That's how it's supposed to be, living young and wild and free

Recently a friend referred to me as a "single parent."  Which kind of took me aback, because I don't think of myself as a single parent.  To me, a single parent is one who is raising children totally on his or her own, without the other parent sharing physical custody or parenting duties.

I share custody/parenting time with the kids' dad, so I don't have to shoulder all of the parenting responsibilities.  And I get regular breaks when I don't have to take care of anyone but myself - it gives me a chance to recharge my batteries, and it makes the time I have with the children that much more special.

I've heard many parents refer to it as the silver lining of divorce.  Because when you have the kids, you're "on" all the time, and you're doing everything.  But when you don't, you can do whatever the fuck you want, and it's kind of glorious, even if "whatever the fuck you want" is simply going to the grocery store by yourself, without little monkeys clamoring for candy or toys or sneaking things into your cart, so that you get home and wonder how you came to be the proud owner of an industrial-sized bottle of Old Spice Body Wash, which you have never used in your life, nor were you even aware that such a thing existed.  

Anyway.  What I'm saying is, a shared custody arrangement can be hard, because I love my kids and I want to see them and talk to them and hug and kiss them every day, but it also provides for precious me-time that many parents never really get.

But this past weekend, I discovered that nothing will make you feel like a single parent like being the only adult on a camping trip with a 5- and 7-year-old.

Because they're too little to put up the tent, not strong enough to carry around a big cooler full of food or to lift three bikes onto a bike rack, not mature enough to build a fire.  They don't drive, so they can't take on any part of the 4 1/2 hour drive to Steamboat Lake State Park. And they don't have jobs, so they can't buy any of the stuff that needs to be purchased.  They're too short to pack the car.

They don't handle injuries well, so when they fall off their bikes within 30 minutes of arriving at the camp site and end up with wicked road rash on their elbows and knees, they can't calmly wash the wounds and apply an appropriately-sized band-aid.

But what they are great at is the important stuff.  

They are great at being enthusiastic about everything they see, from the horses at the local roadhouse/general store/recreational establishment to the chipmunks at the campsite to the beautiful mountains and lakes.  

I love how the horse in the back totally photobombed the horse on the left

They are amazing at enjoying a campfire, especially the part when you roast marshmallows.

That's a nice looking fire, if I do say so my damn self.

They are incredible at finding the joy in riding around the lake, or digging in the mushy sand at what they charmingly came to refer to as "Diarrhea Beach," because they could throw around lumps of wet sand that reminded them of diarrhea.  They appreciate the natural beauty of Hahn's Peak, which they took to calling "Boob Mountain."  

We like to keep it classy.

Diarrhea Beach

Josie is killing it on her bike these days.

Boob Mountain.

They love to learn about new things, so they were happy to attend the little presentations that the park rangers gave every day on various topics - on Saturday night we learned all about beavers, and on Sunday we learned about hummingbirds.  They were thrilled to go on a 10 minute pony ride, and to stay an extra 15 minutes afterwards kissing and hugging their horses.

They have a beautiful sense of wonder.  My favorite part of the weekend was at about 3 in the morning on our first night there.  Josie woke up and said she had to pee.

"Go ahead, sweetie.  You can just go and pee outside behind the tent."

She came back a minute later and said, "Mama, the stars are so beautiful.  You should come out and see them."

So I got up and went outside and sat in a camp chair with her on my lap.  I hugged her close and we looked at the incredible sky.

"There must be a trillion stars up there, huh, Mama?"

"At least."

After a little while, we were tired and cold, and went back to bed.  As she lay next to me, she reached an arm out and put her hand on my cheek.

"I love you, Mama."

"I love you too, sweet girl."

So yes, I'm tired from all the work that went into the weekend, and the long drive, and the mountains of laundry that I'm still plowing through.  But I had a fantastic time with my fantastic children, and I wouldn't trade that for anything.

The art of war

I've been walking to work, off and on, for about 10 months.  There are only so many variables in the route, so at this point I'm familiar with the landmarks and each street's little quirks.  It makes it more challenging (but also fun) when I'm taking my #dailydenver pictures, because it forces me to try to find interesting angles or to see things in a new or different way.

But still, every once in a while, I do get the surprise of seeing something that I have not seen before.

Last week, it was this:

I have no idea what I'm looking at here. #dailydenver #walktowork #capitolhilldenver #wut

A photo posted by Wendy Jacobs (@wendyalisonjacobs) on Aug 7, 2015 at 7:46am PDT

Today, it was this:

Ready for battle. #dailydenver #walktowork #toytanks

A photo posted by Wendy Jacobs (@wendyalisonjacobs) on Aug 18, 2015 at 8:16am PDT

It reminded me of my brother Joshua, who used to love playing with army toys.  When we were living in India, I opened the freezer one day to discover an elaborate winter battle scene, complete with fallen soldiers who had made the ultimate sacrifice and spilled their blood (i.e., ketchup) in the freezer frost snow.

Looking at that toy tank, standing guard in front of its owner's house, made me smile with the thought of little boys' imaginations, and the intensity of their vision of the world as it was, or might be someday in the future.

I'll see you in September, see you when the summer's through

Yesterday morning the kids and I were riding the number 10 bus into town, on the way to camp and work.  Zeke was sitting in the back row playing on his Kindle and Josie and I were sitting next to each other on one of the sideways-facing seats.  I had my arm resting over the back of the seat, and she was snuggled up next to me, so her face was basically in my armpit.

She thinks armpits are hilarious, especially mine.  God forbid I have a day's worth of stubble under there - she'll tickle it with her fingers and announce to the whole bus that my pits are fuzzy.

Today there was no fuzz, just deodorant.  She still stuck her finger in it.

"Mama, why do you have salt in your pits?" she giggled.

"It's not salt, goofball, it's deodorant."  I gave her a squeeze and kissed the top of her head.

"What's deodorant?"

"It's stuff to keep my pits from getting stinky."

She cackled.  "I hope I don't have stinky pits.  I don't want to have salt in my pits."

We laughed and laughed.

As I sat there having fun with her, I realized it was the last day we would be doing this.  Their dad would be picking them up that afternoon, and they're with him for the weekend, and there's no camp next week.  The week after that, school starts.

We've had a lovely little routine for the summer - I get up and exercise, then I get them up and dressed, and we have some breakfast.  I make their lunches and fill their water bottles, get their backpacks ready, and then we walk across the street to catch the bus.

They're always cheerful and saying hello, so the people on the bus are charmed and smiling at them.  During the ride, we chat and laugh and look out the window. After the penultimate stop, Josie pulls the cord, and we pile off the bus at the stop in front of my office building.  The buses have an automated announcement system for each stop, and when you get off a female robotic voice says, "watch your step - thank you."

And the kids always say, "YOU'RE WELCOME!" and then laugh hysterically.

We walk the two blocks to the YMCA, I give them hugs and kisses goodbye, they run off to play with their friends, and then I walk across the street to go to work.

With all of the turmoil in my life this summer, those mornings have been a respite.  Even though it seems mundane, I will miss that routine.  We're all morning people, so it's been a time of morning snuggles and kisses and excitement over whatever that day's field trip would be and fart jokes.  (The fart jokes are a constant.)

With the start of school, I'll be able to resume my walks to work in the morning.  And I started this morning, in fact.  I took a route that I don't usually take, heading west up 16th street rather than on Colfax.  This route takes me past an elementary school that has a great playground.

On the plus side, I can resume the #walktowork. On the minus, it's because summer is ending and I won't be riding the bus with the kiddos to take them to summer camp. #dailydenver #startofschool #endofsummerblues

A photo posted by Wendy Jacobs (@wendyalisonjacobs) on Aug 14, 2015 at 7:33am PDT

It made me think of the kids and how big they're getting.  Zeke is going into second grade, Josie into first.  I find myself looking at old pictures and videos of them when they were babies and toddlers, and going over old blog posts from those times.  It makes me wistful, even though they are unquestionably so much more fun and interesting the older they get.

As a last hurrah before school starts, the three of us are going camping in Steamboat (the real one) next weekend. It's a place we love, and it will cap off a summer that has been difficult but also beautiful, largely because of them.

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like

Getting Josie to suck it up and learn how to ride a bike has been something of a challenge, to put it diplomatically.  Because she is turning into a feisty little thing with a bit of a hair-trigger temper, to say the least.

After our Outer Banks trip a couple of weeks ago, we drove with my parents up to their house in Virginia, stayed there for two nights, and then flew home from DC.  We got some extra time with Mimi and Papa, and the travel is so much easier.  There used to be a direct flight from Denver to Norfolk, Virginia, but there isn't anymore, so getting between those two cities now is a major pain in the ass.

Anyway, we were in my dad's car on the way back.  His car has a back seat entertainment system, so we could pop in a DVD for the kids during the 5 hour drive home.  The kids were very excited about this.

The problem was, my dad had never used the system, so it took a little while for us to figure out all the various intricacies of it.

Which pissed Josie off to no end.

Before we had even left the driveway of the beach house, she was sitting in the back seat while I was trying to figure out how to get everything to work.  I figured it out eventually, but it took some time to go through the car's manual and try out different buttons.  And even though we hadn't even left yet and I was obviously making every effort to make it work for her, she still lost her mind when the system didn't work IMMEDIATELYTHISINSTANTNOW!

She could see the picture on the DVD screen, but it wasn't playing the movie.

"MAMA!! It's not working.  It's not WORKING!"  She was yelling and banging her headphones and generally acting like a crazy person.

"Good lord, Josie, you need to calm yourself down this minute!  I'm trying to get it to work.  Just give me a chance!"

We finally realized that in order for the movie to play, the car had to be on (the system wouldn't just draw on the car's battery power).  So that was one question answered.

Then we had to figure out how to get the sound to play on the headphones.  I found the right jacks to plug the headphones into.  Then after some trial and error, I figured out how to change the "source" for the sound, and found the sound for the movie.

But I committed the unforgivable crime of taking about 4 minutes to get everything worked out.

"Mama!  Mama!  MAMAAAA!!  I CAN'T HEAR ANYTHING!  IT'S NOT WORKING! I CAN'T HEAR!  AAAAAAAUUUUGH!"

"Jesus Christ!" I thought to myself.  "What a little lunatic."

Out loud, I said, "Josephine!  You need to stop yelling and carrying on like that right now.  This is ridiculous.  I am figuring out how to get it to work and I will get it to work, but you need to stop acting like a little brat!  Enough!"

"Boy," said my mother. "She's really something, isn't she?"

Yep.

So anyway, back to the bike riding.

When Josie turned 2, we got her a little balance bike.  The idea behind the balance bike is that you learn to balance on the bike while having the safety and comfort of being able to use your feet to stop, and then you'll easily be able to move on to a bike with pedals because you've already figured out the mechanics of balancing and turning.

Not so much with Josephine.

Because while she undoubtedly mastered the art of getting around on the balance bike and was zipping around as fast as you please, when she got a big-girl bike last spring she wanted nothing to do with it unless we left the training wheels on.

"But you don't need the training wheels, honey!  You know how to balance on the bike.  All you need to do is pedal!"

But she refused to pedal without the training wheels.

So we spent the ensuing year and a half trying to ride without training wheels and sometimes having the confidence to do it and then getting excited about it but then losing confidence and getting pissed off and knocking the bike over and kicking it or just refusing to go near it altogether.

Then, for whatever reason, last week she decided she wanted to try again.  So we pumped up the tires and put on her helmet and went outside.

It did not go well.

I would hold on to the seat of the bike while she got in it and would push her along trying to get her to pedal on her own.  She would pedal about three revolutions and then stop, which of course caused the bike to stop and fall over.

"Honey, the only way the bike is going to stay up is if you pedal.  You have to pedal and keep pedaling so that the bike will move forward.  If it's not moving, it'll fall over."

"I know!"

*sigh*

"OK, let's try again."

She would pedal but wouldn't steer, so the bike would be heading into a wall or a rock, which would cause her to freak out and stop.

"Why did you stop?

"That rock was in my way!!" she yelled.

"You have handlebars to steer the bike.  Steer away from the rock."

"I COULDN'T! IT WASN'T WORKING!!"

She kept getting more and more frustrated.  She would yell at me if I held on to the bike to get her started.  "YOU'RE MESSING ME UP! STOP TOUCHING ME! YOU'RE PUSHING ME TOO FAST!"

*sigh*

"Ok, let's try again.  I'm not trying to mess you up, honey, I'm just trying to help you start pedaling."

"I CAN'T STAY UP! IT'S NOT WORKING! THIS BIKE IS STUPID! THIS BIKE IS BROKEN! IT DOESN'T WORK!!"

At this point, she's standing in the middle of the sidewalk having a full-on meltdown, crying and screaming.  I was taking deep breaths.

"Josie, I think we're done for the day.  You're too upset and you can't ride a bike if you're angry and crying, so let's go home."

"NOOOO!!!  I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME!"

"Honey, we're going home.  You're done."

I picked up the bike and started walking home.  She walked with me, despondent.

"I'm stupid. I want to be like Zeke. Why can't I be Zeke? Zeke knows how to ride. I ride like a baby and everybody thinks I'm stupid," she wailed.

We went inside and I sat her on my lap and held her while she cried.

"Sweetheart, you're not stupid.  Nobody thinks you're stupid.  Zeke can ride really well because he's been doing it for two years and he's had a lot of practice, but when he was your age he fell over all the time.  It took a lot of practice for him to be able to ride like he does."

"I ride like a baby.  I can't do anything," she sobbed.

"No, you don't.  You ride like someone who is just learning and who needs to practice a little bit.  All you need to do is practice and you'll figure it out, I promise.  I'll help you.  You're going to figure it out and you'll do great."

Needless to say, in the days after that I didn't bring up the subject of the bike again.

Then three days ago, she announced that she wanted to ride her bike.  I steeled myself for another fight, but took her out to practice going around the block.

But she figured it out.  I would hold the seat, she would start pedaling, I would give her a little shove to give the bike some momentum, and off she went.  She was wobbly and insisted on stopping every 10 feet ("Mama, I really love you, so I don't want to leave you behind to make you walk by yourself"), but she did it and was so, so excited with herself.  She and Zeke and I went all the way down to their school about a half mile away, and she rode to the school (mostly, occasionally we would walk and push the bike) and rode around the playground and rode home.

"Josie, I'm so proud of you.  You're doing so great!"

"I know! Boy, I sure was complaining a lot the other day! But now I'm not crying and I'm practicing and I can ride really well now!"

The next day was even better, and last night was better still.  She is now able to start on her own without me holding the bike at all, she can do tighter turns, and she can ride and ride and ride without stopping.

Last night we were outside as she and Zeke tooled around the neighborhood on their bikes, with me following on foot.  But just as we were heading home, she looked behind her to see Zeke and lost her balance.  The bike wobbled widely and she fell, landing hard with the handlebars under her ribs.

I sprinted over to her and picked her up.  She was crying and very startled, but not injured except for a little nick on one of her fingers and a mark on her rib where the handlebar hit her. I felt her ribs for breaks and she was able to take deep breaths without pain, so I figured she would be OK.  We went home to get a band-aid and rest.

We were sitting on the couch at home, putting a band-aid on her finger, when there was a knock on the door.  It was our friends from around the corner, inviting us to join them in walking up to the ice cream store.

"Hey, Josie," I called, "I know what will make you feel better.  How about some ice cream?"

"Yes!!"

"Ok, we're going to walk over there.  It'll be fun.  Ice cream makes everything better."

She hesitated for a minute.

"Mama?"

"Yes, sweetie?

"Can I ride my bike?"

Adventures in Online Dating: Getting back on the horse edition

First of all, with respect to the title of this post, I'm not talking about *that* horse.  I'm talking about the online dating horse altogether.

Because with everything that's been going on in my life, I climbed off it for a while.

I had a couple of dates that didn't pan out, and it was frustrating, plus every time I set up a date, I had anxiety attacks.  Which kind of told me that I wasn't ready.  My emotional state was so fraught because of other stuff that it was bleeding into every area of my psyche, and it made it impossible to just relax and have fun.

I've spent a lot of time over the past two months talking myself off of various ledges.

So I took my profile down.

In the meantime, I went to my India reunion and had a number of conversations with friends who had divorced and were now happily dating people they met online.  And I know so many people who are happily married to people they met online.  They all gave me pep talks, and told me to just have fun, assume that I would go out on many, many bad dates with the occasional good one thrown in, and that I should just be patient and give it time.

As you all know, relaxation and living with uncertainty are not my strong suits.  But one of the things about constantly talking yourself off the ledge is that you tend to get better at it with time.

So I'm getting better at it.

I made my profile public again.  I'm communicating with a couple of guys, and setting up a date here and there.  I'm trying to be relaxed.

Baby steps.

I love it when a plan comes together

We were at the movie theater in Corolla last week, taking the kids to see the new Minions movie (which was hilarious, by the way - even my dad, who is generally disdainful of animated films, was laughing his ass off the entire time).  There's a little kids' play area in the lobby area, so before the movie, after we finished our Dairy Queen yummies and while we were waiting for my mom to pick up the chicken that I was going to put in the red thai curry I was going to make for dinner, my dad and I sat and watched the kids play.  There was another family there, and the mom and I struck up a conversation about how great the Outer Banks are as a family vacation spot.

"Have you come here before?" I asked.

"No, this is our first time, but we love it.  We'll definitely be back.  What about you? Is this your first time as well?"

I smiled and said, "actually, my family has been coming here for 37 years, since I was 8 years old."

There were years that we missed while we were in Israel or India, or while my mom was in Romania and Papua New Guinea, but it has always been a place to come back to, and I don't see that changing any time soon.  It's still a given that it's the big family get-together every year.  My parents, my brothers, their wives and children, and me and my kids.  We go to the beach, we do puzzles, we swim in the pool, we play miniature golf, we read books.

We enjoy each others' company.

Some years are better than others.  Last year was fun, but there were those among us who were battling demons and dealing with major life shit, and another who flew out on my parents' dime, stayed in the luxurious house my parents paid for, ate our food, and then proceeded to treat me like utter garbage to the point that my brothers are still furious and my mother finally told him to cut the shit and knock it off.

But this year, it was like the family vacation gods were smiling down on us, bidding us incredible weather, children who behaved delightfully, and family love and harmony. There were no demons. There was no sullen person incessantly complaining about how there wasn't any pot to smoke and just generally making everyone uncomfortable.  It really was so, so wonderful.

Every morning I would get up early and work out (I used the Beachbody On Demand streaming video service, so I didn't have to bring my discs, and I used resistance bands instead of weights).  I'm convinced that sticking to my workout program meant that I only gained 5 pounds, rather than 10 or 15 - we ate a LOT of ice cream, is what I'm saying.

After my workout, my mom and I would walk two miles to a local coffee shop to pick up the newspapers and a large skim iced cafe latte, and walk back.  It was lovely time for us to talk and hang out, just the two of us.

The kids would be up by the time we got back, and I would make eggs and toast for Zeke, Josie and Hazel (and anyone else that wanted it).  We would putter around for a while and then head to the beach, which was a 5 minute walk up the road.

The water and weather were incredible (and we didn't see any sharks!).  We would set up our phalanx of umbrellas and chairs, set the toys and boogie boards out for the kids, and then spend hours, playing in the water, digging in the sand, and reading.

Home base

I don't know when Josie's legs got so long

Boogie boarding

Sam and Zeke do tricks

Burying Zeke in the sand

Josie and Mimi battle the waves

After the beach, or as a beach intermission, we would go back to the house and swim, or lie in the hammock, or have a dance party.

The pool.

Hammocking

Dance party!!

One afternoon, Josie cut her bangs.  She looks like a mini-hipster.

In the evenings, we would all have dinner together, and then have ice cream for dessert.  We would sit up in the crow's nest and enjoy the view and the evening air.

Near sunset, I would take the three little kids to the beach for a walk.  They invented a game called "Cop" in which they would run around, throw themselves down on the sand, and arrest each other.  They would chase the tide.  We would use the flashlight to look for crabs.  They would ask me big questions - "but Mama, where did water come from the first time?  How did it get on Earth??"

Those walks filled me with joy and peace.

The whole vacation did, in fact.  I'm already looking forward to next year.

Watch mama open up her arms to hug me, and I ain't worried 'bout a damn thang, with unconditional love

One of my good friends from high school in India - one whom I did not get to see last weekend, unfortunately - is part of an online exercise motivation group I'm in.  Or at least, the group started as merely an exercise motivation group, in which we were all doing a particular Beachbody program and would post daily about our workouts and cheer each other on as we did so.  Over time, it has morphed into a group of good friends, some of whom know each other in real life, and many of whom who don't but feel like they do, posting about exercise, but also about our lives generally. About husbands, ex-husbands, health issues, family dynamics, struggles, celebrations and mournings. It goes well beyond fitness and exercise, at this point, and it's lovely.

It's one of the reasons I will never join the chorus of those railing against the evils and banalities of social media.  Through social media, I am able to connect on a personal, emotional level with people all over the world.  It has enriched my life immeasurably.

Anyway, this friend has been participating in my exercise challenges for years, ever since I started coaching.  She is a tremendously kind and thoughtful person, and always has something sweet and encouraging to say.

Yesterday she posted about visiting her parents, and about how, upon seeing her, her mother made harsh comments about her weight and the size of her butt.  She was, naturally, hurt and discouraged by the comment, though apparently, this is par for the course with her mother.

She remarked that instead of going to see her parents, she should come with me on my vacation to bask in the unconditional love that my family radiates.

I continue to be so eternally grateful for my family's love, comfort and support.  The past year and a half has been so hard, between the split and subsequent divorce, trying to figure out how to get my mojo back as 45-year-old woman trying to reenter the dating world, being a single parent, Emma's death, the recent custody issues.  My self esteem took a beating, I was sad and depressed and anxious, I gained weight and hated the way I looked, I felt old and ugly and undesirable.

Slowly but surely, I am pulling myself out of the mire.  Since January (when I started the online exercise group), I have worked extremely hard to get my fitness back, and I'm feeling and looking so much better - I've been lifting weights and eating properly, and I'm down two pants sizes.  I've tentatively tried to date, without much success yet, but at least I'm putting myself out there - something good will happen.  My children are happy and healthy and beautiful, and are navigating their new reality with a grace that makes me so proud.

Some of it is the natural ebb and flow of life - things are never all bad or all good all the time.  When you're faced with the worst things you can imagine (and honestly, the only thing worse than Emma dying would be one of my kids dying), you spend some time at rock bottom, but eventually things get easier if for no other reason than they can't get any worse and you learn how to deal.

And some of it is that, through it all, I always knew that no matter how often or how far I fell, my family would be there to help lift me up again, because that's what we do for each other.

There has never been a time in my life when my parents or my brothers, upon seeing me, didn't make me believe that I could do anything I set out to do.  That I was smart and strong and capable and worthy of love and happiness.

There has never been a time in my life when my mother has greeted me after a long absence with anything but, "you look wonderful."  Whether I was 10 pounds overweight, had a zit, hadn't slept regularly in weeks, whatever.

It breaks my heart to know that not everybody has that support system, because I cannot imagine living without it.

I feel like I'm on a roll.  Like I've got some momentum.  My India reunion went a long way toward replenishing some of my love and happiness reservoirs.  I'm still basking in that feeling.

And tomorrow, the kids and I are leaving for ten days on at the beach with my family.  My parents, my brothers and their wives, my nieces.  Ten days of relaxing and reading and swimming and going to the movies and just being with each other.  It's an emotional battery recharge.

It makes me believe that things can only continue to get better.  I will find love again.  My kids will continue to thrive.  I will, some day, achieve 6-pack abs.

Well, probably not that last one.  But I'll keep trying, with the help of my friends and family.

Just let me state for the record, we're giving love in a family dose.

After every reunion, I feel like I write the same blog post.  Over and over again.

And in terms of capturing the raw feeling of what it's like for all of us, I can't express it any better than Lisa has.

But what I have been trying to figure out since I returned from my India reunion in DC this past weekend is why.  Or what.  What it is about those people, from that place and that point in my life, that makes our reunions - or any time we get to spend together - feel so much more special than get-togethers with other groups of friends?

I loved UVA, and I love going to my college reunions and seeing my old friends and classmates, but those reunions don't leave me an emotional mess, wishing I could travel back in time and hold on to those days and those people and never let go.

I enjoyed living in Israel and going to my Israel reunions, but it's not the same.

There was some kind of magical alchemy going on in India.  It was being there at the perfect age - old enough to go out on our own and experience the country in a grown-up-ish way - in the perfect place with the perfect people at the perfect school with the perfect teachers and faculty.  Teachers and faculty mostly lived in the school's extensive residential housing, and many of them had kids of their own at the school, so we interacted with faculty not just during class, but on campus and as the parents of our friends.

The truth is, we were, and are, family.  That's the difference.  It feels like coming home to family - to people who you love and accept fully, and who love and accept you, and around whom you feel entirely comfortable and happy.

Upon arriving in India at the beginning of the second semester of my junior year, I became fast friends with a large number of people in 10th, 11th and 12th grades - the school was small, so we intermingled all over the place.  Two of my immediate good buddies were Sarah and Emily, twin sisters who were in 10th grade.  Their dad was also the principal of the high school, and their mom was one of the math teachers.  They lived in an apartment on the edge of the school campus, so I spent a ton of time over there, hanging out and having dinner with them.  I went with their family to Goa for spring break.

So they weren't just school friends.  The whole family were friends-friends, and they treated me like one-of-the-family-friends.  The one time I got detention - for extending my lunch period into whatever class came next - it was like getting detention from my grandpa.  He sort of rolled his eyes at me and said, "you know I have to give you detention, so sit here for 45 minutes and then it'll be over, and by the way, are you coming for dinner tonight?"

When I saw them all - Sarah and Emily, their older brother Win (who was a year ahead of me in school), and mom and dad - at the reunion, I wasn't saying "hi how's it going so good to see you after all these years" to my old high school principal, or reconnecting with classmates that I knew long ago.  I was being welcomed back into the family fold.

Because the reunions are all-class reunions, and because of the nature of diplomatic schools, with people coming and going constantly, I saw many, many people that I didn't know when I was at AES. The reunion included people from the classes of 1962 through 2011.  But there were people that I'd heard of because they were either famous or notorious, or who I had met and become friends with at previous reunions, or who met this weekend when my late 80s crew ran into folks from the early 70s while we were all prowling the hallways of the Hyatt looking for an after-party, and we figured we might as well join forces.  It was like being at a huge family reunion, and finally getting to meet distant cousins that you hadn't grown up with but you knew you would adore immediately.

Because only with family do I feel totally comfortable, totally myself, totally loved and appreciated. Only with family would I get out on the dance floor and participate in a Bollywood-esque dance with Jason (different Jason, obvs) and Kim, and feel like it was the natural thing to do.

Only with family is it normal that Lisa and I would prance around the perimeter of the dance floor to Kung Foo Fighting while erupting in bizarre star-jump-type kicks, and not feel remotely self-conscious.

Only with family do we all end up lounging in Sid's room at the end of the night, talking about childbirth and boobs and love and music.  And sometimes we're just looking around at each other, smiling and enjoying each others' glow.

Only with family do you walk up to say hello to someone that maybe you haven't seen in 30 years, or maybe you saw them last year, or maybe you saw them 5 minutes ago and just got back from the bathroom, and both your faces light up with both happiness and a sense of warmth and comfort that feels like home, and that joy and light makes everyone look ten times more beautiful than they already are.

Only with family do you get into the All Night Long circle, rocking and swaying to Lionel Ritchie at the end of the night, already knowing it's going to make you cry with happiness and nostalgia.  And you do cry.  And so do others.  And it's perfect, because it's family.

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail, poisoned in the bushes and blown out on the trail

A couple of weeks ago, before the kids left for Mexico, I was sitting in my office at around 4:45 in the afternoon when I saw that the sky was turning blackish greenish brown.  It had been relatively mild before then, but in a matter of minutes, everything went dark, the wind started whipping sideways, and pellets of hail started hammering at the windows.  Then it started to dump rain, and suddenly there were flash flood warnings and rivers of water running down the street.

These are classic signs that a tornado may be on the way.

The kids were across the street at their summer camp, and when I saw the weather, I knew I had to head over there.  There was crazy rain and hail and a foot of water in the road, but Zeke is terrified of tornadoes, so I figured if the sirens started to go off and we had to shelter in place, better that I be there with him.  So I braved the elements and arrived at the YMCA bedraggled and with my clothes soaked up to my knees, but otherwise no worse for the wear.

As soon as I got there, the tornado sirens started to go off.  My kids, as well as the others who were still waiting for their parents to come pick them up, were already nervous, but at the sound of the siren they all visibly stiffened.  Zeke's eyes got really wide and his breathing became rapid and shallow - he was starting to panic.

"Mama, we're not going to be OK.  WE'RE NOT GOING TO BE OK!"

"We are going to be fine, honey.  I'm here and we're going to be just fine.  We're going to go downstairs to the basement and wait for the storm to pass."

But he couldn't calm down.  He was shaking and crying and scared.  I hugged him to me and tried to reassure him as best I could.

The camp counselors led us to the basement of the building, which is old and solid and has survived many storms in its 100 year history.  We sat on the floor of the hallway and waited.

A number of the littler kids were crying.  I brought them over to sit with me, and soon I had about 6 small children sitting in my lap or huddling on the edges.

"Are my parents going to die?  What if they're caught in the storm?"

"My puppy is outside.  Is she going to die?  She's really dumb and doesn't know where to go."

"What if my house gets hit?"

I tried to think of all my tricks to calm them down.  I gave them my phone to play with.  We sang some songs.  I assured them that their parents would know how to get themselves somewhere safe, and that everything was going to be fine.

I said, "look at the adults around you, including me - our biggest job right now is to keep you safe. Do we look worried?  No?  Then that means that you don't need to worry either.  When the grownups start to freak out, that's when you can freak out, but as long as we're calm, you can stay calm, too."

All of these things placated them somewhat.  But the truth was, they were going to be scared until the storm was over and their parents showed up and the skies were clear again.  Which they eventually were.

I have thought about that day a lot in the past two weeks.

Two Saturdays ago, J and his girlfriend took the kids to Mexico for a 2 week vacation.  I was nervous about agreeing to it, but ultimately decided that it was the reasonable thing to do.

I handed over their passports and loaned him a suitcase and said goodbye.  Then I went home and cried.

I have cried every day since.  It has felt like there was a tornado going on in my head and in my body.  My emotions have left me beaten and raw.  I have been so anxious I felt like I was having panic attacks - I even got my doctor to prescribe me some anti-anxiety meds to keep me from flying right off the rails.  I have been despondent and depressed.  I have been lonely beyond belief.  I have missed my children to the point of feeling physical pain as a result.

I have mourned the loss of time I will have with them.

Not to belabor the metaphor, but the past two weeks I've felt like those kids trying to keep it together during that tornado.  There have been times when I felt like I couldn't deal with what was going on in my life at all.  Then there would be interludes when I would get out of the house to have dinner with friends, or play bar trivia with a local Meetup group, or go to the pool and hang out with my neighbors.  Eventually things will calm down and I won't feel so panicked and unsettled.

Tomorrow my children will come back and I will be able to spend the evening with them.  Then the next morning I will leave for DC for the weekend for another India reunion.  As ever, I am beyond excited to see my friends, but it will be hard to be away from my kids.  But after I get back, I'll have 3 weeks with them, including a trip to the Outer Banks of North Carolina with my family where we'll play Uno and swim in the pool and relax at the beach while trying to avoid being eaten by sharks.

And then we'll get back and have to start working on a new schedule - one that will give me more time to myself and more freedom to try to build a new life for myself, but less time with them.

I have to accept it.  It pains me to accept it, but I have to accept it.  I have to be a grownup about it.

Even if being a grownup sucks sometimes.

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a pray-er, a magic-bean-buyer...

After three hours in the indoor water park, replete with water slides and lazy rivers and tubing, we were on our way home to get some lunch and have a nap.  I looked behind me to give the kids a "come on, let's keep moving" when I noticed them leaning over a wall with their hands in a little fountain on the other side.  I realized they were rummaging for the coins people had thrown in there.

"Look, Mama, I have money!" Josie exclaimed.

"Honey, you need to put that back."

"Why?  People left it there."

"I know, but they left it in there to make wishes."

She looked confused.

"Sometimes people make wishes and throw coins in fountains because they think it helps make the wishes come true," I explained.

"That's stupid," she said.

"Is it?"

"Yes.  Wishes never come true," she said emphatically.

"Never?  I don't know, I think some wishes come true," I offered.

"No, they don't.  Mine never do."

"Really? Never?"

"No.  I keep wishing for a pet baby elephant, and I never get one."

I guess by those standards, she's right.

Adventures in Online Dating: The Geezer Edition

I have dipped my toe into the online dating waters.  I started on a couple of different sites, but that was annoying and I found myself irritated by the prospect of trying to connect with someone, so I ditched the specialty sites (Eharmony (SOOO annoying) and JDate (not enough Jews in Denver, or at least none that I wanted to meet - pickins were slim)) and went to Old Reliable, a/k/a Match.com.

I've been on two dates so far, both Jewish, ironically.  The first guy was pleasant enough and we had a nice time at dinner, but there was no spark.  He was a bit persnickety and lacked a sense of adventure.  The second was a complete fucking tool - admitted that he had no interests, didn't really care about having friends, hated everything to do with the outdoors (when I talked about going hiking, he said, "so what does hiking entail, exactly?"), and admitted that he only cared about making money.

In the meantime, I would scroll through profiles and get "winks" and "faves" and receive messages from different guys.  Including an alarming number of men in their 60s.

My profile settings indicate that I'm interested in guys aged 40 through 55, but honestly, 55 would be a stretch.  He would have to be a George Clooney-esque 55 year old.  I'm really more interested in someone my own age, or within 3 or 4 years either way.  Bottom line, I want to be physically attracted to a guy, and most men in their late 50s or 60s aren't going to cut it.

Remember that episode of Sex and the City when Samantha was dating that really rich old guy, and was able to keep it together until one night after she was in bed with him, he got up to go to the bathroom or something and she got a full look at his flat, flabby, wrinkly old-man ass?  That's the stuff of nightmares for me.

The first older guy I heard from was 61.  He acknowledged that he was 6 years outside of my age range, but insisted that he was spry and athletic and that he could "run circles around" me.  I highly doubt it, but in any event based on his picture, I just didn't find him attractive at all.  There are older men who have that cool, distinguished-gentleman-but-still-sexy energy, and this guy was not one of those.  Sorry, dude.

This is from one of my favorite Louis CK bits about how
there really isn't someone for everyone.
https://youtu.be/aUgQPzq6ifc

So I responded and thanked him for his interest and his kind words, but that I felt that a 16 year age difference was more than I would be comfortable with.

He wrote me back with a lecture about how you never know if you like someone until you meet them, chastised me that he just wanted to meet for a drink, not marry me, and that his last girlfriend was younger than me and he ran circles around her (he does a lot of running in circles around people, apparently), so age shouldn't be an issue.

I wanted to respond by explaining that now I didn't want to meet him not because he was too old, but because he was an asshole, and that maybe the reason I didn't want to date a man 16 years older is because he'd have a tendency to treat me like a child who didn't know her own mind, as he had just done to me.  Or alternatively, I wanted to respond by telling him he could go piss up a rope.

But I said nothing and moved on.

The next day, I got a message from a 62 year old.  Again I told him he was too old for me, again he lectured me about being closed-minded.

*sigh*

Then I got a message from a guy who is 67.  Sixty-fucking-seven.  Twenty-two years older than me, and three years younger than my mother.  His kids are probably my age.

My mother suggested that I ask him if he has a son who is cute and single.  Heh.

At least he was polite when I told him I wasn't interested.

But there is hope!  I've been in communication with a couple of guys my age, and I've got a date. We're going sailing, which will be such a fun, lovely respite from the shit-show that my life has been for the past week and a half.  Maybe we'll click, maybe we won't, but it won't suck to drink wine on a boat with a smart, funny guy.

Well, that was unexpectedly pleasant.

I am now officially a single person.

In terms of my day-to-day life, I have been for a while now.  But today it's legal and I'm back to the last name I was born with and it's all there in black and white.

Today J and I went for our final hearing.  It was a little bit alarming when the judge called us up and said, "so what is it that you're expecting from me today?"

"Uh, a final decree, Your Honor?"  I responded.

"But have you filed anything other than the initial petition?  I don't see any other documents."

"Yes, sir, we filed the financial disclosures with the petition, and then submitted our settlement agreement and parenting plan last week."

And after checking with the clerk, our documents were found and we were ready to go.

The hearing was pretty basic.  The judge reviewed the terms of our agreements, and then had us answer a series of questions, confirming that we understood what was in the documents and that we didn't have any unresolved issues that needed to be settled.  Neither of us is seeking alimony, we are in full agreement on all financial matters, and we are in full agreement with respect to the custody and care of the children.

It was us saying, "yes, sir ... yes, sir ... correct, Your Honor ... yes, sir ..." for about 10 minutes.  We were asked to swear that we believed that the agreements we had reached were fair and that everything relating to the children was in their best interests.  We swore.

The judge then pronounced our marriage dissolved.  But before he let us go, he had something he wanted to tell us.

He said that he wanted to thank us and to commend us for coming to court having agreed upon everything, and for coming to agreements, particularly relating to the children, that were so obviously carefully thought out, even-handed, and good for them.  Apparently, it's the rare divorcing couple who is able to do that, even though I truly cannot conceive of proceeding any other way.

"It's people like you who make my job easy, and who understand that the two most important people in this case are not the people in this courtroom, but rather are Ezekiel and Josephine.  It is clear that you have been able to put aside whatever issues you may have between the two of you and focus on them, and as a result, you have given them the best possible chance to grow up happy, healthy, well-adjusted, and secure in the love of both their parents."

I said, "thank you so much for saying that, Your Honor.  That's incredibly kind of you."

I thought he would dismiss us at that point, but he went on like that for another three or four minutes. It was really astounding.

For whatever reason, and even though there was nothing rational about feeling this way, I was very anxious before the hearing.  I wanted to be out of the marriage, and we've been de facto split up, including dividing the assets and living with the custody schedule, for ten months.  So nothing was happening today except a judge decreeing that what had already happened was official.  Even so, part of me was a little bit sad.  I don't like failing at anything.

But we both walked out of that court room on top of the world, feeling like we could proceed with our respective futures because we had dealt with our past in a compassionate, fair, reasonable way.

Not a bad Monday, all things considered.

To life, to life, l'chaim, life has a way of confusing us, blessing and bruising us

Eighteen years ago today, I went on a blind date with a guy my chiropractor had set me up with.  We decided to go hiking up in north Georgia, and we took my dog Floyd.

I don't remember the guy's name or what he looked like, but I knew I would never see him again because of this exchange:

TOOL:  So, how was your week?  Anything exciting happen in your life?

ME:  Actually, it did.  I became an aunt for the first time.  My brother and his wife had a baby today.

TOOL:  Really?  That's great!  Is it a boy or a girl?

ME:  They had a little girl.  Her name is Emma.

TOOL:  Aw, that's too bad.

ME:  What?  What are you talking about?

TOOL:  Well, guys don't ever really want daughters.  Guys really want sons.

ME:  That's ridiculous.  They're thrilled to have a little girl.  The whole family is.

I had a good time on the hike because it was a beautiful day and Floyd was always good company, but I pretty much ignored my date for the rest of the day because I found him so insufferable.

Emma's arrival into the family was a day to be celebrated, and even though we only got her for 17 years, I'll never stop celebrating this day.

But the first one is so hard.  For the past few weeks, today's date has been looming.  We've all been strapped to the front of a hurtling cannonball, heading toward the side of a hard, rock-strewn mountain with no way to avoid the crash.

I've been crying, off and on, for what feels like forever.

I know that eventually, the grief won't be quite as raw.  It will never go away, but at a certain point, constantly feeling like your insides have been scooped out isn't sustainable.  There are children to raise, jobs to be done, experiences to be enjoyed.  Life has to be lived.  Emma knew that, and it would be a dishonor to her memory to let her death be an excuse for not living as fully as possible.

In Judaism, the number 18 has special significance, because the numerical values of the Hebrew letters that spell the word "chai" (pronounced with a hard gutteral "ch," not like the spiced tea) - life -  add up to the number 18.  Eighteen is the number of celebrating life.

I'm trying very hard to remember that today.

You don't know what you've got till you lose it all again

As with Thanksgiving, which was lovely but also incredibly painful, there's another heavy milestone coming up.  Emma's 18th birthday is in a little over a week.

My emotions are very close to the surface these days.  Every conversation I have at some point turns to her, and I cry.  I'll go through periods of a few hours when I'm OK, and then a period of a few hours when my eyes are constantly leaking and if I breathe too deeply I'll break down.

I feel weighted down and anxious, like I've got big, cold rocks sitting on my chest.

Music is a time machine.

When I'm driving, I toggle back and forth between 80s on 8 or the classic 80s alternative station, and I get whiplash from the immediate, visceral associations that different songs bring on.

Journey's Open Arms comes on and suddenly I'm 13 years old and in the downstairs of the student union building at the American International School in Kfar Shmaryahu, Israel, doing the side-to-side slow dance shuffle that is embedded in the DNA of every American teenager at middle school dances everywhere.  I can see the table of hors d'oevres, with the last few tired sprigs of broccoli and carrots lying next to the few remaining dregs of hummus in a plastic bowl. I can see what I and everyone else is wearing, including the high-waisted jeans that, for reasons I will never understand, are coming back in style.  I feel the unfortunately chosen hairstyle that I'm sporting - bangs on my forehead, even though bangs look shitty on me and my hair has too many funky cowlicks and curls for them to sit the way I want them to.  I can smell the Old Spice wafting from the face of the nervous boy with whom I'm swaying to the music.

Then Bruce Hornsby's Valley Road comes on, and I careen 2800 miles southeast and 4 years forward in time, to a hotel balcony in Kerala, India.  My friends and I are on our school's annual "mini-course" trip - a week when the high school students at the American Embassy School in New Delhi fan out across the subcontinent to get hands-on experience in the customs, traditions and history of India - and the trip we've chosen is a week at the beach.  We do some sightseeing and partake in activities with some education value. But for the most part, our chaperones are as content as we are to sunbathe during the day and hang out at night on our hotel balconies drinking beer (we didn't drink with the teachers, but there's no way they didn't know, especially because there was no drinking age that was enforced) and smoking cigarettes and listening to music, including the new Bruce Hornsby and the Range album, which was hugely popular (and which still holds up almost 30 years later).

Against my shins, I can feel the edges of the blue sarong, interwoven with gold threads, that I am wearing as a dress.  I can feel the soft humid warm air on my bare shoulders, and smell the plumeria flowers in the trees.  I can hear the voices of my friends, laughing and talking and arguing over nothing of consequence.  I feel the butterflies in my belly and chest, brought about by the fact that this week, the boy I've been crazy about all year has professed his love for me as well.  We're sitting next to each other and our arms and hands keep brushing together.  Everything is beautiful and new and exciting, and the magic of life is spread out before me like an enormous silk rug.

Suddenly I'm back in my car in 2015, on my way to Sports Authority to pick up cleats and soccer socks for the kids.  I'm sobbing, because the rush of nostalgia - that yearning for the time in my life when everything was possible - mixes with the fact that Emma's life ended just as she was getting to that point.  My head drops and the tears fall and my breathing gets ragged.  I have to pull over.

After a couple of minutes, I take a deep breath and collect myself.  I check the rearview mirror and wipe the runny mascara from my face.  I change the radio station and start driving again, off to run my errands and then meet my children at the soccer fields.

She's got the usage down pat. And the spelling.

One of the things my dad likes to talk about is how different his three children are, despite having been raised by the same parents with the same rules and the same amount of love.  (For the most part, re the rules.  Josh and I maintain, I think correctly, that Sam, as the youngest child who experienced parental discipline after they had already been worn down, got away with much more than either of us would have).

And obviously, we're all different people.

The personality differences between Zeke and Josie are becoming more pronounced.  She likes hard rock-type headbanger music (I've seen her jump around to Ozzy Osborne).  Zeke prefers singer-songwriter stuff like Mumford and Sons.  They still both love Katy Perry.

Zeke is very sensitive, and extremely concerned with being in my good graces.  For me to tell him that I'm disappointed in him is about the harshest thing I could say.  But at the same time, he's receptive to being corrected.  If I tell him that I don't like something he's doing and that he needs to change it, he usually will.

Josie, on the other hand, gives zero fucks about being in trouble (most of the time).  If she misbehaves, I can go on a tirade about the various ways she's pissing me off, and she'll pretty much roll her eyes at me and just wait patiently until I'm done.

So they have extremely divergent attitudes about swear words.

Neither J nor I swear in front of the kids (save for the occasional slip-up, or words like "hell" or "damn").  I know that they know the words, and probably use them with their friends when adults are out of earshot, but I hate it when I hear kids swearing.

Zeke is very conscientious.  On the rare occasion that I'm watching a grown-up movie (i.e., something rated beyond PG) when they walk into a room, Zeke will hear bad language and say solemnly, "Mama, we shouldn't be hearing language like this."  Josie, on the other hand, will soak it all in before I have a chance to turn it off.  Filing it away for later.

When we were leaving Iceland, we decided to get something to eat at the airport before getting on the plane.  The airport is kind of weirdly sprawling, so there are endless hallways and a huge duty free area.  It was hard to figure out the best place to get something fast.  We finally settled on Joe and the Juice, a cafeteria-style place where you can get stuff like pizza and hot dogs (Icelandic hot dogs are the shiz) and pre-made pastas like lasagna.

The place was a zoo, and ridiculously disorganized.  Nobody could figure out where the lines began or ended, or what the procedure was for ordering something.  And getting the food took forever.  I ordered a small cheese pizza.  It took 20 minutes, and by the time I hustled back to where the kids were sitting with my parents, I was a frazzled mess.

"Geez, that was crazy.  I can't believe how inefficient their system is,"  I said.

Josie waved her arms around and exclaimed, "what's with this fucking line??"

My eyes widened.

"Seriously, can you believe this fucking line??" she repeated.  She sounded like an indignant New Yorker.

"What did you just say?"  I was shocked, but the way she said it was so perfect that it was also hilarious, so I had to keep a straight face.

She kind of shrugged and just looked at me.

I gave her the "we do not use that kind of language that is inappropriate missy" speech, while she gazed at me, looking bored.  I was trying really hard not to laugh.

Zeke was scandalized.  "Mama!  Josie used the 'f' word!  The one ends with an 'n.'"

At this point I'm biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from cracking up.  My parents, who were grinning at this whole exchange, weren't helping matters.

"Actually, the 'f' word she used ends with a 'g,'" I clarified.

"No, Mama," Josie corrected me.  "It's the one that ends with an 'n.'"

And the way she said it, I guess she was right.

Important lessons in phallology, and other tales from Iceland

We went to Iceland last week for spring break.  Me and the kids and my parents.  It was a fabulous trip in a fascinating country I had never visited before.  We learned about the Vikings and went to museums about whales and the aurora borealis.  

And penises.

Yep, there's a penis museum in Iceland (the only one of its kind in the world, apparently), featuring specimens from the various mammals indigenous to Iceland.  The kids were looking forward to going there for months.  At one point before we left, I was telling Josie about the different things we could see in Iceland, including a museum with life-size replicas of whales.

"Doesn't that sound cool?"

"Mama, I don't want to do anything until we've seen the penis museum."

Fair enough.  Luckily, it was right down the street from our apartment.

Mrs. Humpback Whale is a happy camper

So we saw specimens that ran the gamut from humpback whale penises to tiny little mouse penises, and everything in between.  They even have a human specimen (how they obtained it is the subject of the documentary "The Final Member," currently streaming on Netflix).

Josie's remarks on it were, "geez, it's really hairy!"

It's good to learn these things early.

Everything about the trip felt like an adventure.  We went on a helicopter ride over Reykjavik and saw the lava- and volcano-covered countryside, including landing on the side of a volcano next to a thermal vent, where boiling water was bubbling out of the snowy ground.

The view of Reykjavik from the helicopter.  The tall building is the Hallgrimskirkja, a beautiful church and the tallest building in the city.

A geothermal vent.  Iceland is basically one giant geothermal hotspot.

We climbed up the side of a cliff (via a built in staircase) and viewed the spectacular Skogafoss waterfall from the top.

The kids were totally down with walking up the 438 steps to the viewing platform (and insisted on counting the steps as they climbed).

We saw the Strokkur geysir erupt about 5 times (it goes off every 4-5 minutes).  Every single time it was startling and thrilling.

We hiked to a glacier.  It's amazing to think of the land being shaped and molded by these giant, heavy flows of ice.

The marbled glacier ice.  To get a sense of the scale of it, you can see a person on the right side of the photo, hiking up it.

We went to the black sand beaches of the southern coast, with its enormous, angry surf and its otherworldly cliffs and rock formations borne of ancient volcanoes.

Cliffs formed by basalt columns at the Reynisfjara beach (similar to the Giant's Causeway in Ireland).

The landscape was like nothing I'd ever seen, desolate and lunar-looking and stark and beautiful.  It felt like being on another planet, sometimes.

But then we were brought back to Earth by the inevitable crazy-small-world encounter.  The last night we were there was the first night of Passover.  Before the trip, we went online to see if there was a Passover seder somewhere in Reykjavik that we could attend, and found one run by a Chabad group.  Chabad is an ultra-orthadox Hassidic movement in Judaism, and quite honestly, I find its practitioners to be creepy as fuck, but it was the only game in town.  When we got there and I went to introduce myself to the rabbi, without thinking I reached out my hand for him to shake.  He recoiled as if I had threatened to spit on him and said, "sorry, but my mother taught me to never touch anything that isn't mine."  Ugh.  Fuck you, dude.

But I digress.  Back to the small world.

There were a bunch of other folks there, a couple of locals, but mostly people like us who were traveling and wanted to still observe the holiday - Americans, an Italian, some Israelis, and a French woman who was married to an Icelander.  After we went through the initial part of the ceremony and had dinner, we went around the room to introduce ourselves, say where we were from, and maybe say something about our own experiences or traditions with Passover.

One of the women was a retired teacher named Susie from central Colorado.  She and her husband were traveling through northern Europe to do some nordic skiing.  And so we compared notes and it turns out she knows a bunch of people in the Colorado special education world that I know, and is close friends with a woman who works in my office.  But to meet Susie, I had to go to a Passover seder in freaking Iceland.

The kids, meanwhile, had a blast with the children of the French-Icelandic couple.  Rather than sit through the seder, which included a lot of songs they weren't familiar with because I don't include them in my seders at home (Josie harumphed, "this isn't a dinner!  It's a song-over!"), the kids hung out in this little play area in the hotel outside the dining room.  The other kids spoke only French, and my kids speak only English, but they immediately established a rapport and had fun playing.

Zeke came back in and exclaimed, "Mama, I love this Passover!  I get to play with my friends!"

"What are their names?" I asked.

"I don't know," he shrugged, and headed back out to them.

We came home the next day, happy and tired, with our horizons broadened and new, nameless friends to call our own.