The other day I needed a small plate that sat on the highest shelf of my kitchen cabinet. There was no way I could reach it, even with a maximum stretch. And no one taller (i.e. ALL three of the other members of my household) was around to assist. My 46 year old auto pilot immediately engaged. I placed my hands on the counter’s edge, bent my knees, and prepared to hoist myself up to a standing positioning atop the granite and retrieve the plate.

This maneuver has been my method of choice to reach things in the kitchen since I was old enough to do so. But as I stood there ready to make the leap I thought better of it. Both my brain and my body whispered to me that this was no longer a good idea. I could pull a muscle, fall, or injure myself when I jump down. I chose instead to pull a kitchen chair over and stand on it to get the plate.

As I easily stepped up, I was overcome with the realization that the ex-gymnast, proud black belt, high energy girl I was will never climb atop the kitchen countertop again. I stood there in that moment and realized that this is what life looks like at the Top of the Hill.

It’s an interesting vantage point. I’m not ready to concede that I am Over the Hill, but I’m certainly not engaged in the same climb I was in my 30s and 40s. I’ve been noticing signs for months now – and it’s truly fascinating how life evolves without your permission.  A few examples for you:

My entry and exit into parking spaces has become more of a process. More often than not, I open my car door and feel like my park job is unacceptable. If I were Over the Hill, I’d just go with the first attempt and leave my van on (or slightly over) the line. But at the Top of the Hill, I climb back in and take my Mulligan (or two) to get it right.

There is technology out there that I will never use – not because I don’t know how (that would be Over the Hill) but because I have no need or desire to SnapChat, YikYak, or (truthfully?) ask Siri anything.

The music my kids play has gotten a ton louder. Or maybe the space in my head where that particular stimuli gathers has gotten much smaller. The latter reasoning is quite possible considering all the thinks and thoughts that swirl around my brain these days about life at the Top of the Hill. Regardless, “Turn it Down, please” has become part of the conversation. I don’t say “Turn it Off.” Yet.

If I were Over the Hill, my kids would think it cute for me to talk about how my “BAE was totally on fleek today.” But at the Top of the Hill, I am forbidden to attempt these words in public because that would be trying too hard.

I no longer panic at every pain, discomfort or feeling of weariness when it sets in. Most mornings, something hurts when I wake up and climb out of bed, but it usually wears off in short order. At the Top of the Hill, I have started avoiding trips to the doctor. I’ll know I’m Over the Hill when I look forward to those appointments so I can get out of the house.

I have stopped worrying when I am going to have sex and started worrying about when my kids are. Nothing to say here but Oy.

At one time, People, US Magazine and Cosmo used to be my not-so-secret vice. In the last year I’ve become decidedly not-so-interested, mostly because I don’t recognize half the celebrities in the Who Wore it Best feature. O Magazine is too touchy feely and Real Simple is pretty complicated. I have become cynical, but proud to note that I have not replaced any of these magazines with Redbook or Good Housekeeping.

Leaving the house with my “readers” has become almost as mission critical as remembering to bring my cell phone. I haven’t misplaced them yet (only to find them hanging around my neck). And I secretly like popping them on when I want to look more seasoned. But there is nothing cosmetic about my need for these puppies.

While life at the Top of the Hill may seem bleak, I assure you it is not. I have plenty of company up here and I have found that the true melding of each generation occurs in this scared place. We are ALL going through this getting older phase – and with shared experiences comes greater understanding and empathy for one another. Even though we don’t have an official name (unless you count Those People Between Baby Boomers and Generation X), I think my generation will embrace these universal truths together – as those who did before us.

For right now, I think I’ll stay up here for a while longer and enjoy the view.

Dear Chase,

Today is your 15th birthday. It is, by all measures, a day to celebrate your fantastic, jubilant and blessed life. And I am missing it.

Thank you for feigning shock and sadness when I told you that I really couldn’t blow off my firm offsite to watch you blow out your candles this year. If there was any element of real disappointment, you hid it well underneath your adorable melodrama. Clearly, we are on the cusp of a new relationship – an adult relationship – where you may, at times, find yourself comforting me as opposed to the other way around. I needed your permission to be absent today, and I am so very lucky that you have reached the age and maturity to grant it wholeheartedly. It almost makes me feel better

Almost.

For the past 15 years, I have woken you up each morning on this day with a gentle rendition of the Happy Birthday song. If the day was a school day, I made sure dinnertime had an element of celebration. Moms live for birthdays – especially yours. We don’t talk about it often, but it is as much a celebration for us as it is for you. The days you and your brother were born were indeed the most exciting, momentous, and meaningful days of my life. And an opportunity to relish that joy once a year is not easily forsaken.

Breathing the same air as you – on the occasion of your birth when you breathed that air for the very first time – has always been paramount to me. But here I am in Vermont at a work offsite. Out of cell range. But not without a connection to you. You will be on my mind all day for sure.

While this is the first birthday of yours I will miss, it will certainly not be the last. So, I am considering this year to be a timely harbinger of life to come – as it absolutely should. Already my presence on this day is beginning to feel ancillary to that of your friends. I am no longer the sole source of your happiness and nurturing – and that is a good thing. With every step you take in your own direction – away from Dad and me — I remind myself that I would never want it any other way.

Still, there is a part of me that will always need to be needed by you. So when you say it is okay that I am not here today, I am both relieved and sad. There is also a little voice that sometimes whispers in my head, asking, “Does he know how much I love him?” Missing your birthday doesn’t help me answer that question with a great deal of confidence. So I may have gone a little over the top this weekend, pre-emptively cramming in the birthday revelry meant for today. Thank you for celebrating on my schedule instead of yours.

And just one more thing while I have your attention: Had this been an ordinary birthday and I was around and able to partake in my goofy traditions, I may have just left it at that. But the distance this year compels me to tell you here what you would never stand for in a face-to-face conversation.

You – at 15 — are all kinds of awesome. You light up the lives of so many people, including mine. I am so very proud the person you have become. I will always love you quietly, but fiercely. I hope you know how much.

Happy Birthday, my sweet boy.

Love, Mom

This past week marked the beginning of seasonal depression for some.  While it’s safe to say that most of us appreciated the extra hour to sleep or shop or watch football last Sunday, come darkness at 5:00 p.m.,  and a collective groan could be heard across the land.  It was the top of conversation all week as if the return to standard time had never happened before.  I heard more than one lamenter remark that they “couldn’t believe” it was dark outside already.  The observation was followed by a long sigh, revealing, in fact, that they could indeed “believe it.”  They just didn’t like it.

I, however, did not join the Misery Chorus.

It wasn’t easy.  I share the love of Daylight Savings Time with my fellow sun chasers.  The opportunity to stretch those long, lazy days of spring and summer into warm dusky evenings is something I look forward to every season, mostly because the longer days go hand in hand with rising temperatures, which is where the true delight lies for me.  I’m not sure staying outside until 9:00 p.m. would have the same draw if it were 35 degrees and we were dressed in parkas instead of tank tops.

And herein lies why I don’t mind (dare I say enjoy?) the seasonal return to standard time.

When daylight savings time comes to an end, it is the Universe sending us an important message.  Whereas summer time propels us out of our homes, urging us to spread out and expand our longitudes and latitudes, standard time beckons us inward, compelling us to gather close.  The warmth we seek is waiting for us in our homes, where lights glow, meals are warm, and a cozy blanket on a cold night is all we need to feel safe and happy.

These are the days of soup and fire places… of hot chocolate and fleece slippers… of staying in and snuggling on the sofa under an afghan as the wind whips up outside.  As I walk the dog down my street, I pull my coat just a little tighter around me and fondly seek the light coming from neighbors’ windows, behind which I know families are gathered, eating dinner, doing homework, watching the early news, and being together.  I pick up my pace and head for the light which I know best, where my own family waits to spend the evening hunkered down, creating our a warmth that is almost tribal in its intent.

Without the cold and the dark, how could we ever fully appreciate the light and radiance of our homes?

In perfect rhythm, our temperatures dropped precipitously this past week – and promise to plummet in the days ahead.  It happens every year, reminding us that warmth can always be found on the inside.  So when it’s 5:00 p.m. and dark as pitch outside, consider it a calling to gather with your people, be grateful for your opportunities to shelter yourself with others, and know that all is as it should be.

Terror Behind the Walls 2014 from Terror Behind the Walls on Vimeo.

For some reason I will never understand, the boys were over the moon excited about the outing as they wanted to up the ante from last year’s visit to “The Bates Motel,” a frightening, but local spook house. At the rate they are going, by the time they are seniors in high school, we may have to pay someone to actually torture them for a few hours so that they can continue to climb this fright curve to new heights. I mentioned this idea to Chase to which he informed me that “somewhere in San Diego – you can actually do that!”

San Diego? Really?

Maybe Pittsburgh or Scranton or Rochester, but San Diego? What do they do?  Lock the kids in a room and tell them that there’s rain the forecast tomorrow? But I digress.

Chase and his friends (and anyone else who pays to be frightened) are easy and fun targets because I truly don’t comprehend the appeal. For me, haunted houses and horror movies are right up there with dental work and traffic jams.  Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.  I don’t even like to tell people I have the hiccups because I worry they may try to scare them out of me. About three or four times a year, one of my guys will need to get my attention while I am blow drying my hair. Let’s just say you do NOT want to be that person who approaches me unnoticed and taps me on the shoulder. Ask them. It’s bad.

But this time of year “what scares you most” is a topic on the minds of many. It really is a very intimate question – one that I’ve never really spent much time on in terms of examining my own fears – or the fears of those I love. It’s probably because to do so would reveal vulnerabilities that perhaps aren’t ready for primetime. But then again, there is much to be gained by shining light into our darkest corners. Right?

So here goes.

• I am afraid of bugs, mice, bats and snakes – but only when they are places they are NOT supposed to be – like my family room.
• Per above, I hate being startled. Do not sneak up on me or hide and jump out and yell Boo. If you do, plan a very nimble retreat.
• I think zombies are funny. But those two twin girls in The Shining? Creepy.
• I am NOT afraid of catching Ebola. At all. I’m not afraid of germs. I have now guaranteed that I will ultimately be killed by a germ.
• I am desperately afraid of plane hijackers. Or plane crashes. I have become less afraid of in flight turbulence although I’m still not a fan.
• I am not concerned about bridges but I am afraid of tunnels that go underwater. Not the tunnels themselves but the possibility that they could burst open and drown the people in the cars going through them.
• I am very scared of cancer, more so than any other life threatening disease.
• Sometimes when I walk the dog at night, I am a little scared that the boogie man is waiting for me in the bushes.
• I am not comfortable with Marilyn Manson.
• I have a serious fear of dying – all based entirely around the FOMO once I am gone. I try to pair this fear with a nice swig of hope for an afterlife that really rocks.
• I am mostly frightened of losing people I love, or having them go through any sort of pain. That is what scares me the most. It hits closest to home and is unfortunately an inevitable part of living.

Ironically one of my biggest fears is that making my fright list public will tempt the fates to see if I am speaking the truth. Will writing them here inoculate me against these experiences or create a negative energy that attracts such bad fortune to me? I guess we will see.

But to Chase and his friends, I am so glad that they need to pay hard-earned cash to scare themselves silly. May they stay young and invincible just a little while longer. And let it be years before they can join the club where you can get all of this good old fashioned dread for free.

Does anyone else in your class still purchase these pictures??

Noah and I were assessing this year’s school photographs which were delivered to the students on Friday.  I had purchased Package D – the least money I could spend to get my hands on a single 5×7 to update the picture frame in my office.  It cost me $22 plus tax – and it came with two 3×5’s, four wallet sizes, and nine really small photos which I can only guess are for people who want to fit two pictures into a single sleeve in their wallet.

However, these people do not exist.

Because I don’t think anyone carries photos in their wallets anymore.  It wasn’t THAT long ago when I would respond to an inquiry about how my boys were doing by whipping out my trusty money holder and handing it over so people could view their growing faces through the smudgy plastic.  I wouldn’t do that today any faster than I would stop by a record store or watch the 6 o’clock news to get the weather report.

Because WE are an advanced society.

These days if someone asks me how my kids are, they wait patiently while I flip through the gallery on my phone, so that I can find just the right shot to share.

At some point during that search, I will find a 5 minute video of the school marching band, at which point I stop and treat the well-intended victim to some live action.  These are moments that mean so much to me – and simultaneously equate to minutes my companion will never get back.  I admire Lifetouch, the school portrait service, who is still fighting the good fight to keep our lives a little bit simpler by continuing to put our kids where they belong — in our wallets.

And, according to Noah, they are winning.

He responded to my question quickly and without thinking:  Of course the other kids purchase the photos.  This reality was confirmed by Chase who, a few hours later, dug out his own photos and shared them with me.  Yup – most people still get them, a fact that first relieved, and then fascinated me.  I certainly didn’t want my boys to lose any street cred in the mean halls of our suburban high school by being the only ones walking around with Package D all day.  For all I know, this parenting purchasing behavior could have stopped in elementary school and I never got the memo.  But the boys looked at me like this was a no-brainer which says to me that many parents continue to buy into this incredibly dated service, year after year.  And for what?

I get my 5×7 – and offer the 3×5’s and wallets to the grandparents, bringing the annual utility of Package D up to about 25%.  The rest of the photos remain in the crinkly envelope with the plastic viewing window, joining the other envelopes from past years in my storage closet.  The boys never touch them – or want them.  The physical “hard copy” of their faces cannot compete with their own strategically posed, well timed, and  online selfies which comprise their identities.  LifeTouch knows their market – and its certainly not the kids smiling at them awkwardly for the camera.

As I trimmed down my 5x7s on Sunday morning, I wondered why I (and others) buy into school pictures every year. Maybe it’s a generational thing that offers me a comforting tether to my own childhood.  Or perhaps it’s another guilt-induced, annual exercise in “it’s what good parents do.”  I do believe this credo plays heavily into the fact that I NEVER throw away the multitude of identical photos  living in my closet, because I might as well throw away MY OWN CHILDREN.

Actually, I think my “Lifetouch buy-in” is exactly as it sounds.  Life.  Touch.

Once a year, I purchase a touchstone from their lives. While I may be mildly frustrated by the unused mini-wallets, these photos guarantee a souvenir of my sons’ childhoods, presented in such a way that I can take in changes in their faces… and the evolution of their being.  Even the years when the quality of the portraits have something to be desired, it is still very much them smiling back at me, another year older but the same kid at the core.

Over the last decade, I have watched both my blond haired children grow into dark haired young men against varied colored backdrops donning different, collared “picture day” shirts.  Their faces have narrowed; their jaws have become more angled.  This year, I observed that Noah always chooses not to show his teeth when he smiles; his grin has been closed lipped since second grade.  Chase’s Adam’s Apple made its debut this year, or at least I noticed this time around.  Both boys chose to wear black without consulting one another, more out of fashion-sense than anything political or moody.

Another year gone by.  Another time stamp on the card of life.

The side-by-side 5×7 photos grace the desk in my office; the others are snipped and awaiting delivery to the grandparents.  The leftovers will live on, joining their younger siblings in the brown paper bag in the closet, only to be disposed of in the event of my death.  What felt like an antiquated service desperately trying to stay relevant in an age of digital over load suddenly feels like something I would miss terribly if it was discontinued.

Well played, Lifeouch.  Well played.

Almost 17 years ago, I gave birth to the moon in my sky.  I didn’t know it at the time, but this tiny creature would beckon my heart towards him with a gravitational force for which I had no defenses.  Intense, deep feeling and luminous, my oldest child has been a constant presence whose moods ebb and flow with the tide.  At times, he offers just a sliver of himself, but that crescent is brilliant in its clarity.  And when that boy shines full and bright, I bask in his beauty and wholeness, even though I know it is a fleeting glow.  I’ve gotten comfortable with the cycles of my moon, and together we ride the lower lows, the higher highs and the various ascents and declines in between.  Noah, my moon, is the light I never grow tired of seeking.  Although my quests are often unnecessary for he regularly finds me first.

The answer to my moon is, of course, my sun.  My youngest is confident, radiant, and bold, warming all those in his presence.  Even when the darkest of clouds swirl around him, I never doubt that his strength and vibrancy will prevail.   And though it is easy to be drawn to him, getting close – or letting your eyes linger on him too long – is difficult.  I’m not sure I will ever know how deep his fire burns or what truly fuels him, but perhaps his existence in my world is enough.  He is the source of energy for our family, always beaming, seemingly unencumbered by everyday worries he probably deems too trite to acknowledge.  Chase, my sun, rarely dims, leaving me perplexed as to his needs for mother earth.  I stand by, just in case.

How two children brought into and raised in this world by the same people can be so polar opposite will forever be one of life’s great mysteries.  They remain the strongest of presences, in my sky and in my heart.  And while I adore them both in ways they may never understand, I experience them so differently, with that divide growing wider over time.  One son seems to be on this earth to be studied and understood by a precious few, while the other is destined to be enjoyed by the masses.  As I implore my moon to lighten up, I plead with the sun to go deeper.  I’m regularly pulled in strongly by my moon while simultaneously pushed gently away by my sun.  Silently, my heart speaks to them:

Never in the same sky, the unique orbs my children emit and the varied shadows they cast have become the yin and yang of my existence.  I stand here on earth, watching them rise and fall, day after day, in awe of their distinct impact on me and the world around them.  My wonder is matched only by my gratitude, which I send to the Universe for the gift of balance I have been given.  May their lives rarely eclipse one another and may their unique lights always shine bright.

By August of this year, I had been blogging for 6 years, 2 months, 3 weeks and not-going-to-bother-with hours.  And I was pretty tired.  When that first Sunday night came and went and I didn’t even try to squeeze something out of my head, the rest felt so good.  In fact, I enjoyed the break so very much that I gave myself permission to do the same thing the following Sunday, even having the conversation in my head about not explaining my absence either.  And so went the rest of August.  September came and I spent my Sunday nights strapping myself to the weekly catapult, packing myself and the boys, for the week ahead.  There seemed to be no time to write during the weekly preparation for launch.  So I just didn’t.

Frankly, I wasn’t sure anyone noticed.  And honestly, I didn’t know how to feel about it.  If no one cared that I wasn’t writing, WTH have I been doing for the last 6 years, 2 months…. yeah, you get the picture.  But at the same time, if no one cared, then I am free NOT to write.  That feels more than a little liberating.  Hmmm. I spent a few more weeks meditating on this reality.

And then gradually, people started to notice.  Or perhaps they had noticed before but it took a while to say anything.

Chase was the first to tell me that his lunch table was asking about why I wasn’t writing.  The fact that my blog was a topic of conversation at the freshman lunch table at my son’s high school could perhaps be the highest form of praise I will ever receive.  Of course, he went on to tell me that his friends thought that blogging was my actual job – so perhaps they were concerned for our livelihood.  But still, I was completely humbled.  Then, a very nice woman in the check out line at the grocery store asked me if I was the blogger at MoB.  She actually recognized me and it was very cool of her to say so.  She noticed that I hadn’t been writing as well.  And of course, my Mom would drop the occasional gentle probes.  Thank goodness. If Mom doesn’t miss me, might as well hang it up here and now.

The recognition was a nice ego boost, but it’s the itch that brings me back.  There is a great deal of “stuff” going on in the world – and not a day goes by that my writing muscle doesn’t snag itself on some passing news item, interaction, gut wrenching feeling, or wave of gratitude.  The words start lining up in their queue in my head, but then disintegrate as my attention is drawn away.  These fits and starts are happening with greater frequency, so I’m thinking its time to return to these pages and share these thoughts.

I’m sorry I left without any explanation.  Unlike Forrest, my writing days are far from over.  I may adjust the cadence of my posts – so that the best of my work comes through here.  But as I sit here on Sunday afternoon, typing away, it feels pretty darn good to be back.

I hope you have all been well.  We’ll talk soon.

While my “spidey-sense” was constantly tingling when Noah was in Israel, I kept it together most of the time and operated at fair degrees of normalcy.  I worked, I ate, I slept (yes, believe it or not), and held my own in conversations with other people, all according to my usual M.O.  There were, however, a few periods when I was too worried to function.  When a rogue rocket from Lebanon hit in the town where Noah was staying, when the airlines banned all flights to and from Tel Aviv within days of his departure, and when I found out that the kids’ flight path home took them over the Ukraine, I ceased caring about much else besides the situation right in front of me.

Issues that would normally have me wringing my hands and fretting over outcomes became immediately inconsequential.

• Work deadline?  Uh…. not happening.
• Happiness of my “other” child still ensconced in our home?  He’s imperfectly safe here in America.
• Cat that had decided to stop using her litter box?  We’ll figure out where she is peeing soon enough.

None of it mattered.  Even how I worried about Noah changed drastically.  At one point, we spoke with him on the phone and he complained of a sore throat, a condition that normally would have me obsessing about the medical care he was getting, and whether he was suffering.  Yet, given that at that particular time, we didn’t know how he was getting home, my reaction fell somewhere in between:  “Do you have any Advil left?” and “Suck it up, Kid, as long as you’re not calling me from a bomb shelter, it’s all good.”  I had very little concern for how much fun he was having, whether he was getting along with the group, or how much he was eating, spending or sleeping.

And poor Chase, the dutiful younger brother to whom I will someday apologize for dumping at camp in the Pocono Mountains during this time without much more than a high five.  I think we slowed the minivan down so he could jump out.  I’m not sure – it was all quite a blur and much different from previous years when we lingered with all the other parents, needing to fully assess his well being leaving him for four weeks.

My BIG Worry about Noah’s safety completely suffocated all my smaller worries.  And in some twisted sick way, it was liberating to let all that other stuff go, if only for a short time.

I began to visualize my fears as balloons filling up the finite amount of space I had in my heart and mind for such things.  We all have different capacities for anxiety – some larger, some smaller – and we fill whatever space we have with our concerns.  Usually, my Worry Chamber is filled with balloons of small to medium size – with a bit of room left over for daily fire drills, running late and the scale that has been going in the wrong direction..  I have been very blessed thus far to have so few times in my life when nothing else matters but a single mega  concern.  But as terrifying as something that large might be, it does provide perspective about what truly matters.

People with BIG problems tend to seem overly gracious, calm and often at peace about the world that surrounds their pain.  It may be because they are Zen-like people to begin with, but I think it also has a great deal to do with the fact that there isn’t any room to sweat the small stuff.

When Noah’s plane landed at JFK Airport on Sunday night, my Big Worry completely deflated.  I enjoyed the vacant space for a few hours, before my smaller worries reappeared, much to my annoyance, and took their rightful place in my Worry Chamber.

The big worries consume you, the smaller ones chip away at your soul day by day.  I hadn’t realized how many tiny anxieties were going on with me until I cast them aside.   I wish somehow we could gain the perspective that comes with big worries without having to suffer through them.  Until then, I’ll remind myself and my kids that if I’m worried about the length of the lawn, the score of the math test, or the on-time arrival of my next flight, we are a very lucky family indeed.

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]]> https://mothersofbrothers.com/the-worry-chamber/feed/ 2 https://mothersofbrothers.com/the-trip-of-lifetime/ https://mothersofbrothers.com/the-trip-of-lifetime/#comments Mon, 14 Jul 2014 03:41:19 +0000 Emily Mendell http://mothersofbrothers.com/?p=9540

Many years ago, before I had children, I remember sitting in a meeting at work with a colleague who was casually discussing the fact that her young son was not feeling well, but was in good hands with his Nanny whom she completely trusted.  At the time, I marveled at how this woman remained so calm and did not rush home to be with her sick child.  I predicted that someday when I was a parent, I would never be capable of putting on such a brave face.  At the first sign of trouble, I would be there by my hypothetical child’s side, keeping him or her safe, healthy and feeling loved.

I’ve learned a few things since that time.

One such enlightenment is that, when it comes to parenting, OBSERVING a situation is often a far cry from being IN a situation.  And you might say that Dave and I, along with many other parents who sent their children to Israel on “the trip of a lifetime” this summer, are IN a situation that the entire world is observing.

Noah has been in the country for three weeks – with two more to go.  I wrote last about the struggle I faced with letting him go here.  At the time, I was worried about him making his way without me, growing up so fast, and handling the minor mishaps of travel.  I had no idea what was about to come.  I wish I had the luxury of fretting over clean underwear now.  Instead, I wait for the daily updates on his itinerary, which change regularly to keep our children out of harm’s way.

As of this writing, most of us parents have decided to keep their children in this beautiful country which is now under attack.  Stepping outside myself for a moment, the thought of not bringing my sweet boy home immediately seems preposterous.  In fact, I don’t actually have to travel too far outside my own head and heart to second guess our current strategy.  The buzz of self-doubt has been constant since the rockets started firing, with the decibel level rising and falling daily based on the news we are hearing.

Last night, two rockets were launched at the town where our children were sleeping.  They missed their targets, as have the hundreds of missiles that have been fired at Israel in the last week.  Today, the group continued with their journey,without any interference from yours truly.

Suddenly, I am the brave face.  Times 10.  Or maybe I am crazy. The jury is out on that verdict as well.

Thank you to everyone who has been kind enough to reach out to us to see how we are holding up.  I know you are all genuinely concerned, but at the same time really curious about our thought process.  I would be, too.  So here is some insight into that for those of you who are going through it – or might ever have a child in harm’s way while far away from you.

I can speak for myself only.  Even Dave is processing these events differently, although we are (so far) coming back to the same place.  My psychological state over the last week has been swayed by a series of conversations.

First, I have spoken with Noah several times.  He is happy and enjoying the trip immensely.  It has been an extremely meaningful expereience.  According to him, all this talk of war is “completely exaggerated.”  He and his group have yet to take part in a Code Red and he feels completely safe.  His demeanor is an elixir on my troubled heart, but I know that what is happening in Israel is very real.  I hope he understands the gravity of the situation and told him that if he does hear a siren to MOVE and MOVE FAST.

I have spoken to the other parents whose children are on the trip.  I must say that this is the group with which I am most impressed.  You would think that putting a bunch of Jewish mothers (and fathers) together on a Facebook page would deteriorate quickly into a cauldron of anxiety, judgment and alarm.  Quite the contrary, I have found these parents to be thoughtful, respectful and patient, with the tour group and with one another.  The range of emotions runs the spectrum with some parents choosing to bring their children home, others teetering on the fence, and still others completely committed to finishing the trip.  (Surprisingly, most are in this latter camp.)  There has been widespread support for all opinions and actions.  The surreal nature of our predicament has doused us all in a tremendous amount of tolerance.  For this I am truly grateful.

I have spoken to trip organizers who are, in turn, advising us to keep our kids there.  They are speaking to the Israeli government every day reviewing itineraries, bus routes, and venues, and making changes when necessary.  Their message to us is “you can trust us to keep your children safe.  If we cannot keep them safe, we will get them out fast.”  This is both comforting and horrifying.  But it has been the overriding fact in letting Noah remain.

I have spoken to my Rabbi whose guidance I am valuing above all others.  He knows Israel and he knows the tour group.  More importantly, he knows my son, and he knows me.  He will not make me any promises – but I don’t want promises.  Any promise made to me at this point is an empty one.   No one knows what will happen over there, but the best guess of Rabbi Rigler – and what he would do if it were his child over there – is my current North Star.  He also believes we should keep Noah there, but recognizes the need to assess that decision daily.

I have talked with my husband, whose job it has been since we were married 20 years ago to pull me back from the various edges I have approached with the threat of going over.  He continues to be the rock in this relationship. Although my sense is that it is getting harder to pull me back, the closer he is to the edge himself.  He knows it is very, very important NOT to suggest at any time that I should calm down.  And he lets me say things to him like “if anything happens to our son, I will never forgive you” because he knows that makes me feel better — and he also knows it means I will never forgive myself.

Most of all, I have talked to myself.  A lot.  Conversations go from the practical (what are the odds this war will escalate further?) to the logistical (if I wanted to bring Noah home, is getting him to the airport more dangerous than staying with the group?) to the prescriptive (just stay busy, he will be fine, what are the odds, you’ll laugh about this someday, repeat) to the punchy (when they said “trip of a lifetime, this is not what they meant.”) I have become my own best friend, agreeing wholeheartedly with each side of my various arguments.  It’s not particularly productive, but it is therapeutic.

All of these conversations have kept my kid in Israel.  Even though it is the scariest decision I have ever made, it feels like the better of the two options today.

There is one conversation I have not had yet – and that is the one with God. That sums up how frightened I actually am. It would be largest request I have ever made, and I can’t bear to ask for something so specific as our children’s safety for fear it will go unheard amidst the explosions and suffering.  So I am joining those praying for peace, and strength, and guidance — for my family and all those impacted by the violence now taking place.

And with that, this brave face crumples.

Today I am writing you a letter you will likely never read.  It is Sunday afternoon and by the time I post this tomorrow morning, you will be landing in Warsaw, Poland, embarking on a 5 week journey which, after a week in Europe will bring you to Israel, where I am told you will have the experience of a lifetime.  I should not expect to hear from you very often, so I assume that means you will be too busy to catch up on my blog while you are gone.  Herein lies the opportunity to release some of the unexpected emotion that has been building inside of me in recent weeks as we prepared for your departure.   I have been extremely mindful not to give myself away, not to let you know that the thought of you being more than 5700 miles away – a 12 hour plane ride – has been wreaking havoc on my heart.

There is a false security in proximity.  I have little fear of you traveling to summer camp, a 90 minute car ride away, and even less fear when you go local — to the movies or head out to school each morning.  With all that is happening in this country with random, senseless gun violence, statistically, you might be safer in Israel. At least that is what I have been telling myself.  It is part of the two sided conversation I have which pits the throngs of American teenagers that have successfully gone before you against everything that could possibly go wrong while you are away from me.

Do you remember when you were a little boy and you had a scrape that needed disinfecting?  When the Bactine burned I told you that it was “the good germs fighting the bad germs” – and that the good germs were WINNING!  Well, that’s kinda what’s going on with me.  The good Mom who knows this experience is so important to you is fighting with the bad Mom who just wants to keep you close for a little bit longer.  With an hour left to go before your departure, the good Mom is poised to win…. but the battle hurts.

As I sat with my Blue Sharpie yesterday, marking your initials on the inside of your socks, I was overcome with the fact that this was the last act of care I could complete before you left.  There I was, writing “NM” thirty times on socks that have odds of making it home of about 50 to 1.  I watched as the marker bled into the fabric, making my N’s and M’s look like some sort of miniature Rorschach tests.  Well, hopefully you will be the only kid with that particular design and you will be reunited with enough socks to keep your feet dry for the duration of the trip.  I hope someday you will understand the weirdness that comes with parenting, but I just have to say that I have never loved you more than I did when I was labeling your socks.

I asked you if you were nervous about anything and you admitted that you were most concerned about the flights.  I smiled and told you that all would be fine, knowing that I can’t make any promises except to be a source of comfort for your fears.  You asked if I was nervous about anything – and I lied again, casually quipping that I just want you to have a great time.  But the truth is:  I am nervous about everything and I can’t wait for you to come home.  Its not unlike the first time you walked home from school by yourself.  I fretted mightily that day, but every day after that became easier until I didn’t even think about it anymore.  I am hoping that is what is in store for me on this trip.  Because right now I feel like someone is ripping my heart out of my chest and setting it free – unprotected – somewhere across the world.

Thank you for giving your brother an unprecedented amount of your time in your final hours before departure.  It would have been easier if you were fighting today; I would have been quicker to usher you into the car and away from the bickering.  Instead I hear you jamming in the music room, you on guitar, Chase on drums.  Soon, just drums.  Ok, I’m losing it.  IT IS ONLY FIVE WEEKS, I know.   I hope you miss the shit out of each other.

I don’t want you worrying about much over there.  In anticipation of the travel snafus that often come with a long trip, I told you not to worry about losing things – that everything can be replaced, and fairly quickly at that.  But that’s not exactly true.  I fully expect to lose a piece of you on this journey that will never be replaced.  It’s the part of you that needs your Mom to label your socks.

Oh, and I’m sorry that I cried when you left.  Be grateful that I couldn’t join you and  Dad at the airport because then I would have cried in public.  I am actually pretty proud of myself that it was only a few crocodile tears — and not a bawling snot cry.  Please know, my son, that it is a privilege to have someone cry for you.  I hope that as long as you are on this earth, there will always be another person who loves you that much.

I will keep busy while you are gone, although its tempting just to wring my hands and pace for the next 35 days.  You be sure to keep yourself happy and safe – and I will do the same here.  We owe this journey to each other.

I can’t wait to hear all about it; I can’t wait for you to come home.

Love, Mom

xxoo