At first I thought the summaries bothered me because I am more comfortable looking ahead than I am looking back. Or it could be because I thought it was preposterous to try to sum up 365 days  in one column or television segment.

But then it dawned on me. The reason I didn’t want to review the last year was because it was dangerous territory.  If  I dipped my toe in the water of nostalgia, I would likely be pulled in by the tide of gratitude.  If I gave it just a little thought, if I put together the pieces of the last twelve months, I would see that I had a year overflowing with mind-blowing blessings. And I really needed to write a final paper for grad school today.

As I sat in the pew of my synagogue, mesmerized by Harrison’s d’var torah as he become a bar mitzvah, I knew it was a special year. A shy child become a bold man, looking his guests in the eye as he shook their hands, allowing himself to be body-passed over the dancing crowd, hugging me when he thanked me and Michael at the end of the night.  It was a year of watching Olivia mature, too, as she generously handed her brother the limelight,  and as she made fresh choices for healthy friendships. There was nothing like watching her ferociously face opponents on the basketball court, too.

My brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, sisters-in-law and parents astounded me with their bottomless well of love in 2009. They flew out to California for Harrison’s bar mitzvah, and filled the crowd at my book launch in Milwaukee. They called me and offered me support as I decided to leave consultancy and seek the next career move. Throughout the last year, they constantly told me words that still make me cry today: I’ve got your back.

It was a year of nieces. Sabrina moved in with us, and Stephanie spent after school hours with the kids every week. They both share their spirit, their humor, their zeal for life with our households. They  are forbidden to leave the state. I’ve offered them incentives to lure their siblings to California.

This year I finally deeply understand the transitions my mom had the courage to go through in her own life, and I credit her with my strength and stamina. She was my first one to read my manuscript, she is my first call after a victory, and the first voice of support on a bad day. She held up my book at every one of her networking meetings, boasting about her daughter and selling books, and she scheduled my book launch in Milwaukee. Forget the woman behind the man. She’s the mom behind the woman.

Hikes with girlfriends and candid conversations were the highlights of my weeks last year. I am so fortunate to have friends who showed such unbridled enthusiasm when The New Jew was published, and their support for everything I do means the world to me.

My book tour gave me the unexpected bonus of spending time with friends I had lapsed with. They opened their homes to me when I stayed in their cities, feeding me, giving me vitamins when I was getting overrun from exhaustion. I felt nurtured and loved every time I travelled, and friendships have found second lives.

A surprise romance opened my heart to love in a new stage of life, and I am so very lucky. It’s different this time around – kids, schedules, careers and life’s daily bustle make it challenging to see each other sometimes, but I’m learning to integrate, and it is lovely.

It was a year with death. My brother-in-law Marshall passed away.  I miss him very much. I don’t think I’ll ever see a smile like his again. I was stunned by the death of my friend Robert, a friend of mine from Larchmont Temple. When I was last there he took a photo of me that I loved so much, I use it on my Facebook author page. They, and others, are gone. But they are not forgotten.

It is confirmed – I cannot possibly summarize an entire year in an essay. For every sentence of gratitude I begin, ten more pop into my mind. How can I recall each pomegranate colored sunset over my deck, the cat’s smug expression from the sofa, the raucous games of Pictionary, the sound of the branches brushing my window, the taste of the best smoothie ever, the feel of my daughter’s hand in mine?

I have just one New Year’s resolution: to give back even half as much as I received last year.

Happy New Year.

I always love movie night at home with Harrison and Olivia. We make popcorn on the stovetop, pour sodas and sports drinks over ice, grab a bag of sweets, and load it all onto a tray with our special old-fashioned red-and-white striped individual popcorn containers.  We spread two blankets over our three laps and feel festive before we even hit “play” on the DVD player.

So I was a little taken aback when, after my announcement,  Harrison and Olivia sighed in unison and say, “Oh, no.”

 ”What? What is it?”

They exchanged knowing glances. ”Is it an inspirational movie?” Olivia shook her head.

I flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is there a stray dog in it?” Harrison asked.

“Or a thinking-out-loud cat?”

“Or a girl that bonds with a horse?”

“Is there an overage or underdog athlete?”

“Or a coach that is changed by a bunch of kids?”

I tried to cover the fact that I was flustered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know what we’re talking about! Please, mom – no more inspirational films!!”

I couldn’t believe that after all these years, Harrison and Olivia finally figured out my hidden agenda in movie night. Apparently the popcorn and treats didn’t cover it up anymore. My kids knew me. I’m an inspiration junkie.

My google homepage is littered with motivational quotes. I love them so much that I’m compelled to cut and past them onto my Facebook wall.   I love an uplifting conversation with a girlfriend, my sister, my brother or my mom.  I read biographies because other people’s lives inspire me, and I was motivated to write one myself.  I’ve been known to watch snippets of inspirational DVD’s while I get ready for the day, and my CD stacker in the car is loaded with books on tape that make the day seem a little brighter. It’s always been this way, evidenced by the fact that Tony Robbins was my idol when I was a child. 

But I didn’t have time to defend myself. There was movie night at stake, and I had a daunting task at hand: how to sell my kids into watching a movie about a professional basketball player who is court-ordered to coach a kids’ hopelessly losing team. I think I saw a kitten on the DVD cover, too.

“Is this film inspirational? Just tell us now.”

“I think it’s more of an urban film. About a bunch of school kids. Looks fun!”

As we carried our tray downstairs, and cheered and cried our way through the night, I smiled. Who doesn’t like a little inspiration?

“Pajama day!” they’ve declared for the last four days, when their school year ended. That’s code for, “We’re not getting dressed today. No matter what.” It includes going on errands or playing outside. They even talked me into joining them on their summer dress code yesterday. I lasted till 1:00 p.m.

It’s not that things haven’t been eventful since summer officially started. Family, friends and new faces joined me in my Oakland book launch party last week – a wonderful event of book signing, reading, trivia contest and most importantly – gratitude. We celebrated Harrison’s 13th birthday the next day (could it really be I’m the parent of a teenager now? Strange, that he’s getting older and I’m not). We were fortunate to have my 24 year-old niece, Stephanie, join us for an impromptu two-night slumber party. And now the kids and I are gearing up for their sleep away camp while I finalize scheduling for a Midwest book launch.

But “eventful” is not the adjective we’re looking for to describe our summer days in our family. Rather, Harrison and Olivia thrive on a whole lot of nothingness. And the gift to me, amid my continued structured schedule, is coming across evidence of their creative use of their time.

The other day I stepped outside to see Stephanie and Olivia emerge from the neighbor’s thicket of bushes. Snowball, our cat, darted out ahead of them with a distinct look of irritation.

“Harrison!” Stephanie hollered. “I’ve got sap in my hair!” Moments later she and Olivia were leaning against fallen chairs, inching their way down the middle of our street.

“Go!”

“Stop!”

“Go!”

Harrison stood behind the laptop, a cable dangling between it and a camcorder, as he directed a stop-motion film. Clearly there will be more films this summer. As I type this, Harrison is behind a tripod, filming “Spoiled Child,” a short film he and Olivia are co-creating. I’m not allowed to know the plot, but from what I can glean, spoiled girls wear barretts.

Today Harrison showed me his President Obama project, a baseball hat covered in a decoupage of Obama names and images. As I admired it, something caught my eye overhead. Hanging from the beams of the living room was an astounding array of stuffed animals.

“Is that for the movie?” I asked Olivia.

“No,” she answered. “That was just a side project.”

But its not all fun and games – for me. Yesterday I walked through the family room, only to be brought to an unexpected halt.

“What on earth–” my arms flew about as I tried to disentangle myself from some mysterious web.

“Gotcha!” Olivia cheered from the sofa. “It’s invisible thread!”

“They got me, too, ” Stephanie sympathized. “Only with me, it was my feet.”

I suppose I could have scheduled a slew of day camps for the kids. Maybe it was my own sentimentality for my carefree summer days of childhood that holds me back every year. There will be swim lessons, and one day camp later this summer. And we’ll also have a few beach days, a camping trip or two, and a long Amtrak ride up the coast of California. But mostly, I look forward to watching my kids listen to their own spirit as they create their days’ activities. Even it is does mean watching out for the occasional trap.

I knew that Saturday, May 30th would be magical. What I didn’t know is that it would transformational. During the week beforehand, all odds were against hit. Harrison was hit with strep throat on Wednesday, and Olivia and I spent Thursday night in the ER for an injured finger. Guests were arriving, place cards had to be made, and there were many details to take care of. Yet, the ailments renewed my perspective of our blessings in life. Harrison would get better. Olivia would heal. And we would celebrate my son’s new phase of life.

I expected to be weepy on Saturday, but that seemed to be released Friday night as Harrison led the congregation at kiddush. Instead, I was beaming on the day of the bar mitzvah. My brother-in-law approached me in the morning and said, “This is a big day for you.”

“No, not really. It’s a big day for Harrison.”

And it was. At first he sniffled his way through the service in the background on the bimah. But when it came time for him to chant, he did so beautifully. The magic happened in unexpected moments. Having my entire family stand on the bimah for pictures, surrounding my son in his kippah. Watching friends and family envelop Harrison at the Torah, looking on as he chanted  from the scrolls. Seeing Harrison and Olivia embrace at the podium after she read her poem.

Yet, nothing stirred me more than to hear Harrison give his d’var torah. Using his pages of text only as notes, his eyes panned over the congregation, his friends and family, as he implored us to be more connected with our food sources, to eat together as families, and to help feed the hungry. He rose from childhood into a young adult leader at that moment, and we were wowwed. We had all witnessed Harrison becoming bar mitzvah.

There is so much more… the sanctuary brimming with love, the party pulsating with joy. We were a community, welcoming Harrison into the folds of adulthood. He was embraced. 

Michael had his transformations, bringing several walks of life together into one room. Olivia had hers, gracing the dance floor with her free spirit, taking in the love of everyone. And I have mine. It cannot be a fluke that I had  to go on book tour two days after the bar mitzvah. I feel I am being asked to do something that will enrich me forever: I am being asked to hold joy.

Now, as I sit in my old stomping grounds of Manhattan, the same neighborhood where I pushed Harrison along in his stroller a dozen years ago, daydreaming of becoming a writer, I am struck by the poignancy of life. It is a sweet cup of coffee here in Manhattan.

It might be surprising, then, to hear me say that it was perfect that my brother and his family were visiting this weekend. Yet, I couldn’t think of a better gift. The minute he, Rachel, and his two kids, ages 4 and 10 months, walked through the door, a calm set in, and love spread exponentially.

Harrison and Olivia spent endless hours with their little cousins, showering them with attention and affection, teaching them new games, reading, playing and hiking. When Rachel marveled at their demonstrative love, I pointed out that they had learned from the best example – their own cousins and extended family. Whenever we return to Wisconsin or New York, or when family visits us, age gaps disappear. Harrison and Olivia are always loved unconditionally by their cousins,aunts, uncles, and grandparents,too. It would follow they would show the same type of love to their younger cousins.

I devoured the opportunity to cook big family meals. The kids grinned, as did the parents, when we laid out platters of food family style, shared blessings, and lingered at the table after dinner, sharing riddles and stories.

“Do you wish you had more kids?” Rachel asked me privately while I prepared dinner one night.

“How did you know?” I answered.

“Because you were made for this. You’re in your element.”

As I watched four year-old Aaron do a dance-walk across the dining room, humming to himself one morning, as his little sister smiled on, I flashed back to Harrison and Olivia at those ages. How did that time pass so quickly? Andy and Rachel were enveloped by parenting young children. I was planning my adolescent son’s bar mitzvah.

I wanted time to stand still all weekend with my brother and his family. This was what I wanted life to feel like all the time – no responsibilities, a house brimming with people, no schedules. But I knew I had to get back to real life. Sunday afternoon I finally showed some willpower and claimed my need to run errands for next Saturday’s event.

I suddenly had a full appreciation for the tradition of bar mitzvahs. Not only is it a threshold into adulthood for our son,  it is a great time to pause, and take notice of this moment in time. We’ve had thirteen beautiful years with Harrison. Five years from now we’ll be writing his pack list for college. And you can bet I’m going to hundreds of family meals between now and then.