It's Only For A Year

Back to blogging…had to take a pause as eldest son became a man. Thank goodness it only took a few weeks.

We celebrated my son’s Bar Mitzvah. In Judaism this is a symbolic day that marks his journey into becoming a man; a spiritual rite of passage sort of thing. Aside from the very meaningful service one needs to plan, there’s the party that follows. I remember my Bat Mitzvah party – hundreds of purple, pink and silver balloons lining the ceiling of the country club and insisting the band only play disco. I also completely remember my service and the part my dad played in getting me ready for it. He acted as tutor and three months before the big date, we sat every night after dinner discussing and dissecting the portion of the Torah I was to read in Hebrew – what it meant to me, and the relevance to the world around me. This was an enormous task added to a 13 year old already going through a hormonal explosion, but a task that bonded us as well, and gave us an undeniably special time together.

Husband had never been to a Bar Mitzvah service before and had absolutely no clue what to expect from eldest son or the day at large. This had been a strange detail to appreciate as so much of who I am is represented by this reference. I, therefore, had to take on the planning of this experience by myself, praying to God (mind the pun) that I was ticking every box appropriately. I had an insane sixth sense connection to my dad right from the moment my son turned 13, and it has stayed with me ever since. Even though we chose a venue on the beach and my dad was allergic to the sun, I felt his approval. Really felt it, straight inside the heart region. I chose a Rabbi who knew my family and father well and who was quite unorthodox which was the right fit for our family; a very unconventional venue for the service and a conservative Cantor that would hopefully bring it on home with a familiar etiquette and proper ease. The result was a coming together of all aspects of Family Hamm – even non-Jewish Husband – as what matters most in these religious occasions is the authentic understanding of God, peace, community and love. Good stuff. It was indeed a magical moment in time, with dolphins in the distance…literally.

As for the party…I decided not to get a party planner, not that I ever really entertained it (gosh these puns are coming out fast), and found myself knee deep in a thousand details. It’s such a funny moment when you realize, “Crap, I hope all these decisions, fashion choices, colors, visualizations, vendors, music, actually work!” Son was becoming a man whilst mom had more and more gray hairs appearing on her head. I did hire my incredibly efficient nanny to be my PA on the night. Note to others: excellent idea. Prep someone else with everything, have them take the final meeting at the site to meet everyone, and then defer all major irritations and stresses and desires to kill the manager to them on the night; the expected unexpected could ruin the whole thing.

Family came from England, friends from all around. The hardest part of the planning was the actual day arriving and trying to stay in the moment of it all. The service and party were at Gladstone’s on the beach in Malibu. Heaven on Earth…if it doesn’t rain. My obsession with the weather has never been sane but adding it to an outside venue that is also using the beach as a service location, took my obsession to new heights. I literally was emailing guests weather updates until the day before. There was rain in the forecast, albeit a small chance, and sure enough we awoke that morning to cumulonimbus (fifth grade science) clouds looming overhead. I’ll add here that second son woke us in the middle of the night with a screaming hot ear infection. As a parent you know it’s almost a guarantee that someone is going to get ill the night before a huge event. My eyes the next morning were sooo puffy from lack of sleep I seriously looked like an Asian version of myself. My mom told me to put Preparation H (yes, the hemorrhoid cream) on them, and yes, it worked. My gorgeous niece did my make-up and slowly, slowly I started feeling glamorous.

I checked the hourly weather update that promised the return of blue-ish skies and after a terrible start to the day, the sun started threatening its appearance. We arrived at Gladstone’s early enough to not panic – Husband really trying at this point to be supportive as I was now mumbling incoherent words to myself – and as the moments started unfolding, I fell into a stupor of bewilderment; this day was really happening, my son was really standing in front of a congregation leading us through a service with confidence and expertise and looking like a rock star doing it. All the generations of our family were represented, from England and the US, and there was a coming together of our two backgrounds as well. Is it possible to have a universal religion? Hamm became a very Jewish word that day.

The emotional side of a Bar Mitzvah is humongous. Meaning, it’s a day that connects one’s heritage – past and present – and ties in all the spirituality your family embraces with a soulful clarity. We gave speeches, we sang, we danced, we ate, we partied big time. And with a bit of sand in our feet by the end, we all left that bit closer, having shared something real.

PS…my new man in my life threw up the moment we got home. Sometimes becoming an adult is tougher than it looks.

Husband’s home. I think the most important aspect of his return is us – he and I. If that doesn’t work, it’s all a facade. And each time he leaves for a trip, or we have to separate because of how our schedules clash, there’s an assumption that we will be okay, more than okay, with our reunion. If I thought about it longer than usual, I’d probably have to recognize the risk involved with putting those demands on our relationship; the expectation that we will grow and shift and desire in the same way as time passes.

But we do, and that is our greatest strength and our greatest joy. This connection is what we have come to rely upon above all else. Distance challenges everything because in order to deal with the space between us and be happy, we have to fill it with something else. Husband fills it with work and a more selfish life-style; every decision involves only having to please himself and yeah, for a while there’s some joy in that! I am the opposite – surrounded by the boys and their constant needs, I throw myself into family life whole heartedly and completely, allowing myself to be defined by this role.

Now that the connection is made and I feel safe with it, I have to try and let go wanting to throttle him!!! Husband is a fantastic dad, hands on, willing, patient and loving. But he’s a dad, a man. They do things so differently and with a much deeper voice! My maternal instincts are to throw myself in front of whichever child he is questioning, the way my mother used to protect us from my father. I so remember that; in her mind she was allowed to say whatever she wanted to us, but when my dad got involved without her asking, she became the lioness of the jungle, defending her cubs to the end. I realize that the flow I created over the last several months shifted instantly with two parents now involved. Husband was wondering why the boys weren’t reading one weekend morning and little one (running around near to naked) announced that ‘mom isn’t as mean and doesn’t make us read!’ The thanks I get.

Which brings me to my next observation. I’m starting to believe that children are truly born a certain way, wired to be sensitive, secure, confident, depressed, hyper, insecure, easy-going… We provide life experiences and help guide them to be the best they can be, but who they are is there, in the beginning, in their hard drive. Part of my job is to figure out exactly who they are and then, help encourage the good attributes and deal with the difficult stuff accordingly. You can’t make a monkey into an elephant; you can’t expect your kid to be something totally different from their soul self. We waste so much time missing this simple reality.

My point is…I know my boys because I’m with them so much and I can anticipate them very well. And when Husband is back with us, the balancing act for me is about letting him get up to speed on what’s going on and how to give them what they need; but in his way, the dad way, the loud and sometimes crazy way. His observations are also different from mine and he catches things I’ve missed. I found out that one son has just sold his army toy collection and backpack to his younger brother for $10. Aside from the fact that I must have paid at least $100 for the total contents, I couldn’t believe he did this. When asked about it, he replied, “I’m too old to play with toys.” My heart sank. I know it’s a right of passage into the next stage of boyhood, but I wasn’t prepared for this son to move on just yet. Only last week I caught them in the tub playing ‘guys’. These moments really are this precious, this fleeting now. And it happened that fast, from one day to the next. Husband felt the jubilation in the moment; I felt panic.

Husband gives rise to the yin of our lives whilst I, in turn, the yang, and together we make good Chinese food.

I had the most unexpected, romantic dinner with Husband the other night. It was my late morning and his late evening. I sat next to him as he dined in his hotel restaurant…on Skype. I watched his food being served and we turned down the volume and typed notes to each other throughout his meal. I honestly felt I was having a night out with him. It was very tender. And then, the funniest and sweetest thing happened. The owner had been watching us and had his violinist come to the table and serenade me via skype! A beautiful concerto played out over the air waves and screens and for those few moments in time, I was sitting next to Husband, basking in the warmth of our night together, immersed in the sound of music.

Skype to the rest of our family serves as a way to have daddy in the room. Sunday mornings we ‘turn him on’ and keep him up on the counter. We eat breakfast, do homework, read the paper and chat with the man in the silver flip box. His voice is so loud you actually don’t have to be that near to hear him! Last week I was outside on the sofa with my family, chatting away. My son was showing him his homework and then, like most boys his age, got bored and went out to play some basketball. After a little while, we hear, “Helloooooo, anyone there??? Helloooooo!!!!” It was the voice in the computer. He was abandoned in the kitchen. My mom said – not knowing that Husband was on Skype – “What’s that noise in the house? It sounds just like your husband blowing his nose.”

We then watched Liverpool vs Arsenal together. Husband had the prime spot in front of the TV, seriously, three inches from the screen, and we gathered behind him chanting, “Go Liverpool!” It happened to be a very tense, crazy game of over-time penalties, and we all screamed and cheered and high-fived, Husband included. It’s like one of those weird movies where daddy is quarantined and you can only inter-face through a screen. Thank goodness he has a nice face!

I told him that there is only one great thing about him being away; I can do whatever I want with the family, whenever I want. Husband runs late, I run early, and the boys pretty much run according to how loud I scream. So, if I choose to go to the beach, or a friend’s house, or for a walk and I want everyone to come with me, all I have to do is ‘raise my voice’ to get the train moving, and off we go. If Husband were here, we’d all be in the car just as he decided to do a bit of yoga or have some eggs. Nope, for the last ten weeks, yo soy Capitan.

Making all of the decisions regarding the boys is almost easier. Until…something goes wrong. And then my reign of being solo captain ends and I become desperate for the man in the box to come home and make the decisions, sort the conflict. One of my sons had a strange occurrence happen with school and I felt a bit shafted by the old school, man’s-world attitude. Husband needed to be there to calm me down and sort them out. Instead, my mom wanted to come with me to the meeting!! I love that about her. By the time I had bored my entire family and a few friends with my troubles, I found a clear voice and knew I could handle the situation. But frankly, it was a case for the Husband from the start. I am so grateful he survived being banished in Bulgaria – his stories from there are now legendary – and now will be coming back this weekend to balance Family Hamm again.

Oh for goodness sake. Honestly…really? I can’t move my bloody knee. No motion whatsoever. I can’t bend it which means I cannot walk properly or drive at all. One week as a rock star renders me useless and relying on others for everything. My son looked at me longingly and said, “When oh when are you going to be okay again?”. My period is coming any moment now which has just about thrown me over the edge. Poor chaps around me, I am not pleasant.

Had an MRI late last night, which was preceded by an ER visit over the weekend. Why is it always on the weekend that we need the ER?? It’s one of life’s dirty little tricks as it costs at least 30% more on the weekends and I’m one of those people who calculates those things, even in excruciating pain. But there I was on Saturday night with my exhausted but loyal-to-the-end mother sitting beside me. My sister walked in and resumed her position in the other chair as if we had rehearsed this scene a hundred times. We had to laugh because these scenes, me in a gown late night in a hospital with Nancy knitting and cracking jokes and my mom ready to attack any nurse to get the doctor in sooner, are the same scenes when I’m in labor. Usually Husband is snoring in a vacant bed nearby…seriously, that happened once…and we focus on the clock ticking all the way around the circle as if we’re watching a game.

Nothing is broken, torn or popped. There’s no blood clot or Baker’s cyst (new term now learned referring to causes of knee pain). What there is is acute inflammation, tendonitis and calcification centralized in the back of my knee causing constant pain greater than I have known before. Pain is depressing, debilitating and even demoralizing. This week has been challenging and a culmination of a lot of stress. And it’s only Tuesday!!

Husband is still banished in Bulgaria, well, filming in Bulgaria but banished sounds more explicit to how he’s feeling, and is desperate not to be with me in my time of need. Time of need; a phrase I don’t take lightly or use that often. But I am in that awful phase where I have to watch my life rather than live it. The boys are my anchor. They know that I can’t move so they move their world to me. Which is sweet and tender, and loud and dangerous. Boys with crutches…not a good thing. Within five minutes the crutches were new Jedi weapons used to kill the Sith Lords. I had to remind them that I am Obi-Wan and I will destroy anything in my way. Being on a steroids pack significantly enhances moods, good and bad. All I can say is Siths beware.

I saw an incredible chiropractor yesterday named Franco Columbu. If you look on his website you’ll see him when he was Mr. Olympia. Picture a nice looking version of The Incredible Hulk. In real life, he’s shorter than I am and speaks heavy English with his Italian accent, and, a lot older than his website pictures! But, he is talented and knowledgeable about the body. The most effective way for me to get healthy is to combine western and eastern methods.

Traditional doctors are there to make sure it’s not serious and to take away the pain. The alternative doctors help you understand how the pain got there in the first place and how to avoid it coming back. They are each others yin and yang, and both sides love to take nasty stabs at the other. I almost have to pretend to agree with the respective doctor in order to get the best from him and then make up my own concoction afterward. Steroids and Wobenzyme – watch this space.

In the meantime, I feel a slave to the drugs I’m on as I’m desperate for them to work, so dealing with the depression as a side-effect will hopefully run its course. I do find it amazing that my mind can be so subtly controlled by a drug that I can be fooled into thinking I’m genuinely depressed. I am not depressed!!!!! I’m just…in pain.

London. Husband waiting in his usual place at Heathrow’s Terminal 3. Eldest son and I nearly ran him over with love and hugs and bags. It had been nearly four weeks and the first thing I always do is bury my head in the crook of his neck. I sort of melt there. We went straight home and as I walked down the lane where we live, random daffodils had popped up in the golf course’s outer lawn. Always a Spring surprise to see where they end up. I pushed the gate open to my house and wow, the magnolia tree in front was bursting with its pink petals on every branch as if it wanted to say ‘welcome home’. It was late evening and the sun was beginning to set so all the green was golden lit. I’ve traveled to many places in the world but nowhere is as stunning as England when Spring arrives.

The week. From the moment go, Husband’s film Killing Bono dominated our every hour. And we loved it. Champagne! The studio assigned a driver to ‘us’ and seriously, once you’ve gone chauffeur you never want to go back. If ever we had the money… a ridiculously fabulous luxury. One night when son and Husband were in Leicester Square doing a press Q & A with Ben Barnes (actor in film) a group of screaming girls surrounded them outside (well, son, was next to Ben, who was being surrounded) and the driver flew the door open to son, yelled ‘get in, get in’, son jumped into a moving Mercedes and they sped off as if he was Justin Bieber! Anthony, the driver, played the part of rock and roll family driver with precision and just enough of a wink that we all nearly believed in our celebrity status.

There were film events all week. The London premiere, publicity nights and in the middle of it all, a trip to Belfast to open their film festival. Husband is from Belfast and it was a real ‘coming home’ experience as the film was shot on its streets, and several of the talent who made it and financed the film are from Northern Ireland. The accent gets me every time, not a word do I understand, but the people there are always warm and giving. We stayed in a hotel that boasted that it was the most bombed building in all of Europe and then our suite was named ‘The Titanic’. Hmmm. Not a huge sense of comfort. The Titanic was built in Belfast and as the saying goes there, “It was fine when it left!”

Husband gave a speech at the festival about how proud he was to help contribute to building an industry of creativity there and have the world know Belfast for its art instead of its troubles. I watched our son, watch his dad, and knew we had made the right decision to bring him. The week whirled by with activity and we were a real threesome riding every high together.

My son had a funny occurrence at his old school. He went in for lunch with his mates one day and got notably mobbed, which made his rock star status feel all the more real. And then he went into the cafeteria. One of his old teacher’s saw him and stopped him before he entered the school dinners line. “Are you back?” he inquired. “No, sir, just here for lunch to say hello to everyone,” he replied. The teacher looked him up and down. “Well then, tie up your laces and put on your jacket, you look like a surfer.” And with that, he pushed him through the line. So English! Forget the ‘how are you?’ ‘so great seeing you!’ ‘we missed you!’ remarks. Just cut your hair Hamm.

I had my own strange, personal moments. Even though my life here feels very much mine, there were subtle changes, differences that I noted. Sitting with a group of friends and recognizing a small but not insubstantial shift in relationships; realizing I didn’t share a common opinion about an issue anymore; my favorite chair aged just a little bit more; my plant died; a boy I know grew a few more inches and now is obsessed with girls and my postman is new. Small things, silly things some of them, but all of it was real. Life evolves as it should it’s just more obvious when you’ve been away.

By Friday I was exhausted and emotional. I had done hair and make-up solidly all week and was so over being glamorous. How the It girls do it night after night, hats off. One major tip was planning the outfits ahead of time. By the fourth night I literally threw on the outfit labeled ‘fourth night’ and got ready in five minutes. What made me laugh was the fifth night wasn’t planned and it took me hours to figure out what shloppy top to put on. However, I couldn’t wait to stop being a slave to my blow dry and stay home this night. A group of teenagers from the Matthews clan went to opening night at the local cinema taking son and his friends – who had to pose as slightly older, hilarious -whilst their parents popped vintage bubbles. Expectations ran high all week and I usually don’t allow myself to get too overwhelmed either way. But how often do you get the chance to party all week and lift the trophy at the end?

Eldest son missed the noise of his brothers by Sunday. An unexpected bonus of our trip is his realization that he’s lucky to have his brothers, however hard puberty makes their existence annoying at times. I missed them too, and the normal flow of all things tangible. Waiting for reviews and numbers to make you feel a success or a failure sucks, really. No better literary way to say it and in a way, I was grateful to get back to what I know defines me.

Being the giving person that I am, I shared my rare Upper Class seat with my son for ten hours – they actually let him lie there with me the whole time. I couldn’t even say ‘sorry darling, I’d let you stay, but…’. Oh well. The discomfort was outweighed by the smile on his face when dinner arrived. We landed to signs, balloons and flowers from the other three. I swear the all looked older, and taller. Ten gold stars for the nanny and a trip to Jerry’s deli for matzaball soup was seriously in order. Home. From home to home.

London, LA…LA, London. I’m planning a trip back to London in a week and taking only one of my sons. I’ve never done this before but it’s a special time for him with the lead up to his Bar Mitzvah and I’m excited to indulge our relationship with time and simply be together, rather than being the voice that tells him what to do in every moment. He’s a teenager, I know, and I’m not alone in this, but I crave more time with him without all the rules of play.

Equally, I feel unnerved about leaving the others. They are in good hands and almost too excited to be with the nanny and do all the activities I’ve organized. “When do you go?” they ask with enthusiasm. I remind myself that this is better than tears and I know there will be more than a tinge of weirdness as eldest and I walk away at the airport. I was the youngest of four in my family and my parents waited until I was old enough to travel to go on any trips. I’ve prescribed to that togetherness, family unity-shared memories style all these years but this trip does feel right.

During our week there Husband’s movie comes out and I’m insisting on Champagne nights. Whether we have all the critics on our side or not, surely this is the right time for bubbles. These moments are a result of such hard work over such a long time, I would hate to get so wrapped up in numbers and reviews that we don’t have any fun. I watch creative people all the time either deal with the fear of failure or, strangely so, the fear of success. Marking the moment of arriving is necessary. The actual feeling of success is fleeting at best as it’s human nature to look ahead, want to conquer the next mountain. So I say grab it, be in it, toast it for what it’s worth in that one moment before your eyes fall upon the next Everest.

At the minute I am arranging what will be a very full week in London and simultaneously am organizing activities and events here. These stages are when my two lives live in each other’s pockets like best friends and I get to have play dates with both. I visualize myself sitting in my London kitchen with dear friends as easily as I sit watching tonight’s sunset from my deck in Santa Monica. I talk to everyone in my head hoping both sides hear me and am extremely excited to switch and sit in the garden In London, with the Ocean in my mind’s eye.

As for my boys, I am making The Bible for the nanny whilst I’m away. The Hamm Family Bible consists of days broken down into hours, separated with each boy’s needs, friends, numbers and directions of what to do. Anticipating what she will need to know is not that easy as it’s never the obvious that ends up happening. What to do when little one cries out after having fallen asleep on sofa before bedtime – which light to leave on in the hallway to make everyone feel safe – how much sugar is too much sugar and who goes crazy on it – how to tell if one of them is truly sad, or sick… When I actually write down their schedules, all the driving and planning and thinking involved in getting everybody everywhere relatively on time, I smile with the realization of how much I do and laugh with the reminder of why my mind is too full to have real space for anything else.

The fact I can’t remember a certain president’s name, a country’s capital, a cause I actually fought for, or what I read in college…I graduated from UCLA with honors dammit – is down to the uninspiring, overwhelming minutia of detail that makes four little boys very happy. Worth it? Yep.

My boys are playing a hide-and-go-tag right now. Aside from the normal hustle, whispers, running, screaming and laughing that is going on behind me, there is an added element to the teams they created…Scarlet, our dog. Scarlet is apparently on her own team. She sniffs them out, runs so fast across the wood floor that she slides and crashes into doors and when the boys come out, she tries to hump them. Nice. Who needs a dog walker??

It’s Sunday and Husband’s gone. Not for good, but for a heck of a long time. Right now he’s in Bulgaria of all places. I had to look on a map to find just where Bulgaria is, and I’m not alone. I tried calling. Crackling phone connections, still in 2011, a hotel operator that couldn’t pronounce or understand the name Hamm so it took me four tries to get through to his room and then the line went dead, twice. Finally, a very solemn, soft voice answered. He was jet-lagged and feeling very far away. He is! He needed to hear my voice, calm him down from the craziness of his day – the beautiful Bulgaria that we heard of has, for the time being, been replaced by a grey, cold, city of lawlessness and bribery. He’s there to work, but it’s one of those times when you weigh whether the upheaval, feelings of peril and distance are worth it. We spoke for as long as we could before the Melatonin tablet slowed his mind down enough to allow him to fall asleep.

Like any of my boys, I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him everything’s gonna be alright. No matter how strong we are, if we strip away those that make us feel safe and confidant, we are all vulnerable. When Husband leaves our family has to reconfigure. I literally grow girl-balls of steel. And our boys, they step up for the most part. They are all protective of me, but in equal measures with dad away they instinctively think they can get away with more. So I have to be firm right from the start, lay down the new-ish rules and stay consistent. I do let them pile into my bed to watch American Idol or Seinfeld or mindless fun telly, and we cook together and eat together much more often. They make sure I’m okay if I look a bit down and all of them ask for, and give, extra hugs.

But it’s not completely right, not for any of us. This time when he left they were all just that little bit older and I found myself explaining his trip more. “It’s a positive reason he’s going for, a happy thing. No one’s died, no one’s sick, so we need to be okay that dad needs to work over there for a bit…” And his movie’s coming out…Killing Bono (see it at a theater near you!!). It’s helpful giving them a perspective that makes sense and that answers their questions. But it’s still ever so tricky getting the new balance right.

And now, the awful, horrific tsunami. I awoke this morning with a call from my family in New York desperate to know we were all okay as we live near the beach. Other beach friends evacuated in the night with calls from abroad terrifying them into action. Husband made me Skype him, literally, to prove I wasn’t near the beach, as I had left a message earlier that I was going to go for a run on the sand. Proof, he wanted proof. We all absolutely and categorically need to know that our loved ones are accounted for and safe. The tsunami hit our shores with more fear in the end than force. But for Japan, how insane to watch people, animals, cars, trains and homes being washed away in what one survivor called ‘the spin cycle’ of the oceans pull. Japan is still under Nature’s siege rendering everything in its path useless and it makes your heart break.

California has a 94% chance of having a 7.0 or greater earthquake in the next 30 years and yet we still choose to live here. I remember being thrown from my bed on a moonless night from a powerful quake and fearing for my safety. When the ground shakes underneath you it is incredibly displacing; it goes against every normal instinct to grab a hold of something, to analyze what is happening. To add separation from a loved one…

Earthquakes and tsunamis have happened. Shock waves on every shore with these natural disasters. Not a great time for Husband to be away, especially in Bulgaria!

I

My son walked into the kitchen this evening. I was cooking and he saddled up at the bar to have a chat. “What’s puberty?” he asked with a slight mumble, as it’s a new word he doesn’t quite know how to pronounce. “Well,” I said slowly, looking at him now and wondering if less is going to be more in this instance, “puberty is something that happens when you get a bit older, like a teenager – older, like that, and..” He looked at me blankly. “What is it? What happens?” he asked with more urgency now. “It’s when you start to grow hair…and you smell…that’s puberty,” I replied with little emotion. “That’s disgusting! I’m not doing that!” he announced emphatically. “Everyone goes through it, it’s normal and you’ll go through it too.” “Nope, not me, that’s totally disgusting and I’m definitely not going to do it.”

Aside from how completely adorable that moment was for me, it brought up a lot of stuff. Namely, how much I know and how far their lives/minds/souls need to go in order to understand the dangers and painful exchanges that can happen. I have so much knowledge I just want to give them from my heart to theirs so they can avoid at least some of the bad stuff. My mother used to say that it was life’s greatest challenge for a mother to take care of one’s child completely, happily micro-manage everything so that even a positive dental check up was about how well you could look after them, and then, watch them get older, stop brushing their teeth and realize you can’t control any of it.

It’s a very simple analogy but one that resonates so much with me. And then the harder lesson; when does nurturing turn into enabling?? When does one’s maternal instinct become the very thing that possesses a negative affect? I can tell my son about puberty, the factual information that he needs to hear right now, but what I really want him to understand is ‘you’re going to feel weird, out of place at times, perhaps grow awkwardly and people may be cruel..and then girls may or may not like you for that reason alone…’ but it’s too much information, too much protection. The instincts I have now about my sons are nurturing; positive support wrapped up with a lot of love. But those instincts, the same thought patterns, in time, may haunt me and enable them to develop in the wrong way. They may be exactly what I should not do, or say, so therefore, how does one decipher which way to guide, now? When does nurturing turn into enabling?

I am dealing with all kinds of needs at the moment. Academic challenges, emotional and physical development, and I find that any one of my boys could have me working 24/7 for them alone making sure that they are getting what they require. So when should I hold back, let things just be and take my foot off the pedal that stands directly in front of me, all of the time. Never? There is a great debate going on over here between two totally different camps of parenting. Two books were published simultaneously for a very good reason. The first book was written by Amy Chua, “Battle Hymm of the Tiger Mother” and the second by Wendy Mogel, “The Blessing of a B Minus”. Professor Chua works at Yale and Ms. Mogel is a best-selling author and psychologist. Basically the tiger theory is about pushing one’s children to be only the best; all study and absolutely no play whilst accomplishing this task. Fully focused work, homework, study and musical practice makes Amy a happy camper. She makes huge generalizations about the American cuddling aspect of parenting and how our children have no discipline or work ethic…because of us, and the Asian way creates successful children.

The other argument makes you ask yourself what is success? Stressed out, over-wrought kids with no childhood free time are not, necessarily, successful even if they bring home the ‘A’. Sometimes the ‘B-‘ represents the best case scenario all-round. The reason I mention this debate is because it’s a debate I have in my head, and with Husband, all of the time. Having gone from the English traditional system where Husband felt (and still feels) safe and I felt frustrated, to LA’s progressive style where I have faith and think I’ll be proven right, we are caught analyzing our boys all too often. Laziness vs limitations; stress vs a healthy pressure; challenges vs challenging. I am forever trying to figure out the balance of pushing, pulling, positive encouragement and honest appraisal. The Westside of LA is filled with parents who scream ‘good try’ ‘well done’ when in fact it was crap. How will our kids trust us if everything they do is amazing?? How harsh can we be without being damaging? Will all the positive reinforcement end with a child who thinks he’s the center of the universe, capable of everything and then crash and burn when the real world strikes?

Nurturing…enabling. Same instincts, different outcomes.

I’m in my bedroom. My door is closed and the younger boys are having a Nerf gun war, goggles on and all. I hear music. It’s Hebrew. Then I hear my son’s voice. He is chanting the blessing before the Torah is read. I turn to my bed and swear I can see the image of my proud father sitting there. Or at least, I can feel him. We sit together, listening. It’s one of those moments that carries my heart from this life unto the next, and back again. All those years ago I sat with my dad chanting away whilst he tutored me for my Bat Mitzvah. It was a tradition in my family to study with him months beforehand so that we were confidant about what we were ‘teaching’ the congregation on our big day. Now, I actually have a son taking those steps right in front of me and I’m bursting with love and memories.

I do feel my dad much more here than anywhere else and for me, it provides a closeness to him during a time when he would so be in his element as a grandfather. The anniversary of the death of my beautiful mother-in-law was a few days ago, the same date as well of a close friend’s dad, and it reminded me of how quickly someone can be plucked from your life. Just like that. Taken. We do our best to make big life decisions with a plan in place, but now we equally have the knowledge and realization that all things can change unexpectedly and throw the best laid plans amuck.

Plans. We make a lot of plans. Sometimes we plan a period of time where we’re not going make plans. We don’t make little plans, only big ones. In fact, the things we never plan are usually the things others always plan: holidays, weekends, dinner that night. Our plans are life plans – where we’re going to live, whether or not to set up shop somewhere, doing a movie that will consume two years of family life. And at the moment, we are living out one plan without the pressure of the next, which is blissful. It’s a mistake to forget the ‘living’ part of life however easy that is to do sometimes.

I’m now sitting in the Soho House awaiting a dear friend from London. My two lives mix so well in this space where the view is arguably the best in LA from this exquisite penthouse and the vibe is all English. We end up talking about life, creating it and living it, and again, those plans. I watch older people doing the same, looking forward towards trips and events, and I think it’s human nature to do so. We tend to focus forward for the most part and I find it comforting albeit a bit strange, that that doesn’t stop when one gets older.

Rain has enveloped LA these past few days. Everything shuts down. No one knows what to do! Kids don’t play outside, the schools have their rainy-day-schedules, traffic comes to a stand still, the streets get flooded and newscasters scream ‘Storm Watch!’. I don’t even own an umbrella here, not that I’d use it anyway. I always found it wonderfully odd that English people don’t use umbrellas. Either you get wet, or you own the right coat and simply get on with it. Don’t make a fuss. Here, people quickly go down under and don’t really surface till it stops. Not that I’m one of them…yet!

I’m now at carpool. I’m told by a mom that her 13 year old recognized my son from his laugh on the soccer pitch. How sweet is that. I smile, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Our cars move in the line. Hmm. Who is she? Then she revealed it was ten years ago since we sat park-side, eating sandwiches with our toddlers. Her son had a memory of playing batman in our rented house all those years ago, laughing alongside his fellow pre-school friend. Wow. Time is definitely racing by when my son now has a friend he hasn’t seen in ten years! Happy memories. Boys are unmistakably significantly older, which usually brings up conversations of having another. Another? Husband would be so happy. Hmmm. Now that would be the some plan.

It’s Saturday morning, 7:00 am.  The alarm clock beeps loudly over our sound machine’s ‘ocean’ selection.   Neither Husband or I move.  I hit the snooze button.  It can’t possibly be another school day?  I’m soooo tired and discombobulated.  I slowly start to remember the night before.  Margaritas.  They were so good!  Uh-oh.  The head is not so good.  Pillow now on top of head.  But heaven sent the next thought; it’s not my turn.  I kick Husband.  It’s his turn.  It’s Saturday and he’s on.

Whether in London or in LA we decided early on that we would devote Saturdays to the boys’ various sporting games, leaving Sundays to family time.  Currently it’s basketball x 2, gymnastics and The School of Rock – which technically isn’t a sport but requires enough taxi driving from us that it qualifies.  Oh, and then there’s the Bar Mitzvah season.  Fabulous venues stretching the length of this vast city for my thirteen year old son to go party at, I mean get religious at, and all worthy of the extra effort involved to get him to and fro – even without carpools.

Every Saturday is different in timings but the same in intention.  Husband does round one and I get to sleep in.  He then comes home, cooks a massive breakfast and collapses back into bed as I, now fully caffeinated up, do round two.  Considering the numbers, I’m usually snack mom every other week.  In LA snacks are divided into two camps;  those that shop at Whole Foods and buy organic juice with no added sugar in it, oat bars, clementines and chewy fruity snacks with…no added sugar, and others who buy Gatorade, Doritos chips and Oreo cookies.  My kids love the latter and I usually am the former with a hint of something nasty.  In London it’s actually the same thing, minus the Whole Foods shopping bag and the Organic label.

We all reconvene in the afternoon and at this point the dog desperately searches for someone to walk her.  TV is allowed on the weekends so the boys fall prey to ICarly or Lord of the whatever, as I debate the never ending struggle of ‘shall I walk the dog or have a nap?’  I give myself a weekend pass to skip my work out, so it doesn’t bother me when Husband comes home feeling ridiculously fabulous from a one mile swim followed by sweaty yoga.  I opt to watch the sunset most Saturdays and therefore force my boys to come with me.  Not bribe, just stare at them longingly, for long enough, that they take pity on me and come with.  And the dog. Yes, she finally gets her walk.

Traditionally it’s a take-away at this point, usually Chinese, and a movie.  Sometimes if I’m feeling particularly risque I’ll invite another family around.  Husband hates socializing on the weekends and so it turns into an MI5 operation getting the family through the door without the appearance of a plan.  Why I’ve been cleaning up the house the whole bloody day can be perceived, if persuaded enough, as simply a loving gesture towards him.  And then the door bell rings and wow, what a lovely surprise!

Sundays are more sacred.  We all sleep in.  Well, the little one still gets up with the sun but it’s worth his life to stay quiet.  No one really interferes with me until I’ve had my first coffee.  I’m obsessed with good coffee and make my own cappuccinos most mornings.  However there are times I’ll go to my local Peet’s on Main Street.  “Hey man, what can I getcha?  Awesome glasses.”  The barrista is cooler than cool and the other customers look as though they rode in on a wave to get there.  Ray-bans still covering most of my face, I love the way my life suddenly feels like a slow motion beach movie and I’m a surf chick starring in it.

Homework is next.  Husband demands the boys to read beyond what’s being asked and I tie up all the loose ends.  It’s usually noon before we succeed.  Then, the real Sunday shows its face.  The timelessness we all need; day-dreaming, contemplating and newspapers.  The day ends with water.  Whether it’s the Thames River in London or the Pacific here, we have a walk and a talk for the first time all week. We sort out most things and plan for the week ahead.  The kids are careless and the dog endlessly circles around them like a protection ritual, going from one to another, and then back to the outer circle.

Dinner follows.  The all important English Sunday lunch is replaced with California Pizza King or the buffet at Hillcrest Country Club.   But the idea is the same.  Cousins and chaos.  Silly time with no other agenda other than to feed the masses with tasty food and have a few laughs.

Everyone feels vulnerable on Sunday nights.  Growing up my mom hated Sundays for that reason and I know many people who are the same.  I get insular and quiet in the night and the boys get more needy. It’s a strange phenomenon, this shift of mood, but it does seem global. The beginning of something special, or not, important, or not, disastrous, or not. That is why the decompression at the end of one week before the next is essential, and Sundays are the culmination of all of that thought. Bed early, with Seinfeld on and the kids snoring before 9:30. Perfect.