Check out my latest for Her View From Home, how I love a good checklist and my prayer for my children for when they grow up and look within, look in the mirror and even look at their desks. Fingers crossed they humor me by using their shiny new planners this school year…at least in this first month.
Lying in bed with Z just when I thought she was finally asleep in the dark quiet after chatting about how we had successfully made her pandemic birthday one to be remembered by a few of her favorite things (ranging from sushi and ice cream cake to distanced family and friends and from a volunteer project to a new sewing machine from her doting aunt), she peeped: “Mommy?”
(I guess it was actually me who was about to fall asleep.)
Z: “Do you know why Belle isn’t my favorite princess?”
Me: “No, why?” (Thankful it was something light, because you never know the weight of the words that will follow the sweet, thoughtful asking for you that will either make your heart melt with maternal love or ache with maternal concern…in an instant.)
Z: “Belle’s not my favorite princess because when the villagers make fun of her for teaching children how to read, she doesn’t stand up for herself.”
Me: I say nothing because I’m blown away by this 9pm Sunday Special of ‘How to Live Your Best Life with Lessons for Mommy from the View of a Newly Turned 8-Year-Old.” And because it actually was a conversation topic that seemed a lot heavier than light chitchat.
Pause.
Me: “What do you mean? And how did you just think of this?”
Z: “They ask her what she is doing when they see her teaching a girl how to read and she doesn’t really say anything when they make fun of her for it. I mean she was kind, but she didn’t stand up.
And I don’t know how I just thought of this. I just did.”
Me: “I guess the movie shows us how she becomes brave.”
Z: “Well, no, because she was brave with the Beast right away. She wasn’t really afraid of him.”
Me: “There are all kind of brave. Standing up for yourself is one, saying nothing at all when more words just aren’t going to help a situation is another, and facing a beast is of course a big one, too. Not everyone has all of the types of brave-especially not all at the same time.”
Z: “Yeah well in the movie ‘Brave,’ Merida just screams a lot. Being loud doesn’t mean you’re brave either. I think Aurora has always been my favorite because she just does what she wants herself. I don’t even know why we call them princesses!”
I don’t know why we call them princesses, either. What I do know is that this one (my personal favorite) is wise beyond her years, wise beyond mine, and I cherish every lesson she teaches me.
She is kind.
She is brave.
And she sparkles brighter than any tiara.
May she always stand up.
Photo by Mariana Yarritu
“It can be scary, ugly or look yummy. It’s like life.”️
My 5 1/2-year-old and I just cut open a pomegranate for the first time. In our family’s first Sukkah. It took a while to get the hang of it and realize that you don’t cut a pomegranate open like a typical fruit. And it’s not quick.
By hand, you peel back layer after layer of ugliness to discover hundreds of sparkling sweet treasures. The most abundant sections with dozens and dozens of jewels are hidden away and buried deep behind the yuck and the ugly: where you least expect them.
I couldn’t describe this aha moment more perfectly than my kiddo does here. In a time of way too much scary and ugly, he found sweetness. I’m sharing because we could all use some.
And to think that I was able to capture this child teaching his parent on video; the stained table and sticky hands were way worth the forever moment.
It was the Lite-Brite that really proved what I’d been feeling hints of throughout Day 1 of our #coronaquarantine. Today was a glimpse of my 1980s childhood come to life in 2020. Could this global pandemic have the tiniest silver lining that it’s forcing families and neighbors to rewind and go back in time?
Growing up, we didn’t have today’s battery-operated flat screen Lite-Brite (nee the version with an electric cord and light bulb that thankfully never ignited), Netflix, an endless choice of digital channels or, for that matter, anything On Demand back in the days that are now warm memories of outdoor play, make believe, resourceful imagination and nothing else to do. What’s now intentionally scheduled in my kids’ newly developed virtual instruction school day was the inventive, creative play that my sister and I magically conjured up, probably entertaining us for hours and hours.
I can vividly see the Lite-Brite filling up our dark room: the transparent plastic pegs becoming glittery jewels, the orange 1983 carpet no longer the stand-out design element of that extra bedroom, the darkness enveloping us, and the whole moment of play sparking imagination, sparking joy.
Honestly (and sadly), that kind of play – colorful from the delight, not only from the toys – is not enough of my kids’ standard day off. Our weekends always include family time and play, but they also include running from here to there and there to here and the constant routine of always going and never stopping. Lately, our house hasn’t been ringing the hum of free play. It’s been reverberating the meticulously composed arrangement that is a list of things to do, places to be and people to see. We’ve been on fast forward.
Yet today we were forced to pause from all that nonsense. Today was chock full of quality time together, creativity, exploring outdoors and probably the best part – having nothing to do. From playing outside to family board games for all four of us to watching a movie on the couch to even eating dinner together, this first day of hunkering down ‘just us’ was amazing. Even if it was upon the dawn of quite possibly the most significant health scare of modern history.
Evidence of its magnitude: With a pink stethoscope around his neck, my 5-year-old wrapped up today’s pretend game of doctor by ‘diagnosing’ my husband with Coronavirus. It’s what’s on people’s minds. All ages.
So while I dream of finally accomplishing my Gotta Get Done list and producing the baby books and photo books that I haven’t made but have said I would for the past seven years, and while I try to figure out how to juggle my very full time always on call job while my kids attend school via virtual instruction from home, and while anxiety swirls from headlines and reality, and while I continue to pray for those suffering from this horrible illness, I’m going to take this international crisis as the blessing of the remote control pause button we never had growing up. I guess we didn’t have it because we didn’t need it. Seems like today, we need it now more than ever.
As we inched along through the congested morning rush hour traffic and cold rain hit the windshield and winds that were charging hard against the trees seemed to be more blustery than breezy, I said to my kids, “Ugh-what a yucky day.”
Silence.
After a few seconds, my almost-five-year-old piped up with this whammy:
“Mommy, you really shouldn’t say things like that. It’s not nice. Instead, you really should say ‘thank you.’ God made this rain so the trees and plants can drink and grow. They need it, and God made it for them!”
Pause.
I turned around to look at this kid. (It was a red light and traffic wasn’t moving.) This remarkable child rightfully put me in my place and corrected me.
The stormy morning became sublime. And glorious.
He changed my view. My lens. I promise you I now saw rays of sun streaming through pockets of the cloudless grey sky, like radiant lightsabers. I now realized that the trees were swaying with the gentle wind. I now felt appreciative of the cooled temps of this Florida December morning.
“You’re right, D. You’re 100% right. I am thankful that God created this morning to help the trees and plants grow. And I’m thankful for you for reminding me of that.”
“And the flowers!” he said, again pointing out that our kids always see so much more than we do.
Thanks to this kiddo, it wasn’t only the trees that grew this morning.
My intended summer read became my favorite fall accessory. After a couple months of waiting and waiting for my library hold and then schlepping it around with me for another couple months, I’ve finally returned The Most Fun We Ever Had. It almost feels like it’s been the 50 years that this book spans. Thank you Miami-Dade Public Library for kindly extending while so many patiently waited in line like I did.
This is not a book review. It’s more like a reflection of time passed and an expression of thanks. I read this book wherever and whenever I could (anywhere and anytime I could fit in a page or two): fighting sleep at night, distracting me from insomnia, holding for customer service, waiting at dance class, finding grace while my favorite 4-year-old found something to watch on tv at 6:30 AM on a Sunday morning. I admit I was even a bit disappointed when the eye doctor was ready to see me right away. For the first time, I was looking forward to having to wait. I loved, I liked it, I laughed, I cried. Most of all, I appreciate Claire Lombardo‘s book, BECAUSE it:
Thank you, Ms. Lombardo, for the juicy read. Thank you, public library, for the sympathetic staff. And thank you in advance to my December author for giving me something good to dive into over winter break. It would be horrible timing for the momentum of my thus-far five-month reading streak to come to a halting stop upon the start of a brand new decade. Whether from the bookshelf, tablet or phone, here’s to us all escaping from our own real life page-turning dramedies into someone else’s written version this holiday season.
My mom’s brisket brought us together. It still does. (Even though my sister and I have taken turns being the “family vegetarian,” giving up meat throughout the decades, and ironically, our mom fills that family role today.)
I look back on my blissful American childhood and find delicious memories of holiday tables, a crowded house of friends (extended family was scarce in Miami) and table-spreads of my mom’s incredible cooking. To this day, she insists she hates to cook, but I know she always secretly loves the outcome.
My mom is the daughter of Holocaust survivors. She moved to the United States from Hungary at the age of nine. Rather, her family fled further persecution. She says they hurriedly left with nothing but a handful of green apples. But 63 years later, it’s clear that they carried so much more with them: the value of connecting generations, the commitment of carrying on traditions, the universal sign of love that is feeding your family…especially important for people who were starved for years and whose children, spouses and parents died in concentration camps.
My mother’s brisket means loved ones around a table – in times of celebration and in times of sorrow. The savory aroma and velvety slices that melt into the tomatoey gravy mean full bellies and full hearts. The loving nudge for me to “take just a bite” means ending my many years as a vegetarian with the yummy taste of childhood to nourish the new baby growing inside of me.
Now that I’m a mom and a wife, I’ve attempted to make her brisket myself, but it’s yet to be as good as hers. My mom’s brisket is famous in the community. People who have jumped at the honor of an invite to her table know it. People who have received the gift of a home delivery in their times of need love it. People who have attempted to replicate the recipe have come close but have not perfected it like she has. There must be a secret ingredient.
And it’s that secret ingredient that sweetens my memories of the past and my dreams of the future and brings them all together…all unbelievably rich with flavor.
