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Although Halloween has not yet been crossed off the calendar, the Christmas marketing campaigns are now entrenched. They arrive in camouflage mode in summer. By early fall they are in full-scale bombardment.

Choked by the country’s economic nosedive, most parents are scrambling to deliver the array of presents their children have come to expect living in the material world. While visions of video games and new wardrobes dance in their kids’ heads, parents are holding onto theirs wondering where it’s all going to come from.

After all, we need more. We are a country of more. Most of us were raised on little. Yet the notion of attainment was a seed that was planted and fertilized well. We gave and continue to give television our full attention. And the advertisers have their way with us.

I'm just as guilty. I worked in advertising for years, writing copy for nondescript products, propping them up as exceptional when the company and I both knew they were mediocre at best.

As a kid, I was captivated by television. I can still sing the jingles from McDonald’s, Burger King, Coke, Pepsi, Roto-Rooter and Oscar Mayer (both weeners and bologna, mind you). Somehow, somewhere along the line, the thought that “happiness is derived from having more” became a part of my psyche.

The older I get, the more overwhelmed I feel by my stuff. Why are we Americans in a constant state of lack? Are we so empty inside that we need to grasp at something, anything, to fill the void?

Perhaps we just don't know how to be happy.

Apparently, the Danes do. They are considered the happiest people on Earth. Oprah set out to find out why.

“Less things, more life,” the smiling, statuesque woman explained as she Skyped into the show from Copenhagen.

The city apartment she shares with her husband and three children is shockingly small, yet behind every sleek white surface is an entire town of organization.

On Oprah’s recent visit to Denmark, she met with a group of women to discuss Danish culture. It’s one that focuses on values over money, they explained. Values like education and family and creativity. They choose careers that fulfill them, not based on how much money they will earn.

They are heavily and happily taxed. Yes, happily.

“We feel we get a lot for our taxes,” explained Stine. She described how taxes allow everyone to access health care and get a university education, and how that makes for a healthier society – physically and mentally.

I couldn’t stop thinking about this segment. Happy with less? Truly a foreign concept.

In Peter Walsh’s book, It’s All Too Much: An Easy Plan for Living A Richer Life With Less Stuff, he writes, “We are at the center of an orgy of consumption, and many are now seeing that this need to own so much comes with a heavy price: Kids so overstimulated by the sheer volume of stuff in their home that they lose their ability to concentrate and focus. Financial strain caused by misplaced bills or overpurchasing. Constant fighting because neither partner is prepared to let go of their possessions. The embarrassment of living in a house that long ago became more of a storage facility than a home.”

In the end, more stuff makes us feel smothered. It’s more to manage. More to care for. More to look at. More to distract. It closes in on us. It clutters not just our environment, but our minds. It blocks us from being the best we can be – as individuals and as families.

We intrinsically know that real happiness comes from the level of our connectedness. Yet we go against our true nature when we put our money in things that separate us.

Last Christmas/Hanukkah, my husband and I told the kids they would get a few presents, but what we really wanted to do was spend more time together. I was expecting to hear groans. Instead, their eyes lit up.

My daughter hugged me and whispered, “There’s nothing I like better than to be with you.”

This year, we will add to that by giving things away and carefully selecting each gift by its level of interaction required. Board games with four or more players are high on the list.

I am clear on my New Year’s resolution for 2010: Less things, more life.

One

We’ve all been told never to speak about politics or religion to avoid the minefield it too often creates. However, there are times when you must step forward into precarious territory in order to address what is really going on. This is one of those times.

For the record, I’m no longer a religious person. I suppose I was as a kid, as much as most children go along with whatever spiritual program is assigned to them by their parents. For me, it involved going to Sunday school, afternoon fellowship and getting confirmed.

My Sunday school education centered on Jesus and his capacity for unlimited, unconditional love. I was told his love extended toward anyone in equal measure – healthy or sick, rich or poor, fair-skinned or dark, young or old, pious or sinful – and I believe – even gay or straight.

The vibe at my church was peaceful and open. Not the dancing-in-the-aisle, hallelujah-flowing kind. This was New England, after all. We were properly dressed and kept a short leash on our emotions. What we did talk about was being good to one another and how to be of service to those in need. I remember feeling that anyone and everyone belonged there. That we were one.

I don’t ever recall a time when there was any implication that “we Christians” had the edge on the competition. That our religion was the right one. There was no suggestion that any one group of people was to be condemned in any way. I can’t summon even a moment where politics played a role in the sermon, where people were told who and what to vote for.

While I am grateful for the experience, religion and I have been at a stand-off ever since. I began to back away slowly as I witnessed the changing face of Christianity. From my vantage point, judgment and intolerance were new on the scene, eclipsing love and acceptance.

These days the line between religion and politics is too often blurred. The ways in which they intertwine fascinate me and I’m forever trying to sort it out. There is a feeding frenzy of hate in the media that is permeating society; it is no longer a slow drip. Real journalism is dying off to make way for more shock-jock opinion shows with screaming hosts who lie and distort the truth and demonize innocent people. The rhetoric has become a poison that is seeping into sermons and town hall meetings and marches and the floor of Congress. It is a machine that manufactures fear. It is a call-to-action to people who lack the ability for rational thought, people who have a tendency to confuse violence with an act of “freedom fighting.”

Everywhere I look I see a deterioration of decency and respect. Every day I feel the uncertainty of these times.

It often makes me wonder: How did we get so far away from each other? How did we go from a sense of “We’re in this together” to “You're on your own”?

The lyrics in the song “One” by U2 are a wake-up call that we’ve put on snooze.

“One love, one blood, one life
You got to do what you should.
One life -- with each other --
Sisters, brothers
One life -- but we're not the same
We get to carry each other,
Carry each other.”

I realize now that religious or political affiliation is not the real issue. The quality of our existence rests on our individual and collective purpose on this planet. How we treat each other will determine our fate as a country, as a people.

Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.”

When will we see that we are in this together? When will we see that we are: Sisters. Brothers.

One.

The Wake-up Call

I’ve been away from my blog for a good month now. Only, I wouldn’t consider it a good month.

On July 21, I was awakened by my son. Most mornings he wakes up talking and can be heard from any room in the house, his voice unusually deep for 12 years old.

This morning was different. He said nothing. He simply pulled on my arm.

It was earlier than usual. I splashed cold water on my face as he sat at the edge of my tub. As I turned to him, his gaze was distant. Before I could ask him what was wrong, his eyes rolled back. His body fell straight back into the tub and shook violently.

I knew right away this was a diabetic seizure. His first.

There I was. Overtaken by fear, thrust into action like an ER doctor with no training.

Don and Ally heard my screaming and raced to help. I fumbled with the glucagon shot, struggling to recall the one time I practiced with it. In that moment, time seemed to drag on, like trying to sprint through deep water. In and out I plunged the liquid into the vial, my hands shaking. Into Jack’s thigh it went easing the trembling in his limbs.

I rode in the ambulance and held him, sobbing as he fought to be set free from the straps that held him down. I was flooded with guilt. This was my fault.

After six years of staying up late to check him -- six years of living and breathing this unpredictable disease -- I fell asleep on the job. Literally.

I checked his glucometer. There was the evidence. He went to bed low, his blood glucose reading at 72. Without a snack to bring him back up.

How did I let this happen?

Just a few weeks before, I was among a group of parents listening to an endocrinologist speak frankly at diabetes camp. He said, “When I see one of my patients end up in ER, I know that someone was responsible for this. You cannot ever take a night off. You have to be on the job at all times.”

No one had ever issued such a warning. He was harsh, I thought, but he was right.

People say to me all the time, “You’re so strong.”

I want to say, “How would you be if this was your child?”

This is a sink-or-swim situation. You either educate yourself on the caring of your child with this disease or he could die. Those are the choices.

And here I was, educated about my son’s disease, and we still almost lost him. All it takes is one time. One moment of human frailty.

By the afternoon of the seizure, Jack was lucid and hungry and had little memory of the morning’s ordeal. I told him I’d make him whatever meal he wanted.

“I’ll have madras lentils, brown rice and a soy smoothie,” he said.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go to Burger King and get you a Whopper?”

“Nope,” he said with a smile.

There was that smile. After the morning’s trauma and a brush with death, there it was the way the sun sometimes breaks through a stormy sky.

My eyes were wet with tears that whole week. He stopped to hug me and said, “Mom, it’s okay. I’m just so happy to be alive.”

The old sage that resides within my son comes through once again. Every day he shows me the power of resilience. The ability to shift your perspective from all that is wrong to all that is right. He knows he has all that a kid needs: an overabundance of love. And with that at your back, you carry on.

The Good List

I’ve decided to be the assistant coach of my daughter’s soccer team this fall. My knowledge of the game is limited to which team has possession of the ball and when someone scores. What I bring to the table is four years on the sidelines reliving my cheerleading days, shouting, “Go, Ally!”

Let’s just say, these 11-year-olds will be teaching me a thing or two.

Tonight is the draft. I will attend fully prepared having studied the players like a gambling man examines his hand. My clipboard has the names categorized by ability and position. I am pumped up, my head spinning with plan A, plan B – whatever it takes to amass the best players. We are going to dominate that field, I’m thinking.

I asked Ally to review my picks.

She nodded.

“Mom,” she said, scanning the names, “Don’t pick all the good players.”

“Why?”

“Leave some for the other teams.”

I stared at her blankly.

“Some of the players I want on my team aren’t the best at soccer, but they’re really nice girls.”

The record scratches. In the midst of my plan of attack, my young girl reminds me that greed isn’t good. That sharing the bounty with others is the right thing to do. And more importantly, that judging people on their inner goodness, not necessarily their outer successes, is perhaps the higher road -- the road I’ve been talking a lot about, but not always walking on.

I rearrange my list and Ally gives me the names of the nice girls. And off I go.

Everything

There are moments in life when someone says one line -- one line that completely realigns your thinking. So potent and flawless in its simplicity, the line comes to you as if spoken by God.

A few years ago, my babysitter came to watch the kids and brought her nephew along. He was new to California and his ability to communicate in English was surprising after just a few months of 10th grade.

Diego came to America in secrecy, his body stuffed into the hollowed-out space beneath the back seat of an old Toyota. Where he came from, wealth was a daily meal and a pair of shoes. His family worked most of his 15 years of life to gather the $4,000 border crossing fee. On the other side was his aunt, now a citizen, whose arms were waiting. On the other side was a life with possibilities.

Don and I said good-night to the kids and told them to be good for Marcella. As we were leaving, Jack pulled on Don’s arm.

“Can we go to the movies tomorrow, Dad?” he pleaded.

“Maybe next weekend. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“Like what? Why can’t we go?”

“Because we have a lot to do around our house.”

“Can we go to the toy store then?”

“No. We need to work on the house.”

“I don’t want to work on the house! Geez! It’s so unfair! Come on, Dad!”

“I’m not going to say it again. The answer is no.”

“I’ll have nothing to do! It will be so boring!”

Jack stomped away, marinating in the injustice. Don shook his head and looked at Diego.

“I don’t know why he acts like that.”

There was a long pause.

Softly, Diego said, “It’s because he has everything.”

There it was. Plain and simple.

But the line spoke to me as a statement well beyond the interaction with Jack.

It’s because we have everything. It’s about our advantage and their adversity. It’s about their destitution and our discontent.

I felt ashamed. Here we are. Americans with our big SUVs and cluttered houses and overflowing refrigerators. Here we are with our addictions and anti-depressants. With our firm grip on our kids’ overscheduled lives. With our heads immersed in technology and our disconnected families.

We live in the land of everything and yet we often feel nothing. It begs the question: How have we lost our way?

The line has stayed with me all these years. “It’s because he has everything.” It’s the voice in my head that warns me not to spoil. It’s the underlying guilt I feel when I whine about traffic or rude people or hot summers – all packaged as really big deals. It’s the line that resets my compass toward gratitude and simplicity.

In the book, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, author Wendy Mogel, Ph.D., writes: “When horticulturists want to prepare hothouse plants for replanting outdoors, they subject them to stress to strengthen them. Gently and progressively deprived of food and water and exposed to greater extremes of heat and cold than they’ve been accustomed to, the plants grow stronger root systems and thicker stems.”

Most of us haven’t been exposed to many extremes. To what degree have our lives been padded? And to what degree do we pad the lives of our children? How will they grow “stronger root systems” if we red carpet their way and break their every fall?

My babysitter shares her home with her husband, three children and extended family. Diego and the grandparents sleep on couches. Their home is full yet immaculate and their children are A students, Diego included. But what I have always marveled over is the way this family radiates pure joy and celebrates its togetherness.

They have so little, yet so much. They tune into one another instead of Ipods or cell phones or computers. Front lawn tag is an almost nightly event in which everyone takes part. They work together to pool their resources, and they see America for all its glory and wonder and opportunity. Their struggle has given them a different lens. The little things in life – that we consider daily hardships -- aren’t even visible on their radar.

There is much to glean from people who have suffered. Maybe we can’t know how they feel or what they've been through, but we can learn from their example. We can pause, take a good look around and really see everything. And maybe in the process, we’ll remember that our land of plenty is a place and a state of mind never to be taken for granted again.

Camp Normal

Yes, people, I am alive to tell the story. I survived an entire weekend of summer camp that entailed dirt, fresh air, total strangers, little sleep and the knowledge that bears were out there. Somewhere.

Just getting there was a feat of monumental proportion. I took a wrong turn somewhere and was thrust into a maze straight out of “The Shining” with Empire State Building pine trees. I found signs for seven other camps before calling the help line and uttering the words that have rarely ever crossed my lips: “I’m lost.” Anyone who knows me, knows that I brag incessantly about my keen sense of direction. I relish telling the story about how my husband got lost on his way to work and how tempted I was to powder the road with flour marks for him. So this was a rather karmic moment for me.

Jack and I checked in at the camp cafeteria and were greeted by warm, welcoming faces of the 20-something counselors who grew up coming to this camp. Debunked my entire theory that “kind young people” is an oxymoron.

Jack made fast friends with his cabin mates and the three of them were inseparable the rest of the weekend.

There was an unspoken familiarity amongst everyone. Kids with a life-threatening disease who gave each other instant acceptance. Siblings who joined in the fun despite their constant feelings of helplessness. Parents who share the same endless worry. We are all soldiers on the same side.

We played a game and were divided into three groups: kids with diabetes, siblings and parents. Each group had to make a list of the top-ten secret feelings we have about diabetes.

The parents’ list included:

“I worry that you won’t have a normal childhood.”

“I worry that you won’t have a normal adulthood.”

“I feel guilty that you have this and I don’t.”

“I worry that you’ll go low and have a seizure.”

“I know I overprotect you and I can’t help it.”

“Diabetes sucks for me, too.”

The siblings said:

“I feel sad that you have to take shots and are in pain.”

“I wish we didn’t have to eat healthy food all the time.”

“I worry that you’ll get really sick from diabetes.”

The kids-with-diabetes list included:

“I sneak food sometimes.”

“I know you worry about me all the time.”

“Sometimes I forget I have diabetes and you remind me by asking me if I’ve tested my blood.”

“I worry that I’ll get really sick.”



The next day Jack asked, “Mom, you know the line about forgetting that you have diabetes?”

Me: Ya.

Jack: Was that your line?

Me: No, why?

Jack: Well sometimes when I’m playing and having a really good time, I forget that I have this. Then you walk in and say, “Did you do your testing?” It makes me remember and I feel sad.


My anxiety over talent shows and bears and sleeping next to total strangers gave way to the real meaning of the weekend.

Jack shot past me with a big grin. I reached for his arm.

“Hey,” I said. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

Jack: Oh, sorry Mom.

Me: What have you been doing?

Jack: I played ping pong and air hockey and then basketball in the pool. Now we’re going rock climbing.

Me: Are you having fun?

He nodded, beaming.

Jack: I feel normal here.

My sunglasses hid my tears. I hugged him and sent him on his way.

Camp Fear

In a few weeks, I’m going to diabetes camp with my son. In the mountains. As in, wilderness.

It’s just for the weekend. It’s the transition part of the week where family members stay for a few days to help their children get acclimated.

Acclimated? I’m the one who needs to get acclimated. Jack will be just fine. I haven’t been to camp since I was in 4th grade. And from what I recall, I had to share a cabin with total strangers (emphasis on “strange”) and spend the entire time outside (emphasis on “mosquito bites” and “sweating”).



Let me state for the record that I am no diva, people. I am simply someone who doesn’t appreciate dirt-like environments. My husband reminds me of this quite often.

Him (using his annoyed voice): You’re NOT an outdoor person.

Me: That’s right.

Him: You’re just not.

Me: Got it.

Him: You’re afraid to get the mail.

Me: You never know when a coyote might strike.

Him: You only hike on paved roads.

Me: I use a hiking stick. Therefore, it’s hiking.

Him: You’re an indoor person. Face it.

Me: I’m coming to terms with it right now. And it’s devastating.

Him: I wish I had known that when I met you.

Me: There may still be some time left on the warranty.



So last week I took Jack to the doctor for a pre-camp check-up.

Doc: Oh, I worked at that camp one summer! You’ll love it.

Me: I will?

Doc: Oh, it’s great. My wife was so mad, though. I brought my son with me and he was about four at the time. We ran into a few bears. She was furious!

Me: Bears?

Doc: Oh ya. Don’t bring any food with you.

Me: Jack and I get up about two times a night to use the bathroom and I think I read that the facilities are outside of the cabin?

Doc: Ya, they are.

Me: So we have to walk there in the dark?

Doc: Just get a good flashlight.

Me: And what about the bears?


Doc: Oh, Rodney. He’s harmless. He’s just looking for food.

Me: Rodney?

Doc: Ya, he's been around forever. So the camp named him.

Me: Just because he has a name doesn’t make him any less a bear.

Doc: Oh, he just roams around. He’s just hungry.

Me: And what if Rodney sees me and thinks I look like a Big Mac?

Doc: No, you’ll be fine. Just be careful.

The doctor gave me the head shake and the No-Biggie wave.

No biggie. Bears. Roaming around at night. Looking for food.

Me. Roaming around at night. Looking for a toilet.

What’s the appropriate greeting should we cross paths? A high ten? A belly bump? A “Whassssuuuuppp?”

Thanks, Doc, for ramping up the terror alert. That helps a lot.


My prediction: I’ll be sleeping in the car. With Jack in the passenger seat. We’ll both be wearing diapers.

So here I am marinating in what might happen. I imagine myself at the midnight hour, losing my way to the bathroom that is a football field away from my cabin. Suddenly I’m hugging a tree and mentally psyching myself up to fight off Rodney along with his friends, Big Foot, the Montauk Monster and the Abominable Snowman.

But I’m good. I’m just a little nervous. Hey, it’s supposed to be fun.

I remember camp. I made new friends (whom I never saw again). And to this day, I can still recall the camp songs. Even now, I love to sing, “An Austrian Went Yodeling” and “Bingo” wherever I go. My kids say it’s totally embarrassing when I yell out, “B-I-N-G-O” in stores. Ya, right. Who doesn’t love that song?

I’ll never forget how we roasted marshmallows and baby wieners – the very foundation of the cooking skills I use today. You know, when I want to make an impression.

Oh, and I almost forgot. There’s one more thing about camp that is sure to give me a bleeding ulcer and trigger my fear of clowns, asymmetrical objects, air swallowing, toupees, polyblends, the color brown, crossing the street and being buried alive.

The talent show.

Why does every summer camp inflict this pain on the untalented?


Aside from my expertise at crank calling and telling embarrassing stories about people I know on my blog, I don’t possess a talent.

I don’t swallow knives, hula hoop, breathe fire, lick my elbows or ride a unicycle while balancing a cat on my head. I try not to sing, juggle chainsaws, stand on my head while spitting wooden nickels, or spin pizza dough or a basketball on my finger. I can’t wrap myself in a pretzel or put myself in a suitcase. I can’t spin my head around, contrary to what my husband tells people. I don’t yodel and I can’t see your aura. I refuse to imitate hogs or cows or make a dog say, “I love you.”



My dancing has been compared to Elaine on Seinfeld and I forget the punchline of every joke. I stay far away from water ballet, the Rubics Cube and Kung Fu. I can’t eat more than one hotdog, and it’s better if I don’t throw knives.

Then my kids reminded me: I am bilingual. I speak a rare, but highly useful language called Ubbie-Dubbie. I learned Ubbie-Dubbie while watching the popular PBS show, Zoom, in the 1970s. My friends and I practiced diligently. It took them about a year to master. For me, it was about an hour. That’s because I have an ear for it.

I have used Ubbie-Dubbie to wow job interviewers and waiters in restaurants. Although they have no friggin idea of what I’m saying, I can see the look of wonder in their eyes. I even used it at my wedding. When the minister asked me if I took Don to be my husband, I answered, “Ub-I, dub-oo.” The crowd went wild.

I am so relieved to know that I have a talent that will undoubtedly catapult me into the finals at the camp talent show. Here is what I plan to say:



Stay tuned for my after-camp post. That’s if Rodney doesn’t spot me and think he’s at an all-night, Vegas buffet.