One Last Thing Before You Go

Of all the things we do as parents,  nothing is more primal, instinctive, and meaningful than holding our children.   There is much I no longer remember about those early years, but I can recount for you every heartbeat, every sound emitted from each of my children the first time I held them.   For them, it’s protective, soothing, comforting.  For us, it establishes the relationship.  It makes it real.  This tiny living thing belongs to me.  He needs me for everything.  A bad day at work was never a match for the gentle cuddle of my baby’s body.

You hold your children every day of their lives until you can’t anymore.   One day, you pick her up. You put her down.  She runs away.  And just like that, you will never pick her up again.  The last time you hold your child is monumental.  It’s both a happy graduation of sorts, and the end of the most critical stage of childhood.   Yet, we don’t mark the occasion.  We don’t cry. Or smile.  We don’t ask for one last time.  In fact, we don’t even realize it’s over.

Benny is 18 and off to college (via a year abroad).  He drives and votes.  He has a job and earns a salary.  He is a man.  An adult.   How the hell did that happen?

We did it!  We raised a child to adulthood.  This occasion, like the final time I held him in my arms so many years ago, will pass without fanfare.  As quickly as he came, he will be gone.  And, while he will surely spend time here again, he will no longer be a permanent resident of this house.    My little tax deduction is all growed up.

It was a trick of genetic engineering that enabled me to weed out my bad qualities and inculcate my son with the very best of me and my wife.  He has my smile and height, but he has Francine’s sensitivity, kindness, and maturity.   He managed to finish high school with a solid group of exceptional friends.   Unlike my childhood (and some adulthood) friends, they are friends in every sense of the word.  Selfless, sensitive, generous.   They look out for him and would never intentionally cause him pain.  It may seem trite but it’s a solid foundation for his next stage of growth.

I saw a video recently in which a man adopted a baby lion cub but, years later, released him into the wild when the lion grew too big to safely care for.   After about 10 years, the two were reunited in a scene that both warmed my heart and scared the crap out of me.    This manly-man, strong enough to raise a lion, cried like a baby when he released him, and then again at the reunion.   I stifled a giggle of superiority.   I understand the attachment, I argued, but I think the lion will survive just fine in his native habitat.

I am no longer sure.  Just as my legal obligations are terminating,  I am more worried than ever.  Is Benny ready for the wild?  How will he survive?  There is no way we taught him even the most basic survival skills.  The world is a huge, scary, terrible place.  Especially for the good guys.

So, here it is.   Don’t be influenced by money, love, success, or fame.  They are truly the path to the dark side.    Chase compassion relentlessly.    Never compromise your principles or the people who rely on them.   And, in a world where dishonesty is the standard, always speak the truth and always keep your word.

This advice is hardly novel.  Youtube any graduation speech and you will hear the same words in one form or another.   They are, after all, the easiest things to say to a child.   But, as common the advice, you must concede, the message is quickly disregarded on the way to College.

So maybe this is the better advice. Don’t change.  Grow.  Maintain the same innocent narrative, the same wide-eyed ideals and lofty goals that got you here but expand them to meet your growing universe and influence.

You made us proud.  Now go.  Before I change my mind.

Can I hold you one last time?


*** Apologies to my closest friend for the use of his title.

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Big Time

My first Piece for the Times of Israel has gone viral!

Check it out at:

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Final Approach

I am writing and posting this from 38,000 feet off the ground. I know. I haven’t written for a long time, so what is so urgent that can’t wait until I land? Nothing. But, if I could tell my father than I was posting a blog while flying in an airplane, he would first want to know what a blog was. Then, how can it be posted in the sky? I would try to explain the cloud but the irony would surely be lost on him. Then, he would challenge me. “You have to post something from the air.” So, here we are.

I have had a rough few months. Nothing I want to talk about and nothing irreversible. But, I am beginning to understand a few things that have heretofore eluded me.

I hate cats. Here’s why. They think they are tigers. Look at them. Smarmy. Indifferent. They walk around like people are worried what they might do next. They demand affection but rarely reciprocate. Their arrogant strut. Mocking stare. Hell, sometimes they get into that pouncing position, probably imagining the waves of fear they are transmitting. “You aren’t a tiger,” I usually say, “I am not afraid of you.” But they slowly turn their back on me and walk away, neither of us sure who won the argument. I wish they didn’t have 9 lives. That only adds to their callous indifference to everything.

I wonder: do they know their limited awesomeness? They are nothing but pets, wholly dependent on humans for everything. Are they fooling themselves, or just trying to fool us?
People are like that too. They are cats making believe they are tigers. Some are tigers trying to be cats. I don’t think the illusion you create is important. So long as you know what you really are.

Every time I convince me that I am one or the other, I surprise myself. I say: “Would a tiger do this?” or “would a house cat do that?” And, the answer is almost always inconsistent with my then self-image.

I know a guy, more than one, who cannot get through a casual conversation without invoking his self-righteousness. Yes, he gives more money to charity each year than I will ever earn. To talk to him is to believe he is the messiah. But, I know his secrets. He is no tiger. (Wait, is the tiger the good guy in this metaphor?)

I know another guy. He is brash. And loud. Obnoxious. Aggressive. Never, ever says the right thing. If bad texting were a crime, he would get life. He has some good friends. And a ton of people who hate him. Including, his mother, best friend, and agent. But, I know his insides. He is pure. Would do anything for anyone anytime. He is a tiger on the outside. But, a pussy on the inside.

So you see? As if life weren’t complicated enough, along comes the treachery of critical self-analysis.

No wonder I can’t write anymore.

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Fire in the Sky

It’s been a pretty good day. Successful deposition, major court victory, and no one tried to kill me (yet). I have no interest in re-visiting this story but I have received hundreds of emails, calls, and visitors today, and I suppose, having brought this to your attention, you are entitled to closure. A suspect was arrested and charged with, among other things, arson. He is an emotionally disturbed person, whom I was told has spent time in a mental institution.

We are stirred, not shaken. It is too surreal to take seriously. I am gratified that it was not a stable person. That would indeed be an assault on my self-esteem. From both a safety and ego perspective, you want your fire-bomber to be crazy. They tend to try to light a match in the pouring rain.

But I learned two things today. For every one person who has tried to kill me, there are hundreds of others who dropped everything to offer assistance. If you are a longtime reader, you know I have an impaired ego. And yet it is hard to misinterpret the widespread show of love and support from literally every person I know (and quite a few that I don’t). Yes, even Gronk. It is overwhelming.

Second, try making a list of the people you think want to see you dead. It is not as easy as you may assume. As I spent a long day pondering that question, I could come up with just one name. And, I helped put that guy in jail for 22 years. So, he hardly counts. Nothing cures extreme insecurity better than a good attempted murder.

I wont have much more to say about this. I have an important, long-overdue article coming out this week in the Times of Israel. I would prefer you read my recent press relating to a major victory for Walmart than the articles about my near-death experience.

But, with the thousands of people who read this blog in 24 hours, and the hundreds who stood by us, I appreciate your friendship.

Need more information? Want to beat the terrorists? Join the thousands of subscribers to this blog. Just enter your email address at You only get emails when I post. And, as always, to the 1800 people reading this in foreign countries, like Costa Rica, Indonesia, Iran, Brazil, Australia, Poland, and Hungry – – drop me a line.

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Smoke on the Water

In a lifetime full of surprises, a brush with attempted murder has rattled me. Last night, in the early morning, as my wife, son, and I were fast asleep in our beds, someone walked up my steps, approached the front door and squirted an entire bottle of gasoline into my mail slot. He then dropped a lit piece of paper through the opening. The rain foiled his plans and he retreated, his murderous plans unfulfilled.

A multi-jurisdictional task force responded and I am told they are making progress. But, the near-death experience is not the worst part. It is the realization that someone hates me enough to try to wipe out my family. For those who read the New York Post, this story may fail to impress. Arson is rampant in this country and people die every day from random and intended acts of violence.

Yes, I am an aggressive, forceful lawyer. I am sure I have enemies. Though, to be honest, I feel like I would make enemies regardless of my occupation. You see, I am brash. And forceful. I am aggressive and relentless. And, I can hardly get through a day without penning a hostile e-mail. I am overly sensitive with super-human strength. But, I have dedicated my entire life to helping other people. Given the chance to advance my own interests or quietly help someone in need, the choice has always been clear and easy. A guy in my neighborhood who has abused me needs interference with the township construction official? I didn’t hesitate. You see, I have strong opinions. I believe in a self-defined sense of right and wrong. When my sensibilities are offended, when my code is violated, I react. Strongly and perhaps disproportionately. And, if that weren’t bad enough, I am not always right in my initial, forceful reaction. But, it comes from a good place. A place of love and compassion. It is often misinterpreted.

So, who wants to kill me? It’s been 15 years since I put someone in prison and 5 years since he was released. Today, most of my time is dedicated to fighting financial disputes on behalf of major corporations. Hardly the stuff of dramatic vengeance. I still litigate against the occasional evil-doer, but that’s the price you pay for always defending the good guys. Still, with one or two exceptions, it’s hard to believe someone would take out my family over anything I have said in court.

Maybe it’s a Palestinian sympathizer, angered by my public expressions of Zionistic integrity. I doubt it. If it were, I would surely be dead.

Maybe it is one of my closer friends; frustrated by months of an inability to penetrate my rut. That seems unlikely. It is obviously their fault.

I am hoping it turns out to be a prank. A random assault without meaning. And, yet, tonight I find myself living an episode of Law & Order. Wondering how I can protect my wife, the greatest person I know. Or my children, who could never understand this level of violence.

For now, I can only engage in critical self-analysis and let the police do their job. But, I am shaken. Not because I fear the future. It’s the past that makes me worry.

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Rabbi Yossi Stern

Dear Rabbi Stern:

I will never forget the last words you spoke to me, about two weeks ago. Like most of the things in your life, our conversation must be kept confidential. But, the last thing you said was how proud you were of me. I wondered, at the time, if you remembered the very first thing you said to me. It was about thirty-eight years ago. Most of the other grown-ups in town had written me and my friends off as miscreants. Not quite ne’er-do-wells. We weren’t bad kids by any measure. Just loud. And insensitive. Maybe a little misguided. It was easier to ignore us. But you wouldn’t. In your quiet, dignified way, you encouraged us to get involved in our community. To give back. You singularly reminded us of all the gifts and advantages we received simply because we were growing up in Teaneck, America. You didn’t make us feel bad. Or that we were bad. To the contrary. You made us feel like each of us mattered. Your love for every Jew, every human being, big and small, was an earth-shattering revolution. None of our parents or teachers could reach us in the way that you did. And, looking back I realize that you did it without trying. You didn’t strategize. Or play games. You did it simply and without pretense. As a ten year old, I wanted to be a better person because I wanted you to be proud of me.

This week, I listened to your son eulogize you. I remember him as a baby. Big cheeks, huge smile, and a giggle that was infectious. I haven’t seen him in thirty years. He is a man now. You probably knew that. Most of what he said about you, I already knew. Frankly, everyone knew. But, I didn’t know how much he loved you. That sounds silly. Every child loves their father and everyone loved you. But, he made a case for your legacy that surprised me. Yes, you learned Torah all day and night. Yes, you had a jewelry business. You started Project Ezrah and devoted every waking minute to helping the mal-affected find jobs, pay bills, and get back on their feet. I just assumed you did all of this at the expense of your family. After all, we are taught that Moshe Rabbenu’s family life suffered because of his service to Am Yisroel. So, I think you’d get a pass if you couldn’t attend your child’s siddur play. Or parent teacher conferences. If you were too tired listening to communal maladies to listen to familial problems. But, once again, I underestimated you. Listening to your son describe your life together – – business trips, chavrutot, quality time, and some laughs thrown in along the way – – listening to how unconditionally, without reservation, he loved and respected you, was yet another lesson you taught me. Lots of people contribute. They donate time, money, energy. There are activists and leaders and role models. You have undoubtedly read about them in the newspapers Or on their blogs. They are heroes. But, dear Rabbi Stern, you didn’t want attention. Or respect. You didn’t want anything. Your every breath was motivated by love. Nothing more. You loved your community. You loved people. Jewish, and not so Jewish. You loved your wife and children. And, yes, you loved the young trouble makers who constituted the earliest generation of a nascent Jewish community. When you are motivated by love, life is good. Even when it’s not. Ironically, your heart was larger than its walls could hold. Your love just couldn’t fit. I suppose it was inevitable. The human heart is just not made to hold as much emotion, as much benevolence, as much kindness as you dispensed on a daily basis.

I spent decades chasing your approval. Two weeks ago, it seemed in hand. But, I reject it. I am not worthy of your pride. You are a giant and I constantly struggle with my inner and outer good. But, you deserve credit for yet another soul. And I pledge mine to your memory. Every day, I will endeavor to perform an act of love and kindness. Not in your memory or in your honor. You would hate that. But, simply because I should know better. Thanks to you.

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Happy Valentimes Day!


I love my wife. We are celebrating our twentieth Valentine’s Day together. This may sound obvious but hear me out. I have long objected to the frivolous use of the word “love.” In my self-styled dictionary, we are not in love with our girlfriends. We are not in love when we get engaged and we are not love when we get married. For many, we are not even in love when we have children. Love, as I see it, is not a condition that can be moderated or adjusted based on external influences. You cannot fall out of love. If you think you have, it is far more likely that you were never in love in the first place. Imagine a friend that has wronged you. You are angry. Hurt. You may want vengeance. You may decide that the relationship is toxic and needs to be adjusted downward. But, do you hate him? Think about hatred. It is all-consuming. It is a state of being that requires animus. It is an active condition that leaves you hoping for bad things to happen. I submit that few people are capable of “hatred” in its purest sense.
Love, like hate, is a living thing. It must be nurtured and raised. It must be fed with respect and tragedy. It breathes an oxygen constituted of a tailor-made formula that needs constant adjustment over many years. You cannot love someone you just met. You cannot love someone who you know for a year. You can find love in a couple that has been together for 20 years, who have successfully raised children together, who shared a lifetime of common experiences, philosophy, and culture. When the proverbial house is empty, you can still sit for hours and talk. The little things that annoyed you in the beginning have not sharpened; they have blended into the fabric of your relationship. The word “couple” is singular and for good reason. The finished product of a loving relationship is a single cohesive unit that co-exists and constantly evolves and solidifies. In other words, love is the outcome not the impetus.
Here’s my proof. Half of all marriages end in divorce – – most of which are acrimonious and hostile. These same couples started out professing their eternal love for one another. Ask any couple at the alter and they will nauseate you with the depth of their love. But more than half of them are no longer in love after they leave the starting gate – often within the first year. Sometimes after raising children. What happened? In my world, love is not so fleeting and ditzy that it can turn on itself in short order. So, we can all agree that these couples were likely not in love in the first place. At least not LOVE, love. And, if they weren’t, no one was. Love cannot be a crapshoot.
So, we get married because we see a future. Because we enjoy each other’s company. We have common interests and shared personality traits (and flaws). We marry because we can envision falling in love. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes it doesn’t. But, the seed that we plant on our wedding day can either grow or die. That’s not love.
Some of my closest friends are now divorced with children. They have loved and lost and, I am willing to bet, in retrospect would have chosen never to have loved at all. Others have reached a state of love that can be felt anytime you are in a room with them. Even when they are fighting.
Which brings me to my point. After twenty years, I am ready to declare my undying love for my wife. We still laugh. And go on dates. We are raising four terrific children, who are a joint venture that incorporates the very best of each of us (mostly her). But, lately, I find our relationship to be much deeper than those common ingredients. Her love is unconditional. She gives me space to make mistakes but then gently counsels me back to reality. She protects me and nurtures me and makes me a better person. And, perhaps most challenging of all, she understands me. I hope I am requiting that love and offering her the same benefits that she brings to the marriage. Happy Valentine’s Day Francine!

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Double Diamonds

I am proud to be a lawyer, but that doesn’t stop me from frequently criticizing lawyers.  Quite the opposite; I feel uniquely qualified – – and obligated – – to point out the foibles of my fellow attorneys, particularly those that make me cringe.   Same with my Jewishness.  I hold my breath whenever a Jew or non-Jew has something critical to say about my people – – even when overwhelmingly deserved.  With that disclaimer, permit me to list ten things I hate about seeing fellow orthodox Jews on ski-vacations.

  1.  I appreciate that you need thermal underwear, leggings, jeans, and ski pants.   But a top layered skirt?  Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your modesty.  And, your consideration.   After all, without that snow-hugging, form fitting, ankle length skirt, I would surely lust after you.   As I blow past you on the slope, focusing on staying vertical and, well, alive,  the last thing I want in my head is a picture of your unskirted behind covered with a mere 4 layers.   Do you think you are complying with some Torah law?   I am no expert, but there has to be something in the good book about turning religion into a huge mockery.
  2. Hey, Shmuel.  The meatball hero in the summit lodge is assuredly not kosher.  Even if you make sure there is no cheese.  I don’t care if you take off your black hat and yarlmakuh.  The beard, side-burns, string fringes, and Hebrew blessings before and after the hero, are dead giveaways.  Oh wait; you are wearing a Yankee hat.  Maybe you are Amish.
  3. Just got back from the pool.  I met your wife.  She was in a bikini.  And a scarf covering her hair.   She doesn’t look bad considering the 7 kids she is trying to keep from drowning.  I know she was wearing a skirt this morning, and now I know why.  She is modest.   Wait.  This might be your Au Pair or your live-in girlfriend. Either way, thank you for keeping her hair covered.
  4. Ahhh.  The chairlift.  Is there anything more relaxing and majestic?  Literally this is why I go skiing. I can hear myself thinking.   So, can you shut your damn cell phone?  Really? In that silly Yiddish accent, and your rank refusal to learn our language, you are going to yap the entire 15 minute ride? The sad part?   Cell phone coverage stopped about 10 minutes ago.
  5. The complimentary ski-check does not accept your poles.  Or your boots. Just your skis.  It says it right there.  ON THE DOOR.   “Attention Jews:  we will not accept your poles or boots.  No matter what horrible curses you wish upon us in Yiddish.”   At least have the courtesy to make believe you aren’t Jewish.  You are embarrassing me.
  6. Matzo is for Passover.  Not ski trips.  Unless you are skiing on the matzo.
  7. Yes.  She is hot. And blond.  30 years old.  And catholic. And wearing skin tight ski-pants.   And, yes, she can see you staring.  Can you stop waiving your poles around?  It’s just gross.
  8. No.  You cannot re-arrange seating on the chairlift.  If she’s good enough to stare at, she’s good enough to sit next to. 
  9. Watching TV in the lobby is just as much as sin as watching it at home.   No one believes you are just waiting for the messiah.
  10. Next year in Jerusalem.  But, if Jerusalem is not available, how about the Atlantis?  I hear they have four minyans every day.

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Antiq Hennis was shot to death last month in Brooklyn. He didn’t do anything wrong. He was not a gang member or a drug dealer. He wasn’t involved in a drunken argument over which New York football team is worse. He was not the victim of mistaken identity or a tragic hunting accident. He was sitting outside his apartment complex on a warm September afternoon watching a neighbor’s dog. And, the bullet hit him in the face. He died instantly.
He was 16 months old.
My first thought, after seeing the story buried 20 minutes into the nightly news, was to grab the remote and rewind the DVR. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “I know that prosecutor!” I told my wife, excitedly. I then launched into a memory from my days as an Assistant District Attorney. She quickly fell asleep. Neither of us offered Antiq a second thought.
We are now a society where one dead child is insufficient to muster more than a disinterested shrug. Hell, 20 dead kindergartners only boils our blood for a few weeks. Then, we move on the much more important matters. Like the latest iPhone. We can expect approximately one mass killing per year. Then, we can check them off like a shopping list. Virginia Tech. Sandy Hook, Killeen, Aurora, Columbine, Foot Hood, Red Lake, and on and on. It is much easier to remember the venue than the victims. And, when the dust settles, what do we do to avoid the next chapter? Exactly nothing.
Why? Because 10,000 gun murders each year is merely collateral damage to our freedom and liberty. We have an inalienable constitutional right to bear arms. But, here is the unspoken truth: we are literally the stupidest society in history. Is there another culture that would defend its miserable failure to protect our children from violence because of an imaginary right to carry weapons? 20 children died in Sandy Hook. 80% of Americans supported a complete overhaul of gun laws. Nothing was done. Nothing changed.
So, let me set the record straight. We have the right to free speech and assembly. The Bill of Rights offered no limitation on those fundamental manifestations of freedom. But, even those unambiguous rights were circumscribed by the Courts to ensure the safety of its citizens. You know why you cannot yell “fire” in a movie theater? Because someone might get hurt. If any idiot dared demand the right to yell “fire” in a movie theater, you would lock him up, because this is someone who presents a clear and present danger to the rest of us. In our upside down conscious, a man in a crowded dark movie theater is more dangerous with his words (unconstitutional) then the guy carrying an assault rifle into that same theater (constitutional).
And, yet, our founding fathers did not offer the same blanket endorsement of guns. Unlike any other fundamental right, the right to bear arms has a restriction that seems to have been omitted from the NRA charter. Here is what the Bill of Rights says: “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” No right to assault weapons. No right to hunt. Nothing about defending your home or women. The right to bear arms is specifically limited to the formation of a militia necessary to the security of the State. That’s it. Ironically, if you tried to form an armed militia, you would be promptly arrested and prosecuted – – and, yet, that is the limit of the constitutional right to bear arms. It is the one thing the constitution permits, and it is probably the only thing our current law prohibits.
Does anyone really think that Thomas Jefferson intended to guarantee every American (white, male), the inalienable right to carry an AK-47, but not the right to food, water, or medicine? You do not have any constitutional right to eat or receive medical attention. You have no right to work or have children. But, you definitely have the right to walk around with a rifle in your jacket.
Therein lies the fundamental mistake (or fraud) perpetrated by the gun lobby. The right to bear arms is not a personal right. It was a communal measure designed to protect society as a whole.
200 years ago, guns were single shot muskets and blacks were considered 3/5ths of their white neighbors. Subsequent leaders and judges recognized that the ancient wisdom relating to blacks was misguided, unfair, and dangerous. And, they changed it for the betterment of our society. We did that even though blacks had not actually changed at all. It was our perspective and wisdom that expanded. Any argument that the constitution is unassailable – – even in the face of 200 years of improvements in weapons, and the mass murder they cause – is not being intellectually honest.
Don’t tell me guns save lives. That’s another lie. The United States, with our right to bear arms, suffers 2.97 gun murders per population of 100,000. Japan, where guns are illegal, sees .01 gun death per 100,000 citizens. France, .06. England, .07. We have 42 times more gun deaths than England – – where guns are illegal. We have has many gun death per capita as the Gaza Strip – – where everyone has a gun. Take a look at the statistics: Countries with the least gun control suffer the highest rates of gun violence.
But, the NRA will assure us that the only defense to a bad man with a gun is a good man with a gun. You know who they are talking about? George Zimmerman. They will never admit it, but a guy patrolling the neighborhood armed with a firearm, seeking out ne’er do wells, is a “good guy with a gun.” Yet, since killing an unarmed black teenager, George Zimmerman has been arrested three times for threatening someone with his gun. When he finally kills an innocent man, no one will be particularly surprised. Because he is a good guy with a gun. And, anyone with a gun is bound to shoot it. And, when a gun gets shot, someone might get killed. This is not what our racist, elitist founding fathers wanted to protect, along with life and liberty. It has no basis in the bible or the Hammurabi code. No person in history was granted the unfettered right to carry a weapon with no purpose other than to injure other living things.
We are victims of a fraud. People like to carry guns. People like to shoot guns. They will rely upon any justification they can find. But it is a canard. It has no basis in the constitution. It is a right that serves no one but the nuts with small guns who feel that carrying a weapon somehow makes them a man. This will never change. It is too controversial, too misunderstood to justify a change. Meanwhile, thousands of children will be killed in the cross fire. It is a huge price to pay and should be rejected by all civilized persons who understand that we are defending the very existence of our society.
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It’s Either One Thing or Your Mother

I do not recall the moment of my children’s births. In fact, in 45 years, there are surprisingly few images seared into my consciousness. Tonight, I saw my mother in a medically-induced coma, recovering from open heart surgery. The surgery, I am told, was successful and she should be able to fight with me first thing tomorrow. But, for now, the vision of her helplessly asleep, intubated, and eyes wide shut, brought back haunting memories of my father’s death bed. I did not think about our fight last week, or last month, or the month before that. Suddenly, I could not remember why we see things so differently.
Instead, for the first time in decades, I was able to picture her holding me as a child. Letting me climb into her bed when I had chicken pox. And the time she had tears in her eyes when I left for camp. (in retrospect, probably tears of joy). The special dinners and occasional walks around the block. I recall the horrible, but well-intentioned advice she gave me about girlfriends. But mostly, I finally understand how she felt when she received the phone calls from my teachers. And the crippling fright she must have felt every time I left the house.
She spent the last 41 years teaching and advising a generation of grateful high school students. Without fanfare, and without much remuneration. Yet, she raised a financial advisor, a doctor, and a lawyer. And, by all measures, we are doing pretty well. Perhaps her greatest legacy is her 10 grandchildren, each one happy, secure, and talented, with unlimited potential for the future.
It’s funny. Sharks get a whole week; mothers get one day. Maybe it’s because sharks aren’t nearly as scary as the realization of adulthood that your parents are human. Their mistakes are almost certainly involuntary and, while it is easy to blame our parents for our shortcomings, it is important to recognize that, in most cases, they did the best they were capable of – – even if their best fell far short of our own lofty (but, perhaps, misguided) revisionist expectations.
Late in life, I have forgiven my childhood bully and high school nemesis. I have made peace with my close relatives who still insist on seeing me through the outdated prism of my youth. I hold no grudge against some of my contemporary friends, colleagues, and community leaders, who preach inclusion and tolerance, but practice neither. So, isn’t it time to let my parents off the hook?

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