Molly Is Six!

Dearest Molly,

Time is a funny thing. For kids, it passes oh so slowly. School days sometimes seem to drag on forever, with no end in sight. For us older folks, we can’t believe how quickly the calendar turns. An old parenting adage says, “The days are long, but the years are short.” From my perch, on the wrong side of sixty, it has never felt more poignant or more true. As you approach another trip around the sun, I am marvelling that this is the seventh letter I have written to you on these special days. I wonder if I am repeating myself in these missives, and then I realize that it doesn't matter. I am writing from a specific point in time; a tiny dot in the connections of your young life. Things change so rapidly in the world today, but I am hopeful that someday you might find use for these petty scribbles. I hope that these letters can connect us across a continuum of space and time and that hopefully, you can look back on them with nostalgia, love, and maybe just a wee bit of childlike excitement. 

I thought that for this birthday letter, I would tell you about some of the amazing women in your lineage who never had the chance to meet you, but would have been so awed and totally captivated. These wonderful people helped to shape me and make me a better person. They were kind, compassionate, and fierce in their own ways, and they served as both inspiration and role models for me when I was still searching and in need of guidance. You see, Molly, we stand on the shoulders of those who came before and it is important to remember the lessons they taught.

My grandmother Essie was my lodestar when I was a kid. Widowed at fifty-three, she came to live with us when I was younger than you are now. I've been told she was lost and sad in those first years, but that isn't how I remember her. She would sit with me for hours and tell me stories about her rebel days. She was a bit of a wild child who liked to think of herself as a flapper and enjoyed fun evenings out as a young woman. She loved to dance and party. It was difficult for me to imagine that my grandmother had lived a whole other life that I didn't completely understand. When she met my grandfather, he lied to her about his age and it wasn't until they were getting ready to marry, that she discovered that she was three years older than him and that he needed his parents' permission to wed. She used to joke about "robbing the cradle," but it never seemed to bother her that she married a younger man, even though propriety at that time dictated otherwise. She was stylish and always perfectly coiffed. She worked her entire adult life, mostly because money was tight, but she held jobs as a working mother in an era when that simply wasn't done. By the time I knew her, she was still working in women's fashion stores every day until her mid-seventies. She loved her work. She was so proud when I came to visit the store and she could kvell to all her friends and coworkers. She would bring home treats every day for Uncle Michael and me and she would sneak them to us when my mom wasn't there. She often travelled with us, and I will never forget her joy when we toured England and Israel. She was feisty and strong in those days. She devoured everything she saw and she flirted with one of the single men on our tour. When I was twelve, she told me that she was moving out and getting her own apartment. I cried for days. I couldn't imagine her not being in that room at the bottom of the stairs. She lived long enough to meet and dote on your Uncle Daniel and your dad. She was tough but fair. She was lovely and loving. She taught me compassion and patience, even though the lessons went missing more times than I can count. Thinking of her today reminds me that even when life throws you the worst possible curveball, there can be joy. 

Zaidy's grandmother Rae was a truly extraordinary woman. From the first moment I met her, she wowed me. She was a powerhouse of personality all compacted into a tiny frame. When Zaidy first brought me to meet her, she hugged me and told Zaidy that he wasn't allowed to ever let me go. She had seven grandsons and I was the first girl to enter into that generation, so I quickly became special to her. She was tough and brash and she spoke her mind with a refreshing ease. She subsisted on caffeine and plain potato chips. I don't think I ever saw her eat a complete meal. Perhaps it was because she was the worst cook you could possibly imagine. Everything she made was a different shade of grey, but nobody in the family would ever tell her, either out of benevolence or sheer terror. But as horrid as she was in the kitchen, she had golden hands when it came to anything with a stitch. She was a seamstress extraordinaire. I didn't realize how widespread her clientele was until one day, my Bubby Essie went to have some clothes altered. She saw a picture of your Zaidy in Rae's home and asked how she knew him. The connections were strong. She hopelessly tried to teach me to knit. I was over at her place every day attempting to retrieve dropped stitches and pulled yarn. Those times were some of the best I ever had. She would ply me full of some store-bought baked goods while she tried to be encouraging about my lack of talent. It was never about the knitting. It was about sharing. I had been told stories about how she wasn't the best mother. She was opinionated and could be harsh, but I never saw the neglectful side. She worked hard all her life and I believe she did the best she could. For me, she was a link in the chain that brought me closer to Zaidy's family. She wanted so much to be there for me. She offered to babysit and would often show up unannounced with Zaidy Harry just to visit. When she became less able to get around, I would take her grocery shopping. A child of the depression, she instructed me to drive to every store in the area because that's where the deals were. Of course, it would have been easier for me to just do the shopping for her, but that would have denied her the outing with me.  Bubby Rae lived her passions. She loved the only way she knew. She is a reminder to me to always seek out that which makes you happy. Surround yourself with good people and never be shy to express an opinion. 

My aunt Marlene was my Other Mother. I simply don't have a childhood memory that doesn't include her. She and Bubby Sheila were two halves of the same whole. The balance they brought to each other was stunningly amazing. Marlene loved me as if I were her own. She always said that she had four children. I spent almost as much time in her home as I did at mine. Miriam and I used to plot about how we could arrange sleepovers, and while she feigned annoyance, she never cared. She was gentle and yet, she exuded a quiet strength infused with tremendous compassion. I used to watch her lovingly feed and care for the hundreds of puppies that passed through their home, sometimes at hours of the night that weren't meant for human beings. There was something innately maternal about her. It transferred easily to the hundreds of youth groupers in her care. She was creative and she loved trying new things. Cooking and baking were a true passion. I still have hundreds of her recipes written in her own hand, and I feel her presence when I use them, although I still cannot accurately recreate her rugelach. She could talk your ears off and her shaggy dog stories are legendary. She introduced me to Star Trek, Cary Grant, a love for old movies, and country music. I'll never forget going into her Florida home shortly after she died and turning on her music app which was set to Lady A. I cried for an hour. When I remember her, I know I was loved fiercely and how I was guided by so many caring and kind people. She was simply marvellous. 

Molly, these women shaped me. They helped point me in directions I never would have thought possible and they made me feel as though I could accomplish anything. Along with other role models, like my own mother, your mother, and various teachers and mentors, these women built a foundation for me upon which I built my own womanhood. They weren't perfect people, nobody was or is, but they blazed a path forward that I could follow. It is my hope that you will find and embrace amazing women throughout your life, too. The men in my life have offered different lessons and should never be discounted, but it is the women who gave me the foundation.

Happy 6th Birthday, my darling Molly. May the coming year bring only fun, joy, health, and amazing new experiences. May you continue to find and embrace all sorts of people who will help guide you along life's path. 

I love you with all my heart. 

Love,

Bubby

 

May You Phish In Hell

A short story.

My parents, both in their mid-eighties, are moderately technology literate. They understand email, web surfing, Zoom, (as long as they remember to mute), and, God help me, social media. My dad is also reasonably competent when it comes to online banking. There is a limit, however, and as I have discussed in this space before, there is a technology wall whereby we reach the end of understanding the net. Today's experience is a cautionary tale for anybody dealing with seniors and technology.

Last year, Netflix put an end to password sharing in Canada. My parents had been living large on the back of my Netflix account for several years. After several frustrating discussions with the company, it became obvious that the easiest thing to do would be to add Mom and Dad as additional users on my account, and they could pay me the extra fee in cash. It was the simplest solution to a frustrating problem for my folks who are regular users of Netflix. They were in agreement, and that is what we did. They never had any contact with Netflix, they've never seen a Netflix charge on their credit cards, and they went on with their viewing habits as if nothing had changed. Netflix doesn't even have their email addresses. It all goes through me.

Today, I walked into my parent's apartment to chat. I asked my dad what he was doing, and he said, "I'm renewing my Netflix account." I was incredulous and told him he didn't have a Netflix account. I reminded him that all Netflix stuff goes through me. He looked at me like I had two heads. I gently reminded him of the changes from last year, but memories aren't always as sharp when we get to a certain age. I asked him if I could see the email he received, and he handed me his phone. The sender came through as @xNetfli, but I can forgive my father for not looking at that. I was fortunate to stop him before he gave them his credit card information. This time. The Husband wondered how many times he might have been previously duped. I can only pray it hasn't happened. I once again warned Dad against these phishing emails and told him that if he gets an email asking for funds from Facebook, Prime, or any other subscription, he is to call me before answering. I also told him again that Netflix isn't ever something he needs to worry about.

I realize that we live in a world of shitheads. These bastards prey on the vulnerable, hoping to separate them from their cash. They also prey on the fears that seniors have with changing technology. The constant updates and new ways of doing things are really confusing. Is it any wonder that people get scammed? 

Please check in with your senior friends and family and make sure that they haven't taken the bait. There is a special place in hell for phishing scammers.

How Would You Deal This?

Last evening, I had an uncomfortable encounter with a man I had just met. 

We had been invited to an intimate Chanukah celebration at the home of a dear friend. My parents were also invited, but other than them, we were unaware of the guest list. I suspected my friend's cousins would also be there, and I was excited to see them again. It had been far too long between visits. So, we packed my folks into the car and off we went.  

When we arrived, I was thrilled to see my old friends. The hostess had also included her business partner, who kept my overly gregarious father busy with her tales of woe, and her 99-year-old uncle, whom I hadn't seen since we shared a Pesach seder over thirty years ago. The man is still as sharp as a tack and twice as witty. Rounding out the attendees were two couples from my friend's building that she is close with; one originally from New York and transplanted to South Florida, and the other snowbirds from Toronto. We shook hands, made our acquaintance, and dispensed with the superficial social conventions. 

I am often shy and quiet in new social situations. I initially listen to conversations around me and get a feel for the people I have just met. Some people mistake this for rudeness. I promise I'm not rude, but rather unsure of my surroundings. Introverted people lay back. We don't jump into new conversations with both feet. More often than not, we take stock and then engage. I absolutely avoid discussions about politics or religion until I can get a handle on how people react. I needn't have worried. Between my dad, who is never at a loss for words, and the other guy from Toronto, there wasn't a moment to participate in the conversations. Have you ever been confronted with a situation whereby you know immediately and instinctively that somebody rubs you the wrong way? That was me with this gent from my hometown. He walked into the house like he owned the place, was loud and obnoxious in his demeanour, and had an opinion about everything, from the Chanukiyot on the table to the choice of which Chanukah songs we would sing. He overshadowed his lovely wife in every way imaginable, including correcting her multiple times during her stories. He was boorish, pompous, and pontificating. I stayed quiet. All Jews are talking about Israel these days, but I was silent. All Jews are discussing the rise of antisemitism, but again I simply listened. I wasn't shocked to hear Mr. Boor and his wife spout long-disputed conspiracy theories about Mr. Trudeau or the CBC, but again I remained mum. 

 The Husband and I did that marital glance we do when we want to roll our eyes but refrain from doing so for fear that someone might see us. We were definitely on the same page about this dude.

Mr. Boor settled in comfortably for the evening. People like him always do. They take command and control of the setting and the people and then proceed to dominate every conversation. Our hostess was gracious and charming. She invited The Husband and me into the kitchen to point out the vegetarian options she had prepared especially for us. She went out of her way for her aged uncle and was attentive to her guests. She even made sure that all of the food was strictly kosher because Mr. Boor and his wife are practitioners. The conversation at dinner was lively and engaging. I offered an opinion on something I thought was benign, but it turns out nothing is benign these days. I decided to shut up for the rest of the evening.

And then, it happened. I was asked by another of the guests what I did for a living. I told her I was a retired cantorial soloist. For some reason, Jews always find this fascinating. We talked a bit about my career and what it was like for a woman to be a clergyperson. Well, Mr. Boor went off on me like I had two heads. He'd never heard of a woman officiating at a funeral. He told me that Reform Judaism has a different Halacha than his brand. He was condescending and contemptuous. I was firm but polite. There was no way that I was going to disrespect my host by losing my temper, but this fuckwad had grated on my last nerve. I told him that perhaps he hadn't seen a woman officiate at a Jewish funeral in his circles, and I proceeded to tell him that there are many women clergy in Toronto. I had personally officiated at dozens of funerals. I even was so bold as to remind him that the senior rabbi of Holy Blossom is a woman. I suggested that maybe he should expand his Jewish circle and broaden his knowledge. He started to come back at me when I told him that it was perfectly okay with me for him to observe Judaism in any manner that he wished, so long as he afforded me the same courtesy. I wasn't rude and I never told him he was wrong, even though I desperately wanted to.

I am certain that he went home and complained about me to his wife. I'm sure that he thinks that I am a first-class bitch. It wouldn't be the first time that some arrogant prick thought I was too mouthy, but I am so over caring what other people think about me. As we got into the car to drive home, The Husband and I said in almost perfect unison, "What an asshole." My parents, who were having a perfectly lovely evening at the other end of the table, had no idea what had occurred. I had to recount the entire evening for them. They were stunned and a bit mortified.

I will never understand what drives a person to be so rude to someone they have just met. We should have been talking about the Leafs or the Jays. Instead, this guy decided to make me a target and I refused to allow it. I am proud of how I handled him, but I never want to be in his company again.

There is a freedom that comes with aging. I refuse to take shit from anyone. I've spent far too many years swallowing my opinions and my thoughts. This guy had it coming. I hope he remembers me as the bitch who came to Chanukah.

Is This Odd Or Is It Just Me?

Quick story to tell you all, but it is either really odd or I am simply old. You decide.

I ordered some workout clothes from a site on the intertoobs that I have often used. I like their fabrics, the fit is on point, and I have never had a problem with shipping in neither Canada nor the country below. When I went to visit the site on Black Friday, I noticed that they were having a sale, and I ordered two pairs of running shorts and two tops. (This little detail becomes important later.) The cost immediately came through on my credit card, and I was promised delivery via the United States Postal Service in six to ten business days. Weekends do not count in this equation even though USPS delivers on Saturdays. (I am not sure that any of my American friends realize what a big deal this is for those of us from other countries. We haven't had Saturday mail delivery in the Great White North for decades.)

I received emails from the company advising me of the order, the charge, and the expected delivery date. I was also given a tracking number from USPS. Last Friday, on December 1st, I received a notification from the postal service that my delivery had arrived. The company, taking their cues from USPS, also sent me an email that my package was here. I went down to the front desk of my building to retrieve the parcel, only to discover that contrary to my notifications, nothing had come from the company. I checked our postal box, just to be safe, and it was then that the security gent at the front desk told me that sometimes USPS scans packages as delivered, even though they weren't. It could sometimes take a couple of days for it to arrive. 

I was incredulous. I simply cannot understand why this is an acceptable business practice. I can't imagine how many angry calls and emails USPS must receive from customers searching for their packages, only to discover that the scan and deliver later is standard operating procedure. I decided to give it the weekend before I made inquiries of the sportswear apparel company.

Yesterday morning, I had a chat with said company. They were very nice and reiterated USPS policy. (BTW...when I went to the USPS website with my tracking number, it confirmed that the package had indeed been delivered and left at the front desk. Truly bizarre.) The company asked me to wait out the day yesterday as it was the policy to give USPS 48-hours during regular business hours to deliver the package. In the meantime, they put a note on the file that informed them that I would be checking back in with them today in the event of a non-delivery.

Today, I finally had enough. I once again made contact with the company, reiterated my concern that the package was indeed lost, and I required either a new shipment or a credit. After some hemming and hawing, they agreed that USPS had been derelict in the duties and we split the difference. They credited what they could no longer ship because it was now out of stock, AND they resent the remainder of the order.

Two hours later, I received a notification from my concierge that I had a package. (Come on! You knew it was coming, right?) The Husband retrieved the parcel and, lo and behold, it was my original order PLUS an extra pair of shorts. 

Hoo boy did I have guilt. 

I immediately went back to the apparel company and cancelled the reshipment. I explained what had occurred and they were very understanding. I tried to give back the credit, but they were lovely and told me to keep it. Very unnecessary but very nice.

I am still left with questions about the delivery practices of USPS. Personally, I think it is really stupid. If I get a delivery from FedEx or UPS, somebody has to sign for it. Why is it ok for the post office to tell me something is delivered when it clearly isn't, and I can't track it further nor complain about it?

Odd or old? Which is it? Am I just not comprehending the new realities or is this just weird? In the meantime, I have three new pairs of shorts, two new tops, and a $40.00 credit. I guess I win?

How To Be Better Online In This Difficult Moment

Friends,

I wish I had words of brilliance or comfort to offer. 

I have none. 

My emotional reserves are empty, and my exhaustion knows no bounds. I am broken, and I am dark.

I am not a therapist, nor am I trained in trauma. I am not an expert in geopolitical matters, nor am I interested in decades-old circular arguments. 

We experienced a collective evil last weekend. I am not about to enter into asymmetrical discussions because they are stupid and vapid.

I have no real expertise to offer you in this miserable moment, save one.

I have an excellent bullshit detector.

People far more eloquent than I am I will guide you to prayer. People far more knowledgeable than I will direct you to sources on the ground. My only purpose here is to help you filter through the bullshit. Misinformation and disinformation are the twin cancers of this century. I implore you to not get caught up in their vortices. 

We live in dangerous times and those dangers are only exacerbated online. Some malevolent actors are preying on our vulnerabilities right now in the hope that they can flood the zone with shit and pit us against one another. I am hoping that my little hints here will guide you through your online grief.

1. My first instruction is to not post anything at all about the crisis. (This is my default right now because I feel so inadequate.) I realize that asking this of many is a fool's errand. Social media can provide a comforting community that aids in healing. I also believe that there are many people doing yeoman's work in providing important context, aid, updates, and human stories. If you must post, for your own sanity and well-being, make certain that the post is your own thoughts or those of someone you know well and trust. 

2. Avoid memes and unsourced photographs. There are a lot of those floating around right now. Be careful. Posting a photograph without checking the source is reckless and dangerous.

3. Politicians are people who are suffering just like the rest of us. The difference is that most of them have agendas they wish to advance. Read all of them, left and right, even if you hate their politics. It is the hardest thing to do, but I really believe that most of them are trying their best. (Note: I said most. The caveat here is obvious bad actors. We know who they are without naming them.)

4. Avoid posting in haste. If you see something that sounds weird or off, do some fact-checking. Stop your finger from hitting that send button. If you need help or sources for this, ask questions. Posting out of anger, fear, or helplessness is usually a bad idea. 

5. Never post without context. There is a great deal of fear percolating around the world right now, and posting something that will level that fear up without a source or context is simply irresponsible. 

6. Canadians are at a disadvantage at the moment due to social media blocking our sharing of news organizations. There are workarounds to this like cutting and pasting. Please make the effort if you want to share a relevant news story.

7. Get your children off of social media. It is a truly miserable place right now and protecting them should be a priority. Talk to them. Be honest with them. Letting them see horror is destructive.

8. Go do something else. Go for a walk. Exercise. Look at pictures of puppies. Read a book. Turn off the computer and the TV. I watched the Mr. Dressup documentary and the hockey game. It helped.

That's it.

That's all that I have to offer. It isn't much but it might give us some needed perspective. 

Here is a prayer for peace from my old friend Dan Nichols

הַשְׁכִּיבֵֽנוּ, יְיָ אֱלֹהֵֽנוּ, לְשָׁלוֹם, וְהַעֲמִידֵנוּ שׁוֹמְרֵֽנוּ לְחַיִּים

Grant, O God, that we lie down in peace, and raise us up, our Guardian, to life renewed. 

We Be TIFFing Again

Editor's Note: For the eighth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans of this madness, they have once again scaled back their viewing opportunities because the TIFF website is STILL a colossal shitshow, unworthy of spending hours attempting to navigate, and because Rosh Hashana will interfere with their viewing time. The roster of films is back up to pre-pandemic levels but is disappointingly sparse this year on digital viewing. The various guild strikes in the United States have played havoc with many of the larger films, as neither actors nor writers will be attending the festival unless they are directors or have waivers from their unions. Therefore, there will only be three films screened. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills and allows for some much-needed escapism during these tumultuous times. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very short bullet point reviews for the movies seen. You've all been warned.

I will admit I was less than enthusiastic about attending TIFF this year. Part of the energy of the festival is tied up in the attendance of the talented people who create the films. The question-and-answer sessions that follow the screenings give a quick peek into the creative process. Major studios are skipping Toronto this year because of the union strikes and few A-list actors will be attending. I am not a star-gazer, but I cannot deny that having George Clooney answer audience questions following the debut of his latest film, is a major plus for this TIFF attendee. I am about to say something political, so if you want to stop reading now, I will totally understand. We came very close to ditching our TIFF membership this year because of their corporate partnership with Therme Canada, the pirates who are attempting to build a massive greenhouse structure at Ontario Place. When TIFF pulled out of the deal, we decided to go ahead on a limited basis. As I mentioned above, the website for choosing films is the most tangled experience this side of Ticketmaster. We will be dealing with that mess after the festival. We chose three small films this year because of the crash and burn on the site and so that we would avoid as much confrontation with the party-goers as possible.

Our first film comes from director Michael Winterbottom. Shoshana tells the story of star-crossed lovers against the backdrop of the British Mandate in Palestine. Shoshana Borochov, daughter of esteemed Zionist intellectual Ber Borochov, works as an independent journalist in the very young city of Tel Aviv. The British, who control Palestine, have sent officers to the region to attempt to keep the peace between the Jews and Arabs as they both struggle to maintain footholds in the land. Students of Israeli history will know of the various Jewish groups that tried vastly different methods to further their cause. The Haganah, which acted as a political wing working toward statehood and of which Shoshana was a part, worked toward a diplomatic solution. Other Israeli groups, like the Irgun and the Stern Gang (Lehi) were more interested in a terror war. It is against this backdrop that Shoshana falls in love with a British officer named Tom Wilkin. While both of them are trying to accomplish the same goals, their affair and eventually marriage, are trying on both of them and their circles. 

It is always difficult to attempt to make a film about the Israeli/Arab conflict. Inevitably, people will find fault. So, it would be a mistake to judge this film by any political position that the director does or doesn't make. Winterbottom is simply using the period to tell the true story of these fascinating two people. He makes no judgements. Some viewers might find that frustrating, but I didn't. The history is there for the research on whatever side you wish to view it. Newcomer Irina Starshebaum steals the film with her performance of the headstrong and fiercely idealistic protagonist. She is simply luminous. The rest of the cast is a mixture of British and Israeli actors who fit the bills nicely. The director adeptly intersperses newsreel footage to give the impression of a between world wars feel. 

Shoshana succeeds as a Romeo/Juliet story against the images of a very difficult time. The problem is, that it doesn't go far enough in fleshing out Shoshana's story. She is a fascinating character and I would have liked to learn more about her. That said, Shoshana was a very enjoyable film and it puts the viewer into the period with great skill.

Shoshana is still searching for distribution so who knows when it will be seen by mass audiences given the upheaval in the industry. You might want to keep checking streaming services in the next few months.

Dawn and The Husband give Shoshana two yups, but they are right on the line.

To Talia On Her Second Birthday

Dearest Talia,

The author Gretchen Rubin once wrote, "The days are long, but the years are short." She was discussing parenting and how, despite so many trials and obstacles, watching children grow and mature seems to happen in the blink of an eye. Two years have disappeared in the blink of my eye. Here you are, on the precipice of two, and I honestly can't figure out how that is possible.

You were born right smack dab in the middle of a pandemic that was unlike anything anybody had ever before witnessed. We simply didn't know how our lives would recover or change. So much of what we knew before, like bringing a child into the world and raising an infant, was different. We were all so isolated and scared. Previously simple things, like introducing new people into your world, weren't the slam dunks they were for your sister. It imbued within you a sense of caution and care. And while it wasn't always thrilling to have you cry when I came close, I inherently understood how difficult navigating newness was for you. The side-eye glances and quivering lower lip were my cue to abandon ship, and once I put myself into your onesie, I got it. You were determined to take your time with people, and frankly, I think it is a skill that more of us should learn and adopt. 

We started finding our footing during the family trip to Disney last August. Spending prolonged periods with you alone allowed you to find your comfort zone. Disney can be an assault on the senses but you were down for it. Zaidy and I had a wonderful opportunity to have you on your own while Molly went off to do other things. Catching your cues and understanding who you were becoming, allowed us to unlock the beauty that is you. Watching you dive headlong into sampling new foods or ravaging an ice cream, gave me such a sense of the wonder you were experiencing. I had forgotten that children do things on their own timelines and you reminded me that yours was unique.

The tale of your first steps is a classic example of this. You stubbornly insisted that you simply were not interested in walking. Why walk when you could ride or be carried? As the months dragged on, and all of us saw the strength improving in our arm muscles, you played it oh so coyly. At a doctor's appointment sometime after your eighteen-month milestone, your parents told the doctor of their concerns that you still refused to walk. The doctor asked for a demonstration and they put you down in the middle of the floor. With only a gleam that a toddler could summon, you made every adult in that room look stupid when you walked nonchalantly over to Mommy. And then...you didn't walk again for over a month. A unique timeline, indeed. 

I loathe the word stubborn, especially when applied to girls. It makes us seem negative or nasty. I much prefer dogged, resolute, adamant, or persistent. You definitely are coming into your own in this way. You will not be pushed around by anyone, especially your big sister. You know what you want and are determined to voice your opinion with a loud and definite "NO". It is important to know what you want and how to get it. Tenaciousness will serve you well and soon, you will figure out how to further your goals with the art of debate. (Although, it seems like you are well on your way to that end.) Keep pushing, Talia. This world needs more direct and confident women.

Stay curious. This is the time when everything seems new and shiny. Delight in your accomplishments. I love that you already know all of your letters, colours, and animals. How did that happen? Nobody seems to know exactly, except that you seem to be a quiet sponge, listening and absorbing. It is all so very matter-of-fact. When asked what letter that is, you look at us as if we are from another planet. "Of course, it's a K. Don't you know?" Never let anyone define your intellect. It is ok to be smart and to show it. The only limitations will be those you put on yourself. I want you to know that you can do whatever you want. Girls are good at math. Girls are good at reading. Girls are good at science. Girls can like Barbie and baseball. Girls can rock and girls can argue. There is no such thing as being "ladylike". Get out there and kick ass when warranted and listen when necessary. Everything is in front of you.

And I want to be there to watch it all. I want to sing with you, dance with you, read with you, eat junk food with you, and play with you. I want to be able to answer your questions, calm your nerves, dry your tears, and provide what little wisdom I possess. I want you to know your history, your faith, your family, and your heritage. I want to give you the moon, but I will be satisfied to bequeath the stories. You are my heart, my love, my whole being. 

I rarely do this, but I am going to share with you a song that I love. It is sung by Lee Ann Womack and I hope that when you hear it, sometime in the future, you will know that Bubby was singing it to you.

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger,
May you never take one single breath for granted,
God forbid love ever leave you empty-handed,
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,
Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.

I hope you dance... I hope you dance...

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance,
Never settle for the path of least resistance,
Livin' might mean takin' chances, but they're worth takin',
Lovin' might be a mistake, but it's worth makin',
Don't let some Hellbent heart leave you bitter,
When you come close to sellin' out reconsider,
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.

I hope you dance... I hope you dance.
I hope you dance... I hope you dance.
(Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along,
Tell me who wants to look back on their years
And wonder where those years have gone.)

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,
Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.

Dance... I hope you dance.
I hope you dance... I hope you dance.
I hope you dance... I hope you dance.
(Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along,
Tell me who wants to look back on their years
And wonder where those years have gone.)

Happy Birthday, Dearest Talia.

May today and all days be wondrous and special.

Much love, always

Bubby