Category Archives: Relationships

Relationships

From Valentine’s Day to Mother’s Day

5 Comments
When I was a newlywed, every thing that my husband did or did not do was a direct reflection of his love for me. No pressure there.
But I had jumped into a delicate situation. My new husband was a widower and the cause of his late wife’s death was tragic and unexpected. It was a movie with an unhappy ending and I arrived to help pick up the pieces.
The problem was that I thought I was stronger than I actually was. I wanted to be the helper that flew in on a cloud of fairy dust to sweep all the hurt feelings into a manageable corner of their hearts. I hadn’t anticipated that my own heart wasn’t as solid as I had come to believe.
It’s not until you are in a safe place in your life, that you are really able to survey the actual damage you may live in. Damage from the past that you may have unknowingly carried with you from relationship to relationship, be that friendships, romances or family.
My damage involved bad decisions, incorrect childhood interpretations and parents that did the best they could while moving across the world to find that safe harbor for themselves and their daughter.
On the first Valentine’s Day I shared with my new husband, I was still trying to find my way across the tightrope of my life with the safety net that my new husband’s love had unexpectedly provided me. At that point, I hadn’t even really known this was something I needed – nor that it was even there.
Once the euphoria of this handsome man loving me had started to wear off, I started to feel like my old self. My old self demanded proof that my partners and friends actually loved me because I had been tricked before.  My old self believed all my damage made me unlovable. Plus, I was also stepping into the shadow of the unshakable love between a dead woman and the man who had fiercely loved her.
When my new husband gave me a generic pink necklace he had bought off the internet for our first Valentine’s Day, it was all the evidence I needed that, indeed, he did not really love me, that he would never look at me in the same way he looked at his first wife in the pictures I had found, that I deserved the second class love I was getting as punishment for my past mistakes.
A Shattered Love Story

 

Now, my new husband had no idea why his gift sparked the outrageous lecture about thoughtful present selections and lazy gift-giving. All he knew was he gave his new wife a gift and she freaked out was unhappy.
It took a while for me to see how unfair I was being, how the feelings I was reacting to had nothing to do with him but were the ghosts of people long ago. I had to walk on  that tightrope for a while and fall many times and realize he was still there and I was still okay. We were still okay.
Today, 10 years later, I woke up to a completely unplanned Mother’s Day. It was the first time he hadn’t orchestrated a huge brunch for all the mothers at our house because his sister would be coming into town next weekend and Kyle would be home from college. So, he postponed his annual tribute to the moms in his life with his cooked eggs, fruit and salmon until next weekend.
So instead, this year, I got to sleep in, read a little in bed and receive the little handmade gifts that my children thoughtfully made for me. Somewhere around 10, he realized he had to go to the grocery store to buy ingredients to make breakfast. And then I got to sit in silence and write about this memory I had and the realization that came with it.
And this is the realization: My husband doesn’t have to go big anymore to make me feel big. I don’t need that constant proof that my husband loves me. After all these years of me falling, of us figuring out how to talk to each other, of us saying the worst thing we can think of and having the other still be there, after all these years of building together the patchwork of our love and mistakes, I already know.
My perfect Sunday view

 

 

My perfect peeps

 

Relationships

I’m Sorry For Your Loss

Leave a comment

 

My Hero                                      06/08/1941-10/27/2016

Please don’t say you’re sorry for my loss or give me your condolences. You don’t have to say anything. I’ll still be where I am and feel the suck of my soul regardless of these words you use, which are society’s assigned phrase to help not the grieving but the dispassionate deal with the grieving.

They are generic attributes of the most heartbreaking and fundamental part of our lives and are an insult to the grieving. They say you are distant from the pain. They say you’ve chosen to remain apart and not open yourself to connect, even for a second, with that part of life that rips the most precious people from your world.

If you do want to help, even a silent touch or a heartfelt hug is better than the meaningless banter of those hollow words. Just say you’re so sorry. That’s enough to let me know, even if you don’t feel my pain, that you wish I wasn’t feeling it either.

If you go even deeper and tell me what a good daughter or mother or friend I was, then you’ll be forced to share in my pain of knowing how simple it would have been to have done more and maybe, if I had, then he’d have been happier and made a bigger effort to get stronger and fight to heal his body and chase the demons from his mind.

If you say I was lucky to have had him at all, you would be right and I could feel the gratitude in that. His memory is my reality and right now it’s less a blessing than a feeling of emptiness that it’s now just a memory.

I wish we could take it all back, Papa, and you could be here again.

Family Passport photo leaving the USSR
Relationships, Wellness and Beauty

Outside In

24 Comments

There’s a time in my life for which I should be very grateful. That’s what the doctors have told me every time they’ve heard the story and every time they’ve seen my scars. One doctor even said, had the accident happened 15 years earlier, I would be missing a leg for sure.

But I am old enough to know that what should be and what is are often very different.

When I first met my husband, I hid myself. He didn’t know what was beneath the clothes or behind the girl. Because it was a new relationship, in every moment I was reborn. I got to recreate myself in his eyes and through his eyes, I saw that I was pleasing.

As we strung the days we spent together into a happy little fantasy, there came the time he brought me home after a date and we were kissing on my couch. I had rehearsed the line in my head all day. Maybe even the day before, anticipating it’s inevitable arrival. As I felt his hands start to move beneath my shirt, I knew the moment had come. Instead of excitement, I felt dread. I stopped kissing and moved my head back a few inches, preparing to say the line. “Are you ok?” he asked.

“I have some scars,” I whispered, and waited into the moment. Preparing for rejection, a tentative drop of his hands and the space growing larger between our bodies. He didn’t say anything. I felt shame course through my heart. I felt his fingers lift my face and a wonder at the laugh I heard him make. “Um, yeah,” he said. “I figured you’d have some scars.”

Five years before that night, I had been in a motorcycle accident. It left me in the hospital for almost two months. I flat-lined twice and the doctors had told my parents to say goodbye because I wouldn’t survive the night. I had lost 90% of my blood, draining the hospital of its A+ blood supply through transfusion. I had a compound fracture in my left leg, a broken wrist and three broken ribs that had punctured my lungs, my heart and my liver. As a result, I also had a tracheotomy.

The tracheotomy scars were easy to fix. A plastic surgeon just snipped out the scar tissue and glued my skin together. You can’t tell it was there.

My insides healed too. But I was left with a wide, angry white scar down the middle of my torso from being held open by a surgical retractor.

surgical-retractors-pelvic-67616-3374297

It divided me like a playing field, each side populated by opposing asymmetrical circles, like little players ready to charge each other. The plastic surgeon was worried that if he tried to make it look prettier by cutting the scar tissue out and reattaching it, I wouldn’t have enough skin left to have healthy kids.  He was afraid it wouldn’t stretch enough and their little brains wouldn’t have enough room to grow.  So even before motherhood, I was making sacrifices for the kids.

So, instead of prancing the Earth, throwing fairy dust into the air from the gratitude I felt for not only surviving this accident but also managing to thrive afterwards, I was instead engulfed in feelings of remorse and nostalgia for the times I was able to walk around in shorts, worry free (because now I also had two vicious round scars on my calf and shin from the bones popping out + a white stripe on my thigh from the skin they had to peel off to cover that mess). And I was never going to wear a bikini, I decided. No way was I going to expose my ugly middle to a world of judgmental, media scarred people. No way. It didn’t matter if I worked out all the time to look my best, a tankini was the closest I’d ever come to barring my body.

bikini 2
working out in paradise is tough

And that’s just how it’s been all these years. But for all the negativity that surrounds getting older, there are some rarely talked about benefits. For one, I’m not as hard on myself. Not every thing I do or every way I look is a direct reflection of who I am.

I love too many things about myself to keep letting myself get dragged down by trying to be the person I think everyone wants me to be, instead of discovering and embracing the unique person I am.

So fast forward 10 years to the boyfriend who is now a husband who tells me, when it comes up, that he doesn’t even see my scars.

bikini 6

This now husband and I have three children we’re raising and friends we love so much, we want to travel with them and so we do.

bikini 5

We went to Club Med this past summer for our annual big trip.

bikini 8

And on this trip I have decided I no longer want to hide myself from the world. I am going to throw myself open and let the world do what it wants.

bikini 9
That’s right world: do it!

I have too many other things to be grateful for to worry about getting the seal of approval from strangers.

DSC_0054

DSC_0009 bikini 4

And you know what? No one looked twice. And what did my family think?

bikini 3
Beyond blessed. Thank you God.

Relationships

Stepmothering: The Course I Took Too Late

1 Comment

wedding

When I became a stepmom eight years ago, there were few resources to guide me over the rough spots in my new life. I read the only thin book I could find on the subject of parenting step children, and its bottom line was: “It’s the hardest job you’ll ever have and no one will ever thank you for it.”

Before step-motherhood, I thought I was a kind and thoughtful person.

images

But based on my troubled relationships with my stepson, my in-laws and – as a result – my husband, I soon began to think there must be something inherently wrong with me. I imagined that someone else with a different background, a different disposition, or even a different hairstyle would have handled things better.

fef88f49c510920f8f385616e09bbd33

Recently I took Kathy Hammond’s course, How to be a Stepmom: 51 Ways To Save Your Marriage, Your Shirt and Your Sanity, online at Udemy.com and realized that even Mary Poppins wouldn’t have been up to the tough job of stepmothering without at some point thinking she was losing her mind.

Hammond is a business development executive and lifestyle coach living in Yorba Linda, and has mothered two stepsons for 23 years. Her course includes advice on money, legal issues, discipline, extended family and relationships. This is one woman’s experience, but I felt it addressed the most common situations a new stepmother will face.

1169617-Cartoon-Of-An-Imprisoned-Woman-Behind-Bars-Royalty-Free-Vector-Clipart

The first lecture alleviated the guilt that had haunted me from the beginning of my marriage. Hammond said: “You can’t fix a hurt you didn’t cause.”

I went into my relationship with my husband, who was a widower, and his son, trying to soften the pain they had experienced with the untimely death of my husband’s first wife. I was never able to do that, and I wish now that someone had told me it would have been impossible for that to happen.

I wish I had had the benefit of her insight eight years ago. It would have saved a lot of energy and heartache. This 90-minute course was definitely worth the $9 price of admission.

Check out the course yourself at www.udemy.com.

The original article for this post appeared in LA Parent.

Relationships

The Sand House pt. 3

7 Comments

I’ve always tried to change things for the better. Or at least my interpretation of the better.  I believe I know what’s right and how things should be and can never understand why people don’t do the right thing. Some people may call me controlling. But those people aren’t very nice. 

After years of trying to change the world, I’ve finally had to admit, I can’t change or fix everything. Believe me, I’ve beat my head to a raw pulp trying to budge some of those brick walls that shape things into what they are.

This is how my world would look

Today that brick wall is my dad. I’ve had very limited influence over his decision-making processes in the past but I’ve had more than most. I’ve been trying to use that limited influence like a snake charmer trying to coax him into The Sand House.

We went back to have lunch there last Saturday. My husband, Howard, took pity on my solo plight and offered to have his dad watch the boys so he could accompany us. I wasn’t sure about this. On one hand, I really needed the support and felt relieved to have him hold my hand as I traversed the narrow path between love and fear. On the other, I was afraid he would break the bubble I had created in my head to better deal with this situation. Within this bubble sat my dad who reluctantly agreed to enter into this new senior living situation and found he was much happier, healthier and surrounded by new friends. I didn’t want Howard asking questions or giving opinions that touched, or even worse, burst my bubble. But I appreciated that he acknowledged how difficult this has been for me and wanted to help out. This was the part of marriage that felt like a partnership or a team.

So we picked up my dad and took him to The Sand House. Lunch was being served in the dining room which felt more like an oceanfront restaurant.

I think an ocean view helps with digestion
We were seated by the hostess and greeted warmly by our server, Helen, the Russian speaking immigrant who had wanted to meet my dad. Or at least welcome him as a fellow Russian. She was surprisingly fantastic, like a female Don Rickles. She was irreverant, poking fun at the residents but in such a kindhearted, loving way, she had everyone giggling. I could see the light in my dad’s eyes as he gazed at her with a wonderous smile.
 
I felt hopeful.
 
We went and looked at his potential room again while my husband sprinkled appreciative comments along our path, “Wow, this place is great.” He sounded sincere. 
“I know,” I replied, “It’s amazing. I really do want to live here someday.” 
“No really,” he said, like I was doubting him. 
“I know!” I replied, could we move on already? My dad just walked alongside us with his left foot slightly dragging. And we went into the room again to confirm just how amazing this place really was.
view from amazing room
We left feeling good. Or I was feeling good, like I was a step closer to him agreeing. How could he not? We even had an elderly gentleman stop by our lunch table and give an unsolicited testimonial about how great the place was. And my husband kept reaffirming how much better this place was than the one his grandma had lived in and how it was so much better than he had imagined. This made me wonder, does he not believe me when I tell him something? Because I had already told him it was perfect. But that’s another story, ha ha.
 
We dropped off my dad back at his apartment and told him I’d call him the next day. When I called him, I wanted to casually ask what he had thought of our visit but couldn’t find the courage to say the words. I wasn’t ready for any responses other than the one I needed to hear. So we chit chatted and I called again the following day. At the end of the conversation, I summoned my courage and asked. “So. Wha’d you think of The Sand House?” Brief silence.
 
“No,” he said with a deep sigh. “No.” A little softer.
 
 I don’t think his inner platelets ever budged, not far enough to create the type of seismic shift that would have allowed him to move into the direction for which I had hoped for him.
 
I couldn’t hold it together any more. I was too tired to keep down the bubbles that begged to explode from the bottle. This last ‘no’ had shaken the contents until there was a little explosion. I didn’t yell but I was very stern. I lectured him about what a good opportunity this was for him. He could heal, make friends and enjoy the beach anytime he wanted.  I urgently kept talking but I knew there was no hope. He had made up his mind and I couldn’t shift his glacial stubbornness. I didn’t want to make things worse by getting mad and yelling even though I was so scared for him and didn’t know what else I could do to help him.
 
So I didn’t. I had to let it go and have faith.
 
That night I got an email from my friend, Diana. She too is Russian, though so Americanized, like me, unless she told you, you’d never suspect. But being an immigrant, regardless of how young you were when you got to this country, shapes you. Maybe you have a stronger feeling for the plight of other immigrants. Maybe you are more empathetic to the struggle of being a loner in a foreign land, even if that land has been your home for decades.
 
Anyway, Diana reached out to me by giving me the phone number of a Russian home services agency passed on to her by her grandmother.
 
In the darkness of my disappointment, I felt a glimmer of hope.
 
It appeared we now had a Plan B.
 

 

Relationships

The Sand House pt.2

14 Comments

He said no.

I heard the no, between his chuckles and warped speech, the kind I usually have to rummage through to find the words he actually means to use. I feel myself starting to sink. I tread harder but play dumb because I’m tired and don’t have the energy a commitment to this conversation will require.

“No?” I ask, hoping I’m wrong about what I’m suspecting he means. “No, what?” I always have to have an idea of where he’s going with his words, to help guide him to his meaning. Like a game of charades but with half syllables instead of pantomime. Since his brain tumor and ensuing stroke, he has had a problem with word retrieval. He knows what he wants to say, he just can’t find the words to say it. Sometimes he uses words from the other languages he knows, thinking they’re the ones he needs, but usually they’re not. Unless I can figure out the terrain of where his meaning lives, we’re both lost and when he’s lost, he gets frustrated and waves me away with an impatient groan, stops trying to say anything and instead resigns himself to be locked in the prison of his mind.

But during this conversation, he seems more lighthearted. I wonder if he’s had some drinks.

“Sand House.” I can decipher the words through his mirth. “Sand House!” he repeats, louder, like a tourist speaking to someone who doesn’t understand his language, assuming a greater volume will make everything clearer.

The Sand House is the assisted living facility we visited together. And, in this stage in his life, it is the perfect senior living situation for him.

The Sand House is in Santa Monica right across the street from the beach. My dad moved us to Santa Monica from ‘Little Russian’ in West Hollywood just before I went into the fourth grade. He hasn’t budged since. Santa Monica is the one place on Earth where he sees God. Or at least His handiwork. The beach is his altar. When he is at the beach, he is in his version of heaven.

The problem is he hasn’t been going to the beach in the last few weeks. He hasn’t taken his regular walks on the boardwalk or really done much of anything.

Since he was duped by his Internet Bride, he’s just been sleeping all day. He wakes around 4pm to sit in front of the TV, and barely eats, if at all. The gold-grubbing thief arranged for a woman who takes care of an ailing, next-door neighbor to come every day and cook and straighten up for him. But this caretaker woman used to drink wine with the Internet Scavenger so I’m not sure about her morals or her intentions. When I ask my dad what he’s eaten each day, his first meal is always cheese, yogurt and coffee and then a soup as his dinner. The skin is flapping around his spaghetti-thin arms. He is looking as skinny as a concentration camp victim. Each of these conversations breaks off another little piece of my heart.

How could this have happened to my dad?


When we visited The Sand House, its bright, airy interior and cheerful staff and residents was a stark contrast to the gloom in which he now lives. I hoped he was seeing what I was seeing.

They serve three gourmet meals a day but also have a small menu available until 6pm so my dad could eat whenever and wherever he likes. They have housekeeping services and laundry. They have exercise classes including his favorites, yoga and tai chi.

This is the room where they execise

They have physical, occupational and speech therapies, all covered by Medicare so it would be 100% free. My dad’s ego has always prevented him from getting the therapy care that he’s needed after each of his medical maladies. His dragging left arm and leg and his stunted speech are the result of his inaction. I can do it myself, he always said. Here, I tell him, he can give his body and brain the attention they need to finally heal.

“You deserve this,” I told him, when we first toured the place. “You’ve always taken care of everyone. Please, please just this once, do something for yourself.”

We even went back again to see the actual rooms that were available, to get a sense of what his life would be like living there. I felt tears meekly slide into my eyes as I looked at the view that he could have.

Actual balcony view from the room he could have
I really wanted this for my dad. I really wanted this for myself. When I’m older and retired, I want to live in a resort overlooking the ocean with meals available anytime of the day and people cleaning my room when it needed plus a variety of activities planned for me – like this one that happened this month on the 20th:

It would be like living in a college dorm except with older people. Sure, when I looked around there were a few people that had special needs but the majority seemed like they were there because they wanted to live their lives fully, not be locked away in some isolated apartment like my dad’s.

When we got back down to the lobby after seeing the two available apartments the last time we visited Sand House, my dad’s ailing leg forced him into an awaiting chair and it appeared, but I didn’t want to look too closely, that he was softly weeping under his fedora. I wanted to give him his moment and had to admit that although I can see the beauty of this potential situation, he might see it differently.

Here’s what I saw (the rooftop deck)

Here’s what he might see

I know, after doing yoga for many years, that what we see in this world may not be what actually exists. People see a blend of what is in front of them and what has happened to them in the past and/or what they are expecting to happen in the future.

I’m sure my dad has seen images of terrible nursing homes, although I would never call this a nursing home. I’d say it’s more like a resort exclusive to seniors.

He said, after his brief weeping episode, when I leaned down to see if he was okay, “I am not in my grave yet.” This was quite a sentence for someone who normally has trouble stringing together more than three words. He proclaimed this with a hot burst of frustration born from the tension taking over his body.

I know when he gets like this not to argue. Besides, there was nothing to argue. “Of course not.” I tried to smooth his rising hackles. “This is not a grave. You’re apartment is more like a grave. This is living. This is being surrounded by people who want to be your friend, who have enough of their own money that they don’t want to steal yours. This is where you can meet a nice woman who will think you are so handsome and like you for who you are. This is where you can do things you enjoy all day long or do nothing at all. Or go for a walk on the beach, which is only across the street!” I ended, sounding more like a cheerleader or a spokesperson for an infomercial than the scared, defeated daughter I was actually being.

Yet, when I called to check in on him the next day, he told me, in no uncertain terms, No. He would not be moving into The Sand House.

Okay, I told him, feeling like a deflated balloon, trying not to get stuck in the slimy swamp of inviting hopelessness, trying not to let anger take over the situation and bring it to an unshakable end. I wished him good night and hung up the phone.

The next day, I called him again and told him I wanted to take him to lunch. “Okay!” he said with excitement in his voice. I couldn’t imagine how lonely he must be now that the greedy witch had abandoned him.

“I’m coming on Saturday and we’ll go back to The Sand House and have lunch in their restaurant and you can meet the Russian server that works there and wanted to meet you.” During our last visit, the nice lady who was facilitating our tours, Kortney, told us there was a woman who spoke Russian and was excited to meet my dad but we were running late that day and she had already gone home.

“Okay,” he said, sounding a little less certain.

“Great!” I wasn’t going to get dragged down by my fears for his future. I wasn’t going to get tangled in my frustration that this situation was going to be harder than I imagined, that his Old World Ego wasn’t going to let him be cared for. If I went down, there wouldn’t be anyone left to see him as the strong, determined man he is that brought us to this country and fought for our survival until we could fight for ourselves. And now I had to fight for him.

Saturday. It was another chance.

My dad sitting in what could be his room

Relationships

The Sand House pt. 1

16 Comments

When I was four, I wanted a colored pencil set more than anything in the world. 



The memory of this seemingly trivial desire has followed me into my 40s, a permanent etching in my mind.

At the time, we were living in Italy. We had just left Israel, where we had sought asylum as Russian-Jewish refugees. 

Our Soviet Union family passport photo

Now we were awaiting permission to enter the United States. I know now, as an adult, when we left the former Soviet Union we were not sent off with kisses and well wishes. We were stripped of our possessions and sent into the unknown with $100 to mark our family fortune.

But my dad is stubborn and a hard worker. I’m sure we were given some type of social assistance when we arrived in Israel because they really do try and take care of their people. I know my dad was a reservist in the Army. 

Dad on left
I know my dad must have worked diligently to rebuild some type of financial cushion because that’s the kind of guy he is.


But by the time we went to Italy, to await the bureaucratic green light, we still weren’t living anywhere near the financial elite. We shared a rented room in a boarding house in Rome.

This was not our room in Rome.
This was actually taken in Israel right before we left
for Rome. In Italy we didn’t take any pictures
because we didn’t own a camera.
But as a four year old, full of desire (and apparently unaware that I was artistically uninclined), I saw that pencil set and imagined all the beautiful pictures I could create with those colors. All I wanted to do was color my life. Maybe it was the influence of the talented street painters we passed by daily. But I knew if I had that set, everything would be perfect. In an anguish of tender consumerism, I threw out a passionate declaration to my young, innocent parents: If they bought me this pencil set, I would never, ever ask for anything else in my entire life.

 

When I made that statement, it was true.

I sincerely sat down, crossed leg, pondering on the checkered tiles in the aisle of the market. I put my little chin into my small hand and asked myself with unflinching honestly: could I really make this commitment? Was there anything else I would ever want? No! I answered myself. There was nothing else. This was truly it.

I got the set. My parents took pity on my passionate plight and relented, I’m sure spending a good percentage of their remaining financial resources to satisfy their four year old’s questionable needs. And needless to say, I have asked for one or two things since then. 

This memory comes to mind because now I have a new wish that falls in the same category of urgency and fervent desire with which I yearned that pencil set. Only this wish is for my father. I want him to live in a nurturing, safe environment. One in which he would have help and supervision. He’s reached the age where he shouldn’t drive, he can’t cook for himself and cleaning has never been his forte. He won’t come live with me. I know he doesn’t want to be a burden, though he never would be, or so I tell myself now. He also doesn’t want to leave his paradise: the beach in Santa Monica. So, I need him to move into an assisted living apartment.

It is a vision I never thought I’d have for my dad, the pillar of strength in our family who threw away everything he and my mom had known to walk into the unknown, in search for a safer, more secure place to raise their daughter and by the time they got here, a soon to arrive son. 

I remember looking at my dad’s bulging biceps, knowing he was the strongest man in the world.

 

Except for my visiting grandmother in the middle,
that is my entire original family in our first apartment in America. I’m on
the right, my grandmother is holding my brother (born here).
 

 

But since that day in the Italian market, my father has weathered the onslaught life can sometimes bring: rebellious kids, a divorce, an unhealthy lifestyle filled with smoking and booze, a fickle economy, two strokes, a brain tumor that robbed him of most of his speech, lung cancer and most recently: a heartless, younger Russian woman he met online. He married her, she took his money and scurried back to Russia with it. Not all of it, but a good chunk. It was the supposed good intentions of this woman, who promised to take care of him, that set my mind at ease. Living an hour away and taking care of two rambunctious boys, it’s hard to see my dad as much as I’d like. Instead, this woman created a situation that highlighted my dad’s inability to continue to care for himself.

 

keep this woman away from your daddy

It is in the aftermath of that drama that I now find myself. My dad needs help. Because of his stubborn, self-sufficient nature, he never got the therapy that he should have had after any of his ailments. Since his second stroke, he is limping and no longer able to do the yoga handstands that once stood for his ability to survive despite anyone else’s prognosis for him. He has never asked anyone for help and would thwart any attempts when it was offered. That’s partially why it’s been hard to admit to myself that the best situation for him would be in an assisted living environment. I know what a battle this is going to be, one that needs to be fought with finesse and patience rather than muscle. It’s an amount of energy that, on most days, I can’t muster.

The other reason is I still see my dad’s bulging bicep and his defiant attitude towards anyone that would dare tell him he couldn’t do something. I still see that glimmer of mischievousness as he joked with my friends and flirted with the check-out lady. I still see the sailor that learned all of the Soviet propaganda he had heard growing up, about the United States, wasn’t true. 


He found there was hope for a Jewish man, raised by a single mother with three kids in the wake of a vicious war, to find freedom. 

My cutie-pie dad on the left


Freedom to raise his daughter without the anchor of racism weighing down her ability to soar.



Everything my father has ever done has been for his family. I only hope now, with the desperate hope of a four-year-old who still sees sparks of her father as the superhero he once was, that he now allows his family to do for him.




Relationships

LA Parent photoshoot – the UNCUT version!

5 Comments

I was honored this month to be published by LA Parent Magazine.

It’s the story towards the top of the page about Dating Your Husband. The article is based on a post I wrote for this blog called Secret Dates and if you haven’t run out and raided your local Vons, Pavilions, Gelsons or library for a print copy of the February issue…..you could read it here (and leave a comment if you want to make me look good, I mean, help others with some great ideas of your own, ha ha). But it’s so much more fun to see it in print. For me anyway.

I had thought there was a possibility that we would even be on the cover because they sent out this very talented photographer, Jodye Alcon, who took countless pictures of the families that were able to come to the park for the shoot. This is the photo they used in the magazine:

I think we look a little like a soap opera

So this isn’t going to be about romance or relationships – well maybe a little. This is going to be  the UNCUT, behind the scenes version about the lovely group of people whose experiences helped shape my first magazine feature article. 
First off, it was a lot of kids.
And they weren’t all exactly listening.
And they had some feelings.
But Mommy-extrodinaire, Jen Press had a bright idea…..
It was actually a bright blue idea…..
yes, their mouth are blue
Which got their attention…..but may have not been the best strategy right before picture time…..
However we got it done as you saw from the first picture.
And, I was obviously very excited and in the wee hours of the morning before we were to meet at the park for this photoshoot, I had some great ideas for some fun pictures.
First, I wanted all the guys to wear aprons.
Don’t they look handsome?

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at the eventual mutiny.

I also thought it’d be cute for the girls to have roses, you know, to symbolize romance. We like flowers right?
Maybe just not in our mouths, yuck.

I really wanted to impress the editors with my creativity. So we went for the Charlie’s Angels look.

I think we look very intimidating….or confused….why are we trying to look scary with roses again?

And then we started taking pictures of the families individualy, which was really fun so go with me here….

Terri Harrah used to be my roommate in Santa Monica when we went to CSUN. I majored in Journalism and she in Drama.
she really is quite dramatic

Terri is a down to earth, true blue friend. She cares about the planet, treating other people with kindness and dignity and homeschools her two boys Truman and Ethan.

Ethan, 6 and Truman 9

And she is happily married to her (working) musician husband, James Harrah. They prioritize their relationship because they know it all starts with them.

Maybe Jen Press is such a quick witted parent because nature has forced her to be so. She is a work-outside-the-home mom to three boys. She’s also a lot of fun. I don’t get to see her as often as I like. (One of her most memorable sayings is “Only floss the teeth you want to keep.” Yes, she’s a dental hygenist.)
Zach, 6 is between Trevor and Dylan, 4 – who are TWINS

God bless her. Did I mention that her husband Jeff is helping to open restaurants all over the country, called Firehouse Subs so he travels A LOT. Good thing she is patient and takes the time to plan outings that keep their fires kindled (oh and yes, they like to camp a lot too).

I don’t know how they make it look so easy

Laurel Janssen Byrne is a writer too. She is writing her own life story with strokes of compassion as she is the gal to go to if you need a little TLC fix, and some steely nerve. I keep forgetting she’s not from NYC because she and her husband Matt are so edgy. No, not cranky just so off the cuff honest with each other and the world. It’s refreshing.

Yin and Yang – such a perfect fit

And they make cute kid.

good thing she is cute cuzz this couple is ONE AND DONE

And of course, there was my family.

Kyle wasn’t here because he went surfing this day

And my guys were unusually patient and smiled on cue.

brotherly love (rare moment)
Kaleb, 5 – loves rainbow loom, dodge ball and bey blades
Knox, 3 – loves his doggie blanky, all sports and homemade biscuits

So thank you to the awesome families that were brave enough to share their stories and hopefully inspire couples to reboot their love lives….bring the sizzle back to their fizzle….make love not war. OK, I’ll stop. But here again are the lovely families who make my life so much better by being in it. Thank you again…..

Two other families couldn’t make it to the park this day (it was after all New Year’s Eve day) so I just want to acknowledge and thank them too for sharing their stories…..

Morgan and Todd Addab (not their real name, ha ha) couldn’t come because Todd had to work. Todd and Howard used to be fraternity brothers (insert the Animal House soundtrack here because I’m sure it applies) and their friendship has travelled the circuitous route that our lives sometimes take and has brought them together again at a time when our families are child compatible. And how many of our friendships end up being based mainly on this criteria? But in this regard we got lucky and I just love his wife Morgan who is one of the most gracious and kind people I’ve met.

Jon Jr., 20, Morgan and Todd, Justin, 5
Nicole and Danny Baraz are the hip element of this article. Oh the days when we were hip…..
Danny and Nicole, Mason (now 9) and Odessa (now 6, but gosh arent’ they the cutest!)

Thanks for reading and I hope you find the article useful or helpful in some way. Even if your relationship is solid and you couldn’t squeeze more romance into it, at least there are some great date ideas! Now, go and spread that love! And Happy Valentine’s day!

Relationships

The Chair

18 Comments

This is the chair I have lived with for over 8 years.

It’s the chair that I have come to accept as a practical part of my life. It’s not my style but it’s functional and there’s no reason to go out and buy another chair since this one works. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for 8 years.

There’s a bit more to this story than just a functional chair. This chair used to belong to my husband’s deceased wife. Her passing, 14 years ago,  is a tragedy. It is one that we all live with, in subtle ways, everyday. I’ve done many things around the house that I inherited from her, things to make living here not feel like I am living in someone else’s life. The living room has been remodeled, painted and shifted. The dishes have mostly been replaced. The bedroom furniture (and mattress) is new…..except for, of course, the chair.

I didn’t understand how much it bothered me. I realize now that, unconsciously, I used to picture her sitting in it and getting ready for her day, bantering with the husband we now share and laughing with the child she had to leave behind. In a way, the chair is her anchor to the new life I’ve tried to create with my husband and my little boys and, of course, the boy she had to leave behind. But for some reason, I didn’t have the guts to get rid of it. Maybe, my reluctance was my way of letting her hold on to her grip to the most intimate part of my house. Maybe, in some small part of me, I felt guilty.

I finally shared the meaning of the chair with my husband one night.

He was surprised. He had thought I had brought the chair with me when I moved in. He had no recollection of it previously at all. He asked why I hadn’t said anything sooner. I couldn’t really answer past the tears clouding my vision.

This past Monday I celebrated my birthday. I love birthdays. I’ve decided that as we grow older, every year should be a party to celebrate that we’re still here, that we still get to enjoy the gifts we’ve been given and resolve, in the next year, to become yet even better versions of ourselves.

My husband waited until the end of the day to give me his gift. I could tell he was up to something when I tried to go into our room and the door was locked. OK, honey, I called out. I have no idea what you’re up to, wink, wink, I said to him through the door, laughing to myself that he always waited until the last minute to do these things.

Then the door opened and I rushed in to get something I needed for one of the boys. I stopped right in my tracks. And this is what I saw:

And I started to cry. Because, he heard me.
Relationships

Fathering a Memory

7 Comments

This is the stuff that favorite childhood memories are made of. These are the moments that cast bonds between fathers and sons that transend the body and tie the spirit.

On this father-son day, it was the water that brought God into the moment. 

We joined our friends Brian and Ryan at Will Rodgers State Beach for the daddies to pass on a great love to their sons. Other great beaches to get cozy in the water or learn how to surf are Zuma tower 14, Mondos and Old Man’s near San Diego.

On this day, I followed behind with my camera and an extra set of eyes. So glad I did.
 Howard with 5 yo Kaleb: here it comes!

 go Kaleb go!
not a big fan of water in the eyes
we did it!
With my dad, it was cowboy movies and action flicks. We watched Clint Eastwood bury the bad guys and medieval warriors storm castles. Not very active or enriching beyond the actual time we spent together. My brother, Danny couldn’t recall our dad passing on any skills to him either. “He even hired someone to teach me how to drive a stick shift,” he groused. Though he did report they watched the rise and fall of Mike Tyson on the tube together. I’m sensing a theme here. But in my father’s defense, he immigrated us to this country and worked many hours each day to get us ahead. He was mostly just tired all the time.

All that hard work paid off. My father allowed my brother and me to spend days with our kids like last Sunday when the man I married got to share something that captured his heart with his sons.
And we got to hang out on the beach, just enjoying the day.
And we watched our kids gather the pieces of moments that will forever be the building blocks to their self worth and relationship with their own kids.

 Ryan and William (he’s a little older)
 Brian and Jacob (he just looks a little older)
 watch out below!
Howard and Knox (the baby)
I’m going to be forever grateful for the sacrifices my father made for me to live the amazing life I get to live today.  It is the gratitude that will forever bind me to my father, instead of the memories of these types of moments. And it is with great compassion that I see the other hard-working fathers who have to sacrifice the time they could be spending with their families to make sure their kids can get ahead. 

These are the real undercover superheros.