My Articles:
Ease a Grieving Heart Through Play Based Therapy
Vintage horse
Keira, my five-year-old daughter, whined, “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” from under her purple, fuzzy blanket. She did not want start going to therapy.
She had returned from school one too many times, saying “nobody likes me,” or “I’m not smart,” or “nobody wants to be my friend.”
But that was as far as the conversation ever went. She really didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not even me.
I pulled the covers back, exposing her angry, brown eyes. “That’s just it, honey. It isn’t good if you don’t talk about your feelings.” She wrapped her front teeth around the base of her thumb’s cuticle and chewed on the skin. “I don’t have any feelings.”
“Honey, you’ll be going to see Steve. Remember the man Tatiana went to talk to for a while?” My older daughter, Tatiana, had also seen Steve for about six months, when she was five.
Keira wiped her now-bleeding finger on her pink pillowcase. “With the dog?” “Yes, the man with the dog…and the toys. A whole room full of toys.” “I’ll play there one time, but I’m not going to talk.” Continue… »
Raising Children Without Religion
My dad is Lutheran, my mom is Jewish. My childhood exposed me to traditions from both denominations, but I certainly wouldn’t describe myself as religious.
Spiritual, yes. Religious, no.
At birth, I was given the Hebrew name “Chai,” which means life, but that’s as far as Judaism went. Sure, there were big Bar Mitzvah parties for my friends, but the only time my family lit a menorah was when we visited my grandmother’s house.
I do recall my dad’s Lutheran side of the family whispering nasty things about Jews, so I assumed my parents had come to some sort of understanding that religious rituals would not take place in our house, or maybe they just never spoke of it at all.
No, worship was not a part of my upbringing.
As for God, if he does exist, I’m still pretty angry with him. Witnessing the sudden death of my late husband, Erik, 29, on Easter Sunday of all days, would be enough to infuriate most people.
And, if there is a god, why would he condemn me for embracing my feelings? Or for questioning his existence?
The Father’s Day Timepiece
On Father’s Day, I hold the stainless steel Bell and Ross men’s wristwatch, noticing the delayed clicks of the white second hand. My thumb moves in circular motions across the waterproof glass and I am surprised by the weight of the timepiece.
Erik, my 29-year-old husband, pleaded with me for this expensive watch.
Mommy Guilt
Guilt. Mommy guilt. Daddy died guilt. Always the guilt.
Each morning at 6 AM, Julian, 2, calls out, “Ma Ma. Ma Ma? Ma Ma,” and the race begins.
Ugh! I shouldn’t have stayed up so late.
Four kids, like newly hatched spiders, crawl up my skin. They nip at my arms, my shoulders, my feet, and I want to flick them off. I want five minutes, just five freaking minutes to make my coffee, before I get them ready for school.
“Clothes on, hair brushed, then come to the table for breakfast,” I command, but they continue to swarm, completely ignoring my orders.
“Ewwwwwww!” Tatiana, 8, screams, as she holds her Hello Kitty toothbrush an inch from my swollen brown eyes.
Continue… »
