And not in a good way.

With the exception of my wedding photos, I have done a decent job of dodging the camera for most of my adult life. This drives Phil crazy.  During both of my pregnancies (because “pregnant chicks are hot”) he would literally chase me around trying to catch a picture of my wide ass belly.  When his paparazzi-in-the-bushes strategy failed, he went the guilt-trip route: “What if you die in a horrible accident someday and then the girls have nothing to remember you by?”

Yeah, because that thought makes me want to Say Cheese.

In the past few years I have taught yoga at a few different studios.  This typically requires a short bio for the studio website along with a –yup, you guessed it – photo. This sends me into a panic, especially when the other teachers’ photos involve an advanced yoga posture with a name like “Fallen Angel.”  It feels a little awkward to post a cropped picture of myself at a BBQ holding a can of Miller Light next to some diesel yogi balancing her entire body weight on her pinky finger.

So my solution here has been to just avoid this request from the studio owner as long as possible, until he or she sends me the one-sentence email: “I NEED YOUR BIO AND PIC….NOW.”  It is at this point that I throw on some Chap Stick and call my neighbor to take a picture of me in my front yard. (Thanks Jen!)

I was relaying this story to my friend Danette, a professional photographer who has taken some gorgeous shots of my kids.  She shared a recent brainstorm for a photo project that would involve taking photos of women doing something they love (besides taking care of kids) and are passionate about. Taking some yoga pictures fit the bill, or as Danette put it, “photos of you standing on your kidneys.”

I remembered one of my favorite posts by Emily where she tackles this same topic, asserting that we (as women) crave photos of ourselves that make us feel good – even though we may feel silly or vain or self-centered admitting it.  We immerse ourselves in making sure everyone ELSE looks good.  I make sure that outfits coordinate, eyes stay open, and headbands stay in place long enough to snap that Christmas card picture…yet I am braless and wearing “gently used” yoga pants while taking it.

The possibility of a grizzly, premature death aside, I thought about what effect my lens-aversion might have on Emma and Phoebe.  My dream for each daughter is that she will grow into a confident woman who is at home in her own skin.  I don’t want her to apologize for taking up space or to shy away from the spotlight.  I want her to embrace the quirks and “flaws” as part of the whole perfectly imperfect package that makes her…her.

So last Saturday I headed over the Danette’s house in Manayunk armed with my mat and a lot of nerve.  I started biting my nails at red lights.  What the Hell was I thinking?  I should have watched that You Tube demo of Fallen Angel.  What can I do that is really worth taking a picture of?  My yoga practice is lame.  She might as well take pictures of someone doing bicep curls with 3 lb weights.

But Danette was definitely on to something with the idea of taking shots of a woman engaged in her passion…because you really do lose yourself in that activity.  I love doing yoga because it’s the only time I don’t feel like a marching band geek with her pants pulled up too high. Sometimes, if I really relax into the practice, I actually feel graceful.  It becomes less about me finding the pose and more about the pose finding me. If a pose lands, great, if it doesn’t, move on the next one.  After about 20 minutes I almost forgot Danette was even there…which either means I was high on ujjayi breathing or she’s a pretty damn good photographer. I vote for the latter.

I showed the photos to the girls at dinner, and after her bath I caught Emma striking her best Dancer’s Pose in front of the bathroom mirror.  Mission accomplished.

And I have to admit, when I saw myself in a handstand, I turned to Phil and said, “Do I really look like that?”

And in a good way.

These photos were taken by Danette Pascarella.  If you are looking for a sweet, funny, and creative photographer in the Philly area to take photos of your children, or even better, YOURSELF, I highly recommend you check out her website! http://danettepascarella.com/

Many of you know that I work in the field of communications.  Some people call it PR – but I try to refrain from that terminology as much as possible as those two letters conjure up images of shallow, mindless work that contributes nothing to society.  I may contribute nothing to society, but my work is rarely mindless and shallow.  Except sometimes, which brings us to today’s post.

One of the many duties of a PR professional is the job of “handler” which involves taking executives around for press meetings and ensuring that everything goes smoothly from a timing and content standpoint. Often this involves a Masters degree in logistics, cab hailing, and detective work (so you know what the reporter is going to ask before the interview).  In my particular job, I don’t do a great deal of handling because 1) my boss doesn’t really need to be handled and 2) I’m not particularly good at it.

But a few times a year, my boss, Mark, and I head to NYC for a full day of press meetings, which grants me the opportunity to play Handler.  It usually doesn’t go very well.  This time last year, I brilliantly suggested we jump on an earlier train to get home faster only to have the train break down for more than 2 hours somewhere in between Newark and Trenton.  Mark constantly occasionally reminds me of that one.  So, it would be fair to say that I have been looking for a little redemption – and I found it last week when we returned to the Big Apple for a really busy day of five press meetings – with the last one being a live TV appearance on Fox Business news.

The day flowed amazingly well.  We hit every meeting on time and the conversations were very productive.  Rain had been in the forecast which could have been a major problem but somehow we managed to thread the weather needle.  Every time we needed a cab – it wasn’t raining – and we found one easily.  But as we headed into our second to last meeting, the skies looked rather threatening and I began to worry about our ability to catch a cab in the imminent pouring rain and get to our appearance at Fox on time.  Luckily, my Handler light bulb went off.

Usually when you appear on a television show, the producer will offer to have a car pick you up.  So I contacted the producer to have a car pick us up after our last meeting and to take us to the studio.  It turned out to be a brilliant idea because by the time we left our meeting, it was starting to rain rather hard – and finding a cab would have been dicey.

The dispatcher called to tell me that the car was waiting outside but when we exited the building, we didn’t see it immediately.  Luckily, after just a minute, the driver came walking briskly towards us with a smile.  He said something to me which I didn’t hear and I replied asking “Fox News?”  He nodded.  We jumped in the car and headed uptown.  I turned to Mark and smiled, “This was a good idea.”  And he agreed.  Handler redeemed.

We spent the ride uptown going over what to expect in the forthcoming live interview.  Mark was well prepared.  His handler?  Not so much.  Because we suddenly looked out the window to see our car was heading down the ramp into the Mid-Town tunnel.  Had there been a flight recorder in this car, here is what you might have heard:

Male Voice (Mark): Where are we going?

While the nature of our predicament was probably obvious to you, dear reader, it was just then that I realized we had gotten into the wrong car.  I began to panic.

The driver does his best to pull over to the side of a one-way on ramp into the Mid-Town tunnel during rush hour.  Mark and I jump out of the car and grab our bags from the trunk, ready to dash a few blocks back to 2^nd avenue.  It is now raining steadily.  I have no idea how we are ever going to find a cab now.  But that apparently was the least of my problems.

I see two of New York’s finest running towards us.  Apparently, two individuals jumping suddenly from a black sedan with suitcases just yards before the Mid Town tunnel is alarming to SOME people.  Go figure.  At this point, all I can think of is having to get back into the car and head out against our will to Long Island.  We were going to miss the Fox interview.

This was not going to happen.  I am The Handler!  I am now going to HANDLE the situation.

If this was an episode of COPS, this is what you might have seen:

I look around and see that Mark has already gotten back into the car at the first instruction.  I sigh, defeated and climb back in the car, ready to head out to JFK where perhaps I can fly someplace where they hire really bad Handlers.

But the cop doesn’t send the car through the tunnel.  He helps it turn around and, in just under a minute, we are headed back in the right direction.  The driver lets us out on 2^nd Avenue and rushes off to find poor Sarah who is hopefully still waiting for him.  We manage to flag down a car service to take us to the Fox News Studio, making it with even a few minutes to spare, but not before Mark could agree that this was “a GREAT idea.”

I’d like to think that my willingness to get arrested so that we wouldn’t go into that tunnel counts for something.  I’m not sure I know too many Handlers who can say that they have EVER done the same for their boss.  Maybe bragging about my obvious commitment to my work is a stretch but if anything, we PR people know how to spin a story.

So that was mine – and I’m sticking with it.

I am happy to report that I no longer fall prey to diets that promise radical weight loss by eating a specifically timed combination of hot dogs, cottage cheese and peanut butter-not because I am so highly evolved and intune with my body, but because dieting takes way too much energy and only one person sees me naked.

So I was a bit leary when I caught wind of a cleanse my yoga teacher Deborah Williamson had developed called the Yoga Body Cleanse.  The word “cleanse” immediately makes me think of coffee enemas and kelp.  That being said, Phil and I both felt the need for a post-holiday detox, and I really trust Debbie so….what the Hell. 

The 21 day cleanse is described as non-restrictive: you are given a framework, but nothing is “off limits.”  I had mixed feelings about this at first.  Ambiguity makes me nervous. I want rules, dammit.  Give me an inch, and I am already half-way through Phoebe’s soft pretzel.  So, I figured I would just stick to the plan of juice, soup and salad and not worry about that whole mind-body intuition business (says the poser yoga teacher).

We dug the juicer out of the garage and got busy.  My first realization was how lazy I had gotten in the kitchen.  It felt good to buy different foods and experiment with new recipes…until I had to clean up.  Juicing can be messy venture….and until you get the hang of it, a little time consuming.  I almost had a heart attack when I tripped over a matchbox car while holding a hard earned glass of lemon-cucumber-apple-celery juice.  It brought back a memory of pumping breast milk at a family BBQ only to spill 4 oz. on my niece’s bathroom counter…which I then syphoned back into the bottle.  That shit is liquid gold.

During the first week I experienced a fair share of resistance. At one point I may have considered eating bread out of the garbage…but I didn’t.   Another low point was the time I saw this extension cord plug sitting on the counter and thought it was chocolate.  For that one nanosecond, I was truly excited.

My recently colon-less GI tract also needed some time to adjust.  I learned on Day #1 that if I drink the juice too fast, it sounds like an Amtrack Accela barreling through my small intestine. On more than one occasion Phoebe has turned to me and said, “Mommy that you?  That your tummy?  Mommy, you have a wookie in that tummy??”

Guttural rumblings aside, here a few lessons I learned while cleansing:

Commitment. By the second week we really started to find our groove with the shopping and meal planning, which typically is not our greatest skill. I have always found the time and effort required for meal planning/preparation totally overwhelming.  I end up at the kitchen counter surrounded by cookbooks only to come home from the grocery store pissed off that I forgot to buy gochujang.  You can’t make kimchi jjigae without gochujang!  So I just make mac and cheese.  This cleanse, while a commitment, actually made my life easier and dinner time less stressful.  Not to mention the fact that when you know you have a yummy soup already made and waiting to be heated up, you are less likely to eat Pirate Booty out of your kid’s Snack Taxi.

Creativity. Last weekend Phil and I dropped the kids off at my parents in NJ and then drove up to Boston for a few days. I was nervous that traveling would throw us off our cleansing game, so we did our best to prepare by juicing ahead of time, freezing them, and then packing them in a cooler.  Our intentions were good…but by the time we reached Cambridge our yummy pear-kale-apple-cucumber concoction looked like the moat surrounding Castle Greyskull.  So we did the best we could to make good choices that resembled the cleanse menu.  We also managed to find three places to get fresh juice, including a trolley car diner in Providence.  They were kind enough to bring their Jack Lalane juicer out of retirement after our waitress called back to the kitchen, “Hey Jimmy!  What’s the story with the juice-a?”

Flexibility. I think the key to my success on the cleanse has been letting go of the need to succeed.  Once I got past the first few days of wanting to gouge someone’s eyeballs out if they didn’t give me a Tall Sugar Free Skinny Vanilla Latte, I was able to explore my “all or nothing” relationship with food.  I now understand why this cleanse leaves out the forbidden food list.  It’s like Toddler Psychology 101.  The more someone tells you that you can’t have it, the more you want it.  Even if, deep down, you don’t really want it.   I let myself have a guilt free cup of coffee each morning on the cleanse, until one morning, I just didn’t really want it.  Yet a couple of days later, it tasted really good.

Because I actually stopped to TASTE it.  Now there’s a concept.

If only someone had told me that when I was sucking down mustard packets.

Back in September when I was drafting my mental map of the school year, I asked Chase if he was planning to audition for the 6^th grade Select Chorus.  He had signed up for the regular chorus but participation in the Select Chorus was by invitation only.  Not surprisingly, Noah had made Select Chorus when he was in 6^th grade and enjoyed being a part of it.  Tryouts would be in January so at that point in time my question was motivated more by curiosity than necessity.   While I can predict Noah’s path almost as accurately as my own, Chase’s compass remains uncommitted, like a GPS that is still calculating.

And this particular decision was consistent with his 12-year history of ambivalence.  That day, and as I re-queried him each month during the Fall, he was a definite “maybe” – leaning at times possibly towards “no”  — always citing concerns about the practice schedule.  It was a legitimate position to take as Select Chorus practices two afternoons each week and would prohibit Chase from other activities.

But part of me wondered if he was worried he wouldn’t make it.

The next hardest thing to being the second child is properly parenting the second child, especially when the first child excels in most everything he does.  Having been the second child – the younger sister to the beautiful head cheerleader and homecoming queen – I empathize with Chase, but only so much.  Like me as a little girl, he has his own skills and strengths if he chooses to use them.  Our job as parents is to beckon him out from the safety of hi brother’s shadow and into his own light, whatever that may be.

The trouble was I wasn’t sure if that light was waiting for him in Select Chorus.  I wasn’t sure he would make it.

It wasn’t that I thought Chase had a bad singing voice – or a good one for that matter.  The fact was that I hadn’t heard him sing in years.   Whereas his brother will give a 10 minute performance in front of an open refrigerator, Chase avoids the light, unless it is shining on a large group of people of which he is a part.  Auditioning for the Select Chorus may have been scary for him in more ways than one.  So when I got the email about the auditions earlier this month, I didn’t ask Chase if he was planning to try out.  This path was one he could choose to pass up with my blessing.

But Chase did try out.  He casually informed me that the Select Chorus leader insisted that everyone in chorus try out so he obliged, adding in that he still wasn’t sure he wanted to join IF he even made it.  I matched his casualness in my response, agreeing that it is a big commitment and whether he makes it or not, I am proud of him for trying.  I added in that he doesn’t have to do everything that Noah did and a little more time in the afternoon would not be a bad thing.  I was steeling myself for the possibility of his failure and the parental worry overtime that would accompany it.

That week I began making a mental inventory of all areas where Chase excels, in the event I would need to remind him of such gifts  some day soon.  Each day I added to the list.  Drums… leadership… problem solving… duct tape design… and….. singing.   I added the last one this past Wednesday when he jumped in the van after school with a big smile and the good news.  He made the Select Chorus.

I congratulated him and we drove for a few blocks towards home, each of us basking silently in the light of the news.

“So, are you going to do it?” I asked, reminding him of his concerns about the time commitment

“OF COURSE!” he said quickly and I noticed he was a little out of breath.

And then I realized, so was I.

Then, on Thursday night, Emma started complaining of an itchy scalp. “Mom! My head itches.” Scratch, scratch, scratch.  I combed through her elbow-length mane with my fingers, although truth be told I had no idea what I was looking for.  All I saw was a red scalp from her aggressive scratching.  Emma has always had sensitive skin: Cradle Crap Cap, sensitivity to dyes….maybe I needed to change shampoos.  These are the lies I told myself to mask my greatest fear.

My denial was short lived.  As I pulled her hair back into a ponytail for school on Friday morning, I saw it.  A bug.  A moving bug.  In my little girl’s beautiful long blond hair.  My little girl neatly dressed in her school uniform…her stuffed dog packed proudly into her backpack for Show and Tell.  The dog that would soon be shoved in a garbage bag and banished to the garage for 7-10 days.  F*#k.

While highly distracted and somewhat uptight on a daily basis, I am actually your go-to gal in a crisis. I think it is because it is the only time my level of reactivity is actually appropriate for the situation. A “serious” issue momentarily suppresses my ADD because it eliminates the question, “What should I do first?” Phil, on the other hand – Mr. Roll With The Punches- starts to unravel like a cheap sweater.

This was my first encounter with lice, but I knew this meant war .  It was Me vs. Them, and I had to remain fully committed to my post.  I was instantly transformed into the sentry of Emma’s scalp; standing guard over her head armed with….whatever you use to get rid of lice. 

It was a Lice Lockdown.

I started by calling the pediatrician, who instructed me to follow the Cetaphil Method.  Great, I thought…no chemicals, no pesticides…I never knew that Cetaphil killed lice!

That’s because it doesn’t. 

Three hours of combing and two Tinkerbell movies later, Emma finally went to sleep. Phil and I embarked on the de-licing of the house…we washed, we vacuumed, we sterilized.  The next morning I waited by her door armed with my flashlight, magnifying glass and nit comb.

The bastards were still there.

I brought in the big guns and bought the chemical shampoo with a box that resembles that of rat poison.  Phil set up the Christmas spotlight in the living room (the one still in the box in the dining room) as a lice searchlight.  I applied, I combed, I pin curled, I tweezed.  Another three hours and two Tinkerbell movies later, Emma went to sleep.  We washed, we vacuumed, we sterilized.

With her head bent over her bowl of Cheerios the next morning, my fingers investigated her scalp like Nancy Drew and the Search for the Microscopic Louse.    

The bastards were still there.

Emma has apparently inherited my crisis-management skills, because the kid could not have been more patient and cooperative while having her head accosted for the entire weekend.  This is why, after discovering that the war waged on, my heart tightened when she asked: “Mom?  Are we going to spend any time together that doesn’t involve my bugs?”

I recently read The Big Leap; a book aimed at putting you on the path to success by recognizing your true potential.  The author encourages spending more time in your “Zone of Genius” (things you are good at) and try to avoid/delegate that which puts you in your “Zone of Incompetence” (things you suck at). 

Nitpicking is clearly not in my Zone of Genius.  It was time to call in the troops. 

Phil had heard of a place called Lice Lifters.  Killing lice IS in their Zone of Genius.  Ninety minutes later, Emma was back to her bugless self.  It was the best year of college tuition money I ever spent.

The word nitpicker is defined as “someone who makes small and unjustified concerns.” Ironically, my short lived career as a nitpicker allowed me to see the bigger picture.  While my original to-do list remains untouched, my focus on Emma’s head actually opened up a small window INTO her head. 

While we applied, combed, rinsed, and repeated…she talked to me.  I got a closer look at who she is right now, at 5 years old…what she thinks about, how she sees things, what the world looks like through her eyes.  She asked me her usual barrage of questions –and because I wasn’t distracted by ten other things- I took the time to give her thoughtful answers. To ensure that the toxic hair goop stayed out of her eyes, I actually got in the shower with her…naked….which prompted a WHOLE BUNCH of questions….

But we will save those for another blog.

Phil and I have yet to watch a movie, my eyebrows put Bert and Ernie to shame, and the Christmas decorations haven’t moved an inch….and while I may not feel organized or rested, I have never felt more focused.

I spend most of my life showing off.  Most of adults do.  I was first accused of such behavior years ago when complaining to a friend that I was feeling bored with my work.  I lamented that everything I did felt so repetitive and uninspiring.  He responded by saying, “Yeah, it’s like every day you’re showing off how good you’ve gotten at a certain task. That gets old.”  I never really thought of it that way, but he was right.  And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my entire life was one big SHOW OFF EXTRAVAGANZA.  Starring me.  As myself. 

I spend my days – almost unequivocally – engaging in activities I know exactly how to do.  And I do them well.  I have gotten very good at:

• Communicating for the venture capital industry
• Refereeing two brothers who still are not sure they like one another
• Coordinating life with the hubby
• Blogging about minutia every week
• Making the bed every morning
• Running on a treadmill (literally and figuratively)
• Playing with the dog
• Helping with homework
• Paying bills on time
• Etc, etc, etc.

My intention is not to sound self-important here – quite the opposite actually. It feels rather self-deprecating to admit that you have basically stopped trying at life and rather have chosen to coast through your days knocking the ball out of the park you constructed to be 10 yards in diameter.

It is however a comfortable existence and I could have gone on for some time showing off had an opportunity not crossed my path.  You see, yesterday there were auditions for our synagogue’s Purim Spiel (pronounced shpiel), which is a comedic dramatization of the story in the Book of Esther.  Our synagogue has never done an adult version – and I have been told they can get extremely raunchy and fun.  I was looking forward to watching the show.

As a member of the teen choir, Noah was invited to audition for a part.  You have to sing a song and read a little monologue.  I immediately began showing off – falling into my usual role as Noah’s manager, agent, and stylist – asking him what he wanted to sing and read, and generally basking in all of his light.  I have gotten very good at that. 

But you know what?  I like to sing.

I sing to the radio when I’m alone in the car. I sing at the synagogue during services.  I sing after a few too many with my friends.  And I sing if the boys need a little embarrassment. 

Singing is fun.  So is dancing.

I am not particularly good at either.  The musical talent clearly skipped a generation when the Universe was handing out gifts – which is what I told our Cantor and the musical director when I auditioned right after Noah did yesterday. 

I sang Edelweiss – one of my all time favorite songs I would sing to the boys when they were little. Then I read an excerpt from one of the pieces I wrote for Babble a few years ago.  I sang it in too high of a key, my voice breaking at the end.  Randy would have said I was way pitchy and Simon would have asked me “what in the world WAS that?”  But the Cantor and director gave me big smiles.  I think they knew that by standing up on the stage singing my song, I was doing the opposite of showing off.

Everyone who tries out makes the Purim Spiel.  I will be happy in any role they give me, because it is something I have never done.  It would have been easy to pull the “busy card” and relegate myself to the audience but I’ve gotten so good at that, I thought I would try something new.  Sure auditioning was nerve wracking and I think my heart was beating a mile a minute.  But if you don’t do something like that every now again, you might just forget you have a heart beat.  And I was completely exhilarated by the reminder.

You may be thinking, “Oh, she must have a newborn.”  No.  I have a kindergartner with the sleeping habits of a newborn.  From 8:00pm to 4:30am, she cries for me every two hours.  The difference is, she is not crying that desperate little baby bird cry that says, “Feed me! Feed me!”  No, she just bellows “MOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!!” until I appear beside her, at which point she reports (again): “I can’t sleep.”

How Phoebe sleeps through this every night, I have no idea.  I am pretty sure the kid throws a little Bailey’s in her sippy cup of rice milk before retiring for the evening.

This has been a particularly bad stretch of Emma Insomnia. I could feel it coming.  Like watching a movie when two characters are in a car and the driver keeps looking at the passenger instead of the road, and you start to get tight in your chest and want to scream, “What the f*** are you doing?  Look at the goddam road!”  Then comes the inevitable head-on collision with an 18 wheel tanker full of explosives, and you say out loud to the stallions and flying monkeys no one in particular, “I KNEW that was going to happen.”

Curse the holidays.  Tis the season for multi-sensory overstimulation, sleepless nights and candy cane induced psychotic episodes.

Emma, 5, is sassy, spunky and spirited.  You know, all the “S” euphemisms for a child who can be a major pain in your ass challenging.  When she is “on” she is positively magnetic: sweet, funny, charming, friendly and imaginative. When she is “off,” however, I begin having mental images of Drew Barrymore in the ‘80’s flick “Firestarter.”

Her level of intensity has times of dormancy, which I have learned is a trap….I start to get cocky, like I finally have some freaking idea what I am doing with this whole motherhood thing.  And then BAM!  She changes the game on me again: stops sleeping, will only talk in Secret Robot Language, insists on wearing sandals two sizes too small in the middle of December, exists on a diet of Pirate Booty and seltzer water, etc. 

And the tantrums…oh, the tantrums.  She makes Linda Blair look like Funshine Care Bear.  I need to stash a bottle of vodka in the hallway closet so I can take the edge off while I am holding the bedroom door shut as she throws her body shoes at it. I fantasize about patenting the Tot Taser while Phoebe self-soothes in the living room. 

Around her 3^rd birthday Emma started sounding like Demi Moore after a few too many Marlboros and martinis- my niece Nicole coined it her “Party Girl Voice.” I took her to the doctor to have her tonsils and adenoids checked out.  Diagnosis: Too much screaming.  Course of Treatment:  Stop screaming. Yeah right. Thanks Doc.  Bend over and I’ll deposit my $25 co-pay.

Times of transition are particularly tough.  The frenetic Christmas climax followed by the post-holiday letdown has seemed to hit her pretty hard this year.  Despite the normal yuletide chaos, we had a lot going on. My aunt died suddenly in October, and now my 92 year old grandmother (with whom Emma is very close) is in the hospital.  Phil gently suggested that perhaps these things are affecting Emma, and that maybe…just maybe…she is picking up on MY anxiety, insomnia, and tendency to meltdown when overwhelmed.

“What are you talking about??” I demand vehemently, as his eyes creep to the hole in the wall where I may or may not have hurled and shattered the cordless phone.

Ok fine.  So I am little spirited myself.  And I guess it does seem a little hypocritical that at 8:00pm I tell her to “just go to sleep,” when by 12:00am  I am in the kitchen in my underwear eating whipped cream from the can and ordering red patent leather clogs after taking one too many Ambien.

A few sleepless nights ago after being told to “just go to sleep,” Emma exclaimed:  “MOM! I TRY to go to sleep but then scary thoughts pop into my head.”  I tried to explain the concept of meditation as a way of training the brain the way you would train a dog.  She looked at me square in the eye: “Mom.  My brain is one bad dog.”

My heart softened, and for a moment I forgot that it was 4:30am and the fact that my alarm was set to go off in 30 minutes. I realized that the same things that worry me (like getting murdered in my bed by sociopathic burglars), on some level worry her too. Admittedly, it does seem a little unfair to judge a 5 year olds temper tantrum when just last week you dumped a full glass of water on your husband’s head.

The book Raising Your Spirited Child stresses the importance of self-soothing, something I struggle with teaching my kid because I am not sure how to do it myself (apparently mixing red wine with sedatives doesn’t count).

So last night I gave it a whirl.  After putting Phoebe to bed, I gave Emma a lavender bath, and then made her some Sleepy Time Tea. We lit some candles in her room, did some restorative yoga poses and told stories with our legs up the wall.  I rubbed her feet and traced letters on her back.  This routine could have put a monkey on speed to bed. 

But not my spirited Emma.

Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation talking, but I have to believe that “self-soothing,” while more intuitive for some, can be taught.  And we’re learning. 

Both of us.

Its 6:45 a.m. on a weekday and the boys are sleepily gathering themselves before heading out the door to school.  Without a word, they pack up their lunches… put on their jackets… zip up their backpacks… and …

SHOTGUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The morning silence is broken and chaos ensues as the boys bolt for the door.  Dave and I remain behind, sharing that knowing glance which says, “Do you believe we actually have to deal with this shit at their age?”  It’s a glance we share far too often these days.  I hope our faces don’t stay that way.

Of course, I’m not speaking of gunfire in our kitchen but rather one brother claiming the coveted front seat of the car, relegating the slow-on-the-draw brother to the horrors of the back seat.  It is an issue we began to face in just the last year as Chase crossed the coveted weight and height line to qualify for shotgun travel.  Suddenly, Noah had some competition.

Dave sighs and heads out to the driveway where surely WWIII, complete with allegations, insinuations and angry tears, awaits him.  In my attempt to offer graceful support, I yell after him, “I THOUGHT WE WEREN’T DOING THE SHOTGUN THING ANYMORE.  TELL THEM WE AREN’T DOING IT ANYMORE!! TELL THEM THEY HAVE TO TAKE TURNS WITH THE FRONT SEAT OK??? NOAH GOT IT YESTERDAY SO ITS CHASE’S TURN!! ARE YOU GOING TELL THEM? BECAUSE THIS SHOTGUN THING DOES NOT WORK!! WILL YOU PLEASE….

SLAM!  Remarkably, Dave is not interested in my expert advice and is out the door to manage who will actually be his wing man that morning, leaving me to wonder if I should follow along in a sweeper car in the event that he boots one or both of our offspring out the moving car door on the way to school.  I decide against it, pour some more coffee, and try to empathize with the shotgun situation.

I can understand the benefits of the front passenger seat.  From that position, you are the second most powerful person in the vehicle.  You can choose the radio station, adjust the heater/AC, and, if you are feeling particularly douchey, you can confine your sibling in the back seat via the child safety locks.  You can also reach around and effectively smack either of the back seat passengers when they don’t stop fighting on the NJ turnpike as you sit in endless traffic.  (I may or may not know that from experience.)

But since the boys have a 2 minute ride from our driveway to the entrance of their school – and we have a four door car – the shotgun seat is really just a power play that yields no power –except to the parents who wig out at their kids when they are going at it full throttle at 6:45 in the morning for 120 second bragging rights.  I file the SHOTGUN game in the same annoying filter as PUNCHBUGGY AND JINX with one exception:

Boys never seem to outgrow the SHOTGUN game.

When in groups, they call it well into adulthood.  At some point their mothers are not around to make them take turns, so perhaps the shotgun practice isn’t a bad thing for the brothers to have early in life.  They will need those lightening lips when they reach the cold hard ages of 16, 17 and 18.  We women know how important this seat is to men, which is why when we go out as couples, the women offer to sit on the back seat together and let the men ride up front.  Its not so much we like the back seat – its just we want to save our husbands the embarrassment of having to call SHOTGUN at age 40 and above.

I also wonder if the shot gun seat is even more coveted today than in our generation because the front seat is off limits to our children until they grow to be a certain size.  This was not the case when we were children.  I’m quite certain I sat in the front seat at age 2 (without a seat belt as my Mom smoked her Marlboros with the windows closed – but that’s for another day) so I never felt deprived of the shotgun opportunity.  In our well intentioned effort to keep our kids safe, we have created a generation that aspires to occupy the most dangerous seat to be in during an accident.

Still, I think the primary factor behind the shotgun seat is competitiveness because interestingly, when I am driving one and not both of the boys, the lure of shotgun mysteriously disappears.  I’m not entirely sure why as I am always welcoming of the company, offering words of encouragement such as, “Hey, instead of zoning out in the back seat, sit up front with me. We can talk about our feelings!”  Strangely, I find myself often alone upfront on those rides.

Hmmmm.  I think I just figured out a way to end the shotgun fire in my household every morning.  Here’s hoping we don’t scar them for life.

Mrphm mmmmm munchy mrphm… as I ate my way through the country.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$…  as I bought soemthing else  that I can ONLY find in Israel.  Like a scarf.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz… as I fell out on our bus in between sites.

So you didn’t miss much in terms of hearing from me while I was there.

But now that I have been home for a few days and the smell of falafel jet lag is wearing off, I’ve been able to reflect on the trip in more thoughtful ways than when I was in the thick of it.  The opportunity to respond when friends ask “how was your trip?” has allowed me to focus on what impacted me the most.  I have gotten into various levels of detail with different people – and will likely share much more here in subsequent posts — but I inevitably tell folks the following:

We had a fantastic itinerary.  We learned a ton about Israel.  We had an amazing guide.

The first two points are subsequently reinforced by pictures and videos of our smiling faces across the Israeli countryside and the brothers’ recitations of facts that we absorbed about the sites that we saw.  The last point, however, is left to stand on its own because words and pictures can’t begin describe how important our guide, Shidos Brum, became to our family.

The need for a full time guide (and driver) was not lost on my in-laws when they were planning this trip of a lifetime.  We’re Jews. We have opinions and aren’t afraid to use them.  Left to our own devices, we surely would have spent half of our trip arguing pondering aloud about what to do next and in which direction to go.  It took Moses 40 years in the desert to find Jerusalem for a reason.  We had 11 days and couldn’t risk our human nature getting the better of us. 

Israel is chock full of tour guides.  To become one, you must take a two year course and pass a written and oral exam.  We are not talking about volunteers reading from cliff notes.  These guides are true historians that can rattle off dates and facts from the time before King Herod through to present day.  And Shidos, who was recommended by our Rabbi, did not disappoint.  He knew everything.  As far as we were concerned, he knew why the sky was blue and the meaning of life, but just didn’t have time to get to it during our trip.  It wasn’t so much the breadth of his knowledge, but his delivery. With his story telling skills and ability to zero in on just the right amount of information for a group comprised of teenagers and few adults who have, um, some control issues, lets just say, he had us at “Shalom.”

I am quite certain that most of the highly capable tour guides in Israel would not have sung in their best Frank Sinatra voice “Hallelujah” over the bus microphone for us the way to the Dead Sea (and faked it when they didn’t know the words), acted out with great skill the purpose of a group of large stones set side by side in Caesaria (it was a span of ancient Roman toilets), put their hand in a tank of flesh eating fish to delight my kids, or made honey and mint tea for my father-in-law after an unfortunate St. Peter’s fish incident that shall never be spoken of again (actually we will l speak of it A LOT because that’s how the Mendells roll – and why I love them so much.)

I could chalk up our love affair with Shidos as some sort of benevolent Stockholm syndrome (in which hostages begin to feel empathy and positive feelings towards their captors) because we were truly at his mercy.  On the few nights that he left us on our own, we put on brave faces, but we were rather lost without him.  At one point, my brother-in-law was having trouble opening a wet-nap package and everyone’s first instinct was to call for Shidos.   Somehow we managed to get it open but not before a moment of panic, an international summit conference on HOW to open it, and several failed attempts.  But we didn’t just rely on him, we really truly liked him.

Shidos was our guide but he also quickly became our shared touchstone and trusted friend.  He became family and when he wasn’t with us, it felt like a soul was missing.  We had a hard time leaving him.  I think my mother-in-law would have taken him home with her, given the chance.   I joke, but the idea crossed my mind as well.

If only we had an all-knowing, completely benevolent, objective guide at our side on a daily basis… someone we could trust to tell us what path to take when we entered unknown territory … someone who had our best interests at heart … wouldn’t that be terrific?

The reality was that Shidos couldn’t come home with us… but reality also suggests that there are other guides among us, some to whom we need to give the benefit of the doubt to take the lead once in a while.  Spouses, parents, children, the Universe all have our best interest at heart and often know more than we ever will about what is right for us.  I was blessed to end 2011 meeting a wonderful guide and making a new friend.  In homage to that, I intend to find more Shidos in my life in 2012 – knowing full well that many have been right in front of me all along. 

…which brings me back to Square One.

So this New Year I decided to tackle the whole resolution thing from a different angle.  Because regimented and inflexible goals leave me feeling like a total failure by February 1st, I compiled a loose framework of brainstorms for self-improvement in 2012.  Or, as we call them in my house, Braunstorms.

Braun∙storm (n): a potential life-enhancing idea that could possibly lead to joy, creativity, and personal growth. 

Jessie’s Top 5 Braunstorms for 2012

1. Be a Honey Badger. From the moment I saw this You Tube video, I have been drawn to the relentless determination of the Crazy, Nastyass Honey Badger.  One may interpret “Honey Badger don’t care, Honey Badger don’t give a shit” as apathy or disregard for others.  For me it evokes the question(s): “What do I really want?” “Am I willing to go after something even if it’s not what my mom wants me to do popular?” The Honey Badger inspires me to do my own thing, risk making mistakes, and then try again.  So maybe once and a while I teach a ho-hum yoga class or write a shitty blog.  Perhaps I OCCASIONALLY exercise poor parental judgment as evidenced by my 2 year old’s daily outburst of “Jesus Christ!” Maybe I DID embarrass myself at a recent wedding by giving a little yoga demonstration of Natarajasana  in the middle of the dance floor while wearing a dress and Spanx. (It is called DANCER’S Pose, just sayin.)  By recognizing these things but then responding with “I don’t give a shit,” I grant myself what my yoga teachers at Live Love Teach call “Instant Forgiveness.”  I laugh and let go, and if someone doesn’t like it – doesn’t like ME – who cares?  No, really.  WHO CARES?  Not the Honey Badger, that sleepy f***.
2. Take Some Magic Capsules.  I was giving the girls a bath when Emma threw some Magic Capsules into the water that Santa had put in her Christmas stocking.  They splashed and squealed as each capsule dissolved and morphed into a spongy dinosaur right before their eyes.   I couldn’t believe that those big sponges could fit into those itty bitty capsules, and began to ponder the idea of constriction vs. expansion.  I asked myself: “What makes me feel like a Stegosaurus squished into a gelatin casing?” The answer(s): Puffy coats, Spanx, skinny jeans, stupid rules, empty carbs, going to church, saying yes when I want to say no, treadmills, Trader Joe’s on Saturday mornings…..In 2012, I vow to seek out the things that make me feel lighter and less inhibited (writing, yoga, red wine, reading novels), and scale back on the things that make me feel like a fat guy in a little coat.
3. Shake It Up.  When I am in a bitchy mood it means I need to move my body.  Before I had kids and lost my colon, exercise meant a 2 hour training run or 90 minute yoga class.  At this current stage of the game, these options are not always available to me…and because I don’t know what to do when I am not adhering to a rigid exercise schedule, I just do nothing, except continue to be a bitch. It’s not exactly a winning strategy.   So my fitness goal for 2012 is not an Ironman or marathon…no, it’s just to move.  Everyday.  Jumping jacks, walking the dog, cartwheels, some handstands, maybe a run or yoga class if the planets align.  Oh, and kitchen dancing also counts.
4. Be Still.  Alternately, unrelenting frenetic movement (combined with a brain that mimics the activity of a pinball machine) also results in bitchiness. As previously admitted, a fierce commitment to becoming a Buddhist nun has proved counterproductive in years past.  In 2012, I vow to be still at some point everyday.  This includes sitting on the couch for 10 minutes with my eyes closed, or taking 30 deep breathes while sitting in traffic, or lying next to the dog and feeling her chest rise and fall as the air moves in and out of her body.  Or maybe I could follow the lead of my college roommate, who used to lie on her bed in the pitch black wearing a sinus mask while listening to Flashdance cranked up to full volume.  Just kidding.  That was actually bizarre.
5. Be Here Now.  Philip Urso, one of the exceptional yoga teachers I have been lucky to study with said recently, “The single resolution that takes care of all the rest is to be present, best we can, with lightness and ease.” My past resolutions focused on some lofty goal set far off in the distant and faux-magical future.  Last year I vowed to become a “real” writer and get published. The problem with this was I developed goal-induced tunnel vision, blinding myself to see all the details that make writing (and life ) interesting.  This year my intention is to notice the details: Emma’s ears stick out like my grandfather’s when her hair is wet.  I need to rub my feet together before I can fall asleep.  Phoebe’s most ticklish spot is the crook of her neck. Natalie Goldberg calls this “capturing the moments you were awake enough to write down.”

So here’s to 2012: May it be a year of creative dabbling, boundless exploration, flagrant failures and instant forgiveness. 

Happy Braunstorming.