Remembering 29-36

This past summer, my new 4-person-family went on a road-trip through New Hampshire and Maine. We spent 5 days in Bar Harbor, home to Acadia National Park. It was beautiful (although not as amazing as Yellowstone National Park, a road trip we did two summers ago and I still haven't posted pictures.)

Nonetheless, the cottage we rented was adorable and it didn't have a traditional lock-and-key scenario to get in the door. Instead it had a numeric keypad on the door, where a magical combination of digits would yield an open door.

29-36

“I have a way to remember our keycode to enter our vacation house,” my boyfriend told me the day we arrived for our week respite from Manhattan’s heat.

“29-36,” he explains “29 is the age women always they are (want to be) and 36 is the age you actually are.” He smiles, proud of his clever memory trick.

“I don’t want to be 29,” I say thinking back to 7 years ago, a time much less happy than now.”

But as I accidentally locked myself out of the house later that night, I confronted the stainless steel keypad at the door with a sudden ‘oh shit’ moment. Then I calmly repeated and typed into the keypad. “29, the age I want to be and 36, the age I am.”

My Sister's Surprise Party & The Year of the Family

We threw a surprise party for my sister this weekend. It was the second time we were able to do this; the last time being 18 years ago. My goal, on her 30th birthday, was to make sure she realized she was not # 2. She has gone through life doing everything after me – and with a big mouth, a matching personality, and a demanding (judgmental?) demeanor, I could only imagine that my shadow was pretty intense.

Lucky for her, she was pretty triumphant at standing out in the dark.

But this was 1/11/11 and she was turning 30 – and Goddamnit I was going to celebrate my sister’s birthday. Every year she thanks me for being born – since the story is that I asked for her. I remember saying I wanted a baby sister. My mother says I used to look into other baby carriages longingly and give her speeches to the tune of, “Well when grandma and grandpa die you’ll have your brother but I will have no one. I will be left all alone.”

Of course I don’t know if I really remember it because I actually said it or because it was retold so many times it has become a vague part of my collective history. Nonetheless when I was 6 ½ years old, baby Reena came into my life. For me. I took this responsibility seriously. She was my sister – and according to my parents – and as 30 years would teach me – she was the closest person to me in the world.

I struggled at different stages of our relationship – whether I was the big sister / mother character versus the best friend character. I often walked a fine line, walked on eggshells and cried at night that I was doing the wrong thing or not enough or too much.

For 30 years, we’ve been quintessential sisters, living and breathing the sister bond you read about in greeting cards. As life brought us together or pulled as further apart, we still spoke almost every day; we shared everything. My biggest heartbreak was that my baby sister didn’t always have peace and happiness in her life. It seemed to me she was struggling when she didn’t need to – angry when she could so easily forgive and lonely when she had people all around her.

Recently this has changed. Love entered her life and she seemed touched by fairy happiness dust. I know the kind and have been lucky to be sprinkled myself. She walks with a hop in her step and smiles so it hurts. The best friend sister in me beams warmly; the mommy sister in me is cautiously optimistic (with a dose of Russian cynicism stirred in).

My father planted the seed a couple of months ago. “Reena is turning 30,” you know. “It’s a big number.” And by “big” he was translating the Russian description, which really means “round date.” Not sure why our culture gave special occasion to the birthdays that end in zero or five, but somehow those are cause for exceptional celebrations.

I had debated about whom to invite. Do I invite immediate family only – one side or two? Do I dare do both sides of a divorced family? It was my cousin who urged me. “We’re all adults,” she said. “My parents will come to – no matter who will be there. We’ll all be there for Reena.”

And in the end, they all were.

It was the first time that I had my whole family together in a decade. By “whole,” I mean – both sides of the divorce. My parents split up after 25 years of marriage. Since then, I pretty much flushed the dream of family Sunday dinner or Thanksgiving at my house down the toilet. This is especially sad since we have a very small family. Each of my parents only has one sibling with one child; I only have 2 first cousins.

The party was a success on so many levels. Mostly because the birthday girl was (a) surprised and (b) super duper elated. She glowed, and even said “this was my best birthday ever.” She seemed joyful; I was utterly pleased.

Another byproduct of the party is that it served as the gateway drug. It opens up the door to future family parties. Events where old family can leave old baggage at home and focus on today; creating new memories and passing along the collective family history to the next generation. It is our responsibility and our privilege.

For the last few years, I have given each year a name. For instance, there was the “Year of the Frittata,” where I devoted many Sundays to brunches with friends. There was the “Year of the Baby,” where baby booms erupted like asterisks all around me – and Hollywood. Finally, last year was the “Year of the Circle,” when all lessons kept coming around again.

I’ve declared 2011 the “Year of the Family” – and I will happily appreciate and rejoice in – and with them – daily. (And that means going to visit grandma in Queens more often!)

Finding Bliss in Driving

Driving is fun – when you live in the city and don’t get ample opportunity to hit the open road. Driving is not fun when you have to drive your 8-year-old son to school and back – through Manhattan traffic – three times a week. If it was just in one direction – it would be tolerable. But on Mondays and Tuesdays, I have to drive up to Riverdale from downtown Manhattan and back again – and then do the trip again about 5 hours later to pick him up. On Wednesday’s I drive him to school, but don’t have to pick him up – since he goes straight to his father’s house.

People seem shocked that I do it. Why does he have to go to school so far away everyone wants to know? (Because he’s lucky enough to be going to one of the country’s best schools while his father is struggling to pay for it.) Truthfully it’s only a 15-mile drive that in most places in the country would take less than ½ an hour. But with Manhattan’s rush hour, it’s a two-hour ride round trip.

I use ZipCar to get myself there and back. In theory, the prices aren’t so bad. About $8/hour for the small car I usually take. But 4 hours a day plus the $4 toll each way means my daily cost is about $50 to drive my son to school. The school bus for his private school is $6,000 a year. A cab would be over $50 each way. These are crazy numbers for most people, aren’t they?

I could take the train with him, but it would take over an hour and a half each way and then walk up a steep hill. For the rides where the 8-year-old is in the car with me, the traffic is usually going in the opposite direction and he only has to sit in the car for 40 minutes. On his dad’s days, they take the train because they live further uptown and it only takes them an hour.

I would think about the drive all the time. When I’m about to drive, during the drive, and then dreading the drive the next day. This is the second winter I’m doing this. Last winter, when we moved downtown and found out the school bus didn’t pick up all the way down here. I was 6-9 months pregnant doing the drive, barely able to hold my pee on the way home. My back was always killing me with the belly perched just under the wheel – but I made it. I drove him up until the very last day of school – and only then did I let myself get induced into a late labor.

When I started the drive this September, I felt lighter – no belly – but still tired in the mornings. Most of my frustration comes from the pedestrians of downtown Manhattan. Wall Street pedestrians rival those of Chinatown with their complete disregard for motor vehicles. Rambling around with a sense of entitlement, both finance junkies and tourists alike trot around with their heads on their destination or in the clouds.

While I wake up optimistic each morning, there is indubitably going to be some asshole to piss me off. I try to resist this nastiness that I know will have me pay it forward and focus on breathing and distraction exercises. I listen to the ridiculous radio shows that target the 20 – 25 year old crowd and hope my son is too into his book or video game to notice the talk of penises.

Most of the two hours I spending thinking. My brain, in the white noise, spins – I write in my head. I create scenarios and dialogue and theories and come to all sorts of realizations – all of which I can’t write down! I tried getting a transcription app for my ipod and attempted to talk into it – but the words spoken sound so differently from the words written. It just didn’t work. The good stuff would stick, I tell myself. The same characters will come to life when I sit down to type, I tell myself. The good ideas can’t be unborn.

In the winter months, we get gorgeous views of the Hudson River and the George Washington Bridge as the sky turns rainbow shades of pink, purple and orange right as the sun is going down. On our ride home last week, my son noted that the  reflection of the sunset on the mirrored buildings looked like lava was flowing down their sides.

Recently I made a vow to myself to find the bliss in driving. Like anything in life, (I’ve noticed I write that phrase a lot – “like anything in life.” I compare everything to life but the sentence makes no sense since everything is LIFE. Alas, I’ll still leave it in.) I had to realize that if I can’t change the situation (right now), I have to find the beauty in it. I had to suck up every droplet of goodness from my rides.

I have learned to enjoy the silence – and the radio personalities that keep me company. I do the easy crossword puzzle in the free newspaper (amNY) at red lights. I keep my notebook with me at all times. I delight in the “Me Time” I didn’t realize I was wasting. The calm of life – when it’s just me and my head – in a rolling metal box through the city.

Yesterday was quintessential memory day. I knew as it was happening that I’ll always remember it. Another winter storm decided to show its scary face to our city, but it was the calmer weather before the promised thunder snow storm to come later. The private school, which already had 3 official snow days, decided to remain open. The boy and I took to the roads and I drove through the worst snow I ever driven through. It was frightening, but parts of it were magical.

Snowballs the size of grapes were falling all around me, and as if within a snow globe, I drove along, sometimes as slowly as 4mph. Around school in Riverdale they hadn’t yet plowed the streets. I was driving on 2 inches of powder and hoping I didn’t spin out. I took it slow but somehow was relaxed; I had never driven in this weather before. I didn’t love it – but there was something enchanting about it. It felt like nature’s sprinkles on my life.

Every day I wake up and say thank you. I feel so blessed in my life; so lucky. If going on a car ride five times a week to bring my son to an exceptional school is the hardest thing I have to deal with, I’d say I’m doing pretty damn good.



Here are some photos from my drive yesterday. Probably not a good idea to drive and snap - but I was feeling lucky.

Stream of Consciousness Blogging: Can I Do It?

I’m not one of those bloggers that publishes stream of consciousness writing. You know what I mean … more like journal writing or ranting. Not much for sentence structure or even direction. Just trying to type fast enough to keep up with the words my brain is spitting out.

In theory, it could go something like this:

I woke up this morning and my eyelids were heavier than normal. My lower back ached as I stretched my arms out, draped my robe on my shoulders and began the day. The feeding, carrying, driving, cleaning, loving day that melts into all the other days.

As I walked to the garage in the morning to get my Zipcar, it feels like a chore to say good morning to the man who brings the car. I smile, he says, “Hola. ¿Cómo estás?” I say, “Bien,” which means the same thing in French and in Spanish – but when I say it, I mean it in French, because as I’ve told him for the last year, I don’t speak Spanish. I speak French and Russian – but no Spanish. He persists each morning.

After I drop of my son at school, I drive back to Wall Street in traffic and think. At one point I thought I could use some iPod app to transcribe words – doctor style. But it didn’t work. For a writer, brain-to-computer (or brain-to-paper) is different than brain-to-voice. It just is. When I tried to dictate what I wanted to write it sounded ridiculous. My brain thinks in writing rather than speaking. With writing you can take things back and make them sound better. With speaking, I end up saying it as fast as I think it – but then I often regret it.

But on this one ride home, in the dreadful sleeting weather, stuck in bumper-to-bumper on the West Side Highway, I started longing for this American idea of “Me Time.” Some of my girlfriends would strongly suggest I needed this “Me Time.” It was hard to find this mysterious Me Time. I wanted my Me Time to write – not for massages. It felt too selfish. Luxurious time devoted just for Me?

But then I realized that it’s all Me Time. It’s up to me to see the Me in every moment. As I feed my baby girl, I’m amazed that I brought her into this world. As I sit in this traffic I know that I am alone in my head, finding bliss in silence, or the ridiculous morning radio show. It’s Me Time when she’s napping and I have 2 hours to eat and shower in luxury. It’s Me Time when she plays for herself for an hour and I can write this silly group of words. It’s Me Time when the babes are in bed and me and my honey are snuggling on the couch watching (and living) Parenthood.

It’s my Life – and it has plenty of Me in it. Now I have to learn how to use My Time better.

***

That was an example of the kind of blogging I don’t do – but wish I did. I don’t do it because I don’t think it’s good enough. I don’t do it because I (and only I, of course) am judging it against some invisible hierarchy of blog writing. I don’t do it because I expect more of myself. It doesn’t feel worthy of publishing my stream of thought.

No, I can’t do that. It’s like leaving the house without make up (to me). It’s like giving a present unwrapped. It’s messy – and I’m a neat freak.

No, I won’t just publish a stream of consciousness blog. I will write it once and then I will read it later and rewrite small parts of it. I’ll close the document and reopen it, read it and rewrite it again. Small changes, usually. I’ll struggle about what goes where, ensuring that it flows and I move things around. My journalism training is my Fairy Godmother sitting over my training; I still think back to our AP Guide with every comma, dash or semi-colon. I read it aloud. Finally I wonder if what I wrote makes sense or if anyone will give a shit. I hope it does. I doubt myself – and then publish anyway.

Then I sit and wait for comments or response. I wait to see what my boyfriend will think, what my dad will think, what my good friend, the writer will think. Mostly I get good feedback. At times I’ve written relatively calm pieces on touchy subjects (like breastfeeding or divorce) and those too yielded positive responses.

But still, I don’t publish stream of consciousness. Do people respond to pieces because of the quality of the writing or because of the general idea? In an age of texting and tweeting, where we’ve become conditioned to be succinct, raw and engaging to get attention or initiate conversation in any social networking situation. Is the art of more formal writing going out the window for bloggers?

I’ve been amazed to see the success of some women bloggers out there. Women like Heather Armstrong who launched an entire empire from one blog. I read her blog and think – I’m just as good of a writer as her, aren’t I? I’ve got a matching set of baggage to go with hers; my stories are no more tame. What made her so much better?

She was consistent. She was committed. She was raw and honest. She was real – and that’s what people want to read. She is like the Bukowski blogger – and I should strive to be that good. For that purpose.

Or I could just stay being me – and add in the commitment and consistency bit.

It’s snowing again. I see the white powdery flakes falling outside my dark window 17 flights up in the sky. I realize we are all just snowflakes floating through this earth – no one any better than another – just different.

Recently my 8-year-old said how he hated his voice on the answering machine. I told him that our voices sound very different to ourselves rather than how the rest of the world hears us. I wonder if that’s how it works with writer’s voice. Do others read my words and hear something entirely different than I said them?

I’ve never had writer’s block. I have dozens of notebooks with stories and ideas and words. Words, glorious words, they’re the heart of me. I have so many of them, they corrode my insides if I don’t get them out. If I could publish all of these words as they come out – won’t I be honoring two commitments at once – the one to myself and the world?

Joining the Divorce Club

For those of us who have been divorced, indubitably at one time or another, we turn the magnifying glass on ourselves and question our judgment. We scrutinize every move, every red flag missed, every sign we ignored. I [thought I] wanted something, I tried it, I gave it my best, and it didn’t work out [according to original plan]. It doesn’t really matter the reason – I thought “forever and always” and instead I got “until now.”

Divorce shakes up your life and reshapes us to move forward (sometimes a bit tainted). Some time during or after, we usually over hypothesize and eventually come up with a conclusion that releases ourselves from the stamp of FAILURE. Only then can we set our hearts free, allowing us to repair our wings and set flight on finding love again.

Blah, blah, blah – life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans and give peace a chance, but sometimes the hardest thing to accept is that your marriage wasn't a "mistake." It was what you wanted at the time and you did it. You didn’t always think of the repercussions of it not working out because, quite frankly, going into it, you romantically thought you were the type that was going to make it work no matter what.

But LIFE often kicks your plans in the ass and people change. People react differently during unexpected situations and adjust in different ways. People mature or people immature. They get dependent or interdependent. They ignore and they forget. They forget themselves in the US. They compromise themselves for the greater good. Sometimes it’s one-sided, other times it’s mutual. With billions of people come billions of combinations and billions of break up scenarios.

When you find yourself in a relationship where you realize you are NEVER happy, it does not make sense to continue to live this way. There is too much joy and beauty in this world and you don’t need to be married to enjoy it. (You don’t even need to have a partner.)

It’s when things get bad – when the relationship gets weak that it becomes fragile – it becomes more susceptible to temptation. You may feel powerless or sexless or ignored. You may feel taken for granted or confused or angry and someone will come along, smelling the aura of desperations. (Because we all put out signs, whether we know it or not – and the universe sees them and hears them – and responds.)

Often times marriages end because of infidelity, but other times marriages end because one of the people still has hope. My marriage ended because I made the decision to be happy. I had tried to make myself happy in the relationship for 3 years and I didn’t want to try to make it work anymore. I spent 3 painstaking years crying and miserable when my ex-husband asked me if I loved him, I really didn’t think I did. I thought I should – but I really didn’t. He was a good father, a good son – but he was not the man I fell in love with – and apparently I no longer wanted to be the woman he married.

But with a small child and all the other baggage that comes with a marriage I couldn’t see the forest beyond the trees. I saw branches and twigs and greenery and rotted oak. I just wanted clean – I wanted fresh – I so desperately wanted to be happy. I valued every day and I wanted to teach my son that each day is priceless. I wanted to teach him the importance of happiness. Mostly I didn’t want him to watch a loveless marriage.

When my ex-husband said he would be fine to sleep in separate bedrooms for the rest of our life because he didn’t want to get divorced, I realized that happiness was never going to be on his agenda. And that was not up for debate in my book.

Only later I realized that he existed in a silent depression; he bit his tongue as much as I did; he walked on just as many eggshells. We didn’t have fun; we didn’t laugh; we didn’t like each other. We co-existed because we signed a piece of paper that said we would do so.

There were threats, uncertainty and countless attempts at making it work again. We tried and then tried harder. We attempted to change – but after a while, there is so much rubbish and resentment built upon the foundation, the house crumbles. Ultimately, like anyone else who joins the club, there is the breaking point from where there is no going back.

We join the divorce club.

Divorced people meet other divorced people and find similarities – patterns in types of mismatched people. At first you liked his strength, and then it became controlling. At first he liked your outgoing personality but later he didn’t like your flirting. He promised you something in theory, but you wanted the reality.

After the initial euphoria wears off; after it doesn’t sting when his name calls up on the caller ID; after you've learned to be "just one." After all that, once again a time will come when you start to wonder. (Often times when we are at our most vulnerable, our imagination can be our best friend or our nastiest enemy.) Will I remain alone forever? Maybe I didn’t know what I had until I lost it? Will I ever feel love again?

Generally divorcees split up into two categories. There is the group who insists, “Oh yeah, THIS TIME I REALLY KNOW” (when it's time to move onto the next person) and then there’s the other group, those that carry a satchel of perpetual doubt. They exist in a paralyzed state of fear, worried of making Big Wrong Life Decision: Version 2.

When you start over in the pursuit of happily ever after, generally, you are a more bitter, wounded bird slowly merging into the skyway of love.

You will not trust yourself to pick a mate again. How do you learn to believe yourself when you were so wrong before? How do you know if this is the right one? How do you get back in that place that was so hard to climb out of? How do you risk diving off the new happiness platform in search of MORE?

When I joined the Divorce Club, I had branded myself as a relationship failure. Only now do I realize, that getting divorced was the best (and bravest) decision I made to steer my life to a place of happy. I didn’t want to spend my life alone. I wanted a partner with whom to share my life  – and bear witness to his. Life’s terrain gets rocky and sometimes it’s easier to conquer when you’ve got someone in your corner.

I was lucky. I met someone early on; right when I realized I had made the best decision. I had resigned that it was over and my heart was not only open to love, but thirsting for it in such a passionate way. I met the best someone for Me. Someone who carried the best me out (no matter how heavy my soul felt) and quenched the longing for happiness that lay unfulfilled for so long. My someone fit my notion of happiness so well; he was like the puzzle piece that made the rest of me click into gear.

Going through the experience of marriage and divorce is like anything in life – it brings you experience – and from experience, comes skills and knowledge. Leading a successful life is just using lessons learned from life experience to make it better the next time around.

Snow Day Photo Shoot, Hold the Snow

While the rest of the country was shoveling or digging, we were quite warm on our cozy rug. We did an impromptu mini photo shoot to commemorate the happy moment.

Then we made a photobook on Shutterfly. Voila. (You don't need to be a member of Shutterfly to view this; you can just click View photo book on the bottom left.)

Click here to view this photo book larger

One Order of Happily Ever After, Hold the Marriage

As long as he’s been able to speak, my 8-year-old has been philosophizing, rationalizing and challenging me. He’s not just precocious – he’s insightful, kind and caring. I knew it was just a matter of time before he said something that completely paralyzed my normally loquacious tongue.

We were passively watching David Turtera’s “My Fair Wedding,” and the boy asks me, “If you had a wedding, what would my role be?”

“IF we ever got married, you would have a very special role,” I assured him. “You would walk me down the aisle, maybe. But you don’t have to worry about it, because we’re NOT getting married.”

“Why not?” He countered.

“You know why not,” I answered, reminding him of his comment just a year ago. When we were moving in with my boyfriend of 5 years, he had asked if we were going to ever get married. I had told him the same thing, “I don’t think so.”

“Why do you think I don’t want to get married?” I was curious as to what he thought.

“Well you did it once before and it didn’t work out,” he came back at me, barely a second to think about it. He had just turned 7 years old that week. I was still getting used to not saying “my 6-year-old.” His logic never failed to amaze me.

Here we were about 18 months later and he had quite a different come back to the “never getting married” bit.

“Did you ever think that maybe it wasn’t the MARRIAGE?” He said this in a way that even the most experienced psychotherapist would never have broken it to me.

My mouth hung open. It wasn’t the first time he made me speechless – but it would become one of the memorable ones.

Later that evening I was tucking him into bed. This little man who still slept with dozens of stuffed animals once again turned into my baby. I cozied up to him and held him while John Lennon’s Beautiful Boy played in the background. This was the same goodnight ritual for the last 8 years.

He hugged me and whispered, “Would you want ME to get married?”

“I would want you to do whatever made you happy,” I said so motherly and politically correctly. Secretly I wondered, did I really want him to get married?

“Well, would you want me to take that RISK? Is it worth taking the chance of marrying the wrong person?”

I looked into his soulful brown eyes where wisdom lurked far beyond his years.

“Knowing what I know now, Yes, I would still do it again,” I told him.

“To have me, right?” He understood even more than I did. He has taught me lessons like no other teacher.

“Of course to have you – and to end up right where I am. It’s the road of life; to get to the rainbows, you first have to deal with some rain.” It was cliché and tasted as sour coming out as it sounded. But it was the cold hard truth.

But this boy got me thinking. (Finally!) I was so down on the institution of marriage, yet I wasn’t the type that abandoned dreams. Was I? I wasn’t the type to try something once and give up – or was I? If my excuse of doing it once and screwing it up was my reason for not wanting to get married again, then what kind of lesson was I teaching him?

It’s a frustrating question and an annoying assumption (although one I understand): “So when are you getting married?”

We’re celebrating our six-year anniversary next month; we have a 7-month-old gorgeous baby girl, and we are as happy as we have ever been. (Yes, it sounds nauseating even to me. I knock on wood every single time I even THINK about how lucky I am to be so in love with the man my daughter calls daddy.)

Why do we need to join the marriage club? We made promises to each other that are as valuable as that piece of paper that can [not so easily] be undone. We live as a family and don’t mandate a title that others feel compelled to procure. We are artists that live an nontraditional life; why should we join a traditional institution? Am I just hiding behind a veil of fear in the form of the cliché, “If ain’t broke don’t fix it?” Maybe.

Ironically, (or not so much) I’m a romantic. I want to believe in fairytales – but as I’m knee-deep, living this enchanted life I’ve created for myself, I think, would marriage really make it better?

My imagination just cannot compute that marriage > (is greater than) life today.

Don't Jinx It:Russian Style

On a recent morning as I was driving my 8-year-old to school, I noted that the usually congested West Side Highway was rather empty. "Look how good the traffic is today," I said excitedly. Without missing a beat, he comes back with, “Hey, don’t jinx it!”

I noticed this had become a trend and I wondered if I was partially to blame. How often had I said, "Knock on wood?" How long had I been wearing the red bracelet around my wrist?

A few days ago he was recovering from the stomach flu, but staying at his dad's house.

“Are you feeling better,” I asked him during our nightly call.

“Well, I don’t want to jinx it,” he answered.

“Well do you feel like you have to throw up THIS VERY MINUTE?” I followed up.

“No, not this minute. But I can’t speak for the future. So I don't want to jinx it."

Where did he get this fear of the jinx?

I must confess that I do believe in it a bit myself. But with me, it’s more of an energy transfer thing. My sister has always thought I was crazy.

“Do you really think anyone on this earth has the power to wish cancer upon you?” (Not that anyone ever said "cancer.") Personally I believe in only a moderately severe degree of jinx. But I do believe in an "evil eye"- the kind that comes from jealous or non-wishing people.

I’ve spent many years wearing a red bracelet. Although it's technically a token of Kaballah, I don't necessarily connect the two, but I like what it promises. They say that the Red String protects from the negative influences of the “Evil Eye.” The evil eye refers to the unfriendly stares and unkind glances we sometimes get from the people around us. Kabbalah says we can remove intrusive negative influences by using tools such as the Red String!

It sounds silly, right? Well it did to me too – but a few years ago I was having a pattern of bad luck, and I figured what's the harm in wearing a little red string around my wrist? I sort of felt protected - and if nothing else other than help me hold my head up higher, it seemed worth it.

But way before I knew of the power of the crimson thread, I knew of the power of the … wait for it … the safety pin. Apparently the safety pin (or “bulafka” as the Russians call it) was going to protect me from the evil eye. The first time I took my baby to meet lots of new people, the first and main question all the Russians asked was, “Did you put a bulafka on her?”

It doesn’t end there. "Knocking on wood" has nothing on the Russians. I grew up hearing all sorts of superstitions. Us Soviets are a pessimistic breed and it’s reflected in all of the things we do to avoid bad luck.

For example, when a Russian receives a compliment or positive feedback, you should spit three times over your left shoulder. As demonstrated in this little exchange:

ME: “Mackenzie slept through the night. She’s such a good baby!”

MY MOTHER: “Shh. We need to knock!" And she proceeds to search for something upon which to knock and then matches it with a spastic spitting three times over her left shoulder.

There is a plethora of ways to bring about bad luck to Russians.

If someone steps on your foot, you have to step back on theirs; otherwise you will both have bad luck. If you are lying down on the floor, and someone accidentally steps over you, you have to let them step back, otherwise it will stunt your growth. If you want to get married, don’t sit at the corner of a table. Doing so will cost you 7 more years of singlehood.

Birthday parties should always be celebrated on or after one’s birthday, not before. A funeral procession brings good luck, but you can never cross its path or else its Ruskee doomsday!

There are all sorts of gift restrictions. If you give someone a wallet as a gift, you have to make sure you put a dollar in it, so they won't end up poor. You can also never give knives as a gift. If you get them as a gift, give the person a dollar so that it’s as if you’re buying them from them. Baby showers are an absolute no-no. You should only buy gifts for a child once it’s been born. (This is also common in Jewish practice.)

It’s bad luck to whistle in the house; it will make you lose money. If you have forgotten something after you’ve left the house, it’s bad luck to go back for it. (Apparently if you must go back, you have to look in the mirror before you leave the house again.) When you leave for a trip, everyone in the family should sit, calmly and silently for a few seconds before we leave. (I still do this before every single trip.)

Now this is a big one. “Don’t show on yourself.” It is bad luck to use physical hand gestures to demonstrate something negative on yourself. For example, if you are describing a scar you saw on someone else’s face, you should never gesture it on your own.

In my family, the broken mirror reigned as supreme bad luck giver. We feared it like no other. The story goes back to when my father was in the army. When he opened his shaving kit one morning to reveal a broken mirror, he shivered. His father died the same day. The superstition was confirmed in his head.

Then there are Omens.

If you have the hiccups, someone is thinking about you. If a bird poops on your head, you’ll have good luck. If your right hand itches, you’re going to get money soon; if your left hand itches, you’re going to give money away. (This had me going when I was young and my parents would play the lottery and then the right hand would itch. Scratching their palms, we all believed it was a sign ... but alas, the lottery tickets were nothing more than book marks.)

Finally, there’s the one that if you sneeze while you’re saying something, it’s "Na Pravda" - for the truth. But I thought this was picked up by the Americans too?

These are just the ones I heard in my house; there are so many more - and not only in the Russian culture. My ex-husband was Chinese and they have a whole slew of their own "Don't do this ... or else" ways to paralyze your life. When my 8-year-old was born, I had a trifecta of cultural superstitions mandating all sorts of ridiculous rules: the Russians, the Chinese and the Jews.

I came up with my own logic - and try to maintain (and find) it daily.

So do I continue to live my life void of any superstitions? Probably … but why tempt fate when you can just knock wood, spit three times, and wear a red bracelet tied together with a bulafka to keep it all away?

A Piece of Plastic Makes Injections Easier & Less Painful

“You’ll remember this day forever and yet he’ll forget it right away,” the pediatrician told me right before she stabbed my two-month old’s beautiful chubby thighs with the dagger – three times! A mother never forgets her baby’s first set of shots.

But this was 8 years later. I felt more ready; I had done my mental preparation exercises. So we get there for her first shots and baby girl is super happy. Giggling and looking up at me with those huge, brown eyes, entrusting me with her entire life – and then stab. Three times again. Major cry, excruciating cry, real tears! Luckily both babies calmed right down with the help of some distraction and a pacifier.

But shots still remain a dreadful childhood experience. Today, however, shots went down differently – and it’s all thanks to a genius product call the Shot Blocker made by Bionix.

The Shot Blocker is a small plastic circle whose underside is covered with blunt skin contact points. When pressed firmly against the skin, the pressure created by the contact points numbs the skin. Essentially we are tricking our brain to react to the first pain by giving off a temporary, yet effective anesthetizing sensation, minimizing pain.

This is the first time I have ever seen this contraption used. My baby did not cry for the first two of the three shots! She did cry a few seconds after the third shot. (The pediatrician admitted that the third shot was the most painful, so clearly baby girl was justified.

Why isn’t everyone using this wonderful plastic devise? It could revolutionize the experience for immunizations, allergy shots, insulin shots and more. Thank you James Huttner, M.D., Ph.D. for this invention.

Read more about it here.

The shape of the one my pediatrician actually used was a circle with a hole in the middle like a bullseye, but the idea is the same.