We don't have tomorrow

He was right in front of me. At least I thought. I turned the corner of the long corridor from the laundry room in the building towards the elevator hearing his voice and then a second later nothing. Silence. Noam was gone.

I stood in the humid hallway holding a pile of wet shirts and some change in absolute shock. The whistling and thumping noises of the machines in the background faded into the screams of my helpless 2.5 year old little guy who had stepped into the elevator too early without his mommy.

My body became numb, I could not figure out what to do first. I wanted to jump through the walls. The poor guy is not even tall enough to reach the buttons, let alone old enough to understand how an elevator works. I could hear the elevator chain working, I ran upstairs.

I reached the third floor and could hear him more clearly now. If I tell you that at this moment I would do anything to get my son back in my arms I'm not exaggerating. I can somewhat understand now temporary insanity, perhaps. I began to scream. He was screaming. We were screaming together. In the final moments before I had completely lost it, the door opened as if in slow motion and a helpless little guy, pacifier in face, tears streaming down his red cheeks stood there in utter despair.

And then the embrace.

He ran into my arms and we sat on the floor crying together for what seemed like hours. We were both so happy to be holding each other, as if we doubted for a moment that it might not have turned out this way. In reality the entire event took place in about 3.5 minutes.

"You cannot run away from your mommy, when you are not with your mommy you get lost. You are not a big boy that can go on his own, you are little. You need to stay with me. You will get lost without me."

To which his reply was, "I'm big."

God tells us, stay close to me. Let me guide you. I am your Abba (Father) your Imma (Mother), you will get lost without me.

But we think, "I'm Big. I can do this on my own."

It has been quite some time since I have sat down to write. Just over a month ago my beloved father in law, John Yonah Krongold a'h (peace be upon him) passed away suddenly. It is a tragic loss for our family.

John was the most healthy and active 56 year old man I've met. A vegetarian, he managed a local band, ran triathlons, took spinning classes, swam and that was all leisurely. My husband and I moved back from Israel last summer, after living there for 5 years. We had our hesitations about moving back. Since coming home John aka Zaida (grandpa in Yiddish) spent a lot of quality time with his grandchildren. He made sure to only work in order to live and not live in order to work. He planned his days in a way that ensured time for himself, exercise, and of course family time. We don't have any hesitations now about our move. This past year was a year we will treasure for the rest of our lives.

This is not a eulogy for Zaida. If you want to hear my husband's eulogy for his father I'd be happy to send it to you through email if you haven't heard it already. It is inspiring to say the least. This is just my way of finally being able to sit and write and not break down at the thought of writing about Zaida's passing. It's very hard.

I'm not sure why the elevator incident finally prompted me to sit down and write but there was something so real and deep about the experience that it brought me to the computer. Through this entire mourning experience I can honestly say that it has felt like God has been telling us (I'm speaking only about my husband and I) you need to stay with me, you will get lost without me.

Many people have asked me how the Abba is able to be so strong. How is he so positive? People left the shiva (house of mourning) feeling consoled by him rather than the opposite. In truth it seems very simple in his eyes as he tells me. Death is a very real part of life. It is not an abstract concept that we don't know about. We have very clear and real details about exactly what happens to the soul after it leaves this world. What happens in the first moments, the first days, months, first year and after that. The Torah is very specific in its details and we learn from this that death is not a morbid and gloomy thing that we should try not to think about. Rather, quite the opposite. It is something we should be real about every moment that we are alive.

In Judaism, a Torah home and the rituals and customs of everyday life are set up in a way not to allow us to forget that one day we will die. We wake up in the morning and the first words on our lips are "Thank you for another day!" We begin our day with many blessings regarding the life we were given, "thank you for giving me clarity, for making me a woman, for giving me wisdom to choose, free will, the breath of life."

Our week is set up in a way that we are always focused on the end goal which is Shabbat. Shabbat is not a day of "rest" in the sense of turning off. It's a reminder. One day, you will no longer be here. Think about your week, reflect and plan better the following week.

The Abba said in his eulogy and speaks often about it now, that it seems we all think there is this 'club' of people who die, and we know we're not in that club. It is as if we actually have made ourselves beleive that we will somehow be here forever. It is the only way to explain the way we live. We know we should or could do more in certain areas of our lives, relationships etc., yet we keep pushing it off until tomorrow, certain that there is a tomorrow.

We don't have tomorrow.

It is not just a nice line that you read on a postcard from India, it's reality. The past is gone and tomorrow is not certain. All we have is today and if we don't grab a hold of today we missed it.

If there was some way of knowing how long you had left to live, and you had a clock on your wall counting down the years, days, minutes and seconds, would you let a second go by without living in total reality, or at least strive to know what reality is?

Would you be more awake?

Who would you call to tell them you love them?

What mark would you leave on the world?

What would you put on your "not doing today" list?

How would you speak to a stranger you met on the street?

What would you plan to leave in this world after you were gone?

I tried to read this post over and don't have the emotional energy to do it so I hope I've made some sense of the thoughts in my head. And hopefully, this will be the post that helps me begin to write again. I kept thinking tomorrow I'll write. We don't have tomorrow. Zaida was one of my biggest fans, and now I know, I cannot let him down.

Team mommy gets the Gold

The music in the background is usually the tranquility of my day, but today it seems to be the thing that brings all the chaos together in one large symphony of crying babies and running water from the dishes. I'm scrambling to finish up the last of the dishes knowing that if I stop now I will never get to finish it today. The girl is propped up on her knees, tugging at me and whining to please pick her up as the guy runs around in circles, only a diaper on, and screams at the top of his lungs in a pitch even the music playing in the background can't seem drown out. Coupled with the sound of the hard running water and the cars outside honking, buses starting and stopping, I look up above my sink and glance at my sign that reads, "SMILE, LAUGH, YOU ARE SO LUCKY, GET OVER YOURSELF, IS LIFE SO HARD, YOU POOR THING, HEALTHY BABIES, AMAZING HUSBAND, GORGEOUS LIFE." See Bob is a Jerk post for reference. And I think to myself, no not what a wonderful world even though it is, I think,

"Wow parenting is hard work."

I'm not sure where anyone got the idea that parenting would be easy, or marriage, or relationships or really anything in life. But for some reason, so many of us still hold on to the idea that if we just do something right, read the right book, get the exact parenting tactic down, life will be very simple and serene, something like from the pages of a parenting magazine where the mother is wearing a wrinkle free linen suit in the middle of the day, her makeup is just perfect and her children are sitting next to her in a peaceful recline in their polished shoes while the light of day shines on their spotless, freshly cleaned floors.

I was recently out somewhere and an adorable girl who I've known for only a short while asked me, "How's life?" I told her, "Amazing!" She asked me what I do and as I began to tell her that I am with my two babies all day her face began to transform from one of delight to one of complete despair. She looked at me with so much empathy and said to me in the sweetest voice,

"You must be so tired!"

Yes, it's hard work. But it's like an Olympic athlete. He trains his whole life, focuses his entire strengths on just one thing, the gold medal. While he is training do you think it's easy? Do you think for a second he thinks to himself "when will this get easier?" The secret is that in life, our greatest pleasures come from the things that require the most effort. The more effort we put in, the greater the experience of pleasure we will feel. Who has more fun, the spectator watching the game or the Olympic athlete who is working so hard his body aches and cries for him to stop but he pushes through with his eye on the target? It seems that the spectator is having the most fun, besides he's the one with the beer in hand, body relaxed, couldn't get easier than this! It's true, that spectator is experiencing a dose of pleasure but the athlete is tapping into a much higher level of pleasure unmeasurable to the entire audience's experience put together. And I'm sure he's tired.

The deeper reality is that the pain he feels is actually the best feeling pain in the world. It's the feeling of accomplishment, of growth and of meaning.

Parenting is hard. We're tired. And it feels fantastic.

It's like my household's chaos is the American Hockey team in overtime and I'm team Canada. I'm going for the Gold.