Jewish in December

I deliberately live in a place surrounded by all kinds of other people. My town is a veritable melting pot of cultures and religions, from Catholic to Hindi, from Muslim to Jewish, as I am.  In a country where two per cent of the population is Jewish, my area is a good ten per cent, maybe a little more. And because of this, the grocery store carries a fair selection of Passover foods in the spring, the school system gives off for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and people don't blink when you send them Bat Mitzvah invitations.

But in December, even in my corner of multicultural America, it all stops. I am the outsider, and I'm reminded every day until the New Year's Ball drops down on Times Square.

The frenzy can start as early as the beginning of November with what are you getting your family for Christmas. The commercials with Santa Claus commence, the references to the intense preparation begins. Malls are already sporting Christmas trees, decorations, and Christmas music. (I will not enter a mall, except under extreme duress, from Thanksgiving until the beginning of January.)  By the day after Thanksgiving, I can no longer listen to my regular radio station, because they insist on playing Christmas music 24 hous a day. Nevermind that I have emailed them several times about this, expressing that there are non-Christmas-celebrators in their midst. They don't care, they say, because the majority of their audience likes 24 hour a day Christmas music. (By the way, some Christmas music is very pretty, and I enjoy listening to it.  But a solid month or five weeks seems completely unnecessary.)

The schools, which are supposed to be religious-neutral, also get into the spirit.  My daughter's high school puts up a Christmas tree, and there are Christmas decorations and Santa hats.

I have no problem with people celebrating their holiday.  As a family, we like to drive around and look at the Christmas lights people put up while simultaneously trying to guess how much more their electric bill is for the month of December.  We enjoy going to the movies on Christmas day with the rest of the Jews, and then deciding between the Kosher deli and the Chinese place for dinner.  But around us is this faint feeling of....distance.  I'm looking at the place I live through a different lens in December, a place where I don't fit in, nor is my desire to keep us a religiously neutral society valued.  People don't want me to tell them theat I don't think Christmas symbols belong in their government buildings. They don't want me to remind them that Christmas is, in fact, not for everyone in America, and that some of us don't recognize it as the day Christ was born, simply because we don't acknowledge that Christ is God's son.  Some of us aren't even so sure about the God part, frankly.

You may be reading this and shaking your head. But Christmas is fun, you might be saying! It's the happiest time of the year! (Actually, I beg to differ on that one. Most of my friends appear stressed and exhausted from all the work, but that's another post.)  And yes, I do know plenty of people (including some Jews) who view Christmas not as a religious holiday at all, but as a celebration of fun and goodness, and an excuse to buy presents for the people they love.  But that's not who I am, nor who my family is. To us, Christmas is a Christian holiday, meant to honor a religious event, an event we don't acknowledge. But because so many people celebrate it -- in fact, because our supposedly religious-neutral government celebrates it by giving it Federal Holiday status -- we must glide through December, trying to forget that this is our America, too, and that come January, everything will be reset.  It will be the same place it is for eleven months of the year, where we can all embrace difference once again.

When All of Your Kids are the Same Gender....

My husband is the fourth of four boys.  His mother was always clear: he had been her last hope for a girl.  After his birth, she was moved into a post partum room with a woman who had just given birth to her sixth daughter.  They laughed about trading babies.

Later on, during the teen years, my mother-in-law said she felt glad she hadn't had girls.  Her friends called her on a regular basis with stories of their daughters' mood swings, tears, and friend drama. With boys, the most my mother-in-law felt she had to contend with was a lot of laundry and huge grocery bills.  But deep down, I think she was always sad she hadn't had a girl, and when she wound up with three female grandchildren out of five total, I like to believe that eased her disappointment a bit.

I have two daughters.  I'd always wanted girls, had hoped beyond hope that I would have them.  When I was pregnant with my second daughter, many people asked me if I was wishing for a boy -- wouldn't that be great, they'd said -- then I'd have the "perfect" family of one of each gender. Even my infertility specialist, who knew how long and hard we'd tried for a baby, remarked that she hoped "this time" I'd have a boy because "that would be perfect." But I wanted another girl, and when her gender was announced to me (we chose to wait until the birth) I was over the moon.

Many people don't feel this way, though. They want to experience both genders, still consider that "perfect" family one with one boy and one girl.  I know many people who opted for a third child when they had two kids of the same sex, just to try for the opposite.  In one case, I remember a woman who cried openly when she found out, via ultrasound, that her third child was the same gender as her other two.  I know many couples who decide to find out the gender of their babies so they can get "used to the idea" before the baby is born, in case they are not the "right" sex.

I also know people who scratch their heads at the idea of couples with a boy and a girl who choose to have another child. "Why would you do that?" they ask. "When you already have one of each?"  "Was it an accident?" some have the gall to wonder.

What about you? Do you think a boy and a girl is the perfect family? If you had all of one gender, did that bother you, even secretly?  Or did you truly not care "what kind" you had?

An Interview with Teenagers -- on what it's like to be a teenager

I feel like I remember what it's like to be a teenager. I remember, sometime around seventeen or eighteen, realizing that I hadn't cried in a couple of days -- after crying every night since I'd turned twelve.  I remember all of the conflicting emotions and complicated drama -- the friends, the bullies, the boyfriend, the misery of the daily grind of school...but my own teenage daughters, 19 and almost 16, tell me I really don't know, because things today are so different.  So, I interviewed them to find out what it's like for them, in real time, to be teenagers.  Check out what they had to say:

How old are you?

19

What is the toughest thing about being a teenager?

Feeling like you are ready to act as adult but not be allowed to yet and also not feeling ready to act as an adult, but being pushed to do so anyways. 

What is the best thing about being a teenager?

There is always something new to try, new milestones you are reaching, and each year your thinking is so different from the last.

What do you wish adults understood about being a teenager?

That they really can think and achieve amazing things if given the opportunity. Even if they seem like children to you, they feel more like adults and should be treated that way. Also, the pressures of being a teenager now are extremely different then when adults were that age, with insane college competition, recession, and technology, the world has changed and adults need to realize that they don't fully understand what its like to be a teenager anymore. 

Where do you see yourself in five years?

Hopefully teaching elementary school, renting an apartment, and starting to get a feel for my life.  

Do you think being a kid or an adult is better?

I really see the positives and negatives to both, I think adults often fantasize about being kids, and kids fantasize about being adults but it really it comes down to the grass being greener on the other side.  

What is some advice you'd give other teenagers of your age?

Don't worry too much about the future, it will happen when it happens (but also don't completely forget it will sneak up on you quickly!) 

Anything else you want to add, feel free!!

I think tweens are really the new teenagers-- they feel very mature, but to adults they seem very young. Adults expect teenagers to be acting with a certain angsty attitude, but it's really the tweens that are acting this way. Parents expect this from their 14-16 year old, but they don't expect it from their 9-12 year old. There really needs to be a shift in thinking to understand both these age groups. 

How old are you?

15

What is the toughest thing about being a teenager?

Pressure in all its forms (peer, parental, media, yourself, the future, the present, the past, teachers). 

What is the best thing about being a teenager?

Always getting second chances (if you make a mistake at school you will just receive a bad grade or a detention, but at work, you will probably be fired); monetary freedom (not having to pay for housing and food for the most part); being able to eat whatever you want and not get fat; finding yourself (discovering what you like/don't like, what you're good at, etc).

What do you wish adults understood about being a teenager?

Life as a teenager is different now than it was 30 years ago therefore you do not and cannot understand what we go through (it is the same for us with you) therefore pressuring us will only make us want to rebel more; our mind works very differently than yours; it is very obvious who you "favorite" (whether a parent, teacher, director, coach, etc.); understand that we make more mistakes than you do, but nagging about them will not make us "apologize," it will make us bitter and annoyed.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

A junior in college (I don't know where yet; hopefully Colorado College) in the third year of a pre-law program and the school's orchestra. Maybe in a sorority.

Do you think being a kid or a teenager is better?

It is too black-and-white. It depends on the person's experience with both. Since I have not lived as an adult yet, it is impossible to answer the question.

What is some advice you would give teenagers of your age?

Try harder. You don't have the right to complain about your weight or your grades or not making a team if you're not willing to put in the effort to change it. "Trying hard" does not imply saying you're going to diet, and giving in after the first day, and saying "well, I tried." Saying you "don't know why you failed a test" when you've only studied for less than a 20 minutes is not trying. Don't blame your parents for these things either, because it is almost always your fault. Your life is not as hard as you think it is. Just because you have a learning issue, are athletically challenge, or have parents that constantly bug you does not mean your life is a tragedy.

Anything else you want to add, feel free!

Get out of your own head. When something bad happens, think of all the good things that will come from it. If you got a bad grade, be glad it's not as bad as it could be or that you still have the whole year to bring it up. If your boyfriend breaks up with you, think of how much better another guy could be for you.

Know that life sucks, but your life is a hell of a lot better than a lot of other people's. Complaining about your parents nagging you or your head hurting are not going to make the problems go away. Take action.

Anyone want to chime in on best/worst things about being a teenager or the parent of a teenager? I'd love to hear thoughts.

A Big Step for Indie Publishing

Yesterday, indie publishing leapt forward.  A New York Times best selling author of women's fiction, Allison Winn Scotch, published her fifth book independently, meaning, without the help of a publishing company.  She had previously been published by some big names -- like HarperCollins and Penguin. Her books sold, and they sold well.

After her last experience with traditional publishing, Allison reported, she started feeling burnt out. For a long time, she didn't write a thing, even stopped posting on her very popular blog, Ask Allison, where hopeful writers (like me) could ask questions aboutt he publishing biz, and get excellent answers from Allison herself.

Then she decided to write again, and in a few months, she had a book she was excited about.  That book is her new one, The Theory of Opposites, which came out yesterday.  She decided to publish it herself, she said, because she wanted to publish, publicize, and market a book on her own terms. And so she has. Last week, she announced that her book has been picked up by Jennifer Garner's production company for film.  Independent publishing has come a long way, baby.

Not that many years ago, self publishing (also known as indie publishing) was considered something you did in desperation, something you did when no one wanted you, something that most people assumed meant you had written a bad book.

But as the publishing landscape has changed, so have the options to publish. And aren't options wonderful?  What I find is that readers don't care where or how the book is published. They only care that the story is good.  But for authors, like me, in the past, how you've published has meant everything. It meant your credibility. For example, many reviewers and bloggers refuse to read self published books. Yesterday on Twitter I asked book reviewers whether they would agree to review Allison's book, knowing it is self published, because of their refusal in the past to read self published books. Not one answered me. Now they might not have seen my tweet, but they might also be beginning to see the quandary -- is every book that is self published bad? No, of course not. Is every book published by a traditional publishing company good? No, of course not.

What Allison (and other previously traditionally published authors) has done is say, I control my publishing destiny.  That's where I am, too.  In fact, one reason why I chose this way is because Allison is brave enough to do it.  Thanks, Allison, for giving me courage.

An Inside Look at the Publishing Process...and Details about My New Book, Coming Up in 2014!

The publishing industry is struggling; anyone involved in the process -- author, literary agent, editor, publisher -- knows this is true.  Over the last few years, the publishing industry has experienced more upheaval than usual, what with the advent of Kindles and Nooks and the explosion of publishing without a publishing company, otherwise known as Indie Publishing.

Back in ther summer, I released my agent from our contract.  I was looking towards my author-ly future, and I didn't think we were on the same page.  She wanted one thing for me; I wanted another. And I was tired of playing the publishing game, namely, that so many other people were in control of what I would write, how I would write it, and how it would get publicized and sold.

I've been contemplating my career ever since then. I have a new book, ready to go, that most of my beta readers loved, that my editor loved.  Why not publish it myself? I know a lot more than I did a year ago, before my first book came out, and I feel confident that I can do at least as good a job on the publishing part as other professionals.  I talked to a few other authors, authors who have been publishing with traditional houses for years, (No, I'm not going to name names!) and frankly, many of them are tired of the publishing game, too. Some of them are moving towards indie publishing, for many of the reasons above, but also, because, they could make more money.  Traditional publishing generally yields about one dollar to the author for every book sold;  with indie publishing, the author gets about 70 per cent of each book sold.  And you get total control -- of what your book cover will look like, of when the book will be published (You don't get the control with traditional publishing, unless, you're, say, James Patterson :).  Of course, indie publishing has its downsides too, for example, that a lot of people don't take it seriously. You can't imagine the number of reviewers who refuse to read an indie published book. (I have a feeling that this is going to start changing soon, as more and more big name authors switch over to, or at least add, indie publishing to their repertoire.)

So all that said, my new book, The Opposite of Normal, will be available, in both print and ebook form, come 2014.  As soon as I have more details, I'll let you know. For now, I'll give you just a taste of the plot -- Hannah, the twelve year old Chinese adoptee of a rabbi and his wife, struggles with loneliness when her father moves his family to a new town after the untimely death of her mother.  In an effort to fit in, Hannah tries to shed her Judaism -- after all, she concludes, she wasn't born Jewish anyway -- and adopt the primary religion of her friends, Christianity, without her father knowing. And Hannah's brother, a bright seventeen year old high school senior planning on attending an Ivy League college the following fall, finds himself  about to lose everything when his Christian girlfriend refuses to have an abortion. Their father, Rabbi Mark Friedlander, struggles to hold together his family and his job as the Rabbi of the local Temple, just as he might find love again.

More posts to follow about this exciting new path in my publishing journey! Thanks for coming along with me!

The Last Gift She Gave Me

On this day, October 16, exactly five years ago, my mother-in-law gave me the best gift ever. She allowed me to watch her die.

To be sure, Dorothy Walters was not big on physical gifts for the eighteen years I knew her.  For birthdays -- when she remembered them -- each child and child in law got $25.00.  For wedding anniversaries, each couple got $25.00. (We always wondered why it was that each of us only got $12.50 for the one day, but double that on the other. Alas, we never found out.)  Mother's and Father's Days were overlooked. ("You're not my mother or father," she explained.)

But she gave us other gifts that were immeasurable. Every summer, she and I sat on the screened-in porch, eating fresh fruit she'd cut, reading the New York Times, and discussing politics, race relations, and why some people just annoyed us all the time.  She let us use her in ground pool whenever we wanted.  She made beautiful holiday dinners and did all of the catering for my younger daughter's Baby Naming, which we held at her house.

Dorothy was the kind of person you dreamed of being. Even up until just a few months before her death, she was more energetic than I was, in my late thirties.  Every day she had something new to do -- she cooked for the homeless, was taking classes at her synagogue, was planning a trip to a strange country. (One time she decided to go to Malta on vacation.  When she went to the book store, she complained, there were no books on Malta. I explained that was because no one else was going there.) Her schedule was always booked with an outing or event.

She was incredibly smart. Born to immigrant parents, they did not believe girls should receive higher education, just boys. So her brother went to a top college and became an engineer. She helped her father run his successful clothing factory and then became a mother to four sons.  But she taught herself everything. She was a master gardener who started her own interior plant design business.  She read everything she could get her hands on. There was not a thing she desired to know that she didn't find out.

She was artistic.  She learned how to paper mache sculpture and made a big replica of a girl in a bathing suit -- the daughter, Wendy, she'd claimed she always wanted -- and leaned her against the pool.

So when cancer beat her down, she was the best at dying, too. In September of 2008, she was done with chemo, she said. It gave her no quality of life.  Why would she want to live if all she could do anymore was lie on the couch, sleeping? She called Hospice while she was still well enough to make the call herself.

She had been sick then about six months but she had been able to hold her own. After she stopped treatment, she went downhill very fast.  She was perfectly pragmatic about the hospital bed we set up in her bedroom, facing the large window to one of her gardens. She welcomed the twenty four  hour aide we hired who helped her shower.  She didn't blink an eye when she could no longer get to the bathroom.  Still, she welcomed visitors, exclaiming over them, accepting their candy, their well wishes, hosting everyone.  She followed the 2008 Presidential election with as much fervor as any other election, if not more. She wanted Barack Obama to win. (She never found out that he did.)

And then, on the evening of October 15, her aide called me to tell me she hadn't been well all day and was acting very strange. My husband and I drove the thirty minutes to her house and she was out of it. She asked us if our daughters were in school, though it was clearly nighttime.  And then she said something about milk bottles. Those were the last words I ever heard her say.

The next morning, October 16, I have no idea what the weather was like, because as soon as I dropped my younger daughter at school, I had only one mission: to get to my mother-in-law's house to see how she was doing. When I got there, I heard a strange sound.  It turned out my mother-in-law had gone into a coma, and was gurgling for breath.

All day long, I snuck in and out of her bedroom as she lay there. We'd given her enough medicine and oxygen so finally she was quiet, not moaning, but still, with her eyes closed, breathing.  I kept smelling her -- she had a distinct smell -- and then leaving the room to contact more people. This was it.

I went home to give my girls a very early dinner, and then went back to my mother-in-law's house. Her breathing was worse and her finger and toe nails had turned blue.  The hospice nurse explained that meant her body was rushing blood to her vital organs to help them, though it wouldn't matter. Earlier that day, the nurse had said that she was "actively dying." Trying to die. Like, I am so done. Don't attempt to stop me.

My husband, brother in law, sister in law, and I ate a quiet, take in dinner in the dining room while the aide stayed with Dorothy.  Afterwards we went back in to her room.  She was getting worse. I tried to memorize how she looked, still barely alive.  Her hair, her skin, everything. Because she was telling me I would never see her again.

An hour later, the aide called us in. Dot was taking breaths that indicated she was ready to go. We rushed back in and I held her hand.  I watch her chest rise and fall.  And then the aide said, a few minutes later, "I think that was it."

"No, I think she's still doing it," I said, watching her chest. I put my hand on it; it was warm. But nothing more happened. So the aide took the oxygen cannula out of nose -- "Sorry Dorothy," she said as she pulled the tubing a little too hard, as though she could still hear. And then I went into the hall, and my brother in law asked if I was okay, and I leaned against him, and cried.

Doing Things You Don't Want to Do...to Get to the Good Stuff

Yesterday my fifteen year old daughter and I were having this exact conversation.  There are lots of things she wants to do, but then lots of things she has to do to get to the things she wants to do.  And those, she's not so thrilled about doing.

I reassured her that we all feel the same way.  There are lots of things we all have to do to get to do the things we want to do. My husband stuck me with dozens and dozens of needles so I could get pregnant with her, for example. And during my pregnancy with my older daughter, I threw up every day for just about nine months, but then I got to have her.  I've experienced hundreds of rejection letters from literary agents and publishers, but in the end, I found a way to get my book published.  My husband had to work at a lot of bad/underpaid/sucky boss jobs before he got to work at the job he has now, where he is well respected, loves what he does, and has the autonomy he has always sought.

But still, all this didn't necessarily sit well with her. Doing math to get into college? Hardly seems worth it, at times.  Doing homework four hours a night? But why?  As a teenager, it feels like there's a whole, whole lot of bad stuff to get to the good stuff.  At least, I felt like that when I was a teenager. Most of the time, I wasn't even quite sure there would be any good stuff.  It was just like this: bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.....partially not so bad, a little less bad, bad, bad, bad, bad....

So how do we, as humans, slog through the bad stuff to get to the good stuff? Are we just programmed to do this?  And why do some people do this more easily than others?  Like, why are there people who give up on life and except a meager rationing of good stuff so they can avoid the bad stuff altogether? And why do some people deal with so much bad stuff that it hardly seems any good stuff ever happens for them?  And what happens when you have a whole lot of bad stuff in a row, and it feels like there never will be any good stuff? I'm just not so sure how it works.  All I know is that we have no choice but to deal with the bad stuff.  And then, hopefully, we'll get to the good stuff.

Remembering a Miscarried Baby

In my book, Child of Mine, the main character, Katie, suffers a devastating miscarriage. During a routine ultrasound, she discovers the baby's heart has stopped beating.

People are always asking how much of my book is true, am I Katie? The answer is, always, no. My infertility experience informed my book, of course. I think it was much easier to write about the medical part having been through some of it myself, though Katie and I had totally different issues, and totally different treatments. But still, there are scenes that are, no way around it, me.

The miscarriage was one of them.

Sixteen years ago today, I was due to give birth.  I had become pregnant after months of treatment, on a cycle that didn't even seem to be going that well. I was surprised by the positive pregnancy test, and then elated when, six weeks into the pregnancy, we were able to see a strong, steady heart beat.  Two weeks later, the baby was still growing and moving inside me.  My infertility specialist, who kept patients until they were ten weeks along, told me to make an appointment with my obstetrician. I was about to be released into her care.

Two weeks later, at nearly eleven weeks along, I was at my OB's office for my first prenatal visit.  I was feeling lousy; terribly nauseous and exhausted, but also excited.  My doctor did an ultrasound. This was normal, standard procedure, and immediately a baby, bigger than the one I had seen two weeks earlier at my last reproductive endocrinologist ultrasound, popped up on the screen.  Even though I had been through one successful pregnancy before, was by now an "old pro," the image still brought a huge smile to my face.

"When was your last ultrasound?" the doctor asked, moving the probe around.

"Last week," I said, still in awe over the baby, unable to stop looking at it.

"The reason why I ask..." the doctor said, still jerking the probe, harder it seemed now. "Is because I don't see a heart beat. I'm trying to wiggle the probe to get the baby to move, but it isn't moving, either."

The baby had died. Sometime in the last few days.

I had been alone at that doctor's appointment. It had never dawned on me that this could happen. I was frantic to reach my husband, who was hours away on business. This couldn't be happening to me. Didn't things like this happen to other people?

The next day I underwent a D&C.  A few weeks later, my doctor's office called. It had been a girl, healthy, it appeared. Like I had wanted.

A month later, treatment allowed me to conceive again.  Nine months later, I gave birth to my gorgeous daughter, now fifteen.  She (and of course, her older sister, who is nineteen) are the loves of my life.  I can't help but think, sometimes, that the other baby, the one who died on a cold February day when I was completely unaware, was making room for my younger daughter. But I know that's just my mind, wanting to find a reason in an unreasonable situation.  And though I can't imagine ever having any other younger daughter than the one I have, with her smile, her laugh, her zest for life, her creativity...I do think about that other baby sometimes, and feel sad.  I couldn't do anything to save her.  And yet, as her mother, that's exactly what I was supposed to do.

9/11

Anyone over a certain age remembers exactly where he or she was twelve years ago today. We remember the weather here in the New York area -- unbelievably beautiful blue skies, no humidity, a feeling of fall crispness in the air.

And then we remember the cacophony of pictures coming across our televisions.  How to make sense of the burning buildings, the people jumping, the smoke, the ash? The people who walked, looking like zombies, the empty field with a huge hole in it. We witnessed mass murder.

Some people were closer to it than others, of course. My sister was eight weeks pregnant at the time, her son just a toddler.  She was at her home, fifteen minutes from mine, and by the middle of the afternoon, or maybe it was that evening, she called me to tell me Mike was missing.

Her husband's name is Mike.

It took me a few minutes to realize that she meant her friend Mike Davidson, a young man she had known her entire life. He had recently gotten engaged, had bought his first home.  He was working at Cantor Fitzgerald, and he was among the dozens in their offices above the fire with no means of escape. We will never know if he died of smoke inhalation, (which I hope for) or whether he died as the tower tumbled to its base.  His body was never recovered.

I was worried that my sister would miscarry from the stress over the next few days. She faced rumors that he had been spotted, she watched for him to come back, but he never did.  A few weeks later, then visibly pregnant, she went to his memorial service. She insisted on going alone.

He used to call her every year on her birthday.  He worked two jobs to save money for his house and his new life.  He was always smiling and happy.  He left behind his fiancee, his mother, and his brother. And friends. And people who knew him. And people who knew people who knew him.

I watch the coverage every year, to hear his name, to see his picture as they read it. I expect it now, his name, but I'm always still a little surprised when it's read.  I watch the specials about 9/11, and I know it happened, but it still seems less than real. Then my sister posts Mike's picture on her Facebook account, and his name is read, and it is real. He died. He died a horrible death.  So many people did. Never forget.

The Beauty of a New Year

We're celebrating lots of New Years this week.  We dropped our older daughter off at college for her sophomore year a few days ago. As you might imagine, drop off the second year isn't nearly as intense an experience as drop off the first year, but it still took over five hours of driving (each way) plus hours of shopping, organizing, negotiating, and putting together furniture.  The entire time my husband was busy screwing side A into Side B and Piece 1 into Piece 2, I imagined our daughter using this same very cheap furniture in her first apartment after she graduates. Ah, I realized, the difference between Freshman year and the Other years is that you can see beyond...you can see a time your child will be self sufficient, and you can see that she has the confidence and attitude to eventually become that self sufficient adult. Freshman year is the Dress Rehearsal.

Then there's my younger daughter's foray back into high school a few days from now. She'll be a Sophomore this year, a very transitional year, I discovered the first time around, from the young person who walks into high school at fourteen with no more than a middle school education and the I'm-desperate-to-fit-in smile and leaving four years later able to drive, vote, and marry.  Sophomore year, college and adulthood are still a far off dream, testing means the PSATs, which aren't that significant, and all the driving is still up to the weary parents. Sophomores are still children, but they will get the idea soon enough that adulthood is, indeed, closer than they think.

And finally, tonight is Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the Jewish New Year.  I love the practice of this holiday, a time when we are to reflect inwardly on our personal goals, at areas in which we want to improve, at our faults and our weaknesses. From now until Yom Kippur, in ten days, we will reflect more than usual. Then our slates will get cleared and we'll start again, ready to make better choices this time around.

As someone who has always struggled with her Judaism -- is there a God? Who wrote the Bible? Why does religion cause so much tension, at times? Why should I believe X,Y, and Z? Can I be Jewish without believing X, Y, and Z? -- I still enjoy the celebration of our New Year. I like the food -- you can't go wrong with Challah, apples and honey, and other traditional fare -- and I like the idea of being able to start over, something I have done repeatedly as a mother and a writer. In my next novel, my main character, a twelve year old girl named Hannah, also struggles with her Judaism.  Does she have to be Jewish just because her father is a Rabbi? What about the fact that she is Chinese by birth, and therefore, not biologically Jewish anyway? Can she embrace another faith even though she's not sure it's any "better" than the one she was adopted into?

Questions of faith, of hope, and of the future. These are what are on my mind this new year.

End of Summer

Summer may be on the calendar for another month, but in my house, it feels like the end.

My older daughter came home from her job as a camp counselor at a sleep away camp and is now in the process of switching everything over to college mode -- securing a new job at school, making firm decisions about her classes, getting excited about her new roommates....next week we'll make the five and a half hour drive to drop her off.

My high schooler is finishing up summer reading (Note to my town's English department: She did not like the required reading this summer) and working on the essay that must be turned in the first day of school. She's finishing her math packet and getting excited about the Fall Show her drama group will put on. Her official schedule is up online, and one of her classes is Driver's Ed. (I won't say more about that, for now.)

It's still hot out but the stores are showing winter fashions, and Halloween is already making its way into Target. (Really? Isn't it just a tad too soon?)  And I feel myself growing more blah every day.

I hate winter. There is no way around it. I don't find one thing pleasant about it, unless you count my daughter's birthday.  Cold weather makes me extremely uncomfortable, from the constantly chapped lips to the need for many layers, from having to heat my car up for a few minutes before I get ready to drive to wearing a heavy winter coat everywhere I go.  I hate the dreary landscape and the snow. For me, there is just nothing positive about winter.

Further, I do not understand people who love winter.  People who say they can't wait until it gets cold. People who love to do winter sports, like skiing and snowboarding, so they're freezing and sweating all at once.

I hate winter sickness.  From colds to the flu and then to the most dreaded, the stomach virus, I can't stand it.  The scratchy throats, the stuffed up noses, and the fevers. I hate the cost of heating my house, and the fact that I can never quite get warm, even if the heat is on 72.

I hate the snow and the ice. I hate driving in it, walking in it, and shoveling it.  (Luckily, my husband does the shoveling.)

So by now, with the sun setting earlier and earlier every day, with school in just a couple of weeks, all I'm doing is dreading. Dreading the six months -- October until April -- that I'm cold. I'm already looking forward to next spring.  And taking my jacket off. Wearing flip flops wherever I go.  Eating in the outdoor seating areas at restaurants. Smiling, because finally, it's summertime again.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness is another emotional area I lack clarity in.  I don't forgive -- or maybe it's that I don't forget -- easily.  I'm always amazed by the family members of murdered loved ones who tell the murderers they forgive them. And they sincerely seem to mean it. I wish that were me, but it's not.

I am wary after being hurt. I want to be the kind of person who says, "That's okay; I understand." But I'm not.  If you bump into me, that's okay, I get it, you didn't do it on purpose. If you forget to show up for a lunch date, hey, it happens.  But if you mess up big time, I'm going to be hesitant.  And at some point, I'm likely to say to myself, "I don't trust this person anymore."

This happened with an old friend a bunch of years ago. She'd hurt me before (in similar ways) -- I'd assumed, pretty unknowingly -- and I'd always let it go.  I tried to focus on the things about her that I liked.  She was funny. She seemed to be loyal. She appeared to embrace values that I really appreciated.  She had a lot of energy and was always ready to help somebody.

But then she did something that hurt me so much, I couldn't get over it. I tried to get over it. I tried not to let it color our friendship. I tried not to focus on it every time we talked, or saw each other.  But I found that as time went on, what happened was the opposite of what I thought was supposed to happen. The wound was supposed to get smaller, not larger, and I was supposed to start forgetting. But I hadn't.  I just kept thinking about what she had done, and thinking about how I no longer trusted her, and thinking about how deeply it had affected me. It had changed my opinion of her.  It had invalidated the things I liked most about her.  And I couldn't get past it. The friendship ended.  And the friendship really ended because I wanted it to, not because she didn't try to keep it going. She did.

I sound awful, right?

But the thing is, I do believe there are some unforgivable trespasses.  And I do believe that for each person, that line of unforgivability (a word I'm making up) is different.  I checked in with a few people after I found I could no longer tolerate this person in my life, and they all assured me that they would be wary to forgive, too.  But still, I wanted to be better than that. I wanted to understand this person's position and accept it as valid. And I felt like not forgiving her invalidated her position, which was wrong of me.

But maybe I didn't invalidate it. Maybe she was entitled to her position, and I was entitled to mine, and maybe I was entitled not to forgive her and move on.  Is forgiveness the same as "bringing things back to the way they were before" or is forgiveness something else altogether?  Is forgetting really, truly, "I don't think about this anymore," or is it another way of saying, "Though this happened, I no longer hold it against you, and I trust you again." If so, I don't forgive and forget. But maybe there are some things that can't be put aside. And at the same time, maybe after the event, trust is erased and then it has to be rebuilt.  And in some instances, you can choose to re-trust, and in others, you can't. And is that okay? To hold different people to different standards? I just don't know. What about you?

Learning to Cope With Rejection and Failure

As an author, I've dealt with rejection and failure more times than I can count -- agent rejections, publisher rejections, readers telling me they didn't like my novel -- and I've gotten used to it, mostly. Now when a rejection comes, I feel maybe a tiny sting, and then I move on.  In the beginning, though, it was rough.

One of the most important things we can teach our children is how to deal with rejection and failure in their lives, and this means that we must let them be rejected or fail.  As parents, this is extremely difficult. We can't stand to see our kids suffer, and since so many of us view our children as extensions of ourselves, their rejections or failures can sting as though we are personally experiencing them.

A few years ago, when my daughter was in middle school, a mother came up to me, infuriated. Her son had not made the middle school soccer team. "Imagine how he feels," she fumed, "when he has to walk by all of these kids who are not as good as he is, who got on the team, and he didn't make it." What I read from that was that she was embarrassed that her son hadn't made the team, and she couldn't bear to think he wasn't as good as she thought he was.

My daughter had a recent failure.  She came home, crying, and I felt awful for her.  It was one of those embarrassing things she would have to live with.  But I'm convinced that it will help her in the long run to be a better person, to make good decisions, and to work hard. So many parents seem bewildered by their children's failures or rejections.  A child doesn't make a sports team, and it can't be because the child wasn't as good as another child, or didn't behave well, or whatever the case, it has to be because there was some strange force conspiring against the child. (And there may have been, but then again, it's a lesson to be learned.)  Or the child doesn't get invited into a prestigious group, the advisers must be manipulating the system. By the time the child is ready for the college admissions process, he or she and his or her parents may have no real idea about rejection and failure, how and why it happens, and how to cope with it.

Two years ago, my daughter was beginning her senior year of high school. I remarked to a friend that I was going to spend the entire year locked in my house, because I knew how dramatic some of the parents were going to get over the college admissions process. I was right. Parents whose children had never, in theory, been rejected from anything, could not cope with their children not getting into the more rigorous schools on their lists. And the kids were horrified because they had never been rejected by anything before. And, sure enough, the parents insisted, these rejections had nothing to do with the child; they were sure to be about anything but the child.

College admissions rejection is the first really big rejection for many kids.  But it is bound not to be the last -- not getting the job, being passed over for the promotion, being broken up with by a serious girl or boyfriend.....there are times we are all rejected, and childhood is as good as anytime to learn to cope with it; in fact, I think it's the best time. So parents, when your child is rejected, don't cover it up as someone else's mistake.  Teach your children to accept that no one is perfect, including them, and that rejection, while not fair, happens.  Being rejected is not the problem, it's learning to deal with it.

Confrontation and How Bad at It I Am

I suck at confrontation.  I know most people don't like confrontation, but some people are better at it than others.  Some people are naturally good at sharing a reasonable account of why they are confronting the other person, and are able to hold their ground and find a good resolution. Those people are not me.

Last week I had to confront someone about a work issue. It had come up before, and it would affect my writing career pretty significantly.  I had avoided this particular confrontation for a long time, months, really, and could no longer.  I had tried, several times, to have a verbal confrontation with this person, but she had skirted me or changed the subject each time.

But that could be no longer.  I thought about what I had to say, why I wanted to say it, and how it could play out.  In a little bit of a chicken move, but more so I could actually get the words out the way I wanted and not be led astray, I emailed this person how I felt.  She responded positively. I was happy with the outcome.

See, writing the confrontation isn't that  hard for me. I can write the confrontation and know the words are getting said the way I intend, and that hopefully, the message is getting across.  Now, before you call me a wimp, know that I have actually fired employees in the past, to their faces. In small, cramped offices.  So though I have dealt with confrontation. I just didn't quite want to face confrontation that way this time around.

My other problem, besides making sure the words are right and not being caught off guard by counter arguments, is that I don't want to hurt the other person's feelings. It doesn't matter that the person has wronged me, that I need to let him or her know he or she has.  I just don't want to upset that other person.  And I am always cognizant that there are two sides to every story.  It's amazing when you go to talk to someone about something how he or she can have a completely different viewpoint, and sometimes, it can be just as valid as yours. ;)

There were a few other times last week that the issue of confrontation came up.  I had a choice to make in each of these.  Should I say something to a friend I thought was out of bounds? Should I tell someone something that might be very painful to hear but would allow me to get something that was bothering me off my chest? In the end, I did neither of these. I simply held it all in, believing the confrontation wasn't worth the cost.

I would love to hear your confrontation stories. Are you good at confronting others? Bad at it? Does it usually work out the way you want? Is there something right now you want to confront someone over but you're avoiding it? Talk about it.

What College Really Costs

I just got the bill for my daughter's upcoming college semester.  I was expecting it, even what it said, but still, the actual dollar amount on that computer screen can sometimes take me aback.  My daughter is going into her sophomore year of college and she loves it.  Since she didn't particularly like high school, I am especially thrilled she likes college. Even though it is expensive.

A lot of people are confused about college costs. Parents assume that in state schools are the most economical choice. For many, this may be true. But for this New Jersey-ite, in state tuition, room, and board at Rutgers, our state university, is about $26,000 a year.  For about that same cost, my kids could go to any of the New York state public colleges, Salisbury University of Maryland, and a number of other colleges as out of state students.

Many people think that out of state tuition, room, and board at public colleges are cheaper than private colleges every time. This also isn't necessarily true. I am paying less to send my daughter to a private college than I would have paid had she gone to an out of state public school at some of the more popular out of state colleges on the East Coast, such as University of Delaware and University of Maryland, among many, many others.

My daughter's college costs $60,000 a year. Now that's the sticker price -- literally the price they stick on the costs page on their web site and in their glossy brochures. But private colleges know that many, if not most, of their students will not be able to afford a $60,000 a year sticker price for college. They have endowments that they use to help bring costs down for individual students, and it's easier to qualify for financial aid at a private college that asks $60,000 a year than a college like, say, Rutgers, that asks $26,000 a year.

Each year, my daughter receives scholarship money and grant money from her school. This is free money that she does not have to pay back. She also has work/study as well as some loans.  But it's important to note that private college is not out of reach for many students.

In the end, you have to do what is right for your situation. But don't assume you can't afford a more expensive school, or that your state school offers the least expensive education or that your state school is the only option.  Investigate, you might be surprised!

The Truth About Parenting Teens

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know by now that I have two teenage daughters, nineteen and fifteen, and that aside from being an author (My first book was published this past March) I stay at home with them.  Many people have asked me why I don't go back to work now that they're older, and aside from some basics -- I don't really have the necessary skills to acquire a job since I left the work force in 1997, and I have a chronic illness that makes it difficult for me to know whether, on a given day, I will have the strength or health to work -- I am convinced that parenting teens requires a twenty four hour a day/seven day a week mentality that we mostly attribute to parenting babies.

Yes, in those long gone days I was up round the clock nursing and changing and soothing.  Yes, my kids had to be with me all the time to be looked after, and I wanted that bond with them.  Yes, as teenagers, they are out of the house for a good part of the day. (My older daughter is away at college nine months out of the year, and is currently working at a sleep away camp for the summer.) But when they are home, when they are in my presence, they need me on a moment's notice. They need to be able to talk about what's on their minds, what crisis or problem or issues they're dealing with and these could be as simple as clothes they need or as complicated as topics like drug use or sex. 

 

If I weren't home with my fifteen year old daughter this summer, she would not be able to participate in a CIT program at her drama camp. It's a good twenty minute drive each way. Instead of telling her no, she couldn't do it, I drive her back and forth, and we talk in the car.  Or, if we're not talking, she's talking to her friends in the carpool, and I'm learning lots of interesting things about their lives as I silently weave through traffic.  Meanwhile, she's building the volunteer hours she needs for high school and college.

My nineteen year old came home for a day and night off from college Sunday into Monday. If I were working, I wouldn't have been able to spend Monday with her cuddled up next to me, telling me about the stresses she's finding as a camp counselor, talking about her campers and her supervisors and what she wants to do next summer, talking about her fall classes and upcoming new job and financial aid. I'd have been at work, and she would have been sitting on the couch, by herself, unable to process all of the thoughts going on in her head.

So yes, I'm alone a lot while they're off working and volunteering and playing.  But when they need me, unequivocally, I am there.  And who knows what time of day or night that could be.

Friendship

There are so many different kinds of friendships -- childhood friendships and high school friendships, college friendships and lifelong friendships, friends we have coffee with and friends in the office. But I have a special friendship with a group of women, some of whom I've never met. When I tell most people about this friendship, they look at me like I'm insane.

Sixteen years ago, when I bought my first computer, a snazzy desktop model that sat in my small living on an old desk and connected me to the Internet via my phone line, knocking me off constantly, I was playing around on AOL -- let's face it, that's one of the only sites there was to play around on at the time -- when I found a public forum dedicated to women having babies in January, 1998. It was July, 1997, and I was about three months pregnant with my second child.

I read some of the posts and then got off the computer. A few days later, I went back on and read some more. Then I started posting, too.

We were an eclectic group -- we came from all age groups and backgrounds, from all parts of the country, we had varying political and social views and economic situations. There were single pregnant women, married pregnant women, women having their first, second, third, fourth, and in one or two cases, fifth babies. There were women having twins, women having scheduled csections, women having home births.  It was fascinating to me.  I'd never met some of the types of people I met in this group.

We shared the typical pregnancy woes. We shared our scares with bad test results. One woman delivered her baby so early she was barely viable. (She lived and is now the oldest Janbaby, even though she celebrates her actual birthday in September.)  As the group shared more, we got closer. And I lamented the day that we would deliver the babies and no longer have a group, because it appeared that AOL only had groups for pregnant women until the month they delivered.

But then AOL continued the group for parents of babies born in January 1998.  And then we were parents of toddlers born in January 1998. And then kids.  We grew as our kids grew, discussing controversial topics (sometimes more successfully than other times) and we leaped into issues surrounding our school aged kids. We retained a private site so we wouldn't be stalked.   Our pregnancies were the thing that originally brought us together, but despite our differences, our kids weren't what kept us together.

There have been tough times in our group.  We've fought, left the group, come back, split up, come back, split up again, come back together.  Many of us have said things to one another we regret. But we've made up, again and again.

Now it's sixteen years later.  We're a tight group, and I visit our private message board throughout the day. We send hopeful thoughts to those in the group who are having a difficult time, and we cheer on the exciting moments, too. We support each other through our kids' sometimes challenging teen years.  Some of us have older children in college, or married, and our first member became a Grandma to her older son's baby a few months back, while we have one member who is pregnant with her ninth child right now. We always like having a new baby to get excited about.) So while I have many friendships IRL ("In re(al life", as we say) one of my most favorite groups of friends is JanMoms98.  Wouldn't change them for anything.

On Jealousy

My 15 year old daughter and I were discussing jealousy recently.  Her friend was there, too, and she said she didn't like talking about jealousy.  I told the girls that jealousy is a normal human emotion and that everyone experiences it at some point in life.  I then told them what I was jealous of: writers whose careers are going better than mine right now.

I thought this was an interesting topic so I brought it up with some friends.  Several remarked (or agreed with the remark) that jealousy is a wasted emotion and they chose not to say anything further.  I thought that was fascinating. First of all, I'm not sure that jealousy is a wasted emotion. Jealousy can motivate you to make better choices, or work harder, or force you to confront issues in your life that you weren't so sure you wanted to confront before.

A few friends commented on being jealous of other women's better bodies.  I thought that was interesting too, because the kind of jealousy I'm talking about isn't the "Oh, she weighs ten pounds less than I do," thought that runs through nearly every woman's mind at some point or another. One friend commented that she had occasional "envy" and it was fleeting and short lived.  (I noted that she used the word envy rather than the word jealousy.)

The topic was dropped quickly; I was disappointed. It seemed that in this tight circle of friends, no one really wanted to talk about jealousy -- the deep seated kind -- or what they were really jealous of.

I think to many people, jealousy is a taboo subject, much like what we weigh and how much we earn for a living.  I wonder, why?  Why don't we talk about this thing, this big green eyed monster that sits in our brains and can sometimes eat us up, sometimes spur us on?  I know my jealousy over other writers has spurred me on -- to try to figure out how to be as successful as they are, to see what they did -- could I do that, too? -- and strangely, to give me hope that someday I could be that successful as well, because if it happened for them, it could happen to me.

So what are you jealous of?  And what do you hope for? Are the two emotions, jealousy and hope, interwoven, or are they completely separate?  Is jealousy just a wasted emotion and is it possible never to be truly jealous of anyone else? I would love to hear from you.  Let me know what you think. judymwalters@gmail.com

Taking the Long View

One thing I've never been particularly good at is taking the long view.  When I was pregnant with my first daughter, throwing up nonstop for months, I never really thought about the fact that time would end.  It felt like it would go on forever.  When that baby then had colic for about six weeks, again, I never really thought about the fact that it would end; I only felt the stress of the moment -- of the many moments my baby cried and cried and wouldn't stop.

I've been trying, lately, to take the long view more often. Teaching my daughters to drive, for example, is nerve wracking in the moment, but the skill will last them a lifetime.  They'll drive themselves to college and then to their first jobs and then drive their own children everywhere. It takes about a year to teach driving to the point that they can drive themselves safely, but they will keep that skill the lifetime.

My younger daughter is getting her braces off today.  We put the braces on because she had a huge gap in her two front teeth.  When we put them on, I didn't think about the fact that I was setting her teeth up for a lifetime -- not only so she can look good in school pictures, but so she can look professional in job interviews when she is an adult.  It's been a long two years of brackets breaking and coming off, elastic bands flung everywhere, wires popping out at the most inopportune times,(almost always on the weekends) causing pain.  And even though I knew they would come off someday, I didn't think about that "someday" much, not really. But here it is.

The long view comes in handy while raising teenagers. When we're going through a tough time, I try to remember that they will grow up, they will become adults.  They will go to college (one already is in, so I'm more confident about this now!) and they will move out and on. Someday I will be the mother of adult children.  This will happen.

I'm trying to apply the same long view to my writing.  Recently I finished another manuscript, and it's time to get ready to send it out to the world.  I like it a lot, and my beta readers like it a lot. I now have to decide -- in the long view -- what the best thing is for it.  And how to get to there. I'm trying not to short view this one -- to be patient as I make my way towards the goal of seeing this book out there, for readers to enjoy. 

Taking the Long View -- I'm trying to do it, every day, in every way.

One Face of Autism

I went to a very special graduation last week. It was for Greg, a twenty one year old young man with autism.  He was graduating from the children's program he was placed in seventeen years ago at the age of three, a year after he was diagnosed.

We all think we "know" autism. There are certainly many stories in the media about kids, who, despite autism, are able to go to regular school, or college, or interact with family.  But rarely do we see someone like my friend Greg.  Greg is nonverbal, meaning he doesn't speak, and he works hard to achieve basic skills, along with an aide who stands or sits right beside him, guiding him. He has a seizure disorder that is common to many autistics, a disorder that has led to his hospitalization.  He hums and makes strange sounds sometimes and has trouble interacting with other people. He can answer questions with a nod and he loves to give high fives.  He loves Thomas the Tank and video games and puzzles and his parents and his grandparents and his extended family.

There were two boys at this graduation, Greg and A., another twenty one year old who is also leaving the children's program.  It's now up to the state and Greg's parents to find an appropriate setting for Greg.  His parents are eager to get him into an adult program with similar goals -- teaching Greg life skills, such as emptying a dishwasher or setting a table, and helping them to be able to work.  But it's not that simple.

For one thing, adult programs for these special individuals are limited, and for another, they are extremely expensive.  Greg's parents want, like all of us want, the best for their son, so he can contribute to society.

Last week, Greg and A were led into the graduation by their amazing teacher, who has guided them through adolescence since they were thirteen. They were wearing caps and gowns. Although it is very difficult for Greg to smile -- I think I've only seen him smile once or twice in his life -- he was beaming, so proud of himself that day.  The two boys sat in the front of the room, eyeing the candy and cookies on the table set for the reception. Their teacher told us how they would go on to do great things. That led me to think about the great things I expect and want for my own healthy daughters, like college and careers, and happy marriages and children (if they want them) and the great things Greg's parents hope for him (skills that will help him be independent, the right medications so he won't seize, caregivers who will treat him like family). 

Then the teacher allowed anyone in the audience who chose to do so the opportunity to speak.  Greg's mother got up and talked about how the program helped her toilet train her son, something she never thought would happen.  His father got up and talked about how he saw pictures of Greg working at Staples one day -- this program is not shy about taking individuals with autism out into public, and they have, over the last few years, brought the boys to some work sites, for example, to a restaurant where they rolled silverware into cloth napkins for a few hours -- and how he just wants his son to be able to work, like everyone else.  Greg's grandmother got up and said she was glad that Greg was able to live at home and be in this program, because in her day, people like Greg were institutionalized.

Then the teacher played a slide show with many pictures of Greg from the time he was very little until now, pictures of him with his teachers at the beach, (he loves the water) at amusement parks, in the classroom working on a daily living skill like sitting still for the dentist....Afterwards, at the reception, A stuffed his cap with Twix bars while Greg looked at a picture album his teacher had made.

I don't know what's going to happen with Greg next because his future lies between the state and his tireless parents, who, for the past eighteen years, since he was diagnosed, have fought every step of the way to give their child the best of everything, just like every parent wants for his or her child.  But I do know that Greg will continue to be loved and cherished by family and friends and that he continues to teach all of us how to appreciate a full life.

Mothering as a Career

So last week I talked about how soon my daily parenting duties will be ending as my older daughter is now off at college and my younger is in high school. I've been a Stay-at-Home-Mother (and fledgling writer) for fifteen years now, the longest I've been in any job.

And yes, I consider mothering my career.  A lot of people look down on Stay-at-Home Mothers.  It's nearly impossible to find a job after any period of time as a Stay-at-Home Mother.  Employers assume you have no usable skills.  They assume you've spent the last three, five, ten, however many years you've been home wiping noses and making peanut butter sandwiches, and yes, you've done those things, but you've done so much more.

You're run a household.  You've managed a budget and paid bills. You've managed the schedule of two adults and one or more children. You've dealt with teachers and school administrators and advocated for your children -- time and again. Maybe, like me, you've sat on dozens, if not hundreds, of PTO committees, planning programs, interacting with staff, coordinating events.  Maybe you developed academic goals for the entire school or managed committee budgets or written and edited a newsletter -- all for free, as a side thing, because you wanted to, because you wanted your kids to see you involved in their lives, because modeling volunteerism, because making a home-school connection, was vital.

You've helped your kids through everything -- from their first steps to the first day of school to first friendships that have ended badly to adjusting to new schools and new friends and new classes. You've edited their essays and proofread their college applications. You've advised them on sex and drugs and drinking, and all this has happened at any hour of any day, including at two a.m. and on Thanksgiving.  Parenting is, literally, a twenty four hour a day job, and it's made you one of the most patient people in the world.

There is nothing -- no book I've written, no other relationship I've had, no other job I've ever held, that has been more important or worthwhile or fulfilling than my job as a mother.  I'm raising the people who will take care of you in your old age.  I'm raising the people who will shape whether you will still have social security when you retire, who will develop new technology so you can be more efficient in your chosen career, who will stand up and protest if their political leaders try to take your freedoms away, who will respect you because you've lived longer than them.  Yet this society doesn't look at my job as particularly valuable or important.  Society wonders why I haven't "gone back to work" -- why I am not earning money.

I'm doing this job because I love it, and because, and I'm so aware of this, I am very fortunate.  My husband works extremely hard at his job so I can do this one. I think about this a lot.  I believe I've been a better, more effective mother because I've been with my children full time.  I believe that I am the lucky one. And you, readers, have benefited, too.  I'm sending two caring, smart, hard working people out into the world to make it better.  Better for you.

On Being a Stay-at-Home-Mother

Sixteen years ago next month, I made the momentous decision to become a Stay-at-Home Mother.  I had a three year old and was about twelve weeks pregnant with my second child and I was tired. Tired of commuting from my home in New Jersey two days a week to my Managing Editor position in New York, and then squeezing in the other three-days-worth of work when she was napping or at night or when she was watching Elmo. I was tired of getting up at four a.m., tired of having to scrounge for a sitter when my sitter's three year old son was sick (which seemed to be often), tired of the company I was working for, which, I had discovered accidentally, was paying my two male counterparts more than me, tired of working with another manager who was constantly undermining me....I was just tired.

My husband and I did not think we could afford to live on one salary.  In fact, we knew we couldn't. We had run the numbers before, and we had always concluded that there was no way we could afford it. I was miserable enough, though, that we decided to do it for a year and a half, from that point of my pregnancy until that child would be one, and then I would go back to work.

A year and a half later, we were living on one salary much more comfortably than we ever though we could. We had given up many of the things people say they need or want, like dinners out, and I budgeted very carefully.  We decided that it was working out so well, I would just stay home another year.

And another year went, and a year after that, and before I knew it, I had two kids in the elementary school and was the PTO President and involved in a million of the school and kid activities and was loving it. I had finally found something I was really good at.  I was a Mother with a capital M.

Around the time my younger daughter finished elementary school, people started asking me when I was going back to work, so it felt like, well, that I should go back to work.  I looked for a job halfheartedly but I kept coming back to the idea that I really liked what I as doing -- Mothering -- and that we were all happy.

And I was writing. And wondering what would come of the writing.

More years passed. Last year, my older daughter graduated from high school and left for college.  My younger daughter is in high school, so the writing is on the wall. I'll lose her to adulthood in a few years, too.  With my writing career started, I'm definitely on the edge of another new phase of life, much like I was sixteen years ago, when I decided to become a Stay-at-Home Mother.  But unlike last time, this time, I'm very aware of the huge shift my life will take.  I'm very aware that their adulthood is not temporary; that my goal has been to raise happy, healthy, productive adults and release them into society.  So when someone asks me what I do, even though I'm a published author, and even though one of my daughters is essentially an adult, and the other clearly on her way, I still say Stay-at-Home Mother.  Because I can't imagine ever being anything else first.

Off to My Agent and What Happens Next

I sent my new manuscript off to my agent yesterday. It was a bittersweet moment as I love my new book, (working title: The Opposite of Normal) and will miss my characters and their struggles.  But, it was exciting to talk to my agent, tell her how positive I feel about the book, and hear her excitement over the title. (A good friend gave it to me as I suck at titles; Thanks, Dielle!)  

The hard part is the waiting, which is what it feels like you do all the time as an author. My agent warned me that she is very busy the next few weeks -- agents really do live in a state of constant busy-ness, as they juggle multiple authors in various stages of projects, contracts, editorial, etc. so I have to wait my turn.  I appreciated that she told me exactly what is going on and how long it would be and when I would hear from her again.  So now I have about three weeks to imagine her reading it, loving or hating it, thinking it's ready to go or that it will need more work.  And then we're up against the dreaded summer slow down. 

If you're not familiar with the summer slow down, it's famous among those of us in publishing as the time when people start vacationing and new projects can be put on hold.  Though a book will be acquired by one editor who falls in love with it and then feels compelled to bring it to market, that editor must first get her editorial team on board with support in order to make an offer, and because members of the team might be on vacation at various times throughout the summer, books don't seem to get acquired as often then. (But maybe they do and writers and agents are just a little too paranoid about this "supposed" summer slow down.)

So it's actually possible that my beloved manuscript will not see an editor's desk until September, when vacations are over and publishers are again focusing on finding that special book.  In the meantime, I will begin working on my next book, which will tackle a completely new subject for me but still focus on themes of family and hope, which are what interest me most.

Any questions about the publishing process? I would love to hear from you!

More About My Next Book...

I'm getting ready to send my next book to my agent;  I would like to send it to her sometime next week.  She'll read it -- hopefully quickly -- she is usually very good about reading new manuscripts in about a week's time -- and then advise me about what she thinks we should do next. I'm looking forward to this part.  Meanwhile, I'm on my second rereading since my work on the version I finished based off of my editor's suggestions. It's amazing that no matter how careful I think I'm being, no matter how many times I go through it, I still find things to change, whether we're talking about typos I missed or phrases that I could have written more smoothly or a new line of dialogue one of my characters just has to say.

Many of you have asked me for a sneak peek into this next book, and while I'm hesitant to say too much until my agent reads it and we decide how to move forward, I will give you a glimpse here. It's called The Opposite of Normal (right now, because titles almost always get changed somewhere along the publishing process) and it's told from three different points of view -- twelve year old Hannah, who is questioning her identity as an American Jew, since she was adopted from a Chinese orphanage and doesn't fit in with the mostly white, Christian peers in her town, her brother Aaron, who, at seventeen, is dating a Christian girl who wants nothing more than to marry young and have as many children as possible, while Aaron prepares to leave town for an Ivy League college, and their father, Rabbi Mark Friedlander, whose wife died two years ago from cancer, leaving him alone (and feeling quite incapable) of raising his two teenage children as a single parent while he fights to keep his job at a failing synagogue.

I'm really excited about this book -- hence the sneak peek for all of you -- and I can't wait to get it out there to hear what you, my supportive and enthusiastic readers -- have to say about it.

Editing...or The Part I Hate the Most

I just finished two hours of hard editing -- like hard labor, except I'm still in my pjs and robe, sitting at my kitchen table, and I can get up and get a drink or something to eat while I'm doing it.

Writers seem to come in all shapes and sizes and for some, editing is their favorite part. I can't relate. My favorite part -- once I get an idea that appears to have legs -- is the blank page. I love writing with abandon, not worrying about all of the technical issues, like whether a character is fully developed or my climax is fleshed out or even if I got the little details, like the color of someone's hair -- right. I love just waiting to see what my character will do next, how she's going to get out of a difficult situation, and how to address a controversial issue, such as tackling abortion and religion -- to name two --like in the book I'm writing now.

But editing is a vital part of the process -- probably the most vital part.  It requires great attention to detail, a fleshing out of scenes, writing new scenes, deleting old ones, figuring out how all the is are going to be dotted and all the ts are going to get crossed. And it isn't easy.

It starts with a great editor, and that editor can't be the author. No matter how many writers think it, they are not capable of editing themselves, even if they edit for others, professionally. No, you need distance, you need someone to look objectively, and say Yeah, this works! (Pat yourself on the back) and No way! This doesn't work! (Cringe, but accept this is right and toss the words.)  And you need someone who is good at detail. (I'm not.) And someone with patience. (Definitely not me.)

It's worth it to pay for this service. A writer friend reading for free (maybe you can swap) can be very helpful -- I have a writer friend who is always my first reader, even before my editor -- but a writer friend generally can't be as specific as a professional editor. Maybe she doesn't have time -- after all, she's writing, too! -- or maybe she's afraid of hurting your feelings, or whatever.  A writer friend is a start, not an end, in the process.

I started working with a new editor for this book. She came highly recommended from an author whose work I deeply admire, and when I contacted her she was professional, thoughtful, and direct. I signed her up immediately and sent her my manuscript, nervous.

There was nothing to be nervous about. Her suggestions were completely on target, and my book is coming together to be an even better book because of her. So I say...all hail the editor. Probably the most important part of the process!

A Literary Agent Will Make All My Dreams Come True, Right?

Most authors who want to publish traditionally (aka, through one of the publishers in the Big Five/Six, with a hardbound or paperback book that will show up at Barnes and Noble and book stores around the country and get reviews) need to find a literary agent.  The agent is the author's conduit to the publishing world -- the agent matches you up with editors he or she thinks would be good fits for your work, builds the relationship, sends the manuscript, negotiates your contracts, etc., etc. Literary agents work hard and long for us, the authors. I once spent a few months interning with an agent, which helped me understand what, exactly, an agent does and how valuable an agent can be.

It's hard to get an agent.  First you have to persuade, in about four paragraphs (called a query letter), why an agent should consider your manuscript. The agent (or, more often) the agent's assistant or intern will read through, literally, about fifty other letters just like yours EACH DAY.  The assistant or intern will pass the letters she thinks hold promise to the agent, and then the agent may ask you for a few sample pages or the first fifty pages or the entire manuscript. Then in the agent's spare time (which is, like, nothing) she will read through and decide whether she would like to represent you.

This is just the start. The agent will work with you to edit your manuscript until it's ready for submission, which could take weeks (if you're lucky) or months (usually) or a year, even (occasionally).  For many more months (or a year, even) the agent will shop your manuscript around, trying to get editors interested. This is a tricky process.

Here's the thing.  The agent does not guarantee you will get a traditional deal.  I have an agent.  Her name is Erica Silverman and she works for one of the top literary agencies in the country, Trident Media Group.  Whenever I tell anyone in the literary world who my agent is, the first thing the other person says is, "Oooohhh, Trident. You're going to get a deal."

I have not gotten a deal.  Erica has tried to sell TWO of my manuscripts, and neither was taken.  Child of Mine, my book that came out in March, was published by Trident Media's Ebook Division, because Erica believed in it so much that she wanted the world to read it.  (Thanks, Erica!)

Literary agents can be valuable partners in the publishing process.  Obviously mine has been for me.  But an agent is NO guarantee that you will make a deal.  Getting the agent is only one small step in the process.

Publishing Vs. Publishing

When I was in college, I got an internship at a small publishing company called Acropolis Books.  It was in Washington D.C., and I loved every minute. Eventually they invited me to work for them full time.  There, I learned from industry veterans -- I learned how to edit, to write a press release, how books are chosen to be published, how to go through a slush pile, how to write an ad, how to edit a book, how to choose a cover....it was very hands on.  I had always loved books and here was a place that I could talk about them and help bring them from an idea or a proposal or a rough draft to a bound book that would go into book stores. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

That internship cemented my feelings that I wanted to work in publishing. When I graduated from college, the Marketing Director of that company called around and helped me get my first job in New York. In Big Time Publishing.

Just a few months into Big Time Publishing, I saw something completely different. I saw a lot of people trying to claw their way to the top, doing anything that had to in order to get there. I saw a lot of underpaid people working their tails off to make it to the next level.  I saw a lot of exhausted people bowing out of Big Time Publishing altogether. It was the early nineties.

For the next eight years, I tried variations on Big Time Publishing.  I worked in nonfiction. I worked in Test Prep Books. I worked in library resource publishing. I climbed my way from Editorial Assistant to Managing Editor. I loved certain aspects of the business.

I dropped out when I became pregnant with my second child.  I knew I wouldn't be able to manage a career and my two kids, living in New Jersey and going into New York every day.  I didn't look back.

Then I decided to write my own novels.  And suddenly I was pressed back into Big Time Publishing. Only now it's so much more complicated than it was before. There's self publishing, only we call it Indie. And there's hybrid -- (which is what I've done) -- a cross between Traditional and Indie and there's Traditional, which some still see as the holy grail, where the big time publisher says THIS IS IT and you GET TO BE IT. (If only briefly)

Lately, I've been noticing a whole lot of versus in publishing. Indie Vs. Traditional. Agented Vs NonAgented. Ebook Vs. Paper. Brick and Mortar Vs. Amazon.  There seems to be a lot of bitterness, a lot of anger, a lot of dissension. It bothers me.  As authors, we are a unique community. There are many of us, for sure, but it is hard to write a book, hard for it to stand out, hard to get going in this world.  The last thing we need to be doing, as authors, is insisting my way is best, or my way is the only way, or your way is wrong.  We need to support each other.  How can we best do that?

Promote each other. Cheer each other on. Read each others' books. If someone asks for help, give it.  If someone doesn't ask for help, but you have help to give, offer it. But most of all, keep an open mind.  Can I help you? Let me know.

When You Say Goodbye to Your Manuscript

On Monday morning, I uploaded my manuscript and sent it off to my new editor.  I was both excited and sad.

I really love this manuscript, and I think it has good potential.  I've been working very hard on it, writing seven days a week to ready it for her, so she can work her editor magic and make it into the kind of book my agent will say is ready to Show. Some. People.

I had been looking forward to some time off. I pictured myself catching up on my tv shows, napping maybe, cleaning some stuff that has't been cleaned in a while. (Okay, I really don't want to clean anything.) But also reading a lot more -- something that I love and which has had to take a back seat lately to getting my manuscript done -- and catching up with friends.

But then I clicked that Send button.  And I felt adrift.

I miss my characters. I miss Hannah, a smart, unsure of herself twelve year old who is completely confused by her almost-teenage life, and her big brother Aaron who is applying to college, knowing he's not going to be able to attend, and their father, Mark, a bumbling but lovable Rabbi, left devastated by the loss of his wife, with no clue how to raise the kids himself.

So I'm not exactly enjoying this forced upon me free time as I thought I would.  And I find this happens every time I write a new book. I start imagining the free time, the break, the much needed release from living the story in my head every day.  And then I get there and it's, well, not anything like I thought it would be.

My editor will be done in about three weeks, and then I'll get it back again. I'll get cranky as the time grows near, I'm sure, thinking about all of the work I have to do on it, worrying that I won't be able to make the changes she suggests, wondering if I really can take it to the next level.  And as soon as I get it back, as relieved as I will be to have it in my hands again, to write, I will wonder why I didn't appreciate my break more.

On Living

This week, I've been struck by the living all around me. The will to live despite difficult circumstances and the will to live better.

Of course we were all shocked when we saw the horrific scenes in Boston on Monday.  As of today, Wednesday, three people have died, including a little boy, and hundreds more have serious injuries. Many will need to learn to live without limbs. For them, life will be difficult over the next months and years.  But in time, they will rally and learn to live not only normally but joyfully, and the people around them will help with that.Their will to live is strong.

Just as the Boston Marathon tragedy was coming across the airwaves, a good friend of mine, a woman I've known my entire life -- literally, as we grew up across the street from each other, our parents best friends (still living on that same street!) -- was undergoing gastric sleeve surgery. (This is a form of bariatric weight loss surgery.) She had been contemplating this decision for years, literally, and agonizing over whether she should do it. Ultimately, she has a strong will to live, to feel herself, to be who she really is, and this surgery -- and its recovery - while not easy, will give her the opportunity to do that.  Difficult circumstances, again, but the will to live is stronger than the circumstances she finds herself in.

And I'm on my own journey to live a better life. Twelve years ago, I was diagnosed with Chrons Disease, an autoimmune disorder that attacks the digestive system, as well as other parts of the body, like the joints and the skin.

Over the last twelve years, I've been trying every oral medication there is on the market to feel better, some with more success than others, never getting me into remission for very long.  Last week my doctor threw down the gauntlet.  I needed to start IV infusions of a very strong medication that is sure to put me in remission. I could say that I "decided" to go for it -- but the truth is, there was little choice in the matter.  So yesterday I spent the day at the hospital getting my first infusion.  It's a long process -- I was there four hours -- of a slow drip of strong medication along with other drugs to counteract the negative side effects.  I wouldn't say it was any fun, but it was my way of moving forward with life so that I can be the person that I want to be, despite my circumstances.

This is what life is all about, when you get down to it. Living despite what you have to overcome.  And everyone has to overcome something. I do. My friend does. Surely the people of Boston now, do.  What do you have to overcome or what are you working to overcome so that you can live better?  Tell me. I'd love to know.

The NEXT Book

When you're a writer, you constantly balance at least two worlds -- the book you're currently promoting, and the book you're currently writing. It's enough to drive you insane.

I love talking about Child of Mine, my debut novel. It was written from the heart; the story of an infertile midwife desperate to have a child -- and to find her biological family.  While I was writing it, it hearkened me back to the time I had struggled to have my own children, to my infertility treatment.

But at the same time as I've been discussing my midwife, Katie, and talking about infertility and birth and the magic of midwives, I've been living, part time, anyway, in my new world, with a twelve year old girl named Hannah who just wants to figure who she is -- Jewish, like her adoptive parents, or some other religion? And I've been taking peeks into her family, too.  Her father, Mark, is a Rabbi on the verge of losing his job, and who already lost the most important person in his life, his wife, his children's mother, to cancer a few years back. And what about Hannah's brother, Aaron, who has made a stupid choice he's going to have to live with forever?

So you can imagine how I might be feeling a little confused these days.  What book am I on?  What character am I thinking about? Whose voice do I want to get into now? I'm happy to say that I just finished the first draft of my new book (title to come) and now it is with a good writer friend who I know will give me honest feedback.

Do you have a question about Child of Mine? Writing? Publishing? Infertility? Ask away, and with my head clear, for now at least, I can answer!

Sharing Some Author Love

One of the most challenging things a new author needs to do is find other, more established authors in her genre who might be interested in reading her book, providing a blurb, or letting their own loyal readers know a fresh voice is on the scene.

As new authors, we hate to bother our established counterparts. Established authors are as busy as the rest of us, if not busier. They have books to write and edit, their own publicity to run, as well as responsibilities to their publishing houses and agents, yet they can be so valuable in helping us jump start our own careers.

Sometimes a new author just gets lucky.  That's what happened to me since my book, Child of Mine, came out a few weeks ago. First, the talented as well as lovely Therese Fowler www.theresefowler.com, author of four books, both bought and tweeted about my book, and then she shared a link on her Facebook page to an interview I had done.  She did this in the midst of launching her newest book, Z, which has already garnered so much interest that I know she has been busy with press and media for weeks.  She took the time to mention me, and I'm so appreciative. Thank you Therese!

Then, last week, I reached out to author Jane Porter. www.janeporter.com Jane has written literally dozens of books over the last decade -- just in the last year several new ones have come out! -- and is widely known in women's fiction publishing. I met Jane at a party she threw a couple of months ago celebrating her latest release.  Though she lives on the West Coast, she brought the party here to New Jersey, and after I'd admired her work -- as well as her stamina -- for so long, I knew I had to go see her.  Jane was warm and inviting and we had a great conversation. 

So I took a chance and emailed her.  Within minutes, she emailed me back, offering to guest host me on her blog.  Next thing I know, my interview is on her web site, along with my picture, my cover image...I could not be more grateful to Jane.

I can't imagine ever having the kind of successful career that these ladies are having, but if I do, I will pay it forward and pick a new author who I want to support.  There's nothing better. Thank you so much to these terrific people!