I’m getting ready for school. No pencils, no books, no plaid skirts or Peter Pan collars (those were the days, though, huh?)

Why?

I’m heading off to preschool!

In just a couple of weeks I’ll go back to my assistant teacher position at one of our local Jewish preschools that serves an ethnically and racially diverse population along with the Jewish community. Our phenomenal program draws some of the best and the brightest — and some of the most challenging. Because of our diveristy you might just see little African American children fold their hands and kneel down while they’re saying the Motzi*, but that’s ok. You will definitely see little Irish/German/Russian/Korean kids in their Christmas sweaters learning Hanukkah songs or eating matzah. Why do we draw such a crowd? Because along with academic readiness and life skills, we teach traditional Jewish values of kindness, caring, patience, friendship and acceptance.

OH! Those are universal values?

Yes. They. Are.

This year when I head back into the classroom with its blocks corner and dress up center and art tables and library, I will keep one new thing in mind as I crouch down to eye-level with the wonderful beings left in my care for a mere 7.5 hours per week. It is something that was brought into my consciousness at a workshop.

The cumulative goal for everything we do for our children should be this — that they grow up resilient.

A resilient child is one who can live successfully within the life he or she has been given. A resilient child can cope with a wide range of circumstances — – easy or difficult, happy or sad, perfect or imperfect. Even rich kids have stress and need to cope. Think about it.

Every thing we do that teaches a lesson of pre-reading or pre-math skills, of sharing or caring, of life or friendship skills is geared toward building resiliency.

And how do we build resilience? By offering a physically and emotionally safe environment for a child. Whether it’s at home or not, each child who has at least one safety net and one adult from whom he or she gets full attention and unconditional love has the ability to grow up resilient. It’s a fact…and there are pages and pages of Harvard-quality statistics and years of scientific research to back it up.

And you know what? I knew all this — because I lived it. But seeing it in print on a screen during a Power Point presentation was very powerful. You see, because when I got divorced all the wonderful psychologist told me was that my kids would be OK if they had one stable parent. Check. One stable parent. Then, when my ex died the same psychologist told me that my kids would be OK because they had one stable parent. Check again. Yep. One stable parent present and accounted for.

It was hard to believe it both times, but both times I learned that he was telling the truth. And even without the words, that’s all I ever wanted and still want, was for my own children to be resilient. And even with their own personal mishegas**, and mine, they are.

Just like being a mom is serious business, I take my job teaching 3’s very seriously as well. As seriously as I can, of course, when I have paint on my nose and I’m wearing a veil, have band-aids on my tee-shirt and am reading Abby YoYo again while cleaning up fire trucks. And we all know that three year olds mixing paint and building with blocks and walking (not running) with pencils are forces to be reckoned with. So what’s not serious about that?

But this year, because of this workshop which gave me insight into my own capacity as a teacher and mother; amidst the nuances, details and frustrations I’ll experience, I will not lose sight of the bigger picture.

Everything done by both parents and teachers, can lead our children toward their joy, their right — of not only experiencing a childhood full of bouncing balls, but a lifetime of always being able to bounce back.

* Hebrew blessing over bread
** Craziness

[Update: I have been in contact with the very responsive editor, Prescott Carlson, of Imperfect Parent dot com. Apparently I should have received two emails regarding my submission, but they often have trouble with AOL accounts, and that’s what I have. Rest assured that Imperfect Parent is not a scam. It was a mistake, a glitch or perhaps an inadvertent oversight. All that matters is that my writing is there. Go see! I’ve also ok-ed the insertion of my real name as author, if he sees fit.]

I clicked over to Imperfect Parent today because I’m writing an essay I’m planning to submit. I saw this, and almost lost my breakfast. GEEZ! That was the original title of a short story I wrote and have since revised and edited about 645 times. I thought the title was so damn original and clever. Silly me.

HOLY CRAP.

It IS me! It’s MY story!

I didn’t even use my real name — I dig anonymity. And at this point it only vaguely resembles the 3000 word re-titled version I’ve recently finished and submitted to mainstream (not parent-centric) literary sites.

They never emailed to say they were publishing it. I had no clue! I visit that site only occasionally — and have been playing around with an idea I thought might work there. I just finished writing it, so I clicked over to revisit their submission guidelines and was smacked lovingly in the face with my own words.

How about that?

Obviously I’m claiming ownership. I’m confident that the newer version only slightly resembles the old and therefore would not be disqualified from being published as such. But if any of you have insight on this quandary, would you let me know?

And what’s with Imperfect Parent not sending notification? I don’t want to seem ungrateful…I’m humbled and honored. Just also confused as to how I’d have ever known. I wouldn’t have!

I’m going to start using my real name. Sometimes.

I found myself momentarily unencumbered with parental responsibilities this weekend when my son was playing football on the front yard and my daughter was lost in watching Cheetah Girls 2, the sing-along version, for the third time. With laundry tumble drying and the dogs sound asleep, I checked my Bloglines. You guys must have lives or something because all 52 of you that I check every day really didn’t have much to say. I wasn’t in a writing, thinking, productive frame of mind; I’d already watched the recaps of my soaps, the Food Network and In Her Shoes. What’s a gal to do?

So, after an almost-four-month hiatus, I decided to see who the next possible Mr. Rightstein might be and wandered on over to the corner of Internet and Pathetic. Yes, I, who pulled myself right off of every dating site after this fiasco, did a little window shopping. But this time I decided to look in the Gentile department. I’ve temporarily given up on Jewish men in this neck of the woods. Even when I find one, he just doesn’t seem to fit.

I put on my finest tee shirt with strategically placed holes, my most comfy sweatpants and had my Diet Coke at the ready. Only the best for the Internet cruising. I picked a generic Date Me dot com, signed up because I had to, checked “spiritual but not religious” in the must-have’s column and went about my business. Within 20 miles of my hometown there were pages and pages of single men in my age-range choice du jour, 42-50. The only thing that made 99% of them eligible for anything with me, was the fact that they profess to be single. I’m sure some of them aren’t — but that’s a post of a different color.

After looking and clicking and laughing and even a little bit of drooling, I pigeon-holed and stereotyped pinpointed my biggest revelation to date regarding my generation of single, non-Jewish men.

Nascar is the new NFL.

No longer need a woman fear being a football widow when she meets the muscle shirt, handle-bar mustached guy of her dreams who is an entrepeneur owns a hot dog cart. Nor should she worry about being a golf widow when she meets the clean cut, Catholic school educated, lapsed Catholic accountant who wants to experiment. She needs to worry about carbon monoxide poisoining, grease under the fingernails or at the very least the screech of designer tires blaring out of the Bose speakers attached to the 50 inch plasma TV or the 9″ AC adapted black and white hooked up in the conversion van.

It’s not just rednecks and hillbillies watching car racing — forgive me — but shouldn’t it be? It interests me less than football and less than golf, and I didn’t think that was possible. I liken it to fishing without something to eat at the end of the trip. What’s the point and no-way — all rolled up into one.

When a man says that one of his free time activities is Nascar, I realize, he’s proud of this or he wouldn’t put it out there. He wants the women of the Internet to know about what’s important to him. I get that. I also get the fact that a tatooed guy on a motorcycle will never mention lox ‘n bagel. Or his mother.

Revelation #2? While this Jewish girl would do a Gentile guy, I don’t do Nascar — so perhaps I need to go back to shopping at Loehmans Saks.

I wish that was code for something; anything; preferably x.-rated, but it’s not. I mean, I could really use something to balance the rest of my life including the rant about to ensue.

Stagnant social life being what it is, perhaps I should be grateful that I did have some unannounced company the other day.

Yep, a troll.

In honor of stepping through this blogger’s rite of paggage (once again), I present for your reading enjoyment (I hope):

INTERVIEW WITH A KVETCH

So, Kvetch…what do you do when you get a nasty comment on your blog - or one that is just totally ridiculously off-track?

I don’t post it. I figure this is my blog and whomever gets to pass needs my permission. It doesn’t mean you have to fawn all over me, although that is nice from time to time. You just have to be literate and just this side of nasty. I enjoy comments on my thoughts, I slurp up compliments on my writing, but that’s about it. I’m not looking to be a place for politic debates or parenting arguments. There are plenty of those already.

When you get a strange anonymous comment do you post that, huh, do ya, huh?

I don’t. Again, this may be a public party with the doors wide open where anyone can come in, but I don’t have to talk to you, or even look at you if I don’t want to. Just like I choose those I know to tell about the blog, I also choose who can comment here. Oppositional points of view are welcome. Thoughtful diatribes are encouraged. And I’ve ever only deleted a few commenters and not allowed them to be part of my world. All of you are so nice, again, I’m not looking to *start something*, only to write and express myself and strike a chord with others, when possible.

When did this person, uh I mean, troll do this and what happened exactly?

This has only happened to me on a few occasions, the most recent being my post about Juan being a freshman. Some yahoo seemed to think the only important thing there was that my kid didn’t take a bus. I didn’t post on the volitale topic of school uniforms or baby leashes or bottle vs. breast. I wrote about how I felt when I took my son to high school. Freaky, huh?

Do you think this is someone you *know*, meaning either know IRL or online?

I don’t think this was some random trolling. I could be wrong, but then again, how likely is that? This person was obviously acquainted with Kvetch Blog since Mayberry was duly mentioned. Either this troll did some heavy reading before posting a comment, or has been reading all along because I have not mentioned Mayberry, by name, in weeks. And in my been-burned-before internet super sleuth fashion, I used that sometimes gut-wrenching site meter to see who has been here, and when, and from whence they came.

What have you learned from this experience, if anything?

That kvetches are smarter than trolls.

How did you feel about it?

After I was initially infuriated that someone would take the time to leave an abrupt comment but no name or URL, I suddenly felt sorry for the person who wrote. She (or he) fundamentally has no clue. Perhaps this person is not a parent, or shouldn’t be. Maybe he or she is school bus driver. I don’t know what this person is, except one thing. A coward.

Anonymous nasty comments are meant to attract attention and put forth an unpopular point of view. Therefore, in this world, where I am Queen, the trolls stay under the bridge and are not permitted into the kingdom.

Did you do anything besides delete the comment?

I did respond privately via the email address that was provided. And big surprise - I’ve gotten no response, because when discovered, trolls tend to retreat.

Do you have anything you’d like to say to your troll?

Sure! If you read this, please note that you did have your intended effect. You pissed me off and were therefore denied access to my tens of readers and commenters. I do hope that you will continue to read my blog and learn about kindness and friendship and thoughtfulness from my friends who comment here every day.

Do you have anything to say to your blog friends?

For the 74 of you who read this daily…or more precised for those of you who stay for more than 2 seconds, I thank you. I hope you will continue to visit, and comment, and share yourselves with the rest of us.

For you — the drawbridge is always open.

Just when I thought that I’d have to lasso time in order to keep precious moments from whizzing past me, last night I spent an hour and a half, yes, ninety minutes, with 11 year old Pippiiee as she chose her outfit for her first 1/2 day of 6th grade. That’s Junior High. She will be in attendance today for three hours.

Last night I learned:

She has no shirts. Seventeen is the new zero.

She has nothing that matches. You must have five shirts (now remember we have none) to match each pair of capri’s to qualify.

The purse must be packed, as well as the backpack. There is no such thing as a knapsack.

Thank goodness at eleven, pink is indeed still the new black, although brown and pink is the new black and white, in case you were wondering.

I don’t think I have to worry about anything around here going anywhere fast.

At this rate it’s going to take a week just to get to lunchtime.

And yes, she goes to school again tomorrow.

Which probably means that tonight, we’ll be choosing a new outfit.

Nominated by Blog Antagonist at Blogs Are Stupid. Thank you, B.A.!

On the first day of high school my son found his way, and I lost my breath. I hoped the cold rush that permeated my chest, throat and limbs was because I hadn’t yet had coffee; but I knew better.

I also knew the feelings that washed over me were not because the building he strode toward was big enough to house multiple air craft carriers. It wasn’t because the metal doors looked like they could swallow him whole. It wasn’t because he walked among beings that looked strangely like adults — with boobs, beards, swaggers, swiveling hips and caramel mochachinos.

As he walked away from the car, he became increasingly more absorbed in a living Seurat. The composition, as a whole, was magnificent. Separately it was a sea of indiscernible, colorful, teenage dots. I will never forget how it looked as he became part of the big pocket, flip flop and muffin top landscape. In a strange way, it was strikingly beautiful.

I was unsettled not due to the vastness or the newness. I was awed because he fit right into it. He belonged. It’s where he is supposed to be. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s all good. At 14 + years old, 5 foot 8 inches tall, with broad shoulders and a stocky build, he is once again and at long last, right where he is supposed to be. And, after a year and a half of treading lightly in shallow waters – he dived right in. I was the one who held my breath.

I wonder if he hadn’t leaned over and let me kiss him goodbye, if this self-proclaimed hardened heart would have cried the whole way home. Probably.

All I could think of that was in that short 5 minute ride was that in four years I’ll be dropping him off at college and not picking him up at 3pm. And how the hell am I supposed to get ready for THAT? Then it will be just me and my daughter at home and then she’ll go to college and I’d be left alone with dogs and a dishwasher that probably only needs to be run once a week. Now that seems delightful, but something tells me it feels quite dreadful. Someone should really re-think this focus on education.

And then I got a grip. He’s fourteen. And she’s eleven.

The biggest waste of time in my adult life was the time I spent looking to and planning for the future and not living completely in the moment. And while seven thousand of my closest friends have already been kind enough to tell me that the next four years are going to fly by, I need only to look back for a second to be able to look forward with a slow and deliberate gaze.

Four years might feel like it goes quickly, but every day brings a myriad of experiences and emotions. Each one is worthy of consideration, acknowledgement and careful placement in our lives. If you experience life and live it minute by minute you never have to wonder where the time has gone. You’ll know because you were there.

And, while I want always to take it moment by moment, I also am on the edge of my seat waiting for my daughter to start school on Thursday so I can have some time alone to write, to think, to breathe or just to watch tv without someone desperately needing a grilled cheese sandwich. Is that too much to ask after a summer that has lasted, oh, approximately, 83 days?

At first he didn’t say much when he walked into the kitchen after his exhaustive and expansive first day as a freshman. I don’t know what’s in the water over there but I swear he was three inches taller than he was that very morning.

He didn’t bolt to his room. I made him a cup of soup and we both sat down. I put my elbow on the table, rested my head in my hand, hopeful he would talk. He did.

And while he was preoccupied eating and recounting, I stared at his soft green eyes and watched his large expressive gestures. I listened intently to each word, knowing these initimate 14 year old moments are to be coveted and treasured — even, and perhaps especially — on our first day of high school, after 83 days of summer.

I’ve been interviewed over at What Did You Dream Last Night?. It’s a cool blog. Check it out when you’re through visiting my childhood home below!

Blonde haired and blue-eyed, I grew up defending my ethnicity for most of my childhood. That wasn’t hard to do in a Jewish working class neighborhood where anyone who wasn’t in your Hebrew School class was Catholic, went to Our Mother of Redemption School, and had, hands down, the best odds of becoming pregnant in high school.

Other than that, everyone on my street, and in my neighborhood, was pretty much the same.

We played Barbies on our patios, kickball in the street and hide and seek using the telephone pole as base. We all walked to school and came home for lunch. We played spin the bottle and first slow danced with the kids we knew since kindergarten. Somewhat incestuous, now that I think of it.

We all had hard-working fathers and stay-at-home mothers who smoked cigarettes and drank coffee. In crystal clear hindsight I realize they were obviously doing much more than that.

And, though I distinctly remember doll banquets, skate keys, and intermittent sneaky endeavors with naughty words, I do not have epic memories of family dinners or holiday gatherings or summer vacations.

Did I have a great childhood? You bet. A close-knit city neighborhood offered me unparalled connections and access to everything via buses and the “El.” I have few apparent emotional scars. I’m one of the lucky ones.

So why is my big picture merely snapshots? I often wonder why I don’t have expansive memories and stories that drag on for days. Was my childhood bereft of more than a few worthy moments? I doubt it. So where did my memories go? Did they slip through the cracks in the sidewalk? Did they get buried beneath the marigolds? Perhaps they got snagged on the chainlink fence or got chopped down with the tree.

The tree. My street had one tree. We played at the tree sometimes, even though it was at the “other end” of the street. It wasn’t for climbing, as it’s branches were high on the trunk and the whole thing jutted right out of the curb. All I know is that it offered a respit from the concrete and asphalt. It was our street’s claim to fame: just one tree.

Looking back I know it did not bother me to grow up without trees. I didn’t even realize it until I went back and the tree was gone.

The changes just multiplied and intensified from there.

It is no longer a hustling bustling place with families that grow up and die there. It’s no longer a Jewish neighborhood, and it’s only barely middle class except for the leftover generation like my parents.

Now it’s Section 8 housing and rentals. Multigenerational, multiracial, multiethnic, bars on windows, alarms on cars. My parents have a security system in the house where I grew up, where they still live. The sidewalks have so many gaps and cracks that you if you were trying to avoid them, you would definitely break your mother’s back. Potato chip bags and soda cup lids and straws are strewn about. Cigarette butts abound. The steps buckle and grass grows not on lawns, but out of cracks. It is still a working class, but my parents are the only Jewish people on the block. The synagogues are odd-brand churches or community centers and the diners have been replaced by Korean markets. The bagel place closed, and the kosher deli had to start selling ham.

I asked a friend some years ago — were the streets were always so narrow? Were the buildings always so gray? Were the house always identical? Was it always dirty? His answer was yes, and no. Obvioulsy the physical size hasn’t changed, but my perspective has. And the condition of the neighborhood has deteriorated. It used to shine and now it’s dingy. It was cozy and now it’s congested.

Or is that all just perspective?

I tell my children, sounding old and crochety, that the fact is this is not how it used to be. This wasn’t how it looked, tasted or smelled when I jumped rope, rode my banana seat bike, drove a Datsun or met their dad. It was different there when I sat on the steps til midnight telling tales with friends and listening to our parents’ laugh. It was the place where you didn’t lock your door and you went to your neighbor if you ran out of sugar, or toilet paper. Its now the place where car stereos get stolen.

I’m appalled that I’m embarrassed by it, but even more disturbed by all the changes that make me so. I can’t even show my kids my bowling alley hangout because it’s a Payless, a cellphone store and a dry cleaners. And the Horn and Hardarts that I was mortified to go to with my parents isn’t even the furniture store it became. Now it’s a night club. No memories there.

For years this was a destination — it was where young families from other neighborhoods aspired to make their lives. For others it was a lay-over on the way to the suburbs. Now I see it as a landing zone, a final resting place.

“It’s not really so bad,” my diplomatic son said on our last visit. “It would look a lot better though, if someone would pick up the trash.”

“Yes”, I said, “and if they would put back the tree.”

I guess I do remember.

[This post is part of the writing collaboration over at Crazy Hip Blog Mamas. I’ve had this brewing for a while, and was glad for the impetus to finish it. Thanks CHBM!]

Kvetch and ye shall receive? Someone has got to be kidding me.

Right after I lamented about sending in essays and edited posts to online zines and print publications, and my fingers getting numb from both typing and twiddling, I got Fertile Ground 14, in the mail. I also heard from a couple of other places that might be interested in my writing. (I’ll keep you posted if anything develops.)

I was really excited to see Kristen on page 3 when I opened up this homegrown popular ‘zine. She’s really been in my corner through my writing tribulations as have many of my blogging and non-blogging friends. But I didn’t realize that page 15 was the new front page, did you? Well it is — at least for me in terms of it being a debut. Because I’m there. In print. On page 15.

Ta Dah!

Fertile Ground 14 doesn’t seem to be available online just yet, and I don’t know if it will be, so keep checking back. In the meantime you can read my submission, A Pony Tale, here. It’s an old blog post that I tweaked a bit.

Who’d have thought that the gods in charge of blogging and writing karma were actually listening? Not me.

I wonder what I should kvetch about next. I mean…that seems to be the route to restitution, the avenue to action and the way to the windfall. Men? Money? Maybe just some more luck in the writing world. Yep, I’ll stick with that for now. Because it can’t be the law of averages — send out about a kazillion submissions — get one published. Nope, that couldn’t be it.

So what ever you want — just start kvetching. Not only will you get scads of support from your friends, but you’re bound to actually get what you want.

And if you don’t tell Juan and Pippiiee about this, I won’t tell your kids either.

Because next to zero comments and writer’s block, that’s the last thing we need!

This is not a newsy blog. I don’t tackle issues any more intense than teen angst, preteen birthdays or the politics of mommy blogging.

But the news of today and yesterday has me by the throat. I stand transfixed in front of the television flipping from channel to channel like I did when Princess Diana died or when JFK Jr’s plane crashed or like I did for days on end on and after September 11, 2001. I find myself, once again, listening to the same events described over and over again with only tidbits of new information filtering in from time to time. It doesn’t matter. I can’t move.

In case you’ve been under a rock, or blogging without paying any attention to the news clips on your desktop — in Thailand, American and Thai authorities have arrested a suspect in the JonBenet Ramsey murder case.

I remember not only being appalled at the murder, but at the life that the little girl lived. I was judgemental and even myself suspected the parents and family members. With time I softened and believed that they were indeed innocent — and I forgot about the Ramseys, as I’m sure they hoped we all would.

And now, just a month or two after Patsy Ramsey’s death, and ten years after JonBenet’s, the alleged murderer has been found.

With this latest turn of events, I am not thinking any more about JonBenet and the horrific fate she met before she was even in second grade. All I can think of is Patsy Ramsey and how before her own death, and through her illness, she had been given hope that finally this could be put to rest. She could draw her last breath knowing the police were on the right track. Not only would her daughter’s killer be brought to justice but that her family would, after a decade, really no longer be suspect. They would finally be safe from the scrutiny of the public.

I think of Patsy Ramsey now only as a mother who couldn’t keep her daughter from harm. I imagine there is nothing worse.

So I’m glad that she can now truly rest in peace.