Here’s this week’s Smartmom from the Brooklyn Papers: This week she’s on the front page (above the fold) and not in her usual spot. Way to go, Smartmom.

The week before
Rosh Hashanah, Smartmom was meditating in her bedroom. Her attempts to
meditate at home are usually a comedy of errors and this was no
exception. The fragrance of burning incense seems to attract her
offspring like flies to honey.

The Oh So Feisty One tiptoed into the bedroom and assumed her very
best lotus position and scrunched her eyes shut tight. After a minute
or so:

“I’m bored,” she said. “Is it okay if I bang your singing bowl really, really softly?”

Grrrrr. So much for Inner Peace. Then the phone rang. It was Groovy
Grandpa reminding Smartmom about Rosh Hashanah dinner on Saturday.

Smartmom returned to the half-lotus position, her right hand resting
on her left palm, but she had a hard time quieting her mind because of
that Rosh Hashanah call. Should they go to shul? If so, which one?

The religion thing nags at Smartmom: Nag, nag, nag. Especially during the Jewish holidays.

It’s not like she grew up religious or anything. Hers was a secular
Jewish upbringing on the Upper West Side of Gaphattan. In other words,
she was brought up by atheists, who were very committed to their Jewish
heritage and their lox and bagels from Barney Greengrass on Sunday
mornings.

Still, on the high holidays, something deeply personal and profound
compels Smartmom to seek the sound of the shofar and the stirring
melody of Kol Nidre.

When Smartmom was 10, her parents decided that she and her sister
needed to go to Hebrew school — it was time to get some of that
old-time religion. Just in case.

It seemed hypocritical, but it probably was a good experience, even if the future Smartmom thought it was dumb at the time.

Going to Hebrew school meant no more Sunday morning bike rides in
Central Park, a cherished family ritual and one of the great pleasures
of Smartmom’s youth. Sitting in the basement of Congregation Rodef
Sholom learning Hebrew, and discussing anti-Semitism and the Holocaust,
was not.

Smartmom dropped out after a year. Maybe that’s why she’s so
ambivalent about going to synagogue: those Hebrew school Sundays really
cut into bike riding time with dad.

Yet since childhood, Smartmom has yearned for a spiritual
connection. For reasons she still doesn’t fully understand, she longed
to fast on Yom Kippur, to eat only matzoh during Passover, to see the
Hanukkah candles glowing night after night.

This child of atheists had an inner Jewish self that bloomed all by itself.

Clearly, she was after a spiritual experience bigger than the Nova
Scotia Lox counter at Zabar’s. She wanted more. Something elusive.
Something deeper than the day-to-day.

After Teen Spirit was born, Smartmom shopped for a synagogue or a
Jewish community for her interfaith family to be part of. Nothing felt
right. Nothing felt spiritual. Her quest eventually led to a private
meditation practice.

Smartmom closed her eyes and breathed in an out gently through her
nose. She heard the toilet flush in the bathroom. OSFO was playing
“Heart and Soul” on the electric keyboard. A Third Street alley cat in
heat was crying like a human child. Trying to meditate at home is a
joke, she thought.

Despite her forays into Buddhism, Smartmom works hard to instill the
ethics and values of Judaism in her inter-faith children; it is, she
feels, essential that they understand what it means to be Jewish (even
if no one seems to agree about what that means).

For Hanukkah, they light candles on a handcrafted, wrought-iron
menorah from the Clay Pot; they read aloud Isaac Bashevis Singer’s
classic stories while non-Jewish Hepcat prepares delicious potato
latkes.

On Passover, they sing a rollicking version of Dayenu during the
Seder ceremony, and search for the hidden matzoh afterward — the finder
even gets a little gelt.

Smartmom also feeds them plenty of lox and bagels from La Bagel
Delight — a poor substitute for Barney Greengrass or Zabar’s. Hepcat
especially loves the lox and bagel part, but he nearly fainted the
first time he saw gefilte fish.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Smartmom focused on her breath in an attempt to clear and quiet her racing mind.

It’s been harder to find a way to meet the family’s disparate
spiritual longings. Hepcat and the Presbyterians parted company when he
said, “If God made everything, who made God?” in Sunday school.
Intellectually, he’s an atheist. Emotionally, he’s an animist.

Early on, Teen Spirit was interested in the big questions of Life
and Death. Although he never liked going to synagogue and didn’t want
to get bar mitzvahed, he was crazy about the Broadway production of
“Fiddler on the Roof” (with Alfred Molina, no less!).

After that, he learned enough Hebrew to say the basic Jewish
prayers. And she gave him a copy of “The Jewish Book of Why” on his
13th birthday. Just in case.

The Oh So Feisty One, from a young age, seemed to believe in a
higher power (Jewish or Presbyterian — it didn’t seem to matter). As
early as age 4, she’d put her hands together and pray, “Please, please,
please God, get me a Kit doll and a pair of her beach pajamas from
American Girl Place.”

When OSFO started asking questions about death, Smartmom knew
intuitively that she wanted to believe in heaven, a place where
Smartmom would love and care for her forever and ever. As Smartmom
affirmed OSFO’s belief in heaven, she, too, felt comforted by the
eternal power of love.

On her black meditation pillow, Smartmom returned to her breathing,
trying to unclutter her mind. But that’s about as easy as trying to
straighten up Hepcat’s desk (which she’s not even allowed to do). Too.
Much. Thinking. Should they go to Beth Elohim or Kolot Chayenu? Maybe
they should try the children’s service at the Park Slope Jewish Center.

There it is again: Nag, nag, nag. Even when she’s meditating. It’s
true. She never joined a synagogue. She never makes reservations or
gets tickets in advance for high holiday services. Obviously, it’s a
commitment problem.

Smartmom’s Orthodox friend, Yiddishe Mama, once said, “You have one
foot in and one foot out because part of you does not want to let
yourself believe in miracles.”

Actually, Smartmom thinks she’s still pissed off about missing those
Central Park bike rides. Or maybe she just finds organized religion
boring and irrelevant. So why, she wonders, does she always decide at
the last minute to go to synagogue?

Last year on the eve of Yom Kippur, she Googled Kolot Chayenu and found out that the Kol Nidre service started at 7:30.

Smartmom and OSFO got there in warp speed and were lucky enough to
find a seat in the last row. The service happens to be in a church,
which is perfect for the inter-faith Smartmom clan. Someone takes pains
to cover the crucifix with a beautiful handmade textile.

As usual, Smartmom felt part of — and not part of — the service
(there’s too much Hebrew she doesn’t understand, and she doesn’t know
all the songs; she gets tired of standing up and sitting down). During
the service, she closed her eyes and tried to meditate while listening
to Kol Nidre, that haunting melody on this most holy of Jewish nights.

The phone rang again. Smartmom knew she wasn’t going to get any more
meditating done. Who is it this time? Probably that religion thing.
Nag. Nag. Nag.

This year Smartmom knows that she’ll be racing off to Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur services — somewhere.

Maybe this year she’ll accept that her quest to find a way to honor her Jewishness continues.

Maybe this year she’ll accept that her meditation and her Judaism
can exist together like cream cheese and lox on a poppy seed bagel.
Breathe in. Breathe out.

Maybe this year she’ll even pick up some tickets — in advance.