I’m not really political but I have no problem name-dropping. My friends and blogging sisters from Silicon Valley Moms Blog met Elizabeth Edwards. With call in questions from sister bloggers from Chicago Moms Blog and DC Metro Moms Blog they were able to ask questions and continuing getting Mommy Bloggers, their questions, concerns and influence on the map.

Read all about it — and you’ll even see a photo of some of your favorite bloggers (and Elizabeth Edwards too).

I listen to a lot of talk radio, specifically WGN in Chicago. I don’t like playing favorites, but I love listening to Kathy and Judy. I’d say they are morning’s dyanmic duo of estrogen. They talk about families, politics, news, books and other heady and mundane topics. It’s like having girlfriends in your car or in your computer. Sounds weird, I know, but not once you listen to them.

The other day they asked a probing question to their single listeners — do you make your bed? Meaning, if you’re not sharing your bedroom does it matter if the comforter is tucked up around the pillows? I never thought of it as having anything to do with being single. I think every caller I heard makes their bed every day.

I do not.

I agree that its nice to get into a made bed, but it’s just not on my morning to-do list. I do it if I think of it. I’ve never required that my kids make their beds either, so I’m obviously perpetuating non-bed-making behavior that might jump up and bite them in the future. I really never gave it much thought until “the girlfriends” brought it up. I’m thinking now that I’m really missing out on some ritual of orderliness that is going to change my life. Not really, but people were so adamant about making their bed, I had to wonder…is everyone absolutely nuts what I’m missing.

I know people who make their bed as soon as they get out of it. I have friends who wouldn’t consider leaving the house without making sure each bed in the house is neat and tidy. I have friends who require, at a certain age, that their kids make their beds each morning. I have friends who go back into their kids rooms later in the day and make their beds.

I’m thinking these are also the friends who do not use the clean dishes right out of the dishwasher.

So, do you make your bed? Is it a fluff and go? Hospital corners? Lots of decorative pillows? Everything tucked and smoothed?

I’m going to give it a try and see what the daily fuss is about — or if it’s all made up.

Last Saturday was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. Jews were are not Jewish any other day of the year often feel drawn to Temple on this day. We pray collectively and individually that on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year ten days prior, that we were inscribed in The Book of Life for the coming year. It is said that, on Rosh Hashanah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed. Basically Yom Kippur is your last chance to get yourself into the book, if that’s what you believe.

And just like every year the Temples fill to the gills with Jews of all levels of observation and consernations of faith and belief — year in, year out, year in, year out the theme is the same.

Forgiveness. Ask for forgiveness from God. Ask for forgiveness of others. Forgive others who ask and those who do not.

So while I was half-listening to the Rabbi’s sermon I thought about my life in terms of forgiveness and realized that for a very long time I was very fortunate without any real concept of the meaning of forgiveness. That meant that for most of my life, I had not experienced anything I needed to forgive anyone for. Lucky me. Sure everyone has little things to atone for and to accept apologies for. But I grew up housed, clothed, fed, befriended and loved. Not too much forgiveness needed, even if things aren’t perfect. I honestly believe they’re not supposed to be.

I remember watching Oprah a long time ago and seeing a young man who’d been abused as a child, sit and speak about his life, and how he’d forgiven his mother for years of torture and neglect. I didn’t understand at all, even though many people obviously did and were nodding along with Oprah.

I thought of this man years later when I realized what he said was true. I thought it silly - even ridiculous - to say and actually believe that when you forgive someone you do it for yourself, not for them. That letting go allows you to move forward, regardless of what they’re left doing or what bag they are left holding. But when I was burdened with the details of divorce and single parenting, I had a choice…to forgive my ex husband or not. Forgiving him didn’t let him off the hook for anything, it let me off the hook for carrying the burden of his actions and inactions. Poof, I let it go. Not that a little revenge and smidgens of nasty didn’t creep in now and then. That’s part of being human, but all in all, I embraced forgiveness so that my life would not be ruined.

And when I listened to the Rabbi I thought about some people who had, as they say, done me wrong. By that I mean they have lied incessantly, threatened me, stalked me, berated me, ridiculed me and tried very hard to bring my parenting abilities and motivations into question.

Don’t go be touching my mothering.

So I wondered for a good few minutes if not the entire 23 minutes of the sermon, if this was the time to let bygones be bygones and to forgive, though not forget. Not that any of them are asking for forgiveness, because they don’t think they need it. Not that if they did I would believe their intentions. I continued listening to the Rabbi and realized that forgiveness is a matter of choice, and means being open and receptive to a change in behavior or a change of heart for oneself. And I realized that my choice in this instance alone, is no.

And for one time in my life, I’m completely OK being unforgiving.

For lighter fare, check out my new column:From Froot Loops to Flax Seeds at GNMParents dot com.

There are many benefits to living in a small suburb; population 9100.

My kids can walk everywhere they need to go. They might not walk to school (which sticks in the craw of a blog troll or two), but they walk to friends, to the park, to the library, to our little “downtown” and to little league games. They, and I, see familiar faces everywhere we go. It precipated the need for morning lipgloss, but other than that it’s a good thing. Friends and neighbors know about your kids, say hi to your kids, lend kids their cellphone to call home.

But try to have a take-out sushi meal on a Sunday? No so luck. There is one sushi joint in the town to the East, but they’re closed. There’s another one 15 minutes away and worth the drive. They’re closed too. The Thai restaurant is closed and the Chinese one in the next town went out of business. There is a severe lack of take-out options in this town, unless you’re hip to Subway. And we are. But it’s no sushi.

I have an aversion to Sunday night cooking, but not to Sunday night eating. Sunday is a night we eat together for sure — no Hebrew School, no golf team, and a day of work and school tomorrow means at dinner time no one is going anywhere fast. I am not a fan of fast food or chain restaurants unless in utter distress, and that may be the case tonight.

Because all I really want is a spicy tuna roll.

In just a while we’ll list the local eateries and sigh our collective three-person sigh — because the kids would opt for sushi too. We’ll open and close the fridge a few times and agree that I should have planned ahead, but that I plan ahead all week and that’s why I leave weekend meals up for grabs.

Maybe we should just think about sushi and open a blue box instead.

It’s just so hard to hold those little orange elbow noodles with chopsticks.

There are many posts written where a blogger bares her soul. Trashes her husband. Depleats her morale. Testifies to a crime. Believes in a miracle. Reminisces about love. Dreams about travel. Reveals a secret. Hopes for a cure. Rambles about green beans.

These are the posts we are drawn to, the ones we comment upon. She tells all, and tells us she is telling all. I admire her for doing it. She makes no bones about the fact that she is laying it on the line. The internet — the blogosphere — or more specifically, the mommy blogosphere (I don’t like the term either, but it is what it is) embraces women who adopt a tell-all philosophy.

I have my boundaries and I’m sticking to them, thank you very much. They are the invisible lines I’ve drawn on my blog, even in other writing. There are some things that I don’t write about. I don’t cross that line.

Me, the one with multiple blogs and published essays, is very private. The kudos do go to the folks who let it all hang out, as they say. There are multiple sites around the blogosphere that encourage and creatively display secrets. There is no comparative outlet in the world to the mom-blogophere and the engines it employs to empower the women who are part of it.

And that rocks.

Each blogger has the inalienable right (I think it’s in the blogger’s constitution) to share whatever she wants. If I don’t like it, I click away. I think that needs to apply to the right to leave out whatever she wants as well, to keep parts of her covered that she doesn’t want to share, and not feel bad about it. I’ve read posts where bloggers are critical of others who don’t ‘fess up. That has to be OK. Of course we can blog whatever we want — but there’s a ravenous blogosphere ready to gobble up the good stuff (or is it the bad stuff?). Oh, and they scarf down the stupid stuff. It’s inviting to divulge, enticing to expose. Because the deepest darkest secrets and the most absurd topics, like the biggest and worst car crashes, get the most gapers - and we all want attention.

I believe I can 100% authentic without revealing everything. I can be honest and funny without being mean. I can be enlightened without telling secrets. I can let you in and maintain my boundaries.

I get frustrated when I feel the need to blog about blogging when the material for “real” stories float endlessly around in my head. But sometimes I just have to cross that line, and do it.

We dropped anchor six miles off the coast of Belize without land in sight and I thought, “What the hell am I doing?”

It wasn’t my first cruise, or the kids’ either, but it was our first cruise after the divorce as a family of three, not four, which left me sole purveyor of fun and official minister of cruise ship excursions.

It’s a wonder that the weight of that alone did not pull me under…

Click here to read the rest of the story!

What are the two words heard most at a Jewish High Holy Day service?

G-d and L-rd?

No.

Baruch Atah?

No-ope.

L’Shanah Tovah?

Wrong again.

Give up?

The two words heard most often at a Jewish High Holy Day service are…

PLEASE RISE.

That being said, I find holidays both exhilarating and exhausting. Between getting dressed up, which is a feat in itself in a house with three dogs, two kids and and my parents; cooking two big meals, and wearing brand new, non-broken-in, oh perhaps not-quite-wide-enough gray suede pumps; the weekend resulted in not only providing the makings for a refurbished soul and many meals of leftover brisket, but sore feet and aching legs.

Complaints aside, I’m striving to have these Days of Awe (the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur) comprised of less kvetching than usual. I found great comfort in the traditions of the holiday as well as in the inherent newness that comes with worshipping at our somewhat new Temple. I felt very much at home amidst many familiar faces and some of the people to whom I feel closest, even if their faces were lost among the hundreds.

I prayed fervently when I wasn’t daydreaming, and I listened intently when the Rabbi spoke, and when I could see around the 6′7″ man in front of me. I choose to believe that a Rabbi is going to say something worthwhile during a sermon, whether he or she flaps it in the breeze making it obvious, or requiring, rather hoping, that you read between the lines. I was not disappointed on either count.

So being the pensive gal that I am (moi? no!) I have been giving a lot of thought and have posed a question or two to my sister-friend, based on a tidbit from one of the Rabbi’s speeches.

Thousands of years ago Rabbi Hillel was asked to explain the entire Torah (Five Books of Moses) standing on one foot. Rabbi Hillel said, “Love your neighbor as yourself. The rest is commentary. Go study it.”

If Rabbi Hillel had a sense of humor, he is certain to have added an ancient version of “Ta-Dah!”

I’ve been thinking about loving my neighbor as myself; about doing unto others as I’d have them do unto me. I wonder, as obviously this is the basis of my religion, and others, how do I assess when enough is enough? Is it ever too much? Can one go overboard with neighborliness?

In general I believe that I do unto others as I would have them do unto me. No one is perfect, and I certainly have my moments. Oh face it, I have my weeks.

What I’m getting at is — if I’m treating someone as I’d like to be treated, but they are not treating me with the same respect or consideration, do I stop behaving nicely? Do I ignore them? Do I become ambivalent? Downright nasty? Cavalier? Am I supposed to turn the other cheek and travel the high road forever? I do not believe in redemption or being rewarded in an afterlife, so this. is. it. Sometimes people live and give in a currency unlike your own, and therefore it has no value. There are many ways to get nothing back.

And, while everything is not “all about me”, this is. This is not about asking someone else to change their behavior or even pointing out what they are doing or not doing. It’s not about bettering someone else in my own eyes or for their own good. It’s about my assimilating my personal beliefs and expectations with my own behaviors. It’s about deciding what’s worth it to me, and what’s not.

When you expend ample, positive energy and effort and do not get that back, it’s debilitating, because efforts beget energy which beget more effort.

Beget?

Perhaps I’m spending too much time at Temple.

Perhaps…life is not all wrapped-up neatly with a bow. Nor is it supposed to be.

Ever.

Fact is, there is no crystal clear answer. If there were, prophets and scholars and beggars and the likes of me would have nothing to ponder and deliberate and mull over. And over. And over.

And to me, THAT, became the point. To the sermon, to the lesson and to life.

To think. To control, to the best of my ability, my own actions and behaviors so that I’m ok with myself as much of the time as possible, even if it changes day by day.

I’m on life’s learning curve — a continuous cycle of thoughts and events, comings and goings, people and places, mistakes and misgivings, sadness and joy, and of loving my neighbor as myself –whatever that means to me today.

And all of it…

the aching arches, the kugels, the whining children, the prayers, the friendships, the traditions, the frustrations, the surprises, the rejuvenation of spirit and the unspoken promise of a brighter tomorrow - heck - of any tomorrow…

is a gift.

* * *

Too much kugel zaps the creativity. Originally posted for Rosh Hashanah 2006.

While walking through the grocery store with my daughter a few weeks ago she asked me a question.

“What’s a Suzy O?”

“A what?”

“A Suzy O!”

“I have no clue, sweetie, is this a joke?”

“No, I think it’s a cake.”

Indeed.

So, I’ve decided it is undisputable proof that one is a good parent when your kid doesn’t recognize this box:

and has never heard of a Hostess Suzy-Q!

The other day, in the dress up corner of my three-year-old preschool class, the girls were wearing princess dresses and floppy hats and the boys - or the two of them entrenched in this play - were wearing boys’ size sport jackets with rolled up sleeves. And floppy hats.

“Let’s have a wedding”, Little Blonde Girl exclaimed.

I listened intently as she went into wedding planner mode with a sweet, subtle lisp yet complete authority.

“Put your jacket back on. Wear this hat,” she said.

The groom obliged.

Then another “couple” got into the mix. Princess dresses, hats, tap shoes were like a whirlwind as everyone tried to find the right hole for their arm or their head and the match for their shoes.

“Lets dance”, Liittle Blonde Girl said.

And the three-year-old brides and grooms unassisted and unprompted held hands and danced in circles to a very peppy version of “Skip to my lou” sung by none other than Groom #1 himself.

“No more dancing,” commanded Little Blonde Girl.

All of thirty seven seconds had past since the last tiem I’d helped her on with her princess dress and now it was off again.

“Let’s get a baby.”

She tumbled the baby into a blanket and marched over the rug where this wedding/dancing/family play was taking place.

“I want to take care of the baby,” Groom #1 said.

“No,” Little Blonde Girl retorted as she swiveled away with the baby in her arms.

“I want to take care of the baby,” Groom #1 said again in a demanding, I might just cry if you don’t give me that baby, kind of voice.

“But IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII want to take care of her,” Little Blonde Girl reiterated.

At last I could no longer stop myself from intervening. I walked over, knelt down, and whispered in little blonde girls ear.

“Sweetie,” I said, “If Groom #1 wants to take care of the baby, let him take care of the baby for a while. You can do something else and then have another turn.”

And all I could think of was “someday you’ll thank me.”

With wisdom far beyond her years she handed the baby to her husband of six minutes, huffed and and then skipped to the art table for a rousing round of stamping and cutting.

The honeymoon was over.

Originally posted September 11, 2006 as “Personal Effects.”

Just when I thought the week of September 11th, 2001 couldn’t get any worse, it did.

The phone rang.

It was Heather. Before she spoke, or perhaps while she was speaking, my thoughts shot back to a place I once called home. Only two train stops before the PATH leading right into Manhattan — over the river but truly a New York suburb, as are so many of the towns dotting the exits of the Garden State Parkway above Exit 9.

She still lived in this cozy bedroom community where then-husband and I started our married life. It was the place we’d moved from seven years before and had never again visited. Although Heather and I were fast friends since the time our babies, born only one-day apart, were eight weeks old, we rarely spoke after my family moved from the area. Actually I think when she called that day we probably hadn’t spoken in two or three years.

“Do you remember Doug Cherry?” she asked.

It wasn’t really a question.

Of course I did. He played golf with then-husband. Their little girl was one year younger than my son. Our dogs romped playfully together in the park on Sunday mornings. Doug’s wife and I were good friends - through a mutual friend. We all spent time together doing the suburban new parent, dog-owner things. Whether someone was climbing up a playground or corporate ladder, it didn’t matter, we jelled.

Doug and his wife gave us our first gift when we moved into our new home - a charming 75 year old Cape-Cod with colonial blue shutters, meticulously placed on a heavily taxed 50×50 lot. They showed up at the door with a wrapped package — a set of four wine glasses. We were so touched. It was such a grown up thing, to receive wine glasses from friends, we thought. We would have them over for dinner, we agreed. And we did.

And when we were ready to embark on a cross-country move, they bid us fond farewell with a barbeque send off in their backyard amidst mutual friends. It was a lovely good-bye from friends we intended to keep. As we all know, intentions are only as good as the actions used to back them up.

“He was in Tower Two.”

Now it was personal.

Not only did I picture their little family’s picket fence corner lot home, but familiar streets lined with funeral processions. In my mind’s eye I saw abandoned cars in the train station parking lot. And in addition I now saw a face - and heard a voice - that had been part of my life. I pictured the family that I continued to know through Christmas cards without their staunch and smiling provider. I pictured a happy, lively woman my age as a beleaguered, grieving widow who now had three small children, eight and younger.

“Almost every child at school has lost someone,” Heather added.

I was glad I didn’t live there anymore.

I never heard from Heather again - nor did I ever try to contact her. If I did, I don’t remember.

What I do remember is that even amidst the isolation I felt during this time I was glad I had something to hold onto. I had a tangible personal tribute that had been left in my charge. It was something to touch, and use, to honor the memory of someone who walked not only through my life but was had actually been a part of it for a short time.

I had the wine glasses.

And I still do.

Well, I have two of the four wine glasses, as that’s the way things go with divorce.

Every Jewish holiday, and every Thanksgiving, when I pull out the linens and china, the silver and crystal, I set one special glass carefully at the head of the table just for me. I feel honored to have a piece of Doug in my family. I remember his kind and friendly and gracious personality when I see and use these goblets that are destined to remain the family heirlooms they have become. Before our meal I remind my children where the glasses came from. I tell a story of a short but delightful friendship to whomever graces our table.

And then I say, “L’Chaim” which means “To Life.”

I needn’t say anything else.