The balls of my feet are worn.  My limbs feel like they weigh about 800 pounds. I lost my voice and temporarily a bit of hearing.   My mind is spinning like a jukebox of images on steroids, flipping a new memory every few seconds.  My heart is ready to burst.  I am hung over with happiness.

There are so few days in life completely devoted to celebrating growth, family and love.  This past weekend Chase had his Bar Mitzvah — and all the people who love him most were there with us — in person and in spirit – to pay tribute to what a great kid he has become.  We – and he – will never have this chance again. So we made sure to get it right.

Let’s face it.  For many, the Jewish rite of passage into adulthood — the Bar Mitzvah — is often misconstrued as something to poke fun at.  Some may view it as a Jewish family’s excuse to have a really big party.  Others see it as a punch line in some stand up comedian’s schtick, complete with descriptions of pre-pubescent boys with bad haircuts, ill fitting suits, and awkward smiles.  And I guess for some folks, that is reality.

But not for us.

For us, the day was pretty magical and ranks ups there as one of the best of our lives.  I can take credit for only the logistics.  The rest of the joy came from others.  Much of it came from Chase.

On a daily basis, parenting is often tedious, and rarely awe inspiring.  I have spent so much of my time over the last 13 years creating, teaching and nurturing this child (and his brother) that I hardly noticed that much of the work had already been completed.

Yet still, the thought of Chase being ushered into adulthood on many levels is ludicrous.  He is not a “man” – nor do I think he wants to be anytime soon.  There are still plenty of lessons to be taught and learned, wounds to tend, and milestones to celebrate.  But watching Chase take on a very grown up task, and complete it with grace, meaning and humor made me feel certain that the foundation of adulthood has been forged in my son, despite my numerous attempts to completely screw him up.  And I might have missed this realization had it not been for this fabulous day.

As much as I understand the importance of these mantras, I fail daily at living a life that honors them.  There is always something else “more pressing” to do.  But not this weekend.  Those who were able to join us were so gracious in thanking us for including them.  However, the gratitude is all mine.  There wasn’t a person there whose presence didn’t make my heart sing.

This weekend was about family.  And dear friends.  And love.

How blessed I feel to have had the chance to reflect on the warmest memories of my son – and create new ones in the span of a few short days.

Here’s a look back at Chase with a montage that Dave put together.  It’s a celebration of a really sweet boy whose future shines as bright as his smile.

Last night I closed all the open files that had monopolized my computer screen for weeks.  The directions to the synagogue for the guests, the table settings, the photo montage of Noah, the songs for the DJ to play, the to-do lists that kept changing – they all went into the archives perhaps to be reopened in two years when it is Chase’s turn.  Upstairs the boys bickered over video games; Dave sacked out on the couch with the dog and watched the Phillies.  I sat at my computer with tears in my eyes and thought about the weekend.

It was pure magic.

Those who know me know that Disney-esque melodramatic expressions like the one above are not a regular part of my vernacular.  But 48 hours after Noah’s Bar Mitzvah I am still walking several feet off the ground and those cartoon bluebirds are flying around my head, tweeting happy tunes.  The planning paid off and the ceremony and party went off without a major hitch.  But that isn’t what made it all so special.

Sure Noah was brilliant and comfortable and fun – as I knew he would be.  Sure the service was beautiful and left everyone in happy tears.  Sure the catering and the DJ and the centerpieces and the photographer were spectacular and did everything we hired them to do.  And sure it happened to be a beautiful day.  Sunshine replaced the gusty winds we were promised.  But we didn’t need it.  We basked in the glow of the family and dear friends  — a cross section of our shared lives comprised of those who share a love for our son.

They descended from points near and far.  Relatives came in from New England, New York, New Jersey and Virginia. Our college friends and their children traveled from around the country, some flying in from Ohio and California.  Locally, soccer games were missed, dog sitters were hired, kids left college and everyone put their lives on hold for the weekend to share a time in our lives that comes only once.  The children bonded; the grown-ups reconnected.  And we ate and talked and laughed and toasted and danced.

Today we go back to the daily routine.  Kids have homework and activities.  Dave has a classroom of kids and I have a full inbox of emails to answer.  But nothing feels the same.  It’s as if someone sprinkled happiness on our shoulders, reminding us that we are blessed with something that can’t be found on any to-do list.  We are blessed with love.

The Penn Gang and Kiddos Pose for an After Party Photo

At approximately 2:00 p.m. this afternoon I will be going off the grid as the whole family gears up for Noah’s Bar Mitzvah weekend.  To say that I have been a bit consumed by the preparations would be a fair statement.  I honestly never thought I would become one of those people – but I did.  For what it’s worth my obsession came from only the best intentions.  Still, I want to take this space to apologize to those upon whom I have pulled the complete Jewish mother:

To the reporter who asked if I would be able to get them some important data at the end of the week to which I replied:  “I will be out on Friday but my colleague can help you with that.  It’s my SON’S BAR MITZVAH.”  I’m sorry.  You don’t really care as long as you get your data.

To the nice lady who painted my toes yesterday who asked me if the color was okay to which I replied, “Yes, it matches my dress perfectly FOR MY SON’S BAR MITZVAH.”  I’m sorry.  That was TMI —  although I think you were thrilled that we didn’t have to find another shade of chocolate brown.”

To everyone who asked how the preparations were going but didn’t really want to know the gory details of rehearsals, hotel rooms, and the suit options in young men’s department at Nordstrom’s. I’m sorry.

To my family who, on Monday morning, will be faced with a catatonic wife and mother who resembles someone who just had a frontal lobotomy:  I’m sorry.  I have done little else this past month besides plan and suddenly I will not have that to do anymore.  I may stare into space or question my purpose on this earth.  If this occurs, please talk to me in soft gentle voices and remind me that I was indeed quite busy before all this malarkey completely consumed me.  Sit me down in front of the computer and show me some of my writing projects.  Take me to my Boot Camp class and put a medicine ball in my hands.  Introduce me to my second child’s teacher and suggest that I volunteer for something.  Anything.  Hand me a cocktail.   I know I had some sort of life before this all began.  It will all come back… eventually … I promise.

With less than two weeks to go before Noah’s Bar Mitzvah, an unexpected fear has taken up shop in my head.  There it lives, quiet most of the time, except for the six or seven three or four times each day when it whispers insidiously to me, preparing me for the worst.  I’m not worried that Noah won’t be ready to read the Torah (the kid’s a pro) or that the DJ won’t show up (they, too, are pros) or that my dress won’t fit (stopped eating solid foods last week).  I am worried about something of which I (surprise) have no control.

I’m worried that someone is going to get sick.

I know several stories of real sickness on Bar/Bat Mitzvah days and I can’t imagine that I would not completely flip out.  And of course, my guys have not been sick in quite some time–  so in my mind, that makes them prime targets of the Universe.

By simply writing this blog post and publicly facing my fears, I hope I am preventing a self -ulfilling prophecy.  But it also never hurts to pray.  So here I offer a prayer for health on October 16.

Dear God:

Please keep my family healthy for October 16, 2010.  If you look in your book of illnesses and we happen to be already scheduled for that day, could we possibly switch with another family?  We would gladly take Monday, October 18 – and even Sunday October 17^th if we had to.  Also, any of us could get sick October 4 – 13 as long as it is a bacterial illness and not viral.  We are happy to be cursed with strep throat or an ear infection, treatable with a 24 hour Z-Pac of antibiotics.

If you have no choice but to strike us ill on October 16, please let it be something that can be masked with large doses of Motrin.  Please no stomach viruses or head lice.  If it has to be head lice, please forgive us for telling no one and infesting our entire guest list in Your name.  If it has to a stomach virus, please let it be me as I am likely to be nauseous that day anyway.

Please forgive me for forcing my children to go to bed early for the next two weeks, bugging them to wash their hands after they touch anything, and turning down invitations to go skateboarding.  Also, please do what you can so that the other children do not laugh at them when they show up to school in a giant plastic bubble.

I know this is much to ask.  But as the person who has spent the last two years planning this event, I feel like have taken care of everything else.  If you could lend a hand here, I will be eternally grateful.

Shalom,

Emily

P.S. I have heard you have a sense of humor at times.  I hope this is one of them.

It’s Saturday morning and Noah and I have to run to the bookstore to pick up a gift for a friend.  I hop in the car; he hops in the passenger seat… with his Nintendo DS and turns it on.

Me:  Put that thing back in the house.

Noah:  Why?

Me:  It’s an eight minute car ride.

Noah:  MOM!  I have nothing to do!  I’m soooo bored.

Me:  You can talk to me.  We never have the chance to have a real conversation.  Think about how nice that would be.

Noah: I really don’t have anything to talk about.

Me:  We can talk about your Bar Mitzvah!  I have some questions for you.

Noah:  Fine.  (He huffs back into the house to put away the DS.  Returns to car.)  Sigh.

Me:  OK.  Great!  I need to know what colors you are thinking about for the recption room.  Your choice.

Noah:  How many colors do I get?

Me: No more than three.  We don’t want the rainbow.

Noah:  Okay.  Blue, silver, gold.  Wait!  GREEN, silver, gold.

Me:  Great.  That works. (Then, I think: Will the room look like a Notre Dame alumni function?)

Noah:  Wait!  I’m not sure green, silver and gold works for my band. (As in HIS band of 12 years old musicians and a 10 year old drummer who can’t get through a single practice without infighting, Guitar Hero and snack time.)

Me:  I think it will work fine for the band.  You know, if you want the band to play a song for the Bar Mitzvah, the band is going to have to be able to actually play a song all the way through. (Read: stage parent pushing kid towards solo career.)

Noah:  Mom, we are going to play a bunch of songs.  Like maybe a set or something — right in the middle.

Me:  Well, Noah, the Bar Mitzvah reception is kind of a dance party, remember?  The DJ is going to play the songs.  We are all going to dance.

Noah:  But the band will play too.  And another thing –  no Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift, Jonas Brothers, Justin Bieber, or Lady Gaga.

Me:  No Gaga?? 

Noah:  Absolutely not.  I’ll leave my Bar Mitzvah if the DJ plays Lady Gaga.

Me:  THAT would be unfortunate.  Okay so what songs do you like?

Noah:  I don’t know.  Anything by Lynyrd Skynyrd.  Green Day.  Aerosmith.  Stevie Ray Vaughan.  You know.  Classic rock.

Me:  Yeah okay – you so can’t dance to any of those artists.

Noah:  Uh, you can totally dance to Sweet Home Alabama.  Mom!  It’s my Bar Mitzvah.  What if we just want to listen to cool music?

Me:  (thinking of the grandparents chillin’ out to Lynyrd Skynyrd and wondering if we should play Freebird before or after Havana Gila).  Well we have to have some acceptable dance music.

Noah:  Well, I get to choose no matter what.  Okay?  Mom?  Okay?   Hellooooo?   Hey, Mom where are you going?  Why are you turning around?

Me:  I made a mistake. We left something at home.

Noah:  What?

Me:  Your DS.

I know what you are going to say.  You don’t make a Jewish mother crazy.  It’s in the Torah that we should be this way.  Really.  Truth be told, all mothers carry with them their own personal versions of insanity.  We Jews tend to be a bit control freaky.  Take away our control, you take away our good sense.

Case in point:  Dave and I have scouted the kingdom for a venue to have Noah’s Bar Mitzvah celebration which takes place in October 2010.  Why look so soon?  Because the same places that hold these parties also hold weddings and in case you haven’t heard, October is the new June.  Come the Fall hundreds of nice young couples will begin the one year engagement cycle and look to hold their nuptials at the same place we want to dance the Horah.  I’m feeling a little pressure to book a spot before then.

Unfortunately, none of the places we have visited have spoken to me.  Some were too public, others too dingy, some too pricey, one not available.  I was prepared to settle for the place with the biggest dance floor when I came across another option – The Villanova Conference Center, which is close to our home.  Why hadn’t I heard of this before you might ask?  It could be because Villanova is a Catholic university and doesn’t come to mind as THE DESTINATION SPOT for Bar Mitzvahs.  Until now. 

As we toured the facility over the weekend, Dave and I became more excited.  We traded knowing glances as we both thought the same thing:  Your mother would LOVE this!  Great party space, lovely outdoors, nice staff, and guest rooms where our out of towners can stay.  We would have much of the place to ourselves.  Hail Mary!  We were sold.

But they couldn’t tell us whether or not the place was available on our date.  They thought it might be but couldn’t confirm until the sales manager came in.  At this point, I lose all sense of reality and decide that I have to “sell” my party to them.  I am going to be the BEST client ever.  I will not bother the catering manager with ridiculous requests; I will send the cheeriest emails; I will certainly NOT ask if they can give us a break on the price because they may not like that and turn us down; if we have to book extra rooms to get this place, so be it because it is the best place EVER and I really don’t want to have to settle and I can picture it all now and ….

At this point, Dave packs the boys into the car and leaves town for the week.  For their own protection. Smart man.  

I call the sales manager first thing yesterday morning when he is supposed to arrive at work.  Voicemail.  I leave the NICEST message because that will surely seal the deal.  I’m told I have a very nice voice.  Hours go by.  Should I call again or would that be a turn off?  Doesn’t this guy want to make a sale?  Aren’t we in the biggest recession ever?  Why doesn’t he LIKE me?

Apparently he had a few other things to do in the morning.  Finally, after like 3.47 hours, he calls.  The date is available.  I’m putting the deposit down today. 

Honey?  It’s safe to come home.  I’m bringing us down to Defcom 2. 

L’chaim.

(Sorry, I momentarily passed out.)

Anyways, as I was saying, there were a few ideals that I will strive to emulate when Noah’s Bar Mitzvah comes in October of 2010.

• It was pretty much all about Eliza (as opposed to her parents Beth and Jeff) and I could tell that made everyone happy.
• The religious service was personalized, including Jeff leading the congregation in some wonderful singing. It was then that I asked for the tissues.
• The party was not grossly extravagant but rather warm and fun, and lo and behold everyone had a terrific time without major, over-the-top accoutrements.
• Almost without exception each guest had a connection with Eliza. She knew who every person was.

For those of you who haven’t experienced the upper middle class Bar/Bat Mitzvah scene, you may think these ideals are pretty obvious.  Those who have know that they are not.  I am not immune to the irrational exuberance that seems to infect Jewish parents as they prepare for this momentous occasion.  But I think this past weekend was a much needed vaccination against getting carried away.

Thus far, Noah’s only expressed thought about his Bar Mitzvah is that under no circumstances should the party-goers EVER be told to “please take your seats as the meal is being served”.  Apparently there will be no sitting at his party.  I can work with that.  It will save us money on tables and chairs.  What can I say?   The kid likes to dance, as does his mother and father if given enough alcohol.  Any opportunity I have to dance with people I love is a blessing.

This weekend was blessing — full of love, dancing and family.   

This song was one of the tunes that Jeff sang during Eliza’s service, making me seriously veklempt.  This guy has nothing on Jeff but since I did not have my web cam in the synagogue with me, he will have to do.  L’Dor Vador means “generation to generation” – a theme for Eliza’s celebration… and a reason to celebrate pretty much every day.

I can only hope that Dave and I pass along the same blessing to our boys when it is their time… in the not so distant future.

THUMP.