Dear Victor,

Today was your first day of school. You were so excited to get there, you woke up early and hardly touched your breakfast. I watched you running around the house, asking a hundred times if you were late for school yet, and couldn't help but think that it wasn't all that long ago that you were just learning how to crawl around this space. Now it's barely big enough to hold you. I can't believe how fast the time has gone by. It seems like just yesterday that we celebrated you entering the world, and next week we'll be celebrating your fifth birthday. Five years. Five years of sheer joy and occasional frustration. Five years of laughter, and love, and adventures I'd never have had without you. Thank you little man. You have made me a much better person. Being your mama has taught me more than any class, any book, or any school possibly could about what it means to be a decent human being and what the right way to walk in this world really is. You are the best teacher ever.
This morning, you looked like such a big boy, marching yourself onto campus.


And lining up, waiting for your teacher, just like you'd been shown and without having to be reminded.


And getting down to the serious business of playing and making friends.


You are such an amazing person, my little friend. The world has great things in store for you, and you for it. I can't wait to see what they are. Just remember that no matter how big you get, no matter how smart you are or how much you know, you will always be mama's little man. And you may look like this:


now. But in my heart, you will always and forever be my baby.



Love,
Mama

Inconceivable.

The memorial for Russel was today. I went up early. I wanted to make sure that the physical needs of the day were taken care of by someone other than Barb. I wanted to do something, to take care of her, to let her know that there would be at least one person in the house throughout the day who did not need HER to take care of THEM. I knew that the emotional complexity of the day would be enough for her to bear. She was wearing Russel's shirt, a large, black t-shirt with Wallace Shawn from 'The Princess Bride' on it. It said, 'Inconceivable' in large print across the bottom. As I hugged her for the first time since getting her phone call, I thought of the appropriateness of the shirt, the phrase, and her wearing it on this day. The loss of her father 12 months ago, three days after her wedding? Inconceivable. Breaking her foot during volleyball practice by taking a small step? Inconceivable. The death of her mother a few months later? Inconceivable. Her house burning down? Inconceivable. Russel's death? Inconceivable. A life and a future without him in it? Inconceivable. And yet, here we were, gathering to honor him, and all she has are her memories and his things.
Throughout the day, I watched as people moved in and out of the house, mingled with each other, sometimes sharing words, other times a somber look or a gentle touch. I was not surprised by the number of people there. Russel was an awesome human being who touched the lives of just about everyone he met in a positive way. I marveled at the relative calm of all present. The grief was palpable throughout the house, but almost everyone there behaved remarkably well and respected the enormity of Barb's grief by stiffling their own. Almost.
It is inconceivable to me how some people can take any situation and make it about themselves. I don't care to name them, but several people in attendance today showed their asses, and in doing so, compounded the hurt and loss felt by Barb and those closest to her. And to them I say, get over yourselves. Not everything is about you. Not everything should be about you. And if you can't put someone else first, even at a time like this, then you deserve the misery you've wrought. And even that is more time and attention than they deserve.
And now the memorial is over. Barb is left, alone, to figure out how to make life go on from here. Every plan, every want, every hope for the future has been inconceivably altered by Russel's death. And as much as I'd like to think that I can help her find her way, I know that I can't. Phone calls, cards, and visits only go so far in helping the healing. And not that it matters one bit, but my heart is still broken for her.

My heart is broken for her.

I was walking today. As I walked, I approached a salon. As I neared the door, with my son in his stroller, I saw the door being held open by one of the ladies that worked there. I stopped to allow the people exiting the salon to pass. It was a very old gentleman pushing his wife, in her wheel chair, out of the salon. Every Thursday, he takes her in. She gets her hair done. She gets a manicure and a pedicure, and she gets treated like a princess. Every Thursday, he pays the ladies of the salon to wait on her, and he sits and talks to her while she gets pampered. Every Thursday he tells her how beautiful she looks when they're done and how lucky he is that she is his. And Every Thursday she smiles and nods as he speaks, but never responds. She has Alzheimers, and he does it any way. As I walked behind them, listening intently to him tell her how beautiful she is, how lucky they are to be together, how he loves her, I cried. I cried at the beauty of the love that man has for his wife, how unabashedly he shows it, for the rarity of that sight any more.
And I cried for my friend, Barb. Almost exactly a year ago, I was sitting on her deck, celebrating her marriage to Russell. That celebration was tinged with sadness due to the sudden death of her father. Over the course of the last year, my friend has had nothing but sadness, heartache, loss, and grief. On Tuesday, that grief increased exponentially when her husband of little more than a year was killed in a car accident. Watching that beautiful couple this afternoon, I couldn't help but think about Barb and Russell. That is the kind of love and marriage they had. And that is what was taken from her on Tuesday. What should have been a fairy tale ending to a nightmare of a year, has become a nightmare in and of itself. And my heart is just broken for her.

Victor's first Kippah

A little history:
My Victor is a very curious boy. It's one of the many, many things that I adore about him. He asks many, many questions throughout the course of an average day, and they range in topic from the mundane to the bizarre. One day, while in the car on the way to the babysitter's house, Victor asked about religion. Specifically, he asked why we didn't have one. I explained, as best I could without confusing or scaring him, that I didn't have a religion because I couldn't pick one, and that honestly, there have been more times than not in my life where I have questioned and doubted the existance of a god/gods/goddess/whatever. I tried to explain to him that more often than not, I didn't think there was a god, that what I saw of the world, in the world, lead me to believe that we are on our own. I also told him that just because that's how I feel, doesn't mean he has to agree with me, that because he was a smart boy, he could look at the world and decide for himself if he believed in a god/gods/goddess/whatever, and that when/if he was ready, I would help him find a religion that best suited his needs/wants/beliefs. And then he asked me what religions there were to choose from. So I rattled off a list, giving him examples of people he knows who belong to the various religions I had named. When I got to Judaism, he stopped me. He wanted to know more. So I explained. I gave him the short version of all the reading and learning I've done since I was 13 and developed an inexplicable love for a religion not my own. I told him about Israel, about some of the holidays, about the Saturday Sabbath, and synagogues. When I paused he said "hmmmmm, that sounds pretty cool. Can you take me to a cinnagot?" And I got excited. Despite my lack of faith, and perpetual uncertainty as to the existance of a diety, I love religion. I love the idea of it. I love the ritual, the pomp, the history, and tradition of it. I left Catholocism at 12 because of the intolerant nature of it's flock and the absolute refusal of the clergy to acknowledge, let alone attempt to answer my questions. I got excited when Victor asked about religion, and specifically Judaism, because when I was little and asking the questions he asked, there wasn't a place for me to find the answers I can find for him. I made an attempt to convert to Judaism when I was 13 and failed. I couldn't do it on my own, and was not fortunate enough to have anyone in my life at the time who was able to or interested in helping me do it. And then in my late teens, I found out that my mother's family were Sephardic Jews who fled Spain to avoid persecution under Franco. Out of fear, they outwardly lived as Catholics, but never converted. So the pull I have always felt toward Judaism makes sense. So, yay Jewness!
Victor's Kippah:
So I mentioned to some friends that I wanted to take Vic to a "cinnagot" so he could speak with a rabbi, ask some questions, and just experience Judaism for himself. My friend, Sarah, suggested I take him to
Congregation Beth Shalom in Carmichael. I looked over their website and sent them an email explaining that I had a curious 4 year old who wanted to visit and ask questions. I immediately got a response from Rabbi David, inviting me to bring Victor down. For a variety of reasons it took us a few weeks to get over there. But on Monday, we finally made it. The synagogue itself is a small building with a fenced in yard and play area off to the side. We went in through the fence and were met at the door by Rabbi David. He shook Victor's hand, Oscar's hand, and mine, and welcomed us warmly. We walked through the office area and into his office. We sat around a table and chatted for a bit. He asked Victor some questions and invited him to ask his and explore the office. As Victor spun in his chair and investigated all of the things on the shelves and walls in the office, Rabbi David turned to me and asked me about our family history. I explained that I was raised Catholic, left the church, attempted conversion, and then found out about my family's history in my late teens. As I was talking, he stopped me, reached across the table to touch my hand and said "you know you're Jewish, right? You know this." And I was so struck by his sincerity, by his unwaivering and immediate acceptance of me, that I cried like a damn baby. It was embarrassing, and frustrating that I cried, but I was overwhelmed. I tried to explain why I was crying. I tried to thank him for allowing my son the opportunity to question, to investigate, to learn that I was never given. I tried to tell him that as a child, I was made to feel that because I could not blindly accept, because I could not follow, because I lacked faith, something in me was broken and I was bad. But I didn't have to. Rabbi David understood, and said as much. At that point, the boys were losing their minds. Victor was impatiently waiting to see the sanctuary, and Oscar just wanted out. So Rabbi David asked that I promise to come back to speak with him without the boys so that we could speak freely and at length without being distracted. I agreed and we headed for the sanctuary. Before entering, Rabbi David handed Victor a basket and asked him to pick a Kippah. He explained to him that Jewish men wear the Kippah as a recognition that God is above them. Surprisingly, Victor thought this was pretty cool, picked a Kippah and slapped it on his head like a pro. Inside the sanctuary, Rabbi David showed Victor everything there was to see, told him what everything was called, sat on the bemah (the altar area where the Torah is read) and answered his questions, and even pulled out one of the scrolls for him to see, showing him the beautiful writing and reading a passage for him. He even said a prayer blessing Victor, since it was the first time he'd ever been in a synagogue. Victor was fascinated by the Hebrew he heard and saw. In fact, he was fascinated by everything he heard and saw while we were there. We ended our visit with a story about honesty (which Rabbi David told to Victor as an example of what he might hear during a Shabbat service, and which was very topically appropriate since we've been having "difficulties" with the bendiness of the truth lately) and a tour of the rest of the facility, which includes a meeting room and cafeteria/gathering room where they have dinner after services. On the way out, Rabbi David told Victor he could keep his Kippah as long as he promised to take care of it, which he enthusiatically did. It was an incredible visit, and one I hope to repeat in the near future. Victor has not stopped talking about his experience, and for the rest of the day on Monday, would not remove his Kippah, as you can see here:


And for Auntie Sugarbush:
Surprise! It's Shabbat!