Category Archives: religion

In search of a plot

“I need a plot! What if I die?” this is the text I received Thanksgiving night from my 12 year old son, Levi. He’d finally left the table and was worriedly texting me from the next room.

It all happened because we were enjoying some post repast conversation at my mom’s house. One of the guests, a long time family friend, works at the Jewish cemetery in town. The discourse had shifted to her work and she was astounding us with stories about elderly people who simply refused to contemplate death, funerals and anything associated with burials. My brother-in-law, an uber-responsible physician, chimed in, “It’s just idiotic not to take care of these things ahead of time. Idiotic and irresponsible.”

Suddenly I look across the table and I see Levi, his head in his hands, prone for an anxiety attack. “Why don’t you go play with your cousins,” I suggest.

“No, mom. I want to stay with the adults,” he insists.

“Well, are you sure you can handle this conversation?” I ask gently.

“Yes,” he replies, “I’m sure. But mom, how much is a plot? Because I need to save up and get one.”

Conversation halted and everyone looked at Levi. Several of the adults started to roar with laughter.

“Levi,” I tried to explain, “You really don’t need to worry about that right now.”

“But I’m going to die,” he matter-of-factly refuted, “I don’t want to be stupid, or irresponsible.”

Suddenly I was transported into the celluloid world of my all time favorite Woody Allen movie, “Annie Hall.” I morphed into Alivie Singer’s kvetching Jewish mother and insisted my 9 year old son, Alivie, tell the psychiatrist why he was so depressed.”

Alvie’s mother:
Tell the Doctor why you’re depressed, Alvie. It’s something that he read.

Alvie:
The Universe is expanding.

Doctor:
The Universe is expanding?

Alvie:
Well, the Universe is everything, and if it’s expanding, someday it will break apart and that would be the end of everything.

Alvie’s mother:
He stopped doing his homework.

Alvie:
What’s the point?

Alvie’s mother:
What has the Universe got to do with it? You’re here in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is not expanding!”

Doctor:
It wont be expanding for billions of years, Alvie. And we’ve gotta try to enjoy ourselves while we’re here.

Why is it that some kids burden themselves with thoughts like these while others are content to stuff themselves silly with turkey, corn and mashed potatoes? I so want to be one of those care-free people who raises easy, playful youngsters who throw spitballs into the unsuspecting heads of classmates and giggle gleefully when the teacher accidentally strings together words like “under” and “where.” But alas, that’s just not who we are.

I actually remember my first 100% sleepless night. I was about my son’s age and was convinced that the angel of death was coming that very night to take me away. My poor father tried everything to get me to go to sleep. Finally, with a tear in his eye, he implored, “Please, Debbie, just close your eyes. I’ll stand guard all night and I promise not to open the door if he comes. Just go to sleep!”

I guess the sad thing here is that this whole experience just confirms what I’ve known all along; that children really are just mirrors that showcase every flaw, fault and foible of our own misguided psyches. Genetics, my friends, are inescapable.

It’s all kind of depressing. In fact, sometimes I find it so disheartening that I relate completely to Annie Hall’s brother, Duane, (played eerily by a young Christopher Walken), who behind the wheel of his automobile,
confesses to Alvie while speeding down a darkened freeway, “Sometimes I have a sudden impulse to turn the wheel quickly, head-on into an oncoming car. I anticipate the explosion, the sound of shattering glass, the…flames rising out of the flowing gasoline.”

Alvie is stumped for a reply but spits out, “Right,” just as they pull to a stop, “Well, I have to — I have to go now, Duane, because I’m due back on the planet earth.”

Sometimes it sucks to be me. I desperately want to see myself as Audrie Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” or Meryl Streep in “Out of Africa.” But no matter how hard I try, my true alter ego wont let me forget that I’m really just a female version of a Jewish, neurotic, anxiety-ridden Alvie Singer.

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Where have all the Cowboys gone?

For once I have the perfect gift for our upcoming Anniversary!

Our dog, Maggie, is a lot like Lassie. So the other night while my youngest son, Eli, was sleeping, it wasn’t at all surprising to see her perched in the threshold of the office barking a series of short staccato yips at my husband, Mark, while he typed away at his computer. “What is it girl?” he asked a la Timmy Martin, “Is someone in trouble?”

Maggie voiced a few more Morse Code like woofs and gestured with her head for my husband to follow. He quickly complied and Maggie led him down the hall towards the living room and courtyard. She stopped abruptly at the archway to the living room and yipped another string of urgent yelps. Our other dog, S’more, had joined her in the portal. They wouldn’t extend a paw beyond the threshold.

Mark opened the French doors and walked into the courtyard expecting to find some wayward quail or other lost desert creature. He found nothing and re-entered the house.

“There’s nothing out there, sweetie,” he calmly replied. But the yelping continued as both dogs stood frozen like guards at Buckingham Palace. Mark knelt down and tried to ease their heightening panic. That’s when he heard the unmistakable shake of a rattle behind him. He slowly stood and turned towards the sound. There, in the middle of our living room, stood a 3 foot uninvited Rattle snake.

Secure that our youngest was sleeping soundly down the hallway and the dogs wouldn’t approach the venomous intruder, he methodically backed away and moved stealthily into the garage to retrieve the first long metal object he could find. It was a rake that proved to be the ultimate asp destructor. Once it was officially deceased, he carefully speared it on the sharp end of the rake spokes and shot-putted it into the desert wash behind our property.

When I came home with my older son, Levi, I noted particular nervousness in both of our normally easy-going pups. S’more was barking at every sound and motion, while Maggie just sat curled up in a corner of our bedroom. “Is everything okay with the dogs?” I asked. My husband nodded and tried to smile, “Yep. Everything is A-OK.”

After Levi went to sleep I returned to our bedroom to find the two dogs and my husband cuddling eerily on our bed. That’s when he confessed his murderous crime. I didn’t ask for the details. The thought of my gentle husband smooshing the life out of any creature, be it in self-defense or not, was too much for me to bear.

I chastised him mercilessly for failing to do something sensible like calling 911 or scooping up our son and canines and rushing madly from the house. “I had to protect my family,” he told me bravely, “I had no other choice.” I admit I kind of liked seeing him as a lone cowboy standing guard over us, his unprotected herd. After all, most of the time he’s just the big lug who leaves his dishes in the sink and socks strewn across the bedroom floor.

I found myself texting everyone I knew. “Nerdy Jewish doctor or ruthless Rattle snake slayer? You decide.” He caught me mid text. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to bed?”

“Oh yeah,” I stammered. “Just had to finish a few emails. I’ll be right in.”

He took a few steps towards the bedroom a la John Wayne, then stopped and turned back to me, “Well goodnight, little lady.” he declared in a low manly voice. Then with a tip of his mythical hat he added, “And remember; Don’t squat with yer spurs on.”  And with that, he sauntered off into the distance, leaving me with only the shadow of his courageous smile and the memory of his selfless bravery.

 

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Guilt

I’m tired of traveling! No more guilt trips.

First week of school over. Both boys are happy. Have diverted several potential disasters with head on, logical intervention. Who is this family?

Don’t get me wrong, life is beyond hectic. Having kids in different schools is like trying to manage a herd of wild goats. They both have different early dismissal dates, which means you can kiss your life goodbye. They have different parent handbooks filled with different rules and regs. Totally different curricula. Yet, and I’m really not sure how this always seems to happen, they both have the same “Meet the teacher” and “Back to school” nights. Clearly I missed the parenting workshop on developing super-human talents like being in two places simultaneously.

That’s really what is escalating my current stress level. I cannot be everywhere. To drive my eldest, Levi, to school, I have to forgo walking my youngest, Eli, to the bus stop. If I pick up Levi at his regular dismissal time, I can’t stand happily across from the mailboxes sporting my best welcome home smile as Eli steps off the bus and runs into my arms. And although no one would ever believe this, I like being there to send each off into the world every morning and then enfolding them into the maternal cocoon every afternoon. I feel guilty whichever kid I’m with, because while I try to see it as a healthy way of spending quality one-on-one time with each boy, all I can focus on is what I’m missing by not being with the other.

Does every mom of two or more feel this constant stream of unmitigated guilt? I often wish I was Catholic so I could confess my shame and then somehow be cleansed of it. We don’t have anything like confessional in Judaism. Instead, we’re more like the guilt proprietors; and we do everything in house. We create the guilt, manufacture it, dispense it. We even have entire family structures devoted to marketing and promoting guilt. I for one am high up in the guilt echelon. I’m kind of like a guilt mob boss. I control all the guilt within my family, my neighborhood, and my extended territory. It’s a tough job. But I guess somebody has to do it.

Or do they? Wonder what my life would look like if I shed the weighty guilt cloak for even a day, an afternoon, what about an hour? Would the world collapse? Would havoc reign throughout the universe? Would the entire family lose their way? Rationally I know that life would go on if I ceased being a slave to the guilt monster. It’s that irrational side of me that seems stuck in this unhealthy tangle.

I’ve always given lip service to the old adage that “guilt is a useless emotion.” I guess I don’t really believe that though. The truth is that guilt fills me up in some way that I’m unwilling to let go of. Guilt must make me feel important, like I matter so much that I’m capable of enhancing, degrading or destroying other people’s lives. That’s really beyond absurd. I can no more be responsible for someone else’s life than I can for a Tsunami half way around the world. But then again there is that butterfly effect. No. I am not going there. I am not responsible for the rest of the world’s happiness, unhappiness or anyone’s personal decisions about how he chooses to live his life.

Ah, freedom. KInd of weird. Feel like I’m naked.

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Vacation? I think not!

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We’re going on vacation! No, let me clarify that. We are going on a family trip. They are two completely different animals. When I think of vacation, I think of me lying face down on a massage table in the middle of some exotic rain forest, sipping a strategically perched piña colada out of a coconut shell. There are no people below the age of 15 allowed anywhere near my “vacation” locale. No worries about meal preparation, because we dine at gloriously adorned, trendy island haunts where there are no kid menus, no sippy cups and no whiny little people demanding your constant attention.

In contrast, we are heading to my home town, Chicago, for 4.75 days of family, old friends, and celebrations. Btw, our schedule really is optimized, based on many years of past research, to facilitate family familiarity and closeness, while desperately attempting to avoid the inevitable familial fighting, frustration and frenzy. Several years ago we concluded that the 5th day of any family visit resulted in me sobbing for hours in a corner of my old childhood bedroom and swearing to never return to the Windy City ever again. But 4 days wasn’t quite enough time to see all of the warring factions of family members who for whatever reason, can’t manage to be in the same room at the same time. Hence we schedule all trips back east for the carefully calculated 4.75 days.

The optimist in me is excited about the trip. The realist, leery. I don’t think we ever stop wishing for the perfect family who loves each other unconditionally, would go to the ends of the earth for one another, and fights tooth and nail to grab the check first at the end of a meal. Well, one out of three isn’t so bad. And no, I’m not saying which one.

We’ve got a lot planned and the last week or two my kids have been on super-sensitive and whiny mode. It’s been maddening and I’m deeply concerned about how to muddle through the next week. My husband drew up a contract and challenged all of us to sign it. As I’ve said before, he really would’ve made an excellent attorney. For my part, I have to control my tendency to scream like a madwoman and curb my propensity for vulgarity. (It’s ugly, but I believe in full disclosure). The boys contracted not to whine, wail, wallop, and whimper during our travel time. They agreed to “go with the flow,” sometimes compromise and do what other family members want to do, and be respectful, kind and warm to everyone they meet (especially adults.) That is also the husband specific contractual agreement. It will be harder for him than the kids.

The consequence you wonder? Only those of us who honor the contract will be included in next month’s family outing to Seattle. We’ve discussed it and honestly have every intention of staying true to this. Zero tolerance. Anyone who breaks the contract stays home with a mean old sitter we’re on the prowl for who makes little boys eat liver and onions and doesn’t believe in chocolate chip cookies. If you know anyone, please forward her resume. I have a sinking suspicion that we’ll be hiring.

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Happiness is…

Happiness is…a warm puppy…or whatever you make it!

I heard something interesting on the radio the other day about happiness. Happiness, the philosophical talk show host explained, was different depending on your stage of life. He went on to say that when you are young, happiness comes mostly from thinking about your future. Then, in middle age, it comes largely from being in the moment and living life, often quite hectically, in the present. Old age finally, finds happiness predominately from memories of the past.

I haven’t been able to shake this concept. I find it sad and disturbing. Mostly because I think it’s true. I don’t want this part of my life, where I’m caught busily racing from present moment to present moment, to ever end. I am happy where I am. Yes, I’m stressed out, overwhelmed and run ragged 98% of the time. But I love my kids, my family, my husband, my work, my creative time. I’d like life to go on like this indefinitely. The thing is, I know it wont. I feel the present slipping away from me with each tick of the clock. Honestly, it’s a curse to be so hyper aware of time’s passage. My ardent attempts to suck every bit of marrow out of each passing moment often feels more like a futile attempt to build a lasting sand castle right in the middle of high tide. Try as I may, failure is inevitable.

I remember at the very end of my paternal grandfather’s life, we were all sitting around his bedside celebrating his birthday. He was very old and frail by then, a mere shell of his former self. As the cake emerged with a scattering of representative candles, my maternal grandmother, the only other elder remaining in our clan, posed this question defeatedly to my grandpa. “Oh, Irwin,” she sighed, “Where have all the good years gone?” He smiled weakly, looked around at his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. and with the same sparkle we’d seen in his younger eyes said, “They’ve been replaced by better ones.”

I will never forget that moment. Somehow, my grandfather had managed to keep his consciousness focused on the beauty of what was right in front of him. He had escaped the trap of only living in the glory of the past. As we age, we can lose sight of the good that stands before us and idealize earlier times when we’d been untouched by loss, pain and trauma.

The truth is, there will always be moments of joy, beauty and wonder, no matter what our age. We just can’t ever stop looking for them.

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A field trip to make a mom proud!

Levi at last year's "Clean up the park day."

My 11 year old son, Levi, is a worrier. I have to admit he comes by it naturally. But he’s always been this way which makes it hard to determine whether it’s hard-wired into his DNA or just the product of an overly dramatic, catastrophizing mother.

One of the things he’s always been concerned about is the environment. So when, as a four year old, he approached his preschool teacher with a “clean up the park” scheme, I didn’t really think twice about it. Luckily his teacher was a creative empowering woman who believed in following her students’ leads whenever possible. Thus was born the first annual “Levi Gettleman Clean Up the Park Field Trip.”

I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that at four years old, he created permission slips, presented to his classmates on the importance of caring for the community, and led the kids in gathering and recycling all the garbage they could collect at Police Park in Phoenix. We were proud of him and his determination and happily popped for a pizza party in the park after all the work was completed.

I was surprised when the following year came and my little kindergartener reminded me that he needed to return to his preschool and start preparing for the second annual event. He called his teacher, met with her to plan the trip, and once again, with her help and encouragement, pulled off a fabulous and meaningful field trip that taught the kids experientially how to honor their environment and strengthen their community.

Yesterday, I’m pleased to tell you, was the 7th annual “Levi Gettleman Clean up the Park” day. Things are pretty similar from year to year. The apple core, peanut butter, birdseed feeders are still joyfully configured and hung from the trees. Every trace of garbage, litter and refuse is carefully removed by tiny, gloved fingers who take a sense of pride and ownership in the task at hand. And the work of separating regular garbage from recyclables is the final act of the day. A little park play time is allowed and the pizza arrives just in time to fill the little bellies that have put in a hard day’s work.

I’m not invited to tag along anymore. So I drop off and pick up and hang around just long enough to accept a few kudos about my boy from parents and teachers who’ve watched him grow up over these years. And I feel proud — of him, of what he believes, of his tenacity, commitment and honor.

Once in a while it’s nice to bask in the feeling that we may actually have done something right as parents along the way. Although truth be told, most of his gifts probably did come directly from the factory :)

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Happy New Year?

This week, most Jewish people ignored the minor holiday of Tu B’Shvat. Unlike the biggies, like Rosh Hashana, Chanukah and Passover, Tu B’Shvat has always occupied a spot on the sidelines, kind of a red-headed step-child kind of holiday.

In part, it’s because it’s a complex festival that has to do with tithing and farming and a lot of technical “arboreal-related” issues. Most of us think of it as some sort of birthday celebration for the trees. Beyond that, we can’t really see the forest.

I would’ve missed the holiday completely this year had it not been for my 11 year-old son, Levi, who came home from school on a mission. It was 4:00 and I was rushing to get ready and get out of the house by 5.

“Mom,” he started in a determined tone that clued me in immediately that I was in for trouble. “I have to go to the grocery store right now.”

“I’ve already gone shopping today,” I assured him. “I’m sure whatever you need can wait till tomorrow.”

“But it can’t,” he bemoaned. “Tomorrow will be too late.”

I explained calmly that no amount of whining would sway me on this issue and sent him on his way. A few minutes later he re-emerged with a grocery list and a very rational request. He had $15 in tow and announced that he was going to pay for his items himself if I would agree to let Gabi, our nanny, take him to the store. He assured me that they would be back in plenty of time to get Eli, his brother, to Karate.

“Levi,” I finally inquired, “What is so important that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m making a Tu B’Shvat seder and we don’t have all the items I need.”

Now I believe in consistent discipline. I also believe in sticking to my guns. If I say something, I try very hard to follow through with it. But the requested grocery trip had suddenly taken on a new perspective. Sure it was still inconvenient. But why was I sending my boys to Jewish Day School if I wasn’t going to support the important and thoughtful lessons they were learning? I agreed to the bargain, delayed my dinner date and handed Levi a 20 dollar bill.

About an hour later, Levi called the Seder to order. He had set out bountiful platters of pomegranate seeds, nuts, dates and olives. There were avocados and plums, fruits with inedible peels, seeded berries, pitted fruits, and a few Fig Newtons to stand in for wheat, barley and figs. I was taken aback by the beauty and effort involved in creating this meaningful display.

Then Levi taught me about Tu B’Shvat, the New Year for the trees. He explained the significance of eating each of the food items he’d prepared and told me stories of what the holiday meant spiritually as well as literally and religiously. I have to say I was in awe of his expertise and the facility with which he handled the information. We sat together for nearly an hour, me listening to him, reciting prayers, and even asking follow up questions to gain better understanding of his teachings.

It was an unusual opportunity for me to take off my parental hat and see my son for the bright, thoughtful and passionate person he’s becoming. It is truly an honor to be able to step back and appreciate your child for who he is and what he believes in and cares about.

Sure, we’ll still fight about his forgetting to put his dishes in the dishwasher, and his failing to put away his folded laundry as promised. But in between those minor altercations, I’ll try to remember just how amazing this strong, independent young man is, and how grateful I am for all that he brings to our lives.

Happy New Year, trees!

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Sorry, minus the strings

Tonight at sundown marks the beginning of the Jewish holy day, Yom Kippur. It’s also known as the Day of Atonement, where Jews around the globe ask God and their fellow man for forgiveness. We ask to be forgiven for all the failures, indiscretions, and wrongdoings of the past year. We also ask, ahead of time, to be forgiven for all of our upcoming transgressions. It’s like an open acknowledgement that sin is human, and even with the best intentions, we are destined to slip up again, and again, and again.

In some ways, Yom Kippur offers Jews a forgiveness insurance policy. “Please forgive us for all the sins we are bound to commit in the coming year.” We say this as we beat our chests, confessing with heartfelt sincerity, all our regrets from the year that has just passed. It is the humility and acceptance of ourselves as imperfect beings that is inherent in this holiday that I find so compelling.

No matter how sorry we may be, no matter how determined we are to improve our behavior in the future, Judaism recognizes that we will inevitably err anew. So we apologize to all whom we have hurt, and we tell God that we will try to behave better, to be kinder, to act more thoughtfully. But we remind God, or the Universe, or whatever Power we happen to believe in, not to take our declarations and promises too seriously. For our weakness as human beings is to fall short, to let down, to disappoint. But in some ways, it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy.

What if, just once, we vowed to improve without strings attached? What if we didn’t give ourselves loop holes and excuses that set us up for failure? It’s possible that even with a deeply sincere commitment to do better we would still fall short and disappoint. But maybe, in the striving, we would actually move closer to the truth, goodness and harmony each of us seeks to achieve.

Wishing all of you a day of repentance, self-reflection and enlightenment.

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Oye, he’s a man already?

Yesterday was a milestone day for me. My almost 11 year old son, Levi, got his Bar Mitzvah date for 2013. That may sound a ways off to you. But to me, it sounded a lot more like a speeding train careening out of control. I laughed. I cried. It was totally surreal. I mean, how could my baby, who I’d swear was just born last week, be approaching the Jewish equivalent of manhood. Yikes.

In addition to that, I had to take both boys to the orthodontist for their first appointments. Learning that braces are in our future was another minor shock to my system, and not just because of the impending financial commitment these wire jaw molders will require.

Finally, I took Levi shoe shopping and was astonished to learn that the petite paw that once fit easily into the palm of my hand, had reached the substantial size of 9 mens, surpassing my impossible to fit size 9 and a half AA in women’s. Honestly, my 11 year old son has shoes that are bigger than mine? How could that possibly be?

We went to the pool that same day. Levi begged to race me across it. Suddenly I flashed back to my youthful self, a summer’s day, at the pool with my dad. “Oh, come on,” the tween me begged. “Just race me once, the width of the pool!” Finally, my dad acquiesced and we prepared for one all out swimathon across the Olympic sized public swimming pool in Prosel Park, across from our home in Lincolnwood, Il. “On your mark…get ready…set…GO!” I tore across that pool with the determination of a Gold Medalist. When I reached the other side, winded and panting, I emerged from the water to a horrible sight. My heart sank as I saw my infallible pop swimming the final strokes towards me at the side of the pool. At first, I gleefully chanted a few bars of “I won! I won! I finally beat you.” But after a moment, I saw clearly what that victory actually meant. That time was passing. That life was fleeting. That one generation makes way for the next. It was sad. Heartbreaking in a way I will never forget.

“No racing today,” I announced definitively. My fragile heart couldn’t take one more jolt. No. I was still faster, stronger and physically omnipotent in a way I wasn’t willing to risk losing. There’ll be time for more races. Time for his growing body and soul to surpass me in all of its endeavors. Just not today. Not yet.

Instead, I grabbed him and twirled around as fast as I could. I spun him round and round madly until he was giggling hysterically, all the while reciting the familiar hymn from years past, “…Motorboat, motorboat, go so fast. Motorboat, motorboat, step on the gas!!!!”

Granted, it was silly, I’ll even admit it was cheap. But at that moment, I would have done anything to hear that boyish giggle and watch his sweet eyes flicker with glee as he let go of his body and fell deeply into my strong embrace.

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Back to school roller derby

Who will be the next School Supply Roller Derby Queen?

Lace up your skates, moms. It’s time to hit the aisles and go for the gold. If you’re fast and tough, you might actually secure that Justice League lunch box and water bottle your kid’s been pining for all year. Show no mercy. It’s back to school time.

God help me I hate school supply shopping. I hate everything associated with school supply shopping. I hate hordes of people fighting over number 2 pencils, I hate trying to find wide-ruled notebook paper amidst piles and piles of college lined loose leaf. I hate having to buy 4 large glue sticks when they always come 3 to a pack. I hate that despite the fact that every school in the world insists on kids bringing ziploc baggies and disinfectant wipes, they never put that stuff with the school supplies and you have to traipse through the entire store with a million other people to get to the cleaning supply and home storage areas before they run out of the items you need to complete your list.

Argh!!!! It’s awful. It was better this year because I took each boy separately. Trying to navigate two supply lists while maneuvering a shopping cart and corralling two young tykes was nearly impossible last year. At least I wised up a bit.

But the whole process is so utterly angst producing. I’m not even sure why. I love shopping, for almost everything. But this is…just…not fun. I spent over $300 for both boys. That sounds like a lot to me. I mean, that doesn’t even include text books or any real type of learning material.

I saw this one woman, who looked equally distraught, and she said that at her school you can pay extra money and they’ll do your school supply shopping for you. Unfortunately, she had flaked and missed the deadline this year. “Rest assured,” she bemoaned, “that wont happen again.” For a moment I wished our school did that.

But then, in some weird masochistic side of my brain, I heard a voice saying, “but you’d miss such a meaningful mom-son experience if you didn’t go school supply shopping each year.” The fact is, given the choice to abdicate all school related shopping excursions, I probably wouldn’t take it. Because even if I tell myself that instead of the crowded Target aisles, we could go to the water park or the movies or somewhere equally fun and carefree, something else would come up and we’d miss that time together and then it would feel just like every other missed moment I feel guilty and forlorn over.

So, I’ll keep body-checking 12 year-olds to get the last package of yellow highlighters and pushing distracted moms’ carts out of the way to retrieve that one Yoda pencil box that my son simply cannot live without. I will do this year after year after year. Because I’m a mom. And that’s just what we do.

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