Current Status:

Posted on October 31, 2015 by Nicki

It’s a weird and wonderful thing to be a living family that spans two centuries. My husband and I come from the 1970s, while our kids are born and raised in the 2000s. They have never known a world without wi-fi, on-demand TV and artisan pizza.

They casually FaceTime their grandparents half a world and ten time zones away, and when they say goodbye they do not marvel like I do at the technological wonders of 21^st century connectivity. They believe most minor problems can be solved by Amazon, and they know they had better stay on top of their homework and their grades because we can access all that information any time we want with just a few key strokes.

Sometimes I long for the simplicity of the late 1900s. Handwritten letters, cameras with film and rotary dial phones meant life was slower and less immediate. Less reacting, more thinking.

Also less connection.

If there’s one thing I have embraced with arms flung wide in this new millennium it’s the seemingly limitless power to connect. Over broadband and wi-fi and satellite. Through text and email and social networks. With hi-res photos and hi-def video and hundreds and thousands of weightless words flying like so many graceful cranes through space.

It is in this infinite space of connection that I encountered Kelly, a fellow blogger and now friend. Kelly writes the often hilarious and always real stories of her life with wit and heart at Just Typikel. I admire and aspire to her humorous and pragmatic approach to life’s inevitable chaos and I was delighted when she tagged me in a blog challenge. More fun ways to connect!

Four names people call me other than my real name:

Nix. This shortened, affectionate form of my name is my favorite. It means we are friends and comfortable with each other, and really I wish everyone I know would call me Nix. Or Nick. That works too.

Mom. It’s usually Mom, sometimes Mama, hardly ever Mommy. I will answer to all. But not if they whine it.

My darling child. Obviously only my mother calls me this, and usually at the beginning or end of a conversation. It is a sweet reminder that someone else on this earth is responsible for me.

Crazy. This is recent and has everything to do with my impending swim from Alcatraz to San Francisco in shark-infested waters.

Four jobs I’ve had:

English tutor.

Waitress. For maybe a minute.

Client Services something or other.

Event Planner.

I always wanted to work in a book store. I still do.

Four movies I would watch/have watched more than once:

Pollyanna. This was my sister and my favorite movie when we were kids and we can still recite the entire movie by heart, complete with tone and inflections.

Grease. Another favorite. Another one we know by heart, including all the Travolterrific dance moves.

Say Anything.

Dirty Dancing.

Clearly I heart the 80s.

Four books I would recommend:

Owl Babies by Martin Waddell. I still love reading this to my kids. The hands-off mommy owl reminds me of me.

Kate Atkinson’s Life After Life. Kate Atkinson could write gibberish on toilet paper and I would love every word. This book is magnificent.

I Am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes. Read it. Now.

The Martian by Andy Weir. This is the last book I read and I loved it so much I insisted my 14-year-old son read it. I forgot the opening sentence is, “I’m pretty much fucked.” My son was hooked.

Four places I have lived:

Pretoria, South Africa: My hometown.

Grahamstown, South Africa: My college town.

Ra’anana, Israel: The place I grew up.

San Francisco, USA: Where it all began.

Four places I have been:

Austin, TX. I love Austin for the fun, food, friends. And red boots.

Nashville, TN. Country “Music City.” The perfect place to wear red boots.

Sydney, Australia. My family has a real affection for all things Aussie.

Edinburgh, Scotland. Kilts, Highlanders, accent. Och, say no more.

Four places I would rather be right now:

I can say with complete honesty and utter surprise that there is nowhere I would rather be than right where I am.

Four things I don’t eat:

Tongue.

Pork.

Shellfish.

Eel.

Four of my favorite foods:

Hamburgers.

Truffle brie cheese.

Hot, buttered toast with jelly.

My sister’s chocolate cake. Especially the frosting.

Four television shows that I watch:

Nashville

Orange Is The New Black

The Good Wife

Anything with Jon Hamm.

Four things that I’m looking forward to this year:

The end of Halloween.

Swimming from Alcatraz… Tomorrow!

Reading Jonathan Franzen’s latest novel, Purity.

Winter break at home.

Four things I’m always saying:

Wash your hands. With soap.

Sorry is sorry.

#FWP (as in First World Problems).

Oy.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, where writers and bloggers gather together to share their versions of a completed sentence. This week’s prompt was, “In 1,000 years from now…” Hosted by Kristi of Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Lizzi of Considerings and Dana of Kiss My List. In 1,000 years from now perhaps someone will stumble on this old-fashioned blog post and wonder why the hell people needed to wash their hands. With soap.

I am tagging three wonderful bloggers to answer these same questions and to keep the connection going as long and far as possible:

Kristi of Finding Ninee. Kristi is the engine behind Finish the Sentence Friday and an extrordinary blogger whose thoughts and words squeeze my heart every time and leave me feeling all the feels.

Dana of the wonderful Kiss My List. I wish I lived next door to Dana or at least within driving distance. Her “moderately snarky,” always entertaining, unique approach to everything is always just what I need.

Jason Gilbert’s The Blog That Killed JFG is a masterpiece of exquisite photographic essays that weave wit and humor with everything that is raw and real. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with here (no pressure JFG ;)).

Why I’m Terrified To Escape From Alcatraz

Posted on October 3, 2015 by Nicki

I’m struggling.

To find the words. To form the sentences. To capture the thoughts. To get underneath the feelings, and plumb the deep salty waters I am swimming in.

I am struggling.

To separate the excitement from the nerves, the adrenaline from the dread, the determination from the apprehension.

I am struggling to harness the power and strength, my power, to pull it away from the fear, the worry, the panic. Even as my legs propel me forward, and my hands slice neat and even strokes through the cold, choppy water, my heart beats an unsteady rhythm: Won’t make it. Can’t make it. What if I don’t make it?

I am struggling to write it all down.

In one month I hope to swim from Alcatraz – that Alcatraz, the once-upon-a-time prison, the iconic Rock way out there in the middle of the Bay – to San Francisco. I will join 100 swimmers, some of them visually impaired, to raise funds and awareness for That Man May See, the support foundation for UCSF’s Department of Ophthalmology.

I am inspired, determined, excited. And terrified.

I’m not quite sure why.

I mean, for all the reasons one would think: it’s cold, there are sharks in the Bay (not great whites, I’m told, but little ones), the weather, the distance. These are all legitimate reasons to make my heart pump a little more erratically, to cause me to swallow hard a few times, to feel queasy and constricted even when I’m not wearing a wetsuit.

But that’s not it.

I talk about this swim with my family and friends. I truthfully say I am nervous and also excited, energized and really scared. I think about it all the time. I plan my days, my meals, my sleep around training sessions in the pool and in the Bay. But I am struggling to write it all down.

So. This is my attempt to name my fears, here on the page, in the hope that when I stand on the boat anchored at Alcatraz in 31 days and look across the water toward my favorite City by the Bay, I will know what I am swimming through to get there:

It’s far. The freezing temperature (it’s not quite freezing and the impending El Niño promises water that is warmer-than-usual), the sharks, the dirty waters (my swimming partner came face to face with a dead bird last week)… these are not the things that have my swimsuit in a knot. I swim in a wetsuit, I haven’t heard of a shark attack during an Alacatraz swim (maybe I’m naïve), and I’ll take a shower afterwards. But when I look at that island standing stoically in the middle of the Bay, it seems very very far from anywhere. I know it’s a perceived distance. The actual distance is less than a mile and a half. But I am someone who tracks each mile, each step, each stroke. I watch the tiny airplane inch its way across the satellite map on flights, I check my Google Maps continuously whenever we drive somewhere, carefully noting how much further, how much longer till we reach our destination. On November 1, I will be in the map with no way of measuring how far I’ve come and how much longer till I get there. I will have to pace myself, track myself, trust myself.

There are great big invisible forces in that Bay. Nature is strong, powerful, much larger than any life, and I will be floating somewhere between the unseen wind above and the hidden currents below. What if, what if, what if? I watch my hands slice through that murky green water, I hear myself count the strokes in my head, one two breathe, one two three four breathe. I realize it’s not only the wild elements that have power. There is force in those hands, that breath, that body too. And if I focus on my own strength and power, I will move forward.

I’m a crappy swimmer. This is the one that stops me mid-stroke, the niggling thought that I’m not a good enough swimmer to take on this challenge. I’m not fit enough, strong enough, fast enough. It’s a version of the insecurity that often lurks just beyond my reach: I’m a shitty mom, an uncaring friend, an insensitive wife, a lazy volunteer. And if I let it come closer, close enough that I can touch it and feel its tentacles creep up my arms and around my neck and squeeze my heart, I will be paralyzed right there in the water. I’m not a terrible swimmer. I am an okay swimmer. I can kick my legs and move my arms in rhythmic strokes and keep myself afloat and breathe when I need to breathe.

These are my fears. To write through them is to name them and own them, and to know that this is what I will be swimming through to get from Alcatraz back to shore. So. I will trust myself, believe in my own power… and know that I can do it.

If you’d like to support my swim and That Man May See, please click here.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, where writers and bloggers gather together to share their versions of a completed sentence. This week’s prompt was, “I can’t believe it took me so long to realize that…” Hosted by Kristi of Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Ivy Walker from uncharted, and Roshni from Indian American Mom.

Too Hot Not To Handle

Posted on September 10, 2015 by Nicki

117

The air is still. So still I can barely hear the crickets chirp. The window is open wide to the sultry night and somewhere far down the street a dog barks. It must be midnight. Every now and then, the faintest, coolest breeze kisses my skin. The leaves sigh.

Softly he rests his hand on my arm.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” My lips scarcely move. The words are a flat monotone in the dark.

His amused chuckle fills the heated space between us, and he rolls over.

It’s too hot. Too hot to touch. To be touched. Too hot to think, to exhale, to remember if I turned the dishwasher on. Even the whisper-soft breeze has stopped. It’s too hot to sleep and I feverishly wonder what tomorrow will bring. If it ever comes.

***

The sun scorches the trail we’re walking on, and a spotted lizard darts under a bush next to me. Its branches are crackly and brittle, and the dry leaves curl themselves like miniature cups, waiting for water. I take just a sip. It’s warm.

“I want to find the French Trail,” I murmur. I know that is the trail that is shaded and cool. It’s the trail where the trees are the tallest. They stretch and bend their skinny redwood trunks up up up toward the sun and they filter the light in leafy, holy patterns. G-d’s light.

But I am not usually able to find it. I take a wrong turn, start on the wrong path, or run out of time.

“Okay, so let’s find it,” he says next to me. He holds out his hand as we start to make our way down through the trees, out of the dusty, beating sun and over the thick roots and fallen logs. Something scuttles but otherwise all is quiet. The sky stretches white-blue above us and the sweat makes a slow trickle down my neck. I grab his hand. Too hot.

We walk carefully in silence for a while. The roots coil over each other in deceptive lines, and I worry he is going to twist his ankle. He asks if I’m okay.

“Here it is!” I can’t believe it. French Trail with an arrow that way.

I hadn’t wanted to go on a hike that morning. The heat is intolerable, insufferable and the sun bites my skin with iron-hot teeth every time I go outside. I am moody and cranky and only looking for ways to escape, not walk towards, any kind of inferno. Out there or inside.

And there is a grocery list at the bottom of my purse, and two essays waiting to be continued, and it’s an early dismissal day so even less hours to get this sweaty mess together. Who hikes when it’s 95 degrees out… at 9am?

But it is a rare morning of togetherness. A time that caught us both by surprise, when we could shift schedules and be flexible and walk and talk and breathe in nature and in light.

The light floats through the trees and we walk, close but not touching. This is where I want to be, I think, in this cool, shaded silence that smells green and full of hope. Hope that the drought will break, that the heat will ease, that this peace and calm will stay with us today and tomorrow and tomorrow.

And suddenly we are back in the sun, working our way upward to where we started. Because what goes down must always come back up, and it’s hard. The flies buzz around my ears and the dust is in my nose and I stop to gasp mouthfuls of hot, stagnant air every few feet. Slow-going.

“You are so noisy,” I mutter as he tries his own system of inhale exhale. My disapproval is as thick as the air.

“Just trying to survive,” he puffs as he strides past me. I knew he would say that. When I come around the next bend he is waiting for me. We are steps away from the car.

“It was so great until the last part.” I stop right there in the broiling sun. He nods in agreement. And even as the words are out my mouth I know that’s not true. It was great, even the last part. It is great. And it’s not over.

It’s time to say goodbye. To get on with our days, as usual. To try and stay cool, and remember that in the parched dust of our discomfort and in the breathtaking dappled light of love and ease, we are together.

“This was a good suggestion,” I say.

“I’m glad you were available,” he replies.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, where writers and bloggers gather together to share their versions of a completed sentence. This week’s prompt was, “Each Fall, I…” Hosted by Kristi of Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Julie from Carvings on a Desk, and Danielle from Way Off Script. This is the Fall that does not yet feel like Fall, but every year around this time I notice a shift somewhere nearby.

Our Hearts Are Full, And They Are Heavy

Posted on August 29, 2015 by Nicki

The baggage claim at Oakland Airport hums with quiet anticipation this seemingly uneventful morning. A small group of parents chats casually as they cross and uncross their arms. Every now and then we glance toward the escalator. We’re waiting.

Waiting for the flight to land. For the luggage to come out. For the kids to sail down the escalator, with backpacks and smiles and stories of new friends, loud songs and whose team won the color war. From the moment they left for Camp Ramah weeks before, we have looked forward to this day.

My heart beats a little faster. Nervous. I am not ready.

It’s been a wonderfully long, hot and adventurous summer and this day, which brings the kids and endless loads of laundry home from camp (will the socks ever be white again?), signals the almost-end. Emails bursting with back-to-school info already flood my inbox. She needs a new backpack, he has outgrown his shorts, and I wish we had all read more books.

I am not ready for school to start, I am not ready for summer to be over, and I am not ready for my daughter and two sons to come down that escalator. I am not ready to pierce their happy, anticipating balloon of home-at-last with my sharp and distressing news.

The hum at the foot of the escalator swells to applause and cheers. They’re home! My now sixth-grader leads the way, his feet barely touching the ground. He must have leapt over that short flight of moving steps, because suddenly he is in my arms, all bony elbows and shoulders, and I notice I don’t have to bend down to hug him.

“Hi Mom. I had a great time! What’s for dinner?”

I laugh and blink back tears of relief and delight, burying my news with its jagged edge under layers of bubbling chatter about his overnight trip and new Hebrew words and which day was the best day.

They have two big duffel bags each, and I wonder if they have come home with more than they left with.

Outside, I am distracted by a plane taking off loudly above us. When I look back down, everything has changed. The bags are scattered on the ground, lifeless and forgotten. Their tears and grief-stricken faces tell me everything.

“He was so old, guys,” I hear my husband say over and over, as he holds them close.

It’s been a week since our beloved dachshund, Pretzel, passed away. These three who were at camp have just heard the news. The air rushes out of their homecoming happiness with an audible pop.

He died an old and happy dog, but none of us were ready.

They are quiet on the drive home, each lost in memories of the silly little dog who was part of their whole lives. Their teen and tween imaginations did not allow for the possibility that their last goodbye was the last goodbye. They could not imagine he wouldn’t welcome them home with licks and a frantically wagging tail. That he wouldn’t sniff their dirty socks for clues of their adventures or curl himself into his signature pretzel right next to them on the couch.

I knew which one would feel this the most. He flew into my arms at the airport and now his mournful cries pull my heart apart, and I know his is in pieces, too. His eyes shine deep and brown with bewildered tears of hurt and confusion. He sobs on and off all day, caught between the happiness of home and the devastating finality of loss.

I want to help him hurt less. I haltingly assure him things I don’t know for sure: that Pretzel wasn’t in pain when he died, that his last thoughts were of his human brothers and sister, that he is so happy we are all together again at the end of this wandering summer. I want to believe these things myself.

But all I really know for sure is that we were not ready, and it is an unavoidable truth that hello and goodbye are always intertwined.

Pretzel: 3/16/2000 – 8/3/2015

This post originally appeared in my “In Real Life” column in the J. the Jewish News Weekly of Northern California.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, where writers and bloggers gather together to share their versions of a completed sentence. This week’s prompt was, “What I’ll miss about summer…” Hosted by Kristi of Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Lisa (this week’s sentence thinker-upper) of Flingo and Allie of The Latchkey Mom.

How To Deal With Brothers

Posted on August 1, 2015 by Nicki

Deep in the heart of our noisy family is a pair of green-gray eyes that miss nothing, a smattering of freckles, and a strong, creative voice that can usually be heard belting out Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space” or giggling loudly with her friends on FaceTime. A self-proclaimed artist, she loves to draw and write, and watch Rosanna Pansino’s “Nerdy Nummies” cooking show on YouTube.

Sage is the third of four kids, surrounded by brothers. She keeps the door of her bedroom firmly closed to all dogs and boys, except her dad, and when I peek inside I find her sitting at her small desk in the corner with a pen in her hand, her long, dark hair hiding her earnest concentration. I wish she’d tie her hair back.

Her drawings, poems and stories are full of the sugar and spice of 9-year-old girls, often with a small twist or a quietly shrewd observation that reminds me just how much those eyes are noticing.

At the end of the school year, when she was still 8, she presented me with a “How To” manual created as a class assignment:

How To Deal With Brothers by Sage Gilbert

Do you have a brother? Do you want to know how to deal with him? High School, Middle School, Little, Older, College, Baby? Older or little married or not married? Twin? Then this book is for you! I can help you handle difficult times with your brother.

Baby Brothers

With baby brothers, you want to help your mom, and play with them as much as you can because soon they won’t want to play with you.

Little Brothers

If they go to the same school as you, then it is okay to talk to them. Little brothers love you, but sometimes they are mean to you.

Twin Brothers

Twin brothers try and want to mock you. So if they do, ignore them. They also try to annoy you.

Older Brothers

If you go to the same school as your older brother do NOT talk to him! This is for all kinds of older brothers.

All Brothers

This is for all kinds of brothers. Turn on your audio so that you can record what they say to you. Then you can show your parents.

Middle School Brothers

You want Middle school brothers to notice you so annoy them. If that doesn’t work then hide from them or tap them repeatedly.

High School Brothers

High school brothers are normally very grumpy, so ignore them. You want high school brothers to notice you, so annoy them. And if that doesn’t work then tap them repeatedly or hide from them.

College Brothers

For College brothers, you barely ever see them, so my advice is to have good times with him while it lasts.

These guidelines have been published with permission of the author.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “I Wish I Knew…” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Mardra of Mardra Sikora and Jill from Ripped Jeans & Bifocals.