“Star Wars” wasn’t on my radar (I was more of a “Star Trek” fan) until I started dating my now husband in college. He was delighted to be the first person to show me the original movies. We saw each of the prequels in the theater. As any true fan will tell you, they were pretty disappointing. It didn’t matter—we saw them all when they were released. As I learned from him, “Star Wars” fans don’t mess around.

When my children (now ages 12, 9, and 3) were born, one by one they were indoctrinated into the “Star Wars” universe-dressing as characters for Halloween or learning their colors and letters from “Star Wars” themed books. My husband showed them the movies, as he felt they were appropriate. As the kids grew older, their interest in the series intensified.

We even had the opportunity to take them to the “Star Wars” Celebration in 2012, which was held in our hometown of Orlando. They were four and seven, and we had the best time. My oldest got selected to train to be a Jedi on stage. My 4-year-old cried with disappointment the entire time his brother was on stage fighting Darth Vader.

The boys got a huge thrill out of seeing the newest movies on opening night while their sister, just a baby, was home with the grandparents. Even though they were school nights, we took them anyway, because we knew they would remember it always.

This year, much to everyone’s delight, the “Star Wars” celebration was held again in Orlando. The boys were excited. Since this is a massive convention with tens of thousands of people, we never even considered taking my daughter with us–we assumed it would be a “just the boys” kind of excursion, one of many we’d had during my daughter’s infant and toddler years.

We’ve experienced the extensive waits to get in. The parking is always insane. She’d be miserable, and we’d be miserable too. Everyone got the memo except for her. As she saw us getting ready for the “Star Wars” day, and we attempted to pump her up about a special morning with her beloved grandparents, she turned to me and said, “I want to go with you. I love you.”

While I was tempted to answer “I know”—instead, I turned to my husband. Was she ready? Were we? We checked online to make sure she didn’t need a ticket, and made the decision to take her. What’s the worst that could happen? I gave her the good news. She was elated. We got her dressed in her Rey costume. As I buckled her car seat she said “Mommy, I’m so happy to be going with you guys to “‘Star Wars.'”

How could we have ever considered leaving her at home? She is a baby is no more. She’s a little girl now. Shame on me for not noticing. I’m so glad she filled me in on the development, because that girl had the time of her life.

For hours we made our way through the convention floor. She posed with her brothers for tons of photo-ops. She played with Legos. She high-fived Chewbacca. She rode on speeders. That girl owned the floor. She even showed up onto the livestream of the event, happily pounding on her Daddy’s head as she sat on his shoulders.

We made our way to the stage where a few lucky kids would be selected to participate in Jedi training and fight Darth Vader. I had a lump in my throat as the very same actor who had led the training before came onto the stage. He started selecting kids. He was filling up the spots pretty quickly. As he came towards my son, I repeated in my head, “Please choose Aaron, please choose Aaron.” It worked! Five years after he had cried on the floor of the same convention center, Aaron finally got his chance. He told us it was worth the wait.

My daughter declared that it was now her turn.

It appears that we will be attending the “Star Wars” Celebration the next time it comes to Orlando. Will we get so lucky a third time? Impossible to see, the future is.

After hours on the floor, my boys declared they were done. We agreed it was time to leave. Only one of us didn’t get that memo again: my daughter.

“I’m not done,” she declared. “I want to see more “Star Wars”.”

Whenever I think about my little girl, I’ll remember the day she informed me that she wasn’t a baby anymore. I’ll be thankful that we listened, because the “Star Wars” Celebration was one of the first of many geeky adventures for our family of five. I will never again judge her by her size. Much to learn, I still have. OK, OK, I’m done. May the force be with you all.

What’s the difference between a Jewish Mother and a Rottweiler?
Eventually the Rottweiler lets go!

Tee hee.

Let’s face it, Jewish moms have quite a few stereotypes to live up to, or live down. Apparently, we’re overprotective, we’re emotional, and we’re affectionate to the point of smothering.

These stereotypes have been all over TV and in movies: think “The Big Bang Theory,” “Saturday Night Live,” and “The Goldbergs,” to name a few. But these examples are funny, because they’re all done in a tongue-in-cheek, loving way—and they’re relatable. Usually the act

ors, or at least the writers, are Jewish.

I don’t really get offended by these portrayals, because being a Jewish mom is a broad spectrum that encompasses so many ways of caring. I know Jewish moms that are overprotective and some who encourage independence. I know some who smother with hugs and kisses and some who aren’t as affectionate. Bottom line, they all love their children and parent them in their own loving way. So I’m always up for a little Jewish mom humor.

That’s why I took a break from washing and folding the 200 pool towels I seem to have accumulated this summer to click on a link I saw in a Jewish Moms Facebook group. Someone had posted an article with a cartoon about Jewish parents–titled the “10 Parental Rules that turn Jewish Kids into Geniuses.” I clicked on it, expecting to be amused by jokes about hovering moms who forced their kids to study, and so forth. Instead, what I found was a list of inaccurate, offensive “rules” that made me really uncomfortable.

For starters, it insinuated that Jewish moms were better than non-Jewish moms because we let our kids get dirty, encourage independence, and don’t allow poor behavior–as if to say that basic manners and promoting healthy development are concepts non-Jewish parents know nothing about. This is equally insulting to everyone involved.

The article says, “Many mothers dream of a genius child. But despite all the tips and tricks on children’s upbringing, there is no definite rulebook on how to raise one. Jewish mothers, on the other hand, do not have to resort to psychology articles and parental forums, and their kids often turn out to be little geniuses.”

Then I really started to wonder: Who wrote this dreck?

Brightside.me claims they want to make the world a better place, one internet article at a time: “We always check to make sure our facts are straight; our sources are reliable and respectable. Everything we produce is made with attention and care. We only ever share with you the things which made us laugh, inspired us or touched our hearts. Everything we offer you is done with sincerity—we couldn’t do it any other way.”

Really?

Either they thought this was factually correct or they thought it was funny. I can’t decide which is worse.

Whether intended as humor or truth, it’s problematic stereotyping being perpetuated on the internet—and while that’s not a rare thing these days, it doesn’t make it right. And the comments are something else entirely, reaching an absurd new low. Some people actually believed this nonsense, even thanking Brightside for sharing it. Others, of course, blamed Jews for thinking they were better than everyone else—and chose hateful ways to express this. A few called it propaganda. The rest chimed in with what they think Jewish parents really are like.

It’s irresponsible. It’s factually incorrect. It’s insulting.

We have enough divisiveness and anti-Semitism in the world right now; let’s not perpetuate it with this drivel. If you see something like it, don’t share it. Instead, write to the publisher and ask them to take it down, or think twice before running anything of its ilk again.

I know how to stand up for myself, it’s a quality my Jewish parents taught me. It’s also a quality my non-Jewish friends have. Imagine that!

We lived (in Florida) through Hurricane Irma- the largest storm ever recorded in the Atlantic Ocean. The power outage led to the one of the greatest recovery efforts due to a natural disaster in history.
So many people lost so much, and I cannot imagine what they are going through right now. My family was fortunate enough to have only minor damage to our home—but we still went through an ordeal.

It has been one week since the storm hit, and it that time I’ve learned a lot. Here are the 10 lessons I learned during the storm and our subsequent escape to Disney World: the good, bad, and the ugly.

Do not underestimate how scared you can be during a storm, in the dark. I live in Orlando. On Sunday night, when the storm started coming and the power went out (for us around 9 p.m.) we had been told the eye of the storm was going to go up the west coast of Florida. Due to the size of the storm, we would definitely be affected no matter where it went. People from south Florida and Tampa came to our city for safety. Hurricanes are terribly unpredictable—and at the last minute the storm came north (rather than west.) We were in the dark, literally and figuratively. We had no idea what was going on. All we could hear, while all three of my kids slept on the floor of our room, was howling winds like I’d never heard before. It was pitch black outside and in the house. Tornado warnings kept going off on our phones. I didn’t sleep for one minute. It was absolutely terrifying. I’ve lived through several hurricanes—this wasn’t like any of those.

When the power goes out with kids, it really sucks. When everyone woke up in the morning, we waited for the storm to end, and we went outside and met our neighbors to assess the damage. We had roof damage and a leaky roof, the balcony had fallen from the second floor, and debris was everywhere, but the house was fine. Trees were down everywhere, and the street to enter our neighborhood was flooded. Once the kids finished exploring, we fed them granola bars and muffins and things we had bought in preparation for the power outage. Then the house started to get hot—really, really hot—like September in Florida hot— and I wanted to leave. We picked up my parents, found one of a few open restaurants, and when we returned home and tried to get ready for bed, we realized there was no way we could sleep without air conditioning. Thankfully my aunt had gotten her power back already, so we packed a bag and took the kids there for the night.

Having a kid with special needs during a hurricane makes life exponentially more challenging. My son, who has high-functioning autism and general anxiety disorder, was not handling all of this very well. School was cancelled, the house had no power, and his routine was disrupted. No matter how many times we talked about it beforehand, I don’t think he understood the scope of what we were preparing for. He really just wanted to be left alone in his hot room until the power was back on. We had no idea when that was going to happen, which is another challenge for a kid who needs as much information as possible. We had to do something to distract him, and fast.

Cancelled school for a week means things are bad, and aren’t getting better. During the day on Tuesday, while I was enjoying the sweet air conditioning and company of a friend who invited us for an impromptu play date, I got an automated call that our schools would be closed for the rest of the week. At that point I got the feeling that the school board knew something we didn’t: Power wasn’t coming back for a while and we needed a new plan.

Disney World is in fact the happiest place on Earth. After searching high and low nearby, there were no hotels available. I did a Hail Mary and called Disney and was able to book a hotel for that night— so I did. We ran home and packed two days’ worth of clothes in duffel bags in the dark with flashlights (picture what it would feel like to loot your own home.) We checked into our hotel with many other hurricane evacuees, and while waiting on the LONG line (at 9:30 at night) I saw the famous Disney buttons that they give you if you are celebrating a birthday or a special occasion. I joked with the woman next to me in line that they should give us buttons that said we were celebrating surviving Hurricane Irma and enjoying hot showers and air conditioning. When I got to the desk, the employee had heard me, and had buttons made up for me. He had obviously been working insanely hard for God knows how many hours, and still managed to work that Disney charm to make me smile.

When my daughter told Cinderella that the lights at our house were out, Cinderella told us to “stay in the castle as long as you’d like.”

No matter how old you are, asking your Dad to bring you tampons is awkward. After two days of our stay at Disney, we still didn’t have power at home, and we needed to extend our stay. Our supplies were running low, so my parents (who had evacuated to my aunt’s house) offered to pack us a suitcase and send it with a friend who was also jumping on the “no power-come-to-Disney” bandwagon.

My Dad entered my hot, dark house and FaceTimed me while I told him what to put into a suitcase. After he packed my kids’ things, I directed him to our bedroom. I knew what was coming, and I just had to power through. I said, “In the closet please grab a few T-shirts for me and John, a baseball cap from the shelf, and please grab the box of tampons near the toilet and throw them in the suitcase.” I thought maybe bunching it in with a few other things would be less awkward. Bless his sweet heart, he did as he was told and showed me the box of tampons up on my screen to confirm that was what I needed. “Yep, that’s them” I replied. But it was going to get worse:  “Dad, please grab a few pairs of socks and underwear for John and then grab a few pairs of underwear in my drawer—whatever you grab is fine and throw them in the suitcase.” He then proceeded to show me my own underwear over FaceTime, accidentally grabbing a bra along the way: “It’s fine Dad—just throw them in there,” I said. “Honestly, whatever you grab is fine.” No matter how many times he tried to confirm that what he was packing was correct, I just kept saying: “That’s fine, just put them in there.” I just wanted it to be over.

Distraction is the best medicine sometimes. We visited the Magic Kingdom, Epcot, the pool at our hotel, the arcade, and Disney Springs: anything we could do to keep the kids occupied. My super anxious kid, who had been ready to lock himself in his room, started to forget that his world was upside down. He welcomed the distraction. He still asked several times a day if the power was on yet. He also wished everything could go back to normal. But…he held it together.

You can be grateful for what you have, and really ticked off at the same time. Somewhere around Day 3 of our new gypsy life, I started to get cranky. So many of my friends had posted on Facebook how happy they were to have power back. I knew how many thousands of lives were devastated (especially in the Caribbean) and I realized how lucky we were that our major issue was losing electricity, but I just wanted normal life back. I recognized how lucky I was that we were able to be at Disney World, but I didn’t want to be there. You can have all of these feelings at the same time. It doesn’t make you a bad person.

You can prepare for a hurricane without freaking out. In Florida, hurricanes are a fact of life. When I was pregnant with my first son we saw three hurricanes rip through central Florida in a matter of a few weeks. Each time people panicked, there was no food or water to be found, and gasoline was impossible to find. As Irma approached, it became clear that due to her size, we were going to be impacted. I bought water and dry goods, I filled up my car with gas, and urged my husband to start to panic a little bit with me. He wouldn’t. He was born in Florida, and he knows that there’s no predicting a hurricane, and he knew that he could do all of the prep he needed the day before the storm. While the rest of Florida collectively freaked out, he calmly filled our propane tanks, cleared the yard, and secured our patio furniture. As much as it pains me to say it, he was right. Absolutely nothing would have changed if he had freaked out.

Never underestimate the kindness of strangers. I’ve never seen such an outpouring of kindness and generosity—neighbors helping each other, residents bringing power linemen food and drinks after days and days of hard work, businesses opening their doors offering relief from the heat, food, and water. My social media feed, which had recently been filled with constant hurricane updates, was now filled with story after story of people helping each other.

Four days after the power went out, we got the call from our neighbors that the lights were back on. Our kids were thrilled to come home. We packed our hotel room up as quickly as possible and headed home at 9 p.m., just so that we could sleep in our own beds.

The next morning, my son curled up on the couch with his favorite blanket to watch a movie. He turned to me and said, “I’m so happy.” Me too kid, me too.

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.

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The post The Old-Fashioned Rule I Torture My Kids With appeared first on Kveller.

If there is a picture that can tell a thousand words, it is this one.

The average observer would think that the above photo is just a beautiful picture of three siblings that captures a funny moment. While that may be true, the actual story is much more profound and spans several years.

My 12-year-old, Joey, never seemed to like family photo shoots. In fact, some of his very worst behavior (and meltdowns) happened during our sessions with photographers. I never understood it, and it frustrated my husband and me to no end. Pretty much every time we attempted to take photos as a family, it ended in tears (Joey’s and mine).

The first time I can recall it being a major issue was when my daughter was born. We attempted a newborn shoot with the five of us. Joey, who was recently diagnosed with Asperger’s, was already under incredible stress with the addition to our family. He was totally uncooperative at the photo shoot. Whenever the lovely photographer tried to ask him to change positions, he would flail his arms and overreact, as if he had been physically hurt. It was insanely infuriating. The newborn was cooperating. The 6-year-old was cooperating. Why couldn’t the 9-year-old? It ended with Joey crying and any chance of happy big brother photos totally gone.

The pattern continued for every photo shoot we had for the following three years. I tried everything and despite his promises, the shoots were just too overwhelming for Joey.

The past two years, our family friend Summer has been taking our photos. She has twins on the spectrum, and she did her very best to work with Joey. She let him take the lead and make some decisions about where he would stand. She was as patient as can be. We even agreed to do a Star Wars themed photo shoot at Disney last year to try and make it as enjoyable for Joey as possible.

It didn’t matter–he was miserable, and he let everyone know it. Summer did her very best to composite a family photo together. We ended up with some decent shots, but none of them captured the sweetness of Joey the way I wanted all of my kiddos captured in photographs. He just didn’t allow it.

This year Joey was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. The psychiatrist explained that while it appeared that in certain situations Joey was behaving poorly, what that really was, was anxiety coming out. He couldn’t control it. She suggested that we try some medications along with Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to help him cope with the anxiety.

Within a few weeks of starting him on medication, we saw a HUGE change. He was happier, more relaxed, and more himself. The anxiety seemed to be less all across the board. He wasn’t cripplingly worried about being late to school anymore. He wasn’t crying about getting to bed on time and getting enough sleep. He didn’t freak out when I made small talk with “strangers” at the grocery store. The big test would be our holiday photo shoot.

Summer and I had a chat about it, and decided to keep the vibe as calm as possible. I told Joey that the photo shoot would take about 30 minutes. I asked him to please listen to Summer’s direction and cooperate. This time we were dealing with a 3-year-old sister, and I needed her to follow his lead.

Not only did he cooperate, he was a rock star. Summer got the most beautiful shots of him. But this one, where Summer told them a knock-knock joke, says it all. The pure happiness and unfiltered joy on his face is priceless. This photo will always be a reminder to me of how we unlocked the happiness in Joey. I was worried if we started him on medication that it could change him, or take away his personality. This medication has given us more of him. It’s given him a break from crippling anxiety. It’s given all of us a glimpse into what his future can be, and that future looks picture perfect.

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The post The Profound Story Behind This Simple Sibling Photo appeared first on Kveller.

When I was a little girl, and my dad would tuck me into bed, I always begged for the same story. “Daddy, tell me again about the time you snuck into the back door at Carnegie Hall and watched Frank Sinatra from the side of the stage, pleeeeease.”

Not your typical bedtime story, but my dad isn’t the typical dad. He’s always been passionate about music, specifically jazz and Frank Sinatra. Whenever Frank Sinatra was in concert anywhere in the state of Florida, my parents brought my brother and me to see him. It didn’t matter if it was a school night, or three hours away. He is always up for an adventure, and he comes by it honestly.

His father, who passed away decades before I was born, was famous for jumping in the car with the family with no destination in mind, often ending up in the most fantastic places. Whenever Easter time comes around, my dad tells the story of how my grandfather gathered the family in the car Easter Sunday of 1963. They drove north from Miami and ended up at the Kennedy Compound in Palm Beach. They saw JFK and his family exiting their home, heading toward a limo. While Jackie and the kids entered the car, JFK made his way to the crowd and greeted the waiting crowd with his signature Bostonian accent, “Happy Eash-tah, Happy Eash-tah.” My dad clearly remembers seeing JFK larger than life right in front of him. We still playfully imitate JFK every Easter Sunday. It’s become a part of our family vernacular.

When my dad was 3, his parents decided they should drive from Brooklyn to Washington DC to the White House for Easter. (I’m beginning to think they were just bored Jews on Easter.) Anyway, they found themselves on the lawn for the official Easter Egg Hunt with Eisenhower himself.

I had always heard this story, and my dad vaguely remembered a photo of him and Ike in a newspaper. So recently, when I found out my neighbor was traveling to work on a construction job at the Eisenhower library in Kansas, I spoke with him about it, and he put us in touch with an archivist at the library. She sent us some photos from the Easter Egg Hunt in 1953. She agreed it was a long shot, but was happy to send us what she could find. When they came in the mail, my dad scoured over the huge crowd shots. After looking at them several times, he was delighted to find his parents in the center of a huge crowd surrounding Eisenhower himself. He even noticed his father was holding him up to be able to see the president. We could see the back of my dad’s little 3-year-old head.

This unexpected photo treasure was a great reminder to me. I have three kids. I am a stickler for our routine. I really don’t like for my kids to miss school for anything other than illness. I don’t even like for my 3-year-old to miss her nap. However, I really do try to throw in a bit of spontaneity and fun when I can.

Our family went to Star Wars 7 on opening night, even though it was a school night. My kids will never forget that. I took my 3-year-old to see Sesame Street Live last week even though I knew we’d get home well after her bedtime.

I’m trying. It’s a start. Elmo isn’t quite JFK. The movie theater doesn’t really equal The White House. But that’s OK, I still have five months until Easter. I’ve got to come up with something better by then. If not, I know who to call—my dad. He’ll think of something.

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The post How An Old Photo of My Dad Meeting Eisenhower Inspired Me to Parent Differently appeared first on Kveller.

Two out of my three kids are picky eaters. The middle kiddo, who is 9, will take at least a bite of most things that we ask him to try. He prides himself on being our adventurous eater. My 3-year-old is a typical picky toddler. She eats PB&J, chicken nuggets, bananas, goldfish crackers–the usual. I’m not worried about her. She’ll come around. But my oldest, my 12-year-old…that’s another story.

He’s always been a picky eater. He always preferred to have the same lunch made for him to take to school every day. I always assumed the eating issues were related to his being on the spectrum. For several months we worked with an occupational therapist to try and expand his palate. She used a gentle food desensitization approach. He was receptive to the hour-long sessions, but after months of him just sitting through the therapy and not showing any intention of adding any foods to his diet, we decided to put that intervention on hold and focus on the pressing issue, his anxiety.

After he was diagnosed with GAD (generalized anxiety disorder) earlier this year, we started him on a medication that has made a world of difference to him and our family as a whole. The stress level of our daily routine went from me thinking we needed a behavior therapist to no intervention needed. Family outings that were once extremely difficult are as easy as they’ve ever been. My husband and I marvel at the difference every single day. Our son is more relaxed and happier, acting out much less because of it.

But there’s one problem: his already poor appetite was decreased on the medication, and he started losing weight. Our psychiatrist weighs him at every visit and told us that he had lost two pounds on his last visit. That is a lot of weight to lose when you consider that he’s 12 and weighed 65 pounds to begin with. She said that if he lost any more weight the following month, she would have to take him off of the medication.

At that appointment, the doctor and I decided to focus on explaining to Joey how important it was that he start adding fattier foods to his diet and eating even when he might not be hungry. He was extremely resistant. He cried a lot and asked to take at least two bathroom breaks during the session. During one of those breaks, the psychiatrist took that time to tell me that she was officially diagnosing him with an eating disorder. Obviously I had heard of anorexia and bulimia, but this one was new to me. She said it was called ARFID (avoidant and restrictive food intake disorder). I was floored.

When he returned from the restroom, he tearfully agreed to try and add some foods to his diet–vanilla ice cream and string cheese were the only two foods we could get him to agree to add. We went to the store and I let him pick out any ice cream treat he would agree to eat. For a few days, he would agree to eat one, but was never able to finish it. He would always leave one bite behind. I decided that this was a good start, but that it just wasn’t going to be enough to get the weight gain moving in the right direction. I called our pediatrician, who recommended that we get him drinking nutritional shakes. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

My husband and I sat down with him to discuss it. He was resistant, but eventually agreed that he knew he had to do it, and would do his best. The first night was incredibly difficult for him. He barely sipped through the straw and cried a lot. He maybe drank a third of a shake and it took all night. The second night my husband took him into our office and shut the door. My husband told him that he wouldn’t be able to move on with his night until half a bottle was gone. They watched videos and hung out together. Two hours, and a few tears later, they emerged victorious. The next night it took 30 minutes. We are moving in the right direction and hope to get him up to two bottles per day. We are a long way from there, but definitely progressing.

With all of the issues we have encountered over the years, I never dreamt an eating disorder would join the list. But like everything else we have dealt with, we are handling it one day at a time. We are determined to help him gain weight for his overall health, his mental wellness, and to keep him on this life-changing, anti-anxiety medication.

The other night, as I tucked him into bed, he apologized to me. He said he was sorry that he had messed up and wasn’t eating properly. He said it was really hard for him, but he was going to keep trying. I told him how proud I was of him for recognizing that he needed to work on this and for having a good attitude. I told him I couldn’t imagine how hard this was, and I promised to keep trying my hardest, too.

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The post On Dealing with My 12-Year-Old Son’s Eating Disorder appeared first on Kveller.

This is the story of my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day—the humor I managed to find in it, and the lessons I learned along the way.

It was the first day back to school (for two of my three kids) after a long winter break. Waking up early wasn’t easy, but we managed. My husband and 12-year-old son went outside to get into his car to go to work and school. Problem was, my husband’s car wasn’t in the driveway. He walked back into the house, where I had just stepped out of the shower.

“Did I leave my car somewhere?” he asked, stunned. “It’s not in the driveway.”

Once we realized that the car had in fact been stolen, he left in my car to bring my son to school so that he wouldn’t be late. I gathered myself and called 911.

When the police officer arrived, he asked me a few questions. My husband had left the key fob in his car (not the smartest move—we know). The officer was not happy with me. Instead of treating me like the victim, he stood in my kitchen and told me that 90% of stolen cars are because the fobs are left in the vehicles. He grumbled about his job being easier if people would just be smarter. Then he turned to me and said something I’ll never forget.

“If we find your car on the highway, and we stop this guy and draw our guns—that’s our job,” he said. “But if we kill him, that’s morally on you.”

I stood in my kitchen, hair still wet from the shower, pouring cereal for my other two kids. My husband was still not home from dropping off my son, and this police officer with his uniform and his hat, his gun, and his baton firmly in his belt was intimidating me. I looked at him and said, “Sir, I respectfully disagree with you. Was it careless to leave the key in the car? Yes. Are we responsible if someone else decides to break the law? Absolutely not.”

He shook his head and continued with his paperwork.

By the time my husband walked in, I was fuming. I tended to the kids while my husband finished writing up his report. My favorite part of their interaction was when the policeman asked if there were any distinguishing stickers or marks on the car. Watching my husband try to explain what “My Neighbor Totoro” is, and that there was a family of the famous Japanese animated spirit animal on his rear window, will forever be a memory that makes me giggle.

When the policeman was done, I asked my two children to thank him for coming to our house and for helping us find our car. I wasn’t going to let his attitude ruin the respect I want my children to have for law enforcement. As my 9-year-old shook his hand, the officer smiled and said, “You’re welcome.”

I dropped my husband off at work and brought my 3-year-old to the JCC. I dropped her off with her class and ran over to my work meeting, also at the JCC. Within 20 minutes, the director got a call on her walkie-talkie that a bomb threat had been called in. I ran to my daughter’s classroom. I got to evacuate with her class. The entire preschool and JCC campus evacuated to a nearby elementary school. The teachers were incredibly calm—they knew exactly what to do. The kids were on an adventure, walking on the sidewalk, looking at nature, and marveling at police cars. When we settled into our assigned classroom at the elementary school, parents started to come pick up their children. It was at that moment that I realized my car was on lockdown in the JCC parking lot and my husband had no car to come pick us up. Thankfully my mom was able to leave work and come get us.

Once we got home, I processed what had happened and I cried. I gave myself a few minutes, and then I got on with calling the insurance company and the dozens of other items on my to-do list.

That night my husband and I ordered pizza for the family and broke out a bottle of my favorite adult beverage. We couldn’t believe the day we had.

Miraculously we got a call the next day that the car had been found. It was found at an apartment complex. A tow truck scanner found it and alerted the police. The car was in perfect condition. The car seat was gone, as were my husband’s sunglasses. Poor Totoro and his family had been scraped off the back of the car. The thief had actually synced his cell phone to the Bluetooth in the car. But here’s my favorite part—there was now a rosary hanging from the rearview mirror. You read that correctly—our thief was a good Catholic. Dear Lord, please protect this stolen car!

I’m not sure what to make of that, or the rest of the experience I had that day. But I am beyond grateful that I was with my daughter and her class during the evacuation. I was able to see firsthand the professionalism and integrity of the entire organization. I was able to communicate with my friends and let them know their kids were safe. I took a selfie of me and a few of the kiddos smiling, and sent it to some mommy friends so that they could see their sweet babies’ faces while they were on their way to pick them up.

Five days later, I was at work when a text came in on my phone. There was another bomb threat called into our JCC (later I learned more than a dozen JCCs were also targeted). While I drove to the school to pick my daughter up, I was able to picture what it looked like when the kids were evacuating. I knew what the inside of the elementary school looked like. I knew the teachers were keeping the kids happy. I knew that the administration and police were doing their jobs and keeping all of them safe. That gave me peace. What I don’t know is why this continues to happen. This world we live in is scary. There are bad guys. There are bad days. Our job is to continue to find the good and the humor in this world. It’s what separates us from them.

My daughter will continue to attend the school at our JCC. Bad things can happen anywhere these days. We won’t be leaving our beloved preschool. We also won’t be leaving our keys in our unlocked car.

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The post That Time My Husband’s Car Was Stolen & Our JCC Had a Bomb Threat appeared first on Kveller.

My JCC in Maitland, Florida (near Orlando) has been around for more than 40 years. Just like most JCCs, we have a preschool, a summer camp, activities for seniors, a theater department, after school care, and a vibrant community of loving, caring people.

For some reason, in January, we were the target of repeated threatening phone calls. Three times in a period of 13 days, people filled with hatred called in empty threats to scare us. It worked. While other JCCs across the country who experienced one or two of these calls had a few parents pull their students from their preschools, we had a significant number of students withdraw—possibly more than all of the other affected JCCs combined. We were victims and no one is talking about it.

I was at the JCC for the first call. The staff was unbelievably calm and prepared while evacuating a few hundred students to a nearby elementary school. At that time, only our campus and a nearby Chabad were targeted. Five days later, approximately 19 JCCs received similar threats via telephone. Our campus (which also houses a Jewish day school, the Federation offices, and a Holocaust museum) evacuated again. At that point, about a dozen parents had officially withdrawn their children. Whether the threat truly scared them, or the inconvenience of having to leave work twice in a week to pick up their children was too difficult to deal with, we’ll never know.

Whatever the reasons were, the number of withdrawals started to increase. When I spoke to our CEO about it, he said, “We’ll be fine as long as this doesn’t happen again.”

It did.

One week later, 32 JCCs were targeted. This time the school was put on lockdown and all of our children were moved to the gymnasium where they had a party. Once again, the teachers kept our kids safe and happy with snacks and music. The kids were clueless, and that’s the way it should be. Parents were sent photos and videos of the kids smiling and happy. Once the police had swept the campus, kiddos returned to their classrooms and the lockdown was lifted.

Throughout all of the threats, parents received updates via text message and email. By the third time around, so many parents were rattled by the text messages that it became too much for some to handle. I understand it. There’s no judgement. In fact, some families have already returned after revisiting the JCC and seeing firsthand the security improvements. We hope that they all come back to use our facility for summer camp or after school care. They will always be a part of our JCC family.

Our highly prepared Campus Director of Security has already started to make some incredible changes. The campus, which has always felt safe to me, will be even safer without losing its hometown feel. Obviously, I can’t go into the details. All I can say is that there is nothing more precious to me than my children, and my 3-year-old daughter is at this JCC every day. I am less worried about her safety moving forward than I have ever been.

But here’s my problem. For security reasons, parents were asked not to talk about this on social media. Local and federal law enforcement have told us that this only encourages these people who only want to create panic and spread fear. While I understand not spreading the fear, or unwillingly sharing false information, one fact remains: We were a victim of hate crimes, and our story deserves to be told. Other JCCs are moving on, basically unaffected. We are picking up the pieces. We were attacked. We did nothing wrong. We didn’t deserve this.

Our incredible leadership is now left figuring out how to balance a budget without a significant part of our preschool tuition coming in. Our amazing preschool will continue to be amazing. Our wonderful teachers will continue to provide an incredible education for the children who attend. While our leadership will have to make some difficult decisions moving forward, our JCC and our preschool will continue to thrive and flourish; however, I don’t envy their jobs right now.

Letters have been coming in every day from all across the country showing support for our Jewish Community Center. Drawings showing support from local children were delivered and displayed in the teacher’s lounge. The support has been lovely. My friend Holly and I started a private Facebook page for parents and friends of the JCC to try and help us heal. We started the use of the hashtag #myjcc to share positive photos and stories about the JCC we love. We are selling t-shirts to raise money for the security fund. A major 24-hour fundraiser is set up for March 8 where donors have stepped up to match all donations 3:1. Parents have been overwhelmingly supportive.

We are resilient. We are strong. We are full of love. I would expect nothing less from my JCC.

The post How My Jewish Community Is Healing After Our JCC’s Had Multiple Bomb Threats appeared first on Kveller.

January was a difficult time for our JCC: in a period of 13 days we received three bomb threats. After repeated evacuations and lockdowns, many parents decided to withdraw their children from the preschool. The emotional and financial impact was overwhelming. After the dust had settled, it was decided that a large-scale 24-hour fundraiser called “Then, Now, and Always” would be launched to help get us back on our feet. I was asked to be a volunteer on the committee to pull this major fundraiser off.

We worked with a third party organization that guided us to arrange three donors who would each match up to $50,000 in donations. All donations were matched 3:1. Basically we had 24 hours to raise $200,000, or all of the money was going to go back to the donors. We set up a lounge in the auditorium where volunteers could come to text and call their friends. The results were beyond my wildest expectations—and during those 24 hours, we had several amazing, beautiful and hilarious experiences. Here they are.

#1. We were so nervous, and things happened so fast, we didn’t post any of our exciting graphics. The team worked very hard to get pledges and market the heck out of this fundraiser before it started at 6:00PM. When the clock started ticking we all gathered in the lounge. We watched in amazement as the amount of money on the big screen increased steadily, reaching our goal in less than two hours. We all screamed with delight and then realized that the marketing director had no time to post any of the graphics she had made for when we hit milestones.

#2. More donors stepped forward to be matchers. Our CEO came into the auditorium every few hours with a big smile on his face to announce ANOTHER matching donation. Every single donation was matched after we hit $200,000.

#3. The preschoolers brought their Tzedakah money in (aww). One by one during the 24-hour event, classes of three and four year olds came in proudly clutching bags of dollar bills and coins. They were so proud. It was adorable.

#4. We celebrated with unKosher, then kosher, pizza. The first night one of the main volunteers in charge of the event ordered pizzas for the rest of us- a lovely gesture. When I opened the first box I saw pepperoni—a mistake had clearly been made. The look of absolute horror on her face, followed by her mad dash to get the pizza out of the JCC, is something I’ll never think about without laughing.

#5. During the second day, a local church took it upon themselves to provide lunch for us, along with the sweetest note saying they were supporting their Jewish friends. We were all so touched and grateful.

#6. The Jewish Academy (a Jewish day school) also on our campus had a board meeting during the event. During the meeting they took a break. Together they walked over to the auditorium, checkbooks in hand. Each one of them made a donation. It was beautiful.

#7. It brought old friends out of the woodwork. Promoting the event on social media gave friends and family who weren’t involved in our JCC (or even local) the chance to participate. As I saw the names scrolling on our screen I couldn’t believe some of the friends of mine who had donated in our honor, including my childhood best friend (whom I haven’t seen in 10 years) and my high school newspaper teacher who donated in honor of my daughter and her friends. Even Kveller writers who followed our story, but whom I’ve never met in person, donated. Every single time I saw these names on the screen, I cried.

#8. We set the lounge (normally the auditorium) up like a nightclub. We had white leather furniture, blue mood lighting, music, and tons of food. Every time a class of kids walked by we heard “WOW” or “What is going on in there?”.We figured if the kids were impressed, we must have done something right.

#9. My 3-year-old daughter asked me the next morning where I had been (since I had been at the fundraiser and not home at night like I usually am.) When I told her I was helping the JCC, she asked me if it was broken. I told her it was a little bit broken, but it was better now. She asked me if I fixed it with a hammer. I said that it was something like that. She looked up at me from her bowl of cereal and said “Mommy, thank you for fixing my school.”

#10. After all was said and done we raised $428,274. We absolutely could not believe how our community came together. This is the absolute silver lining to a pretty gray cloud.

This was bigger than all of us could have seen coming. The community came together in a way it never has before, but sometimes it takes a crisis to pull people together. For more than 40 years, our JCC has been the center of Jewish life in Orlando. Thanks to the 916 donors who took it upon themselves to participate in our campaign, our JCC isn’t going anywhere.

The post After Threats, the Responses to Our JCC Fundraiser Blew My Mind appeared first on Kveller.

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.

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The post I Took My Picky Son to a Food Therapist And This Is What Happened appeared first on Kveller.

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.

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The post After Having 3 Kids, This Is Why I Finally Stopped Counting Milestones appeared first on Kveller.

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.

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The post 4 Things You Should Do When Your Friend Loses a Spouse appeared first on Kveller.

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.

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The post What I Realized When I Hosted an Israeli Visitor in My Home appeared first on Kveller.

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.

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The post What Happened on My Son’s First Day at His New School appeared first on Kveller.

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.

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The post This Is Why I Hate School Fundraisers appeared first on Kveller.

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.

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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.

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The post This Is What I’ll Miss Doing with My Daughter When I Go Back to Work appeared first on Kveller.

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.

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If there was a theme for my family’s quarantine, it would likely be “projects.” The five of us — my husband, me, and our three kids, ages 6, 12, and 15 — have done dozens and dozens of projects, both big and small, over the past five-plus months.

We have painted nearly every wall in the house that needed painting, planted a vegetable garden in the backyard, and scanned every single photograph in our house. In early July, we decided to make a sign. My husband had seen several examples of a popular sign online: “In This House We Believe Love Is Love, Science Is Real, Black Lives Matter, No Human Is Illegal, and Kindness Is Everything.” We worked together to make the sign just like we wanted it — I used my vinyl-cutting machine to create the letters, our 6-year-old picked out the colors (rainbow, of course), and my engineer husband laid them out with exact precision. It took us a few hours to make our masterpiece and we proudly displayed it in our yard.

We never could have guessed that, several weeks later, it would lead to a hate crime.

We live in a conservative county in Florida, and to be honest, we were pretty certain someone would eventually steal the sign. For that very reason we pointed one of our security cameras directly at our front lawn. Still, we wanted to do something to show our support as the Black Lives Matter movement gained momentum, and we felt that broadcasting our views to our neighbors was a good place to start.

But then, last Sunday, I got a call from my neighbor. She and her husband had been on a morning walk. About a half a mile away, they had spotted a sign at the entrance to another neighborhood with hate speech on it. When they picked up the sign to dispose of it — so that others, particularly children, wouldn’t have to see it — they realized the hateful message was scrawled on the back of our sign. She told me that she had placed it on our driveway, and warned me that I was not going to be happy.

She was right. I went outside and picked up our beautiful sign. Written on the back in pencil were the words “F**k” and the N-word. I started to physically shake. I brought the sign inside and showed it to my husband. We were absolutely stunned.

At first, I did what every good Jewish girl does in a shocking situation: I called my mother. She advised me to call the police. I then did what every good Jewish daughter does: I questioned my mother’s advice and called a friend. My friend works in the police field and she agreed with my mom. This was theft, vandalism, and hate speech — and the police needed to know.

Then we remembered – THE CAMERA!

We ran to the camera, grabbed the SD card and popped it into our computer. There it was, at 3:20 am: a white minivan pulls up, with intention, in front of our house. A young white man (we are guessing he’s a teenager) jumps out of the car, grabs the sign, and yells the N-word at the top of his lungs. He barely makes it back inside the van before his female driver speeds away. The license plate was not readable.

Watching this, I started shaking again. My husband and I called the police. While we waited for them to arrive, we gathered the children to tell them what had happened. We explained that someone had taken our beautiful sign in the middle of the night, and those people chose to write something very hateful against Black people on that sign and they put it in the ground about half a mile away. We told them the police were coming and they shouldn’t be worried, and that it is our duty as good citizens to report behavior like this, and even if they never catch the people who did this, we will have done the right thing.

About 30 minutes later, two police officers came — one of whom happened to be female and African American. I was honestly relieved, because I was worried that this wouldn’t be taken seriously. I made sure my 6-year-old met the police officers and thanked them. The officers said there wasn’t much they could do because the car wasn’t identifiable. They said we could file a report anyway to have it on the record in case something like this happened again, which we chose to do.

Our home is on a cul-de-sac, at the end of a mile-long road. No one just came by this sign accidentally at 3:00 am — someone saw the sign and decided that it was so offensive to them that they were going to come and steal it in the middle of the night. That is scary.

We live in a quiet suburb, tucked away halfway between Daytona Beach and Disney World. Nothing much happens here when it comes to the Black Lives Matter movement. When we watch TV and see unspeakable racism, and we see rallies and protests, it seems so far away. But when it happens in your front yard, it makes it very real.

At first, we hesitated posting about this incident on social media, and we shied away from talking to reporters when we were approached. But, the bottom line is, our Black friends don’t have that choice: Every day they face the world as Black Americans, not knowing who will show them hatred. My husband and I realized that if we don’t show this ugliness to the world when it happens, we aren’t doing our part to support our Black friends. That just isn’t acceptable to us.

As a Jewish girl with red hair and freckles growing up in an Orlando suburb, I didn’t “look” Jewish. I could regale you with stories of anti-Semitic things I heard when no one thought there was a Jewish person around — it’s sickening how hateful people can be. I’ve learned over the years to speak up, and I want my children to learn that lesson, too: Speak up for yourself, speak up for your friends, and call out racism whenever it rears its ugly head.

As for the sign, we spray painted over the hateful message. The sign is now back in its rightful place on our lawn, but instead of hate speech, there’s a new message to any future thieves: “Smile, you are on camera.”

Header Image via Samantha Taylor 

The post Our Yard Sign Was Vandalized With Hate Speech. So We Decided to Speak Out. appeared first on Kveller.