Never Stop Pushing

Last week, Harrison’s guidance counselor asked him if he would speak at the annual “My Story” assembly which is held for seniors at the end of the school year.  The subject matter, I assume, is self-explanatory.  Both flattered and anxious (about the speaking in front of 500 people part, not the content) he, after the hemming and hawing typical of an eighteen year-old,  somewhat reluctantly agreed.  The assembly was scheduled for today.  This morning, as he was heading out the door, he voiced his public speaking concerns to me (and I, in a proud moment, resisted the urge to offer him a Xanax to “take the edge off”) and I confidently assured him that he would be fine.  He left the house with nerves appropriate to the task,  a reminder to not read it too quickly (memories of his Bar Mitzvah speech racing through my head) and assurances from me that “he could do this”.

Below is the text of his speech.  He read it to me last night and I made no changes.  It is from the heart, almost unbearably honest, powerful, memorable, heartbreaking and meaningful.  I would be remiss if I did not mention that it also made me ridiculously proud.

When you look at someone, you think you know their character. When you look at me

you see a somewhat tall, brown-haired kid with a huge nose. You think you know what you

want about me. You see my Warriors Swimming and Diving jacket – immediately you know that

I shave my legs, idolize Michel Phelps, bathe in chlorine and am likely to miss a shot on a 4 foot

hoop. Except, all of those things are false – except for the last one at least. We see the way

people look and think we know everything about them. But this is far from the truth.

We all have stories. Memories of these stories, I believe are the most important thing

we have as people. Some stories are filled with joy, others with grief and sorrow. We all have

faced, continue to face and always will face hurdles. I appreciate these hurdles because the

ones I have cleared and stumbled over thus far make me the person I am today, and who I am

proud to be.

High school, much like life is a rollercoaster. I am confident a huge majority of you have

heard this analogy before. In 7th and 8th grade I could not wait to get out of Baker. I was

officially a man, well, kinda, and couldn’t wait to experience what BHS had to offer. I had some

hiccups, however. I would say, one of my biggest challenges was my younger sibling. George

had been well known. With his bright yellow curls and sky blue eyes, he was anything but

ordinary in appearance. As he grew older, he developed a personality to match. George was

notorious for his rambunctious disposition in our close-knit community. Having been diagnosed

with a mood disorder, ADHD and severe dyslexia to top it all off, George was very difficult to be

around. People have commented to me time and time again about my incredible patience with

younger children, but George knew how to push my buttons and then some. Granted, his

diagnoses played a part; I couldn’t help but believe that little one had it out for me. I found

myself isolating, well, myself, from the family in order to diffuse any issues that arose – to the

point that I can’t even remember the last family vacation we could all be together in the same

room. But before I knew what had happened I lost my brother – and I woke up the very next

day to a little girl in the room adjacent to mine.

George had always had a preference for typically feminine things. I didn’t care, nor did

my parents. Slightly a-typical for a little boy to yank dolls from the shelf at the store over a

truck, sure, but hey – what does that matter. As not if by chance, on her 10th birthday, she woke

up, announced she was a girl and skipped off to school to tell the world. She had spent years (if

it was longer or shorter, we will never know) keeping this inside, and this is her story. Did I

struggle at first coming to terms with a major life event not far from a death and birth? Yes. Have things gone back to normal? Of course – yet she is still a very tough person to be around

due to her behavior.

Look – this is just one little anecdote of my time in high school. I spent two years

benched from sports due to bilateral shoulder injuries. My mother spent months stuck in bed

with a horrible back injury. My parents split up just this year, thankfully not due to my sister,

but their own things.

But this is no contest. So many other people have and will speak today with things that

we all cannot fathom. We all have unique stories – this is why we are all unique people. We all

have memories we hold dear, and memories we try to shed away. I can tell you, not that I am

older and wiser, because I am certainly not – but I have learned that these challenges have

made me who I am. My story is not the easiest, but it is also not the hardest by a long shot. We

are all out of here in a very few short weeks. We do not know what each other face in the

upcoming weeks, months and years. We do not know what everyone else has overcome to

make it this far. What is the most important is that we have our stories and we stick to them.

Be honest with yourself, and never stop pushing. Thank you very much.

 

Wow, right?  (Indulge me in my kvelling…things have been so challenging for so long that I grab and hold onto the good stuff a little bit harder and tighter than I might otherwise.)

Perhaps most touching is the outpouring of supportive comments, texts and messages Harrison has been receiving from both classmates and teachers since he spoke.  His has not been an easy adventure (remember, I dislike the word journey) for him or, for that matter,  anyone in the family; siblings, cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles and family friends alike.  The fact that he was willing to put himself out there, take a risk and share his story is, to  me, anyway, impressive.  Not sure I could have done it when I was his age.

And remember:  Be honest with yourself and never stop pushing.

p.s. As we speak, Harrison is at the high school Athletic Banquet at which he is being given an award for “Most Improved”…a true testament to his successfully facing that damned bilateral shoulder injury and having not stopped pushing. 

p.p.s. Why am I not at said banquet you ask?  Because he insisted it would be boring and that I not attend so had I suddenly announced that I was going it would have been too obvious that something was up.  I want him to experience the thrill of hearing his name called which, I am quite sure, will surprise him. 

p.p.p.s. Yes, I did consider sneaking in the back so that I could watch.

p.p.p.p.s  With visions of him skipping out before he is awarded, I texted the friend he is driving with to not allow him to leave early. Good thinking, right? 

I think today will prove to be one that makes his “never stop pushing” mantra worthwhile.

Loss and Gain

I challenge you to present to me a person who has not experienced loss of one kind or another.  In return, I will give you $1,000,000.00.  Take your time, this could take a while.  Guessing you are still thinking because, as best I can tell, that person simply does not exist.  (Nor, for that matter, does the million dollars I just offered up, so it is all good.) Some loss is welcome: weight, debt and toxic relationships come to mind.  The vast majority of loss, however, sucks.  Or does it?

In the past several years, I have lost my breasts (to cancer), my father (fuckin’ cancer again), my son (to become my daughter), my marriage and soon, my oldest child (when he leaves for college in September).  Yes, that last loss is clearly a huge gain for him, but the guttural feeling remains the same.  No matter what precipitates the loss, you are still left without something which you had, leaving a void that will, at some point, need to be filled.  The question is how.

I was just 39 when the mammography technician escorted me to a small, private room following my imaging.  I instinctively knew that nothing good was going to happen in that room, yet it truthfully never occurred to me that I was about to be told I had breast cancer.  Why it was a shock is a mystery to me: my mother had been diagnosed when she was 41 at a time when young women simply did not get breast cancer.  Apparently, I had the arrogance of youth coursing through my veins, and it kicked my ass.  With two little boys at home (yep, they were both boys then) and a father and father-in-law that were both fighting their own cancer battles, I straight up did not have the emotional, physical or mental capacity for this.  But, guess what?  No one gave me a choice.  I liked my breasts well enough.  Were they as fantastic as they had been in my twenties?  Well, no, but they were mine and I would have preferred to keep them.  The surgeon told me at our first meeting that there was “no chance of breast conservation”…so there you have it.  File under: a loss.  It could have been much worse and as other friends of mine have faced this diagnosis I have seen just how easily I got off.  I had excellent reconstruction and if you want to get literal, I also lost the need to wear a bra.

When my father died at 68 from lung cancer I was as prepared as I could have been.  In fact, he far outlived his initial diagnosis which would have taken his life within the year as opposed to the nearly three that he rallied.  I recall a friend asking me once if I was prepared for his death.  “Hell, no!”  In fact, he did such a great job of living with cancer that it was easy to forget that those toxic cells had taken up residency in his lungs and brain.  The day he died he was pummeled by a stroke while getting dressed to go to the office.  I was, I guess, somewhat emotionally prepared, but the loss of his presence is felt every day.  Despite the warning, ultimately he was here one moment, gone the next.

I did not lose a child.  I shudder to even think of that.  No, I did not lose a child, but I did lose a son.  I used to live with a rambunctious, wild, rough and tumble little boy who seemed to be following in the footsteps of his older brother.  His name was George and the old-fashioned lilt of his name only made him cuter, his incorrigibility slightly more endearing.  Being the second born, he had secured my spot in the “mom of boys” society which, as I have written before, is a membership which anyone with the title wears (mostly) with pride and (always) with empathy for their female brethren.  Jessie is still the same person, in many ways.  She is not, however, the little boy I spent ten years trying to understand.  I love and adore Jessie, but I did lose George.

My marriage is a subject not for these pages.  I will only say that Rich was (and continues to be) one hundred percent supportive and respectful of Jessie’s transition.  I have often mentioned (and marveled at) his willingness to enter (and not run out screaming) The American Girl store on a busy Saturday when I simply could not.  The disintegration of our marriage was not related to either of our children, no matter their gender.  That being said, it is still a loss.

And now, as Harrison’s graduation from high school is just a few short weeks away, I am acutely aware of how different things will be around here once he has packed up and moved out.  The dynamic in the house will, yet again, change.  His absence will be palpable.  There will be one less car in the driveway, no more need for S’Mores ingredients to be at the ready, my lawn will overgrow more quickly and that fucking litter box will become my responsibility.  The sound of his iPhone shaking him awake, the errant hairs in the sink after he has shaved, the three clinks of his toothbrush against the porcelain to rid it of water after he has brushed, the incessant banging on the doorbell by his bestie Alex each and every time he is here (which is often), the piling of his swimsuits on the side of the tub after practice and his otherwise uncharacteristic impatience with Jessie will all be memories only to be revisited on school breaks.  The silence of his sounds will be deafening, but I will, once again, adjust to the loss.  He is off for great things.

Loss can very well beget gain.  My breast cancer took my breasts, but gave me the strength to be able to say, “I can do this” and (usually) mean it.  My father’s death took my dad, but left me with him sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, reminding me that “everything works out”.  George’s transition to Jessie took my son, but gifted me with a daughter who has more strength and chutzpah than I would ever dream to have.  The end of my marriage took my security and longevity, but left me with a friend and co-parent who knows all about every loss and gain.  And, finally, my loss of Harrison to the hallowed halls of UMASS is truly a gain of a fiercely kind and independent young man who is off and running.

Yes, I have had loss. So, too, have you and everyone you know.  There are days that I wallow in it and hover dangerously close to a “woe is me” frame of mind but, in the end, I know that it is all part of life. If I didn’t have these losses, I would most certainly have others and I might, as a result, have fewer gains.  That said, please, dear G-d, to not take that as an invitation to offer up any more losses in a quest to challenge me.  Deal?

As I write this the death toll in Oklahoma continues to be tallied in the wake of a vicious tornado ripping through town.  The loss there is incomprehensible: homes, schools, pets and lives. It is made even more horrible given the complete lack of warning for what lay ahead.  The only thing worse than loss, in my mind, is not having any idea it is coming and not being able to see clear as to what you are also gaining.  I’ve seen this over and over again as the victims of the Boston Marathon bombings, many of whom have lost limbs, continue to emerge, each and every one of them all seemingly appreciative of what the loss has helped them to gain.  Unthinkable events can, in fact, make us stronger.

No Sleep Plenty o’ Shoes

Oh, how I wish I could sleep.  I am quite sure that doing so would work wonders against the crying, short-temper and general bitchiness which seems to define me of late.  I am equally convinced that last night’s shoe shopping experience would have been wayyyy better.

In a few short weeks, my niece Sara is having her Bat Mitzvah (heretofore known as her BM, heehee…that never gets old) and, as such, several outfits for the entire family are in order.  I have begged Harrison to try on the suit I bought him last year for his semi-formal (did I mention that he long ago surpassed the ability to fit into a kid’s suit?  Read: man’s suit, man’s price tag) and he has, not surprisingly, failed to do so.  I am going on the assumption that it will fit.* I do so knowing that there is an excellent chance that it won’t.  That, however, is among the least of my worries.

Jessie needs two dresses; one for the service in the morning and one for the dance extravaganza at night.  I flat-out refused to purchase two new dresses, mostly because of the stress of doing so.  It is not that I bristle at her wearing a dress (that ship sailed a long time ago), rather her taste borders on eighteen year-old, stacked, leggy, curvy young woman as opposed to the eleven year old that she is.  In searching her closet I chose one dress that is more than appropriate for the morning which, for the kid set, at least, is far less important (fashion-wise, that is) than the evening.  In fact, she has worn it to Temple before with a sweater, tights and patent leather boots.  All we need to do to make it work is to lose the earlier accessories and add a cute pair of flats.  And therein lays the problem.

Okay, I admit to having a shoe thing.  I admit to having purchased more than, um, let’s say two pairs of wedges this season.  I even admit to perhaps having a problem with my love of shoes which may have been passed along to my child.  I cannot, however, sanction my eleven year old (transgender) child wearing heels or wedges to a BM party.  Am I wrong?

To her credit, she insisted that in our quest we go the way of Payless Shoes for her footwear.  “They are inexpensive, but not cheaply made” she argued (incorrectly).  So after a “Shabbat” dinner of Chinese food, off we went to begin the battle, er, search.  Now I don’t mean to sound obnoxious, snooty or rude (and if I do, blame it on the lack of sleep) but the shoes at Payless are nothing short of horrible.  And, much to my horror, she spotted several (all inappropriate) that she would have been more than happy to purchase.  In a not so proud moment, I got so skeeved that I insisted, in a perhaps too loud voice, that there was nothing there and we were heading to the far superior (and I used the term loosely) DSW.  Fortunately, the two stores are close together since this expedition began at 8pm on a Friday night and, as everyone knows, I am in a constant state of exhaustion and, um, short-temperedness.

As we entered the store, I reminded her of the parameters of acceptable footwear: black (will work with both outfits), flat or very little heel, under $50 and comfortable.  Next thing I know, she is trying on pink high top Converse stating that they would be cute with the dress at night.  Yeah, they would, but having attended many a BM in my day, I was quite sure that such a choice would result in hysteria upon arrival at party and subsequent discovery that no one else was wearing Converse.  Right?

I somehow managed to convince her to cut the shit, I mean, see things through the eyes of me, her mature, more knowledgeable, loving and sleep deprived mother and try on a few different little black shoes.  At the same moment, I noticed that she shoes that I bought for me the BM just last week were now marked down 30% and, blame it again on the lack of sleep, I got pissed and started rifling through my wallet for the receipt with visions of a price adjustment dancing through my head.  Do you have a visual yet?

In a victory for me (I have to tally them whenever humanly possible) we left with the perfect shoes for Jess and a promise from Brendan, the store manager, to adjust my pricing if I come back with the receipt today.  I assumed, from the double success, that a good night’s rest lay ahead.  I was wrong.  But at least we have good shoes now.

*Probably a mistake.  Oh, and his shoes might not fit, either.

#thingsthatmakemecranky

I am cranky.  Wanna know why?  If you don’t, you had best stop reading now.  You were warned.

1. I’ve “written” (and I use the term loosely) and trashed about seven blog posts this week.  Some were several paragraphs long when I clicked, highlighted and deleted them.  There were actually some halfway decent sentences among them, a couple of interesting trains of thought and even a few clever witticisms, but nothing came together in any meaningful way.* It was irritating, frustrating and even a little bit thought-provoking; the main thought being: what’s my problem?  #thingsthatmakemecranky
2. Sleep (or, more to the point, a lack of sleep) is mocking, torturing and berating me.  Falling asleep is not an issue.  In fact, I can (and do) fall asleep remarkably quickly.  I feel my eyes getting heavy and my brain shutting down and within a nanosecond of assuming the on-my-stomach-leg-bent-out-to-the-side stance I am out cold.  If only I could stay that way for longer than four freakin’ hours.  And those of you who are ready to espouse the virtue of any number of sleep aids (prescription and OTC alike) can save your breath.  I’ve tried them all.  It is, I am convinced, a conspiracy.  #thingsthatmakemecranky
3. Mental overload.  I, like everyone else, always have a lot on my plate.  Most days I handle it with grace or at least have mastered the art of fooling everyone into thinking such.  Others days, like, well, today, however: not so much.   There is a definite correlation between how much is rattling around in my head, how I sleep (see #2) and how well I cope (and write).  Crappy thinking begets crappy sleep begets crappy writing oh, and crappy mood.* #thingsthatmakesmecranky
4. I have cried on four separate occasions today.  None were particularly meaningful bawls, rather quick drops spontaneously erupting from my eyes (and, I might note, smearing my mascara in the process which, if I am being honest, could be a line item all its own).  While I can think of any number of reasons for the tears, none of the episodes rendered much in the way of relief.*  File under: yet another irritant, oh, and #thingsthatmakemecranky
5. I’m not eating much. I am exercising regularly.  Yet, for some obnoxious reason, all my jeans feel snug.  Not tight, just snug.  Enough to make me crankier.  #thingsthatmakemecranky
6. The cat who, admittedly, served his purpose by ridding us of the rodents who had taken up residence in our walls (where they also chose to die), has overstayed his welcome.  #thingsthatmakemecranky
7. I settled into bed last night, inordinately excited to catch up on the “Modern Family” and “Real Housewives” episodes that I so carefully recorded only to discover that someone in the house (naming no names, it was the 18-year-old) watched and, I can only assume, enjoyed MF and then deleted it.  Said 18-year-old did not touch the “RH”, though.  I do take comfort in that.  However, #thingsthatmakemecranky
8. I did a massive load of Jessie’s laundry two days ago.  It is all still in the dryer.  Gonna look like shit.*  #thingsthatmakemecranky

Okay, I feel a little bit better.  Now you, however, are probably all agitated and constructing your own list of that which makes you cranky.  Have at it and feel free to lift the hashtag.

*Much like this blog post.

Got Snarts?

It was about two weeks into my sophomore year in college. I was settling in, feeling (as) happy (as I got during those years) and a little bit cocky in my dorm situation.  Having hit the mother lode and pulled a ridiculously low number in the housing lottery (I mean really low:  as in #18 which is phenomenal given that the sophomores got last dibs on rooms) I was digging my single-on-a-co-ed-floor-in-a-great-dorm-overlooking-the-quad room.  The dorms were suite-style: a single and a double on either side of the bathroom which, incidentally, was cleaned by campus staff weekly.  I was pretty cool in my set up and relishing the comfort that came with being a sophomore and not a freshman.

In the middle of each floor in the dorm was a common area which was nothing more than an open space with some sofas and a few chairs.  (I suspect those common areas have grown up a lot since my day, but at the time it was commons heaven.)  A fairly good-sized group of kids, representing all classes, were hanging out enjoying the first few weeks of school before all those pesky papers and exams started piling up.  I had gotten up to grab something from my room when it happened:  I was walking away and (of course) there was a natural lull in the conversation (having nothing to do with my departure) during which I sneezed.  Oh, and farted at the same time.  Yes, I snarted right there, in front of everybody that I was going to be living with for the next eight months.  I vividly recall praying that the sneeze had been explosive enough to muffle (I dared not wish for a full mute) the accompanying fart, but, alas, it had not been.  Utter humiliation for me.  Peals of laughter for everyone (and I do mean everyone) else.  Yeah, it was pretty much the definition of embarrassment.

I wish I could recall  how I reacted, but I suspect it was not with the grace or aplomb that I would hope to display at my current, far more advanced age should the same situation occur.  At the time, I was horrified, embarrassed, nauseous and quite sure I was the only person in the entire universe who had ever sustained such humiliation.  The joy of my single-on-a-co-ed-floor-in-a-great-dorm-overlooking-the-quad was immediately eviscerated despite resolving to never leave said room ever again.  Sure, I was 18 or 19 at the time, but I might just as well have been ten.  It was brutal.

Fast forward to now.  I am pleased to say that I have never suffered at the hands of the snart since that fateful day, but I have grappled with other awkward, embarrassing and horrifying situations.  You probably think that I am going to lump Jessie’s transition into this category.  If so, you’d be wrong.  It amazes me, actually.  Sure, I have felt anxious and concerned and, well, nauseous over some of the changes that have come down the pike, but never, not once, was I embarrassed.  I never wanted to hole up in my room and not face people.  I never contemplated transferring out, credits be damned.  I worried and fretted and feared each new wave of the transition but I was never embarrassed.

As I was driving Jessie home today she shared with me a story of having snarted at recess today.  Until she told me, I had resolved any residual fallout from my incident in college (or had I?) but it immediately came rushing back, clear as day.  I can almost envision the acid washed jeans I had acquired over the summer along with the heavy black eyeliner that I favored in those days.  I shared the story with her, complete with the degree of devastation I suffered.  She looked at me quizzically, unsure what my problem had been.  She was not even remotely upset about her snarting.  In fact, she was, at the tender age of eleven, able to see the humor in it.  In fact, I believe I even detected a degree of pride at having accomplished a snart.

I cannot help but associate her total lack of discomfort with this potentially humiliating incident with her comfort in her current gender affirmation.  It is all about perspective, is it not?  What is a snart to a kid who, in fourth grade, started the week at school a boy, and closed it out as a girl?

I have often marveled at Jessie’s courage.  I have never, however, really thought about how I would manage should I be in her position.  As we had this conversation in the car (aside: why do these things always happen in the car??) I realized that she is a way cooler cat than I.  Her sense of self and lack of inhibition, while often exasperating, is going to serve her well as she continues through life.  She will snart without inhibition, opine without hesitation and succeed without compunction.   As a mother, that makes me proud.  That said, now that the whole snart incident is fresh in my mind, I am sure to begin fretting over it happening again. Oh, to be more like Jess.

Penis. (Yep, you read it right. I just titled a blog entry “Penis”)

How often do you utter the word penis?  What’s that? Never?  Yeah, well, that is about right for most average adults (urologists and Mohels aside).  For the first seventeen years of my parenting life, I am unsure I ever said it, actually.  Each of my children had one, but aside from the ceremonial Bris on each of their eighth days of life, along with the quickly learned skill of “pointing it down” in the diaper, I cannot say I gave them (the penises, that is) much thought.  I can say, however, that hardly a day goes by now that it doesn’t come up (if you will excuse the pun) in conversation.  Yes, in everyday conversation.

Perhaps it arises in a chat with a well-meaning acquaintance who thinks that along with Jessie’s transition eighteen months ago came a penisectomy.  (Truth: someone asked me if we had had it “removed”.  Um, no.)  It could be with a closer acquaintance inquiring as to what we are going to do about it.  (Wish I knew.) Or it could be the voices in my head fretting over bathing suits, ill-fitting shorts or, truthfully, erections.

Much to my mother’s horror, I have been known to refer to Jessie as “my daughter with a penis”.  Much to my horror I have had to phone the on-call pediatrician to inquire about an issue with said penis all while using the female pronoun.  (Of course the doc on call happened to be the one in our practice’s rotation whom I have never met.  I am sure she figured it out, but awkward…)

Harrison (who might just disown me after this blog post) entered and completed puberty without fanfare.  He got taller, his voice got deeper and he sprouted hair under his arms and on his legs (which, when it first erupts, is gross.  What?  It is.) and, voila, he was done.  In fact, it was completely unremarkable.  Not once did the need to use the word penis arise.  Everything that was supposed to happen happened.  End of story.  Not so with Jessie.  In fact, there has been discussion of all things pubertal: height, hair, Adam’s Apple, hormones, foot and hand size and, oh, yeah, her penis.  Lots and lots of talk about her penis.

A question to all you parents of boys: have you spent a fraction of the time I have thinking (in the least creepy way possible), worrying or talking about your child’s penis?  I am guessing you have not.  I will further surmise that you are grateful that you haven’t had to.  You might even be blushing at the fact that I have used the word “penis” ten times in these five paragraphs.  I can honestly report that a day does not go by without the word penis (that’s eleven) entering into the equation somehow.  It is part of the new normal.  It is not even strange to me anymore.  It is all part of the process…one which, thus far, has not included the word vagina.  Not once.

NOTE: As you know, I often include pictures with my posts, although sometimes I am unable to find anything appropriate.  Rest assured: for this one, I did not even look…

A Taste of Northern Comfort

My personal world had been a little crazy for years now.  The day-to-day has brought, along with the same challenges we all face, a host of particularly unique issues, many of which I have shared.  Throughout each ordeal I have sought out varying avenues by which to cope: shopping, eating, not eating (that one didn’t last longer than an hour or so) exercising, writing, shutting down.  You name it, I’ve tried it.  I’ve sought comfort from wherever it might be hiding, hoping against hope, to find the elusive solace we all crave.

This week, I was one of those folks in lockdown as two angry, misguided, dangerous, disgraceful, clearly unstable assholes er, young men, started their day by detonating two bombs at The Boston Marathon. Then, in an apparent need for more (more what: carnage? death? fame?) took their show on the road shooting and killing an officer at MIT, maiming a transit officer and doing everything in their power to terrorize not just the City of Watertown, but the entire Boston area.  I know no one personally who was hurt…physically, that is.  As for the psychological hit?  Everyone got that one.

I work at The Container Store.  For the uninformed (read: those not fortunate enough to have one in their area), we carry everything one could possibly imagine (and an equal amount of items you could not even imagine, but do so need) to organize your home. No, make that your life.  When I arrived for my shift mid afternoon on Saturday (along with everything else in Boston, it was closed for the duration of the lockdown) the store was crazy busy.  At first blush it struck me odd: why were all these people, on the heels of the insanity of the week we’d just endured, filling their carts to the brim with containers and solutions and boxes and shelving?  What was wrong with us all: had we already forgotten what had happened?  But as I tossed that idea around in my head, it immediately struck me: everyone was simply trying to feel some control…even if only over their spice rack.  And I cannot say I blame them.

All day long during the lockdown I was trolling Facebook.  If I wasn’t following the newsfeed on my laptop, I was checking it on my Kindle.  Or my phone.  I had the news on, too: flipping between the three local stations and CNN.  I hopped over to boston.com and aol.com, but was more interested in what my friends were saying and sharing than listening to the media.  In whatever form, I simply couldn’t step away from the onslaught of, if we are being truthful, no new information.  About halfway through the afternoon I noticed on the sidebar of (the now public, read: ad-ridden) Facebook, a suggestion for a shoe I might like based, I am assuming, on my (many) previous searches on Zappos.  In the matter of about fifteen seconds, I clicked on the image, scrolled down to my size, added it to my cart and checked out.  I needed comfort, dammit, and I was gonna get it.

I felt better, if only for a moment.  I anticipate feeling better again when the shoes arrive in the familiar black and white box, although I do wonder if I will forever associate the neutral toned wedges with a day that will be etched in my memory just as 9/11 is.  Who knew a pair of (totally cute) shoes could hold so much weight?  Who knew that the desperate need for comfort would run so deep?

I updated my Facebook status at around 4:00 that day:

I am not a religious person. In fact, I am a strictly High Holiday gal. That said, I want to go to services tomorrow morning – just for the calm and community. This is so surreal, insane and alienating. 

Moments later, I began getting texts, phone calls and emails offering to attend with me (some of those offering aren’t even Jewish!) We were all in need of something other than the news which was unfolding down the street.  We all needed comfort.  As I climbed into bed later that night, having just learned that asshole suspect #2 was apprehended I couldn’t bear the silence in my room.  I clicked the television on and aggressively searched for a station that was oblivious to the unraveling of the world, ultimately landing on an episode of “The Nanny”.  It was all I could handle. (Aside: The following morning I did not wind up going to services.  I did, however, go to my gym, which happens to be a JCC (so it was kinda like going to services, just different attire) only to discover that it was so crowded that I had to park in Siberia.  Methinks I was surrounded by others seeking solace.)

Today, nearly two days after the nightmare ended, I still see unending signs of comfort-seeking.  In the early afternoon I pulled into the parking lot of the supermarket to purchase ingredients for what I consider one of the ultimate comfort foods (chili) to find the place mobbed.  It was a beautiful afternoon, one which would normally find the Boston faithful running around one of the many reservoirs or the Charles relishing the sun (that we haven’t seen all winter) and the warmer temperatures, saving their marketing for later in the day.  Instead, seemingly every single person on the planet was at the grocery store, filling their carts the way they do in anticipation of the next snow storm…not for fear of being locked down again, but, in my estimation, as a means to gain the elusive control we all want to sorta kinda feel like we have.  Having sustenance would make everyone feel better, in control of, if nothing else, their ability to pig out.  People were happily bumping into friends and acquaintances, stopping to talk.  Really talk.  To connect and laugh.  (Oh, that was me.  It took me three times longer to do my shopping than it should have having been fortunate enough to run into several people I know, not wanting to end the chatter and the connection.)

I personally have not heard a lot of discussion about the specifics of Marathon week.  That could be a reflection of the people I surround myself with.  Or it could be indicative of the exhaustion we are all attempting to conquer.  “My” people seem to be less interested in talking about it and more interested in connecting.  They are exercising, they are shopping and they are eating (or not eating, which, frankly, I still cannot understand.)  Some, I suspect, are doing as I have done and are writing while others are shutting down.  All acceptable as far as I am concerned as long as it is brings them (us, you, me) closer to peace.

If you are depressed you are living in the past.

If you are anxious you are living in the future.

If you are at peace you are living in the present.

-          Lao Tzu

Mom of Boys?

For ten years, I was the mom of two boys.  I had it all sewn up: with birthdays just two weeks apart (oh, and seven years) I had the whole Bris thing down pat.  I knew how to change a diaper without being sprayed with a fountain of pee.  And the money I saved by having George (boy 2)  wear all of Harrison’s (boy 1) clothing which I had painstakingly packed away was nothing if not impressive.  Harrison’s toddlerhood (and, if we are being honest, early school-hood) was legendary in its wildness, it’s complete and utter boyness.  He was frenetic and inexhaustible.  He would commence being in motion no later than 6 a.m. and literally not stop until he eventually passed out after several hours of my (vainly) attempting to get him to bed.  My father used to laugh and tell me that he was “all boy”.

When George came along, he followed in his older brother’s footsteps: wild, exhausting and with unending energy, he, too, was an impossible toddler.  I was, ironically, far less concerned with George’s behavior, though.  By this time, Harrison had miraculously turned into a human being and chilled out to the point of actually being referred to as “a day at the beach” by one of his teachers.  So, too, I assumed (okay, prayed) would George.

As the mom of boys, I had a unique kinship with my friends who also gave birth to two penised children: we are (were?) a sisterhood whose daily life differed so vastly from our friends who were (are?) moms-of-girls and moms-of-one-of-each that we stuck together like glue.  We have (had?) an understanding of one another that often (okay, daily) allowed us the strength to get through it…even if only physically.  I recall my sister-in-law telling me that her singular goal during the toddler years of her one son (as opposed to his two sisters) was just to keep him alive:  his exuberant energy level had him regularly flying across the room to wreak havoc on something or another.  I dared to take it one step further and argue that my goal for my boys was to keep them alive, or, more precisely, to keep from killing them.

Despite their exhausting and unrelenting energy, I loved being the mom of boys.  Oh, sure, I was afraid of them much of the time, but not nearly as afraid as I would have been had they been girls.  I remembered all too well what it was like to be a girl growing up and had very little interest in living through it again.  No…I could do this boy thing.  For sure.

So what if my second son shunned the toy cars, transformers and the forty five million Legos I had stocked away?  Who cared if his costumes of choice required wigs and dresses as opposed to the ab-enhanced Superman costume?  And his drawing girls all the time?  Whatever.  I was a mom of boys, dammit, and had the penises to prove it.

I’ve always known that boys love their mommies.  (Much the way girls love their daddies.)  Explained by an amorphous blob that hovers somewhere between adoration and fear, boys just want to be with mom, be adored by mom and, yeah, probably want to sleep with mom.  (Crap, how did Freud invade this conversation?)  Not gonna lie: I liked our dynamic, and I loved being their Number One.

And then, in what seemed like an instant, I was no longer the mom of boys.  Just like that, everything I had lived through and, frankly, been preparing myself for was suddenly divided.  I was now supposed to switch gears and be a mom of a boy and a girl; a transition for which, I can assure you, there is no guide-book.  What the fuck?

It has been nearly a year and a half since George tearfully and bravely told me that “his whole life he had wanted to be a girl”, yet I still think of myself as the mom of boys.  I see a child who, in many ways,  looks so vastly different from sixteen months ago, yet so much the same: she is taller and has longer hair, but much of her personality is decidedly George.  I usually think of her as Jessie, but still sometimes slip and call her George. I get tripped up every single time someone asks me about my kids’ gender and never know how to refer to my second born when recalling stories from her first ten years.  I don’t consider her my son, or my daughter, really.  Neither feels right.  She is my child and I love her and he is my child and I love him.   It is more than semantics, for sure.  It is more than long hair and shopping in the girl’s department.  She has transitioned with little trepidation.  This mom of boys, however, is still trying to figure it all out.

The Lady By The Water Bottles

I was doing one final loop of the store, wanting to make the most of the last few minutes of my shift before I left for the day.  There was a woman who looked so vaguely familiar that I did not even quite register a familiarity standing near the water bottles with a quizzical look on her face.  Unsure as to why I recognized her it was equally unclear whether she was trying to find a product or merely deep in thought about something entirely unrelated to the store.  I made eye contact and inquired, with a smile: “are you trying to find something or just deep in thought?”

“I read and love your blog” she nearly gushed.  I shook my head a bit, hoping, perhaps, that it would unearth some clarity, or context, even, to what she had just said.  Who was she?  How did she know about my blog?  And, perhaps more importantly, how did she know I was me?  As each of these queries bounced around in my head, I literally blurted out: “who are you, how do you know my blog and how did you know me?!”  (with, of course, a smile.)

She warmly introduced herself (her name was immediately recognizable, primarily, I think, from having seen her comment on other people’s Facebook threads) and told me of the mutual friends we have, one of which (she could not recall, if I am recalling correctly, which friend it was) had told her about the blog some time ago and she has been a rabid follower ever since.  She praised me for my candor, honesty and humor.  And then she literally (and I am not making this up) welled up.  I then (again, not making this up) welled up, too.  It was a strange, yet ridiculously satisfying, interaction, right there in the middle of the store.

As we continued to speak, I heard pleas in my headset for assistance in another part of the store.  I even heard my name being specifically beckoned, yet I sorta, kinda, in a way ignored the request in favor of listening to my new friend heap praise and admiration upon me as she thanked me for my blog and for sharing my story.

And that got me to thinking.

Often people have thanked me, told me that they appreciate my writing about such a complicated issue or expressed a connection to my writing.  Not gonna lie: it feels good to hear it.  But, the truth is, I need to thank all of you for reading, appreciating, supporting and loving me through this all.  Writing is easy for me.   Being honest and keeping things real is easy for me.  Making people laugh is easy for me.  Asking for help and patting myself on the back: not so easy for me.  Each time someone sends me a kind note or introduces themselves to me as a reader of my blog I feel a little bit safer and, frankly,  a little less alone.

The lady by the water bottles probably doesn’t know that she made my day.  She likely doesn’t realize how important her support is to me (and I don’t even know her!).  We all just want to feel safe and supported, right?  Isn’t that all that Jessie really wants?

My thanks to her for taking a chance at seeming like a stalker (her words, not mine) and letting me know that she knew who I was…it is more appreciated than she knows.

124 Hours

Hey…remember me?  I used to blog fairly regularly.   Until, that is, I blew outta town for five days and forgot all about life back in the big city (such as it is).  Yep, I am just back from five days of heaven on earth.  Five days of worrying about no one other than myself.  Five days of sitting on my ass doing one (and only one at a time) of three things: eating, shopping or sunning.  Five days of living like a Real Housewife, minus the bickering, backstabbing and name calling.  It was fantastic and long overdue.

I knew I needed a break, but had no idea just how desperately.  It wasn’t until I felt the warmth of the Florida sun and watched my hair become shorter, bigger and curlier by the second that I fully embraced just how spent I was.  I slept like a log.  I ate like a pig.  I cried (just once) like a baby.  I sunned like a (stupid) teenager.  I celebrated my birthday like a princess.  It was perfection.

With the exception of the head in a cloud feeling from the shaky flight home which I just managed to shake about an hour or so ago, I feel like a new girl.  Unfortunately, this new girl has very little to share with regards to her family’s adventure at the moment, but have all confidences that that will change.

Just checking in…more to come as reality sets back in and my tan fades to my normal shade of pale.

p.s. Lots of love and thanks to everyone for remembering my birthday (29 is a big one, ya know) and a special shout out to MLS and LG for making me feel like royalty for 124 hours.  Thanks, too, to Rich and the kids for letting me call them (and not the other way around) for those entirety of those 124 hours and for my one-day-post-birthday celebration.