Why do you ask?

Ask the question to which you want an answer.

Say what you mean.

Not everything has to be said.

Call them New Year's Resolutions.
Call them personal philosophies.
Call them late for dinner.
Whatever you call them, these statements have been guiding my interpersonal interactions over the past few months.

Instead of, "Hey, what're you up to?" I've been trying, "I need to talk. Are you available to speak by phone?"
Instead of, "Hey, can you get off that glass coffee table?" I've been advocating, "Get down. Now."
Instead of, "The paper goes in the PAPER RECYCLING," I've actually just been sorting the recyclables by myself. 
Sometimes.

Here's where I'm still challenged, though: 
People asking ME questions.
"What's for dinner? Why do you wanna know? In case you don't like it?"
"When am I teaching next? You don't like when I teach so you won't come to class. Right?"
Seriously. Blows my mind.
What should I do?

So This is Love

I don’t think James and I were even engaged the first time his father hit me.

No, no, no, no, no, no, NO. Not like THAT. It was a swat. A slap of my knuckles, or something. I had said something snarky. (I know. You’re glad you were sitting for that one.) He swatted my hand. “Yes! I’m IN,” I thought. A few months later, my father did the same to James. It was as though he had given us his blessing.

It’s a little ridiculous, right? The things we do—the ways we show people we care?

A friend called last week. I wasn’t feeling well.

“Go to the doctor.”

“No.”

“No?! Why can’t you be NORMAL? If you’re sick, go to the doctor!”

“Well, now, THAT’S not nice,” I thought. Immediately followed by, “He LOVES me.” Naturally. Because only if he loved me would he berate me so.

My girlfriend and I say attention equals love. That may be a bit of a stretch. But attention CERTAINLY equals attention…or the implication that you somehow matter to the person with whom you’re interacting. I’ve been giving a lot of thought over the past year as to how I’m showing the people in my life that I value them. I consider how I “know” I matter.

I ran into an old friend, recently. Actually, we see each other quite frequently, but some time had passed since we were last together. “Hi! How are you? It’s good to see you.” He turned towards me. I couldn’t get over the fact that not only did he think it was good to see ME but that as he spoke, he turned to face me. Whatever he was about to do (retrieve his sons’ books or dole out snacks, perhaps) was not as important as giving his attention to me, in that moment.

I could go on but I think really my point is just to encourage you to think: how do you tell someone you care? Do you call them by their name when you speak to them, or use a diminutive reserved just for you? Do you turn off the television or ignore your cell phone? Or do you pick on them, make fun of them…hit them? OK, in retrospect, those might not be the *best* ways to show someone you care. Maybe make more of an effort going forward?

The woman who sits next to me in synagogue is wheelchair-bound. She suffered a stroke more than a year ago. Speaking is a challenge for her. Communication is not. Lost in thought (or prayer?), I was picking at my nails. My husband grabs my hand when I do that. I had a college boyfriend threaten never to speak to me again. My father once “reminded” me that our religion frowns upon self-mutilation. Mrs. B. saw me torturing the skin around my fingernails and slid her hand off of her prayer book. She covered my hand with her own and stroked it gently with her thumb.

“Now THAT’S love,” I thought.

You don't get to have me.

Barbie has recently reared her ugly head. I mean that figuratively. I don't actually care about Barbie. This isn't where you tell me she's evil and bad for me and bad for my girls. This IS where I tell YOU she's a piece of plastic. And I actually have something in common with her:

I can't point my toes, either, Barbie Doll! 

Fight the power!

Then there's the Duchess of Cambridge. "Flawless" she was recently called. Is she pressuring me to look a certain way? Have it "all?"

Um, no. She's royalty, people. And, I'm...well...just no.

How about Gisele? Did she stress you out when she "multitasked?" Would you like to hear all the places *I* practiced that version of multitasking?

Forget all that. You don't have anything in common with those people. 

Forget that only two of them actually ARE people.

There are real people out there with whom you DO have something in common. 

The woman who just walked by your table at Starbucks: you both dated the same guy in high school except her hair looks a *little* better after a rainstorm. Your college roommate: you wear the same color lipstick except she's chair of the philanthropy you merely volunteer for. Your sister: it's so cute the way you teach nursery school. She just made partner at the largest law firm in the city.

What happens to you when you're with those more beautiful, more successful, smarter people? Can you still see how awesome you are? Or do you forget? I do.

Do you know what I caught myself saying to someone recently? "I could never have dated HIM in college. He was totally out of my league. Still is." 

Wait, WHAT? Hold up now! "HE" couldn't have dated ME because HE was too wrapped up with THE WRONG GIRL. And "he" still can't have me because I'm MARRIED. (nanananabooboo!) OK, maybe he is, too. But that isn't my point.

My point is Barbie's a doll, the duchess is royalty, and Gisele...well, come on, that's just not real life. But the mom with the rockin' hair and form-fitting leggings (I know they're "not pants," but they look so good on her!): SHE'S real. And I compare myself to her regularly. Even though I know I'm awesome. I've always compared myself to the "hers" in my life. But the degree to which I would succumb to pressure to actually BE like her--to BE HER--is minimal. 

I met Baby T's birth mom last week. When the social worker opened the door to introduce us, a child was staring back at me. T's biological mother isn't old enough to drink, she's not old enough to vote. She isn't even old enough to drive. I don't know every detail of every story. But we know that sometimes, young women--girls--are pressured into relationships they're not ready for. Does the same thing happen to guys? Sure. Of all of the babies I've cared for and birth moms I've met, have I ever met more than two biological dads? No.

I doubt it was a doll and it's hard for me to believe that it was a famous person who put pressure on T's mom. (YES. I KNOW TEENAGERS WATCH TV AND DECIDE THEY WANT TO GET PREGNANT. That's not this blog post. OK?) It's more likely it was pressure from someone she thought was cooler than she, possibly older and more sophisticated. "If you really love me," "All the older girls are doing it," and even "I promise, nothing bad will happen," could have all been words uttered.

Tell me, if one of those beautiful, successful, smart people in your life wanted you to do something for them, would you do it because they're "out of your league" and you're so LUCKY that they're even asking you? What would 14-year-old you have done?

It's tough to know where to end this one.

To be continued...perhaps by you.

Thanksgiving

For heat and electricity, for POWER and warmth.

For partners, for service, and for rest.

For solid structures and strong foundations.

For nature, for nurture, and for hope.

For vocations and vacations.

For relief and aid.

For Iron Domes, the power of choice, and for the

     promise of a new tomorrow.

Modim anahnu Lach --We thank you, God, for these

   gifts.

From survival to success to significance

Imagine sitting in a room with several hundred of your "closest friends."
Imagine listening to your preacher deliver one of the most important sermons of the year.
Imagine he begins a sentence with "I look in the mirror and I wonder, 'Am I living a life of significance?'"
And then imagine what comes next.
Just imagine.

Imagine he looks out across a sea of faces and catches your eye for just a second.
"I look in the mirror and I wonder, 'Am I living a life of significance?' Then I think of (insert your name here)..."

I can't tell you exactly what came next. Because I think I stopped breathing. And I definitely stopped blinking. And, for the first time in almost a decade, I finally felt like I wasn't crazy. When Rabbi Avi Weiss said "...Then I think of Ann Lapin,..." I felt like he "got it."

As flattered as I am that Rabbi Weiss spoke about the work that we do with our babies during his "Shabbat Shuvah Discourse" (And, oh.em.gee, I AM.) I was more overcome with a feeling of belonging, with a feeling of, "Yes, YES! THAT'S why I do it! That's why we do what we do! To make a difference. To BE SIGNIFICANT."

Over the next few weeks, Rabbi Weiss traveled to different institutions, delivering similar talks. His speech to S.A.R. was recorded and posted to YouTube. I've had my hands on it for a little while and am only sharing it here now in part because I am, of course, reticent to toot my own horn but also because up until now, I had been focusing on the part where he mentions me. But that's not what's important. What's valuable is that we are part of a community where action is valued. We are part of a community where we care for the other. We are part of a community where significance is taught. And modeled.

I guess I knew that all along. But it took holding onto this video for me to realize that.

Imagine that.

"Make something up!"

We had no idea how our lives would change.  We had no way of knowing how the relationship would form or how, eight years later, we would feel like the rug had been yanked out from under us.

On March 11, 2005, James had a surgery that would change our lives. Everything was OK, thank goodness:  he had no adverse reaction to anesthesia; he was discharged from the hospital in good time. It was nothing medical that changed us, per se. It was the connection we formed with the family on the other end of his surgery.  On March 11, 2005, James donated his kidney. To a perfect stranger. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. We met. Approximately 45 minutes before surgery. But over the years, we became more like family than like friends. Whatever the “aunt” version of “in loco parentis” was, that was what Shani was to me.

“Ann…I heard you hurt yourself?”

“Um, yeah…I lost my temper and put my hand through a glass window…?”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…just make something up.”

“Sorry?”

“Make something up! I got so tired of people asking me how I twisted my ankle, once, I started telling people I did it bungee jumping! They’re going to talk, anyway…”

In June of this year, my phone rang. Both of them, actually. I finally checked caller ID and saw that it was a local friend—someone with whom I hadn’t chatted in a while.

“Hi, Ann…I hate to be the bearer of bad news…unless, did someone already reach James?”

                “Shira, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

                “Shani died this morning.”

The string of expletives that left my mouth were certainly more than Shira had bargained for. I called James. I texted him. Finally, in desperation, I called his boss and sobbed that she had to find him for me so I could pick him up and take him to a funeral.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I said when I finally reached him.

“Why?”

“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

“Nothing, actually. I don’t feel anything.”

In the eight plus years since James’ surgery, nothing changed. Nothing. Not the procedure, not the recovery, nothing. Except *we* had changed. Our children have parents with THREE kidneys between them. Not four. Forget that. We have CHILDREN.

I had thought about everything before James’ surgery. I assure you I had. All of your ignorant, unsupportive questions (Sorry. I’m still a little bitter.) I had already considered. I grilled the surgeon, I interrogated the nurses. I stalked the nephrologist. And when people asked, “But what if Gavriella needs a kidney?” I confidently answered, “James isn’t her blood type anyway. I am.”

I am.

Yet somehow, I forgot.

Shortly before Shani’s death, she shared with us that she was ill and the search had begun for another kidney. Not one to replace James’, as she said, but one to “help” it. What she didn’t know—what YOU don’t know—is that I had taken the preliminary steps to begin testing for a donor nephrectomy. In plain English, I wanted to donate my kidney, too.

But despite the more than positive experience we had with James’ surgery, with Shani, indeed with her whole family, the fact remains that I am mother to three children. And until they can step forward and donate to each other, I plan to hang on to both of my kidneys.

I’m not sure it’s the right choice, but it is the choice I’ve made.

For now.

For more information on kidney donation, please visit www.HODS.org.

May Shani’s memory forever be a blessing.

"She'll be okay."

"Are they taking her tomorrow?"
"Yes, that's exactly the way it feels."
"I'm sorry, honey. She'll be okay. Do you want to come over in the afternoon?"

I met Melody's parents before today. Twice. The first time they were two hours late to their visit with her. The second time they barely looked up from their phones when I brought her into the room. They don't look anything like me. And I don't mean their skin color. Dad has multiple facial piercings and Mom has arms full of tattoos. And no ring. But they made the decision to take her home after almost two months in my care. So today I brought her back to the agency so they could have her. So they could take her from me.

I walked into the room wondering how much sadder I would be after the "return." How much more will I doubt their ability to parent? Will they be dressed nicely today? Will they pay attention to her?

Am I being racist?
Yes.
No. Classist.
Maybe "just" judgmental.

Melody's beautiful. She smiles and she coos. And I wonder what will happen if she has to "do without" or if she's ignored. Will she stop sounding so happy? Stop looking so pleasant?

Her parents are on time. They seemed happy to see me--to see us. But, God, was I skeptical.

We walked into the room. I've been in that room before. I placed Jibraan into the arms of his biological father in that room--a man who didn't know he had a son until Jibraan was six weeks old. I introduced April to her moms in that room and listened as her forever mother, Rachel, presented April's birth mom with a book of poetry. My eyes filled with tears in that room as Jonathan's father promised his birth mother they would love him and take care of them.

Melody's parents sat down and I leaned over to hand her to one of them. Her father took her from me and, in that moment, there may as well have been no one else in that room. He tucked Melody into the crook of his arm, began to whisper, and she began to coo. She was home.

Can you live on love? I'm not so sure. But at least she would have that. She will definitely have that.

"Do you have any questions for Ann?" asked the social worker.
Melody's parents looked at each other.
"Just...thank you for taking care of her. Thank you...don't start crying now...Okay?"

Okay. She'll be okay.

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