That reunion ended up being much more fun than I expected. All those almost-forty-somethings had grown up, left high school behind, and (for the most part) developed into mature, perfectly reasonable adults. Perhaps most surprisingly to me, at least one member of the way-cooler-than-me crowd approached me for conversation and was very sociable. Did he not remember being a jerk to me, or was he trying to make amends for being a jerk to me? I’m still not sure. Nor does/did it matter. Seemingly, he’s no longer a jerk, and that’s the part that counts.

Well baby, that reunion was just a practice round for this past weekend, wherein I attended my cousin’s son’s Bar Mitzvah, which was populated by at least a dozen people I had not seen in close to 30 years, one of whom was embarrassed by my teenage crush on him (I wasn’t cool enough) and one of whom made my life a living a hell in the summer of 1981 when we were summer camp tent-mates. She was the 12-year-old sixth grade queen bee who knew all about boys; I was the 11-year-old fifth grader who didn’t  know I was supposed to know all about boys that way. It was pretty awful.

Now, when the dude that didn’t want me to like him approached for conversation, I was amused but not stunned. He was never mean, and we had bumped into each in our digital lives via mutual friends several times in the last year or so. Having virtually caught up, it was fun for both of us to continue the conversation in analog life.

But when the other one—who I didn’t know knew my cousin—showed up, I was briefly frozen. What the heck should I say to her?

Well no worries! Because she approached me, started a conversation, was thoroughly delightful, and clearly had no memory of me from the past. Like, none at all; she thought I grew up somewhere else.

By the end of the kiddush luncheon, we were friendly acquaintances, and by the end of the dinner buffet line that night it seemed natural to have her sit at my table. Two hours later we were complimenting each other’s kids and sharing confidences. I do volunteer work she’s genuinely interested in; she’s in a line of work I think is important and noble. If she lived in Louisville, we’d probably be friends. How weird is that?

But you know, I can’t help but wonder if there is a second lesson in all of this? Because, yeah, I’ve now had two social encounters with likable, sociable people who were mean to me in high school and/or the summer before I started middle school. But I have also grudgingly or nervously attended at least two events in which I was not looking forward to seeing many people because I used to think they were mean, tacky, stupid, or weird.

In other words, I might have been a jerk, too. I wasn’t mean to anyone directly; I know and am relieved about that. Increasingly, though, I’m realizing how judgmental I was in my earlier years and how unattractive that part of my personality is. I’m still a little judgmental—I’m not going to lie. However, age, experience, and a few life detours have gifted me with an understanding of my foibles and compassion for those of others.

So the next time I bump into someone I haven’t seen in 30 years, I’m going to assume that they are much nicer now . . .

and that they are assuming the same will be true of me.

1. I catch Simon singing the theme song to the “Men in Blazers” show. These are two British expats who do a podcast and television show about football, or as they like to mockingly say, “saaaacker”. If that doesn’t sound like a kid show, it’s because it’s not.

2. Then Simon watches Jeopardy and gets the question about what constellation the star Betelgeuse is in correct. If you guessed Orion, you got it right, too. This does not strike me as second-grade knowledge.

3. Then Simon lights our Chanukah menorah and sings the blessing all by himself, in Hebrew. We’ve been working on that for about a week now, but he still seemed very grown up while doing it.

4. So what happens next? He pretends Dolphie (his stuffed dolphin/alter ego) loses a tooth, takes a candy cane out of treat bag and a dollar out of his change jar, and puts both in his tooth pillow. He goes on to carefully place the tooth pillow under his own, all the while adjuring me to NOT spoil the secret about the Tooth Fairy or Santa for Dolphie, since she still believes.

That is some straight up kid stuff right there. I am curious as to why Dolphie is a girl and why she believes in Santa, but I’ve learned not to ask too many questions where Dolphie is concerned.

I have also learned that Simon’s reverence for Dolphie waxes and wanes like a moon cycle. A week or so ago, Matt was teasing Simon by being mean to Dolphie. According to Simon, Dolphie was very upset and felt unloved in our house. At the time, Simon seemed very upset, too. So I did what any rational parent would do: I staged a family counseling session with Matt, Simon,  Dolphie, and me. I played the part of counselor and Dolphie, and poor Matt could barely make it through he was laughing so hard.

For a time, my problem of nightly Simon-Dolphie-Matt battles were over. Then Simon decided that family counseling sessions with Dolphie are fun and funny, so he’s spent the last several days setting Matt up to get him into trouble in the hope I will insist on more therapy.

And that about sums up my life about now where Simon is concerned. I live with a Jeopardy watching, numbers crunching, soccer obsessed mini-adult who also happens to spend a lot of time imagining and acting out the life of his alter-ego (or daemon familiar if you’ve read the Philip Pullman books) rainbow colored stuffed dolphin.

Nothing to see over here, folks.

• Matt was on call for a week.
• Then he traveled to North Carolina for a week.
• Then he started a new job (same company, new role, more later).
• Somewhere in there, it was Yom Kippur, and Simon’s second 5K of the Fall.
• Then he turned 8, which involved one trip to school, one friends party, and one family party. That weekend was a little over-booked.
• But NOT as overbooked as the next weekend, which involved a soccer tournament in Cincinnati. We drove there and back twice, and still managed to fit in a friend’s birthday party Saturday night and a tennis clinic Sunday afternoon.
• Then this week we made up for all that not being around by trying to cram in making a Halloween costume and finishing a school project while also having regular week-night soccer practices.
• It’s a new scholarship cycle to organize for the Sudanese Refugee Education Fund.
• I’m planning a home insulation blitz with the CRC and Project Warm.
• I compiled a school directory and organized a PTA art competition for Brandeis.
• I’m incorporating a group of neighbors into an association to deal with my neighbor’s (still) illegal duplex.
• Matt had (very) minor surgery this week.

Needless to say, my pantry is empty and my bathrooms are dirty. But Marvin the Martian promises to rock, Simon picked up a lot of practical skills while figuring out how to construct a timeline of the universe, turning 8 really was great, and the other stuff is coming together.

But man, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I look forward to a relaxing weekend of soccer, tennis, drum lessons, a pilates class, cleaning, grocery shopping, and doing piles of laundry, and getting in a decent run. It’s going to feel like a two-day nap in comparison.

Is it November yet?

The younger set (for now, ages and relationships shift regularly) includes Funny Monkey, Secret Attic Monkey, and Rainbow Dolphie. These days, the imaginative play action is centered around Rainbow Dolphie.

According to Simon, Rainbow Dolphie is not quite 3, has climbed the Burj Khalifa—all 2717 feet of it—has made it to Mt. Midoroyima in American Ninja Warrior, and plays in a 3 and under soccer league. Clearly, Rainbow Dolphie is one busy dolphin, though I’d think a dolphin with his prodigious athletic gifts would play up in soccer. I’m sure he could hang with the U5s.

Honestly, most nights I can’t wait to get upstairs for pajamas, teeth-brushing, and bedtime because I am anxious to find out what incredible yarn Simon is going to spin about Rainbow Dolphie next. There’s always something.

Alas, at some point this summer I became a part of the nightly imaginative leaps. I can’t remember for the life of me, but one night well over a month ago I must have jokingly had Dolphie “help” me count to 60 while Simon did his nightly fluoride rinse. (Which we delicately call “swish and spit.” We are a family of rare refinement.)Well, that was a big hit, and Simon came to expect it from me.

Bored with the sameness, I then jokingly had Dolphie miscount one night, which was followed by a pantomime argument between the two of us over the correct count. That put Simon in stitches. Since then, it’s not enough for Dolphie to help him count. Dolphie has to find a funny way to help, and it has to change each night.

And so, Dolphie has clapped, leapt, Can-Canned, flipped, blasted off, push-upped, and sashayed his way to 60, often with comic mishaps or interludes inserted. By now, a distinct feeling of performance anxiety washes over me at 8:00 or so as I scramble to find a way to make it new. Every night I worry the well is dry. Every night, I come up with something silly and new. Last night it involved grabbing a foam golf ball and having Dolphie “juggle” his way to 60.

I don’t think I’ve done anything this consistently silly since the days when Matt and I made up songs about Simon based on the clothes he was wearing. It stands in stark contrast to both of our more serious natures, and I hope I can keep it going just a little longer. And of course, I have incentive: The nightly question might be how much longer can I keep this up, but the larger question is how much longer will Simon want me to.

One day in early May, Cambria gobbled up his dinner and then promptly thew it all up. I teased him for eating too fast, re-fed him, and forgot about it until the next night, when it happened again. This in turn prompted a change in eating schedule, and things seemed OK for a while.

Before long, however, symptoms returned and worsened. Sometime at the end of May, I realized that Cambria was throwing up at least once a day and that it was time to visit the vet. Dr. Jones suggested we do a blood panel, and when the results came back, I was devastated: Cambria’s creatinine levels, a sign of kidney function, were elevated.

Merely hearing the words “elevated creatinine” was enough to bring memories of losing Percival and Tristan four summers ago flooding back. I went into an emotional tailspin. I took pictures of Cambria because I was afraid I hadn’t taken enough. I dug through three and a half years of pictures on my computer searching for the few I had taken. I called a hospice vet to discuss at home euthanasia when the time came. I promised Simon he and Matt could pick out our next cat. And I cried.

But not just from sadness; there was a fair bit of guilt involved. At the back of my mind, I was concerned that Cambria hadn’t gotten all the attention and care Percy and Tristan did and that I didn’t love him enough. Part of this was attributable to the fact that I now have Simon to take care of (even Percy and Tristan weren’t treated like they used to be after Simon arrived), and part was owing to Cambria being a low-maintenance cat.

He simply doesn’t require or desire the kind of handling Percival and Tristan did. He’s not a lap cat, nor is he a nudge-your-hand-on-the-computer cat. He likes his space and happily self entertains. I know he loves me because he follows me around and purrs when I enter a room or wake up in the morning, but his love is much more hands (paws?) off than his feline predecessors.

As the next weeks went by, our relationship changed. While the vet and I worked towards confirming a diagnosis and beginning early treatment, I began feeding Cambria much more often and was more diligent about brushing him. I awoke with him in the middle of the night, cleaned up his messes, sat beside him coaxing him to eat, rubbed his chin and cheeks to calm him, hid crushed up Pepsid in food and treats, and otherwise hovered over him.

It was stressful. It was also by far the most attentive I’ve ever been with him. And at the end of this period, two funny things happened. First, urinalysis results ruled out kidney disease and an ultrasound on Monday this week all but confirmed inflammatory bowel disease as the reason behind the vomiting. A week into cortisone treatment and a hypoallergenic diet has improved Cambria’s condition greatly.

And the second funny thing? My hands-off cat has become much less so. He’s still not a lap cat, but he’s sidling in close to me and sometimes demands affection. He doesn’t mind it when I pick him up any more, and he’s grown to enjoy being brushed. I’m also seeing a lot more of his belly, and any cat owner can tell you that there’s a direct correlation between amount of feline belly on display and amount of happiness and trust on offer. It may sound silly, but I feel like Cambria and I have grown closer through this ordeal, much like Simon and I bonded over surviving his colic.

I’m sorry it took an illness to get us there (and his condition will require constant vigilance and maintenance), but I’m enjoying our new bond immensely. The trick will be maintaining some of this heightened care and attention now that the immediate crisis has passed. With luck, he’ll demand it from me.

Happier Times at the Mega Cavern

By now I’ve made it pretty clear that I hold my son in high regard. I think Simon is sweet, smart, and a surprisingly good athlete. I’ve copped to his being a picky eater and non-awesome artist, but many of my posts focus on his strengths. This isn’t one of them.

Because good grief the boy can’t work a puzzle. His puzzle ineptness is epic. If you evaluated him based on ability to put together a puzzle, you’d send him back to the toddler room. It’s almost amazing. A week ago, we began work on a geography puzzle. His first instinct was to complain that it “only” had a hundred pieces. His second instinct was to try to put two pieces together: one yellow and one pink; one with writing on the horizontal and the other with writing on the perpendicular.

“Simon, does that look possible to you?” I asked. “I quit.” came the answer. “No you don’t–but take your time and think.”

So he did. For about two minutes. After successfully putting pieces together where both fit into the same country or continent, I handed him a corner piece. Which he promptly tried to put in the middle of the puzzle.

“Simon! Does that look like a place a corner piece could go?” I asked. “Yeah!” came the reply.

I might have liked it better when he quit.

And so it went. Eventually we put the puzzle together (whoever says there’s no “I” in “we” got that one wrong!) without coming to blows or tears. Simon even learned a little from it and got better. But it was tough going for sure.

The other domain at which he stinks? Climbing. I blame Matt for this one. When we were in our twenties in Ann Arbor, circumstances found us needing to hop a fence.* I scrambled over quickly, only to turn around and see Matt stuck at the top. Really stuck. He got down eventually—we did marry, move across the country and back, and have a child—but for a while there in the early ’90s I was worried he’d grow old atop a 5-foot piece of chain-link.

Last Thursday we headed to the Louisville Mega Cavern ropes course with Simon and my nephew Ben. Like Simon, Ben is smart, particularly good at math, and a gifted athlete who loves watching America Ninja Warrior. Unlike Simon, Ben is a natural climber, possessed of strength, agility, and total fearlessness.

Whereas Simon, bless his heart, is all tangled feet and elbows when he goes to climb, is underpowered in the upper body, and is scared to be more than about six inches above ground. My mom and Matt are both acrophobes, so this isn’t surprising. We got off to a disastrous start at the ropes course, choosing a path that required us to climb a steep ladder and reclip our lines about four times while ascending. Things escalated from bad, “I’m scared!”, to worse, loud sobbing, quickly. I took over at that point, holding on to Simon and clipping and re-clipping both our lines while we descended. There’s nothing like being terrified (Simon) and sweaty from exertion (me) before officially getting started.

From this point onwards, we chose the low route. And even then, there were times when Simon was shaky: like on a section where you climb between wiggly logs. He was too short to reach all the holds and terrified of falling . . .  six inches down, while wearing a harness. Ben, meanwhile, was climbing, hanging, and zip-lining away on the level above our heads.

And hour or so into the day, Matt took over with an ever more confident Simon while I scrambled up to join Ben above. Boy was it fun! Better yet, I wasn’t bad at it. Two years of pilates has done wonders for my balance and upper-body strength. I’d love to got back. So would Simon. But the entire experience was chastening. I asked him on the way out if he thought he was ready to be on America Ninja Warrior. He smiled sheepishly and said, “Ben is, but I think I need more practice.”

Say this for the boy, he knows his limits.

*I know this sounds nefarious, but I think we were just trying to get to our car without walking very far after getting lost and walking and circles. I’m sure we could have been busted for trespassing, but we weren’t up to anything bad.

“Man, it’s like the winter of 1978 out here!” [Quoth the child born in 2006.]

1. Preschool on Friday
2. Simon’s school on Friday, including a presentation on Chanukah I was going to lead.
3. Soccer practice
4. KIP staff party
5. Brandeis Winter Fest after-school event
6. Jim and Dan’s birthday dinner

Saturday’s morning soccer game was also canceled, but things cleared up just in time for Simon’s drum lesson, my pilates class, and  a school birthday party. With more winter weather rolling in today, I’m not sure about tennis, and it looks like our other plans will all revolve around walking.

Now here’s my confession: With the exception of Friday’s family dinner, I’m absolutely not bummed about any of this. The Chanukah/Thanksgiving one-two punch, coming right after a fraught trip to West Virginia to get our car and a week with way too many meetings, left me feeling like the entire Q3 of 2013 was going to be a marathon run at sprinting pace.

Three days at home with Matt and Simon on a weather-reduced schedule has been a welcome respite from end-of-year over-bookings. In fact, it appears that the weather is doing what I cannot: setting a reasonable pace for myself. Maybe the return of real winter after a two year absence isn’t so bad after all.

By contrast, the Goldsteins were less connected. Or, more accurately, my particular branch was less connected to the others. My paternal grandfather was one of seven, only one of which ever had much to do with him. And my Goldstein grandparents were much older—like 20 years older–than my Wolfson grandparents, so I simply don’t know and never knew where to look for any connections that might exist.

Throw in how common the name Goldstein is (more common than Whitworth by a wide margin), and that means that when someone asks me if I’m related to some other Goldstein, my usual answer is “no” or “I don’t know.”  I tell you this simply so you can understand the shock of what happened to me a few days ago. I stopped in a small clothing and uniform store to pick up pajamas for Simon and made chit-chat with the clerk.

“So,” I ask, thinking about all the family stores my grandparents and great aunts and uncles used to own, “does the Shaheen family still own this store?”

“Yes,” the rather handsome man who appeared to be in his sixties answered. “We still own it. I’m a Shaheen.” [I thought he might be when I first asked, as he looked Middle Eastern and the Shaheens are a Lebanese-American family.]

About this time I’m commenting about how nice it is that this particular family store has held on as I hand over my credit card to pay for the pajamas. And here is where my mind was blown.

“Goldstein!” he says looking down. “Are you one of the Goldsteins that used to own Goldstein Brothers around 3rd or 4th between Market and Jefferson?”

At first I had no answer. No one has ever asked me this, and I’m speechless. That store must have closed decades ago, possibly around the time I was born.

“Yes,” I finally manage. “Two of my great-uncles owned one store, and my grandfather and another uncle owned another. I’m not sure which was which, but I think they were pretty close to each other.”*

“I used to live around there,” the man explained. “And you really remind me of one of the younger brothers. It’s your eyes.”

“Aaron?” [that’s my grandfather’s name]

“No  . . . ”

“Wait, wait! Harry? [that’s what everyone called him]

“Yes, Harry! You must be one of his.”

I am. But as he died in 1981, when I was 11 and he was around 86-88 (we never knew for sure; it’s a long story), I don’t think anyone has ever made this connection. I was, and remain, very pleasantly stunned.

All of which makes me realize something about Louisville, a city I returned to eight years ago Memorial Day Weekend. Louisville can be unbearably clicky. Everyone here who’s from here looks for connections and usually goes hunting in your family tree or school history to find them. When I was younger, this was a source of misery. I wasn’t from an A-list family, and I didn’t go to the right schools. But now I don’t care about any of that, nor do most of the people asking.

I bumped into yet another cousin (on the Kahn side) yesterday while out, and she was telling me that her daughter will never, ever return to Louisville because everyone here knows you, knows people who know you, or is trying to find out who they know that knows you. “They’re all up your business; she says that’s why she’s never coming back.” I smiled and thought to myself, “But that’s half the fun of the place!” I had to leave for 18 years to understand that, but today I take great comfort in the ties that bind.

*So, a quick check with my Dad revealed that Max and Jacob Goldstein owned Goldstein Brothers, and Sidney and Harry owned Sid’s. The stores were a block apart. Amusingly, I was telling this story to my hair stylist yesterday, when his eyed widened in recognition. He remembers those stores. Darryl is around 50 and grew up in Shelby county, but his family would come to Louisville to shop and he remembers those stores. The other store he remembers? The Hub Department Store, where his family shopped all the time and where my Bubbie (the Wolfson side again) went to work after she and my Zadie sold their five-and-ten and “retired”.

I know I’ve mentioned before that Simon shares some interests and tendencies with Steve, but lately the parallels are piling up with uncanny frequency in matters small and large. My mom tells the story of her heading off to the library and Steve calling out, “Remember, Mom, I only want books with true facts in them.” Not three weeks ago, Simon handed me his Scholastic Books order form and made a point to say, “Mom, did you notice that all the books I circled were non-fiction?” Yup, he only wants “true facts” too.

Moreover, he’d like to read about the same true facts. I’m not sure if my brother was into animal facts the way Simon is, but I am absolutely certain that 6-year-old Steve would have circled the same books on space and presidents that Simon did. He’d be memorizing the same facts about space and presidents, too, focusing intently on launch dates, mission distances, and how old every president was when he died.

Then there’s the competitiveness. It kills Steve not to win. Or at least it used to; now that he’s 50 I think he’s finally mellowed a bit. Two weeks ago, when his soccer team was being dismantled on the field, Simon was the only upset player on our side. And he was more than a little upset, he was sobbing from embarrassment, disappointment, and anger. (Full disclosure, I was seething from the same combination.)

Returning again to my Mom, she tells the story of Steve and his cousin Gary. Gary went to a Jewish Day School and began learning Hebrew in kindergarten or first grade. Steve went to public school and would not begin to study Hebrew until third grade. The first year that Gary could read “The Four Questions” (part of the liturgy for Passover) at a Passover seder, Steve was beside himself. He wanted to learn them, too. In Hebrew. Immediately. At our Passover seder this year, when Simon realized that his friend and peer Leah was going to sing “The Four Questions” in Hebrew, he immediately decided to read “The Four Questions” out loud in English. And he asked if he could learn them in Hebrew. Immediately.

I think my mom felt like she was caught in a time warp. Or, given her love of all things Star Trek, that she had just encountered a temporal anomaly.

And then there is the mother of all parallels—the anxiety. When I was a kid, I could ruin the last day or two of a vacation by doing the math on when it ended. I can still feel a minor wave of melancholy wash over me on a Sunday afternoon as I ponder the proximity of Monday. But Steve? Steve could blow half the vacation and at least the entirety of Sunday if not a good chunk of Saturday, too. Wouldn’t you know it, Simon began talking about how he wished spring break were longer last week on Wednesday or Thursday and broke down into tears over its ending last night.

Matt was surprised. I had been expecting it. I know this smart, anxious, competitive, generous, and eager-to-please person. Which brings me to the 64-thousand-dollar question: Can I do anything to help Simon discover equanimity before he reaches middle age? I’m more laid back than my mom, and Matt is more laid back than either of my parents (though not, for the record, nearly has laid back as my family and many of his friends seem to think). That might help some. But honestly, the biggest help might just be knowing what to expect going forward. And perhaps, if the time is ever right, having his Uncle share some “been there, done that” insights at key moments along the way.

It’s the least he can do, because not one of his three kids—not one!—is this much like him.

So I got up, put on some ancient work-out clothes, and climbed onto the elliptical trainer in our basement. I kept that up for three weeks or so, then took a giant leap of faith and signed up for a 5K training program, which soon enough turned into a regular running habit. Along the way I added pilates to the mix, cleaned up my diet, and took pilates or running hiatuses only when rehabbing my neck or calves.

But the thing is, until last week, I still assumed I was putting in the work for my vanity in the short run and my health in the long run. After all, I had 30-40 years before I could follow in my grandmother’s footsteps and suffer from poor bones and strokes. Tangible health benefits were strictly academic.

Then my brother Perry, age 48, up and had a heart attack this past Monday. He got treatment right away, he’s recovering nicely, and early signs indicate he should make a full recovery. But the fact remains a person with whom I share quite a bit of DNA suffered a MI before hitting the big five-oh. And just like that–boom!–the stakes got higher and more immediate. I now understand that good habits aren’t just for the benefit of a hypothetical me decades hence. They are very much about the here and now, a situation I find equal parts motivating and terrifying.

Specifically, it’s clearly time to re-check my cholesterol. I know that running and pilates have increased my strength, balance, and endurance. Last I checked, I had beaten and eaten my way to a blood pressure reading of around 102/68 (possibly slightly higher, I was a little dehydrated at the time).  But whereas two weeks ago I was confident that I had also beaten and eaten my way to improved cholesterol, now I’m not so sure. Perry’s was higher than mine, but it followed a very similar ratio of good to bad. As does my brother Steve’s, whose cholesterol runs higher than desired despite running (way more than me), playing hockey, doing yoga, and going on regular bike rides.

Guess who’s calling her doctor first thing Monday morning?

Two more things before I go.

• Poor Perry. He’s quite irreverent with a good sense of timing. Upon arriving at the hospital and being prepped for his angioplasty and stent insertion, he quipped to the cardiologist that he had just bought a Groupon for a heart attack. I thought that was a pretty good line! The cardiologist didn’t even crack a smile. Later, when Perry asked the cardiac nurse if the cardiologist was always so straight, she replied that “yes, he’s very serious.” “As a heart-attack?” I asked. She looked kind of appalled by my pun, too, but Perry enjoyed it. I guess irreverence, like bad cholesterol, runs in the family.
• Perry loves salt. I never did much, and I banished most of what I did eat during this summer’s nutrition overhaul. Earlier tonight my sister-in-law called to ask for suggestions about no-salt spice mixes and low-salt solutions for things like salad dressing. Wouldn’t you know it, I had a Penzeys sampler sitting on my counter and a stack of cook-books to sort through with just that purpose in mind. It isn’t often that I find a willing target for my OCD and know-it-all tendencies. How lovely to find an acceptable outlet for my worst tendencies while being of genuine service to someone!