When I met my husband Michael thirteen years ago, we knew within the first two weeks that this was it. (I like to tease him that he knew within the first two weeks, and that I’m still thinking about it, but we both know that’s a load of stuffed derma.) So it didn’t feel like we were rushing things when he asked me to meet his parents after one month of dating.
When we think of the term “survivor’s guilt”, we typically picture those who somehow escaped a tragic car accident that claimed others’ lives, or who lived to rebuild their lives after natural disasters like the recent earthquakes in Haiti and Chile. Over the last two and a half years, however, a new and growing breed of American survivors has emerged, with guilt firmly intact: those who have kept their jobs despite endless rounds of layoffs, closures, and foreclosures.
When I received an email from the New Victory Theater announcing a family comedy show called "The Flaming Idiots", my trigger finger clicked to buy four tickets faster than I could stop it. Little did I know that, in between the crackerjack juggling and zany shenanigans, I would experience a dramatic illumination of my personal values.
"I'm glad I caught you. I wanted to tell you a story about your kids," began the principal of my third-grade twins' Solomon Schechter school. And despite her casual tone, I suddenly stood erect, sucked in my stomach (as if that would help), and readied myself to hear an account that would require "a little chat" at home.
"So, Jacob and Sophie were playing basketball at recess together," she began.