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.
“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.
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.
Today’s beautiful wisdom comes from an expert.
“Grandchildren are the dots that connect the lines from generation to generation.” ~Lois Wyse
“Children are the living messages we send to a time we will not see.” -Neil Postman
My babies.
You didn’t even know that I took this picture of you.
You pose for pictures all the time with silly smiles and savvy style. I really, really like those shots and even taking the selfie version of them with you. But it’s the moments like this one – that you didn’t even realize was happening – that I love the most.
Here you were waiting for a swim lesson, which was running late. It was hot out there at the pool. So hot. Miami in summer hot. In my head, I was doing the whining and complaining I always beg you not to do. You were so patient.
Picture-perfect:
Big Sis put her arm around Little Brother. On her own while we waited. Just because. Just because she was reminding him not to be nervous for his lesson and that she’d be right there.
And he edged in closer to her. Just because. Just because he was reminding her that he likes his view from there with her arm around him and that he’d be right there.
You’ve been like his second little mama since the day he was born. And you’ve been her partner in fun and kindness (and crime) since the day you arrived.
And now the only roles we want you two to share are best friends forever. It’s ok for you to argue and debate and fight. They say it’s healthy and good for you. But also laugh with, protect and love on one another. You have the gift of each other. And the gift Daddy and I pray for in return is that you’ll always have each other’s backs, even (especially) when it’s the time we will not see.
As I turn on the ignition – with two giggling, hurried kids in the backseat strapping themselves into car seats (I swear they were babies like a split second ago, and it feels like we were dreaming of them to even exist a second before then, and I know it was only a minute before then that we were in our 20s living it up in NYC with these little people as amazing visions of a tomorrow on a far away horizon) – I pray that I have all the bags, mini waffles that I know no one will eat and miscellaneous items that the three of us need for the day because we are not turning around to go back home once this rocket ship of a minivan takes off for another Monday morning.
Everything is hectic. Everyone is rushed. But happy. A Michael Jackson mashup is blaring through Pandora for MJ’s littlest biggest fans to dance in their seats.
We’re so hurried. So on the go. And I never grabbed anything to eat on the way. So running on empty.
But I’m already full. I may not have eaten breakfast, but I feel full.
Because in the midst of this manic Monday morning, I look down at my dash and see that my amazing husband must have filled up my gas tank at some point yesterday. He never told me he was going to and never told me after he did it. He just saw my car would need gas in a couple days and thought to take care of it so I wouldn’t have to during the week. Or so I wouldn’t have to at all.
I make him crazy with my unsolicited criticisms and comments and opinions. And, yet. And yet he goes and does stuff like this. I do realize how fortunate I am to have such a partner. I hope he and all of my loved ones feel the gratitude I have for them when I too offer similar TLC.
We are not wealthy but, indeed, our life is rich. Our life is not easy but, indeed, our challenges are nothing compared to what real heroes face and battle. My life is full. My cup runneth over. I count my blessings, and I feel blessed.
And now I’m also hungry. Thank goodness for cold frozen mini waffles.
