Last Shabbat 7.25.14

A few nights ago I was sitting alone on a boardwalk bench doing a whole lot of nothing important. The cool night sea air was calming and the stars were out in abundance. I sat there for over an hour, taking in the hushed summer calm, breathing deeply, and just being.

Many people walked by carrying on their own conversations about life with the company they were sharing on their walks. I only heard what was spoken loudly enough to hear and caught mere snippets into their lives as each couple or small group passed. Some shared stories of their day: the frustration or successes at work or in personal lives. While others spoke of ideologies or politics. Jokes were told and laughter shared. Empathy or sympathy was offered if needed. And there was an overall feeling of camaraderie and humanity.

A group of 3 twenty-somethings was walking toward me and I overheard just a bit of their conversation about an interaction one of them had earlier that involved a Jewish man inquiring about her marital status. The follow-up response from one of the males accompanying her made me look up in disbelief:

“FUCKING Jews,” he spoke nonchalantly, “They’re ALL scum.”

“Yeh,” she agreed, “They ALL suck.”

I was honestly shocked and could only mutter, “Wow,” looking at the group, while thinking, “That. Just. Actually. Happened.”

The first male turned around and responded unapologetically, “I’m sorry but I don’t believe in Zionism and I think Palestine should be free.”

I was still in shock and said nothing. They kept walking and that was it.

But that wasn’t it. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

IT mulled around in my mind for the next hour, kept me up into the wee hours of morning and lingered for days, though it has felt like eternity. I felt those hateful words coarse through my veins and beat through my heart. They reverberated in my head like a pinball…

When I was in first grade I had a play date over and as we played our religions came up in conversation. She was Christian. Upon hearing that I was Jewish she said very matter-of-factly, “You killed Jesus.”  I have no recollection what my response was. I know that we were 6. I know that at the time I knew very little of Jesus, except that I didn’t believe in him as God. And that was it.

When I was a student at Akiba, a Jewish day school, during Operation Desert Storm, the school was on lock down and high alert for security reasons. It was located near an orthodox community and on 3 of 4 corners of the intersection stood a Jewish elementary school, a Jewish middle/high school, and 2 synagogues. The area was considered a potential target so precautions were made: Outer doors were to be kept closed and locked, book bags left unattended were checked, and those students with off campus lunch privileges had to sign in and out at the office. And that was it.

When I went to Poland as a junior in high school, there were less than friendly bystanders watching the 5000 participants on my trip symbolically walk the March of Death from Auschwitz to Birkenau on The March of the Living. If I recall correctly, there were a few onlookers who made inappropriate gestures at us. We ignored them and marched on in silence.  And that was it.

When I taught religious school and preschool, pre-9/11, the synagogue received a bomb threat one Sunday morning. We calmly evacuated the students and authorities were called. Regular classes resumed the following morning. And that was it.

…Yet NEVER have I experienced such BLATANT anti-Semitism as I did a few nights ago.

I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t personal. But it is.

I tried to think that it’s just an uniformed, ignorant person connecting all members of a specific religion to one country. But it’s so much more.

I tried to separate the two statements and wondered in disbelief: How could disagreeing with a specific country’s defense and subsequent response to ACTS of TERROR make every member of that religion “scum?” But I was left with no logical or humanitarian answer.

I, as a member of the Jewish religion and people, do support Israel but I do not find her infallible at all times. I do believe that Israel has the right to defend herself and should continue her offensive to rid the world of a KNOWN TERRORIST ORGANIZATION.

I also, DO NOT confuse Hamas with ALL Palestinians nor ALL Muslims. I am pro-Israel during this questionable time.  But more importantly, I am anti-terror at ALL times.

I feel badly for any loss of civilian lives on either side, yet recognize that it is an unfortunate and unavoidable consequence of war. And I commend Israel for trying to prevent and avoid such losses, a fact that much of the media fails to report.

I am also an American. I am not an Israeli, although Israel would grant me citizenship purely based on my lineage. Yet based on the ignorant, uninformed, HATEFUL comment that connects a political disagreement to an ENTIRE people while walking down the boardwalk in a predominately JEWISH area of the NJ shore, it is clear that I may need to become Israeli, one day.

That unfortunate fact is exactly why I support Israel.  That hateful statement I overheard is proof that I NEED her.  She is a safe haven for me and my family, no questions asked, purely because I am Jewish.

I cannot say the same for ANY other country, especially based on the recent global anti-Semitic violent acts and demonstrations that have surfaced with unabashed JUDENHASS (Jew-Hatred).

And that is why #IstandwithIsrael #AmYisraelChai #NeverAgain

Jewish Guilt & Hanukkah Gelt

December 2014

Me to Customer Service at supermarket: Excuse me? Do you have any Hanukkah gelt?

CS: What? Hanukkah guilt?

Me, attempting a joke: No. Gelt. But if you eat enough of it, it’s the same thing.

CS, staring at me like a deer in headlights: Hey Bob! Do you know what isle the Jewish Guilt is in?

Convos With Kids #247365711: Spelling

September 2014

Lady J is starting to spell out her responses, as is expected, as she learns to read more and is used to hearing adults spell out words. Bud is trying to follow suit, as is expected from a younger sibling….

…Except Bud doesn’t have a clue about the correlation between phonics and letters yet and seems to limit his requests to using four letters at a time. His attempts are generally innocent and difficult to decipher: Mommy? Can I have k-b-z-y? (Translation: goldfish.)

However, this morning, while in the waiting room at the dentist’s office, he loudly asked if he could play with that d-o-n-g while he had one hand in his pocket and the other pointed in the general direction of the other people in room…

…There are no words for the obvious embarrassment that the 2 young gentlemen who shared the tiny space with us felt, as one’s face flushed bright red, and the other covered his face in his hands and stifled a guffaw.

Fortunately, the door to the back opened and the dental hygienist called on us to follow her, or it may have been more #awkward.

#soTHAThappened #boysandtheirtoys #kidssaythedarnedestthings

(After his checkup was complete and we were exiting, I discovered that Bud was referring to the “treasure chest” for post-visit-prizes.)

Artwork: March 30, 2014

Almost three years ago we had a devastating fire that destroyed our home and consumed our contents. I often refer to that day as “the event” because I still have a hard time with the word fire, which incidentally is more common that most people would give notice to. I notice it. Every song it’s in. Every phrase that refers to it. Every news story that shows its destructive powers. I relive “the event” just about every day. And honestly, I think I’m doing ok. But some days are harder than others.

My husband and I have come to terms with the fact that we lost just about every material item that we owned. Very little was salvaged. Fortunately, we were able to save our wedding album and some other boxes of pictures and videos. Unfortunately, there were many other irreplaceable items. Most days I try not to think about it. Today is not one of those days.  Today, I miss our artwork.

Artwork is special. It’s personal. It often represents events or emotions that are deeper than the canvas measures and more vibrant that the colors upon it.

As I sit, looking around at my in law’s artwork, I am almost transported back to our home, staring at our own personal pieces of art. I miss them. I am flooded with memories and consumed with emotions.

The Linda Hartough of the 18th Hole at Harbourtown hung above ourIMG_0307 fireplace. We got engaged on that green 7 1/2 years ago. I remember that magical night like it was just a moment ago.

 

The (copy of the) Monet that I got for my husband’s 30th birthday. I surprised him with an entire day in NYC living out the new Thomas CrIMG_0309own Affair.  He woke up to his suit hanging on the wall with a bowler hat and a riddle to our first destination. After sailing around the harbor, he received his next clue in the riddle that led us to The Metropolitan Museum of Art. His next clue brought us to dinner at Cipriani’s on 59th.  After dinner I gave him his final clue as to the whereabouts of the painting. It hung in our bedroom above his dresser.

Above my dresser hung the painting I painted for him when we were first moving to New Jersey from northern Virginia. It wasn’t my favorite artwork. It wasn’t my best artwork. But he loved that painting. In the middle I had inscribed a quote from our song, Moondance.  “Can I just have one more moon dance with you, my love?”  I didn’t know it at the time that I had painted it, but three years later we were married under a blue moon.

Our dining room boasted another Linda Hartough of the 7th Hole at Pebble Beach. It reminded me of my grandparents. I believe they once told a story about playing a round there, though they were not golfers. It hIMG_0308ung gloriously next to their Shabbat table where I spent most Friday nights of my childhood with my uncles, aunts and cousins. Memories too numerous to recount. I can still hear the stories, songs and jokes, “Hark! I hear the cry of cannons!”

I know that in time we will rebuild our own collection. I know that we have made and will continue to make new memories.

Last winter I had the pleasure of making more paintings with our children. They hang above K-Mad’s bed and are filled with memories, resilience, and love.

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Above our bed hangs a painting I had commissioned for Brian before “the event.”  It was to hang in our living room.  Hopefully, it will someday. But for today, I just miss our artwork.

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Proof of Residence: May 2014

For the last 3 years, almost to the day, we have not had a house and as such, an official address. During these 3 years we have moved 6 times. Our stays have ranged in time from 2 weeks to almost 2 years. Throughout each of our living arrangements we maintained our NJ licenses and our official address was still our home.  Even after we sold the foundation and property in April 2013, I kept my license as is, unable to move on.

Registering Lady J for kindergarten proved to be difficult without our local address being ours. But given our circumstances, we were allowed. There was a homeless form in her packet that I honestly had to hold back tears when I saw it. Was that us?  Do I need to fill that out?  Are we homeless? I didn’t complete it, since we live in my in-laws’ house…but it didn’t lessen the blow or make me feel any more home-ful.

I had looked into changing everything over to PA after a small hit & run incident outside Lady J’s school this winter, that left my driver’s side mirror cracked. I called and waited for the police. After taking my report, he told me he would “let it go this time” but that I need to get my PA license and reregister my car here. It was illegal for her to go to school here since we’re not officially residents. “Great!” I thought, holding back more tears and choking back the lump in my throat.

I went back to my in-laws’ to look up the needed information. In order to change everything over, I needed to show proof of residency. Looking over the list of acceptable proof opened the floodgates. I quickly closed out of the page and shutdown my laptop. It was too hard, still too soon, still not OUR home….

I tried to ignore it and hoped it would go away. But eventually, it was time. My husband gathered his proof of residency: w2 form, tax return, and our bank statement.

Mine was more difficult, as I don’t have a w2 to prove my address, utilities are not in our name, and cell phone bills are not acceptable forms of proof.  In order for me to prove my residency, I had to bring my father-in-law as additional verification. (I should note that in the end, he was not needed, but that didn’t help quell the emotional aspect of the situation.)

My husband asked me to gather all official documents which were miraculously saved during “The Event”: birth certificates, passports, our marriage license (since I never updated my passport), and social security cards.

I opened up the manila envelope that I had placed them in the week following “The Event.”  I had needed them to get a new NJ license as mine had perished in our home.

A haunting smell of burnt ash wafted upwards as I slid the contents onto our bed. The charred pages stirred flashes of memories back to that horrific day and the weeks that followed. I could feel my blood coursing through my body. My arm hair stood straight as if shock had taken over, again…

I put all of the pages back in the envelope and we left for the DMV.

I handed over my NJ license today, and with it, a little piece of my heart…

The Great Oak (short version): May 20, 2014

A few weeks ago on Facebook, a friend asked a general question: “In the moment of the unknown, in the face of a challenge…How strong will you stand?”

Here was my response: “We are as strong as the Great Oak under which we spoke our vows. Our branches may sway in the wind, but our roots are deep and our trunks, thick. We are home to our children, regardless of where home is. Our strength comes from within and from without. You may see us leaning on one another and on others for support from time to time but rest assured our strength is rock steady. This family tree will one day be a forest…”

A new house stands on the foundation of our property that we sold just over a year ago, almost 2 years after “the event.” It’s not our house. It never will be.

When I pulled into our neighborhood last Friday to get a glimpse of the new construction, I was honestly hoping for closure. I was wishing that this empty, gut-wrenching feeling of loss would just dissipate. Like pulling a band-aid off and the wound was miraculously healed and I could look back and say something like, “remember the time..?” as though recalling a distant memory with an old friend.

Instead, I was met with an overwhelming feeling of longing to return, of knowing this was where we were supposed to be, of home.

Three years ago, today, I woke to a typical Friday morning, went about my normal routine, and prepared for my friends to join Lady J, Bud, and me at our weekly Mommy & Me play date. {K-Mad was 16 weeks along inside me.}

A few hours later, minutes before our guests arrived, the unthinkable happened…

Forest fires, although devastating, are also natures way of rebirth. New growth takes time as the forest returns to life and takes root.

There are still many days when the ashes smoke and the embers glow bright with the sorrow of loss. My strength as an oak wanes at times.  My branches may sag, my trunk feel hollow and my roots feel parched.

Last week I read an inspirational quote that read: “Courage is not having the strength to go on. It’s going on when you don’t have the strength.” (Mighty Girls)

These past 3 years have proven that seedlings are starting to sprout and roots to dig deep.  So today I stand tall, with the courage for growth. Thank you to all who stand with me, in my forest.

Melted Crayon Hearts

Most pinteresting thing I’ve done this year:

Homemade melted crayon hearts. We made them for the kid’s school parties. Great activity for snow days. And I love that it’s not candy and that Lady J is finally able to write out her own cards, or we would’ve done store bought.

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Directions:

SO easy to make…just peel crayons, break apart, fill muffin tin (we used silicone ones) about 1/2 way and bake at 250.

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Check often and remove when melted. Let harden and cool. Seriously that easy.

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The peeling was the hardest part. I finally broke down and used a paring knife to slice the labels down the length of the crayons.

Captions we used:

For Crayon Out Loud, Have a Happy Valentine’s Day!

Color your heart out for Valentine’s Day!

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Fawts Awe Awways Funny

 

K-Mad is happily reading (playing with) the book “Farts in the Wild” while Lady J & Bud are busy cleaning up and IMG_4475putting toys away.

Bud, clearly recognizing that she is not doing her fair share of the work, walks up to her and sternly says, “K-Mad, stop futzin’ awound. It’s time to cwean up!”

He then turns to me and starts hysterically laughing, “Ah-hahahaha!!!! Get it, Mom? See’s futzin’ awound cause see’s weading the FAWT book! Hahahaha! I finally told a joke with a good punch wine!  YES! Now DAT was funny!” He saunters away still giggling, amused and full of pride… #fartsarefunny

{Meanwhile, down the hall, Lady J is busy telling Grandma the “Interrupting Fart knock-knock joke” Grandma was not nearly as amused by such shannanigans…}

 

The Keystone

On our way home from school today, Lady J burst into tears. “Mom, I miss our blue house. I just miss it so much!  I want to go home.” Tears immediately welled and flowed from behind my sunglasses as I drove on and gently responded, “I know, J. Me too. Me too.”

We don’t talk about “it” often, but sometimes she notices sale signs on lawns and asks if I like that house, or this one…She knows I like old stone farm houses, but I don’t favor brick. She knows that Mr. TheKing prefers a Tudor style and wonders if we can mix our styles, “Ya know, like a stone Tudor house, so Daddy likes the way it looks but so it’s also really strong. Stone is strong, right Mommy?  It will keep us safe. It’s fireproof. It has to be. It just does.”

She associates the strength of the stone with The Three Little Pigs and wants nothing to do with houses made with visible wood on the surface, not really having an understanding of building materials, structural engineering, and architecture. She just wants a strong, fireproof, indestructible house that will keep her sheltered and safe forever and always.

Don’t we all?

We don’t talk about it often, but we talk about it openly. After our conversation in the car, this is what I wrote to her in her journal for tomorrow. I can only close my eyes now, take a deep breath, and hope it helps:

Thursday October 9, 2014

Hey Lady J,

I know that house we drove by after school reminded you of our blue house and that made you sad. I miss our house too.

I’m not really sure when we’ll have our own house again, but please know that Mommy & Daddy will make it as safe as we can. I do not know if it will be all stone or if it will be a mix of different styles and materials. I’m not sure if it will look the same on the outside.

I know you loved the inside of our blue house, but a new one may look different. The rooms may be in different places and the colors may not be the same. The decorations will vary and so will the furniture. I can’t draw you a picture of what it will look like because I don’t know. *

What I do know is that it will be filled with love, strength, and courage. You have been so very strong and patient for all these years. Your courage to adapt to each place we have lived with such ease and grace have taught both Daddy and me that no matter where we live, we are home as long as we are together. And together, we are indestructible. Together, we are stone.

I love you so much, Lady J. You are incredible and inspirational! Continue to be kind, be inclusive, be happy, and be you! I love you anywhere and everywhere for always and forever!

Love,

Mommy

Home is where the heart is

Home is where the heart is

The Creepy Elf on the Shelf: 12.5.14

 Lady J: Mom, did you know that Happy is in the bathroom?

 Me: What? Why would he be in the bathroom?

 J: I don’t know but don’t move him. I don’t want him to lose his magic…. But Mom? Maybe cover his eyes with toilet paper bc he’s kinda creepin’ me out in there. I mean, do you think he’s watching? Ew…

 #WhenGoodElvesGoBad

 (This is what happens when your MIL panics because we both forgot to move the Elf…again…and she didn’t want the kids to find him in the same place….again…#NiceTryGrandma)

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