we already embody the highest ideals of human behavior, the greatest aspirations of decency, kindness and the like?  If we're already at the top of the mountain, where do we then go?

I thought these thoughts as I worked my way through various prayers while sitting next to my son, Noah.  Here is a child, albeit in a young man's body, who has no idea what a sin is.  I cannot even explain it to him, as abstractions are beyond his comprehension.  When we stood together to cast our sins into flowing water Monday evening, I asked Noah what he did wrong that he was sorry for.  He looked at me like I was asking him the oddest question on earth.  Just like when I give him pennies to toss in a fountain and ask him to make a wish, Noah hasn't a clue what I mean.

What of someone who is without sin?  In my head somewhere I hear this phrase--biblical?--about he who is without sin casting the first stone, or something like that.  Funny thing is, Noah truly is without sin, but would never think to cast a stone at or judge another human being.  The first would hurt someone (and he knows that's a bad thing to do), and the second is just too abstract.

So what of all these prayers, these apologies, these requests for forgiveness, for a new lease on life, for a chance to do better?  They don't apply to my son, which means they don't apply to many other sinless folks wandering our earth.  What prayers might make sense for them?  What tshuvah--what turning--should they attempt?  I am not wise enough to know, but I have a suggestion or two.  Perhaps prayers they might utter could go something like this:  "God, if you are real, keep me as I am, with all the gentleness with which I have been endowed.  Don't let me become cynical, bitter, competitive or judgmental, for those are things that make others ugly, from the inside out.  If you could though, could you help me understand a bit more of what people say to me and how they behave?  I don't need to be like everyone else, but if I could turn toward them a little, with a little more comprehension, maybe I would be a little less lost, a little less dependent, and a little more on a path where more people could recognize me as their companion."

Since Noah doesn't know what a prayer is, and why we might utter one, I will keep that one for him, and will hope that if there is a God, that God is listening.  Above all, I hope the prayers of the sinless can be heard.  And answered.

Just Another Manic Sunday

I forget how much I love the country until I am there again.  And then I am deeply in love.  This past weekend, I got to share that love with my kids, all of whom joined us for the weekend.  OK, so Sam slept quite a bit, Ariel watched way too much TV between fishing outings, and Noah, well, he just needed to rest.  But he also had a breakdown of sorts.  Not even sure what triggered it.  It was one of those manic episodes, where he cried and was inconsolable for a long time, and later the same day had bouts of manic laughter and silliness, a la The Joker, sort of.

Len played tennis with Sam, which gave Len great joy.  I hope Sam experienced some of the same.  Watching Ariel fish was a highlight for me.  And Noah's hole-in-one on the first hole of mini golf was a cause of much merriment and bemusement.  Len and I went on an early morning--and initially VERY cold and foggy rail trail ride, but what a great way to start the day.  Wish I had a trail nearer by, as it's just great to cruise along past farms and streams and lakes, and to breathe in sweet, untainted air.

Coming home was a drawn out process, a kind of leisurely wending our way back.  We stopped for lunch at an outdoor cafe, and it was surprisingly hot in the sun.  We passed a local bike shop and Len and I stopped in, had odometers affixed to our bikes, and treated ourselves to new helmets.

There's always that "holy cow how much dirty laundry do we have??" reaction when we come home, but it was compounded this time by the fact that we had Noah's camp duffel with us.  But that's part of summer's routine and tradition as well, it seems.

It's hard to know, once your kids reach a certain age, how long they'll deign to spend even part of a summer with you.  So I try to remember to treasure the moments, especially the silly ones, like dinosaur feet, kids quiz show, competitive mini golf, bladder busters, and just being around one another, however haphazardly.

As the school year approaches again, I try not to anticipate the tightening in my stomach, the worries about already being unprepared, disorganized, and somehow behind.  I just want to find a way to hold onto the slower pace, lazy days, and happily diminished expectations of summer.

Ultimate Zen Mama

Calm, cool and collected are probably not the adjectives I would typically attach to myself.  Passionate, opinionated, yup, got a lock on those.  But the calm thing, not so much.  Not until lately, that is.  Cannot tell if this is cumulative fatigue kicking in, such that I'm just too darn tired to kick up much of a fuss about anything, the advent of some kind of long-sought wisdom, maturation, or the general byproduct of aging, but I'm finding that things that might have--would have?--rattled me a few years ago or even less, kind of blow past.

Examples:  found out by accident that my daughter's sleep away camp was without power for several days, in the middle of what is probably our hottest summer on record.  It's a low-tech and lovely camp, so this meant candle light, gathering around the generator in the dining hall, trucking in bottled water for tooth brushing and washing, and hauling water from the lake so the toilets could be flushed.  I heard this litany from one of the administrators and I thought, "Inconvenient, but kinda cool.  Throwback times.  Humbling to be reminded of how utterly dependent we are on the things on which we are utterly dependent.  But we can adapt fine."  Not that I would necessarily have done anything a year or two ago if I'd heard the same story, but I was totally calm, unworried, unharried.  Just assumed my daughter would manage.  And that the power would eventually come back on.  As it did.

More to the point, hired a new housekeeper when I went back to work full-time at the end of June.  Had my doubts because she seemed too competent--and offered to cook.  Showed up for the interview with her Ipad and printed reference letters.  But ok, she actually seemed to want this part-time, largely housekeeping job.  Then her uncle died and she needed a day off for the funeral.  Then she wanted to visit her daughter in Virginia.  Then her mother supposedly died.  After which, she just went AWOL.  At a different age/stage of life I would have been frazzled and frantic, worried about how I was going to get to work and have coverage at home.  But now my kids are older (and presently in camp), and I'm just glad she went AWOL now, so I could replace her before school starts.  And it took me a whole day to do so.  Now I just want my house key back.  Or I'll just deal with the aggravation of changing the lock.

Then there were the pleading "I want to come home" letters from my daughter with the cast-encased broken wrist.  It must truly be frustrating to be in summer camp (second half) with your forearm in a cast, but it ain't the end of the world.  I got tough during one teary phone call about a week ago.  Told her we could not--would not--pick her up and bring her home.  It's not the end of the world and she'll just have to deal.  Didn't feel the guilt I normally would have.  Felt instead that she needed a reality check.  I'm no jumping bean mama who runs to the rescue every time my kids kvetch.  And lo and behold, when I spoke to her today in the infirmary, where she's nursing a low-grade fever and a wet cough, she sounded good, all things considered.  Color War had broken noisily outside, and she found out that she was on the White Sesame Street Team (vs. Blue Muppets Team).  Good to hear the enthusiasm in her voice.  And one of the counselors had brought her a Hunger Games book to read.

Not sure if it's age of life, stage of life, or what.  But this Zen Mama thing is pretty great.  I feel it at work too, where things that might have rattled my cage some time back just blow by.  I can honestly say that however things go at work, they go, and I'm ok with that.  Will do my work with pride and integrity, as I always do.  If it's good, great.  If not, hey, no job defines me, and it ain't the end of the world...

Moving at Warp Speed

I continue to be surprised at myself, at how I seem to skip over things that are really significant. I am trying to rectify that here, albeit a bit belatedly. I went back to work full-time, five weeks ago. I am so tired from it that I feel literally drained. Stick a pin in me and nothing will come out. Whatever was propping me up leaked away. I'm not doing manual labor, toiling in a coal mine, but I don't think I could be more exhausted if I were. My day begins shortly after 6 a.m. I arrive at work before 8 a.m. and I have typically been leaving the office around 6p.m., without leaving the building during the day. There have been so many meetings, and the pace is so quick. So many people to get to know, so many programs with which to familiarize myself, so many acronyms to master. It all just feels overwhelming. And I just feel too old to start over like this. And yet... I feel very energized by the work, by the expectations. There is too much to do, too much to keep track of. But I want to do it. I want to do well. I want the people who hired me to be glad they did. And that is a good feeling, at my age and stage of life. I am so pleased that I started this job while two of my kids were in camp. Though I feel the loss of summer leisure a bit, juggling this and the start of a new school year at the same time simply would have been untenable. At least with summer under my belt, I will arrive at fall a bit out of the starting gate at work, and hopefully less stressed on the home and school fronts. In the end, I am grateful to have this chance. But I also understand why government seems to attract so many youngish types. They not only have the ambition, they have the energy. This pace is not made for folks of a certain age, comme moi...

A Call to Clap For

I had thoughts of heading out for ice cream this evening, and nearly had a foot out the door when the phone rang. It was a counselor from camp, calling to have us speak with Noah. It's been that kind of crazy week--what with my return to a very hectic, full-time job--that left my brain so drained that I completely forgot about the call. Noah sounded sooooo good. First thing he told me was that he went underwater. I asked him where and he told me "in the pool." I asked him how it felt and he said "cold." Noah told me that he went to the corral and saw a chicken that had laid some eggs. He brushed a horse in the corral and the horse's name is Buddy. Noah saw a waterfall and when I asked him where, he hold me "in the woodlands." When I asked him where he showers, he told me "in the bathhouse." When I asked how it was sleeping in a tent, he said "wonderful." The only thing that could equal this is having as good a call with Ariel when we speak to her in camp. But that's a ways off, so I'll have to anticipate optimistically. The week at work has been physically and psychically draining, and I don't know how or whether it will work out in time, but this call with Noah trumps all anxieties at work, drowns all fatigue, and brings me back to what always gets my heart singing and my spirit soaring: good news from, with, and/or about my kids. It just isn't more complicated than that for me. And I hope it never is.

Who Woulda Thunk It?

Hard to believe that the highlight of anyone's day could be peeing (repeatedly) into a cup under the watchful gaze of a minder at a drug testing site in a dismal office in downtown Brooklyn. But so it was for me, on a beautiful Thursday morning. I arrived at room 301 and was alone with the bare white-ish walls and the bland folding chairs until a couple came in. She sported a version of a do-rag and multiple rolls of stomach fat. He had bad teeth and an impatient attitude, which he took out on the squirming toddler in the stroller they rolled in with. He wandered over to the sign-in window and started reading the graffiti on the wall, which I hadn't noticed when I came in. He read it out loud. Maybe f this and that is a kind of lullaby in his household; I hope not. We were joined by four or five other young women, each with a stroller with either a baby or toddler in it. All of the adults were there to be drug tested. There were some solo guys in an outside waiting area, including a real stud with a tightly wound black stocking on his hand, a rhinestone encrusted pistol belt buckle, and a smattering of tattoos. Though I can pee freely-and often-every other day, this was the one time it took me three tries to fill the vial. Skinny young girl who accompanied me to and into the bathroom was very nice. I joked, "This can't be much fun for you." "No it's not," came the polite reply. I peed once, then drank some water to try to generate some more. Not quite there. So around the corner I went to an Arab-owned convenience store for some coffee. Guy pouring was nice; customized everyone's order with extra sugar or milk. Coffee was lousy, bitter, but added milk cut the bad taste a bit, and thankfully the coffee did the trick. Headed back to Manhattan to meet my friend Mickey for coffee (though I chose OJ). Always a joy to see him. Then I headed home, opting for the subway/bus method. Wouldn't you know, I just missed the bus after I got to Flushing and waited twenty minutes with--you guessed it--my now bursting bladder, for the next one. Trip home was fine, but evening just brought with it a complete collapse. Aggravating, routine arguments with Ariel about dinner: what's available for her to eat and her objections to each choice. So Len and I decided to walk into town with Noah and try our luck at al fresco dining during our town's restaurant night out. Not sure what happened, but something snapped in Noah. We couldn't convince him that any of the options was worth trying, and then it was like Deja Disney. He just became crazy, yelling, crying, grabbing me, aggressively hugging me, the whole nine yards. I don't much care about the embarrassment of these public displays of insanity, though I don't much enjoy them. We called Sam to come pick us up, and it seemed like he took forever to arrive. By then I disliked all my children. Ariel for bitching about dinner choices, Noah for losing his marbles, and Sam for taking his sweet time to rescue us. Rewinding to the earlier part of my day, it's funny to think that a room full of people whose public parenting styles were completely deflating--if not terrifying--could seem more appealing than my outwardly bucolic home life. But such are the ironies, inconsistencies and surprises that rock and roll my world...

Down the Rabbit Hole in Monthly Installments

Just when you think things can't get much worse for you as a parent, you reach a new low. Mine came at about 5:30 a.m. on a Monday morning. I couldn't sleep, since I kept going over in my head the weekend's missteps and aggravations, so I went down to the basement and turned on the boob tube. At least I wouldn't keep anyone else awake. As I channel surfed, I came across an infomercial from a guy who was selling his parenting program, which he of course developed after years of counseling parents in his private practice. He hit all the right buttons: "Is your child defiant? Is conflict a constant in your household? Do you find yourself repeating strategies that don't work?" And on and on. So I picked up the phone. Alice in Maine was lovely, commiserating with me in my misery. The program transformed her relationship with her own daughter. Yes, I could get my money back, once I submitted the required written evaluations. But I must fill in ALL the required fields; no blanks allowed. I don't think I believe the money refund promise, but I will get AMEX to help me argue that one. I did have enough presence of mind to decline the monthly phone support at $49.95, but I figure that even if I get stuck paying the three monthly installments of $119.95, I'm still way ahead, compared with private counseling. And who knows, maybe James Lehman can actually help me salvage my role as a parent. If not, my kids can tell the story of their desperate, gullible mama , to great guffaws, to whichever therapist(s) they choose to bitch about me to. As long as they do it on their own dime...