My Son, The Porn King

As I emerged from the shower the other day, straight into a towel, my 8-year-old accosted me. He had a camera in his hand.

"Come on!" he said. "I just want a picture of you naked..."

"Uh...no?" I said, wrapping the towel close around me, fending him off.

"Please? I just want to take one to show Oscar [his 6-year-old brother] and then we'll laugh and I'll erase it, I swear!"

He looked up at me with his best big-eyed dramatic pleading look, the fake one that lets me know he's lying. With an evil twinkle, in a low tone, as if offstage where those next to him, like me, couldn't hear him, he gave up the real plan.

"Ha ha! Not really, I'm NOT going to erase it, I'm going to make copies, and sell them to my friends for $1!"

Despite my best efforts, I let out a huge appreciative laugh. It was hilarious.

I shook my head. "Still no. I can't support you in this endeavor, my friend, much as I appreciate the entrepreneurship. You'll have to find something else to sell..."

Still laughing, I shooed him out the door to get dressed, locking the door. I wasn't taking any chances.

I was impressed, I have to say. I have to give the kid credit for coming up with such a plan, for knowing at such a young age that sex sells. I'd have given him a gold star if he wasn't already tired of them. The fact that he was willing to sell out his mother for a mere buck, now that's another story, but I did take it as a compliment that he felt, despite his inexperience, that the old nearing-40 bod would be worth even that. I mean, I'm imagining 8-year-olds are not that picky, but still...

If times get tough, it's good to know my son has a back-up plan. He probably knows what his friends are jonesing for better than I do. It scares me more than a little to think how the conversations might go on the playground already, how curious minds begin to move toward thinking about sex, about their desires, about naked bodies.

From what I understand, not all moms walk around in the buff. A lot of people think it's highly improper. A friend recently shared that her 4-year-old was forced to ask her, unfortunately on the subway train, loudly, if she had balls.

"Hasn't he seen you?" I asked, laughing.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "He was starting to grab at me and so, no, I don't get naked in front of him."

"They grab," I said, "but I just say no, that it's inappropriate now, with their mother. I don't want them to make seeing a naked girl such a big mystery, to make it seem like touching other people's bodies is so horrible. It's natural. Someday, with someone else, they'll want to do it and I don't want them to feel bad about wanting to."

I think I might be in the minority about my openness. In fact, I am sometimes shy of sharing that I am not shy in front of my boys, that I don't lock the door when I use the bathroom. Not that it would matter, they are french doors, mostly glass, so the lock is rendered useless. I was lambasted in a writing class for a scene in which my younger son comes in when I am showering and puts his lips to the glass for a kiss. I thought it was beautiful. Some people, the majority, thought it was sick and wrong.

Ah, sigh. We are, so many of us, filled with shame. A great artist shared with me his desire to delve into more sexual themes, but said he was nervous, even as an adult, that his conservative parents might judge.

I shook my head. "Sad that these themes are universal and, yet, people try to pretend they're not."

He agreed, but still. Likely, like a lot of people, he will keep his more prurient work under wraps until his parents are gone. Maybe such work will never see the light of day. I think it's sort of sad. After all, it's a big subject to explore. I am happy that my son feels comfortable sharing with me his thoughts, his jokingly devious plans. I think they are totally normal things to think about, even if I am unwilling to be his subject.

I have encouraged him to understand that sex is something he need not get involved with until years down the road, nice as it is. Down the road, though, he is free to do as he chooses. I will not judge.

Remembering True Meaning

We saw it a couple of times over the last few days in Long Island, though, for all we know it was the same car. The bumper sticker said, "Put the Christ back in Christmas!"

Strangely, even though I'm Jewish, I get it. Something about the shopping panic surrounding the holidays this year rang particularly hollow, seemed not quite right given the shape of our country, the inability of some people, a lot of people, to afford basics let alone have many gift-wrapped boxes under a big expensive tree.

I chatted with a woman in my neighborhood, one of the few religious Christians I know, on the train the other day. She apologized for imbuing His name, but talked about how she had made it through all the stresses of the season remembering Jesus's love.

She explained, somewhat defensively, "It makes me feel better."

I smiled. "That's what all religion should do," I said. "That's what it's supposed to be about."

Somehow, somewhere along the way, Capitalism co-opted Christmas and, for many, it no longer makes them feel better. In fact, it can make them feel worse, unable to give as much as they feel they should as, sometimes, they are expected to. The moment after presents are unwrapped, if you're not careful, is one of the worst of the year. Expectations have been built up over a long period and almost nothing in those boxes could live up to what we imagine in our minds, even if it is what we asked for.

My husband's family gift-giving was aptly more restrained than in years' past and no one, except my 2-year-old nephew, devastated only because he loved to unwrap, shed a tear. A few nice, thoughtful gifts were shared and the deal was done. On with our day, with our weekend, with our year.

Yesterday, as I grabbed a few things at T.J. Maxx for my kids and myself, I joked with the young guy behind the counter.

"Happy, now that the holidays are over?"

"Yeah, I guess," he said.

"People are still shopping, but now it's for themselves," I said. "So they're probably happier..." I laughed.

He looked up at me, stopped ringing my purchases. "Yeah!" he said. "They're not yelling at me anymore!" He shook his head, went back to slowly ringing me up, steam practically shooting out of his ears. "Man..."

The bad memories of mean holiday shoppers clearly filled his head.

"Well," I joked, "better to yell at you than someone at home. You can't retaliate."

The girl at the next register, ringing up someone else joined in. "Right. But it gets bad. By the end of the day, we're all yelling at each other, and then we go home and yell at our families..."

I sympathized. "I worked retail, I remember," I said.

The boy looked up at me gratefully. "So, you were miserable once too?"

I laughed. "Well, it's not as bad as waitressing. Then, when you retaliate at people, you don't get paid, they don't tip you."

The girl responded. "I waitress too. It's a nightmare."

"Well," I said, "you do learn a lot about people..."

She scoffed. "Yeah, you learn they're all assholes."

I laughed. "Well, you have to look a bit underneath that..."

She shook her head. "You're too hopeful."

I smiled. "Sweetie, you're a little too young to give up on people," I said.

The boy finished ringing me up finally. "I don't know how I'm going to get through this day," he said, head on the counter.

"Do you drink coffee?" I said.

"No, Red Bull," he said.

"Well, I bet you're looking forward to your Red Bull break?!"

"You don't even know," he said.

I laughed and waved. "We all need something to make us feel better," I said.

As we drove home, the birds flocking together in harmonious clusters against the blue sky, I felt the warm, fuzzy, post-Christmas relief wash over me. It is always nice, every year, to hear store clerks move from "Merry Christmas!" to "Happy New Year!"

I would hope there could be a correction, like with the economy, where we are forced to look at our actions surrounding Christmas anew, start back at the beginning when the tradition first started with meaningful intent for true believers. I guess our best bet is to just make it meaningful for ourselves and our families and friends. And not be mean to strangers in the process. It is among my many New Year's resolutions to be sure...

Going Shopping, Stars In Hand

I had given myself a short window to do the final pre-Christmas shop. The more time I had, I reasoned, the more I would spend, on myself, on others, just because. I have never in my life gone into a store without having the desire to put everything even mildly of interest to me into a cart and take off for the hills, a Bonnie & Clyde version of Supermarket Sweep. Best to limit my time.

Soho offers the best bang for the buck, downtown Manhattan's closest proximity to a mall. My first stop is always Once Upon A Tart on Sullivan St. I remember the first time I tasted their buttermilk scone. I sat on the front steps and finished it in a minute, then got up and went in for another. It is the thing I missed most about New York City when I moved away for a while.

As the lady behind the counter packed the scone into a bag my eyes got big.

"I dream about these sometimes..." I said. She laughed.

Fortified with a bit of the scone and some espresso, I set out on my mission. I looked in the window of Global Table longingly. There was no one on my list who would want anything there, but I wanted lots of things...I had to stop in.

I looked around and shared my dilemma with the saleswoman.

"When I'm out shopping, I see so much I want..." I said. "That's the problem with this season."

She nodded vehemently. "I hate Christmas," she acknowledged. "I told everybody my budget this year is half of half."

I laughed. She sighed. It was going to be a long day, this day just before Christmas, waiting for people to come in, hoping that they themselves wouldn't have half of half budgets. I gave her a gold star.

"Thank you!" she said enthusiastically, "That is so nice!" She paused, then offered, "You are my first customer of the day. Now, I think it's going to be a great day!"

"Good!" I said. I bought a few stocking stuffers and waved as I walked out, the bell jingling as I shut the door, wishing her a Merry Merry despite it all. Sometimes when our expectations are low, things can only look brighter than we imagine.

Along the way, I hit the M.A.C. store, again for myself, to pick up some makeup I needed, though as I write it I realize "need" is a relative term. A young man was very helpful, patiently explaining to me over and over again a bit of information about my foundation that I didn't trust. He persevered, offered his expert opinion and convinced me. For some reason, being able to trust him made me happy.

"I love this product and I love you!" I said with a burst of good cheer.

He laughed and, when we went to the counter to ring up my purchase, I whipped out the biggest gold star in the pack.

"Oh my God!" he said, "That's awesome! You totally made my day!" he said. He put it right on his chest and showed off to his coworkers whose jealousy, of course, got them their own gold stars, just a wee bit smaller so he would still feel special. They were all smiling and happy. I was smiling and happy too.

As I walked out, off to do my real shopping, the shopping I needed to do for others, I felt great. Presents aside, disseminating gold stars in the stressful last moments before the holiday, gives me the true feeling of giving.

Happy Holidays! Gold star to all of you for all you've done and are doing for others!

Making Prophecies Come True

He was completely earnest as he said it.

"The astrologer, the psychic AND the tarot card reader all said I was going to be successful..." He paused slightly after the words were out, maybe imagining in that moment that his cafe mate might be slightly suspicious.

"There are conditions, of course, but I know it's true, I can feel it. I don't know how I'm going to make money but..."

It took everything I had not to get out of my seat and acknowledge my eavesdropping, give the guy a big gold star. Man, from the sounds of it, from hearing about all the various soothsayers he visited to offer him a bit of hope, he was really, really trying.

I sympathized. It's what we all want, right? To be successful? Not that there is necessarily a definition, but fame and money seem to be leading indicators.

A friend recently wrote on her own blog about her efforts to settle in to her life instead of always feeling that constant need to strive higher, beyond what she has. I commended her for her efforts. It is so hard.

When I got home from the cafe, where I'd resisted copping to overhearing this stranger's hopes and dreams, I opened a fortune cookie left over from the night before's delivery, unable to resist the bit of free hopefulness despite not wanting the cookie. I was not disappointed. As often happens, its message resonated strongly.

"The road to success is always under construction," it said. I laughed. So true. I think that often about completing a project, about the day after completing a project. On to the next thing, that's life. The key is to enjoy the process, enjoy your path.

Something about the day, about the efforts of this man, his waiting patiently for others' words to ring true, about the fortune, about my own efforts or lack thereof, caused me to rearrange my bedroom. Sometimes I resist change even when I'm not satisfied with what I see around me, but, then, I realized, constructing the life we hope for is what we have to do, every day, in little ways, we have to make of it what we want. It's all we can do, right? It is only us who can make positive prophecies come true. If we want something badly enough, we have to build it.

There May Be No Prize, But Still...

Sometimes it seems easier to give up. I gave a gold star today to a man whose job has been extremely challenging. He is trying to open something that was supposed to be opened a long time ago but one or another thing keeps getting in the way, keeps holding up the opening even though the ribbon cutting is so far back it's hard to remember, even though the champagne cork flew in the air like it was a done deal and it was far, far from it.

He looked at me this morning when I asked him about it with such true concern in his eyes.

"I'm trying..." he said. It's all he can do. I gave him a big gold star and he thanked me profusely.

"Now," he said, "I have to try harder!"

I laughed. "That's the hope..."

A lot of people are counting on him, blaming him, questioning him. It is not easy. But, still, he gets up every morning and makes the effort despite knowing that the reward, the end result, may still be a fast-moving target.

Sometimes, certainly, it would be easier to give up. I had a conversation about this with a friend today, about trying in general, with women, with sex. He is almost no longer trying.

"It's been a while," he said, "and, somehow, now, it seems to hard to get back into it, it's like it doesn't seem worth it..."

I nodded. "It's like with anything, you can let yourself get out of the habit, and then you let it go." It is why I try to excercise every day. When, like this past weekend, a few days go by, I begin to panic, like I will let it go for too long like I have in the past and, then, I will then find it far easier not to do anything, to fall back into my lazy ways, to make excuses for why I do not work out, even though I know I feel so much better when I do.

Relationships are just like that. Easy to get into bad habits of not looking for anyone at all if you're single or letting the relationship you're in slip if you are actually in one. It is always just a case of putting in the time, effort and focus necessary to make something work.

"Focus..." my friend said. "But there are so many things to focus on..."

"That's the thing, though," I said. "Somehow, like in yoga, if we can learn to focus on a single thing without thinking about it too much, putting your mind to it in an almost unconscious way, then we can block out everything else, we can really concentrate and accomplish something."

I gave him the example of my own morning workout, when I donned my pink boxing gloves and hit the heavy bag with relish, moving around the bag to the beat of Michael Jackson, hitting out controlled but calm with my eyes closed, letting my body move almost without my trying. It was amazing, cathartic, necessary to getting through the holiday madness.

A man came up to me at the gym, leaned in and smiled and said, "Are you training to be a middle-weight champion?"

I laughed. "Yes," I said, "How am I doing?"

He didn't respond, just smiled and walked away. Odds are I won't be any sort of champion, my efforts will only be appreciated, really, by me, possibly by a few onlookers who can get their aggression out vicariously through my punches. But, hey, trying just for yourself is the best kind of selfish. In the end, it will benefit everyone around you, even if it takes longer than you think it should.

A Dose of Comfort at Costco

It hit me yesterday like a ton of bricks, as I looked over at my husband in the car: the point of a relationship is to comfort one another. As my 8-year-old would say, duh!

It seems so simple, that concept, that we should be able to offer solace, a little salve, to those we love in their moments of need, at the times when it all seems too much. Seems basic that, especially in the case of those we choose ourselves to link to, maybe we choose them because they let us comfort them, because we feel comfortable letting them comfort us. But it is no easy thing letting people in to our world, pushing inside others' worlds. It takes a fair bit of trying and sometimes, despite how easy it sounds, it seems impossible, seems easier to try to handle all those thoughts in your head yourself and not let them seep out for others to see.

But I get glimpses into others' worlds, even strangers', if I offer a bit of gentle comfort, a few sympathetic words or even just an understanding look. It is amazing how a little nonjudgmental observation, a little acknowledgment, can help, for a moment at least.

Take, for example, the man behind me in line at Costco the other day. Lines, especially long ones, seem to offer the best opportunity for practicing what I preach, making those little connections with others. After all, none of us in that moment can be anywhere else and, yet, being there is often so frustrating. So easy, then, to be annoyed and angry.

This man was your classic old school Brooklynite, a gruff 65+, bald and brash but with a barely-concealed softer side, I could tell.

"Hey!" he yelled up past me and another waiting customer to the cashier, in the midst of counting her drawer, a necessary if annoying hold-up. He gestured wildly, his expressive right hand suddenly turned into his sidekick. "What's the story?"

She, of course, paid him no heed if even she heard him at all. I, however, chose to defend her.

"What're you going to do?" I said with a smile. "She has to count her drawer?!"

His stance changed slightly, became less aggressive, more compassionate, if only out of guilt. Still, though, he scoffed.

"Yeah? Well, she has only two modes: slow, and slower."

I laughed a little to get him on my side. A joke teller is always looking for a laugh. But, still, I chastised him good-naturedly. "Yeah, well, she can only do what she can do...they're pretty good here."

He was quiet a moment, then he said, "It could be worse..."

I laughed and nodded. "It could always be worse." I took out a big gold star and gave it to him. His whole face lit up, a big smile spread across his face.

"Do I get this for being a good boy?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "for your patience waiting."

"Thank you, my Dear," he said, placing the star on his chest, "you have a great holiday!"

"You too," I said.

These are the moments I live for, the ones in which someone switches their mode from mad to glad simply after being offered a bit of perspective. I think we all want to get there, to have someone else give this to us, to let them. Sometimes it's hard to get there yourself. That's what friends and family are for. Or, of course, the occasional stranger handing out gold stars.

You Gotta Have Faith

"What's your name?" the barrista at Naidre's asked the woman in front of me in line.

The woman paused, then came out with it, boldly, like an expression of air after holding her breath for a bit: "Faith," she said.

I looked up at her, then, and smiled. It had seemed a statement of belief, one she had had to gather herself before saying, but, really, it was just her given name. Cool.

"I love your name," I said.

"Thank you," she said, rather shyly.

"Do you like it?" I asked, though it was none of my business.

She paused, as she had before offering her name, in thought. "I didn't use to, but I do now. It took me a while."

It made sense. You can't be given faith by anyone else, you have to come to it yourself, and she had. I gave her a gold star happily. It's so important to appreciate who you are.

After eating my soup and drinking my Matte Latte, I moved on to do some errands. Buying a gift at a great store filled with fragile, original things, I noted a child who had been brought in by her mother against her will. You couldn't help but note her, she was crying and whining and throwing herself about a bit. I was scared for the beautiful bowls that were easily within her reach as she flailed. Apparently, the man behind the counter was also. As the woman went to the counter to purchase something, he made sweet-voiced but pointed suggestions.

"Um, you don't want to touch that, honey," and "OH! Her nose is running..."

I laughed to myself as I chose what I wanted to buy, glad my kids, as rambunctious as they are, are beyond the toddler stage and all that brings, glad, too, they weren't with me to get judged.

As I walked to the counter, after the woman and her daughter had departed, I overheard the man behind the counter speaking to his co-worker.

"It's not the kids, it's the parents..." he said.

Now, I know he wasn't talking about me, but I always take comments on parenting personally because I myself have a few disciplining issues, that is to say, I'm terrible at it. I think a lot of parents are. I feel bad for myself and for these other people, even if we are pathetic. It's not an easy job. I think people should know this.

"Do you have kids?" I asked the man, not unkindly.

He stared straight at me, understanding in a second my thinly-veiled judgment of his judgment. Takes one to know one, I always say. He smiled slightly.

"No," he said, "I am a militant homosexual."

Let's just say I was glad I wasn't drinking anything. It was a full head-back guffaw, the kind, these days, that sends my hand straight into my bag like a Pavlovian response.

"That is awesome," I said. "You get a gold star for that. And, you get a big one, the first one in my new pack," I said, handing over the glittery gold.

He was thrilled, and slapped the big gold star right on his chest, showing his co-worker proudly.

He turned back to me. "Really, I'm not that militant, I love kids, I love my nieces and nephews, it's just, this neighborhood..."

I waved him off. "No need to explain. Do you live around here?"

"No, I just work here." He didn't have to add the "thank God," it was implied.

"Hey, look, I'm with you," I said. "But it's harder than it looks I think, especially if you want your kids to be free spirits...I had a lot of ideas of what I was and wasn't going to do before I had kids, but then in reality it's a lot harder.

He nodded. "It's a fine line, I know," he said.

"It is," I said.

I was just glad to have had the discussion, to have some acknowledgment of parents' plight, even though we all see--and even sometimes are--the kind of parents we hate. I guess all I ever try to do in my conversations and gold-star giving is to see the other side, to get others to engage in that process as well. Really, I think, what I'm doing, is trying to have faith in people and to get others to have some as well. Maybe I should change my name...