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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?
By Hyla MolanderSee Mommy Run
I was running one of my favorite loops from our house: an easy lope down Baltimore Canyon, a straight uphill grunt on Barbara Springs Trail to snaking, flat, smooth Crown Road, then up, up, up Huckleberry Trail, until I was finally on top of Blithedale Ridge where I could see the ocean in one direction, Mt. Tam in another, the city another, and green everywhere. I relished every minute, having gotten a one-hour hall pass in the middle of an unusually busy Saturday morning – come lunchtime, we’d be hosting my husband’s soccer pals and their families for a barbecue. At last count, 20 grown-ups, 15 kids.
At the crest of the last hill, I took off my sweaty shirt and ran with it balled up in my fist. I realized I was pushing the clock, so I picked up my pace, which
meant I was hammering down the spine of the ridge, zoned-out, when two bikers came whizzing around the corner, nearly crashing into me. One of the men laughed and said, “Hey, we just wanted to meet you!” His buddy skidded to a stop next to him, watched me run by, and called out, “Whoooee! Nothing wrong with that!”
Blog news
For the next few months, we’re trying something new at the Writing Mamas website. Our founder, Dawn Yun, will hand off the duties of editing and posting blogs to three salon members. I’ll serve in the position in January, Claire Hennessey in February, and Li Miao Lovett in March.
I’m pleased to be able to give back something to the group that has given so much to me. When I joined some five years ago, I knew that I had a story to tell—a behind-the-scenes account of my daughter’s adoption from Guatemala—but I lacked the discipline and skill to tell it. Where to start?
“Just write 250 words,” Dawn said at the first Sunday night meeting I attended. “One page.”
By Jessica O'DwyerMarin Mommies
Living in Marin County, you can’t help but notice the sweet pheromones of the powerful women who prowl the streets. It’s Clan MILF vs. Clan Cougar, and every mom KNOWS to which clan she belongs.
Clan MILF meets at the Mill Valley Depot for coffee. Surrounded by her young, 3.5 blond-ish children (their hair might be a tinge of green from too much swim team at The Club) the MILF’s coffee cup is recyclable and re-useable, and her coffee beans are 100% happily grown by cheery, eager, South American farmers. Her muffin has no preservatives, no fructose, no flavor.
And her heart goes out to the children who have to wear clothes made from synthetic fibers, instead of 100% organic, sheep-chewed cotton. Oh, forget those plastic baby bottles filled with BPAs — she was an early adaptor and switched to Kleen Kanteen years ago, right after the fertility drugs kicked in.
Clan Cougar meets at Bungalow 44, Buckeye Roadhouse, and D’Angelos, or places just like them. Coiffed in her salon-fresh highlights and paralyzed forehead, the Cougar’s hyper-vigilance about raising her now high-school aged children has relaxed, unlike her brows, and she’s looking to fill some me time. Her first husband has been dumped and now she’s single, sassy and looking for a little more carnal fun.
Let the cleavage begin!
By Annie YearoutWanted: Man for My Mom
I never expected my twenty-four year old daughter would pick up a man for me in a bar in a national park. So much for camping trips the way we used to have them back when she and her sister were kids and we sat around campfires roasting marshmallows.
“A girls’ road trip!” My daughter, Annie, boasted to her friends. “My mom and I are driving from Berkeley to Baltimore.”
‘In her Honda Fit no less,’ I thought. ‘It’ll be either great or terrible depending on whose music we’re listening to.’
By Marilee StarkDILDOS are My New BFFs
I have been happily married for more than ten years and I still have a great sex life with my husband. But lately I can’t get over my obsession with DILDOS.
I don’t mean sex toys. I’m talking about Dads I’d Like to DO!
I love my husband. Really. But I can’t help it. I fantasize about other men. In particular: Dads. They all hold a certain appeal. It could be looks, charm or a sarcastic sense of humor.
I think about them constantly.
By Cathy BurkeMother Time is NOT the Same as My Own Time
We sleep and wake at odd times: our tiredness, we discover, has many layers.
-Tony Cohan, On Mexican Time.
Lately I have been feeling like every day is at least two days long. And in that space of time, I am not quite sure what happens. I don’t even know how it happens. It’s as though time is actually dissolving before my grasping hands. I wish I could momentarily step out of the earth’s gravitational pull and somehow slip through the gap of a day: An entire 24 hours devoted to my renewal and to the tying up of loose ends. Unfortunately, life does not give time outs, and I am deep in the midst of a space I like to call “Mother Time.” Continue… »
By Dawn YunJohn Hughes Understood Dorks
When I was in high school, I spent many a weekend night holed up in my bedroom, listening to cassettes and brooding over all that I was missing out on by not being invited to the “good” lunch table.
This of course was where the popular crowd sat ― the ones that got elected to student government and homecoming court and traveled in packs at the mall and had parties to go to every Saturday ― parties that I was sure were wildly exciting events taking place at impressively furnished houses, with people crowding the kitchen, spilling out onto patios and jumping into swimming pools in their underwear.
By Shannon Matus-TakaokaSo Focked Up
As a recent graduate of first grade, my daughter takes pride in practicing her “best guess” spelling skills. I love to watch and listen to her sound out new words.
“Is this how you spell “Sophia?” she asks.
I peek over her shoulder at the story she’s working on and see “ S-O-F-E-A” printed crookedly across the page.
“No, but that’s really close,” I answer. “Good job!”
I always try to temper my corrections with a dose of motherly praise.
But I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to her latest foray into the world of phonetics.
“F-O-C-K!” she screamed the other day after smacking her knee against the coffee table. “I hate this FOCKING table!!! FOCK!” Continue… »
By Dorothy O'DonnellCycle of Crap
It must be summer, because I got the out-of-nowhere urge to cull my 5-year old’s closet for the high-waters and faux three-quarter sleeve shirts that have even the DADs commenting, “She’s kinda outgrowing her clothes, isn’t she?”
Our neighbor’s daughter is the lucky recipient for our 10-year old Gap and Gymboree classics whose paper-thin knees I hoped would survive at least two more wash cycles. When I finally clear them out, I take another look around her room and realize the work has just begun.
There’s more Bisphenol A (or is it B?) plastics in red and blue and yellow than there is floor space; a rainbow of colors and shapes stuffed into rectangular toy chests as a pretense to organization that is really the fallout of Goodwill’s ‘no more toys’ policy. Continue… »
By Kimberley Kwok