A.  An in-depth workshop on creativity and mindfulness?

B.  An exclusive forum of individuals seeking to embrace the spirit of carpe diem?

C.  A mind over matter symposium to change your life by changing your perspective?

Well, dear MoB readers, the answer would be D – none of the above.  Despite its moniker, Dimensions in Living is none of these new wave, new age events.   In fact, it is far nearer and dearer to your hearts than you could have ever imagined.   Dimensions in Living is Career Day.  At our local middle school.  Where Chase is a seventh grader.

At some point along the way, someone important person  thought that calling this annual mash up of parents coming to school to talk about what we do “Career Day” was too limiting… or too broad…  or too offensive…  or  too suggestive…  or too clear.

I’m hoping it was the latter.  Because for the life of me, I can’t find any fault with “Career Day.” So I have to believe someone wanted a fancy upgrade that would be unique to our school district.  If that’s the case, then the re-branding of the Career Day has been a resounding success.  Only the people in our small town who share DNA with a middle school student knows what Dimensions in Living means.  And it isn’t the first name change initiated to confuse parents like me.

Did you know that there is no longer a class called Home Economics?  It is now called Family Consumer Sciences.  (The cool kids say FamConSci.)  There is no Home Room.  My son goes to his Connections class. Wood Shop is Tech Education.  English is Language Arts.  The PTA is now Home & School.  And simply uttering the words Junior High School is a dead giveaway that you are in your mid 40s.  Its all Middle School all the time. Word.  Uh, or words…

I am certain there is good reason behind all these name changes other than to make us parents feel more old, less hip.  Perhaps fancier is better and raises all of us up to a higher ground.  If that is the case, then why stop at Career Day?  Why not rename EVERYTHING to better reflect the intricacies and complexities that are embedded in the world of K-12 education?  Where should we start?

Math = Numeric Neuro-Synthesis

Detention= Post Academic Custody

Snow Day= Precipitative Interlude

Gym Class= Metabolic Acceleration Hour

Homework= Nightly Parental Seminars

Recess = Atmospheric Exposure Occasions

Hall Pass = Trespassing Waiver

History = Hindsights

Teacher = UberMentor

Lunch Lady = Culinarian for the Masses

Library = Google

I could go on but I have to turn my attention to my presentation for Dimensions in Living.  The stakes are indeed as high as the name of the event suggests.  Should I misstep or misspeak the dimensions of my son’s middle school life could be irreparably altered for the worse.  Thankfully, he offered some sage and timeless advice:

Pavlovian Motivation?  Nah – just candy, me thinks.  Some things will always speak for themselves.

As the mother of only brothers, I rarely ever find myself in the hip young women’s clothing stores.  I stroll by Forever 21, Free People, Limited Too on my way to the Vans store  at the mall without ever giving more than a passing glance as to what might be inside these outlets. I really don’t  need or want to know.  I have all my friends who are mothers of tween and teenage daughters to share the gory details of shopping expeditions inside these jungles of pubescent apparel and angst.  The fact that I have never had to re-enter these stores once I had children made me feel quite lucky indeed.  Until this past week – when I needed something hip to wear for a party.

Suddenly I found myself woefully insecure about my right to cross back over the threshold into a world I left over 15 years ago.   Still, I had to try.  And after all, I’m kind of a cool Mom.  I know who Jay-Z is.  I knew all the United Colors of Benetton once.   Surely that gives me a fighting chance.

My establishment of choice was none other than Urban Outfitters.   I always had good luck there back in college!  Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so bad.  But, just in case my field trip to the Fountain of Youth might be a little chilly, I went alone.  It was a wise move.

For my first foray back, I kept my expectations reasonable.  All I wanted to buy was a nice, flowy top to wear with a pair of jeans.  Upon entering the store, I was thrilled to be faced with a sea of such garments, hung on various racks in the women’s section.  This was going to be fun!   I dove in.

Rack Number One had an array of gauzy shirts that were colorful, loose-fitting and ….entirely transparent.  Not to be deterred (I KNOW how this works), I looked further back behind the invisible garments o find the matching cami’s that would obviously go under them.  Some clever cross selling trickery indeed!   But apparently the good folks at Urban Outfitters don’t want my $19.99 for a cami because there were none to be found.  They would prefer I wear my best bra underneath.  How empowering that would be if I had a best bra!   Moving on…

Rack Number Two offered an even wider selection of colors and patterns featuring the trendy “peek-a-boo” shoulder.   Ah, now were talking!  I used to rock this look back in the 1990s.  But somehow between then and now the “peek” doubled in size, making the “boo” truly frightening.  No longer does one get a tiny, lingering hint of a bit of bare shoulder.  Nope – you get a full frontal of the ENTIRE arm – flab and all.  Scary.

Rack Number Three was truly promising.  There I was treated to a number of adorable shirts that you couldn’t see through and were stitched together from top to bottom.  They were long enough that they covered my tummy and at least half of my tush.  Respectable, I thought as I cheerfully gathered up two or three of these shirts to bring back to the dressing room.  Wondering what the brand name was on these gems, I glanced at the sign on the rack which told me in no uncertain terms that these amazing shirts were actually dresses.  And then the sign snickered.  I swear it did.  Back went the “dresses” and I moved on to a final option.

Rack Number Four lacked the flowy, Bohemian look I was going for, but I was encouraged by the sign which clearly confirmed that I was indeed looking at “shirts.” They were pretty, cotton simple tees that perhaps I could dress up with a scarf or jewelry.  I looked towards the accessory area to see what might be over there and was surprised by the distance I had traveled since the beginning of my quest.   Why were the accessories now on the other side of the store?  I’ll tell you why.   I was in the Men’s section.

At this point I surrendered to the cold, hard fact that I had no business shopping in this store – or any other store that blasts Jay-Z.  I am old and no longer hip.  Dejected, I shuffled over to the gift section and picked up a fake mullet, Zombie magnetic poetry and some bacon flavored lollipops for the boys.  At least the trip wasn’t a total loss.  The silliness of the gifts cheered me and as I left the store, I meditated on the fact I may not be able to pull off 22 anymore, but I do a pretty good 44!  Not every Mom would go for that fake mullet – or have the guts to shop at a store meant for women half her age.

I gave myself a ton of credit for trying.  Perhaps I would refresh an old look in my closet for the party this week – or have a personal shopper at Nordstrom’s bring me items that compliment my figure and insult my wallet.  Yeah baby.  I will NEVER have to come into this store to shop for clothes again.  My anonymous voyage was now OVER .  And at least no one was there to bear witness to my lessons learned.

I turned to walk out and into the bright sunshine of the afternoon with my head high and my confidence renewed.  Onward!  At which point I walked smack into the window adjacent to the actual door.  I looked around sheepishly, thought briefly of the security guards whooping it up when they review the tape, and swallowed that last bite of humble pie.  Gulp.

It went down smoothly as I walked into the parking lot, my eyes fixed firmly on the horizon and the warm glow of a familiar and comforting sign in the distance…

The public safety jingle reverberated in my head as I imagined the conversation that would take place between me and the transit cop meandering about at the other end of the platform.

Well of course it doesn’t   Nothing normal feels right to me these days.  Or probably to any of you.  The train arrived.  I sighed and boarded, right behind Backpack Dude.  An hour and 35 minutes later, we arrived in Washington, on time and unharmed.

 *****

Lately I have been pondering the question:  Is the world is ACTUALLY more dangerous than when I was a little girl, or are we  just much more informed, and therefore more paranoid, about the daily atrocities that await us?

Back in 1975, when I was just shy of seven years old, a girl about my age was kidnapped from a busy road and subsequently murdered in my town.  The killer was never found.  I remember her name – Gretchen Harrington – because of all the conversations that took place in our neighborhood and schools.  It was first time I had heard the word “kidnap” and “rape.”  And when I understood that there was a man out there who took little girls away, I wouldn’t go upstairs in my home by myself without a parent for weeks.

My mother assured me I was safe.  I seem to recall her becoming exasperated at some point after yet another one of my refusals to head up to my room.  I had nothing to worry about.  Mom was right and, I am certain, steadfast in her convictions.  The chance of the Boogie Man being under my bed in the suburban haven where we lived was extremely low.   And eventually I believed her.

Years later, when Chase didn’t feel comfortable ascending the steps to his bedroom, I used the same calm words my Mom used with me.  You. Are. Safe.  And I said them despite the fact that I knew all the details of the Elizabeth Smart case and that yes – the Boogie Man can come to your home.

I chose to embrace the odds.

Because not going with the odds is a grim alternative.  It is all we can do as parents to keep ourselves from locking our children in the house, curling into the fetal position, and forsaking the precious time we were given on this earth, agonizing over the chance of unthinkable horrors.  I just wish the odds were getting better.  They are not.

The world IS more dangerous today than when we were kids.  We are scared of backpacks…  and shoes on planes … and U.S. mail … and guns that are being used on school children and movie goers.  On Friday, my oldest friend was mauled by an escaped dog in her neighborhood.  Our fears are warranted.  These things happened – many for the first time during our generation.

But knowledge of these atrocities – while tortuous – do make us safer and help us beat the odds.   Back in 1975, Gretchen Harrington’s abduction didn’t halt my happy 7 year old solo frolics around our neighborhood.   The “isolated incident” didn’t scare my parents enough change the way we lived, which I find remarkable.  If this took place today, we would have quarantined our kids from walking anywhere alone until the maniac was caught.

But today, 7 year olds don’t walk anywhere by themselves anyway.

In fact, our 15 and 13 year olds are generally under our surveillance at all times.  Is that because the world is more dangerous or we just know more about the dangers that are out there and make far more cautious choices?

Both.

The bigger question is how do we manage it all?  The line between vigilance and insanity is a thin one indeed.  To keep my balance, I hold fast to the odds and cross my fingers.  I say “yes” to opportunities for independence for my sons — and myself — and “no” when my spidey sense tickles my spine.  We travel on planes, trains and automobiles, my sons surf the Internet, we walk headlong into crowds — all the while knowing that someday it could be our turn.   And, so far, that has gotten us through.

***

As I stood in the queue for the 138 return train from Washington D.C., my eyes fell on the man in front of me.  Same cap.  Same backpack.  It was Backpack Dude from my morning train.  My paranoia took a back seat to the funny coincidence and I smiled at him, remarking that we had the same travel schedule.  It turns out my would-be train bomber commutes every other week from Allentown to spend a day at his D.C. office.  He loves D.C. and enjoys the train ride.  As we began to walk towards the business class car, his sneakered feet moved far more quickly than my heels.  He moved ahead of me, but not before turning back and smiling:

“Have a good night,” he said, “Be safe.”

I smiled back knowing that evening, the odds were in my favor.

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]]> http://mothersofbrothers.com/the-odds-are-safe/feed/ 2 http://mothersofbrothers.com/how-to-to-embarrass-your-child/ http://mothersofbrothers.com/how-to-to-embarrass-your-child/#comments Mon, 29 Apr 2013 11:09:17 +0000 Emily http://mothersofbrothers.com/?p=8822

Before I had children, I made certain vows to myself about what kind of parent I would be.  This exercise stretched as far back as my teenage years when I knew for certain that I had the wherewithal to be an absolutely perfect mother.  Given my vast personal experience at having parents – and long clinical rotations of observing other kid’s parents – I had derived the secret formula that  would someday compel my unborn children to thank the heavens above that they wound up with me.  In each iteration of this formula – and it did shift around a bit based on my daily run-ins with these grow-ups – there was one constant, one tried and true silver bullet that never lost its number one rank in the Perfect Parent criteria list:

I would never ever ever ever embarrass my children.

Remarkably, I held onto this ideal for quite some time.  And let me tell you, it is really super easy not to embarrass your children when you don’t have any.  I was, in fact the perfect parent, at my wedding, in those early years of marriage, and during both my pregnancies.  I remained true to my promise well through both boy’s infancies (blobs don’t get embarrassed), toddler hoods (Mommy does no wrong), and grade school years (I will take full credit for this one, but it was work.)

And then something changed.

As the center of the boys’ universes shifted away from me towards themselves and their friends, my universe began to return back to a place where I mattered just as much (maybe even sometimes more) than those sweet little boys to whom I gave life.  Translated:  Suddenly, my singing show tunes in the mini-van at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down completely mortified my sons.  And I didn’t care.

I employed a bit of dramatic license above.  I did not roll the windows COMPLETELY down.  But I have, in fact,  given up on being the perfect parent in this regard.  And in the spirit of embracing my imperfections, I am taking this opportunity to share with you some of the best (and easiest) ways to humiliate the fruit of you loins. (Note:  Referring to them as the “fruit of your loins” is always a winner — as is blogging about them on a weekly basis, but those are almost too obvious.)  Here are 5 more ways to embarrass your children by doing nothing else but living your life:

Sideshow Mom:   Singing your favorite show tunes is almost too easy.  You can embarrass your child by belting out a few bars even when there isn’t another human being around for miles.  But for some variety, try a popular song that your child loves… when you’re driving their friends around in the car. (I do a GREAT Mumford and Sons).  And.. for an added kick – get the words wrong.  If singing isn’t your thing, just dance.  Preferably alone..  In a department store. Or at a track meet.  When Bizarre Love Triangle serendipitously comes on over the sound system.  (OMG!!! I love this SONG!!!)

One of the Gang:  Insert yourself into their world… preferably physically.  It is amazing how embarrassing your simple presence can be.  For instance, when your kids have friends over and are hanging out in the basement, bring down some food.  Then, linger for let’s say… uh… ten seconds.  Ask if everyone is okay and if they need anything.  Watch as your child implores you with his eyes to high tail it upstairs.   If you are feeling saucy, ignore the silent plea and take a few steps further into the room as if you might join the crowd.  It’s quite a powerful feeling.

Complaint Department:  Being served food in a restaurant that is sub-par or inedible is a golden opportunity to humiliate your offspring.  Don’t forsake it.  The simple act of politely telling your sever that that your dish is rancid or your wine tastes like vinegar is enough to send any teenager under the table for the rest of the night.  As they slink further down in their seat, turn to them and, in front of the server, say “WHAT??? Why are you embarrassed?”

Loud Talker:  You may not realize this gem, but anything you have to say that can be overheard by friends or the general public has the potential to redden the cheeks of your child.  Nagging your son about getting his homework done as you stroll by the girls track team is quick, easy, and effective in a number of ways.  If you see one of your kid’s friends in Target, be sure to scream, “Look, hon, there’s Susie – you should go say HI!!!”  And never miss the chance to employ the loud whisper which implies that you are trying to be discreet and therefore are unaccountable for your actions.

Child Advocate:  If your child is having a problem in school with a teacher or coach, gently suggest that perhaps you should send an email or make a phone call to better understand the problem.  It doesn’t matter how constructive you promise to be.  The threat of engaging with another adult in power on the subject of your child is enough to throw any kid into a tizzy.  The only thing worse is proposing a conversation with another parent about problematic friendships.  Somehow, no kid sees the immense good that can come from “talking it through.”  If ever think you hear a distant painful cry of “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” – that is a child reacting to this suggestion from his or her parents.

So to all you teenagers out there who are making the same vows I did at your age, keep dreaming.  By the time your hypothetical children are in middle school, your perspective will have shifted.  The oath to never embarrass your kids will fall a distant second to the importance of standing up for them, communicating important things, eating a good meal, engaging with them on your own terms, and celebrating the goodness of life by singing and dancing when and wherever you want to.

Last year, I was pleasantly surprised when Noah, as an eighth grader, wanted to go out for the track team.  As a former athlete, I carry with me a strong sense of the value that comes with participating in a sport.  But both Noah and Chase have historically chosen to spend most of their extracurricular time with music, save for the occasional rec programs here and there.  So, the interest in track caught me off guard.  But I didn’t let on, telling him how great the idea was, and later that day raising an eyebrow with my husband, citing the fact that Noah doesn’t really like to “hurry up” much less run.  This should be interesting.

Which it was.

After a few practices, it came time to select in which events Noah would compete.  Not knowing where his strengths were as a runner I wondered if he would go longer or shorter distances.  The answer was soon revealed.

He chose hurdles.

Hurdles??  As in, you run and jump and run and jump some more? As in the ONLY event in a middle school track meet where the probability of wiping out is equal to the probability of not wiping out?

Again, I smiled and supported and then side barred my poor husband:  “Are you kidding?  Hurdles?  Do they teach them how do that because it looks really difficult and shouldn’t that be reserved for kids who have been on the track team before and are his legs EVEN LONG ENOUGH to jump over one of those things and…..?!!”

In his infinite wisdom Dave shrugged at me and reassured – which is all I really wanted.  I needed someone to blame when it went horribly wrong and by Dave saying it would be fine, I had my man.

But it turns out, I didn’t need to direct my lethal Jewish guilt trip in any direction.  Noah did great in the hurdles – with respectable times and improved throughout the year.  So when Chase went out for track this year, and yes, also chose hurdles, the Black Diamond Path of Worry had already been trail blazed by his older brother.  If Noah could hurdle, so could Chase.  I looked forward to having two boys on the track team this year – Chase at the middle school; Noah, at the high school – each running hurdles.  A worry free season was upon us! Or so I thought.

Awesome.   My son had moved from the one event where he was most likely to face plant to the one where he was most likely to impale himself.  Side bar!!!

Well, you know the drill.  A smile and shrug from Dave.  The unspoken understanding that any injuries sustained while pole vaulting would be his fault and off Noah flew.

And once again, my worry was misplaced.  Noah figured it out and is now competing in the pole vault as a freshman – as his mother, also a “freshman” in every sense of the word, watches on with bated breath.

My sons rarely surprise me.  From the time they were born and I first distinguished the hungry cry from the tired cry from the ear infection cry, I can pretty much predict their choices, actions and reactions to most anything.  I know what fuels them, scares them, and makes them angry.   I’m certain they could probably say the same about me.

I never would have guessed that either boy would want to be on a school team.  Track was never on the  Child Radar Screens, which I lovingly monitor as they move through life.  And I certainly never pictured them flying over hurdles and bars as I happily sit in the stands, cheering them on with confidence and pride.

Every now and then, it is delightful to wrong.

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]]> http://mothersofbrothers.com/right-on-track/feed/ 4 http://mothersofbrothers.com/hope-no-more/ http://mothersofbrothers.com/hope-no-more/#comments Mon, 15 Apr 2013 11:05:09 +0000 Emily http://mothersofbrothers.com/?p=8783

As you might imagine, I have been swimming in sea of anxiety for the last several months.  I don’t do particularly well with unfinished business, much less circumstances in which I have no control.  And since the beginning of the year, several rather large, uncertain situations have moved in on my life, like unwanted house guests who refuse to leave despite my obvious displeasure with them.  Between my surgery, a whirlwind of significant work challenges, and the usual run-of-the-mill parental hand wringing, I have been wound tighter than usual. (Dave can tell you how tight that actually is.)  Yet, I’m also guessing that most people don’t realize the state I’m in.  To them, I have handled all of this so well – with grace, even.

On the outside, this may be true.  But I can tell you that — on the inside — there is nothing graceful about it.  I have been engaging in constant screaming matches with myself inside my head for weeks — about how everything might turn out, how I might prevail or fail, and what it means long term.  It’s worse than a sports talk radio show in there.

In the last few days I have been reflecting on how I typically react to unknown and potentially unpleasant outcomes, because I am very interested in doing better on the inside, not just for these larger life moments, but for the daily uncertainties that pick away at my inner peace.  And I think I have found an unlikely culprit in my suffering:

Hope.

A seemingly benign state of being, Hope is often invoked as a means to pull you through something difficult or lift you up to higher ground. We are encouraged to “choose hope”, “be hopeful” and “hope for the best.”  And I have always embraced Hope with an open heart, especially in the last few months.  It seems to be the right thing to do.

But, frankly Hope hasn’t been getting the job done for me for the simple reason that it is inextricably linked to Fear.  At best, Hope is weighed down by Fear and unable to pull me up to the places I want to go.  At worst, Hope is really Fear in disguise, just prettied up to resemble optimism.

Yeesh.  It takes as much energy to Hope than it does to Fear – maybe even more because I can’t just hope without fear weighing in.  It’s hard core emotional resistance training – and it’s exhausting.

So I’m giving up on Hope for a while.  I want to see how that goes.

For those of you who just made a mental note to stay away from me until I emerge from this phase, fret not.  I’m not replacing hope with fear.  I’m replacing both with something else, something better:

Faith.

Faith is certainty.  Faith is peace. Faith is timeless and transcends the day to day worries that bounce around my brain.

I have been making a conscious effort to move from hope to faith in the last week.  And you know what? It isn’t that difficult.  When Hope and Fear start their Anxiety Show in my little brain, I turn it off.  And I turn on all that I am sure of – favorable conditions I know to be true; friends, family and colleagues upon whom I can unconditionally count; and outcomes I can control.  I reject standing on that fragile and unsteady floor of Hope – and ground myself on the terra firma of Faith.  It feels good and takes far less energy to maintain.

And from there, I plow forward into the uncertainty of the next minute knowing that, there is nowhere to go but up.

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]]> http://mothersofbrothers.com/hope-no-more/feed/ 3 http://mothersofbrothers.com/healing-hands/ http://mothersofbrothers.com/healing-hands/#comments Mon, 08 Apr 2013 11:07:54 +0000 Emily http://mothersofbrothers.com/?p=8771

I had expected the worst and was not disappointed.

My surgery 10 days ago to remove a cyst in my jaw was successful in all of its gory awfulness.  As I awoke from the anesthesia with ice on my face and drooling blood in a not-so-hip-vampire-way,  a nurse placed my glasses on my nose so I could see my surgeon who smiled down at me and told me how “great” I did.

He turned to Dave who was hovering nearby, “I really beat her up.  She was a champ.”

I wanted to respond telling him “Thank you – I really didn’t do anything except show up”  but at that point my eyes rolled back in my head and the next thing I knew they were kicking me out of the recovery room and we headed for home.  Over the next 48 hours, I went through a complete exorcism, vomiting up the only thing that was in my stomach – blood – and swelling up on one side of my face like a pathetic, rabid killer chipmunk, despite the constant icing and upright position I resigned to taking, even at night. It was as miserable, as I thought it would be.

But then, on Day 3, things began to get better.

As quickly as I was thrown into this narrow tunnel of suffering, I saw a light at the end of it – not back to the happy place I was before the surgery, but to a manageable way station.  The outside swelling decreased dramatically; the pain became addressable with Advil; I could eat some pudding.  I started working again on Wednesday and went to the boys’ track meets, cheering from the sidelines.  As I write today, the inside of my mouth is still completely shredded and I can’t chew yet. But, I am looking forward to getting some Lee-Press-On teeth perhaps later this week. And while I will have to do a repeat of this process in October, it feels good to be on the other side of this hill that I never wanted to climb in the first place.

But, thankfully, I did not climb the hill alone.

A temporary but still scary health issue can be eye opening in many ways.  For me, I was completely floored by the rally cry of my community; one that I knew existed but didn’t truly understand that power of until I needed it.  The level of support I received in the days leading up to and following my surgery left me completely humbled.  I felt as if I was wrapped in layers of caring and concern, with everyone’s roles completely in line and in sync with one another — just super-sized for the occasion.

Dave and Mom moved in as close as I let them – which was pretty darn close.  Between my tears, nausea and bleeding Dave was privy to more of my bodily fluids than it is reasonable to ask any partner to bear. It was Fear Factor: Matrimony on Friday night and he emerged completely victorious.   The man was a rock and left my side only when Mom was around or when he was certain that the cowbell system he had rigged in our bedroom was working.  And Mom was there at the hospital and in the days that followed, with no agenda than just to be, as I was not very good company but still desperately wanted her nearby.  Together, they were both incredibly annoying as they tagged teamed me on drinking fluids – but they are like that, and I needed it.

My closest friends brought food and flowers.  Mo cooked up some nice mushy food; Lisa and Sue came for lunch and made me laugh even though it hurt; Alison sent me a new robe which made me feel less like the killer chipmunk creature staring back at me in the mirror.

My Dad, brother and sister stayed in close touch, knowing that a visit wasn’t necessary, but knowing they were there if I needed them was.  My in-laws were ready to come and baby sit me at a moment’s notice.

My synagogue community offered us a tremendous amount of support.  I shouldn’t be surprised by this – that is what we do.  But having never been on the receiving end of misheberach, I was incredibly touched by their concern and monitoring.  Sometimes its less about God and more about doing work on his behalf.

Those who weren’t in the immediate area – colleagues from work, out of town friends, my Tribe and relatives – expressed concern, sought updates regularly, sent flowers and well wishes from the moment I arrived home on Friday to Wednesday when I  started to feel better.  As I didn’t tell too many people about the procedure, relying on the blog to get the word out, people are still entering the circle of caring as they are made aware of the ordeal.  Offers of smoothies, soups, and other strained and blended delicacies continue to come in.

At some point last week, I became embarrassed by the attention, particularly as the swelling subsided and I wasn’t feeling pathetic enough to be worthy of it.   But these efforts by others on my behalf went far beyond soothing my sorry little self in a time of need.  They reminded me of how lucky I am to be surrounded on all sides, in multiple layers, by people who care.  It was a defining and re-affirming experience for me – not about who I am, but rather who others are.   If I chose to have these people in my life, I chose very well indeed.  I owe my healing not just to the miracle of modern medicine, but to those who rose up and made it clear that I mattered.

Thank you everyone  for being there in all the ways that you could.  I expected the best and was not disappointed.

Early last Sunday evening, I sat in my home office writing, paying a few bills, and taking inventory of the week ahead.  We had just finished dinner as a family; Dave had prepared lamb shanks and the house still smelled rich and savory from a full day of braising.  Once the dishwasher was loaded, we all retreated to our own spaces and obligations.  Noah was in his room, strumming on his guitar, the riffs playfully ambling down the hallway into earshot.  Chase tackled the tail ends of his math homework at the kitchen table.  Dave tapped away on his computer, preparing for the coming week of parent / teacher conferences.

I took a quick break from my tasks at hand to check my Twitter feed, where I found a number of people lamenting the existence of Sunday nights.  They shared how much they loathed this particular time, sentiments we have all heard and felt many times before.

Sunday nights are the end to an “all too short” weekend.  Sunday nights are heavy in anticipation of the drudgery, stress, chaos, and toil of the impending work and school week.  Come Sunday nights, time has run out on all the chores and tasks you promised you would get to at some point, but never did.  Sunday nights are all about surrendering to the fact that you do not control your own destiny, because here comes Monday… whether you like it or not.

Yup.  Roger that. I get it.

But as I sat at my desk with a great deal of empathy for these Sunday night tortured Twitter people, I realized that I may have reached a place in my life where this time could easily be my favorite part of the week. It wasn’t always this way, but Sunday nights have become a spiritual oasis where my family centers itself before flinging headlong into the tumultuous schedule that we honor Mondays through Fridays.  Sunday nights are the gift of pause, a deep breath, a comforting ritual in which we abide, often without noticing.

On Sundays we are given permission to eat dinner early, sometimes as early as 4:00 p.m. We have time to set the table, carefully folding napkins and laying down flatware, rather than throwing some pasta into a bowl and announcing that “everyone is responsible for their own utensils and drinks.”  There are no activities on Sunday night, no rushing to get to lessons, or board meetings or school events.  Yet, it is still officially a school night so the boys are relegated to our home and presumably a reasonable bedtime.  All of this mandatory togetherness is understood, and, without a word, embraced by all of us.  We putter around, cross paths in the hallways, and move through the evening with an easiness that is elusive on all other nights when our schedules propel us in umpteen different, urgent directions.  On Sunday nights, we return to ourselves and to each other.

Years ago when my grandmother was still living, Sunday nights were reserved for extended family dinners.  We would assemble at someone’s home – my sister’s, brother’s or mine, taking turns hosting, sometimes cooking or ordering take out, but always together for the sake of Mom-Mom.  We don’t get together as regularly now that she is gone, but the essence of “family” still prevails for Sunday nights.  Our open door policy – one which happily welcomes anyone into our home on any night of the week – is not outright negated, but it isn’t honored either. Not on Sunday.

Of course, these evenings of Zen were not possible when the boys were little.  There was much more house work to be done, baths to be given, stories to be read, and earlier bedtimes which cut Sunday nights short, trying to fit it all in before the requisite melt down, which by the way wasn’t always my children’s.  The drum beat was relentless back then, even on Sundays. But the boys have grown and our family rhythm has changed.  And suddenly, Sunday nights have become this lovely little interlude.

I realize I may be in the eye of the Sunday night hating storm.  Years from now, Sunday nights may be the time the boys return to college so I reserve my right to return to loathing this time.  But for now, it’s an opportunity to be present, in the here and now, and choose not to fret about the days ahead.  Instead, we connect and disperse to get done what needs to get done – perhaps alone, but under the same roof with the same unspoken understanding that we are exactly where we belong. Together.

Something, indeed.

My diagnostic path took me from my dentist’s office that day to an oral surgeon, then a CT scan, then another surgeon, then a prosthodontist, followed by a few more consultations.  I am now scheduled for surgery at the end of this month where they will remove what turned out to be a rather large cyst that has been wreaking havoc in my jaw and obliterating my jaw bone for some time.

Initially I went the same place you probably just did:

I shouldn’t have even let those words enter my mind, let alone come out of my mouth, because the Universe has a response to people like me who suggest that they are in charge. But despite knowing better, I initially shrugged it off as a minor inconvenience.  And I paid the price.

The answer was no.  You can’t pop it.  It must be completely removed.  And to do that, the doctor must remove a few of my teeth.  And then he must rebuild parts of my jaw with bone grafts and a protein solution which will be encased in a titanium tray and inserted deep into my face for 6-9 months after which I will have follow up surgery to remove the tray and insert implants.  No chewing for about 6 weeks, and limited chewing after that.  Extreme swelling, bruising, pain and nausea expected in the days after surgery.  Oh, and I can’t lay my head down for the first week.  If everything goes perfectly and the pathology comes back clean (which the doctor is expecting), the process will be over in about a year.

The narrative of my impending ordeal was not handed to me all at once; it was offered to me in doses over the course of several consultations, each one ending with me becoming an absolute puddle, unable to stop the flow of tears in the car on the way home.  I kept this all mostly to myself, Dave, and my parents and siblings, preferring not to tell the boys until I had all of the information.

So, in the middle of all of this, when it was still not entirely clear what my treatment path would be, I was sitting at my desk, feeling very sorry for myself, when Noah came home from school, even more despondent than me.  The freshman dance was about 10 days away and he did not have a date.  As mothers do, I made a number of suggestions of girls to ask.  But of course, my suggestions were already taken, out of town, or somehow unattainable.  Here I was, completely unable to help my son or myself.  And there we sat, facing each other at the bottom of our own personal pools of sadness.  Noah retreated to his room, leaving my alone, heavy hearted with my worries, and now his stacked on top.

It was at that moment that I felt the need to ask the Universe for help.  Having been too presumptuous weeks before, I learned my lesson and decided to gingerly approach the Powers That Be and humbly request assistance.  I had to be modest; not greedy nor demanding, which meant I had to make a choice.  And that choice was easy.   Please help Noah.

In this instance, I didn’t trust that my appeal would reach the destiny makers in time so I took to the holiest of channels – the one that clearly is the most direct path to divine intervention:

I went to Twitter.

Out went the tweet.  And within an hour, Noah emerged from his room with a smile.  He had a date.  Hooray.  I, however, was going to be a toothless, zombie mother from outer space.

There is a palpable level of perfect insanity that reveals itself in parents from time to time.  This was one of them.  What type of person would trade off her own health for the period of a year or longer so that her child would be happy for a single night?  Can I see a show of hands?  Thank you.

Insanity loves company.

Because every parent has a secret prayer that may never be uttered aloud, but is deeply and universally shared.  If there is pain to be had in my family, please hand it to me.  I will take it all on because there is nothing worse than watching your child suffer.  Not even a year without teeth.

Now, do I really truly believe that Noah got his date because of my plea?  Or that I am now doomed to permanent hillbilly status because I chose to ask for him rather than for myself?  Let’s just say that I’m not messing with the possibility.

My messages to the Universe over the next few weeks and months will be ones of gratitude.  Thankful that this health burden is on me,  as I know I can handle it.  Thankful that my situation is not life threatening, as I know people with cancer who would gladly trade diagnoses with me if given the chance.  Thankful for the folks lining up to puree my food, help with work, and make sure I get the rest I will need, as I will be predisposed to cut short my convalescence.  And thankful that Noah had a great time at Frosh, as his happiness will always be mine, even if I will only be smiling on the inside for a while.

Last Sunday morning, Dave woke me up out of a sound sleep around 7:00 a.m.

Hmm.  Not a good sign because 1) Dave never wakes me up if I don’t have to be somewhere and; 2) he rarely needs my help.   The combined oddities made me sit up in bed faster than I normally would.   I usually prefer to roll around a bit, waiting to get a face full of dog or cat butt before surrendering to the day. But there I was trying to focus on what was happening:

He let out an anguished breath and left the room.  I jumped out of bed and padded along behind him ready to begin my clinical exam.  Upon arriving in the bathroom, I saw vials of saline solution everywhere.  Apparently he had been up for a while before waking Dr. Wife, who was now ready for action:

Of course I knew the answer.  But I had to ask.  As we age, the probability of sustaining major injuries while lying completely comatose increases exponentially.  It is not out of the question to tear ligaments, break bones, or completely blind oneself while  enjoying a good night’s sleep.  But Dave couldn’t recall a thing:

Now Dave is a pretty self aware guy.  He knows his strengths and weaknesses well.  So the fact that he asked me to try to get anywhere near his eyes suggested to me that he was entering delirium.  The man couldn’t even fathom contact lenses until he was in his late twenties.  He doesn’t like anyone, including the eye doctor, to go anywhere near those peepers – and that’s when he is feeling well.  Still, I made a valiant effort, drawing close to get a look and retreating when he made the pain noise.  Clearly I was not going to find anything this way – and even if I saw a hot poker in there, I wasn’t going to be the one to get it out.  So I offered one last attempt at a home remedy:

Yeah. That’s the ticket.  You have reached the plan of last resort when you are recommending charlatan treatments that you yourself would never consider.  But Dave was desperate and jumped in the shower, while I calculated the ER wait time on a Sunday morning.

Hours elapsed since bar closing time + hours left until weekend soccer games/choice of local ER versus major hospital = one hour door to door.

So away we went – and my calculations were correct.  No wait and they whisked Dave into triage within five minutes of our arrival.  Which was a great thing –  because we all know how paralyzing it feels to have something in your eye, if only for a few seconds.  People who have something in their eye are barely able to make sense of the world.  They don’t hear you.  They can’t communicate.  And most enter panic mode, flailing about and causing a ruckus. It is often difficult to discern a person who has something in their eye from a person who has walked into a giant spider web.  One is funny – the other not so much.  Dave had been going on several hours of this feeling.  I could almost feel the impending relief myself, which came moments after the Physician’s Assistant flipped his eye lid inside out and removed the foreign object.

As Dave lay on the gurney, now breathing a little easier, the P.A. called me over to show me the microscopic fleck of a white particle, which she was holding between a pair of tweezers.  The two of us immediately became CSI Delaware County. She scrunched up her brow and consulted with me:

Fiberglass did you say??  Dave pipes up from the stretcher:

Quite possibly the P.A. agreed.  It was at that moment that I chose NOT to berate my betrothed for working on his surf board without safety glasses. Or make a snide remark about his hobby which not only takes time away from the family on a regular day, but was now the cause of an early Sunday arousal – and not the good kind.  Nor did I bitch and moan that he would have to miss a family dinner because of his need to convalesce after the ordeal – all day.   Nope.  I embraced his gross negligence, chalked it up to lessons learned, and gave him a pass from my wifely words of wisdom, which was a prescient move because…

… as I was climbing into the bed that night, I noticed both of our pillows sprinkled with little white specks of material eerily similar to that which was between the tweezers at the hospital.  And suddenly, the plot twist.

Those white specks were not from his surfboard.  They were from… my wubbie.

Yes, MoB readers,  for the last decade I have slept hugging a small beanbag like pillow which we have named The Wubbie – or The Wub for short.  It does not travel with me, but it gives me comfort at home, often serving as a physical barrier between my face and other things that appear on our bed at night, such as the aforementioned cat butt.  But now, it appears to be leaking death particles.

I don’t know what David Caruso might have said to me at that point, but his tone would definitely place the blame squarely on my shoulders.  And the slow motion reenactment of my hugging the Wub, squeezing out that fatal speck, and Dave rolling over onto it – and into an hours-long ordeal would have made a terrific montage in those neon colors.

I was quick to confess; Dave was faster to forgive.  In a marriage where I am often the one who needs tending to, I welcomed the chance to take care of Dave for once, even if it was all my fault in the end.  The bedroom mystery was solved.  Dave’s eye was fine, his surfboard hobby was saved, and I got a brand new wubbie.

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