I read this poem to my daughter and she hugged me. I guess she liked it. To those of you who celebrate religiously or secularly, I wish you a very merry Christmas and a very bloggy new year.

Winter break. It conjurs up images of snow and vacations, Christmases and Hanukkahs, lazy days and late nights.

In our house, winter break conjurs up a slew of different images. Hospitals. Sirens. Ambulances. Paramedics. Funeral. Cemetary. Complete unadulterated darkness.

Because on a Friday, when school had ended for two weeks, when it was deep into the night with suitcases being packed for an exotic vacation — my 40 year old ex-husband dropped dead of a heart attack and my kids were sentenced to grow up without a father and to live with a hole in their hearts and in their lives.

That would be two years ago, tonight.

So for the rest of their school years my children can remember as they bid a fond two-week farewell to their schoolmates and teachers that 2, then 4, then 7 years ago, that was the night that they got slammed with a fate worse than the divorce they’d not ordered, yet been served. Every year they will not enjoy their first night of wintertime freedom, but be reminded of their fatherlessness.

Actually Monday, December 18th was two years to the day. My son stayed home from school with my permission - and my daughter went about her merry way. We talked about their dad a bit, laughed some, hugged a lot. I told them what I could tell them truthfully, which is that he would be really, really proud of them for living good lives and for being happy. And then out of no where my daughter let out a burp that sounded like it came clear from beyond the bottom of her feet, and we knew full-well that we had his sign of approval. Ah yes, he’d have been so proud.

And because we Jews like to drag things out and get as much mileage out of pain and suffering as possible, it’s customary to go to Temple on the Sabbath after the anniversary of the death of an immediate family member for whom you mourned, to hear his or her name read during the service and to say a special prayer.

So, tonight, off. we. went.

And while my kids fidgeted and fumbled and hiccuped and eyerolled and checked their watches through the just under an hour and 15 minute Friday night service, I reminded them profusely that I wasn’t there for me, but for them.

Sort of.

Because being there reminds me, not only that my children have the ability and responsibility to say this ancient mourner’s prayer for their father, but that doing so, at some point in their lives may make them feel connected where they feel most disconnected. And wouldn’t that be something?

It also reminds me, that although the three of us live in a semblance of solitude, that we are connected to something that’s bigger than our backyard. Because while I am not selfish, I am somewhat self-indulgent. And while I’m not stupid, I can be small-minded. And while I am not stingy, I am most generous to those closest to me. I have never been a “for the greater good” gal. My responsibilities at home have been cumbersome for as long as I’ve had them, and I often can garner no more strength than is necessary to raise two kids and corral three dogs. But being reminded that I’m part of something bigger than a ranch house with a basement, or a midwestern small town with twinkling wintertime trees, was most welcomed. I sat there, with my uninterested children amidst a couple dozen acquaintances, and I felt like I somehow evolve. I took that time to listen to what was being said, what was being read, and what was inside my head.

And then when they read my ex-husband’s name among the dozens of others, my eyes met those of an acquaintance, and she nodded. You too, she seemed to be saying, have experienced loss. Different from that of your children and different from that of others, but a loss all the same. Or maybe she was just dozing off from too much wine with dinner.

Nevertheless, for the first time, not related to exhaustion, or an episode with my children, the tears just streamed down my face. I was looking down anyway, and my hair has a way of shielding me at just the right moments, but I thought it would be ok if my kids saw I was sad. And this isn’t a moment of mourning the loss of a man who I lost and gave up long before he died, this was the emotion of stark realization, laced with, yes, sadness at all that was lost — from my children growing up without a father, to me not having every-other weekend to myself.

We transitioned easily into one of my favorite Hanukkah songs and after a discreet wiping of the eyes and face, the service ended. My kids convinced me I did not need a post-service cookie, hoodwinked me into what was next on each of their social agendas, and we half-skipped, giggled and babbled all the way to the car.

It was not irreverent. It was normal.

And all was as right with the world as it could possibly be.

Waving Santa On is the title of this month’s column at The Imperfect Parent.

Blog fodder to follow. Promise.

Ok, well, it’s my writing they like and by default I am choosing to believe that means me.

A second Sunday byline in as many weeks is as good as the golden Oscar as far as I’m concerned. In my world it’s better actually, because writing at home means I can do it in my pajamas, if the mood strikes or it’s 11 pm. Both are often the case.

Red carpet? Phooey! Fuzzy socks and a cup of coffee at 6 am get a standing ovation in a house where strapless black dresses have been reallocated to the dress-up bin along with the Bar Mitzvah Mardi Gras beads.

As I head into the new year primed for possibilities beyond those I dared to imagine a year ago, I can’t help but wonder where I’ll be a year from now.

I hope you’ll stick around with me, and find out.

The outpouring of affection and attention I’ve received from my blogging friends all over North America regarding my article in “one of the largest newspapers in the country” has been staggering. The reaction of my family has been tremendous. They are all proud, if not surprised, since they don’t necessarily know about all the writing I’ve been doing for the past year. The feedback from my friends in real life, for the most part, has been indescribably phenomenal.

But if I had to pick one reaction to my accomplishment, i.e. my life’s work, that topped the list in evoking a vast array of emotions from me — absolute anger to giddy hysteria — it would be this one. It was sent to my mother and thereby forwarded to me. Clearly my mother should learn to cut and paste.

Her friend wrote, “I hope someday Amy and the kids find someone to cherish them as they deserve to be cherished. But in the meantime, being published in ‘one of the largest newspapers in the country’ is nice too.”

Yep, folks, that’s right. I’m just biding my time over here.

In case you were wondering.

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that my first newspaper byline is accompanied by a photo of star-shaped cookie. I’ve been wishing on a star that I’d be a published writer for as long as I can remember.

And while the world wide web has opened up opportunities to me as vast as the galaxy, including the one I harnassed a couple of months ago that led to this, there is nothing like seeing my own name and the words crafted in my head in Times Roman on newsprint.

With all the technology available and how infinitely uncompromised are our possibilities for the future, I’m just wondering how I can email this article to my grandmother who died in 2004, when I was 40. I mean, c’mon.

She was so funny when she’d talk about a “dot com.” Everything today has a “dot com,” she’d say. And she’d chuckle with absolute wonder at the absurdity of it all. We bought her a simple computer for email only, but she never really caught on. Her writing life filled three-ring binders with poems, and both my mother and aunt both remarked how proud she would be. We even think she’d have ventured out of her cocoon with my grandfather just to show people the article, along with my photo, of course.

And like she laughed at the prospect of a world wide web she could barely fathom, we lovingly laughed at her memory, and how she would be carefully clipping the story out of the paper to add to one of her scrapbooks. No, we decided, she’d be starting a new one.

She probably is.

I’m not linking to the online version of the newspaper here, but if you’d like to read my story, just use the contact form to email me.

Saturday Night Fever was my first R-rated movie. I was 12. I bought a ticket and walked right in past the ticket-takers and among the ushers with 12 year old girlfriends on a Sunday afternoon at my local movie theater, which, in 1977 was simply that, a movie theater, not a mega-plex. Popcorn was sold in boxes, not bushels. Before that day, John Travolta was simply Vinnie Barbarino and The Boy in a Plastic Bubble.

It’s an understatement to say that times have changed.

Almost thirty years after Night Fever (cough, choke), I would just as soon drop my 14 year old son off at an R-rated movie as I would hand him the keys to the car and my American Express. It’s just not time yet. But he doesn’t want to watch claymation, animation or animal tales. He doesn’t want sweet or sentimental. He goes for action or horror or adventure or toilet humor, which is all completely appropriate considering he’s almost 15.

Why wouldn’t kids start seeing R-rated movies before age 17? Fact is, many kids today start seeing PG-13 movies well before age 13. My son was around 11 when G and PG movies were just not amusing or entertaining. That was just about the time I was ready to drop talking candlestick flicks for something a little more upbeat. At that time he was still seeing movies with me, so they were reviewed and monitored for content. As the younger sibling, my daughter started seeing PG-13 movies around age 9. And while those weren’t always my most stellar parenting decisions (i.e. do not see Must Love Dogs with your preteen, because it is NOT appropriate, while similarly rated The Perfect Man is absolutely fine), it has not adversely affected the world as we know it or even her developing psyche or sense of self.

Actually sometimes I think it’s good for kids to be well-aware that they’re the victims of an error in parental judgment. After all, it gives us leverage for not making the same mistake again, and for the right to cover their eyes on occasion, or hope that their popcorn and gummy worms are as interesting to look at as they are tasty.

How do we know where to draw the lines when what’s acceptable for PG or PG-13, or even R, keeps changing? Is it ok for a 14 year old to watch people get blown to pieces but not someone’s naked backside or some intentional boobage?

And is there a difference between MTV shows, many of which I do allow him to watch, and R rated movies? Is there a difference between R-rated sex and R-rated violence? How about what he can find when he outmaneuvers my parent controls on the tv when I’m not around. Do I just succomb to pressure and allow him to see an R-rated movie in a theater? If I don’t, am I a hypocrite? And who decides? Absolutely not, and…ME! It’s the privilege of being a parent – I’m judge and jury in a court of one handing down sentences and changing my mind, when appropriate or when I feel like it.

But is it unrealistic to think that the time isn’t right now when I’m still around monitoring what I can while gently shoving him in the right direction and screaming my opinions through the crack under the closed bedroom door?

I guess I’ll just keep making these decisions on a case by case basis. Precedents matter not, but I suffered no negative effects by seeing Saturday night Fever at age 12. I didn’t want to become a dancer or wear platform shoes or have sex in the back of a car (at least until I was older) and I still know every word to Stayin’ Alive.

Oh yeah. I suppose that part about “no negative effectives” is completely subjective.

This post is also up over at The Imperfect Blog.

On any given day, I need the perfect words to pinpoint my feelings, my thoughts, and even my actions. Words got me through my divorce. Words orchestrate my parenting. Words are the ingredients crucial for my creativity.

The right quote or sentence or string allows me to put things to an emotional rest. Once aptly and eloquently described, I was am able to tuck things away. Words make me whole. They make me giddy. They make me think but also make me rest. When I uncover the right words, whether my own or someone else’s, I am able to move forward and onto what ever is next.

Spurred and inspired by d. challener’s post, I realized that the term “writing uphill” met some of my current needs to describe how I felt. At any given moment I feel as if I am pushing an indescriminate mass of words and thoughts up a hill. I push with my hands, my feet, I lean my back against it and it budges, every so slightly. Mostly I push with my head. I sweat and toil, I huff and I puff and eventually I get my word boulder to the top of the hill where it delightfully takes on the momentum that I’ve bequeathed upon it and it rolls down the hill on its own, gathering speed and picking up everything in its path along the way. And yes, sometimes it rolls away at the bottom of the hill, and goes no where. Sometimes it stops and there it is for me to dust off and call my own.

And then I’m ready to begin again.

That’s the good witch part.

The other part of me recently bought a tee shirt because it blew me away and fashionably articulated my inner-emancipated-bitch-self.

Fashion plus irony and eloquence? How could I resist?

I think I might buy another one.

The internet gets a lot of bad press where kids are concerned, and rightfully so. Teens and preteens aren’t always using the power of cyberspace for good, nor are some of their adult counterparts. My.Space and sites like it promote promiscuity and lying, in my opinion. I suppose on a good day they may encourage creativity, although rarely. Online games are often drains on family time, homework and actual play, interation and live conversation.

But in my house, instant messaging has become something I, and we, just can’t live without. I readily communicate with friends far and near through a little box that pops up on my monitor. I’m hip to the lingo and can LOL and BRB with the best of them. KWIM?

Like mother like daughter.

With my permission Pippiiee chats with her real-life friends, all of whom I have entered manually into her “allowable” list. When she does this I am sitting a five feet away from her on my own computer that is in one corner of the dining room. She sits with her back to me at a computer in another other corner. From my vantage point I can see the monitor and with one mom-step I can see what she’s typing. And she knows it. And I have and it’s all pretty silly stuff now spanning the sixth grade gamut of making plans to go to the movies that never materialize to a lot of he said she said.

I look over shoulder frequently, ask her who people are, monitor her “buddy list” and and am the end-all-be-all when it comes to who gets through and is allowed to send her messages and emails.

But she doesn’t just Instant Message her friends. She IMs me. And sitting no more than six feet away we carry on conversations amidst her own preteen socializing and my writing. Sometimes we talk AND IM. About different things. Mostly we laugh a lot because I make her laugh…and when your preteen thinks you are the funniest thing since SpongeBob, still, you know that life really isn’t all that bad.

Last night, she IM-ed and asked if she could ask me a question. Of course I replied with a “Sure.”

She asked me when she can date.

And with that instant message, I got my money’s worth out of both computers and praised the glory of cybergods.

She is eleven, and I have joked for years that she can date in college, or when she’s 35, or never. You know the drill with daughters. That’s standard. But I took this seriously, knowing that my answer and tone would set the stage for a lifetime. So, we bantered about what dating means in sixth grade. It means hanging out with a lot of kids but saying one boy is your boyfriend if you both agree you “like” eachother. I told her that I think 6th grade is too young for anything like kissing, unless of course someone saves you from an oncomiing train or something, and then a peck on the cheek in gratitude would be acceptable (that cracked her up). At least in the IM, she agreed.

Then she told me she liked a boy, alittle, maybe, and that someone said he liked her. And I said that if she wanted to have a 6th grade type of boyfriend that it was ok with me, but that there would be no dates. She agreed. I also told her that sometimes you get your feelings hurt when you like someone, especially in sixth grade. And that sometimes other girls get jealous and they are the ones that hurt your feelings more than the boys. And I said more silly things that made her laugh, well, LOL.

Hearing your daughter Laugh Out Loud, - in addition to having her type it and tell via Instant Message that “you’re funny mommy,” when you’re addressing a pivotal issue, is music to both the eyes and ears.

And there, in a virtual instant, the door to a crucial line of communication between mother and daughter, swung wide open.