I’m thinking of opening up a hotdog stand in the parking lot during carpool pickup. This is not for the benefit of the students but, rather, for the parents. You see, I’m not quite sure when this happened, but as the year progressed, carpool became a contact sport, for which I have season tickets. Two or three times a week, depending on how lucky I am, I get to drive carpool. (Believe it or not, there’s no sarcasm intended in that statement.) During this time, my van essentially turns into an end zone. The ringing of the school bell, which signals the culmination of another wonderful day of learning, has now become synonymous with the quarterback’s cry of “hut” as he snaps the ball. As each “team” comes racing across the field, carpool drivers brace themselves. Luckily, most afternoons the classes are dismissed at different times. However, on that rare occasion when they are not, all of the boys are trying to score at the same time. What is the goal? It is a seat. Which seat? A front row seat. How important is this? Very.
 

When people set a goal which they fail to achieve, they sometimes experience a sense of failure – unless, of course, they can see the silver lining. Perhaps it is the silver lining that was supposed to be the goal in the first place, but due to our limited understanding, we don’t realize it. About seven years ago, my husband and I put tremendous effort, energy, and resources into a community project that didn’t turn out the way we had envisioned. However, we realized there was a silver lining. Her name was Anne.

Some of you might recall Anne. She was an older woman with shockingly white, shoulder-length hair. As she carried her belongings with her, she could be found waiting at bus stops, walking on Park Heights, or in the shuls. Anne generally kept to herself, rarely speaking to others unless they spoke to her first.

Living in a clean and orderly environment is generally touted as a good thing. (And in the weeks before Pesach, it equates to the highest levels of tzidkus, literally.) That is why mothers from time immemorial have made futile attempts at achieving this goal. Many of us do not shoulder the entire burden alone. Credit must be given where credit is due: to our husbands, who often take on a fair share of the responsibilities, and to our children, who also help out a lot. However, no matter how much man, woman, or child power we dedicate to keeping our homes clean, the mess and clutter always seem to accumulate faster than our little brooms can sweep – hence, the brilliant idea of “the cleaning lady.”

The other day, while driving carpool, I took a wrong turn. Annoyed with myself for having made a mistake, I sighed. This prompted one of the children behind me to ask what was wrong. Exasperated, I replied to her, “I made a wrong turn.” She quickly responded, “There’s no such thing as a wrong turn.” My amazement at her ability to see the situation in such a positive light quickly turned into bewilderment when she added, “Because the world is round.” Now, even if there were no oceans or dead ends along the way, I don’t think she was suggesting that I travel across town via Australia. Rather, it was more of an observation that you can always find another way to go, even if you choose the road less traveled. I started pondering this thought and realized that the only reason I got annoyed at myself to begin with was that I had created an expectation of which route I would take and then unwittingly took a different one. This made me realize that maybe I am “expectationally challenged.”

I don’t know why, but there seems to come a time when you go from embracing technology as a child to running in fear of it as an adult. Let’s face it, technology is becoming smarter and quicker, and we are becoming – well, you know.

As I reflect back, I realize that the technology that molded my childhood came in dribs and drabs. It came so slowly down the pipeline that we had time to break an item and replace it with the same model. Children and parents were able to happily navigate technology together. There were fewer buttons to push, fewer choices to make, and fewer adults being left behind in the dust. I remember my father bringing home a cassette recorder – yes, this was considered technology – and showing us how to use it. We were so excited. We sang and recorded “Happy Birthday” to it as we welcomed it into our home.

I’d like to talk to you about my relationship with garbage. I’m not talking about clutter; I’m talking about pure, unadulterated refuse. Surprisingly, it is not only noteworthy but also has a history that, unbeknownst to me, began in my childhood and took on a life of its own only after I married and had children.

My first inkling of the role garbage was to play in my life began when my oldest child mistakenly thought the garbage can was a toy. Please note: She was not a deprived child in any sense of the word. I have to say I was surprised by her interest in our garbage can. I’m not really sure what attraction there is to a container of smelly, stinky stuff – but who am I to judge? As a new mother, I was also under the false impression that my adorable daughter would actually listen to me when I told her not to knock over the garbage can, eat its most recent contributions, or drop our wedding silver into it. After coming to terms with one of my first myths of parenting, however, I relegated the garbage can to the top of the kitchen counter. Now, this made perfect sense to me, since I was spending an inordinate amount of time picking garbage up off the floor. (I quickly got over the yuck factor here.) My husband came on board with the concept after a brief period of time while I was out and he was left at home to literally pick up the pieces (of garbage).

It wasn’t until my daughter started experiencing garbage-can-peer pressure that it occurred to me that maybe she had outgrown this phase. One afternoon after a play date she asked, “How come all the other mommies keep their garbage cans on the floor?” So I decided to give it a whirl and take it down. First, let me say, it took about a week to get used to this. During this time, my husband and I frantically – and frequently – turned left and right looking for the garbage can, since it no longer occupied its prominent position on the counter. More importantly, however, we had reached a milestone. My daughter no longer played with the garbage. The only painful part of the garbage-off-the counter milestone was when I explained to her why we used to keep it there. She peered up at me with a disgusted look on her face, “Eww, who would do that?”