I spent Mother’s Day weekend without my kids, and it was amazing.

I’m not sure when my adoration for Bette Midler began. I used to go to the video rental store and check out “Beaches” on a regular basis. My mom and I watched it together dozens of times. I loved, LOVED, the movie “Big Business” with Lily Tomlin. They played two sets of identical twins switched at birth. It might have been corny, but I was 9. I loved it. Then she starred in “Gypsy” on television. I watched that musical probably 100 times. Let’s just say while my friends were listening to New Kids on the Block, I was blasting the soundtrack to “Gypsy” in my room and singing along. I knew every word.

My dad opened my eyes to her earlier musical work, and I loved it all. My favorites were Miss Otis Regrets and Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy. Again–I blasted them on repeat on the stereo in my room.

READ: Confessions of a Mel Brooks Stalker

Fast forward to 2009. I heard that Bette was at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. I had to go. My husband and I booked a trip–you know, for quality couple time. (Don’t tell him it was really a mission to see Bette.) Although I love him, he doesn’t share my love for all things Bette, so he was happy to sit out the show (and the $250 price tag) while I went by myself to see her.

Since I was alone I was able to get a second row seat. It was PHENOMENAL. She was everything I hoped she would be. The energy was palpable. She was funny. She sounded great. She sang every song I wanted to hear and dozens more. At the close of the show she sat on the edge of the stage and sang The Glory of Love on the ukulele. She sat directly in front of me and I swear she looked right at me when she was singing. The night was perfect, but only one thing was missing. I had no one to share it with. I called my mom on the way out of the theater, and I promised her that one day we would see Bette together. I had to share this magical experience with her.

Early this year it was announced that Bette was going to go on tour, and she was making two stops in Florida, where we live. Bette had just released an album called “It’s the Girls,” paying tribute to the best musical girl groups like The Supremes, The Shirelles, The Chiffons, etc. My mom and I listened to the oldies together in the car when I was growing up. We sang loudly, and off key, together. If ever there was a concert to go to with my mom, it was Bette singing oldies!

READ: I’m in Love With My Son’s First Celebrity Crush

The show was Mother’s Day weekend, four hours away from where we live. While I felt guilty spending the weekend away from my three kids, I knew that this was an opportunity to spend time with my mom. I didn’t want to miss this chance. My husband and kids would understand, and we’d make it back in time to have dinner with them on Sunday.

We drove down and talked the entire four hours. Uninterrupted conversation doesn’t tend to happen very often these days. It was amazing to just be mother and daughter instead of Grandma and Mommy. We covered dozens of topics–work, the kids, my dad’s health, and the future of our family business. We had great talks. We laughed a lot. It was fantastic.

We had dinner and played in the casino attached to the venue. Honestly this could have been enough for me. This time with my mom was precious. Seeing Bette would be the icing on the cake. And it was.

READ: Today, I’m Thankful for the Other Mothers in My Life

That woman put on a show! We had center, floor seats. We could see her facial expressions. She looked marvelous. The woman will be 70 in December. She performed for two solid hours and made it look easy. She was funny and sounded great. She even sang Miss Otis Regrets and Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy. One of her final songs was The Wind Beneath my Wings. Sitting there with my mom, holding hands, listening to that song, will be a memory I always treasure. As sappy as it sounds, my mom is my hero. She truly is the wind beneath my wings. I welled up thinking about it. It was as if Bette was singing that song directly to us.

It was the best Mother’s Day weekend I ever could have asked for. My husband’s gift of holding down the fort for 24 hours was all I wanted. I had an unbelievably special time with my mom that I will remember forever. I can’t wait to take my daughter to see Bette when she’s old enough. Sure, Bette will be 90 years old, but I have a feeling that won’t stop her. Just like Bette said at the concert, she’s like vodka–odorless, tasteless, and ageless.

Sometimes you have to make a really hard decision for your kids. You gather all of the information you can, talk to your spouse, your parents, and your best friends (in my case ad nauseam) until you are certain you are making the best decision possible. You make the choice with love, cross your fingers, and make it so. You may never know if it was the “right” decision. All you can do is wait and hope.

Approximately three months and three days after we made the very difficult decision to pull my fourth grade son out of public school and put him into a school for children with learning and social issues, I got my answer. It wasn’t a whisper or a hint. It was a full-out shout: “YOU DID THE RIGHT THING—GO YOU!”

Allow me to explain.

We pulled my son out of public school because as he got older, it became increasingly more difficult for him to function successfully in that environment. Socially he always struggled, but the older he got, the more other kids were aware of his awkwardness. They said things. The older he got, the more aware he became, too. Sometimes kids wouldn’t even say things directed at him, but he misinterpreted them and got his feelings hurt almost every day.

READ: My Son Didn’t Want to Change Schools, But Now He’s Glad He Did

Academically he just shut down. He’s brilliant. He was on “The Today Show” when he was 7 because he knew every fact about the presidents of the United States. He taught himself to read and spell at the age of 4. However when it came to school he didn’t engage. His teachers had to repeatedly ask him to answer a question in class. As the reading comprehension difficulty increased, it became clear that he couldn’t do higher-level thinking like inferencing and main ideas. He was in jeopardy of failing the standardized test for third grade. He felt like a bad student. It was not how I envisioned his academia was going to unfold.

So we had him tested—a lot. We found out he had language processing and auditory processing issues. We made the tough choice to pull him out of public school mid-year. We agonized over it. He didn’t want to do it. He started in February.

One day in May his school was closed for conferences and IEP meetings. His old school teacher invited him to spend the afternoon with his old friends. While he was there, I would go to the conference and then come back to get him. As we walked into his old school he got very nervous. He saw his old speech therapist. She asked how his new school was. He was shy but answered her, “I like it a lot. We have no school today. I’m here to visit Mrs. Quint’s class.”

READ: What Happened When My Son’s School Wouldn’t Accommodate His Auditory Processing Disorder

We knocked on the door. A student answered, shouting, “He’s here!” The class yelled “JOEY!” I absolutely wanted to cry, but I didn’t because it would have embarrassed him. Mrs. Quint told Joey they had been waiting for him. They were going to have lunch in the classroom (instead of the cafeteria) and arrange their desks to put him in the middle since he was the guest of honor. Joey’s friend from another class had heard he was coming and requested that he could join them. They had playground time and activities planned for the afternoon. I left with a very happy heart. On I went to the conference.

My mom met me there because my husband had to work. We met with two of his new teachers. They went over Joey’s test results. We laughed together, in amazement, at his math and verbal scores. Then we talked about his weaknesses. This school has five kids in a classroom, so the teachers got to know him incredibly well, very quickly. We talked about his work with reading comprehension. We talked about his social struggles, and they suggested a social program we might try to help with what they were already working on in school. As their grand finale they showed us a graph. This graph showed his progress with auditory processing in a program called Fast ForWord. The computer-based program slows down sounds to help retrain his brain to process them better. Then it increases the speed and number of sounds as the student starts to hear (and indicate) the differences. The first 18 days Joey didn’t get it. He didn’t hear one sound different than the other. The line on the chart flat-lined. But then something clicked. His brain caught on. The next 18 sessions his levels increased every day until he was right on track, ready for the next step of the program.

“We see it in the classroom,” his teacher said. “He’s paying more attention because he is processing more of what we are saying.” I remembered that Joey’s private speech therapist had recently noticed that the past few weeks he was more relaxed, cracking more jokes, and flying through exercises that he had struggled with. “It’s just going to get better from here,” the teacher exclaimed.

READ: How Camp Prepared My Kids For Their New Schools 

My mom cried. I cried. This was incredible news. We had been told there wasn’t much that could be done for auditory processing. This innovative software, which wasn’t available in public school, was no doubt helping him more than any of us could. The teacher handed me a copy of the test results.

On the way out of the school my mother thanked everyone (in her very sweet, very Jewish Grandma way). She cried to everyone and thanked them for the best Mother’s Day present she could have asked for. “Great, because I didn’t get you anything,” I said as I handed her the copy of the test results.

I left his new school, tears in my eyes, and headed to his old school to pick him up. He bounced out to the car with a potted plant he had made me for Mother’s Day. He said that he had a great time, and that he was glad he could see everyone before the summer. We both had a great afternoon, with closure that we both obviously needed. I’ll try to remember that feeling the next time I have to make an incredibly difficult decision. I probably won’t, so I’m apologizing in advance to my family and friends.

As I write this, my husband and my two sons (ages 7 and 10) are live streaming the World Nintendo Championships. They are yelling at the TV. I’m pretty sure I just heard my 7-year-old say, “He beat that like a boss!” Last night they watched “The Wizard.” My husband is a software engineer for a large video game company. Let’s just say video games are very, very important in my house. Too important.

A few years ago when my kids discovered video games, we had limits. They were enforced, and all was well. Nineteen months ago, when we had our third baby, the limits got looser, and eventually they all but disappeared. When I was nursing for hours on end my sons amused themselves happily (and quietly) in the game room playing hours of Minecraft. I knew it was too much, but it was easy and I was tired. They got their homework done. They ate meals. Occasionally I got them to play outside or swim in the pool. I kept all of the plates spinning. In the back of my mind I knew they were playing too much, but I didn’t have the energy to deal with it.

Then I was sleep training and needed them to be occupied while I spent hours in my daughter’s room waiting for her to fall asleep. They happily obliged.

READ: 5 Reasons Video Games Might Actually Be Good for My Child (and Yours)

Eventually the game room became their default place to be. They’d walk in the door from school and head right to their games. In the morning they would quietly make their way to the game room before we woke up. Once in a while I’d find out that my 7-year-old had woken up at 4 or 5 in the morning to play. If they weren’t eating a meal, doing their homework, or showering, they were playing video games. If they weren’t playing video games they were watching YouTube videos of other people playing video games. It was all they talked about.

My husband came to me one day and said, “We need to do something about them—they are out of control.” He was right.

We decided to impose limits again. They hadn’t seen them in over a year, but it needed to happen. I was embarrassed that we let them get so out of control. They are children. Of course they weren’t going to limit themselves. We could correct our mistakes, but I didn’t know how they would take it.

READ: My Son Has a Secret Life on Skype

We sat them down and told them about the new rules. They would get one hour per day during the week and three hours per day on the weekend. I thought they would freak out. I was wrong. They were actually excited. They asked if they could do things to earn more time. Then some amazing things happened.

1. My 10-year-old emptied the dishwasher.

2. My 7-year-old cleaned up his sister’s playroom without being asked.

3. They both put laundry away.

4. We taught my 7-year-old a bunch of new games, including chess.

5. They BOTH did some of the schoolwork their teachers sent home for the summer—WITHOUT BEING ASKED! I know… If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it either.

They earned extra minutes for doing chores, but they also earned more minutes when I saw them make a good choice like sharing or being kind. It has been a few weeks since the new rules have started. They are doing well. My husband and I feel like better parents. It’s harder now because they need more of my attention, but it’s a thousand times better.

It’s really easy to let your kids watch endless TV or play endless video games. It’s also really easy to correct a parenting mistake. Every once in a while one of them asks me how long the rules are going to last. I tell them they are here to stay, and this time, I mean it.

Making new friends is hard, so I was really excited when I started to form a friendship with another mom of a child in my daughter’s My Gym class. We had a lot in common. We each had two boys in elementary school and baby girls the same age. So we planned a few playdates and found that we really got along. And while I’m Jewish, and she isn’t, this didn’t matter. In fact, as someone who lives in central Florida, I can tell you that most of my mommy friends aren’t Jewish. Totally a non-issue.

Over several months, we formed a friendship. I was really excited about it.

On our first kid-free afternoon together we settled into our pedicure chairs and started talking about our summer plans. She mentioned that they were going to visit her mother-in-law who lived six hours away. The mother-in-law had never met the (almost 2-year-old) daughter, which surprised me. I just couldn’t imagine a grandmother having a granddaughter and not making the trip down to meet her.

READ: Do Our Kids Get Our “Ironic” Jewish Jokes?

My friend explained:

“She’s Jewish; maybe you didn’t know that my husband is half-Jewish. Anyway she’s really a typical Southern Jewish lady, you know, complaining all the time about everything.”

Slightly shocked, I said, “I’m not sure what a typical Southern Jewish lady is.”

To which she said, “You know–she just complains about everything. She doesn’t want to travel because her back hurts blah blah blah… My husband is a half-Hebe so I can say that to you.”

I was pretty shocked, and I didn’t know what to say. The conversation moved on, but in the back of my mind I couldn’t get over that she just said Hebe. I have never heard anyone say it in person. I also was really, really uncomfortable with the stereotype she put out there.

I have a really bad poker face, so after about 10-15 minutes, she said, “I’m really concerned that I offended you–please tell me.”

So I did. I explained that Hebe is offensive, and that it just rubs me the wrong way when people who aren’t Jewish make Jewish jokes. I likened it to non-blacks making racial jokes. Race and religion, as different as they are, both are sensitive subjects. She apologized and promised me it was out of ignorance and not intolerance. I believe her 100%. In fact, she gave me her blessing to write this post. She wanted to learn from it.

READ: Lena Dunham Responds to Kveller Article About Her Anti-Semitic Humor-Sort Of

But here’s my dilemma. I make Jewish jokes all the time.

Case in point: I was at a birthday party recently. The dad hosting the party was Jewish. We were playing on his kids’ new swing set when I asked him if he put it together himself.

He said: “No, I paid someone $100 to do it.”

I replied, “That’s what we Jews do! We pay someone to do it for us.”

This got a big laugh from him and his friends who were standing nearby. His friends weren’t Jewish. I was happy to get the laugh (as always), but it felt wrong.

When is it OK to make a joke about Jews? Jew to Jew? Jew to non-Jew? Non-Jew (married to a Jew) to a Jew? Isn’t it all wrong?

Self-deprecating Jewish humor is age-old. I was raised on Mel Brooks, Jackie Mason and Woody Allen. But I can tell you that as a child, I was aware that the minute someone who wasn’t Jewish laughed at one of those jokes, the mood changed for my parents.

READ: Becoming a Japanese Housewife Made Me a More Committed Jew

That evening, my friend texted me to thank me for a lovely afternoon and to make sure that we were OK. She truly felt awful about our conversation. She was afraid she had acted like a jerk (OK, she didn’t say “jerk,” but you can probably guess what she had said.) I assured her she wasn’t, and the fact that she realized she had said something inappropriate and wanted to learn from it, made all the difference. In my opinion, this makes her truly friend-worthy. I’m certain we’ll be learning new things from each other for years to come.

I, for one, have already learned to hold back on the Jewish jokes, even if they always get a laugh. I don’t ever want my kids to hear me making fun of our people. I don’t want to perpetuate any stereotypes. I’ll leave the comedy to the comedians.

When we built the pool in our backyard a few years ago, our boys already knew how to swim. They had taken lessons when they were 3-years-old at the local JCC. Obviously we put up a baby gate to protect them and visiting children from falling in. But when we had our third baby, she was the first one of my kids to live in a house with a pool and not know how to swim. I live in Florida, where unfortunately I read about drownings on a pretty regular basis. It’s terrifying to even think about.

I had seen pictures and videos of my friends’ babies over the years taking survival swimming lessons, but that terrified me, too. In my mind the parents were taking a necessary precaution, but the thought of dropping a fully clothed, screaming baby into a pool and watching them figure out how to float seemed like torture to me. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

As the summer approached a seasoned mama friend of mine (who has six children including triplets) asked me when my daughter Billie was going to start swimming lessons. I told her I was looking into it, and moved on to the next subject. I just hadn’t decided what I was going to do, and I didn’t want to talk about it.

READ: Should I Force My Son to Take Swimming Lessons?

A few weeks later she asked again. Gathering that I was undecided, she invited me to come watch her babies take a lesson with their beloved teacher Rhonda. I did. Rhonda was calm and reassuring. The babies (who had been crying initially) were a few weeks into lessons and they couldn’t wait to take their turn. Watching them swim to the step and roll over and float, I thought there’s no way Billie will do that. She’ll cry and I’ll cry. But my friend was right, I would never forgive myself if she drowned. So I scheduled for Rhonda to come the following Monday.

She explained that her lessons were 15 minutes long, four times per week. Every baby is different, but normally they last about five to seven weeks. I was so nervous about the lessons that Sunday night I hardly slept.

As predicted, 18-month-old Billie wasn’t a fan of me handing her off to a stranger. She screamed pretty consistently for the first lesson… and the first week of lessons… At about the end of week three, the screaming stopped. She still let me know that she didn’t want Rhonda to come by shutting the door in Rhonda’s face when she rang the bell, or doing her “all done” hands when Rhonda walked into the house. She even tried waving bye-bye. Sorry kid, nice try. Thankfully once the hand off was done, she was very receptive to Rhonda.

In the fifth week Rhonda brought her Go-Pro camera and took some amazing shots of Billie under water. She told me Billie would be ready to graduate the following week. I should have her fully clothed in a regular diaper and shoes. This would replicate a possible scenario when she might fall into a pool.

READ: Why Does My Daughter Suddenly Hate Her Swimming Lessons?

Again, I was pretty nervous. Rhonda took her into the pool on test day, and I had my phone ready to capture the testing for my husband to watch later. Billie had a blast. She said “cheese” when she saw my camera. She kicked her feet with delight when Rhonda was going to flip her over. She smiled while she floated. She had a huge look of pride on her face when the testing was over. She knew she had accomplished something. We both had.

Rhonda told me that a lot of babies cry when they have their test day because they don’t like the feel of the heavy diaper and clothes on their feet. We both couldn’t believe how well Billie had done. And just like that—it was over. No more lessons. Billie can swim to the step, or float if she’s too far away. She loves showing off her skills. On July 4^th she made sure that everyone on my patio watched her flip and float by calling their attention to her and waiting for their applause.

I’m pretty proud of myself, too. I got over the fear of survival swimming lessons. I stopped justifying to myself why I didn’t need to do it, and just did it. My friend who referred me to Rhonda really loves when I tell her she was right—so here it is, in black and white. Martha, you were right!

If you live in an area with lots of pools and lakes, I cannot stress the importance of survival swimming lessons for your babies and children. They are absolutely life saving. There are several different methods, so make sure you find a teacher that you’re comfortable with. Take the plunge—you’ll be glad you did.

My boys (ages 10 and 7) have been attending our JCC summer camp for years. The camp includes games, sports, Jewish education, swimming, and weekly field trips. Once you are entering second grade you get to participate in the highly anticipated, extremely fun sleepovers, of which they do two to three each summer.

My older son, Joey, who struggles in certain social situations, has declined to attend every single sleepover for the past four years. He happily goes on the field trips, but asks me to pick him up so that he doesn’t have to sleep over. He prefers his bed, with his things, and his family. He’s slept at Grandma’s house. He loves when we travel to hotels. He just had no interest in sleeping on the floor of the gymnasium, in his sleeping bag, surrounded by his fellow campers. I never pushed him because I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. There was no reason to force this issue.

But this year his little brother was eligible for the sleepovers—and he could not wait. Aaron went to the first one, while Joey declined. To quote Aaron as he climbed into my minivan after the experience—“It was amazing!” He couldn’t believe that Joey wouldn’t want a piece of this action.

READ: Am I Crazy for Not Sending My Daughter to Summer Camp?

Then it came time for the final sleepover of the summer. This adventure would bring Joey’s group to Busch Gardens (two hours away) and a sleepover at the Tampa JCC. Aaron’s group would be going to Legoland and sleeping at our Orlando JCC. Again, Aaron could not wait. But two days before the trip he sprained his wrist, and after a trip to the ER, was put into a splint. That wasn’t going to deter him from this epic field trip/sleepover.

Every time I broached the subject with Joey, he consistently let me know that he wasn’t going. But this also meant no field trip, because I wasn’t going to drive all the way to Tampa to pick him up. I gently pushed him as the day got closer. He resisted. I pushed harder. Eventually I told him that he was going. He needed to try. He needed to step out of his comfort zone. This was the last chance for the summer. He has great counselors and kids in his group. If he didn’t like it, I wouldn’t make him do any sleepovers the following summer, but he had to try.

He cried. I felt badly. I almost caved. But eventually he sniffled, “OK, I’ll do it.” He told me he was worried that he would have to sleep alone, or that he’d be forced to play games that he didn’t want to play. He sat with me at my computer while we drafted an email to his camp coordinator to share his concerns.

READ: How an Unlikely Friendship Formed at Jewish Summer Camp

The amazing camp coordinator and director both assured me that they would communicate if there were any issues. They reminded me that no news is good news. The boys left the house at 8:30 a.m. on Thursday and I wasn’t going to see them until 4:00 on Friday. I had my phone next to me all day Thursday. I got a quick email that said both boys were on their way to the field trips with smiles on their faces.

At 10:00 p.m. I got the following email from the camp coordinator:

Hi Samantha, 

I am sitting here with Joey and we are emailing to say that we had a really great day today! Joey said he went on the water ride and it takes you around a river which was really fun. He barely got soaked which was funny because everyone else did.

We are at the Tampa JCC and getting ready for bed. He says he misses you but don’t worry because he’s having fun.

See you tomorrow!

Joey says “I love you.”

I cried happy tears. I showed it to my husband, forwarded it to my parents, and copied and pasted it to half a dozen friends. I was elated. The next day I went to camp to pick them up. The boys had requested that I come into Shabbat song session to get them, instead of the car line, because they would miss me.

Aaron’s counselors came up to me first. “Aaron had a great time—we covered his splint when it rained at Legoland. He missed you a little bit, but he had a great experience.”

READ: How to Get a Bunch of Teenagers to Study Jewish Literature in the Summer

Then Joey’s counselor came up to me. “He did awesome! He was just like any other kid. He was happy. He participated. He was perfect! He had one complaint though. He told me that our other counselor snored, and that kept him up.” We giggled.

I hugged both of my boys and told them how proud I was of them. Joey said he was glad that he went. He loved Busch Gardens. He enjoyed seeing a different JCC. He didn’t care for only getting six hours of sleep. The jury is still out if he’ll do sleepovers next year. But that doesn’t matter to me. He did it. I pushed him, and I’m glad that I did. It was hard to do, but sometimes we have to be pushed. I’m giving myself a gold star on this one, and if Joey does decide to go next year, I’m giving him some ear plugs.

Last year, when we moved my 10-year-old out of public school and into a private school that would help him with his learning issues, social skills, and anxiety, we knew it was the right move for him.

This year, he started school with no hesitation. He was happy to return to his routine and start fifth grade. The second week of school he got into my car clutching a “Code of Conduct” book they had given the students that day. As we pulled out of the parking lot, his voice started to quiver.

“We talked about this book today,” he said. “If I’m late to school three times or have more than 10 unexcused absences, I could have detention or Saturday school.”

He started to cry. Joey likes order and rules. He doesn’t like it when others don’t obey the rules. He likes to be on time. When he was younger he would get very emotional if things weren’t going according to his plan and even tantrum. We got really good at preparing him for changes in the routine. As he’s gotten older, he’s gotten much more flexible; however every once in a while, something like this comes out of nowhere and really sets him off.

READ: Nothing Can Prepare You For Dropping Your Firstborn Off at College

“This is my biggest fear,” he said. “I don’t want to be late, and I don’t want to go to school when no one else is there.”

We talked about it on the way home. I assured him that we are never late to school. He reminded me of that one time last year when we hit traffic and he was five minutes late. I explained to him that he wouldn’t ever get detention for that. These things are out of his control, and his school is more than understanding.

He just couldn’t get over it. He started to get agitated, speaking louder and louder until he was yelling at me. His little hands were starting to shake. He was crying. His anxiety peaked as we pulled into the driveway.

We sat down with a snack at the kitchen table to look at the book more thoroughly.

“Joey,” I said, “this list of excused absences are all reasons that you would miss school. You’ll never have an unexcused absence. They only make these rules for kids whose parents want to take them on vacation in the middle of the school year.”

READ: Back to (Home)school

Knowing full well he has a photographic memory and has always been paranoid about missing school, I asked him, “From kindergarten through fourth grade, how many days have you missed?”

“Thirteen days,” he said.

“See—that was over five years, and all of those were for excused reasons. I promise, kiddo, you’ll never get in trouble for this.”

He told me he had a headache. We agreed he would go lay down and relax. While he rested, I emailed his school about the concerns.

I got a beautiful email back from the school’s director assuring me she would talk to him in the morning. The next day he went to school. While he was there I got the following email:

Hi Mrs. Taylor,

I met with Joey this morning. He shed a few tears regarding absences and tardies. I think I reassured him by telling him he is doing his job by getting up on time and getting ready for school. I said, “If you do your job, I promise that your parents will do their best to get you to school on time.” We talked about how sometimes things happen, such as a flat tire or hitting traffic, but we can’t control those things. I said you may be late a few times for those types of reasons, but the rule is in place for the kids who don’t get out of bed or who give their parents a hard time about going to school. All in all, Joey agreed with me that he is a rule follower, so it is unlikely that he will break any rules. We will continue to review the rules on Thursday during 4th Period, so I encouraged Joey to use his stay calm plan. He plans to use deep breathing and take a drink of water as needed. He is interested in using a stress ball as well. I told him I would help him ask his teachers to use a stress ball on Thursday. He appeared to like the idea. I also encouraged him to never go home sad or upset.

Instead, I suggested that he ask for help from a teacher or administrator.

 If he talks to you about our discussion and he has any other concerns, feel free to let me know. I hope this is just a speed bump for him. However, I want to be proactive if he is having any other concerns about the school rules.

Yes, I cried when I read that, but really, who wouldn’t?

READ: 5 Things Your Kid’s High School Teacher Wants You To Know

That afternoon when Joey got home we talked about it. He seemed not to want to discuss it very much. I asked him if he wanted to bring in a stress ball. He said yes. I went and found our green stress ball with a peace sign on it and gave it to him. He thanked me and went off to his room. About 10 minutes later he came back.

“Mom, question—” he said. “How exactly does this help me?”

Trying not to giggle, I explained how it might distract him from feeling anxious. Squeezing the stress ball might let him release some of the emotions he was feeling. He put it in his backpack for the next day.

Thursday after school I picked him up and asked how it went and what rules they discussed that day.

“We talked about dress code and other things,” he said.

“Did you use your stress ball?” I asked.

“I did,” he said. “I squeezed it a lot. I’m still not sure how it works, but I guess it sort of automatically helps. Can I keep it in my backpack?”

“Absolutely!” I said.

Although it doesn’t happen often, my heart breaks for him when his anxiety flares up. I never knew how to help assure him that everything will be OK. No matter what I used to say, it seemed that I couldn’t take that pressure away from him. But thanks to the kind staff at his school, I now know how to help him through it. And I might just go out and get myself one of those stress balls—you never know when it will come in handy.

Today is a very important day in cinema history. Today (October 21^st, 2015) is the day that Marty McFly visits the future in Back to the Future II. Today is also a very important day in my family. My oldest son Joey turns 11. This date is so pivotal in my house that we might as well declare it a holiday. Let me tell you why.

Joey, who has a propensity for becoming passionate about certain subjects and learning everything he possibly can about them, has been through many such phases. He became passionate about addresses, the planets, our family tree, the calendar, birthdays, and Presidents of the United States (that particular interest landed him on the “Today Show” at age 7).

READ: How I Taught My Children To Be Less Afraid of Scary Movies

We often struggled with how much to indulge him in these passions. I used to call them obsessions, but a wise friend advised me against that as it has a negative connotation. Do you allow the incessant discussions and books or movies on repeat? Once the friends and family know about an interest they lovingly buy him everything they can find about it. Lovely gesture, yes, but feeding into it too much? It’s a fine line to walk. A therapist once told us that if we tried to squelch a passion, that it would just pop up somewhere else.

This is his personality. It’s our job to make sure it doesn’t interfere with his ability to function at school and live a normal life, but otherwise, we figured it was safe to encourage his passions.

When Joey was 5 years old he became fascinated with the past and the future and asked for my parents to tell him stories repeatedly about specific moments in their lives. Then, he would insert himself into the story as if he had been there.

After this went on for a few weeks we decided that he probably would love the “Back to the Future” series. We were so spot on with this assumption that it promptly became the newest obsession in his amazing brain. He watched the movies repeatedly. We found him books about the movies. He played with toy Deloreans. He found the video game and played it. He read fan fiction. He discovered Futurepedia online. He knew it all forwards and backwards.

Side note: If you are thinking your 5-year-old would also love these movies, be warned—there are curse words. We thought they had gone over Joey’s head…until one day at the playground when a kid started to get aggressive with his friend Ethan. Joey turned to the kid and said, “That’s my friend Ethan—get your damn hands off him!” (This continues to be both my proudest moment in parenting, and my most embarrassing.)

READ: My Daughters & I Love “Mary Poppins” for Very Different Reasons

That year, he was Marty McFly for Halloween. None of his friends knew who he was. He didn’t care. He wore that orange puffy vest and denim jacket and held a skateboard all night long.

As fate would have it, a few months later, the annual Delorean owners convention was being held in Orlando, about 30 minutes from our house. There would be hundreds of Deloreans, some actors who played minor characters in the movies, and best of all, Bob Gale (co-creator/writer of “Back to the Future”). That’s all I needed to hear. I bought us tickets and booked a room at the hotel.

Joey was so excited that he made an extremely detailed drawing/timeline for Bob Gale. It included everything from the movie, fan fiction, and a bunch of details I couldn’t even explain. We found Bob Gale on the floor of the convention, and I asked him if he could spend a minute with Joey. Joey handed him the paper and shook his hand. Mr. Gale looked at the paper and instantly figured out that it was pretty special.

He flipped out over Joey. He asked him questions, which Joey answered. He was clearly impressed. He brought us over to a screen-used Delorean, which was roped off from the public. He lifted the ropes and let Joey sit in it. He directed him to look at his watch and pretend he was looking off into the distance. Joey took direction. Mr. Gale even snapped a few photos of him with his own camera. We posed for some group pictures with him. He asked us if we had anything he could sign for us. We didn’t. So he went over to a vendor, bought us a poster, and signed it for Joey.

Seriously—could this man have been any nicer? It was definitely one of the highlights of my parenting life (and I’m sure Joey’s kid life, too).

It turns out that indulging him in that interest, and all of the others that have come before and after, is easy. He’s somehow known from the very beginning that school was not the place to discuss these things. He waits until the minute he gets into the car and goes to town talking about the things going on in his brain. We’ve learned to limit it. He gets five minutes to talk about what he wants, and then it’s my turn to ask him about his day. We continue to monitor and encourage his interests and make sure that they remain healthy and productive.

READ: Mayim Bialik: My Boys Finally Had Their First Movie Theater Experience

A few years have passed since our “Back to the Future” days, and we have gone through several interests since. Currently it’s Minecraft (another sidenote: If anyone hears about Markus Persson or Stampy Longnose coming to Orlando, please let me know). Somehow, though, “Back to the Future” continues to pop up in our house. He still has his Deloreans prominently displayed on his dresser. Our Marty McFly and Doc Brown Funko figurines are on our mantle in the living room. The Bob Gale autographed poster hangs in our game room. An autograph from Christopher Lloyd himself, addressed to Joey, was given as a gift from a thoughtful family friend, which remains framed on our wall. The movies are a part of our family culture.

Today, on Joey’s 11th birthday, theaters all over America will be screening the trilogy in honor of the movie’s 30th anniversary and of the date that Marty goes into the future. It couldn’t be more serendipitous for us. We’ll be there, celebrating the birthday and our love for these movies. It is our density…I mean destiny.

I grew up with liberal, Jewish parents in New York and New Jersey. We were surrounded by like-minded families. I doubt my parents even considered asking other parents about the gun situation in their homes before a playdate. It surely wasn’t on their radar.

When I was 8 we moved to Florida. Guns are a big deal here. When I made a new friend at school, my parents helped facilitate a playdate. They were shocked, to say the least, when we entered the home and saw guns mounted all over the walls. My mom stayed during the playdate and never let me play over there again. Whenever I played with that friend, she made excuses for it to be at my house. We were definitely in a culture we knew nothing about, and it scared her.

READ: No Guns (Not Even Pretend Ones) In My House

I am well aware that there are millions of Americans that legally obtain and use guns for hunting or protection. They have respect for their weapons and they teach their children the same. I just don’t share that sentiment. I’ve never held a gun. I have no desire to.

When my father-in-law (who was from West Virginia) passed away a few years ago, my mother-in-law gave his handgun to my husband. She told us that it was a family heirloom that had originally belonged to my husband’s grandfather. She suggested that we mount it and put it on the wall in our home. I refused. There was no way I was going to glorify a gun to my children by displaying it with pride in my house, nor was I going to basically announce to anyone who entered my home that we were gun people. This just wasn’t going to happen. My husband understood. The gun is in storage, safely protected. We don’t own any bullets.

Until recently, I naively assumed that everyone in my circle of friends felt the same way I did about guns, and if they didn’t, that their guns were locked up in a safe where no one could ever find them. I was wrong.

READ: My Kids Don’t Know What Guns Are. Is That OK?

After yet another recent shooting on the news, I happened to have two conversations with friends. Both friends I know to be more on the conservative side, and not anti-gun like me. One of them told me they have a permit and carry a gun for protection. This person doesn’t have children.

The other friend (who is a mom) told me that they have multiple guns in her home. Her husband is well-versed in gun safety and use. While the majority of them are locked up in a safe, one gun remains loaded and in her bedroom to use in case of an intruder. She assured me that her children could never find it.

This surprised me. While I believe her that the gun is not in the reach of little hands and is protected with a safety, it terrifies me to even think about the possibilities. It made me realize that (like it or not) I need to start to have this uncomfortable conversation with all of the parents of the friends my kids want to play with.

When my second grader comes home and begs me to call someone’s mom because he wants to have a playdate, I now have to ask the mom if they have a gun in their home. If they do, it’s not a deal breaker. I would hope they would understand a few follow up questions. If they don’t like the questions, or I don’t like the answers, then the playdate isn’t going to happen at their house (so I better start stocking up on snacks).

READ: Guns Have No Place in My School

Asking is uncomfortable and awkward. It’s certainly not the best way to make new friends. But I’m going to just have to take a deep breath and do it. If I didn’t ask, and something awful happened, I’d never be able to forgive myself.

Do you have the gun conversation with other parents? If so, how do you handle it?

When I was a few days old, my dad got a tip that Frank Sinatra was going to be eating at Patsy’s restaurant in New York City. Since my mom couldn’t go with him, he brought his sister. Frank was there, and he signed a postcard for me. It’s been a treasure of mine ever since.

Frank Sinatra has always been a major presence in my life. My dad is a huge fan (to put it mildly) and he shared his love for Ol’ Blue Eyes with my brother and me. From the time I was a born (and probably in utero) my dad had me listening to all of the great standards. When he tucked me into bed at night, I begged him to tell me one of his Sinatra tales. My favorites were the time he met Sinatra at the Fontainbleau when he was a kid in Miami, and the time he snuck into the back door of Carnegie Hall (wearing a powder blue tuxedo) and pretended he worked there. He watched Sinatra sing from the wings. Every single time he told those stories, I hung on each word.

In the 90s, whenever Frank toured Florida, my parents loaded us up into our Dodge Caravan, with the wood paneling, and drove to wherever he was performing. It didn’t matter if it was a school night or not. They wanted us to experience the magic. I remember those times fondly. I brought flowers to the stage once, and Frank took them. I stared into his bright blue eyes and watched as he reached for a handkerchief in his pocket to give me. He didn’t have one, so he turned to his son, Frank Jr. (who was conducting the orchestra) and asked for his. Frank took it, patted his face with it, and handed it to me. I floated back to my seat and gave it to my dad to hold.

As I got older, my love for Frank never wavered. I listened to him in the car, in the house, and watched old videos of his television appearances with my dad late at night. When I went away to college, I remained a fan. I even had a poster of a concert I had been to on my wall.

When Frank died in 1998, I was home from college, and my friends called to check in on me. I spent that day with my dad, watching Frank movies and TV shows.

When my kids were born, I wanted them to love Frank like I did. My dad made them mixed CDs to listen to. The first song my son Joey ever sang was “Fly Me to the Moon.”

In 2015, Frank Sinatra would have turned 100 years old. My dad (who is a jazz pianist) performed a celebratory concert for the local jazz society. It was an absolutely dynamite performance—standing room only—that I will remember forever.

Sinatra’s son, Frank Jr., was also celebrating his dad’s centennial by touring in a show called “Sinatra sings Sinatra.” We bought tickets to see him in Daytona Beach seven months ago. I literally could not wait. It was going to be the four of us again, along with my brother’s fiancée, this time piled into my minivan. I couldn’t wait to relive the magic.

Yesterday, my mom and dad and I piled into my van and left to meet up with my brother. About 20 minutes into our drive we got an email that Frank Jr. had fallen ill and the concert was cancelled. I was so disappointed. We grabbed a bite to eat and drove back home. I came home just in time to clean up dinner and help my kids get showered and tucked in. It was then that I got an alert on my phone—Frank Jr. had suffered a heart attack and had passed away in the Daytona Beach hospital.

I called my dad right away. We couldn’t believe it. He was 72 years old and had just performed two nights earlier. This seemed to come with no warning. My heart broke for his family. I sat down on the couch and talked with my husband about the concerts I remembered going to as a kid. I remember vividly each one. I remember driving through McDonald’s at midnight on our way home. I also remember falling asleep in the car and my Dad carrying me into my bed.

I realized that these moments are the most important. 20 years from now, I hope my kids remember that time we let them skip school on their birthday to go to Disney, or stay up late to see “Star Wars” when it came out on a school night. I treasure my Sinatra family adventures, and while we may not have gotten to relive them one more time, it doesn’t matter. I know that I have a lot more of these special moments with my kids to come.

My thoughts are with the Sinatra family, especially Frank Jr.’s mom, Nancy.

Read More: 

Mayim Bialik & Melissa Rauch Talk ‘The Bronze,’ Bat Mitzvahs & Big Bang’s Jewish Rivalry

Meet Rebecca Goldstein: Award-Winning Writer, Jewish Mom and Certified Genius

This Is Why I Took My Young Kids to the Holocaust Museum

I’ve written a lot about my 11-year-old, Joey. I’ve talked about his profound speech delay, his incredible memory, his social issues, taking him out of public school, and putting him in a private school for kids with special needs. He sees a play therapist and attends a social skills groups. He is thriving in his new school. We are very proud of the decisions we have made for him.

There’s one issue, however, that we’ve always swept under the rug—his extreme picky eating. He eats about a dozen foods. He picks things apart before eating them. He wants to be healthy and loves apples and cantaloupe, but won’t try new healthy (or even unhealthy) foods.

We’ve always tackled the most pressing issues first. Food wasn’t one of them. I guess we assumed that eventually he’d start trying new foods when his friends started to ask him why he brought the exact same lunch—chicken nuggets, string cheese, a sliced red apple, Lays potato chips, and a dessert—every day. He didn’t.

When I brought him to the doctor for his 11-year check-up, the nurse told me he had gained half a pound that year. I talked to his play therapist about it. She said that if we wanted to challenge him to eat different foods, we were going to have to use a behavioral approach and it would definitely make mealtimes less enjoyable. As it is, we have three kids (including a toddler). I’m thrilled if we all sit at the table eating together for 15 minutes. Adding this drama to our family seemed too overwhelming to even consider.

One day, while bringing my 2-year-old to Shabbat at the local JCC, I met an occupational therapist. She specializes in feeding/food issues and comes once per month to answer questions from parents about their kids’ eating habits. I talked to her about my picky toddler—she had some book recommendations and some great ideas. On the way home, I called my mom. I told her how excited I was to get started exploring foods with the baby, and how great this therapist’s advice was.

“Maybe she can help with Joey,” my mom said.

OF COURSE—why hadn’t I thought of that? Why is my mom always right?

I called the therapist the following week. I told her about Joey and she said she was absolutely able to help. I filled out her food history questionnaire and we scheduled the first session. She would come to the house one hour per week to work with him.

I sat down with Joey and told him about it. He instantly teared up.

“I don’t want to,” he said.

“Listen buddy,” I told him. “This is about your health. Daddy and I want you to be as healthy as possible. No one is going to force you do to anything you don’t want to do. It’s OK to be anxious or emotional about this. I would be, too.”

With that, he had a few days to get used to the idea. I’ve found that’s better than springing it on him. I couldn’t wait to get started. The night before she came I dreamt about it. I dreamt that we talked and she gave me so much advice that she finally turned to me and said, “I have to go now, I’ve been here for three hours.”

I was certain he’d be standoffish and uncooperative. He’s 11 after all. He did not want to be doing this.

She showed up. He made eye contact with her and smiled. He followed her outside to do a physical activity of his choosing. He chose a pogo stick out of her car. They were laughing outside whenever I peeked, while I tried to entertain my toddler.

Then they came inside. She explained that they were going to be doing food science. She would bring a food out of her bag and they’d explore it. She had a chart they would fill out about the color, size, shape, texture, smell, and taste. She told him he didn’t have to taste anything he didn’t want to. He was also welcome just to put it to his lips if he didn’t want to take a bite.

She started with potato chips. He was game. They filled out the chart together, deciding it was yellow, crunchy, salty, etc. Then she brought out a series of six foods for him to explore. I was desperately trying to hear everything that was going on from the playroom, but my daughter found her dancing, singing, Snoopy toy and played it on repeat. I think she knew I was up to something.

Then I heard him agree to taste a carrot stick. I could not believe it. He laughed with her that it was crunchy like a chip, but definitely not as tasty. He was charming and sweet. He was cooperative and playful. I was insanely proud of him.

He did not try the American cheese, granola bar, or orange juice. The one food that made him absolutely turn away from the table was ketchup. He wouldn’t even look at her when she brought that out. But he played along when she described it. He even got out of his chair and looked over her shoulder while she manipulated it with a spoon.

Then they were done. I swooped into the kitchen and listened to what they had discovered about the foods today. She told Joey that he did great. He got up from the table and said to her, “See you next week!” and bounced upstairs to play his (much deserved) video games.

That night when I put him to bed, I told Joey how proud of him I was. He said, “It was much better than I thought it was going to be.”

Me too kid, me too.

Read More:

Why Does it Bother Me So Much That My Daughter Loves Pink?

This Is the Hardest Thing for Me to Teach My Kids

I’m in the ‘Divorce Buffer’ Phase And It’s Actually Not That Bad

I was at the park recently with my 2-year-old. A mom, who I had never met before, strolled up with her baby. My daughter ran up and said, “Hi baby!” To make conversation, I asked how old he was. “He’s 1,” the mom said, “but he still isn’t walking.” I told her not to worry, my oldest didn’t walk until he was 16 months old. She seemed unhappy with that response and shortly after, she strolled away.

I didn’t take it personally. I know what it’s like to be hung up on a milestone, so obsessed with it that it’s all you think about. Nothing anyone says to you is helpful (so you think). I’ve felt that way about walking and talking with my oldest, potty training with my middle child, and now with picky eating and my toddler.

But here’s the difference: My 11 years of parenting (or 21, collectively, which sounds much more impressive) has taught me that kids will get there, on their own time, with help (and sometimes you have to call in a professional).

Let’s start with my first-born. He always had us guessing. He didn’t clap or point when he should have. He didn’t babble or talk. Every time we went for a check-up, I’d tell our pediatrician. Finally at 16 months, the doctor agreed that we should take him to be evaluated. By 18 months he qualified for three sessions of speech therapy per week. To say that his speech was delayed is an understatement. While all of my friends’ kids were talking up a storm, mine barely said anything at all. He showed unbelievable memory skills, which was fun to show off, but speech was still a really big deal.

It was all I thought about. People would always tell me stories about their brother/cousin/uncle who didn’t talk until he was 5. Inevitably people would tell me Einstein didn’t talk until he was 6. Not at all helpful.

When I would blow out the candles on my birthday cake, I’d wish for him to talk. I didn’t care about anything else. When he was 3, we had my second son. He was an easy baby, which was great, because my oldest still required a lot of therapy and went into a special needs preschool class.

And then, between 3.5 and 4, his speech exploded. He basically caught up to his peers. No one can really explain why. His speech therapists and teachers were stumped. He graduated from the special needs classroom and entered typical preschool.

When he was 7, he was asked to be on “The Today Show” to show off his knowledge of the presidents of the United States. Watching him be interviewed on live television was one of the proudest moments of my life. It’s also something I never would have believed was possible. I remember jumping up and down on bubble wrap with him and his therapist trying to get him to say the “P” sound. I often wondered if he’d ever talk. Now he was telling millions of people about FDR.

Then there was my middle guy. This sweet guy was the easiest baby ever. He nursed and slept like a champ. He was easy breezy. But when it was time to potty train him, it was like he was invaded by an alien from the planet Stubborn. I think he was 3.5 when we finally decided to go for it. He hadn’t showed any interest. Everyone in his class at school was trained. He didn’t care—AT ALL.

He’d go all day long holding it at school (even during nap). He refused to pee in the potty. Then he’d come home and refuse to go at home, and would eventually have an accident. This went on for weeks and months. I couldn’t take it anymore. I cried to my friends. I consulted every book I could get my hands on. Was this kid going to turn 4 and not be potty trained? I was obsessed. People would say to me, “He won’t go to college in his diapers,” or, “He won’t walk down the aisle in diapers.” Again—not helpful at all.

Finally, one day, after he had held it for eight hours at school, I went into the bathroom with him and said, “You aren’t leaving this bathroom until you pee in the potty.” I sat with him and books and toys and my iPad for three and a half hours. Finally he did it. The next day, the same thing happened. This time it took an hour. The third day we came home and went directly to the bathroom and he peed right away. You won’t read about that technique in a book. I don’t care. It worked for us.

Now I’m struggling with picky eating with my 2-year-old. She literally only wants to eat goldfish and crackers. This has been going on for way too long. My sweet girl, who never cried or threw a fit, is having meltdowns every single time I present her with regular food. She goes to bed without eating dinner most of the time.

She’s thriving and healthy and otherwise totally happy. But this time, I’m not going to freak out about it. I’m consulting with an occupational therapist who will guide us in the right direction. When I find myself frustrated and concerned, I remind myself of all of the milestones I never thought I’d see happen with my boys.

It’s hard to stay focused and positive, but I’m trying. I have a feeling a year from now things will be different. I am also fairly certain she won’t be eating goldfish and crackers at her wedding.

Read More: 

Opening Up About My Son’s Suicide

9 Surprising Women Who Are (Or Were Raised) Orthodox Jewish

Mayim Bialik: Common Myths About Orthodox Judaism–Debunked!

I met my friend Amanda at a birthday party. It was summertime and all of the moms (who happened to be Cross Fitters) were taking their babies in the pool. Amanda and I gravitated towards the playroom because we weren’t quite the Cross Fit type and we didn’t want to be seen in our bathing suits in public. We laughed about it (while stuffing our faces with cake pops) and started to play and talk.

We both had baby girls that were 1.5 years old. They played and we shared stories about their eating, sleeping, and milestones. It was then that I found out that Amanda was recently widowed. Her husband had died from colon cancer at age 31, leaving behind their 10-month-old daughter Mira.

I couldn’t believe it. How did she even have the strength to be at a birthday party? I was in awe. We exchanged social media info and became Facebook and Instagram friends before we left the party. We decided that we would get together with the girls soon.

So of course, I stalked her Instagram and found beautiful pictures of her husband Joe and their baby together. I read her blog (Cocktails and Chemo) which chronicled Joe’s illness and eventual passing. It was so beautiful. I cried and laughed while I read it.

Then I learned about her foundation. In between caring for her dying husband, working, and taking care of an infant, somehow Amanda found time to start a foundation dedicated to supporting cancer caregivers. She eventually had to quit her career in television journalism to care for Joe and Mira. She used that platform and her blog to start a national foundation. I was blown away by it all.

Very quickly our friendship blossomed into much more than I had anticipated. We talked daily, and our girls absolutely adored each other.

It’s been almost a year since we met, and in that time I’ve learned how hard it is to be a widow and a single mom and how strong you can be when you really have no other options. I’ve also picked up some advice about how friends of hers have really helped—what not to say and what really makes a difference:

1. When people say really stupid things. When we first started hanging out, I didn’t want to even say the word husband or refer to mine because I didn’t want to cause her one extra ounce of grief. I wanted to kick people when they complained about their husbands doing the laundry wrong in front of her. Over time I learned that she wasn’t quite as fragile as that, and she wanted to hear what was going on in my life.

When I hear about some of the things people say to her, sometimes I don’t even know how to respond. People have told her to clean out his closet, take down pictures of him, to date, not to date, and how no one will want to marry her if she has photos of Joe everywhere. She handles it all with grace and dignity. I want to punch all of those people.

The takeaway: Instead of offering unsolicited advice, just listen. As much as you might think you know what she’s going through, you have absolutely no idea. Just be supportive.

2. Being a single mom is no joke. There’s no break. She is the sole provider and caretaker for Mira. She makes the decisions (big and small) alone. No one is there in the middle of the night when Mira is sick or won’t sleep. When she wants to go out socially or for work, she has to get a sitter. She is potty training alone, doing the bedtime routine every night alone, and getting Mira ready for school every day alone. When I need a break from my kids, I can tap my husband in to do bath time or bedtime. She doesn’t have that, and it’s made me appreciate how fortunate I am.

The takeaway: Offer to babysit—even for an hour—so she can run to the post office without a toddler in tow. Come over to her house with dinner (and wine) and clean it up before you leave.

 3. Grief comes in waves and it’s intense. Sometimes I’m so caught up in how brilliantly Amanda handles everything that I forget she’s doing it while grieving. She and her husband didn’t get the life they planned. It was taken from them way too soon, and this life isn’t what she signed up for. She misses him. She grieves for the life they were supposed to have. Sometimes Amanda will bail on plans that we had, or forget them altogether. I’ve learned that this is common for grieving people and I get it. She never knows when it is going to hit her.

The takeaway: Be flexible and understanding. Also send friendly reminders and confirm times. Grief has a way of making your life unorganized. She is taking one day at a time, and even though she might have the best of intentions, sometimes it’s too overwhelming.

 4. Sometimes, you just need your mom and dad. Amanda recently decided to move to Indiana where she grew up and where her parents live. She and Joe had decided to make Orlando their home. They started a business here and made a beautiful life for themselves. Over the past year and a half Amanda has struggled between wanting to stay here, near her friends and Joe’s family, or moving home to have the support of her parents. I’m devastated to have her moving away, but I know it’s the right decision for her.

She recently came over and we talked about it a lot. On her way out the door she said “Do you think I’m a failure? Would you be moving home?”

I said, “Amanda, if I was you, I would have moved in with my parents a year ago.”

In the 18 months since Joe has died, Amanda has successfully moved to a beautiful neighborhood perfect for the two of them. She’s enrolled Mira in a part-time school that she loves. Her foundation has blossomed and has supported hundreds of cancer caregivers all over the country with spa days, gift cards, care packages, and moral support. She’s started a freelance writing career that gives her professional gratification and extra income. She’s won multiple awards for her foundation’s work. She’s inspired countless caregivers and widows with her poignant and honest blog and video entries. She wakes up every day with a positive attitude and a smile. Some days might be harder than others, but she is on a mission to live Joe’s legacy.

She isn’t a failure, she’s a rock star, and she’s my friend for life.

Read More:

Sheryl Sandberg Admits She Got It Wrong with ‘Lean In’

My Jewishness Is Not Defined by My Faith in God, But This Instead

Don’t Worry—All The Other Moms Are Faking It Too

For the past two years, my daughter and I have been taking Mommy and Me classes at the local JCC. We took art, music, and gardening. We loved all of it. We had fun and we made friends. It was fantastic.

Every week, I heard other moms talking about taking their kids to Shabbat service on Friday mornings. Not growing up with any religious practice, just the word Shabbat has always felt a little uncomfortable to me, so for the longest time I didn’t go. We made other plans on Friday mornings. But one day, at the beginning of the school year, a friend asked me to meet her there. I reluctantly agreed to go, assuming I’d feel uncomfortable and fake.

We spent 30 minutes singing “Bim Bam” and other adorable preschool Shabbat songs with the school. My daughter Billie LOVED it. I didn’t feel intimidated. This was a program for toddlers, after all. Sure, there was some Hebrew, but it was lovely. After the service, we went with a few other parents and kiddos to the family programming. It included story time, snack (challah of course), play time, and music time. None of this material was religious in nature. At the end of the 90 minutes of fun, we said the prayer, lit pretend candles, blessed the challah, and went home for a nap. It was fantastic! I promised Billie we’d go back the next week.

I wasn’t raised with any religion in my house. My parents are both Jewish, but we didn’t go to synagogue. I didn’t have a bat mitzvah. I’ve been happy my entire life being (what we referred to in my family growing up as) a culinary Jew. We grew up eating latkes and matzah ball soup. We ordered Chinese food on Christmas. Once in a while on Hanukkah, we lit a menorah. My dad exposed us to the great Jewish comedians—we traveled to whatever distant movie theater in central Florida was showing the latest Woody Allen movie. That was a cultural experience for us.

When I went to college, I was selected to attend the Birthright trip. It was really a fantastic experience. I knew almost nothing about Israel at the time. For the first time I felt a real connection with my people. As we were exposed to Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, and learned about Israel’s history, I slowly felt prouder of my heritage. On Friday nights, we did a small Shabbat service. The Hebrew parts of the service were a little intimidating, since I really hadn’t experienced anything like it before. The Shabbat elevators made no sense to me. I anxiously waited for Saturday night, so we could resume our regularly scheduled programming.

After graduation, I worked for Hillel at the University of Central Florida. I was the Program Director and it was my job to help students plan events for the year. I loved it. It was a great job. We planned holiday parties and social events. Part of that was planning Shabbat services. This was the one area where I felt uncomfortable. I felt like a fraud. I didn’t know the first thing about what was required or how to help the students. I leaned heavily on the student who volunteered for the job of coordinating services every Friday night. I followed her lead.

After my job with Hillel ended, I started a family. Since I married a non-Jew, we celebrate Hanukkah and Christmas. We have added latkes to the menu for Christmas dinner. Both families are happy with us. I think we are doing a pretty good job of blending our non-religious, cultural holidays together.

It’s been about eight months of regular Friday morning Shabbats, and now I’m getting ready to go back to work. As the weeks counted down, I got choked up every Friday morning. I loved hearing the kids sing and whisper. I loved the feeling of togetherness and love. I loved the sense of ending the week and starting new and fresh again.

I will miss lots of things about my time at home with my sweet girl. But the thing I will miss the most, without a doubt, is taking her to Shabbat every Friday morning. She’ll still be at the JCC and she’ll get to go. Once she’s used to school, and can tolerate me coming and going, there’s no doubt I’m coming to join her for the service. I’m thrilled that she won’t be as uncomfortable with Hebrew and Shabbat as I was growing up.

I might not unplug or go to synagogue every Saturday, and that’s OK. I don’t light candles or say a prayer. It doesn’t matter. I finally understand the meaning of Shabbat for me. It’s about taking the time to pause and reflect. It’s about joy and peace. It’s about connecting in some small way. It’s about love.

Read More: 

This Is What Breastfeeding & Working from Home Made Me Realize

That Time I Accidentally Starved My Baby

14 Things You Probably Didn’t Know About ‘The Ten Commandments’

I am extraordinarily lucky. My parents own a small business and I’ve been able to work for their magazine publishing company in between having children. A job is always available to me. With both of my boys (ages 11 and 8) I went back to work when they were about 18 months old. I hired a part-time nanny in my home, and enjoyed the freedom of working five hours per day while they played and napped comfortably in our house. When they were 3 years old, they went to school.

This time around, with my daughter, I had the luxury of staying home for two and a half years. We were connected at the hip. She was definitely 100% a Mommy’s girl. I couldn’t walk from the family room to the kitchen without hearing, “Mommy, where you going?” I loved our days together while the boys were at school. We had play dates, took classes and went to Shabbat on Friday mornings at the JCC, ran errands, and sometimes did nothing at all in our pajamas.

My parents started to make noise about me coming back to work, and I was starting to feel the itch to wear grown-up clothes and interact with adults all day. I decided that my daughter, Billie, would start preschool at the JCC where my boys had gone. But she was younger than they were when they started, and she had been with me for so long, that I worried about how she would react to being left there. Would she cry? Would she nap? Would she eat her lunch?

As the day approached for both of us to go to work and school, I started to get nervous. When I thought about her not being with me, I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was also terrified of how I would balance working, taking care of my three kids, and all of my other responsibilities. The day before she started, we visited her classroom. She was happy to play with toys while I dropped off her bedroll, changes of clothes, and diapers. I tried to tell her teachers everything I could think of: she’s a picky eater; she wakes up slowly; she has no interest in using the potty.

That night I hardly slept. I worked myself into a bit of a panic. I had already planned the conversation with my parents in my head that she just wasn’t ready to leave me and I would try again in a few months. I got her dressed. I got myself dressed. I packed her lunch and she proudly carried her backpack to my husband’s car. When the garage door closed, I cried. My husband called me about 20 minutes later to say Billie hadn’t cried—she just waved goodbye when he said he was going to work.

I got my act together and went to my first day at the office. I hadn’t worked there in almost three years. I obviously knew the staff and had an idea of what was going on with the magazines, but I hadn’t been in on the daily activities in quite some time. I spent the first day getting my computer set up, installing programs and email. I thought about my daughter a bunch, but I kept busy and just waited for the time I could go get her.

Then, something amazing happened. I got a text from her teacher! It was naptime and she sent me a photo of my little Billie Boo PASSED OUT on her bedroll. I jumped out of my chair and ran in to my mom’s office to show her the picture, then my dad’s office, and then to everyone else in my office. Then more pictures started coming in: she was splashing during water play, she was elbow deep in shaving cream, and she was eating a snack. I was elated, but as an experienced mom I knew that typically days two and three are harder, because kids know what is going on.

When I picked her up, she was happy to see me. Her teacher said she did great. She woke up crying from her nap, but they were able to calm her down. She even agreed to sit on the little potty for them. She didn’t really eat her lunch, and conned her way into a box of yogurt raisins. They said she just needed a few days to get used to their routine, but overall she had a great first day.

As the days went on, I braced myself for the eventual breakdown at drop-off time. It never happened. After a few days she got used to waking up there and to the routine. The teachers told me how amusing she was and how she kept them laughing all day. SHE EVEN STARTED USING THE POTTY!

I continued to go to work, a little less sad each day. Billie’s adjustment to school couldn’t have been easier. I started to wonder if she needed me nearly as much as I had thought.

About a week in, I got a call at lunchtime that she had a little fever. (Curse you, daycare germs!) I raced down to school to pick her up. On the way home, she told me she wanted to nap on me in her favorite blue rocking chair and not in her crib. I obliged and snuggled with her for her two-hour nap. I loved every minute of it. I guess she needs me after all… just as much as I need her.

Read More:

Five Things Not to Say When Someone is No Longer Expecting

Jewish Stillbirth and Neonatal Death

Sheryl Sandberg Discusses Women’s Silence in the Workplace

Every year my kids go to summer camp at the JCC in Orlando. For the past few years, the camp has had Israeli counselors that come to teach the kids Israeli culture. They stay with host families for the summer. I’ve met the girls before. They have always been lovely. But having one of them stay with us has never been on my radar.

About a month before camp started I got a call from a friend and super JCC volunteer named Tara. She asked if we had ever considered hosting a shlicha. I didn’t know what that word was. Once she explained that it meant one of these Israeli ambassadors who visit the camp, I started to panic. This sounded like the worst possible idea… ever. How on Earth was I going to get off the phone as soon as humanly possible?

The thought of having a stranger in my house for that long sounded awful. But every question I had, she had an answer to. We aren’t kosher. We don’t observe Shabbat. None of that mattered. She insisted that the girls come here to volunteer and have an American experience.

She told me that the girls stay with three different families for three weeks each. We’d only be responsible for feeding and housing her. She’d come to camp with my kids and come home when I pick her up. Tara (who has five kids) told me that every time they host, they never want the girls to leave. They form a great bond, and it’s another helping adult hand in the house. I told her I’d talk to my husband and kids and let her know. I got off the phone as quickly as I could.

Then I started to think about it. Three weeks isn’t so long. Maybe it would be cool to have her here. I would love for my kids to learn about Israel first hand. I have three kids, and I can always use an extra pair of hands. I talked to my husband about it. He thought it sounded cool. My 8-year-old, Aaron, was totally on board. My 11-year-old, Joey, had a lot of logistical questions. Where would she sleep? What would she do? How would this affect him? Could he still play Minecraft after camp?

We answered all of those questions. I texted Tara that we were in.

As the time for her to arrive approached, I got nervous. We don’t eat a lot of fancy dinners. There certainly aren’t as many vegetables on the table as there should be. When we have a sweet potato as a side dish, I’m a rock star. I was definitely going to have to step up my game. I worried about giving her the All-American experience. How would we entertain her? We were going to have her for her birthday and the Fourth of July. I wanted to make her time with us special.

We met Shir at a Shabbat dinner for all of the host families to meet the girls. They were lovely, but quiet. I sat next to Shir, and we talked about the kids, and what she wanted to do while she was here. I gave her my number at the end of the night, and told her we couldn’t wait to have her with us in a few weeks.

I picked her up from camp a few weeks later. By that time, my kids had already started to go to her for Israeli culture, so it was like having a celebrity in the house. The kids were excited. Joey made her a sign for her room, welcoming her. Aaron helped me set up the things on her bed that we bought for her. We had a lovely evening getting to know each other. My husband and I talked with her late into the night asking all kinds of questions about her family and the army.

The first few days were fine. She was an easy houseguest, and as it turned out, she eats even less vegetables than we do. Score! She started to bond with my 2-year-old, because basically Billie will play with anyone who gives her attention. The boys were slow to warm up, but they eventually did.

There’s a thing, though, about someone living with you. They see it all—the good, the bad, and the ugly. A few days into her stay, it was one of those days where each and every kid was having an issue. Joey had an incident with another camper and I had to sign a form. Aaron’s counselor told me he hadn’t been eating his lunch all summer. Billie (who was recently potty training) hadn’t quite made it to the bathroom in time. Let’s just say her teachers had to give her a bath and wash her hair.

This was also the one day per week that we have to rush home because we have tutoring and Occupational Therapy. On the way home the boys were fighting. Joey was mad that I took away electronics because of the incident at camp. When we got home the boys started physically fighting while trying to help me unload groceries (because you know it’s really important who carries the cookies into the house). While I broke up the fight I hit my head (HARD) on the door. I started to cry. I just lost it. Plus the tutor and therapist were coming to my house in just a few minutes.

Shir saw me in my moment, and quietly brought the baby into the kitchen with some puzzles while I sorted out the groceries, the boys, and greeted the tutor and therapist. She continued to play with Billie while I took a few moments to collect myself in my bedroom. She was as helpful and compassionate as she could be.

Luckily, that was the only really bad moment the entire time she was with us. The rest of the time was filled with really good memories. On twin day at camp, Joey had no one to be twins with, so Shir volunteered. She borrowed a shirt of mine and matched Joey. I cannot begin to tell you how much that was appreciated.

We introduced her to American donuts. She enjoyed July 4th festivities with us. We celebrated her birthday. I took her outlet shopping. We went out to see my brother play jazz for brunch. We took her to the beach. She had her first Slurpee on 7/11. She played board games (and attempted Minecraft) with the boys. Billie found out Shir had a stash of Israeli chocolate in her suitcase, and quickly made Shir’s room their favorite place to hang out.

Shir made us Israeli food to try. I can’t say shakshuka was a favorite of the kids, but they loved Bamba (a popular peanut butter flavored Israeli snack that I found to be disgusting). She also taught me a few fabulous Hebrew words including my favorite, which is essential when you have three kids you are trying to get out the door. Yalla means let’s go, c’mon already. I say it every day now, and so does Billie.

One day I took out my Birthright album to show her. There was a picture of me with the Mayor of Jerusalem circa 1998. She flipped out over a picture of me with Ehud Olmert. Turns out he became Prime Minister. I had no idea I had a picture with him. We had a good laugh about my selfie with the Prime Minister, way before selfies were even a thing.

It was like we had an older sister visiting from college. She quickly became a helpful, lovely part of our family. She laughed adoringly when the kids did funny things. She helped me wrangle them when I needed an extra pair of hands. She helped with the dishes. She was a gem.

After her three weeks were over, we had to hand her off to another family. While it is nice to just have the five of us together again, I can tell you that we’ll never forget our time with Shir. I look forward to corresponding with her and hearing about her adventures studying at Hebrew University. I hope we’ll see each other again in the near future. Maybe we’ll even take a trip to Israel one day. After all, they have plenty of Bamba there.

Read More:

Electroconvulsive Therapy Saved My Life & Helped Me Be Myself Again

How to Help a Parent Whose Child is Suffering From Mental Illness

The Childfree Life vs. The Childfull Life

About a year and a half ago, I wrote about the difficult decision to take our son out of public school and send him to a small, private school that could help him with some of his struggles (social skills and reading comprehension). Once we toured the school, I knew it would be so fantastic for him. He was nervous, but he agreed to shadow there for a day, and in the end, the mid-year transition was unbelievably smooth.

He finished out fourth grade and started his fifth grade year. He was doing very well. The school was a great fit for him. He had incredible relationships with some of his teachers, and was starting to build friendships at school. It also happened to be near my husband’s office and next door to the JCC where my daughter was going to start school the following year, which would make drop-offs and pick-ups much easier when she started school. We were certain (and told Joey repeatedly) that he would be at this school through middle school, and we’d decide what to do as far as high school in a few years.

Check this box. We were done with this decision for a while.

In the spring semester, a letter came home saying that this campus was going to be closing their doors. They hadn’t gotten the enrollment they had hoped for. Students would be accepted at the main campus (more than 30 minutes away and not near anything we ever drive to, ever.)

After I got over huffing and puffing and blowing up my friends’ phones, I regrouped. We signed him up to attend that far away campus because after all, this was what he needed, and I wasn’t going to let a few hundred hours of driving per year get in my way. OK, maybe I was still a little bitter.

Right before school ended a friend insisted that I check out a school about 15 minutes away. Even though I was certain about our choice, and was not going to even think about going back on the promise I had made to my son, I agreed to tour the school. IT.WAS.AMAZING! This school was like his current school, but on steroids. They had sports, music, drama, and Spanish. There was a full time guidance counselor and nurse. They had a library. There were so many things I hadn’t even considered that he was missing out on where he currently was. I immediately filled out all of the paperwork and signed him up for a shadow day. But I knew I’d get resistance from him.

At dinner my husband and I casually mentioned the name of the school. He had heard of it because a few of the kids at his current school had left to attend the one we were now considering. We explained about the campus closing, and told him that we wanted him to go shadow for a day, just to see what he thought. Holding back tears, he suggested that we revisit it after one year at the new campus. Eventually he agreed to go and check it out.

He shadowed for a day, and thanks to the God of fortunate timing, it was Pizza Hut Wednesday. Pizza Hut is his favorite food group. He saw a few old familiar faces at school, and liked the campus. He agreed, as did we, that this was a good fit for him.

As the summer started to wind down, he started to show some signs of the anxiety he struggles with. He had a lot of headaches, and was frequently nauseous. He had trouble sleeping. He wasn’t eating much, and whenever we had to do anything related to school (supply shopping, uniforms, etc.) he wanted nothing to do with it.

The morning of the Meet the Teachers event at the new school, Joey was a wreck. He had a headache and stomachache. He was emotional. He really didn’t want to go. But we went.

Then I received the best early birthday present I could have asked for. We looked at his schedule and saw some familiar names. Some of his beloved teachers, who had lost jobs when his campus closed, were now teaching at this school and he was in some of their classes! Not only that, but probably a dozen or more kids that he went to the old school with started to appear. One after another he shyly turned to me and pointed to a kid telling me who they were with a little smile.

When we visited the classrooms of his previous teachers, I saw that fantastic wide smile that the pre-teen doesn’t nearly show me enough of. The teachers were as happy to see him as he was to see them. One of them even joked, “I told them I’d take this job only if I could have you in my class!” I think he believed her, and that’s just fine with me.

He started school the following Monday. When I picked him up, he told me about more of the friends he had run into at school, and how he had lunch with a few of them. He told me if he had to rate the day, he’d give in a nine out of ten. I promised him that this would be THE ONLY school he attended for middle school. The school has been around since 1972 and has a stellar reputation. It isn’t going anywhere, and neither are we.

Read More:

9 Things You Didn’t Know About Aly Raisman, USA Olympic Gymnastics Captain

Yes, I’m a Democrat Married to a Republican

This ‘Yo B*tch’ Rule is the Only Trick You Need to Teaching Your Kids Manners

School is back in session, which means all of the activities that go along with it are back in full swing—sports, cheerleading, dance, scouts. You name it, kids are doing it. I’m all for it. What I have a problem with, though, is when I’m asked to pay for someone else’s kid to participate.

Now look, I’m not a jerk. There are charities for kids whose parents cannot afford to pay for them to participate in organized activities. That’s fantastic. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about fundraisers.

There are two kinds of fundraisers that I don’t like. The first one is when the school wants you to sell things to your friends and family. It’s usually overpriced junk, and I will not let my kids ask everyone they know to buy it. We write a check to the school, so that they get 100% of the money. My kids aren’t necessarily happy about this, since they don’t get the rewards for hitting fundraising levels. Every year I explain to them how ridiculous it is that selling $150 worth of junk gets them a frisbee. The worst is those ridiculous plastic penguins (or whatever the animal of the year is) that the school passes out for the kids to wear on display as they hit the fundraising levels.

This year, when my son’s boy scout troop sold coupon cards, he asked his grandparents and aunts/uncles to buy them. We bought the rest and gave them away. He’s not going door-to-door asking people to give him their hard earned money. We chose for him to participate in boy scouts, no one else should have to pay for that.

While these fundraisers aren’t the best, at least the kids are selling something, or making some kind of effort. I know that schools need money, and most parents can’t be counted on to give a flat donation. Fundraisers work, and while I don’t have to like it, they are a part of life.

The fundraising I absolutely cannot handle is kids (and their parents) asking for handouts. Like when I go grocery shopping and come outside to kids in cheerleading uniforms or baseball jerseys asking for a donation so that they can go to some tournament. They aren’t even doing anything. They are basically panhandling, and I think it sends an awful message.

It’s the society we live in now. With websites like GoFundMe.com, parents feel like they can ask for money for anything. I’ve seen parents request money for their kids’ team trip to attend a tournament, or even to fund a birthday party. Recently a friend posted a GoFundMe page so she could get money to take her daughter to tour the University of Hawaii.

If your team is lucky enough to be selected for some tournament, and you can’t afford it, teach them how to earn the money. They can mow lawns or babysit. They can have a car wash or a bake sale.

Last year I drove by a bunch of kids and their parents who had organized a car wash for their football team. My kids and I had some time to kill, so we brought the car in. The car wash was organized and well attended. It looked like the entire team was there and working hard. I was so impressed. I gave them a $20 bill. The parents and kids were grateful. I felt good.

To expect strangers to hand over money, and doing nothing in return for it, is wrong. It’s begging. It shouldn’t be allowed. If your kids want to sell me something, please tell them that I have three of my own kids to pay for. I am not interested in buying wrapping paper or cookie dough. I don’t want a $20 coupon card. My kids won’t be asking you, so kindly return the favor.

Well, except for girl scouts selling cookies. They can always ring my doorbell.

Read More:

3 Ways to Handle Your Toddler’s ‘Why Phase’

Mayim Bialik: Why I Refuse to Get My Kids Smartphones

Quiz: Which Celebrity Jewish Mother Are You?

Parenting is by far the most challenging thing I will ever do. Parenting a child with special needs takes that challenge to a whole new level. I will basically talk to anyone who will listen about my kids. I want to learn from other parents. I want to help them in any way I can. I’m a talker. I’m a sharer. It’s benefited me (and therefore my children) in many ways. Often times I get a phone call from a friend who has a friend with a kid “just like yours” who could use some advice. I’ve fielded many calls about IEP meetings, scholarships, special schools, doctors. You name it—I’ve recommended it.

One day it hit me to bring the discussion to Facebook in a private way. I have often felt so alone trying to make the best decisions for my kids; I couldn’t imagine how the more private people must feel. One night I started a private group called “Special Moms with Special Kids.” In the description I put, “This is a group for amazing moms just trying to do the best we can for our kids with special needs.” I added a few of my friends to the group. Almost immediately the conversations started. People were introducing themselves and their special needs children. The kiddos ranged from ADHD and autism to Down syndrome and cerebral palsy. This wasn’t a place to talk about those disorders—it was a place for moms to vent, get advice, and not feel so alone.

What surprised me the most were the Facebook friends of mine who joined the group who I thought didn’t have children with any issues at all. I was wrong. Dozens of people I knew asked to join the group to talk about their child on the autism spectrum or on ADHD medication. I had never heard them mention a word about it before. They are obviously more private than me, and must have felt so alone.

Within two weeks, we had more than 80 active members and the conversations were great. I made it clear that everything said in the group would stay private and confidential. Everyone was so encouraging. When someone would post a question about a medication or a doctor’s visit, other moms chimed in with advice. We prepped each other for dreaded IEP meetings. We encouraged each other when someone was having a bad day.

The best thing happened when someone posted about having trouble getting their child with sensory issues to sleep. My friend Audrey posted about how she had recently made a sheet she described as “Spanx for your bed” for her son with sensory issues. He was able to slide in between the fitted sheet and the sensory sheet. The snugness helped him fall asleep and stay asleep. It was magic. Instantly moms started asking Audrey to make one for them. She added the link to her Etsy shop and started selling them at her cost to help as many families as she could. All because of a Facebook group.

Now, when one of us is having a bad day or needs some shoulders to cry on, we have each other. This special group of moms (some of us friends, some of us strangers) has become therapy for each other. Every few days someone thanks me for adding them to the group and tells me how helpful it has been to not feel all alone. I’m thrilled that they feel that way, and I hope that the group continues to grow and thrive. I may have started the group to help others, but it ended up helping me more than I ever could have imagined.

If you have a special needs child and could use some support and advice from moms who have been there, join us.

Read More:

Genetic Testing of Embryos Raises Big Ethical Questions

Mayim Bialik: There’s No Reason You Shouldn’t Get Screened for Jewish Genetic Diseases

My 7th Time Giving Birth & Everything Was Different

If you have ever purchased a present for my children or me, I have two words for you: thank you. You haven’t just heard me say those words, you’ve read them in a handwritten thank you note. My mother taught me the importance of writing thank you notes when I was young. She walked me through the process every time I received a gift, until eventually I was able to complete them on my own.

All three of my kids just had birthdays, so it’s been a thank you note factory over here. I’ve been writing them, and so have my boys. But recently I overheard a conversation at a birthday party that stopped me in my tracks. The mom hosting the party and another guest laughed as they wrote down who had given which gift, as if they were ever going to write thank you notes. “Some people even send them in the mail!” they mocked. I couldn’t believe my ears.

My children (ages 12, 9, and 3) have been participating in thank you note writing since they were able to. When they were young, obviously I wrote the notes for them. As they got older, they’d dictate the notes to me and sign their names. Now the older two boys (much to their dismay) hand write each note. They each have their own style. One sits down and gets them all done in one shot. The other writes two notes per day, every day, until finally the blasted things are done. I don’t care, as long as they get written. I’m writing the notes for my 3-year-old and look forward to teaching her how to do them herself.

When someone takes the time to buy or make you a gift, it is the very least you can do to take a few moments to send them a note of thanks. I’ve noticed lately that many of the gifts I send go unacknowledged. I do not accept email or text thank-yous to be anywhere close to the gesture of a written note. I think that thank you note writing is becoming less of a must-do and more of a bonus. And I don’t like it at all. It’s not decent, and it’s not right.

I understand that large occasions like weddings or baby showers require dozens and dozens of notes. It is daunting to look at your list. It can be very time consuming. Now there are websites that do all of the work for you. Recently I received a personalized thank you note from a wedding with a photo of my husband and me with the bride and groom. The bride had written the note online and it was sent directly to my house. It was personal and I loved it. I would have loved this service 15 years ago when I got married.

One year for my son’s birthday, I wrote down who had sent which gift on a piece of paper that must have gotten tossed with the wrapping paper. I felt just horrible. I did the best I could but eventually resorted to emailing the moms I knew, explaining what had happened and asking for forgiveness. Any of them who know me know that I pride myself on my punctual, personal notes. It’s the thought that counts. Now I’ve learned to take the notes of who bought which gift on my phone so that I can’t lose them.

I’ll continue to send handwritten notes as long as there is a USPS to deliver them. So will my children. It’s basic common courtesy to thank someone for a gift, no matter the cost. I hope that the torture I’m imposing on my children now will one day be worth it. One day, as adults, they’ll get a gift and they’ll know exactly how to show their gratitude. They’ll be grateful and polite, and they’ll know exactly who to thank for it.

Read More:

Genetic Testing of Embryos Raises Big Ethical Questions

Mayim Bialik: There’s No Reason You Shouldn’t Get Screened for Jewish Genetic Diseases

My 7th Time Giving Birth & Everything Was Different