I thought dogs were supposed to be diurnal!

This is Jenna. She is, as the children whom I carried in my womb will tell you, my FAVORITE. It's true, I always reply. She never talks back, she's always happy to see me when I get home, and she doesn't hold grudges. Why wouldn't she be my favorite?

Still, last night she was pushing the limits of my love. Well, it was actually early this morning-- around 2:30 a.m. I realize that she sleeps a lot during the day, but she's not a toddler. She's middle-aged, like me. And, apparently, her grip on a good night's sleep is tenuous, like mine.

From the depths of my exhaustion, I hear splashing water. I roll over, thinking it is an irony of my life that the "white noise" machine that is supposed to mask other sounds with its gentle rain is waking me. Then I hear it more clearly -- the sloshing sounds are intermittent, not steady like the rain. It must be my daughter in the bath, I think. The last thing I remember before turning out the light was her telling me that she was going to take a shower. She said shower, my sluggish brain finally registers, not bath.

Then I hear the unmistakable sound -- faint at first and then growing louder as it approaches -- of panting. That nutty dog was drinking from the toilet! Creaking floorboards in the distance...she's in my son's room now. She'll probably cover his face with slobbery kisses, and then he'll be in my room complaining. Nails grazing the wood floor... she's made a failed attempt to jump into his bed.

I am wide awake now. She settles in next to my bed, no longer willing to make the effort to jump up and shove me and my husband to the edges to accommodate her. She is content to sleep on the cool floor, chasing rabbits in her dreams. She snores softly. I surrender: Mine will be a long night of short naps.

Comfort Food

New York City is my city in a way that Atlanta will never be. Yet, walking the streets of my once hometown, I recognize that I must remain in exile for a little while longer, while I finish raising my children and walking my aging dog along the suburban sidewalks of my current neighborhood. New York is an unlivable city -- too expensive, too noisy, too dirty, too crowded-- too much for our family, right now. But stepping off the train in Grand Central Station, herded along with too many people through the narrow exit to the terminal, I vow to return to this city. I feel the City's gravitational pull as it draws me toward the center of my universe.

My recent visit was too short. I arrived at the tail end of rush hour, exited Grand Central, and crossed town through the Diamond District as the shop keepers began reassembling their displays for the day. I turned right on Broadway into the heart of the Theater District, the brisk morning air charging my spirit forward. I am headed back to my neighborhood, the Upper West Side, as if an invisible tether leads me there.

In the ten years since I left home, the price of a subway ride has climbed to an unimaginable $2.25. I swipe the Metrocard and notice that everyone around me is hooked to a device: Blue Tooth, Blackberry, iPod, iPhone. No one on the #1 uptown train leans against the pole, clutching a NY Times folded into a narrow column. I am forced to supply this visual from my memory. In the crowded car, I am jostled against my neighbors but I do not feel claustrophobic. I look around again, careful to maintain an impassive New Yorker expression. There is an endless diversity of humanity here, and I realize how much I miss this particular form of human contact.

Emerging from the subway, I discover that the audio is the still the same-- the train pulling away from the station, the blaring of car horns, the shouts of delivery men. Mostly, though, my memory is triggered by the scents of the City. Approaching H & H Bagels, inhaling deeply, I feel nostalgia and a longing for a warm pumpernickel with butter.

I spend several hours wandering up and down Broadway, until it is a respectable time for a deli lunch. The healthy diet of my middle age will not permit the overindulges of my youth: I order a half-sandwich, a long-awaited hot pastrami on rye, to be washed down with a Dr. Brown's diet cream soda. The waiter wordlessly sets down a plastic cup of ice, a monkey dish of cole slaw, and a bowl of pickles. I bite into a half-sour; it is crunchy, perfect. The half-sandwich arrives, piled so high that I am sure its caloric content outpaces any full sandwich I have consumed in Atlanta during the last ten years. I have to squeeze it firmly to get my mouth around it. Ultimately, it is my sense of taste that evokes the strongest memories of my life here. I am sitting in a booth in a NYC deli, 1,000 miles from my house in Marietta, GA, savoring the feeling of coming home.

Standing Still

"Retrace your steps."
"Don't think about it and it will come back to you."

I used to follow this advice, when I was in my 30's and I would suffer a momentary memory lapse. But things have changed for me, as those lapses tend to last more than a moment, as time compresses my memory to a mere shadow of its former self. The regularity with which I enter a room only to forget why I'm there still surprises me. I used to turn around, walk back to the room where my journey originated while deeply concentrating on my mission. What was I looking for in the kitchen junk-drawer?

I used to pace, talk to myself, allow my frustration to simmer-- sometimes boil-- until I remembered. Now I have adopted a new strategy: I stand still. I just stand there, with my hand on the drawer pull or door handle, and I wait for my mind to reboot. Sometimes when I draw a blank, I am able to recover quickly, after mere seconds of stillness. Other times my brain boots up like my old PC, which we bought in 1999 and eventually gave to our daughters when it was only useful for playing Solitaire and typing short essays.

I may have burned more calories pacing and growing irritated with myself, but I feel better standing still, silent, unthinking, only blinking, waiting for my memory to regain its mobility. My mind may be less nimble than it was in my youth, but my body remains perfectly poised, ready to welcome the return of every stray thought.

Afebrile Children

Now, I know my kids aren't perfect, but they are generally good kids. On my best days as a mother, I feel proud to have raised courteous children who often receive compliments for their behavior in public. On my really good parenting days, I can't even find fault with their behavior in private, and I relish in their antics at home. There is one thing about my kids, however, that drives me crazy: They are afebrile.

That is not to say that they never run a fever when sick, but they hardly ever do.

The rules of mothering dictate that she must nurse her children to health, spoiling them with cold compresses and popsicles when they have fever. I am unable to fulfill such simple duties because my kids' bodies lack the common courtesy to inform me of their illnesses.

As a result of his afebrile tendencies, my son's eardrum has burst on multiple occasions, with that being the only indication that he'd contracted an ear infection. My daughter, who tends toward stomach bugs, has thrown up in school many times, and once had strep throat for more than a week before being diagnosed. These were not proud parenting moments for me.

Fever is the body's alert mechanism for mothers; often the first and best indication that her child is sick. Of course, I'm speaking of average children, who care enough about their mothers to keep them in the loop. My kids, instead, prefer to keep me guessing. By eschewing fever, they challenge me to be a better mom; one who has to raise her children to be tuned in to their own bodies and health -- seeing as how their external monitors are a tad unreliable.

Planning Ahead

I have recently become completely submerged in plans for my daughter's Bat Mitzvah celebration. I am pretty sure that I'm driving her crazy, and the rest of my family along with her, because they audibly groan every time I mention these plans at the dinner table. Somehow, it seems to me, the topic always winds its way back to the Bat Mitzvah. Did I mention that it's still more than three months away? I admit to having poked fun at my mother-in-law who was similarly obsessed with planning her recent "milestone birthday and anniversary" party. I guess I will have to apologize to her, now that I finally understand the compulsion to plan.

It's not about having every last detail organized, and it's not about controlling every aspect of the weekend, despite what others may assume. It's really about savoring the sensation of having something joyous to plan. When there is a happy occasion on your calendar, when you having something to look forward to in the (relatively) near future, the drudgery of daily work seems bearable. My here and now is already pretty fabulous, and I make a point of telling my kids to enjoy the present. But thinking about December, imagining how wonderful it will be, is slightly more fabulous. I am deeply grateful for the planning itself, which entices my mind to such fanciful journeys into the future.

No less than three generous and lively people I know were recently diagnosed with grave illnesses. These sobering reminders of the importance of living for today also goad me to live for tomorrow. If I plan to celebrate in December, and I plan for these brave friends to celebrate with me, maybe I can tweak God's conscience into ensuring that together we will reach that happy occasion.

Tree Hugger's Lament

These are adult ambrosia beetles, and they have infested my favorite tree.

Worse yet, they have infested my children’s favorite tree. “The ONLY tree in our yard that we can climb,” my children are quick to point out to me when I tell them that the Japanese maple tree is being removed next week. They are not comforted by the arborist’s assessment of the surrounding trees – a gorgeous water oak among them—which have not yet been infested. They do not care that the arborist’s team will spray the yard to ward off these awful creatures and rid the water oak of its dead branches, which threaten to fall on them whenever they play under it on a windy day.

The truth is I am sorely disappointed to lose the tree. In my mind’s eye, and in several family photos, it sprawls above the heads of my children, its red leaves ablaze in summer and early fall, turning an earthy brown until shed in early winter. In my yard, however, it stands forlorn, its branches desiccated and half denuded of leaves, its trunk covered with spidery trails of beetle dung.

“The yard will look so empty,” my husband says wistfully, when he hears the arborist’s plan. I glance out the window, but it is almost dark, and I can hardly see the bare branch which served as a harbinger of the tree’s demise. Could we have saved it, if we had realized sooner? My husband gives voice to the very question that plagued me all afternoon, since the moment the arborist scraped the roots of my favorite tree with his shoe, scattering the dusty beetle dung and shaking his head sadly. “It’s a good thing you called in time to save the other trees,” he told me kindly. I looked up at the sky through the canopy of oak leaves, trying to find the good in losing the maple, wondering if the beetles had drunk their fill of ambrosia.

Expletive Deleted

Did you ever notice that certain words really pack a punch? There are some words or phrases that, when I hear them, can make me feel physically weak. I don't just mean "curse words," which I have been known to utter, sometimes in front of my kids. I share this because I don't want to appear to be a moralizing, goody-two-shoes rabbi. Despite my penchant for swearing at other drivers, I do find some words--that are indeed unprintable here -- to be simply unspeakable. Racial and ethnic slurs fall into this category.

There are also things said aloud, and it isn't so much the words themselves that hurt or offend, but the tone of voice in which they are spoken, or the body language that accompanies them. Often the words that hurt us are most painful because we care deeply about the speaker. A spouse who spits out a hateful accusation like a morsel of rotten food, unable to be choked down in an argument, can destroy a marriage with words. A sibling's withering "you're so stupid" or reflexive "I hate you" can alter a child's sense of self. The carelessly blurted insult of friend, the coworker's sarcastic response in a meeting, the joke told at another's expense: These words and comments only half-remembered and half-intentional can cause the irrevocable damage to relationships.

What must we do with these words? If we attempt to excise them from our speech, harnessing the societal forces of political correctness and our own personal determination to cause no harm to those around us, these words will continue to exist in the recesses of our brains. Swallowed words are still palpable; they echo silently in our memories, even as silence robs them of provoking a more visceral reaction. Perhaps our only recourse is to remain aware of their potential to harm. We can blunt the power of our words, but we cannot dispossess them from our lives.

This Date in Jewish History: Tisha B'Av

"On the 9th of Av it was decreed that our ancestors would not enter the land."

Mishnah Ta'anit 4:6

In the Mishnah, edited approximately 2,000 years ago, the early rabbis list five specific events which occurred on the 9th of the month of Av. According to their calendar, on today's date in history the twelve spies sent by Moses to survey the land of Israel returned from their mission. Ten of them brought back a negative report, saying that giants inhabited the land and that the people of Israel would never succeed in overtaking them. Their words created panic and despair in the camp.

Rabbis throughout the generations have chronicled the calamities that befell the Jewish people on the 9th of Av, including many expulsions from host countries and several events of the Shoah, the Holocaust. But the fact that the rabbis of the first century reach back in time to this particular event--God's punishment of our biblical ancestors-- to represent the first Tisha B'Av, is significant. On this date in Jewish history, a minyan (quorum) of Jews caused a fracture in our unity and prevented us from reaching the Promised Land. On this date in Jewish history, we were exiled from the Promised Land, our Temple and our holy city Jerusalem left in ruins.

We can deduce from the rabbinic chronology of tragedy that it is human nature to try to make sense of the random occurrences in our lives. We strive to create order from chaos, to connect the dots of the circumstances that befall us into a linear biography. We assign dates to events in our ancestors' lives, which are to be commemorated by our progeny, because we need to find purpose in our own lives.

My Canniversary

Canniversary (colloquial) noun: a year from the date on which you were fired from a job [Source: www.urbandictionary.com]

We generally think of birthdays and anniversaries as milestones to be celebrated. At same time, these dates offer us opportunities to look back on the year that has passed and plan ahead for the coming year.

I recently celebrated my canniversary – it has been one year since I began my period of unemployment. This year marks the first time in my adult life-- and if you count babysitting and summer jobs, the first time since my 12^th birthday-- that I have not worked. Of course, I did work odd jobs throughout the year, including substitute teaching and a five week summer camp gig, and since January I have been volunteering weekly at a local food pantry. Still, my canniversary proclaims that the process of “redirecting my career” has spilled over into a second year without steady income.

A friend of mine shared a wonderful insight about how this change in employment status affected her: We were raised with certain parental expectations, namely, that we would go college, get a masters degree or other professional training, and begin a career in our chosen professions. This period of transition is difficult because we are breaking boundaries, making new choices, defying expectations.

Fifteen years ago I wondered whether I was "mother" material. Now I am a stay-at-home mom, choosing not to work full time this year so that my teenager who is starting high school will not come home to an empty house. I often struggle with guilt about this choice, as I am not contributing financially to the family's budget. But juggling the part time and volunteer commitments that I have made, along with the schedules of three children and a spouse, is a full time job. Recognizing this as my work, although it cannot be measured quantitatively with salary scales and promotions and scheduled vacation time, I feel relieved of a great burden. This canniversary was a time to reflect on life's many transitions and a moment of joyous celebration of the life that I am now leading.

All the little birdies on Jaybird Street

My Hebrew name is Tziporah, like Moses' wife, and it means "bird." My maiden name is Jay, like the bird. Nevertheless, I refuse to tweet.

I have recently received a number of invitations to join Twitter. My hairdresser, Dennis, also gave Twitter an enthusiastic endorsement. He is a self-described addict who follows the tweets of numerous personalities, from Lance Armstrong to Ashton Kutcher. I have a difficult time explaining to my Twittering friends my resistance to this medium. After all, most of my friends know that I check Facebook regularly, even if I post status changes rarely. Naturally, they assume that I would also enjoy the occasional tweet. Would it be insulting to tell them that I hardly ever check their status feeds? (Oops! I think I just let them in on that secret.) When I want to know what other folks are thinking and doing I read the NY Times--the version that leaves ink smudges on your hands and coffee mug. When I want to explore an idea or get lost in someone else's imagination, I check a book out of the library.

I readily admit that I am enjoying my new cell phone with Internet access, and I have already bookmarked my iGoogle and Facebook home pages. But I embrace new technology with the appropriate caution of an immigrant to the digital age. I chuckle to myself, marveling at the speed with which my teenager is able to type with her thumbs, but I am not tempted to text alongside her. I eschew texting, with its funny initials. IDK, YRU texting me? Just call me – we can LOL. I have 750 minutes, and they roll over better than my dog can most mornings. Dare I mention that I pay 20 cents for every incoming text? Oy, i h8 that!

So, for now I do not tweet. It's not that I am not interested in what my friends are doing. It's just that I'd rather meet them for a coffee and hear about it in a real-time conversation.

Following Julia's Blog

Julia is the first blogger I ever encountered, and I began following her blog on my Google home page last year. I don't check it daily, but I take a peek when her titles catch my eye. Julia is my pottery friend and a librarian, and although we disagree on all things political we have similar tastes in books and movies. She is really smart and articulate, and wickedly funny. I switched pottery classes in January, and I miss sitting next to her in class and getting shushed by the teacher during demos. Following her blog makes me feel a tiny bit more connected to her, and allows me to enjoy her sense of humor until I can occupy the wheel next to hers again in the fall.

Last week she posted a link to a nerdy librarian quiz -- it's kind of like a horoscope written in "Dewey Decimal." Her post was just funny and quirky enough to entice me to try out the quiz. Here are my results:

Pamela Gottfried's Dewey Decimal Section:

906 Organizations & management

Pamela Gottfried = 613521750068954 = 613+521+750+068+954 = 2906


Class:
900 History & Geography


Contains:
Travel, biographies, ancient history, and histories of continents.



What it says about you:
You're connected to your past and value the things that have happened to you. You've had some conflicted times in your life, but they've brought you to where you are today and you don't ignore it.

Find your Dewey Decimal Section at Spacefem.com

By the way, Julia's blog is http://brainella.blogspot.com.

There's a fine, fine line

"There's a fine, fine line between a fairy tale and a rhyme," goes the witty song in Avenue Q. I have been noticing these fine lines lately -- they are appearing on my face around the eyes and mouth, and also in my daily life. The lines are most visible to me at the food pantry, as the distinctions between my life and the clients' lives become quite blurry.

I was inspired to volunteer at North Fulton Community Charities by my friend Rochelle. She worked a number of shifts there in the fall and found it to be a humbling experience. It is not like the Atlanta Community Food Bank, where you spend several hours in a warehouse sorting and boxing up food to be distributed to food pantries throughout Northwest GA. When you volunteer at NFCC, you actually hand the bags of groceries to the clients, sometimes exchanging a few words with them. "Do you need to take the buggy to your car? You can just bring it back in a few minutes." "There is no Similac, so I gave you Enfamil with iron, okay?" "Azucar? No, lo siento. Quieres Splenda?"

At first I was concerned about this personal contact. In order to be helpful to the clients and efficient as a pantry volunteer, it is necessary to maintain some distance. At the same time, I cannot stop from making eye contact, smiling and offering a few kind words. The first time a client grabbed my arm and said, "Thank you. God bless," I was sure I would lose it. But I held it together until I got to my car at the end of the shift. God has already blessed me and I am so grateful. I may not have a full-time job right now, but I have a spouse who earns enough to feed our family. And I can walk into the supermarket to buy fresh fruits and vegetables any time I want.

What separates the person filling the grocery bags in the pantry from the person receiving them in the lobby? An unanticipated illness? An insurance hike following a car accident? A salary cut or enforced furlough time at work? Is it just luck or circumstance or fate that I’m the one saying "take care" and hearing "God bless?" There's a fine, fine line.

Stalled at the Corner of D&D

I remember when D&D stood for Dungeons & Dragons. My kids believe that it stands for “doom and destruction,” which is how we jokingly refer to the intersection where we had the accident. That was back in November, but I still hold my breath occasionally when I drive through there.

As my doctor checked me thoroughly for neck injuries, I described the accident to her: “It was raining. I heard an ambulance siren. I checked my rear-view mirror but saw no flashing lights. The driver behind me was being cautious—plenty of stopping distance. I tapped the brakes gently. Looking up, I saw the lights approaching, in my lane. I leaned on my brakes. Then I heard a loud ringing in my ears. When the car finally skidded to a stop across the four-lane intersection, I realized that it was the ‘door indicator.’ The sliding door on the passenger side was crushed open, accordion style. There was screaming and crying coming from the back seats of the van. All three children were with me, but my 14 year old is great in a crisis. She calmed her brother and sister down, while I called 911.” My doctor nodded and didn’t say a word.

“It wasn’t the driver behind me,” I continued. “He came right over to help. It was the driver behind him, who didn’t hear the siren, who was in an awful hurry, who didn’t realize why traffic had slowed to a near-stop, who slammed on his brakes when he scooted in between us.” “Oh, I see,” she said nodding again. “And have you driven through there since the accident?” she asked. I checked my watch. 10:30 a.m. “Yes, of course. Four times today already,” I replied. “And how do feel about that?” she asked. “I’m still pretty anxious,” I admitted, “but I’ll have to get over it.” “It will take some time,” she cautioned.

It’s been months, and I still feel a bit jittery at that corner, especially when it rains. Is this PTSD? I’ve been in far more stressful situations, including 15 seconds of terror during a major earthquake. No one was seriously injured in the crash, and although my car was totaled, it was easily replaced. So why did I freeze to a stop last week when I heard an ambulance siren as I approached that intersection? Maybe the main difference between easily getting over previous shocks in my 20’s and feeling stalled at the Corner of D&D in my 40’s is that I now possess the cumulative experience of life’s stresses. And it is more difficult to unlearn a reinforced response. Still, I’m doing the best I can and using all my mental resources-- especially my sense of humor--to assist in my recovery. As it turns out, dungeons and dragons are not so scary after all.

My two Jims

My teenage daughter is thoroughly embarrassed by my inclination to chat with strangers as we go about our errands. "You don't have to talk to everyone who passes by," she grouched at me as we waited in front of the movie theater for her friend to arrive. Still, I find these friendly conversations have a positive effect on my life. Recently, two of the people who I see regularly-- at the coffee shop and the copy shop-- made my day. Coincidentally, both of these people are named Jim.

The first Jim is the manager of the Starbucks nearest to my kids' school. Sometimes I hang out there, nursing a latte and scribbling in my writer's notebook, while I wait for afternoon carpool to begin. Jim, who is also a writer, once noticed me working and struck up a conversation. He is a big, gentle bear of a man. Last week I told him that a publisher was interested in reading my manuscript, and he shook my hand so hard I was left breathless. Jim's agent is trying to get him a movie deal for one of his books. I can't wait to bear-hug him when he shares his good news with me.

The second Jim is a customer service rep at the neighborhood Office Max. Between teaching, writing and pottery, I have a lot of photocopying needs, so I spend a lot time there. In fact, I have already been there 3x this week. On Monday, when I went in to ask about binding the manuscript, I was surprised that Jim wasn't there to help me. I discovered he was scheduled for the afternoon shift this week. "Well, tell him I stopped by to see him," I told Robin. Later that day, when I was juggling several canvas bags filled with yummy treats from Trader Joe's and thinking about my nice chat with the man in the checkout line, a tall man called to me, "Hey, there! How have you been?" It was Jim! I told him about missing him that morning at Office Max and about finishing the manuscript. I almost dropped my bags as congratulated me with a hug.

I think that married adults shy away from touching folks who are not our spouses and children. It's too bad, actually. A friendly hug can communicate support more effectively than words. As I move to the next stage of the publishing process, feeling so uncertain of success and occasionally lonely in my new existence as a writer, I find that my optimism and perseverance are bolstered by my two Jims. I am grateful for our many ways they cheer me on and brighten my daily existence. Technically, they are no longer strangers to me -- but only because I consider running errands an opportunity to connect with others in my community.