I know my social media streams may tell you otherwise (Boobie bags! Seth Rogen proms! Sons of Anarchy panic attacks!), but the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are actually really important ones.
But, if I’m being honest, as Mama, these ten days look like any others really; they busy and involve a lot of juggling, traveling, packing, unpacking, stressing, chauffeuring, school project helping, laundry-ing, ironing melty bead projects, math test studying, lunch making, working, email answering, phone call making.
What I’m saying is, when you are just trying to keep the members of your household alive, there isn’t much time for contemplation.
We learned in elementary school that every Rosh Hashanah the Book of Life is opened and our fates are inscribed, and then ten days later on Yom Kippur our fates are signed, sealed, and delivered. I realize that this is the kindergarten explanation, but it’s kind of the one I like the best.
Because it’s essentially our chance to rally. It’s our chance to think about our relationship with God; it’s our chance to think about our relationship with people, friends, family, coworkers, loved ones. We can ask forgiveness — which has been made much easier now that we have Facebook (Status update: #forgivemeallofmyfriends), we can make amends.
This year, though, I really wanted to use these ten days. So in between doctor visits and signing permission forms and editing photos and mopping my sticky kitchen floor after *someone* spills the orange juice, I have been trying to, well, contemplate. This next year I hope to be a kinder, gentler version of me. I hope to be more patient, more forgiving, more appreciative. I hope to make more efforts with friends. I hope to slow down, to tech less, to be IN IT more.
I hope to make the right decisions when it comes to my children, my family, my work, my future. Being an adult is not just being able to eat Oreos for dinner, folks. No. It’s being able to eat Oreos for dinner and being responsible for other human beings and being responsible for ourselves. Seeing the doctor when something doesn’t feel right, paying the mortgage and for a new nightguard even though I’d rather buy a softbox and that cute dress at anthropologie, deciding where to send your children to school, making hard decisions.
And I really, really hope I never, ever send my son into the boy’s change room at the pool carrying a bag with boobs all over it again.