I am very fortunate to live in a nice neighborhood in a district with good schools, but the house I rent is probably in the bottom 10% of houses in this extremely affluent community. Maybe even bottom 1%.  “The land of expensive cars” is what I like to call it, because it feels like every other car I see in our neighborhood is a BMW, Mercedes or Lexus, and it’s parked in the driveway of a multi-million dollar home. (I want to be clear that I am NOT complaining about my house! I am super grateful to be in our home, but I need to put this in perspective. Most of the other people in our neighborhood are very wealthy).

With all the wealth in our community, it was really surprising to me to see homeless people in our town. There is one in particular who roams the neighborhood near where I live. I first saw him about two months ago, at the end of the school year, when my daughter’s class had a picnic at a local park. “Look!” one of the children said, pointing toward the telltale barge of a shopping cart, overloaded with tied-up grocery bags and tarps. “It’s a hobo!” We couldn’t see a human being, just a pile of stuff on wheels. But I looked closely, and underneath the mound of plastic I saw two shoes on the ground, and in the shoes I saw ankles. The rest was covered up, perhaps as protection from the late morning June sun. I was embarrassed for the person (I had no idea if there was a man or woman under all those bags) and hustled the kids along, deciding that moment would not be appropriate to explain the difference between a hobo (which brings to mind images of scrappy, knapsacked men that stowaway in train cars and sing songs about the Big Rock Candy Mountain) and a homeless person.

The kids quickly moved on to their field games at the park, and we didn’t pay any more attention to the homeless person, until it was time to eat. The barge of bags was right next to the door of the tennis courts, and we needed the large trash can that was inside the court. One of the other moms grabbed the trash can, and when she returned, whispered to us, “I think there’s someone underneath all that stuff!”

The kids ate their lunches and took turns at the “dessert table,” piled high with lots of fruit, muffins and cookies. When it was time to leave, there was still quite a bit of food left, so I put a bunch of grapes, watermelon and cookies on a paper plate and walked over to the shopping cart. Upon closer inspection, there were probably fifty plastic shopping bags tied all over the cart. I couldn’t tell what was in the bags. I walked around to the other side and saw that the ankles led up to pant legs and there was a man, sitting on a plastic fold-up lawn chair. His face was covered by a homemade canopy, so I bent down and saw he was sitting with his eyes closed, hands on his lap, as if he were meditating. He had a long, white beard and long, matted hair, sort of like a grungy Santa Claus. I said, “Excuse me,” and he quietly opened his eyes and looked at me quite calmly. “Would you like some food?” He didn’t smile, but said, “Yes, thank you.” I handed him the plate and wished him a good day. He again thanked me.

I wish I had talked with him more. I am curious about how he got to this point in time and want to ask him why he is on the street. Is he someone who is homeless by choice or is that a myth we’ve perpetuated to make us feel better when we see someone like this man? Many people have complimented me on how brave I am to quit my job and yet I couldn’t stir up the courage to talk with him, perhaps because I was afraid of his answer. What if he’s not homeless by choice? Then what do I say or do? How could I help him? Could I approach this like the story of the woman throwing the starfish back into the ocean…that every little bit we can do to help someone in need makes a difference, no matter how small it seems? I hope I can find the courage to speak with him next time.

Today was the first day of school for my kids…third grade for my daughter and fifth for my son. After the flag-raising ceremony, I walked over to the multi-purpose room for today’s purpose: reconnecting with other parents! There was a “coffee and volunteer sign-up” in the MP room and I was delighted to see how many parents stayed to volunteer for the various school activities throughout the year.

This year marked the first time that I brought a baked good for the welcome-back coffee that I myself baked. During previous years, I was in a job or looking for my next job, so if I even managed to sign up to bring something it was normally pre-made from Trader Joe’s (every working mom’s best friend) or Whole Foods (if I felt like I needed to impress people). This year, however, I baked. I BAKED. Yes, it was from a mix from Trader Joe’s, but I had to turn on an oven, dammit, so I want my awesome-mom-points. And bonus points because I hacked the crumbcake recipe and made delicious crumb-cake muffins.

Thus, it was delightful to saunter in – fresh from my arrival on my Townie cruiser bike – and deposit a tupperware container of home-madebaked muffins on the breakfast table. I didn’t need to rush through signups, or hurry my conversations with other moms (and one dad!)…there were no work meetings for me to get to and I had nothing scheduled until pick-up time! I enjoyed the time catching up with the other parents.

One of my amazing mom friends – who is a lawyer, working part-time, and a mom of two great daughters – knew that I had stopped working for a few months and had hinted in an email that she would love my help with fundraising. When I arrived at the volunteer coffee, I saw her standing by the table with signup sheets for the fundraising events and I went over to say hello. She was in side-show barker mode and doing a phenomenal job of signing up parents to help with the fund-raising events for the school, and when she saw me, she immediately sidled up next to me and started the recruiting process.  She reminded me that this was my son’s last year at the school (sniffle!) and wouldn’t it be great to be involved in making it an awesome year! It was an easy sell…I really like her and I am grateful to be able to help out, so I signed up to help reconcile the payments after the fall auction. With my commitment sealed in ink on the signup sheet, we moved on to catching up on our summers, and I realized that this was the year her younger daughter started kindergarten. She told me how she started tearing up when she took a photo of her two girls this morning, and when the girls asked her why she had tears in her eyes…she replied “Allergies!” Ah yes, the allergies that seem to only strike us on the first and last day of the school year….

I used to be a dog owner. I like to say that my first children were of the four-legged variety, before I became a mom.  I had a black lab for almost 15 years…I take great pride that he lived for so long (most labs live 10-12 years). He eventually got so old that he couldn’t control his back hips or his bowels (common for larger dogs like labs) and after a year of cleaning up poop in my house, I finally called a special vet who makes the dreaded final house calls and she put him to sleep in our living room. It was one of the most painful days of my life.

My kids are of the age where many of their friends’ families are getting puppies. My daughter has been begging me to get a puppy, but fortunately, I’ve been able to avoid dog ownership, as our landlord doesn’t allow pets (she made a special exception for the tortoise). Plus, when they’re at their dad’s I don’t want to be stuck with taking care of a dog on my own, and they wouldn’t be able to bring the dog to his apartment because his landlord doesn’t allow pets either (although they made a special exception for their cat). For the past 6 months, I don’t think a day has gone by when my daughter hasn’t sweetly mentioned what wonderful pets dogs are or said “Mom, tell me more about what you like about puppies” (she’s an amazing negotiator for her 8 years).

This past weekend, I agreed to help watch my friend’s 6-month old lab puppy (we’ll call him Rusty, to protect his identity. In case, you know, he reads this). I thought it would be a great opportunity to test the kids out with a dog, and I only had to walk him twice, so I happily agreed to be part of Team Rusty (my friend smartly divided up the 2 days of dog-watching among 4 different friends to lessen the impact). I helped out on Saturday evening with the dinnertime walk/wear-out-the-puppy meetup at a local park. It brought back memories of taking my lab to a park to get him the exercise labs so desperately need so they don’t turn into house-destroying tornadoes.

We got to the park and the kids immediately ran to the playground. I was left holding the ChuckIt while Rusty barked and pleaded with me to please throw the goddamn ball already! So, I heaved the ball into the air and enjoyed watching him fetch. He hurled himself at it and proudly ran back, chomping on the tennis ball and salivating all over it. He came over and dropped the ball (good boy!) but when I reached over to pick it up he bit at the ChuckIt (bad dog!). Ooh! My dog-training instincts re-awakened as I recognized an opportunity to do some canine development. “WAIT!” I said sharply to Rusty and started leaning down to pick up the ball. He charged the ball again, so I grabbed his collar and jerked him back, saying “WAIT!” His eyes never left the ball. We tried it again. He charged it again. I yanked him back and yelled “BAH!” We tried it again. This time he watched. I slowly reached down and scooped up the ball and then yelled “Good Wait, Rusty!” and hurled the ball for him to chase. We worked on this for about 30 minutes. I was thrilled that toward the end, he seemed to be getting it (he’s a pure-bred lab, so I’m counting on some intelligence there). By this time, my children were climbing the backstop of the baseball field at the park and Rusty was seeking out shade and lying down whenever he brought the ball back, so we called it a day and walked Rusty home. I lucked out in that he never pooped the whole time, so I didn’t have to break out the pastic baggie for clean-up duty (I always really hated that part about dogs).

It was a good reminder that puppies are a buttload of work. On the walk back to Rusty’s house, my daughter talked about all the reasons we should get a dog (they’re comforting, they protect the house, they encourage us to get exercise when we walk them, etc.) until I pointed out that she and her brother had not helped at all with Rusty at the park. She looked at me funny and then gently explained that she didn’t want a lab because they are too much work and too physical. She wants us to get a cute little terrier puppy, which she assured me would be much, much easier than taking care of Rusty.

Ah, yeah right. 😉