Emily has just finished up her fifth-grade science unit on the human body. So far, in her almost eleven years in this planet—and in her however many years of formal education—she has not enjoyed a unit in school as much as this one. I mean, the girl was doing extra research at home in her spare time, just for fun. If you know Emily, you know this is not like her. She is an excellent student, always has been, but she typically isn’t overly enthusiastic about academia. She loves the social game of school—the extracurriculars, the brown-nosing, the student government, recess.

Until now.

This one stuck.

“I want to cut people open and play around with all of their insides. And then close them up.”

“It’s amazing that doctors can just FIX PEOPLE. I really want to do that!”

“The human body, Mama. It’s really so unbelievable that it does what it does. SO unbelievable.”

“Or maybe I’d like to do c-sections—cutting babies out! Awesome!”

“Or maybe I could just be on Grey’s Anatomy. But I better get to wear scrubs and a white lab coat.”

I’m not saying this is set in stone. I mean, in fifth grade I wanted to be an anchorman. But, I love that she is interested in something academic at school. Truthfully and honestly, though, if you asked me, I’d say that I already know in my heart of hearts that this child is destined for the stage. Or the small screen. Or the big screen. That’s where her passions truly lie. She lives and breathes music and dance. Her face alone gives her away. I remember taking her to see The Sound of Music several years ago, and I spent the entire play watching HER FACE instead of watching the actual performance.

She was watching everything, noticing everything, soaking it all in.

Studying. 

That’s what she was doing. Studying. Researching. Learning. How to stand on the stage. What to do with your hands. Who to look at when she  is on the stage, but not part of the conversation. How to project. How to keep that smile. SCHOOL. That’s what it was. School for her.

This past weekend, we threw the kids in the car for a quick, just-over-24-hour trip to Montreal for my brother-in-law Manny’s 30.5th birthday party. Curling. And, obviously, for some cuddles with our La Belle Provence nieces. That’s a long way to go to go curling and cuddles, you say. It is, indeed! But truthfully, we just really like them. I feel more than a little lucky that I honestly and legitimately LIKE my husband’s three sisters and their spouses. I really like them, I like spending time with them. This was almost a no-brainer for us—not after we essentially pumped the coffee straight into our veins and popped in our earplugs.

And as souvenirs, Uncle Manny sent my three home with three used pacemakers that he dug out of the trunk of his car.

It was like he had given Isabella a brand-new American Girl doll.

It was like he had given Josh a legit cloak of invisibility.

It was like he had given Emily a cell phone.

Uncle Manny might be the favorite right now. 

I’m just saying.

So, last night I asked Emily.

“Do you REALLY want to be a surgeon…because that’s kind of more than a little bit awesome.”

“Well…maybe. If the career on stage doesn’t work out. It’s a good fall-back plan, don’t you think?”

MEDICAL SCHOOL. AS A FALL-BACK PLAN. WHO IS THIS KID?

“Sounds good, Emily. Sounds like a great plan. If the stage doesn’t work, you can become a doctor like Uncle Manny.”

I wonder what she will think of her next unit in school. It’s too bad we don’t have any anthropologists or archeologists in the family…

Just this week, we had lengthy discussions about what a Christening is, how in-vitro fertilization works and what a Jehovah’s Witness is.

Dinner conversation in our house. 

I tell you about these specifically because if I simply write that my children ask a lot of questions, you may be quick to jump in with a quick and hearty me too, even though your dinner conversation may not have involved a detailed conversation about whether or not it actually did rain for 40 days and 40 nights and what it means if you do believe that it happened and what it means if you don’t believe that it actually happened. Interestingly, one of my children mentioned that he (or she!) believed that the actually flooding and whole collecting of animals in a two-by-two fashion hoopla did not happen, but the story was written to help teach us important life lessons and about what kind of people we should be.

Oh my heavenly days, my kids are kind of amazing.

(That heavenly pun was completely unintentional, I swear.)

I have always kind of secretly hoped that my kids would be this way. And I’d like to this, at least a little bit, that I had something to do with their constant desires to ask and learn and understand and think. You see, while I want to protect my children from the harsh realities of the world, because, there are, indeed lots of shitty things out there, I still want them to learn about the world. This is a really tough position to be in, as a parent. In one moment you want to scoop all three of them up in your arms and bottle them as they are now, not allowing them to grow any older and any more independent. But then in the next moment, you want to set them free to grow their own wings and explore the universe through these three unique pairs of brown eyes; free thinkers.

It makes sense, really. This is exactly how I grew up.

I want both. Protection and independence.

Last year I took Emily to see a performance of Spring Awakening. And I don’t regret it, not even for a minute. Not even after three people who worked at the theater asked me if I knew what the play was about and if I was sure I was okay with my child seeing it. Not even after many theater patrons gave me some serious stink eye.

YES. I had seen the play. YES. I knew what it was about. YES. I was aware of the parental guidance suggested content.

That’s why I was there.

Parental guidance, you see.

She is going to ask questions about things. She is going to learn about things. She is going to see things.

And I sure as heck want her to ask her questions and learn about important things and see everything with me there. I want to be a part of it.

And interestingly, she asked exactly one question after seeing Spring Awakening, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the objectionable content.

“Mama, do you think one day Jonathan Groff and Lea Michele will ever play Melchior and Wendla again?”

She saw the performances, she heard the music, she watched the dancing.

She didn’t even notice anything else.

I’m just glad she didn’t notice the stink eyes from all the people around us, judging me so harshly.

Because you know what? I’m pretty sure I’m doing something right.

I wonder what kind of questions she’ll ask about vampireslashhuman babies and werewolves imprinting on babies…

Amazing.

The pair of them; Samara the Scarecrow and Emily the Dorothy.

There will be more pictures, I promise.

There will be more video, I promise.

But, just look at this face.

Just look at it.

That, friends, is the face of the child who is happiest up on a stage.

I mean.

Come on.

That face.

That’s really the only way to describe it. And the rain certainly hasn’t helped matters; rain rarely ever does. It’s fitting, though. The first week I started my job at Canadian Family, it rained the entire week. I remember coming home on, I think, day 3, collapsing on my bed—soaking wet from subway to-and-from walks without an umbrella— and tearfully telling my husband that I should probably just throw in the towel right then and there and then falling asleep in my clothes before 7pm, So, yes, seeing as this is my last week, it’s only fitting that it hasn’t quit raining for days, and I’m tearfully collapsing into my bed each night.

The last week at a job is confusing. I quit the job on good terms, so I wasn’t escorted out of the building with all my worldly possessions in a brown cardboard box like fired people do in the movies. I gave a formal 2-weeks notice and am serving out the two weeks right now. I still enjoy the people I work with, and I’m still just as dedicated to creating the same amount of quality content as I was two weeks ago, BQ (before quitting). But, you know, the department is moving on without me, as it should. They are hiring new people. (Hey! Want my job? The listing is up!) They are making plans for the newAli. They are having meetings, without me. They are whispering, about my job. They are doing things, that don’t involve me. And it’s all par for the course. There’s an air of apology in the air from all sides, but there’s no faults. This just is. Awkwardness. For the next couple of days.

(I highly recommend not quitting your job.)

(Or taking the cardboard box walk-of-shame route, it now makes a lot more sense to me,)

While I’m still working on my job pumping out lots of content, I have already started my new job. And I am loving it, but hoo boy, there’s lots to do! My days are spent on job #1. My nights are spent on job #2.

So, basically, I AM SPENT.

And, in the midst of all of this, my superstar is taking the stage tonight to play Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

If you had guessed that anything and everything is making me emotional right now…you’d be spot on.

Weeping, I am.

You know what’s really sexy? Spontaneous tears on the subway at rush hour!

Because, you know, when you are super extra emotional, you know what’s awesome?

Text like this:

Oh yes. 7:02am.

This is what I see.

(And you know, I was all set to send you over to see this amazing video my amazing husband made to urge you to donate to his Movember cause. It really might be the best Movember video you will ever see. But now I’m not so sure anymore.)

And yes. I am guilty of buying the jeans. But they were a necessity.

(And yes, I DID fit them into our budget, but the man was at hockey and was asleep so I hadn’t had the chance to explain that there was a big return to the Gap and there WAS actually room in the budget for the jeans and since I have been walking around in jeans that are 2-3 sizes bigger than what my body should be wearing, it was high time I did something about it. And you know what? Buying them made me feel REALLY good. I needed that this week.)

So, yes, tears. On the subway, surrounded by wet passengers who tried to look away. But couldn’t look away.

Here’s the thing, though. Throughout all of this weirdness and confusion, I am the happiest I have been in a really long time. This is all just a strange means to an amazing end. I know it. I just have to get over this bizarre little hump we’ll call the LAST WEEK OF NOVEMBER, and the road before me will be golden. Yellow-brick, even.

You should pray that you aren’t sitting beside me tonight when these walk out onto the stage…

…I’m predicting a good old ugly cry.

So, honestly, had it been a fashion show as a fundraiser for, say, a local gas station, I might have said yes.

But when I realized it was for Zareinu, there was no question. We were going to be there.

And needless to say, it was an incredibly moving experience.

To hear from a mother whose daughter Rachel—who has Rett Syndrome—walks when they thought she’d never sit up? Humbling.

To watch children with disabilities walk hand-in-hand with children without disabilities? Humbling.

To watch this?

humbling.

To sit in the car on the way home and talk to my kids about how amazing Zareinu is, how it really is a magical place that does amazing things for a lot of children and families, and have my six-year-old pipe up from the back seat that “all of the kids were the same, Mommy. I don’t know what you mean, special needs. We are all special, we all look the same, no one was different….”?

This was not only humbling; it had me weeping.

Children are amazing creatures, really.

My daughter didn’t see the things some people do. A different look, a different way of walking, a different way of talking. All of the kids there last night were special to her, they all got to dress up and go on the stage. And that’s all she noticed.

Not the differences, the SAMES.

Photography by George Pimentel, WireImage

“For my Bat Mitzvah I want to have a giant black-and-white masquerade ball and I want everyone to come in, like, giant ball gowns. Mmmmkay?”

Our response, because she was FIVE, was a quick nod of the head and an, “of course, Emily.”

Obviously, our kindergartener took this confirmation as gospel and has been storing this of course Emily to use against us in a court of law if necessary. According to her, that was a legally binding yes. This, in case you are wondering, is how she scored herself a free trip to Israel last year. She had caught her Sabba in nod-of-the-head moment and then reminded him of his promise. She’s a smart cookie, that one. Only I think I need to outsmart her somehow.

Masquerade ball? Black and white? Dollar signs are floating above my head. Memories of what it was like to be 12.

How can I convince her that no one wants to remember this day?

Twelve was not a good year for me. My mother has planned this fancypants weekend for me and 400 of my closest friends. There was a friday night dinner—where I had to give a speech. There was a Saturday service—where I had to give a speech. There was a Satruday night awkward basement dance party—where they were no speeches but there were one-piece jumpsuits aplenty. There was a Sunday brunch—where I had to give a speech. And, really, all I wanted to do was stuff my face with Oreos and watch The Mickey Mouse Club and discuss which mousekeeter would be the best to be stuck in an elevator with.

There was the worst photographer in the world.

There was the worst hairdo in the world.

There were pearls.

There were black and white striped shoes.

There was a flub in one of the speeches.

There was a spill of something red and permanent. Wine, perhaps?

There were old ladies who smelled of BenGay kissing every inch of my face.

There is so much I’d like to forget about that day.

Of course, the remains of the day hang in the stairwell of my mother’s house, much to my chagrin.

BEHOLD! THE WORST PICTURE OF ME IN THE HISTORY OF EVER!

But, the good news is that the dress still fits, in case we do decide to go with the black-and-white theme.

One, only.

Back in the days before I was the proud owner of my very first digital camera—that didn’t happen until the child already was an older sister, the end of 2002, I believe—moments in our family weren’t documented they way they are now. And, even then, I was the photographer and everyone else was the photograph-ee. But there’s one picture in existence. It’s from late December, 2000. My hair is long, very long and in need of some serious root touch-up. I am wearing a sweater that is not dissimilar to something Heathcliff Huxtable would have worn, circa 1989. Maternity clothing, then, was not like it is today. The choices were tent #1 or tent #2. Shirts came down to my knees in lovely potato-sack formation. Pants were always too long, too wide, too big. Attractive, I was. In my hands I’m holding—nay, grasping—an entire box of holiday-themed Oreo cookies.

It’s a lovely picture, really. So lovely, in fact, that no one will ever see it.

(And this should tell you something, but I have let you behind the curtain and shown you this.)

So, other than the actual birth of my first-born, and the time at 27 weeks when I took a tumble down a Jerusalem-stone staircase and spent three days of my vacation in a Hebrew-only speaking Israeli hospital, this is the only vivid memory I have of my first pregnancy.

Christmas at my uncle Don’s bachelor pad.

Uncle Don is the most wonderful man. Really, he is. He invited all of us—the gantze mishpachah, if you will—to come spend Christmas Day with him in East Tennessee. His bachelor pad is an interesting place, to say the least. As its name would suggest, it’s a wonderful place for single men. My uncle Don, however, is happily married. And the reason for this, likely, is because he has his very own man cave. It is a beautiful home, decorated with nothing but antiquing finds. There are rooms with multiple television screens, there are bathrooms with no toilets—only urinals, there are cabinets filled with nothing but beer and Cheetos, and there was homemade moonshine.

Of course there was. 

I remember watching Jackass while everyone was eating deep-fried turkey.

I remember trying to hoist my giant person up onto the four-poster raised-too-high bed.

I remember driving around Kingsport, Tennessee, in search of something, anything with a flashing, neon OPEN sign that would sell me food that wasn’t covered in powdery cheese or that wasn’t, well, a deep-fried turkey. Oreos. Holiday Oreos. We bought three boxes and I ate my way through them.

I remember how excited my Uncle Don was to watch us open his present to us—the Souvenir Canadian coins he found antiquing, of course.

I remember laughing. There was so much laughing. It was the gut-bursting kind, which, when you are due to give birth in seven weeks, gut-bursting is not recommended.

I remember is being one of my most favorite times with my family, ever.

And seven weeks later, I got to reap some rewards in the form of snuggles and that amazing baby smell.

I guess if I am going to have only one memory of those nine months, it’s a good one to have.

But, still, you’ll never see the picture.

I wish I had proper words for you, to describe this feeling.

What’s it like to see the look on your child’s face as she realizes her dreams can be reality; that they will be reality.

Because she thinks it, wants it, needs it, feels it.

I wish I had the words.

There just aren’t any.

She will do Judy Garland proud.

And she will reduce me to a weepy puddle of goo.

Life is beautiful.

There was no way around it, really, as we now have a President in our midst. Yes. That’s right.

She decided—about 10 years ago—that she would run for student government. She was born into this, it’s not really her fault. Her Zaydie, after all, IS the mayor of Glendale, Wisconsin. She came home one day last week, and announced

“THIS IS GOING TO BE MY YEAR!! It’s the year I become student council president and the year I play Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. I can feel it in my bones. Fifth grade is going to rock.”

And she believes it too.

She spent hours planning and writing and working on posters and practicing her speech. She put the entire family to work on her campaign. She picked her outfit; we ironed her hair. She worried about the two girls—her friends—that she was running against.

But she was never nervous. She just knew it was going to happen.

And it did.

She won.

I don’t think I have ever been so proud in my life.

God help me if she gets the part of Dorothy. I may completely burst at the seams.

Step one: Cory Monteith.

(OMG MOMMY I LOVE FINN SO MUCH I’LL NEVER WASH THIS SHIRT THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!!! You are so amazing…thank you for taking me with you it’s a dream come true you will never know how much this means to me I know you didn’t have to take me to the TIFF I love you love you love you.)

How to be the least favorite parent in one easy step. 

Step one: Request that your ten-year-old get dressed.

(OMG MOMMY I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR ALL OF MY CLOTHES ARE UGLY AND NOTHING FITS ME!!!!! I hate everything in my closets I need new clothing I don’t want any of it it’s babyish or too small or not my style you are totally ruining my life.)

She may be going to school naked tomorrow. But at least she’ll have a great photo to show everyone…