Second Chances

I dreamed that a new mother in our community was killed violently in a hostage situation. Someone was sitting with her enshrouded body and I was so heartbroken to think of the new baby without a mother. I left the room. When I came back in, her toe was twitching. For reasons that only make sense in the dream, I kept coming in and out of the room and every time I came back in, she showed other signs of life. Her eyes fluttered open. She began whispering. When I came through the door for the last time, she sat halfway up and looked at me...

"Hey, I'm heading out." The engineer woke me up as the light was just coming through the blinds to say goodbye for the day. My consciousness came slow. Part of me was still stuck in the dream, wondering where the distress was that usually accompanies my vivid dreams. I muttered a confused goodbye and stayed in bed for a few minutes to think about the dream. I dozed off for just a few minutes...

In this dream, it was the same scenario, except this time I was horrified to see my son's little body in the shroud. I rushed to him and held him, sobbing, "If only I had done this differently, done that differently..." Then the world froze and was rewound to a few moments before he was killed. And this time, I grabbed him, happy and full of life, and steered him away from the disaster I knew was coming.

When I woke up again, I was befuddled. Two dreams challenging the finality of death, filling me with the hope of second chances. What was my soul trying to tell me?

I found a clue in these beautiful words from Yikrat Friedman who sends out thoughts in English from Rabbanit Yemima Mizrachi:

On 14 Iyar, a group of people came to Moshe Rabeinu:
"On the day that everybody had their Pesach offering we could not participate.
We were not pure then.
But still, Why should we be left out? We also want!!
Moshe Rabeinu, is there anything that can be done for us?"

Such nonsense!
Pesach is over. Finished. What are you coming now for? Wait till next year.

But Moshe Rabeinu asks Hashem, and Hashem says yes.
Out of nowhere, He creates a new chag for the people who couldn't celebrate with Am Yisrael on time. It's "Pesach Sheni" - the holiday of the second chance. And it's actually today!

If by any chance you have saved a piece of Afikoman from Seder night,
Now it's the time to eat it. Hashem wants us to know: your life is not a pile of chametz, in Hebrew "chamets" (sour dough) is from the root of "hachmatza" -
things you have missed out, and now they're gone.
You can still have it! Nothing is over yet!
Just bring yourself the way you are - with your broken heart, with your powerful, never-ending, will.

 I've struggled all week with thoughts of defeat. I am not smart enough for this. I'm not beautiful enough for that. I'm not as spiritual as I should be. I levy an exacting standard on myself and when I cannot meet it, I'm often afraid to try again. I'm too embarrassed of my shortcomings to draw attention to a second go-around. Today, I took a lesson from my dreams and from the power inherent in this day: that failure does not mean the death of possibility. Woven into the fabric of human experience is the necessity of  falling short and the seemingly miraculous ability to pick yourself up and ask for another chance before stepping forward again.

When I feel like I've missed my chance to do what I should do, to become who I should be, I want to remember how I felt standing in those dreams, thinking, "You mean, it's not too late? It's not all over?" and let myself reach forward again to capture a particle of the power of resurrection. 

 

Sapphire

Last week, I was discouraged. As a result of all the introspecting the personal development class has called for, I have identified those long latent passions of mine and begun the process of carving out space in my life to devote to them, particularly for writing. Last week, I got up at around six and wrote in blissful silence until the kids woke up. But this routine quickly proved distressing. "Mommy, I'm awake!" now signals that my most purposeful time of the day is officially over. Time that I spend with my children means time NOT writing (and conversely, the time I just spent writing meant time I was not spending with my kids - guilty gulp!). If I could somehow make it all happen simultaneously, I'd be happy. If it was just me and Green and Orange, I can easily picture sitting on the couch while they play quietly in the other room. But...

...baby. 

Baby. Baby. Baby. I should come up with another name for him since he's officially reached the 2.5 year mark. But somehow, it still sticks. Although, he actually requires more attention from me now than when he was an infant.

My parents were here over the weekend and brought with them a video that they have been enjoying: Dani Johnson's "Gems" seminar. It's a repackaged personality seminar with the four different personality types labeled as different gems rather than the more traditional choleric, phlegmatic, melancholy, etc. We sat down to watch the video and got through one of the personalities - Sapphire. She described it like this: 

A Sapphire sees things in black and white... fun or not fun. They love socializing, they’re the life of the party, and they are motivated by fun. They like to be around a lot of people. They love variety and interacting with others.  They love recognition. In fact, they will work harder for recognition than they ever will for money.  They are very spontaneous and tend to make impulsive decisions without thinking.

I was immediately able to identify one of my children as having several classic traits of this personality.

Baby.

He's the one that does everything he can to get my attention, no matter what route he must take to get it. If I've heard "Mommy! Watch!" once this morning, I've heard it a dozen times. Watch how silly I can chew my food. Watch me push this car across the floor. Watch me try to climb up on your bike. Watch me try to upstage my brothers every time you turn your attention to them instead.

He's relational, he doesn't like to be left alone. He's noisy and mischievous. And I spend a lot of time telling him to quiet down and hold still.

On Monday, we were having a difficult morning. I had been up most of the night with Orange as he battled a bad bronchitis spell. As a result, I hadn't been able to wake up early to put in my several hours of writing. Orange was feeling better and playing well with Green, but Baby was incessantly pushing himself into the center of my view. We had been through several tantrums, with a few low-grade meltdowns in between, and as we stood head to head over a pile of blocks that he refused to help me pick up, I suddenly felt worn out. All my typical strategies were coming up fruitless. I didn't want to be here fighting with a two-year-old over blocks. I wanted to be doing something meaningful. That frightful thought loomed in my mind again and I uncomfortably shoved it aside. This is a waste of my time. This child is in the way of all the other things I should be doing with myself right now. I waged the inner battle. 

These moments are so important. Your chance to train him to relate properly in life. 

But why are my days being filled with these moments? This is such a distraction from what I really want to be doing. Do I really have to pick one or the other? Either be here watching his never-ending antics, or leave him with a nanny all day so that I can spend my time writing?

It's because of them that you even have anything to say. 

But I have no time to say it when Baby...

...No. Baby may be the one to give you the greatest wisdom of all.

In this week's parasha, G-d tells Moshe:

Carve for yourself two stone tablets 

like the first ones, 

and I will write upon the tablets 

the words that were on the first tablets...

Did you ever picture how Moshe went about carving these two tablets? Did he do it on his way up the mountain? Did someone bring him a hunk of stone and he set to work in the camp with a mallet and chisel? The midrash brings several opinions, but one jumped out at me. 

R' Yochanan said: He carved them in his tent, 

as G-d created a mine for him and he made the tablets there.

 The leftover chips he kept for himself 

and from there he became wealthy, 

since they were sapphire.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe brings out that Rashi was bothered by the unexpected word used for "carve". In Hebrew, it's a word that is related to the word for wastage. So Rashi concluded that in addition to meaning carve, it was also alluding to some sort of wastage happening simultaneously to the carving, and so he wrote, 

G-d showed Moshe a sapphire mine 

within his tent and said to him, 

"The leftover chips will be yours."

Why, exactly, the midrash chooses to settle on sapphire for the stone of choice for the tablets, I don't know. But for me was like shining a light over this single verse and saying, "Right here. Here's the secret to making it all fit together the way it should for you."

Who would've known, when they lifted the flap on Moshe's tent that it was holding an unimaginable treasure? And that all those tiny pieces that seemed like a waste - flying off, disconnected from that so-holy pair of tablets - were actually Moshe's chief asset?

Sometimes it is through those very things that seem so trivial, so much apart from our quest for actualization, that we find the source of our greatest wealth. Instead of disregarding the "mess" that came along with carving his divinely-mandated masterpiece, Moshe gathered up all those shards and kept them - as treasures.

Baby has so much to teach me and I have so much to teach him. And as I asked G-d to show me how to get through to him in a way that keeps all the strengths of his personality intact, I saw Orange (who had been sitting quietly playing with cars in the corner) lean down with his face to the carpet. 

"Mommy, look." He dug his fingers into the carpet fibers and pulled out something tiny. My jaw dropped as he handed it to me: A blue gem.

Nothing Stands in the Way of Passion

Several weeks ago, a friend invited me to undertake a personal development class with her.  I was excited to do it, excited to have her - as someone I look up to and admire - as my chevruta (study partner).Halfway through the first class, I began to feel a sense of imminent dread. Our first assignment was to figure out what our life purpose is. The flashing neon light that would help us to discover that purpose was by pondering what made us feel passionate. If we won a lottery of nine-bazillion dollars and six additional hours in every day, what would we do with all of that? 

Is it easy for you to come up with an answer?

It's been more of a struggle than I thought it would be to come up with an answer that really sticks. I think I'll have it one day, and then I get so frustrated with the seeming impossibility of that and I retrace my steps back to square one and try a different route. The issue becomes even more murky when I try to separate any life purpose from the all-consuming job of parenthood. How can I even think of committing my time or resources to much of anything outside of all the demands of my home, especially when I factor in our decision to homeschool?

Every purpose that I have tried on for size so far has been contingent upon changing my parenting circumstances; I can only picture that I would have the time for these things that I should / would / could do if I hire full-time help for my kids, or send them off to school first thing in the morning. At this point, neither of those things are ideal for us. Today, I had to ask myself, would G-d really give me a purpose and then orchestrate events so that there is no possible way that I can fulfill it? 

Rabbi Lapin came to the rescue with his thoughts on last week's parsha. The essay was entitled, "What Do You Want?" which is exactly what I've been trying to figure out! I must quote him at length...

I have a sense that I am not the only person trapped in the limited time and resource conundrum. Many of us eliminate exciting opportunities and possibilities because we assume we don't have the resources. Why don't you take time off to study for a new career, pursue a new interest, learn Torah, go traveling etc.? Our answer will most likely turn on the impracticality of the idea due to limited resources. This is the way we are conditioned to think and to eliminate "crazy" ideas. Sometimes I go further and comfort myself by thinking that if Hashem wanted me to do these things, He would give me the resources with which to do them. This line of thinking relieves me of responsibility for the things I have not done.
Preparing this week's parsha I was shocked into reality. Hashem doesn't give me the resources to do the things He wants me to do. Hashem gives me the resources to do the things I want to do. No, not the things I want to do, the things for which I have a burning passion in my heart to do. Passion and desire are the enablers of accomplishment much more than time and resources. Passion and desire have to come from us, time and resources - and sometimes, even talent - can come miraculously.
Think about it: In the beginning of the Parsha, Hashem gives Moshe the shopping list of raw materials he will need for the building of the Mishkan. The list includes not only the items of hardware one would expect for a building project. It also includes some exotic and rare materials such as gold, silver and precious stones. How many of us, living in the most prosperous age of history, would be able to contribute to a shopping list like this one? From where was this nation of escaped slaves trudging through the desert going to get these exotic materials?
The question bothered Moshe, and he asked G-d: Does Yisrael have the resources to do this? (Shemos Rabbah 33:8) G-d answers, even a single member of the nation of Yisrael could do it. And the Midrash adds: Because it says, (Shemos 25:2) from each individual person whose heart moves him to generosity. The only resource necessary is a heart burning with the generous desire to contribute. The rest is miracle.

When I had a moment today, I removed myself from the current scene of noisy children gliding across the floor on magazine-skates and searched in the recesses of my memory: what were those things that I had once wanted so, so badly to do...and  suddenly found myself given the resources I needed to do them?

As providence would have it, this past week we saw a windfall of resources. With a growing family, there is no shortage of possibilities as to what we could use the resources for. But it's dawning on me now. There is no question, no hesitation and I know exactly what I want to do with it. And I have to smile because I hear G-d whispering to me from this gift, "Remember, you asked me for this because you do know. You know exactly what you want. You have wanted this for years. And you asked for a way to make it possible. Through all the changes in your life circumstances, you never gave up on this passion. Here's your open door."

Drink in this conclusion from Rabbi Lapin. And then ask yourself, what is your passion?

So now when the thought of an opportunity comes up I ask myself if I really have the fire in my heart, not if I have the resources. When I choose not to pursue an opportunity I probe my own heart for the reason, not the resources G-d has or hasn't given me. Just as I am responsible for the things I have chosen to do, I am equally responsible for the things I have chosen not to do. The reason I haven't done these things is not for lack of resources, but for lack of passion.

What do you really want to do and to accomplish? Can you hear your heart's voice, or is it stifled with the clatter of the mind telling you I should, I must, I have to, I can't? If there was nothing at all that you had to do, should do or could not do, what would you truly want to do? It can be shocking to discover how hard it is to unpeel the layers of assumptions and reveal what you truly want. Try it. And remember ein davar omeid bifnei harotzon; nothing stands in the way of passion.

Mardi Gras on a Foggy Day

On Friday afternoon, a mere two hours before candlelighting, our neighbor John marched across the street and pounded at the door. "Both of you! Come here! I need to talk to both of you!" Living in New Orleans, I've had to get used to a new set of social rules. Unlike Texas, where private space is hallowed, New Orleanians live by other standards. The ones I've figured out so far are:

-If you are outside enjoying the weather on your porch, then I by default, I am invited to come and enjoy it with you...for hours on end if that's how long I feel like it.

-If I get an interesting text, or phone call, or post on my Facebook wall, I will come and holler atcha to tell you all about it.

-When my kids outgrow their clothes, I will haul them over to your house by the garbage-bag full.

-If you mention wanting a designer bag and I happen to have a vintage Gucci sitting in my closet that I haven't really used, I'll give it to you.

-When I make anything new and delicious, I'll come over and tell you about it, give you the recipe and offer you a bowl full.

It's been a little challenging to adjust to the new standards, particularly in having people knock on the door at all hours just wanting to hang out. So, although the knock wasn't unusual by local standards, the urgency in his voice was unfamiliar and I rushed to the door.

"Ok," he started, breathlessly, "I know that when the sun goes down tonight that's when the magic happens for you, right? You turn into a pumpkin until the next sunset."

In the few months that we've lived here, he's already invited us to half-a-dozen events that we have had to turn down because they interfere with our Saturday Shabbat observance. He's learned to just not ask us to Saturday events.  So we nodded solemnly, anxious what the horrible news he was about to reveal would be.

"Listen. It's really important. Endymion. It's rolling tomorrow afternoon and I have a guy who has been sitting at our spot since Wednesday in order to save a space near the port-a-potties..."

We laughed with relief. "Aw, John. That's so nice of you to think of us, but we can't..."

"No! There is no 'can't'. You have no idea how valuable this real estate is that I'm offering you. Plus, it's Endymion. This parade is quintessential New Orleans and got to let me be the one to show it to you."

"John, shabbos..."

He pulled out his phone. "Let me call your rabbi. I'm sure he'll give you a hall pass on this one."

"No, it doesn't work like that."

"There are a bunch of Jews who work in my office. I'm going to call them and see what they say."

The engineer and I looked at each other. "Don't bother. I'm sure they'll say we should go." One of the big shockers when we moved here was finding out that the Jewish community (even the orthodox sector) here enthusiastically participates in Mardi Gras. Unlike Christmas or Halloween, which are given a wide berth, Mardi Gras is accepted as being simply a local tradition - secular, fun, and as long as you avoid the obviously raunchy parades, as family-friendly as a 4th of July picnic.

John stayed planted in the middle of the house doing his lawyerly best to make the case for the Endymion parade while we rushed around making last minute preparations. Finally, we conceded that we would think about it and let him know tomorrow. As he was walking out the door, he acerbically threw one more zinger back at us, "Don't you have anything in your religion that speaks about respecting other peoples' traditions and culture?"

I gulped. This didn't seem like neighborly banter anymore. It suddenly seemed that he was actually going be offended if we didn't go, as if we were dissing his ancestral homeland itself. We had been assured over and over by locals that all the craziness that people associate with Mardi Gras is really localized in a few areas...specifically Bourbon Street which is crazy whether it's Mardi Gras or not. So we were fairly certain we wouldn't encounter anything morally offensive. And the parade was close enough that we could walk when the kids woke up from their afternoon naps. After shul, the Engineer and I sat on the couch trying to make up our minds. Should we? Shouldn't we?

"Which choice will leave you feeling less guilty?" he asked.

"I don't know! I'll feel guilty either way! If we go, I'll feel like we're giving lip service to some sort of neo-pagan ritual. If we don't go, I'll feel awful communicating disrespect to our neighbors. It would be one thing if he asked us to do something that was blatantly wrong. But there's nothing objectively wrong with a parade, or colored beads..."

"So..." he prompted. "Are we going?"

"Gahhh!!! I just don't know! You decide!"

"No, you decide!"

"No, you!"

He rolled his eyes. "If I decide, I just don't want you to second-guess it after the fact."

"I'm sure I will. There's no way around it. It's too complicated." I sighed dramatically.

"Ok, then let's go."

Even now, after having gone and caught twenty pounds worth of beads and met countless kind people in the crowd and seen the Budweiser Clydesdales and Kelly Clarkson and the world's longest float, I'm still sighing and saying, "It's so complicated."

Once, at nine or ten, I overheard my mom mention an interpersonal difficulty she was having.  I made a sensible, obvious, and childlike suggestion for how to solve it. She sighed. "It's just that adult problems are so much more complicated than that."

This must mean that I've finally grown up. I've finally encountered that age-defining situation where I have to concede that there is not always a "right" thing to do. There are sometimes just two options that seem to have varying degrees of wrongness wrapped up in them.

I find that my perception of G-d shifts slightly in this moment. I love to know that, when I come to the crossroads between a good choice and a bad one and I take the noble path, that makes G-d happy in some way. The frightening moment for me comes when it seems like the path empties out into a vast plain, all soupy in the fog. The steps aren't clearly defined, how can I measure my success? How do I know if He's happy with me? Maybe for the first time, I wonder if everything situation really is pass/fail. When I truly cannot see a path, maybe He still finds something pleasing in me while I wander across that cloudy patch, sometimes going in circles, retracing my steps, but making eventual progress to the other side.

Resolute in the New Year

On New Years' Eve, amidst a four-hour unrelenting barrage of fireworks in our neighborhood, I reviewed my book list for the concluding year. 44 more books under my belt, a new annual record for me, and I felt pretty proud of myself for that. But as I ran down the list, I could follow a parallel journey in my emotional health over the course of the year. Seabiscuit - Oh yes, I was inspired by the tenacity. The Case for Optimism - I was challenged to look at the world, to weigh in its good, and conclude that it's an infinitely better place than it's billed to be by fear-mongerers and naysayers. The Blessing of a Broken Heart - written by Sheri Mandell who's son was murdered by terrorists and she used the crushing tragedy to reach out and connect with others, offering them support and love. Whatever comes my way, I'll be given the resources to bear it - as she did. 

Then Fathers and Sons - I was depressed for weeks after reading this classic Russian novel about nihilism. And Confessions of a Scary Mommy - is it really true that the most I can hope for from this experience of parenthood is to emerge with my sanity intact? I saw my book list shift into two columns- those that resonated, that enabled me to reach a part of my own soul; and those that proved discordant, that made me want to put my hands over my ears and curl up into a ball and whisper, "This world just doesn't make sense."

I've felt more unhappy that happy in the last few months...and maybe it has to do with the fact that the last several entries on my book list have keeled to the side of the discordant. I've become bogged down by a superficial image of what I am supposed to be, what I imagine others would like me to be...and in trying so hard to live up to it, my neglected essence - my soul - was starving in a corner. Please, it pleaded with me, please take care of me. 

"Don't worry. I'll get back to you just as soon as I have become what all the others need me to be."

You'll forget me. You won't know me anymore.

"Shh! I won't forget. Be patient until I have time. More time. Enough time that I can do fix everyone else' problems and misconceptions and struggles and have a little left over to work on my own progress." 

I began to take the same tone with my kids. They ask, "Mommy, can we all go out for a bike ride?"

"Just wait a little while, guys. I'm making bread pudding for us to have tomorrow." 

When that's done, "Can we go now, Mommy?"

"Oh, you guys are running out of clean underwear, I need to put some clothes in the washer!" And after that, I have to check my email, or facebook, or catch up on reading The Week, because I can't miss being informed of things that happened in the recent past. Before I know it, it's nap time for the boys and I tell them maybe we'll go tomorrow and I am back to running between doing all I need to prepare for my future and catching up on things may have missed in the past. 

There's been something about the now that escapes me. And I realize, my low points come when I am pulled away from living in the moment. When I step outside of who I am right now, that's when I start to get inexplicably sad. 

So, on New Years' day, I mapped out a plan and took my first tentative steps. I cleared the shelf beside my bed of books that would attempt to make me into something other than what I am and replaced it with books that would move me to continue on my own journey. I'm in the middle of one called Swimming to Antartica about a cold-weather long-distance swimmer who set an English Channel speed record twice as a teenager. It's a story about pushing yourself to do things that may be assumed to be impossible. 

That works for me. Books that expose the evils of government or the corruption of corporations, or the angst of disgruntled feminists, or the need to scientifically prove or disprove G-d just...don't. Of course, I could get something out of those other books, but they don't meet my criteria for this year: stay true to who I am right now. Feed her. Don't worry about the future version of me, or the past one. 

The next day, it trickled down to my kids. When they congregated around me, I closed my eyes and asked, "Who am I right now? Right now, while my kids are here with eyes wide open and trained on me. Am I a housemaid? A cook? Or a teacher...a mom."

As I pushed away the other things that wanted my attention, a deep happiness exploded out of me like those New Years' fireworks against the black sky. Because I gave myself the freedom to live in the now.

When Cinderella Misses the Ball

It began last week, when the Engineer told me that there was an upcoming social event for company employees and spouses.

"Should I get a sitter? What should I wear?" I asked, already mentally going through my closet, trying to think of one item of clothing I had that wasn't stained.

"Nah, I don't think it will be a big deal. Everyone is going right from work and it sound like it's a pretty laid back affair. I wouldn't bother getting a sitter. " He responded.

Last night: "Have you found a sitter yet?"

"For what?"

He rolled his eyes like I was having another one of those blonde moments (that I can't really blame on being blonde, since I'm, well, not). "For the social tomorrow!"

"You want me to go?"

"Of course! Everyone's going to be there. I think it's a pretty big deal."

Immediately, I contacted six babysitters through trusty sittercity.com. One by one, the replies came in to my inbox, "Sorry, can't make it." Then, right before I went to bed, one said she could make it." I heard from her again this morning, "Never mind. I have a lab that I forgot about."

I swallowed hard (and also tenderly, since I was starting to manifest flu symptoms at this point and my sore throat was killing me). I had one more number I could try: a sweet, grandmotherly babysitter from shul who is always in high demand among the other families in the community. Amazingly, she was available! I spent a full fifteen minutes getting ready, even digging out a vial of mascara from the bottom drawer. Then loaded the kids up in the car and dropped them off at the sitter, receiving a matronly pat on the shoulder and a, "Have a lovely time, dear."

I tried to shake the flu-induced haze and cranked the heat in 'Ol Blue all the way up, hoping it would stop the shivers. Down to Magazine Street I go. Glad I'm not heading that way, looking at the oncoming traffic. I got off in the interstate in the shadow of the Super Dome and promptly missed the first slight left turn. I missed the next turn as well due to the actual street name being different than the street name in the directions. No, my GPS fails me! Then came the roundabout. Why, why? Meanwhile i fielded several calls from my punctual husband, and when I finally parked and walked as quickly as possible despite my stiff joints to the door (realizing it was the wrong door; I wanted the one on the other side of the building), he was standing on the curb waiting for me. We rushed to the door and asked to be admitted for the show.

"Sorry, the doors closed 4 minutes ago."

My husband slumped against the counter. "You're kidding me. I left the show in order to help her my wife get in. Can't we just slip in the back?"

"No, I'm sorry." She said curtly. "It helps to be on time for the show, that way we could let you in." My face flushed with the chiding. The only place to wait was a very hard (and cold) metal bench and it was 40 minutes until the show let out. We sat stiffly. Then he took a good, hard look at my glazed eyes. Maybe he felt the fever radiating off of me. "I think you should just go home."

"Really?"

"Yeah. In this state, you're probably not going to be much of a socializer. You should probably just go home and go to bed."

I shifted on the bench in indecision. On one hand, I was so upset that my four-minute delay had cost him his ticket to the show and I didn't want to spend the evening standing awkwardly next to someone who was annoyed with me. On the other hand, I know that I have a spare battery of social energy that would be activated as soon as the crowd poured in. During my bridal shower, I was running a fever of 101 and I still had a grand old time.

"If you felt sick the whole day, you probably should have taken that as a clue that you shouldn't come." Really? This was supposed to be my Cinderella moment. What happened to Prince Charming?

"Alright." I managed a half-hearted smile as I stood up and fished for my keys. "Sorry for making you miss the show."

"Sorry you're not feeling good."

Ever noticed that when you have a sore throat, it really hurts to cry? So, in the spirit of pragmatism, I halted that after the first sob behind the wheel and tried to relax and while I started for home. I guess that's where more of New Orleans was headed, too. Halfway there, I glanced in the backseat and saw three empty seats and, for the life of me, I couldn't remember where I had left the kids.

I'm home, safe and sound, having successfully found my kids at the babysitter's. And I'm comforting myself with the fact that at least I have a good story to tell.

Sometimes, it's just not about me. I really wanted the night out, to be somewhere sophisticated and to meet the Engineer's colleagues. But for reasons unbeknownst to me, I didn't get to have that...despite doing everything in my power to make it happen. So - again - I'm given the chance to learn how to be content wherever I find myself at each moment. To accept that I'm a player in a story that has many star players other than me and to keep telling myself that everything is a message from Hashem. I'm still trying to decode this one as I slide my feet out of my glass slipper. 

Addendum: I heard a knock on the door and opened it to see a bouquet of my favorite flowers. "I picked up your prescription," said Prince Charming as he walked in. 

The Divine Presence for Harried Housewives

Remind me why I signed up for this? Why did I volunteer to have what seems like three tornado funnels tearing through my house, leaving ear-splitting noise and chaos in their wake. When did I ever say that I wanted kids that screamed at each other, that mouthed off at me, that got out of be five times to "go potty" while they were supposed to be taking a nap?

It's the end of a brutally long day when I felt like I did nothing but wade into the mob and break up the riots. They were all crying at the same time, each for his own reasons, when I put them in the bath tonight. "I wanted to sit in the front!"

"NO! I want to!"

"Give me that toy!"

Splash!

"Waaaaahhhh!!!!"

"Mommy, he took that from me!"

and I pulled my shirt up over my face because I had nothing else left to say after saying 50,000 times already today with no visible effect (be nice! share with each other! would you want him to treat you that way?). Then behind my shirt I started laughing as the brawl continued, then I cried, then I laughed again and then popped my head out and started singing at the top of my lungs,

"The moooooooooore we get together, 

together, 

together...

the moooore we get together 

the happier we'll be!"

at which point they joined in heartily without missing a beat, as if the whole fighting thing had been an act and this was just the next scene in the play.

It's very difficult for me to put into practice what I learned last week: namely, that greeting the face of a lowly human being takes precedence over an exalted spiritual experience where you cloister yourself away with G-d. It is through other people that G-d visits us, as in the story from last week's parsha where G-d came to visit Avraham using the cover of three desert nomads. It seemed so perfect as I planned out the spiritual direction of my week on Saturday. "My three boys, they are like three angels coming to visit me and this is how I can welcome G-d's presence into my house."

So, why was I so disappointed at the reality that my "guests" were as stinky, dirty and uncouth as genuine nomads?

Dear G-d, I just wanted to elevate this mundane existence of mine into a spiritual one. What's wrong with that?

Dear girl, who says it's not been a success?

If it's a success, why don't I feel a sense of significance or importance? I'm more frazzled and frayed instead. It only brought out the worst in me! 

Don't you know yet that along with scaling the heights comes the dizzying fear of falling? Don't you remember that peace is only in contrast with chaos...and that you will find one when you are willing to embrace the other? Stop fighting it. Stop pretending that the hard parts of your story don't have to exist. 

As soon as the kids were in bed, I ducked out to the Starbucks' down the street. And now, I think I'm ready to go home and face the scene that awaits me,

the chocolatey smears on the walls the tell me that at some point today, they found the cookies...
the throw pillows that never stay on the couch because they live up to their name and are daily deployed as weapons...
the puddle of water covering the bathroom floor because the kids prefer to disembark the tub like otters rather than like cultured humans...

with gratitude for yet another second chance to get it right (or maybe it's like 20,000th chance, by now). And with a heart that accepts that the most important job that G-d may have for me tomorrow might be to make sure that my children don't send each other to the hospital, or maybe to put another meal in front of a toddler who will dump most of it out of his bowl, or perhaps to help clean up the blocks scattered the length of the living room because Papa's coming home in a  few minutes. If that's the most crucial thing on the to-do list that G-d puts in front of me tomorrow, I want to be just fine with that.