LA Moms Blog

Where was I?

I grew up privileged. I am an American Jewish woman who had the privilege of never truly experiencing prejudice due to religion. I have spent most of my life on the west coast surrounded by other Jewish people. Where I live, Target carries Hannukah decorations. The public schools are closed on Yom Kippur and the Coffee Bean sells challah on Shabbat. Israel is a destination vacation. This has always been my Jewish existence...except for the one week I spent in Poland as part of The March of the Living, an educational program that brings students up close and personal with the Polish remnants of the Holocaust, culminating in a silent march from the notorious concentration camp,  Auschwitz to Birkenau. 

It was there at Auschwitz that I stood on the railroad tracks and felt my body tremble. The Holocaust had always been this horrible nightmare I'd read about in history books and Elie Wiesel's profound writing. I'd met survivors and seen the tattooed numbers on their arms. But nothing prepared me for the real thing. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Why them? Why not me? How was I lucky enough to be born years later in America? As we walked from Auschwitz to Birkenau, I made a promise to myself and to them, those not as lucky, the souls I could feel surrounding me without a voice. I promised to be a voice for them. I promised to raise my children Jewish and give them a voice. I promised to Never Forget so that this would Never Happen Again.

The Helicopter Has Landed

I don't consider myself a helicopter parent (does anyone actually?) but I have been known to hover a little too long on occasion. There are some areas where, as a parent, I've learned that my children actually do need an extra push, a bit more help, or even a personal cheerleader. But there are many areas where they do not need to be handled with such care. On their own, without Mommy, Daddy or even the security of a friend, they can be just fine. Actually, they thrive. This is something I have known about in theory for years but a lesson I recently learned from experience at, of all places, the baseball field (yes, the same one I moan and bitch about all the time).

Because my son is not a natural athlete, I am guilty of attempting to micromanage his sporting experiences. I worry that if he gets a coach he doesn't know or a team without a familiar face, he'll...well, I do not know what I think might happen but I definitely fear for him to have to step out of his comfort box. Now, I suppose, I also consider my own comfort box. 

This season, my son's previous coach (a good family friend) and I broke a little league rule. My son is age-wise on the cusp of two divisions. The coach and I discussed my son, his abilities, his confidence level, etc... and decided it would be great if he could stay one more season in the lower age range. The coach suggested this to the baseball powers-that-be and, well, that's when the trouble started. Apparently, those powers really like their power and don't appreciate being told anything. To make a long story short, they eventually granted our wish but made it clear they would NOT be putting my son with any of his friends or on a team with a previous coach. We were clearly being punished--banished, if you will, to the much-whispered about "mean" coach who used to be in the military. Any time someone mentions this coach (someone who doesn't know him), it's as if his last name is "used to be in the military." 

The Way I See It

Vision therapy. Ever heard of it? I hadn't until twelve weeks ago when it became yet another piece of my mothering journey.

But first a little history. My husband was diagnosed with dyslexia after years of struggling with reading and writing. He was a freshman at an Ivy League college at the time of his diagnosis which made for some frustrating and stressful school years. My mother-in-law remembers doing some sort of eye exercises as a child and still hates to read. I was very aware of these things when my son was born.

My son sees a wonderful and highly-regarded educational therapist semi-regularly and I've pretty much been asking her if he is dyslexic since the first visit at 2 1/2. For years, she's kindly ignored me explaining that there is no way to tell at such a young age because many young children transpose letters, have trouble tracking words on a page and, well, don't like to read. I knew this was true but I also knew in my gut that his eyes were holding him back--not the sole cause of some of his learning difficulties but a piece of the puzzle.

Snack Attack

When it comes to Jamie Oliver and his food revolution, I am so in. In case you missed it, the so-called Naked Chef is leading the fight against childhood obesity, specifically by taking to task the American school system for the crap they serve in the cafeteria labeled as nutrition. He has already changed the way Brits serve up students and now he's come stateside to do the same. Sign me up.

I am astonished at what passes for fruits (ketchup) and vegetables (french fries) in school lunches. I am sickened at the thought of children eating pizza for breakfast and vending machine Cheetos for snacks. I am not a vegan/granola girl (although I see nothing wrong with that) but I do try and eat healthy and TRY to help my kids do the same. We eat hot dogs but they are made of lean turkey. We eat chickenless nuggets (don't knock 'em 'till you try 'em), baked chips and lots of fruit (still working on veggies). We also eat pizza, ice cream and donuts but in moderation--and not for breakfast.

I live in a suburb of Los Angeles where eating healthy is truly a way of life made very easy with ready-packed fresh produce available everywhere at reasonable prices. The beautiful weather makes it so kids can play outdoors year round. And the Hollywood adjacent thing means that fortysomething women out here live and look as if they are keeping up with the Kardashians. Every mom I know uses her precious free time to get in some sort of daily workout be it running, Bar Method, pilates, yoga, spinning, or time with a personal trainer. Lululemon active wear is practically a uniform around here. These moms are the picture of healthy living but for some reason, it's a very different picture when the moms show up at the baseball field.

I'm Hanging Up

Yesterday in the car, my almost-four-year-old little girl and I were playing the "you're so silly game." It's pretty straightforward. I say, "You're so silly because you like to wear your converse with dresses," or "You're so silly because you won't eat jelly with your peanut butter." You get it. So we were going back and forth fast and furious like a good tennis match until she brought the rally to a dead stop. "Mommy," she giggled, "You are the silliest mom ever because you talk on the phone too long. Always on the phone. Too much, Mommy!" My instincts went into immediate defensive mode. I do not. I am not always on the phone, looking at my phone, texting, talking, typing. I am not. That is so completely UNtrue. I mean, there is not a morsel of reality in that statement. NO! NO! 

And then I took a deep breath and admitted, she had hit it right on the nose. What I haven't been able to admit to Oprah by joining in her no car phone and texting revolution, I better be able to admit to my daughter and, well, my self. Uh-oh, I do have a problem and it's not silly at all.

ONE DIVIDED BY TWO

My first born is the typical first born. He's needy, used to getting a lot of attention and admittedly a bit catered to by the family. He's also not typical in that in addition to all the regular trappings of being the first child around for everyone to dote on, he also actually has some extra challenges that create a need for mom and dad's attention and focus. Early on, it was his delayed speech and eye contact which took us to the speech therapist. Then, there was the search for the perfect school which took us out of our public school system and into an amazing, yet pricey, private school. Now, educational therapy and vision therapy are regular weekly appointments with at-home homework. It's a long journey but I have become a pretty good traveler--that is until now.

TRASH TALK

I thought I was being sneaky. I was certain I hadn't left any clues behind--no trace of my motherly wrongdoings. But last night, I was totally and completely busted by my 6 1/2 year-old son. He went over to the trash can in an attempt to clean up after himself and throw away his dirty napkin (an unusual happenstance in and of itself) and then I heard a shriek. "Mom," he screamed as if he had uncovered a dead body. But no...it was perhaps, worse. He pulled out his latest art project brought home from school earlier in the day. "My person is in the trash. How did they happen," he questioned. Um...well...I paused, panicked and then lied through my clenched teeth. "I have no idea." I pulled out his construction paper person, fortunately unscathed, albeit a tiny bit damp. "It's okay," I told my tearful son. "It will dry and be perfect." After a series of hugs and a bag of cookies, he had calmed down but still wanted answers. "I just don't understand how my person could have fallen in the trash," he whined, "I worked so hard on him." I took my lying to a new low and blamed it POSSIBLY on the housekeeper who, by the way, hadn't been to my house the whole week. I didn't know what else to do. I had been caught in my constant struggle of what to do with all the stuff that my wonderful, talented (of course) children bring home daily.

Stop Celebrity Marriage (and Mockery)

Okay so I know ABC's The Bachelor is 14 seasons old and it's no surprise to anyone that it's often scripted, manipulated and (Trista and Ryan withstanding), always ends unhappily ever after. I hadn't watched in, like, six years but my friends were way amped for this season with recent castoff, Jake Pavelka, in the starring role. So, I turned it on ready to witness the usual fairytale fiction masquarading as reality. But let me say, this is a whole other bag of crazy. I mean...this show,this guy and these girls (and I do mean girls) are so much more pathetic and immature than I ever remembered. Not to mention perkier and way hotter. 

In the first week, Jake is one hundred percent certain that his soulmate is in the fresh batch of babes cooked up for him by the casting agents who no doubt have Jake's best interest in mind. And every girl there is positive that she is the ONE for Jake. Without meeting him, each one can already tell that he would be the perfect husband and father. Bunjee jumping off a bridge in tandem, watching a private concert together and helicoptering over the Pacific Ocean only confirms their genuine feelings (Imagine that!). The girls want Jake to REALLY know them so they all seem to feel obliged to unload all of their relationship baggage complete with tears in the first five minute meet, greet and tongue-wrestle session. Oh, well, there was that one girl who wouldn't kiss but had no problem going in for the lip lock, asking Jake how bad he wanted it and then pulling away because being a tease is apparently a lot more dignified than a slut. But apparently not a winning strategy. She's already gone.

My Husband Does Not Look Like the Man I Married

I've known my husband since we were both 19-years-old. He was a cute guy with beautiful eyes, a sweet face and a just-needed-a-woman's-touch sense of style. But now, everything has changed. My cute guy is getting older. His hair is peppered with gray. He wears little rimless glasses. And his body just isn't what it used to be. I'm almost embarrassed when we go out because...he's never looked better.

Forty pounds lighter with a new and way improved body, my once chunky-around-the-middle hubby is no more. Now, he's a sexy, thirtysomething with the wisdom of age and the body of youth. I thought he was supposed to be getting bald and fat by now. I used to be the healthy one in the relationship who always worked out and kind of liked that I was in better shape than my guy. But now, he's Mr. Tight Abs and I'm still the same 'ol (okay, older) me. 

Oh, sure, it was exciting at first to see my other half slimmed down to a college-guy size. It was delightful watching him buy clothes with ease and wonderful to witness him feeling good about himself. But then, he sorta stopped being fun. No more late night Ben & Jerry's pints to share. No more fries to steal off his plate (I haven't ordered fries in 19 years). And no more iced blended coffee drinks EVER! Even he was feeling a little deprived so he started running. 

When Baseball and Hebrew School Collide

This post has absolutely nothing to do with baseball but like many of my past blogs, its origins can be traced to a day at the baseball field. I was stuck in a never-ending line waiting to register my son for spring baseball. This is the same Little League that last year introduced themselves to me with the warm and friendly line, "Welcome to the cult." Truth be told, we had a wonderful experience last season with kind, caring and "let's just have fun out there" coaches. But I'm in the littlest part of the little league. As my son grows bigger, the baseball world expands too. Parents seem to change the deeper they get into the world of sports. I hear them around me at the snack shack, a bleacher or two over and definitely while waiting in line for sign-ups. As the odd-mom-out in this baseball world (my son probably has a season or two left in him), I listen and observe, knowing full well there will likely be fantastic blog fodder. And this cold, winter morning did not disappoint. Actually, it did--disappointed me as a parent but inspired me as a writer.

Amidst the usual competitive talk of travel teams, feeder schools and questionable umpire calls, the subject of Hebrew school made it's way into the conversation. It seems one of the dads behind me was fed up with his temple. Now that his son was approaching Bar Mitzvah age (13), the Hebrew program was becoming more intensive. The temple, it seems, had the "audacity" to schedule his son for two evenings a week. "Can you even believe it?" he questioned his partner-in-conversation. "What the hell is he supposed to do, not play football and baseball?" I sat there letting the question hang in mid-air, wondering if this was how he presented the situation to his young, impressionable son. It's not that I cared one way or another if his son went to Hebrew school. That is a family's personal choice. It was the way the question and priorities were framed in discussion that struck me. And so I was truly glad when one of the other parents he was talking to asked what I was thinking.  "Are you religious? Do you practice at home?" He answered, "This may sound bad but we don't have time. My wife and I both work." Interesting how these same parents found time to travel all over the state for baseball games and somehow got the kids to nighttime practices. Again, it's a personal choice. It wasn't the choice I was reacting to as much as the attitude. Kids can sense what is important in a family. They know what parents value, what they make time for and what ultimately is most important in the pecking order.