Gone Fishin’
Be Back Soon!
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Dinner For Two
I have a standing dinner-date every Thursday with the same guy for the past five months.
Truthfully, I was the initiator. In fact, at first he resisted. I insisted. And although it started out a little shaky and often felt tentative right up until the last-minute, somehow, he always “showed-up“. In the beginning clearly, it was to appease me, more than likely out of a feeling of obligation. I understood. I gave him space. There was a lot of silence at the beginning too, not exactly awkward; more like “dead air”. I let him breathe and get used to the idea of spending time alone with me. I searched my brain for stimulating conversation and tried to bring up things I thought would interest him.
I have an amazing relationship with my daughter for which I am very grateful. My reluctant dinner-date — who also happens to be my 13-year old son — and I, have struggled quite a bit over the last two years. Living life on life’s terms and dealing with all that’s come with it, has taken its toll, created confusion, distortion and a disconnect between us.
Grappling with how to get him back, I tossed, turned and weighed many possible scenarios over and over in mind. I kept coming back to this weekly, dedicated time and space, this Dinner For Two.
At some point, you have to listen to your heart, trust your instincts and take a leap of faith. I had faith in him and me and the mothering and nurturing I’d done for the first eleven years of his life. And even though it was very difficult for the first few months, I never gave up.
Neither did he.
You can bore through hard things and get to the other side, as long as you don’t give up.
Patience and perseverance paid off. Time has healed.
It occurred to me this week, that now, it’s a given and there’s no doubt that we’ll have dinner on Thursday, just him and me. It’s become part of the schedule, part of the “routine” of our week.
It’s something I look forward too. It’s not however, something I take for granted — not for one second. I cherish and appreciate this time well spent; this time where I can just be my boy’s mom.
There are no more awkward moments of silence. Our discussions spread across a wide range of topics these days. I’ve learned a lot about various basketball, football and baseball players as of late. He asks me about my day and my interests. He’s forthcoming with the happenings at school.
It’s not perfect, nothing is but we’re connected again and I’m grateful.
“A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.” — Agatha Christie
Photo Credits #1 & #2: Google Images
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Boy, Oh Boy!
While it’s absolutely true that a pregnant woman wishes only for a healthy baby at the end of those “joyful” nine months of having your body completely taken over by a foreign being, it is just as absolutely true that pregnancy does weird and inexplicable things to a woman’s way of thinking. Crazy thoughts invade an otherwise rational woman’s mind and have a way of resting there awhile – at least they did for me, anyway. During the majority of my pregnancy with my first child, I was convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was having a girl. I just knew it. There really wasn’t another option. No further discussion required — thank you. In my mind’s eye, she was going to be just like me. By the time I was rounding out my seventh month, I had her name and future completely mapped out in my head. I fantasized often about the things we would do together; what I would show, teach and tell her. It was a neat little perfect package, wrapped sweetly in pink, frilly, feminine love.
It wasn’t until much too close to the eleventh hour of my due date that panic struck one day while I was trying to picture what my baby girl would look like and imagine her holding my hand, when the truly frightening thought occurred to me…
What if it’s a boy? A boy?? A boy.
It couldn’t possibly be a boy. I knew nothing about boys –let alone caring for and raising one. I dismissed the thought, immediately.
What came next of course, was the blessing of a healthy, baby boy whom I instantly fell in love with. In addition to the miracle of birth, there is that instantaneous bond that forms the moment mother and child see each other for the very first time, it’s the bond that creates an unconditional love, forever. That once horrifying “what if” thought evaporated as if it never existed and the focus immediately turned to…
I love you and I will try my best for you — always.
That’s how it was for me anyway. And so, the journey began. Enter Spiderman, Scooby-doo, pirates, dirt and worms in my fridge; fishing camp, building rockets and traps, collecting bugs, catching frogs and conducting experiments. The journey is thirteen years in the making now and includes football, soccer, basketball and baseball too.
Between two kids and three teams, practice and games, I’m either on a baseball or a soccer field three or four times a week these days, not exactly what I envisioned when I first began to fantasize about my children, better for sure and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Besides, a few years after the boy arrived I found myself rounding out my seventh month of a second pregnancy, this time, fantasizing about the brothers that would build an empire. In my mind’s eye, it was a solid little package, neatly wrapped in bold testosterone.
I was certain of it.
Until of course, she appeared, all soft and sweet and smiling-like.
A girl! She was a girl! What on earth would I do with a girl??
Tell me, were you surprised or did you find out what the gender of your child would be?
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OUR LIFE IN 3D
Please read my latest entry over at OUR LIFE IN 3D where this week, my friend Andy, invited me to Guest Post!
Click inside the quote above or on the link below and please, feel free to check out Andy’s site while visiting!
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Slipping Through My Fingers
This week my daughter turned eleven.
Last night she had her first ever, awake-over sleep-over party.
Slipping Through My Fingers
~ Björn Ulvaeus & Benny Andersson
Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
I watch her go with a surge of that well known sadness and I have to sit down for a while
the feeling that I’m losing her forever
and without really entering her world
I’m glad whenever I can share her laughter
that funny little girl
slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
the feeling in it
slipping through my fingers all the time
do I really see what’s in her mind
each time I think I’m close to knowing
she keeps on growing
slipping through my fingers all the time
sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table
barely awake I let precious time go by
then when she’s gone,
there’s that odd melancholy feeling
and a sense of guilt I can’t deny
what happened to the wonderful adventures
the places I had planned for us to go
well, some of that we did, but some we didn’t
and why, I just don’t know
slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
the feeling in it
slipping through my fingers all the time
do I really see what’s in her mind
each time I think I’m close to knowing
she keeps on growing
slipping through my fingers all the time
sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
and save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers
Slipping through my fingers all the time.
Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile……………
Mama Mia!
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A Thousand Miles
The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. — Chinese Proverb
Last week’s post sent me into my own kind of time and space continuum, reflecting on all that has occurred and changed in the span of one year; my job to a certain degree, my car, where I live and so much more, including how I approach things and what I find important to me now. Feeling like I’ve traveled a thousand miles since then, I’ve realized it’s true, it all began with a single step; literally putting one foot in front of the other and often they were baby-steps.
After taking so many steps, it became apparent that the road isn’t always a straight course. Sometimes, even a path with heart gets side-tracked by unexpected twists and turns. At times, it’s necessary to take drastic measures to get to where you need to be. But in doing so, you increase the possibility of opening the doors to where the power of your soul exits. There are no limits to what can be achieved when you tap into the power of your soul. You discover that with a little perseverance, that which once seemed insurmountable, is not. I’ve learned to Let Go, a lot.
I’ve also learned that anything is possible when you are true to yourself and your beliefs.
People have tremendous power to change their conditions.
~ Anonymous
Life truly is an adventure and every adventure begins with one single step, forward.
Photo Credit #1: Footsteps
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Impact
Two years ago this Spring, I stood in a courtroom and read to the judge, the Assistant D.A., the lawyers, the offender, his family and the rest of the court room, a statement outlying the immediate impact the offender’s actions had on our family. Standing by my side was the parole officer assigned to our case. That September, she started a Victim’s Impact Panel in the county I live in. Normally, such panels consist of victims of alcohol related crimes. This new panel is comprised of victims of felony crimes. Twice a year since then, a small group of speakers is assembled at our Police Station’s Community Center to share our stories; what happened and the impact of what happened on our lives. I’ve been asked to speak three out of the four times the panel’s been assembled so far.
What do you do there? Is the audience only criminals? Are the police there?
These are some of the questions my soon to be 11-year-old daughter started asking me last Tuesday when I told her I would be speaking on the Panel again and wouldn’t be able to pick her up from school Thursday.
Well, I said, I tell them what happened and how it affected our family and yes, the audience is just criminals. They’re convicted felons and armed officers are scattered throughout the room.
How come you didn’t go last time? She asked.
Because Brian was there. I said.
In our case, Brian Quain, was the offender. He’s the young man who’d been breaking into our house repeatedly for more than six months two winters ago. I wasn’t called to the panel last time because protocol says the victim should not speak if the offender is attending.
This is Brian Quain. Our neighbor. After 6-months of not knowing who was invading our privacy & our home, we installed a motion sensor camera that ultimately sent this image to my husband’s email while he was actually in our home.
Did Brian have to go last time?
Yes. I said. It’s mandatory; part of his sentence.
Can children go? She asked.
No.
Do the criminals get to speak at the panel?
No. They’re not allowed to speak at all. They can write a question for us on an index card, pass it over to an Officer and we can choose to answer or not answer it. When we’re all done speaking, we leave the room.
The audience members sit three to a table. There’s a questionnaire in front of them that they have to answer before they can leave. The Officers in the room collect them and bring them back to us.
Then what?
We go to a different room and talk. There’s a person there that helps us work through any hard parts and then we get to look at the questionnaires.
What kind of questions are on the questionnaire? She wanted to know.
Oh, things like, what crime did you commit? Are you paying restitution? Who was affected by your crime? What do you think the impact of your crime was on your victim? Which of the victim’s stories impacted you the most and why and if you had a chance to say something to your victim now, what would it be?
Many members of the audience are “impacted” by my story because of the effects this continuous home invasion had on my children. Apparently, most criminals don’t like it when other criminals mess with children.
Neither do I.
It’s been exactly a year since I spoke on the second panel. This time, I found myself less emotional overall and more thoughtful in my words. I’m less consumed with what happened and more focused on the impact.
I realize now, I have an opportunity to convey a message:
Your misguided, thoughtless, selfish actions have devastating effects on multiple lives. Grown men are left jobless, on medication and fighting insurance companies on a daily basis to cover medical expenses as a result of what you did. Young girls are constantly looking over their shoulders now and making plans to move out-of-state before your release from prison for fear of your return. Families who lived quietly and privately on your street are left with anger and confusion and are torn apart. You have compromised our ability to TRUST.
You DO NOT have the right to mess with people’s lives, especially children’s lives and most especially, MINE.
It-is-NOT-Okay.
And, if I can’t tell Brian Quain directly — (there’s a five-year Order of Protection against him for each member of my family while he’s on probation) I’ll tell others like him.
And I did.
When I told Brian’s dad he should see the images of his son burglarizing my home he said “Oh, no. I can’t” Really? My children saw them. They didn’t have a choice.
This time on the panel, as I told my story, I passed around theses pictures of our 21-year-old neighbor invading our home. These are the same pictures that were sent via email from the camera we had set up in our living room to my husband’s computer; the pictures my then eight-year-old daughter saw when the police were buzzing through our house the day Brian was arrested coming out of it. These are the pictures Brian’s dad just couldn’t look at when I told him he should see what his son looked like when he was creeping around our home, for months, uninvited.
So much has changed in our lives since and as a result of, what happened. I don’t hold Brian completely responsible for all that came afterwards. There’s no doubt however that the fracture of our family was in part, collateral damage. The harmony that once resided in our home was disrupted to say the least. The sense of safety we enjoyed there for nearly 17 years, obliterated.
“You can’t let an event in your life define who you are. It’s not what happens to you but what you do, when something happens, that becomes part of your character.”
These are my words. I keep them on my About page and often revisit them to remind myself of what I believe to be true; to help me to continue to move forward.
To keep moving forward.
Mom? Did Brian have to fill out one of those questionnaires? Hannah asked.
Yes, I said. I’m sure he did. They all have too.
She paused for a minute, slowly looked up at me and said,
Can you see his?
Heart stop.
Can I see his?
The possibility hadn’t occurred to me.
I don’t know.
Why don’t you ask the parole officer if you can? she said.
Heart stop –again. God, I love this child.
Brilliant.
Could I ask? Would I ask? Did I ask?
Yes. Yes, I did.
Before meeting for the panel, I called the parole officer and asked her if it would be possible for me to see Brian’s questionnaire.
Even though Brian Quain didn’t respect our privacy two years ago while he repeatedly ransacked our home, our bedrooms, our closets and drawers, I am going to respect his and not say what the parole officer’s response was or whether I did or didn’t get to read Brian’s questionnaire and find out who he thought was affected by his crime and how or what he would say to us if he had the chance, now.
Related posts: My Edward, Life’s Terms-Not Mine, Unsolicited Journey
Photo Credit #1: Hope
Photo Credit #3: Trust/Google Images
Photo Credit #2, 4 & #5 Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile. Not to be reproduced or reused without express permission.
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The Child Whisperer
The flip-side of last week’s post thankfully, is that there are many amazing teachers that devote their whole lives to educating children. These people influence who we are in the most positive of ways, for life. Children do not forget who they are. They too are remembered and cherished forever.
In the Spring of 2001, curiosity got the better of me. My quest to find the right preschool for my overly active, precocious, almost 3-year-old son, finally provided the opportunity for me to see what was really going on in the mysterious looking Victorian house that sits majestically upon a hill overlooking the busy-ness of Route 9D. Little did I know as I walked into the hallway that echoed with song and laughter, that in-between the walls of this house that was a school, magic happened.
We were met by the cheerful smile of a woman who greeted us in the same friendly way you might be greeted by a favorite aunt. She introduced herself as Diane. We later found out that she was actually the Head Teacher of the Downstairs Program and an Administrator. The Downstairs portion of the house belongs to the 3, 4 and 5-year old learners. Immediately after introducing herself, she turned her attention to her real interest; the fidgety, inquisitive, little person clutching my leg with one hand and squeezing my arm with the other. She positioned herself on bended-knee to meet my boy; to see him, face-to-face, and as soon as I witnessed this act of immense respect from an adult educator to a 3-year-old child, I knew we had just walked into a very, very special place.
There is something about looking a person in the eye when you speak to them that makes them feel like you are sincerely interested in who they are and what they have to say and she was. He could tell.
You can’t fool children. Instinctively, they know sincerity.
My Noah, thrilled to be standing on the back of a hay truck during a visit to the farm with Diane. Preschool 2001
Diane wasn’t my son’s group teacher until two years later, but being the head of the Downstairs team, her influences and interactions were intertwined with all of the children. In his second year there, at age 4, having no trouble expressing himself verbally or physically among his peers, Diane “shadowed” Noah on the playground. Being the Child Whisperer* that she is, she followed him in his play, gently helping him choose kinder words and actions when he mingled with his friends.
Friends. That’s what Diane calls all of her students.
Okay, friends, it’s time to clean up the block room or Okay friends, we are going to get ready for lunchtime circle now.
Diane and Hannah playing with the play-dough she brought to our house.
Part of the school’s tradition was for the Downstairs’ teachers to make home visits to the children in their groups before school began in September. Twice we’ve been thrilled to welcome Diane into our home; once when my son was in her kindergarten group and again, before the start of my daughter’s first year at the Randolph School. Diane was her preschool teacher. She came bearing soft, freshly made play-dough to an unbelievably excited three-year-old fairy.
Talk about leaving a lasting impression!
This amazing teacher does not limit her generous nature to the children in her group. My daughter was struggling with writing in the second grade while in the Upstairs portion of this glorious house that is a school and where the older kids, first through fifth graders claim their domain. After asking me how Hannah was doing one day, I mentioned this to Diane who then took it upon herself to become her pen-pal that summer. Each envelope that arrived in our mailbox contained a hand written note and then some. Sparkly-feathery, sticker-y, lovely, glittery things would come pouring out before the letter.
The smallest act of kindness has the power to leave a very big, positive impact on a person’s life.
When my son was in kindergarten and told Diane he was playing the lottery for the first time, she told him to call her at home that night to let her know if he won. Had he won, no doubt, his reaction would have paled in comparison to the excitement he was overcome with when it came time to call Diane at her house and tell her he didn’t win.
Another time my son was scheduled to be in After-school but was the only child enrolled that afternoon. After bringing that to my attention the After-school teacher asked me if it would be okay to cancel. Since I only put him in because he wanted to stay at school, I agreed. This news was a huge disappointment to my little first grader and he through a massive fit on the porch of the school. That evening after speaking with him and hearing how much he was looking forward to being in After-school, I realized I had made a grave mistake by so willingly accepting the cancellation, simply because he was the only child enrolled. The next day, I sought Diane out and explained what happened. I asked her what the school’s policy was if there was only one child enrolled in the After-school program. Her response was swift and clear.
If one child wants to come to After-school, we have After-school. Now, she said, there’s one thing left for us to do.
With that, she called over the After-school teacher. The two of them went Upstairs, retrieved my son from class, apologized to him, hugged him and invited him to stay in After-school that day.
Truly extraordinary.
Diane seining in the Hudson River with another amazing teacher and their preschoolers. Noah, first in line, is like a sponge, soaking up everything they do and say.
Whether it’s a tender heart that needs mending, a river that begs seining or a rocket that needs launching, Diane has been soothing little souls, helping them to feel capable and confident in who they are, what they can do and who they might become since 1978 at the Randolph School.
Don’t get your liver in a quiver she’ll tell them when they begin to fret.
5-year-old Hannah launching her rocket with Diane.
A person who can consistently touch the lives of the people she comes in contact with, both big and small and make each one of them, myself included, feel special nearly every time she interacts with them has an EXTRAORDINARY gift. Truly.
That is Diane.
My children are better people for having been taught by Diane. I’m a better person for knowing her and having the honor of “over-hearing” how she speaks with and teaches children for the past six years while I quietly work across the hall from the Great Room where she spends much of her time with her friends.
A few months ago Diane announced that this will be her last year teaching in the big house that is a school and as inevitable as it was, the news has surely saddened many. No matter where Diane goes however, her influence, kindness and ability to make everyone she meets feel special will live on in our hearts, always. She is the teacher, the colleague, the friend that changes your life in the most positive of ways.
It is befitting that this weekend, Diane is presenting a workshop with a former student, who is now her young colleague and who is also bursting with similar magical qualities, at a conference in New York City entitled, In Defense of Childhood: Keeping the Joy of Learning Alive!
She’s been doing exactly that for nearly 34-years.
As my soon to be 11-year-old fairy who’s been receiving birthday and Christmas surprises from this teacher every year for almost as long as she’s been at this school would say so matter-of-factly…
“Mom. She’s Diane!”
Is there a Diane that has positively impacted your life?
Photo Credit #1 The Randolph School
Photo Credit #2-6 Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Title Credit: *Child Whisperer Thank you, Nicole for letting me borrow this description of Diane from you!
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Confessions of a Catholic School Survivor
Bless the beasts and the children
For in this world they have no voice
They have no choice
Bless the beasts and the children
For the world can never be
The world they see
She was tucking the light-yellow and blue plastic container of Vaseline Intensive Care back into a drawer of her desk and we had barely returned to the hardwood chair that uncomfortably attached itself to our desks, when over the PA system came the voice of doom. The announcement demanded that all the girls who’d been to the third floor bathroom in the last ten-minutes come to the school’s auditorium, immediately!
The pock-marked, red-faced teacher who’d just finished slathering cream all over her angry face and whose first words to me after reading my name on the roster for the first time in her 7th grade math class were, “Oh, no! Not another one. You’d better not be like your sister!” eyed us suspiciously. Without a word she nodded toward the classroom door and myself and the girl I’d just been excused with immediately rose.
I will never understand why teachers who don’t like children teach. They seem to enjoy being mean or hurtful. It’s sadistic and kids can always tell who they are.
This girl and I were quite different and while I wouldn’t say we were the best of friends, we were, friendly. Confusion and fear ran through my 12-year-old body as we came upon the two fifth-graders whose entry into the girl’s room only minutes ago, prompted us to quickly discard the evidence. My heart was racing and my brain was in overdrive. Did they say something? They couldn’t have. They wouldn’t be called here with us if they did. Besides, like two little kittens cornered by a pit bull, they were clearly shaking with fear. It was all I could do to keep my fear from being as transparent as theirs.
The auditorium was dark and empty of people although we stood at the back of what seemed like endless rows of gray, metal folding chairs that stopped right in front of the big black piano that rested itself off to the side of the stage. In the distance came the echoing of footsteps clapping steadily over the hard, cold, stone floors. The door swung open and she walked in. With an ever present “gotcha” attitude and a permanently stern look on her face, she glanced us over in one terse swoop as we stood nervously in a row, all wearing the same white collared blouses beneath regulation sweaters and plaid skirts that varied in length, above and below the knee.
I think you know why you are here, she said, confidently. Can anyone tell me what was going on in the third floor bathroom? Does anyone have anything to say?
No one spoke.
Okay, maybe this will help, she said and she pulled from her pocket as only a vice principal in charge of being the heavy can, a white tissue, neatly folded into a rectangle. Do you know what this is? She asked.
Of course we didn’t know! How could we know? We were scared, witless to her antics and worried about our fates for crying-out-loud! We stood there gaping at her treasure as she slowly and quite dramatically unfolded the tissue. In her Perry Mason moment she revealed the evidence we had discarded only minutes ago.
Full props for her unexpected display of shock and awe. Her quick reaction and immediate response brought the perpetrators directly to her lair.
We had immediately discarded the evidence. Actually, my friend threw it out the window in a panic when we heard the bathroom door opening and the two fifth graders came in. Now, here it was before us, stained with the glaring, red markings that obviously pointed to at least one of us. I wasn’t allowed to wear make-up to school and the fifth graders were too young, but there she stood, my friendly schoolmate, smiling her deep, red, shiny smile, as we viewed the incredible, half-smoked cigarette butt that held the imprint of my friend’s lipstick-laden, lips.
Unbelievable! How was this possible? What are the chances of throwing a half-smoked cigarette butt out of a third floor bathroom window only to have it land on the concrete ledge of the vice principal’s open window, while she was sitting in her office?
A gazillion to one, maybe?
Evidently pleased with herself, she carefully re-folded her prize and in another dramatic moment, told us she was going to leave us alone for a few minutes and let us talk it over.
Slaughter to the altar.
I can’t speak to Catholic School these days but the one I went to thirty-years ago reveled in discipline and there was without doubt, a constant, underlying movement to instill the fear to behave in otherwise good kids. As a child functioning under those conditions, you tend to find yourself in a perpetual state of “survival-mode” knowing that anything you do or say could be deemed bad. When it’s evident that the truth will not set you free but possibly get you expelled or left with a permanent mark on your record or worse, a tarnished reputation, you make another choice.
For right or for wrong and without a single word being uttered between us, in her two-minute absence, collectively, we made a decision on how this was going to go. When she returned, it was apparent that she fully expected the culprit(s) to have cracked and step forward or be offered up by the others so that she could swoop down and usher the fallen-soul to the next level of punishment.
Instead however, we presented her with a force she was clearly unprepared for.
There was no crying or finger-pointing. On the contrary, she was met with silence.
Well? She said, impatiently
Nothing.
We said nothing. We were silent, the four of us and the vice principal who sometimes wore two different shoes to school and whose forehead was now growing red with frustration, didn’t know what to do. Clearly the evidence pointed to at least one of us but there were in fact four of us in that bathroom and no one was giving the other up.
After several minutes of agonizing silence, she reluctantly dismissed us and never a word was spoken about it again, by anyone.
I’m not saying you shouldn’t step up and take responsibility for your actions but I don’t regret the decision we made that day not to speak up. We were all pretty good kids who were often treated in a not-so-good way by some of the adults in our lives.This was after all, the same school that called my parents in to convey their concern for my then six-year old brother after he drew a black Jesus Christ. Aside from the fact that because of the climate we know Jesus lived in there’s no doubt he was a brown-skinned man, when asked by my parents why he drew Jesus black, he said it was the only crayon he could find.
Bless the beasts and the children
Give them shelter from the storm
Keep them safe
Keep them warm
~ Richard Carpenter & John Bettis
Photo Credits #1-4 Google Images
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Wax On, Wax Off!
Normally, I find name-dropping to be rather tacky but let’s face it, being greeted at the door by Justin Timberlake is something you want to share and given the opportunity, tell me, what woman in her right mind could resist telling e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e she knows that she gave George Clooney a kiss on the cheek?
Certainly not me!
While I’m at it, I will say, The Pitts were there, although not looking as well as I had imagined. Angelina was having what appeared to be a very-bad-hair-day and Brad, well, let’s just say, Brad did not look like himself, at all! Same for Madonna. It’s true she looked absolutely fantastic at the Superbowl but sadly, this was not the case when I saw her last week. I almost didn’t recognize her! Admittedly, I was disappointed but the dazzling and most debonair, Denzel Washington more than made up for them. Yes, beaming as only he can, the crowd that encircled him was mesmerized by him.
Ah, Denzel!
The Jo-Bros were c-o-m-p-l-e-t-e-l-y adorable and even Miley Cyrus was looking her best but hats off, yes hats off indeed, to Diddy. “P” looked perfect!
Being a fan for more than one reason and, even at the risk of embarrassing my 13-year old son in public, I couldn’t NOT take a picture with Edward, I mean Robert Pattinson.
After all, he is My Edward.
I don’t always travel in circles such as these, only on very special occasions, like when I’m spending the entire day in New York City with my boy, eating falafels on Ludlow Street followed by crepes at none other than the Creperie on MacDougal. It was just after that, that we decided to spend the afternoon with the likes of sports legends, Eli Manning and Michael Jordan.
Where else but at the famous Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum can you find such a stellar gathering of celebrities eager and willing to pose for a photo or patiently receive a peck on the cheek by an unknown passerby such as myself?
Have you visited any of the Madam Tussaud’s Wax Museums?
Photo Credit #1: Denzel Washington Wax Figure at Madam Tussauds
Photo Credit #2: P. Diddy Wax Figure at Madam Tussauds
Photo Credit #3: Madam Tussauds Signage by Karen Szczuka Teich
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It Smells Like Updog!
It smells like updog in here!
Updog?
Yes. Updog.
What’s-Up-Dog?
Oh, not much!
Come on, you know you’re laughing. Let’s face it, that’s funny!
That’s also the kind of humor you get subjected treated to when you spend a long weekend with two teenage boys, a 10-year old girl and her 9-year old comrade. Oh, and there’s the girlfriend of the thirteen-year-old (yes, I said, girlfriend) who makes her presence known with the constant text-ing that is revealed through his ringtone which loudly and annoyingly announces:
“Excuse me boss, you have a text message.”
Every 5 to 10 minutes.
I truly feel like she came with us.
It started with a simple statement. Me, telling my kids I was taking them up to our place in the woods for this President’s Day long weekend. Before I could be consulted, a cousin was quickly added to the mix and then a friend.
It became the perfect blend of a very unlikely pairing of people.
It takes two-hours by car to go through the Catskills to get to our destination, a place I usually go to for serenity. The car-load spent their time partly singing Katy Perry’s Fireworks (over and over again) and partly playing Truth or Dare.
I love kids. They’re so honest, especially when they’re playing a game like Truth or Dare. They feel completely obligated to tell the truth.
It was basketball on the driveway. Tacos for dinner. A game of Striker on the ancient but still functional game-cube. Ice-cream at the Penguin. Man-hunt in the dark with flashlights, in the middle of winter, while it was snowing. Hot cocoa with whipped cream. Playing monopoly while watching Jeremy Lin magically maneuver the ball on the court against the Hornets and tea and cookies before bed.
These are the things kids’ dreams are made of.
It’s good to take a break from life, if you can. I’m extremely fortunate to have the place to escape to and these fabulous children to escape away with. I’ve been laughing-out-loud now for nearly three days straight. It’s a privilege to be the fly-on-the-wall, allowed to listen in to the lively conversations that span the wit and humor of the seven-year-age-difference between the youngest and oldest in this motley but most-loveable crew, thrown together by chance and circumstance. They’re truly making the best of it.
Sometimes, the best times are had with the least amount of planning.
It’s been an incredibly difficult time for my kids, in particular these past two years. There’s been lots of upheaval and turmoil and change and it has been a very long time since they’ve been in a relaxed enough environment where they can just have fun. It’s a joy to witness.
But it’s the never-ending laughter that I am so grateful to hear.
Seeing your kids laughing and happy is what parents’ dreams are made of.
It’s the middle of a strangely warm winter but nothing warms a mother’s heart more than to hear the echoing of her child’s laughter.
Photo Credit #1: What’s Up Dog Hat
Photo Credit #3, 4 & 5: Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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Close Encounters of the Boy-Girl Kind
“There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again.” Elizabeth Lawrence
I love the ease that comes with the close encounters of a playdate-kind. The ones that are shared between boys and girls, say… before the age of twelve, before things start to get weird between the sexes. There’s something magical about the way they interact; without judgment or concern, self-consciousness or worry. They’re simply honest and fun-loving with each another.
"Xbox Dance!"
I heard the laughter coming from the basement. It was a deep, it was loud. It was the kind that makes you run toward it because you want to be a part of whatever is causing such joy. My ten-year-old daughter’s happiest days seem to be when she’s having a play-mate over. She loves her gal-pals with all her heart but there’s something very special about spending time with the boy– friend who’ll explore the woods with her, go the distance in an Xbox dance-off or eagerly engage her in a round of laser tag. It allows for friendship which is what boys and girls share when they’re not trying to impress one another. It’s not like a brother or sister relationship either, there’s no jealousy or rivalry to taint the waters. It’s a bond that’s made to be cherished well into adulthood. It’s not forgotten.
My friend’s name was Walter. He gave me the most beautiful multi-colored, flowered-dress for my 10th birthday. One time his parents took me and him sleigh-riding Upstate. His mom brought hot-cocoa in a thermos for us. My love for Walter is genuine. It holds a forever-place in my heart and it has nothing to do with romance. In fact, it never really occurred to me that Walter was a boy. His gender was never on my radar and didn’t seem important when we played games, went sleigh-riding or explored the woods together. He was my friend and having been fortunate enough to have shared a friendship like that, it’s easy to recognize it now as an adult, when I see it.
There’s something very lovely about observing a friendship your child shares with a member of the opposite sex, especially at a time in their lives when they are exploring and experimenting with independence but are still young and naive enough to really enjoy one another’s company. It’s pure. As a parent, you do your best to encourage it, foster it, allow it to grow and hope that when those weird years arrive and they do arrive, somewhere in the back of their heads and hearts they’ll both remember, they’re just boys or just girls. Behind their new-found bravado and all the pretending not to care that comes with it, we they all really want the same things, boys and girls that is: to be loved, to be respected and to be-befriended.
Do you have a friend of the opposite sex that you remember fondly from your childhood?
Photo Credits #1-4: Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
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All About Football
This week, it’s all about football. As it should be.
Super Bowl Sunday after all, boasts more than 100-million viewers. And that’s not including those who will for the first time, be able to get the game streamed-live through their computers or on their androids through Verizon’s NFL Mobile app this year. Many viewers will tune in simply to catch the commercials that are selling for upwards of $3.5 million dollars for a 30-second spot. Others will gather in front of their screens or phones, to watch Madonna during half-time, in hopes of witnessing something spectacular. Super Bowl Sunday has something for everyone.
Like baseball and apple-pie, football is a staple of Americana.
My 13-year-old son played on his first football team this past fall and admittedly, I entered the season with a fair amount of trepidation and skepticism. I had my doubts to say the least and even cried foul! on parental interference after witnessing arguments amongst parents and overhearing less-than-encouraging remarks spewed from a dad’s lips to his son’s ears from the stands during a scrimmage. And of course, there were those few pre-game injuries that left “worry” all over me. But it wasn’t about me. It was about letting go and supporting my boy’s passion. Thankfully, the drama was quickly squelched when his three coaches gathered parents and players together and put forth a team “code-of-conduct” that had the distinct air of –if you don’t like it, you can leave– attached to it. This, for the most part, put the ka-bash on future parental outbursts. These men meant business and would stand for nothing less than 100% from everyone. Parents included.
I’m okay with accountability.
As a parent you try to teach your child to take responsibility, be fair, honest and work hard to achieve their goals. For the first two weeks of practice, my boy came home bruised and swollen, dirty and tired. He endured grueling 3-hour practices everyday during the month of August and three days a week from September until the end of November. He was expected to maintain a passing grade average and had to submit school reports to his coaches for review. The integrity of his coaches gave me a new-found appreciation for the game, overall. Along with game-play-strategies, life lessons were taught and there was an in-your-face demand on each player, to show up ready to give it their all, every time.
I am also okay with placing high expectations on kids who are capable.
Knights @ Marist College against White Plains. My boy is center #22.
The emphasis was on the team and while they absolutely protected their quarterback, they also hailed the guys that ran, blocked and threw for him. Maybe this isn’t news to you all but it sure was for me. The best part is that while I had my suspicions that I was liking what this sport was doing for my son’s overall character, the real evidence surfaced in December, when the football league gave him an award for maintaining a 92% or above, average during the season and later that month at his parent/teacher conference. Students participate in their conferences at his school and after his adviser acknowledged his ability to keep-up his schoolwork while playing soccer for the school and the town, as well as Pop Warner football, simultaneously, he asked my son what he felt football did for him this season. I was pretty blown away, not to mention proud when he came out with something that closely resembled this:
When I started to play football I wanted to be the one to get the touchdown but I realized that even if my part in a play is small, if I don’t do my best to execute it, it could effect the whole team and whether or not we win. If we all do our part, we all will benefit from it because we’re a team.
Coming from the boy who proclaimed he would be playing for the NFL long before he every wore his first pair of shoulder pads, I was impressed that the importance of being a team-player was one of the values he came away with. He got it.
He’s since changed his mind and no longer wants to be an NFL player but he will always be a superstar to me.
This year I’ll watch the game with a slightly different eye, one that sees beyond the price of a 30-second commercial spot or the half-time glitz and glamor. I will actually watch the game and the players and hope to see some of the determination and heart that I saw these young boys display week after week last fall, to where their efforts propelled them into the NFC Pop Warner Conference Championship. This year, I’ll look for strategy behind the play and know that it wasn’t achieved without hard work and pain, camaraderie and trust. There’s more to it, I’ve learned, than just running a ball from one end of the field to the other.
Whether you’re a Patriots or a Giants fan, sit back and relax!
Enjoy the game and may the best team win! Whomever that may be…..
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What We’re Made Of
The memory of the ice-skating shop I referenced in last week’s post and the brilliant recall of its name, The Skate Exchange, which was revealed to me in a conversation I had this week, stirred-up some childhood memories that will no doubt come in handy.
Tell me a story, mom.
Every night when I lay with her for a few minutes at bedtime, my ten-year old daughter still asks me to tell her a story. She’s not looking for Little Red Riding Hood or Goldilocks, she wants to hear about my childhood, like how we used to jump fences when we were running from Dobermans in the gravel yard and whose kiss was the best when I played Spin-The-Bottle in the 7th grade. It’s fascinating to her and very different to how and where she’s being raised. Nestled neatly in the suburbs, an hour-and-a-half outside of the big city, there are no sidewalks for her to walk to school on, no empty lots to take a shortcut through, no bicycle to ride to a friend’s house. She doesn’t hangout on the street corner where the local deli is or come home when the sun goes down. She gets driven everywhere.
Beacon Hall ~ The building I grew up in.
She has no idea what it’s like to live in a five-story apartment building, in the summer, on the 4th floor, with no elevator. I’m not sure she even knows what a dumb-waiter is or can imagine how we used it to send garbage from our apartment to the basement or pulley-up groceries and kids occasionally. Nor can she fathom the advantages of apartment-living, how great it can be for trick-or-treating and getting a game of kick-ball together, on the fly, with the gaggle of kids that resided within. Her entire class of 3rd, 4th and 5th graders combined don’t make a whole team. Woods with trails where deer live is her backyard. In-door pools and lakes are where she swims. She’s never seen a beach laden with tar that could only be found on the rooftop of an apartment building.
Tar Beach. It’s where we carried heavy, wet loads of wash to, two-flights-up because we had no dryer and because that’s where our and all the other tenants’ clotheslines were. It’s where you could go to escape from your crowded apartment and find solace for a while, maybe even meet up with a neighbor and chat a bit.
In the summer, the sweltering heat would leave a steamy haze over the roof’s flooring, partially melting the sticky-gooey-black glue in the uneven lines where the tar was laid extra thick to patch up cracks or small holes. If you were foolish enough to go up there barefoot, which we so often were, you’d quickly scorch the bottoms of your feet, leaving them blackened and raw, after a desperate attempt to find a shady spot somewhere across the rooftop to rest and cool your toes on. Sometimes we’d bring a towel and a bottle of Johnson’s baby-oil up with our load, choosing to fry for the hour it took for the clothes to dry. It was a fast but painful way of getting a “tan”, as we always ended up red instead of brown at that hour’s end. Those were the worst of burns.
Tar Beach was where we brought our lawn chairs to watch the fire works on the 4th of July. It was the temporary home to Secret Servicemen and government snipers when President Nixon’s motorcade drove down Main Street, right passed our building in 1972.
President Nixon's Visit to New Rochelle in 1972
And it was from our Tar Beach that a woman in her early 40s purposely plunged to her death, landing in the same asphalt parking lot behind our building where we played our kick-ball games. Her name was Virginia Coombs and her mom was the Bubble Gum Lady who lived on the 2nd floor. All you had to do was knock on her door and when she opened it, she’d hand you a piece of Bazooka bubble gum from the drawer of a little wooden table she had against the wall near her apartment door. No words needed to be exchanged, expect “thank-you,” of course. She knew why we were knocking.
I didn’t know the Bubble Gum Lady had a daughter who’d been married.
I was eight or nine-years old when that happened. A few hours after her death, two men came and shoveled her remains into the bed of a red pick-up truck. I know this because I watched them do it from my bedroom window. I had to figure out how to process what I saw, myself because no one ever explained to me what happened to Virginia Coombs that day.
I chose to pray for her.
I still do, which is why I remember her name.
Tar Beach. It was from there that if no one was home when we got home from school, my siblings and I would climb down the wrought-iron fire-escape to a 4th floor, bedroom window in order to get into our apartment when we forgot our key. I remember doing this and being petrified while doing it too. I’m afraid of heights. It’s only a miracle that none of us fell and perished, ourselves.
Maybe there really is something to the old saying, “If it doesn’t kill you, it will make you stronger.”
I think it’s the experiences of our childhood and how we process them that help define what we’re made of; the good, the not so good, the scary, the sad, the joyful. All these things contribute to who we are as adults. Our childhood helps build our character. It’s there, where we learn to use humor to protect ourselves, where we learn about compassion and empathy and most of all, love. Sometimes the purest kind of love can stem from that spin-the-bottle-kiss that you remember so fondly. The kind that lasts a lifetime.
My daughter will never have the same kinds of experiences I had. She’s not meant to.
She has her own.
But she loves to hear about mine and through them, some of them anyway, I hope she’ll get a glimpse of what helped me, make me, who I am.
Photo Credit #1 Beacon Hall
Photo Credit #2 Clothes Line
Photo Credit #3 Nixon in New Rochelle 1972
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One With It!
I’m not a skier, although one day, I intend to learn. It’s on that list I’ve started creating. The one containing all those things I used to be afraid of but now seem somewhat determined to master or at least try, like horse-back riding and riding a motorcycle.
Skiing is not a sport my parents were familiar with when I was growing up, let alone could afford. My dad however, was an excellent ice-skater. Each year he’d take us to a little shop in Larchmont, where we would trade in the previous year’s skates for “newer”, bigger-foot-sized ones and have our blades sharpened. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the sparks flying from the blade-sharpening machine that was operated by the elderly man wearing goggles. The shop was on our way to Playland in Rye, NY, where there’s an ice-skating rink that the New York Rangers hockey team used to practice at and where my Dad taught us how to skate. Despite my Dad’s not-so-warm-and-fuzzy demeanor, somehow he was able to convey encouragement when teaching me how to skate; somehow the message came through loud and clear: I can do it. I can do it and I did. Maybe it was just by example, as I clearly remember how aesthetic he appeared gliding along the ice the way he did; like he was connected to it; like he was one with it; like he owned it.
My kids ski. It’s part of the curriculum at the schools they attend and for at least five Fridays in a row each winter since age five, they ski. My kids ski and I don’t. But I tell them and text them the same thing each time they go since the first time they went:
Be one with the mountain. One with the mountain! You can do it! Feel it. Own it. It’s yours!
It’s my mantra for them and it never occurred to me that they might actually “hear” me saying it. Probably in the same way it never occurred to my Dad that watching him coast so gracefully across the ice was so encouraging to me. It never dawned on me that is, until I found myself meeting up with my 10-year old skier in the ER last Friday night. For the first time since she started skiing, she took a bad fall while helping a friend and wrangled up her lower back muscles pretty badly when her butt smacked against the ice that was hiding beneath the soft, white powder. An X-ray needed to be taken, just to make sure.
“It’s your fault!” she said as I entered the hospital room. “You didn’t tell me to be one with the mountain this morning.That’s why this happened!”
Really? Fudge.
There goes that “no instructions, no rule book” thing again when it comes to parenting. Any parent can attest to it, it’s a figure it out as you go along gig. “They” don’t come with manuals. You don’t always know what will impact their lives until perhaps it’s too late. And rest assured the one time you forget to do what they expect you to and something happens, it will be your fault!!
You try your best and hope for the best.
It’s never pleasant for a parent to be called onto to such a scene. But I’ve been down the ER road with my kids before, enough anyway to know it’s better to err on the side of caution than not. I took it in stride. And thankfully, nothing was fractured, this time.
#15 ~ That's my boy!
When I got called out onto to the same scene three days later however, I was not exactly “taking it on with a smile”. Once a year I can handle, twice in the span of three days; not so much. This time, it was my boy who had taken a knee in his abdomen during a fast paced, aggressive game of basketball at school. Internal bleeding or a damaged organ was the fear but thankfully once again, my child left for the most part, unscathed. Never a dull moment. That’s the one thing all parents can be certain of.
Maybe I should have told him to “be one with the ball, Noah, one with the ball!”
For the record then and so there’s no mistake about it and hopefully no more visits to the ER, this year at least, I’m saying it now loud and clear:
Be one with it, guys, whatever it is you’re trying to do! You can do it! Feel it. Own it. It’s yours! Be one with it!
Did I mention it was my Dad’s birthday today? Happy birthday to my not-so-warm-and-fuzzy, but you got the message across anyway, Dad.
It had an impact. Thanks.
Photo Credit: #1, #3, #4 ©Karen Szczuka Teich & http://www.takingtheworldonwithasmile.com
Photo Credit #2 Playland Ice Rink
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Striving to live life on life's terms while taking the world on with a smile.
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