What was your father like?

My father was from Libya, from Bengazi, I believe.  Growing up, my father's family was very poor.   There were many stories of not enough food to go around.    My grandfather was very strict, and my father had many scars on his hands to prove it.    There were many children:   Victor was the oldest, Zvi was next, Tony, Joseph, Miriam and Ruben.   I was also told that there was a set of twins that died when they were one month old.    
My father was born in 1930, and soon after Libya was taken over by fascists under Mussolini.   My father and his family were held in concentration camps because they were Jewish.   My grandmother was an excellent seamstress, and she would often do sewing for the soldiers.   They would throw clothing over the fence, and she would do this in exchange for food.    Eventually Mussolini told the soldiers to allow the prisoners free, and they were spared execution.  My father always loved Mussulini for this.   When my father was in third grade, Jews were no longer allowed to attend school.   Dad was very excited about this, as he was excited to play soccer in the streets and live free.   He was a big troublemaker according to his mother.   

When my father was 18, he moved to Israel.   He always spoke of this time with such great joy.   When he told stories of moving to a kibbutz in Israel, being a part of the war, and serving in the Israeli army, it was with such joy and happiness.   As a child, I could see the beauty of Israel through his eyes.    He loved to tell war stories.    We went on to marry and have a son Amos.    His wife cheated on him, and in shame, he left Israel.  
He moved to New York City in the 60's.   This was a free and wild time in New York City, and I think my dad was a big womanizer.   He married a woman named Chuck or Chip, but divorced soon after.   He worked at the Keneret, a restaurant he owned with his brother.   My father loved to cook, and owning a business was also very important to him.    The Keneret was a hot spot in Greenwich Village, and it was during this time that Dad met my mother.    They met on an airplane and eventually married.    They moved to Brooklyn, had a family and played house.
In the eighties, AIDS came to New York City, and the restaurant business really suffered.   No one knew how AIDS was contracted, and people were afraid to eat at restaurants.    Dad was fighting with his brother Victor, and it was a good time to get out of New York.
In what seemed like a dream come true, my parents bought a big house on the water in Miami Beach.   They opened a small restaurant and lived a simple life.    I think that this was really the beginning of the end.   I think that my father went from having a fashionable business in New York City to selling bagels to old people in Miami Beach.   His spirit was a little crushed.    They made a fine living and enjoyed family life, but it was anticlimactic for my dad.    

I always remember my father having a touch of sadness.   My mother always believed that he was unable to overcome his childhood and enjoy his success.  At his restaurant in Miami Beach, he fed all of the homeless people.   He would give his shoes off of his feet to anyone in need.   He was loud and frightening, but he had a charitable heart.   

My father was truly fearless.    He used to shovel snow with short sleeves and he never got sick, so his fate was surprising.    

In 1990, he became ill with lung cancer, which was a death sentence the moment he heard the diagnosis.   The only thing he feared in life were doctors and needles; cancer was the most terrifying word he had ever heard.    The day of diagnosis, my parents shut down the restaurant, and my father underwent treatment.   He was devastated.    A few months after Dad's diagnosis, our beautiful, strong boxer Pudge developed a lump in his throat and died of cancer.     Any bit of hope my dad had was immediately gone.   

This was around Passover 1991.   And Mom cooked her usual holiday dinner, but dad was too tired to make it to the table, so I went into his room and sat with him.   He took a bottle of red nail polish and he polished my nails.  
Just a few weeks later he lost consciousness, and Mom cared for him at home.   He was frightened of dying, and mom just wanted him to be comfortable.    He didn't eat, and his skin was yellow.
By this time, I was skipping high school, out drinking and basically avoiding all reality.    One morning, after being out all night, I called my mom.   She said, "Come home.  Your father died last night."
And on May 2nd, he had died, just like my mother's father had died on May 2nd, 30 years earlier.  

What are/were your grandparents like?

I always laugh when I see grandparents on TV that bake pies, babysit and go to church.   I had the most unorthodox grandparents imaginable. My Grandmother Bonnie was a beauty, and she was a talented artist. She could paint, act and dance. She ran away from home with dreams of becoming an actress. She was a Rockette in NYC, and she definitely never had any dreams of becoming a mother, wife or grandmother. She met my Grandpa Jack, and he owned a bar known as the Wonder Bar in Monticello, New York. While no one ever came right out and said it, there was always a suggestion that Grandpa Jack had a shady mobster connection. While Jack and Bonnie certainly didn't have the credentials to become parents, they did. There were stories of screaming fights, cheating spouses and eventually a nasty divorce.

My grandfather died young in a car accident, and my grandmother remarried, and moved to Florida. She danced in local shows and she was still beautiful in her eighties. She was never a warm and fuzzy grandmother; her distance being a result of a difficult childhood. One warm memory that I do have is when Grandma Bonnie invited me to her house and promised me that we were going to bake some muffins. Coming from a family of great cooks, I was excited to share a day baking with my grandmother.  I remember standing eagerly in the kitchen, ready to crack eggs and soften butter.  I also recall my disappointment when my grandmother reached up into the cupboard and pulled out a box of Jiffy corn muffins. While I did inherit some of Grandma Bonnie's coldness, thank goodness I didn't get her poor cooking gene.

My best childhood memories

This week I decided to take my two little ones to Disneyland on their last day of summer vacation.   After about an hour and a half in the heat, the crowds and the Star Tours ride, I was toast.   I started to think of ways to bribe the kids out of the park, cotton candy, $50 at the gift shop, I knew it was going to be a war.   So when I looked down at them and asked them if they were ready to go, I was shocked that they both said, "Yeah, mom."  

Modern day parents feel this constant pressure to entertain our kids.    We have them over scheduled in ballet, karate and soccer.   We spend weekends shuttling them between playdates, movies and other  activities.    When I look back at my own childhood, my best memories were on Sundays when the family would pile up in our horror of a station wagon, and we would go food shopping for our restaurant.   We would fill the back with turkeys and roast beefs.  My brother and I would sit in the backseat and secretly tickle our dad's neck.  He would swat at his neck, and Jack and I would giggle uncontrollable.   After spending the afternoon shopping, we would venture off to a new restaurant for our Sunday night dinner.   My parents would complain the whole time, the shrimp were too small or the salad dressing was bottled.   Most of these restaurants were all you can eat buffets, and my parents would make sure to eat their $9.99 worth.   I still remember piling my plate high with ice cream, cookies and sprinkles.  
Our family took many trips and we had many friends.   We had a swimming pool and many trips to Disney.   Just being a family, doing normal things was truly the highlight of my childhood.   

Why Marriage Should Never Work

So the other night, I had one of those moments where I stepped out of my body and had a real look at myself. I was screaming at my 13-year-old, complaining about screen time. I then crawled into bed and wondered, "How on earth could my husband possibly find me sexy?"

When we met, I was young and free-spirited. I was a party girl, and I never took life too seriously. When I met Matthew, he was so serious and rigid; I think he found my laissez-faire lifestyle attractive. We had crazy chemistry and spent three years dating on and off.  We couldn't keep our hands off each other.

Fast-forward to today: we have three kids and I spend my days worrying about organic food, the benefits of progressive education and how damaging six hours of Minecraft a day can be. I am a completely different woman from the woman I was 17 years ago. How can marriage survive that kind of change? There is absolutely nothing sexy about motherhood -- unless you have a fetish. The damage of four full-term pregnancies cannot be undone by a few workouts a week.

But putting aside the physical changes, what about how we evolve (or devolve) as parents? First we become hyper-focused on things like preschool, broccoli consumption and even far less exciting things like skin rashes and bad haircuts. So I guess my question is: how can someone want to jump into bed with a woman who has a pacifier in her hand (yes, my four-year-old still has a pacifier) while screaming at a pair of kids innocently watching an episode of "Dr. Who"?

How do you separate your sexual self from your maternal self? Some say scheduling in dates and sex is the answer. Others believe that relationships are malleable and can change from something lustful into something more like friendship. Research suggest that as soon as kids move out of the house, the libido returns.   I will post in a few decades and report.

Happy Birthday, Baby. Forgive me.

13 years ago, my little girl was buried. I couldn't attend her funeral because I was in critical care. I was still in the maternity ward, and there was a black butterfly taped to my door so the nurses knew not to walk into my room and ask how my new baby was doing. My kidneys failed during the birth, and I was alone in the hospital as the rest of my family went to say goodbye.

I was 32-weeks along, and I hadn't felt much movement. As I am not an alarmist by nature; I wasn't all that concerned. Later in the week, when I went to my regular appointment, my doctor was very concerned because the baby did not look healthy. I went from specialist to specialist. By the time I went to my cardiac neonatologist, little Samara had died. I was sent to my doctor's office, and I stepped into the waiting room.

There was a waiting room full of pregnant women waiting to be seen. As tears streamed down my face, the nurses brought me down to the hospital to deliver. Without my consent, I was knocked out. At about midnight, I felt a huge, warm rush, and I was woken up by a nurse: She asked me if I wanted to hold my baby. I said no. I don't know why I said no. When I woke up in the morning, I asked for her. She had already been sent to the morgue. I never held her. I never saw her. And I never went to her funeral. I am filled with shame. What kind of mother doesn't put her baby to sleep?

I am still plagued with guilt as I never got to hold her and I never had a chance to be a mother to her. After nine days, I was released from the hospital with all of the wounds of pregnancy. My milk came in and I still had swelling. No one knew what to say to me or what to do, so I spent my time assuring everyone that I was fine, that I felt okay, that this must have been God's plan. My husband was unable to handle the pain, and he went back to traveling for work just three days after my release from the hospital. When I was alone, I was able to grieve, whatever that means. My husband told me that she had black hair, and that is all that I know. My only connection to her is the little, pink heart shaped tombstone. Happy birthday, Samara. Please forgive me.