here’s the kicker. no matter what I thought about Sunday School, I had no choice but to go — my mom was the teacher. ain’t that a bummer. Imagine your friends trashing hebrew school and all the teachers and one of them is your mom. If anyone ever said to me what’s worse than Sunday school — you can imagine my answer.

I find that when my kids say they hate school they really don’t mean it. Yes, they may dislike tests and studying and really, come on, who likes to do homework. But deep down, I think they actually enjoy school. But when it comes to Sunday school and they say they hate it, I actually believe them. The list of their excuses for not going could fill an entire notebook. I’m sick, I’m tired, I hate it, I hate my teacher, the stuff is useless, we’re not even religious, it’s too early in the morning, it’s my weekend, you hated it, you didn’t go, how’s it gonna help me in life, etc. etc. etc. And you know what? I’d say most of their excuses are valid.

So why is it that we make our children go? I don’t know. To carry on our heritage? I guess to some degree. But it just seems like one of those things we do so we can say we did it and let the next generation worry about doing the same. It has no useful application in the real world, it just exists and you attend and you make your kids attend and you sit back and wonder which generation will be strong enough to say STOP!!! enough is enough.

sunday school

Am I a horrible father if I allow my kids to miss Sunday school every now and then? I think it’s one of those lose-lose situations. If I force them to get up early and go then I feel like a mean father. If I let it slide I feel guilty that I’m not doing my job as a parent. What to do?

My kids are all good students, do their homework, go to school every day. It breaks my heart to see them get up at the crack of dawn (so to speak for a weekend) to attend a class about things I don’t believe much in myself. But hey, I’ve been doing it for years. Now, as they’ve gotten a bit older and a whole lot more vocal, they are voicing their protests loud and clear. I am hearing them, feeling their pain and on those rare Sundays when I want to keep them at home for myself and spend some quality time with them, I give in to their demands, acquiesce and let the Sunday school thing slide.

Am I a horrible father? I certainly hope not but I guess that’s a question best left to my kids’ future therapists.

You know its fall when travel soccer starts up again. I swear, this thing
called “travel soccer” is so big and so demanding and has such a presence in
our lives, it should really be its own season. Winter, spring, summer, fall
and travel soccer. It has its own weather pattern, hot and cold fronts and
usually involves a well-in-advance forecast. Our lives most certainly
revolve around it. It has the power to change a family gathering or a
birthday party. And it dictates which events we attend. We take it very
much into account when planning our weekends and check our emails twelve
hundred times to look for any new developments (cancelled practices, changed
fields, directions to games, last minute changes).

Seriously, what happened to Autumn? That used to be my favorite season.
The cool crisp air, the leaves turning color, pumpkin and apple picking.
Travel soccer has just completely swallowed Autumn up and spit it out.
There are no more walks in the park or scenic hikes to enjoy the foliage.
No, now its wild screams in the garage:

“Where’s your shin guards?”

“What are you doing??? !!! The coach said you’re wearing white today not
blue!!!!!”

“Grab a water!!!”

“Oh my God!!! I’m the snack parent…I forgot the oranges!!!”

“Where are those @#%^&* directions??!!”

Ash, the comforting sights and sounds of Travel Soccer Season.

My Jewish affiliation has been steadily declining ever since my Bar Mitzvah.
I am 46 so you can imagine the depths to which I have sunk, religiously
speaking, for the past 33 years or so. No more Friday night services, no
more Saturday mornings, essentially no more trips to synagogue (not even on
the high holidays). PERIOD. When my kids were younger I tried. I really
tried. But it just wasn’t my thing. I was born in Israel, speak the
language, but the tallises and yarmulkes and prayer books and all that
“congregation please rise and sit” business was just not for me.

So now, I make sure to use that time wisely. If the kids are off from
school we go somewhere together. No friends, no phones, no travel soccer
games. It’s just us preferably somewhere outside. A long drive, a hike,
hopefully a good talk. A day of bonding with my kids and maybe just maybe a
little time spent appreciating all that we have and just how lucky we are.
Those are my High Holy Days.

I recently decided that my kids (and I) have gotten old enough to take care of ourselves. That is, we have taken it upon ourselves to do our own laundry, clean our own house, change our own sheets and so forth. It’s been three months (okay, so two of those months the kids were away) and so far we’re surviving. The house looks alright. We’ve created a little work wheel with chores on it (bathrooms, floors, sweep, toilets, etc) like the kind you see at camp and once a week we spin that wheel and perform the task demanded of us. I haven’t heard anyone come into our house yet complaining of any odors. The kids and I are each individually responsible for doing our own wash and by hook or by crook the laundry is getting done (at times our kitchen looks like a 24 hour laundromat). It may be a frat house here but I tell you…it’s a pretty darn clean one.

I never know where my next book will come from. The first two ” Summer Sleep-Away” and its sequel ” That Same Summer
” were born out of my own childhood experiences at sleep-away camp
. Maybe a little embellished, maybe an adventure or two borrowed from a good story I heard, but essentially my memories. The material for Escape From Sunday School was, for the most part, a compilation of what I managed to piece together while eavesdropping on conversations of my own children with their friends as I drove them to far away soccer games or served them snacks in our basement or around the pool.. The trick is to try to fool them into thinking that you are NOT really listening to them. In order to get the rhythm and cadence of their speech, to pick up on the lingo they use, the subjects they discuss and all the good stuff you must become invisible.
When I learned just how deeply they all seemed to hate Hebrew school or CCD, that was when the idea for “Escape From Sunday School” came to me. Similarly, my upcoming book — “The Celebrities of Summer School” — was inspired by one of my sons and his friend who took a movie camera and ran around for three days like two idiots. A week later after much editing and some at school marketing, 28 kids showed up at my house for a screening of their movie. I was not permitted in the TV room (except to serve the popcorn and drinks) and had to listen to the cheers and yelling and hysterical laughing from the kitchen. TRUE STORY!! Thus, “The Celebrities of Summer School” was born.

Please feel free to comment on this blog and share with me where you get your ideqas.

Growing up, I used to think it odd that on Sunday nights my mom made us fend for our own dinners.

“I cooked all week,” she used to say, “fridge is full…you’re on your own.”

In time, I began to accept that as the norm. At least, the norm at my house. What I soon learned, however, is that maybe our family wasn’t that strange after all. If I found myself over a friend’s house on a Sunday, I began to notice that they too treated a Sunday night dinner as something of a second class citizen. Leftovers were brought out, pizza delivery, Chinese take-out. When I went away to college, it was the same thing. Every other night of the week had its own set menu except for Sunday night. The cafeteria that night just kind of threw together whatever was leftover and served it up. Everyone at school knew better than to even bother going down for dinner and instead ordered out.

Now, years later, I am all grown up with three boys of my own. I’m an okay cook and manage to throw something on the dinner table most nights but guess what…I’m off on Sunday night. Woops…gotta go…the pizza guy is at the door.

Just finished the first draft of my fourth book. It’s a great feeling. Being a man, I’ve never experienced childbirth but somehow in my warped mind, I always equate the two. There is something satisfying and at the same time a bit sad when you’re done with it. I am happy but also feeling a bit empty. I started the rewrite immediately. I needed my baby back and the rewrite is a way of holding on just a little while longer before my creation goes out into the world and is no longer mine.