#and if i paste without formatting then it clears all my slashes and italics and i have to redo them

[patriciahaefeli]

The following blog essays were part of another blog I had - and lost the password to!  It was called simply "Here's What I Have to Say About That"

 Resolutions 

     There was a nun at my all-girl’s Catholic college who used to like to call me into her office for little “chats” during my sophomore year. It was awkward. She’d ask me lots of questions, and in between fidgeting, looking out the window and tearing at my cuticles, I’d answer her. For a long time it seems, I kept thinking the questions were just polite banter, and eventually she’d tell me why I was there, or where this was leading. Once it became clear that she wouldn’t be explaining any of that, I just waited to be dismissed. 

     Sister Catherine Joseph (we called her “CJ” or “Ceeje,” behind her back), was energetic and petite, and the thick wooden rosary that hung from the belt of her floor-length habit swung wildly back and forth as she speed-walked through the corridors. In the early 80’s, most of the Dominican sisters wore the shorter habit and a simple coif and veil. Clearly, she didn’t have to wear the longer version, or the wimple that wrapped around her pixie face like a starched, white bandage. Once, in an effort to avoid one of her questions, I asked her about that. “Its important to me that I’m visible,” she replied briskly, as if she’d been asked this before and was mildly defensive about it. It occurred to me then that she liked to save people, and I wondered what she thought I might need “saving” from. 

    We were talking about poetry one fall afternoon, and I, happy to be in neutral territory, was on a roll, defending my appreciation for Sylvia Plath when, seemingly out of nowhere, she interrupted me. “Do you believe in God?” She inquired; as though this were a perfectly seamless segue. My shoulders sagged. Here we go, I thought. 

      “Oh Sister,” I moaned, “do we have to go here?” 

      “Do you think you can shock me?” She countered, looking amused. 

      “I don’t particularly want to,” I mumbled. 

      “Don’t want to what?” She probed. 

      “Shock you, Sister. I don’t particularly want to shock you! Oh fine, you know what? Yeah, I do. I believe in God…I also believe in Jason.”  She peered over at me with a questioning expression. I sighed. “You probably don’t go to many horror movies do you?” I asked wryly. Then, not waiting for the obvious answer I continued, “Jason is the killer in the Friday the 13th movies. Like Michael Myers in Halloween? You know, the axe murderer movies?” She looked at me, expressionless, waiting. “So, there’s like a formula to these movies. Basically, the killer preys on a bunch of high school or college kids who fall into three groups: The first two include those who don’t believe he’s really out there. They’ve heard the stories, so when they go on a weekend camping trip, and someone brings it up, it makes them kind of nervous, but deep down they figure that’s all it is, a story. Folklore. Then, there’s always that one kid who’s all glib about it, laughing him off as some stupid campfire tale, maybe even sneaking up on the others and jumping out at them, imitating him even, and finally, there’s the one who believes in Jason one-hundred percent.” I smiled at her, “Wanna guess which one survives?” 

      “Oh by all means,” she said, leaning back in her chair and bringing her index finger up to her mouth, “enlighten me.” 

      “The one who believes, Sister! In fact, the one who laughs Jason off – who thinks he’s invincible and that there’s no such thing as axe murderers? He dies the most awful, gory death of all. And frankly, they all die pretty horribly. Except for one.” 

      “The one who believes,” She echoed. 

      “Exactly!” I said, feeling pretty satisfied with my explanation. There were a few minutes of silence after that while she studied me with large blue eyes made even larger by her thick glasses. She ran that index finger back and forth across her closed lips several times and then it stopped right in the middle. After three decisive taps against her mouth she spoke. 

      “So in this scenario then, you are the believer,” She confirmed rather than asked, but still, I nodded my ascent. “And what you believe in,” she was learning forward again now, “is the possibility - no, the probability of some violent, terrifying, force just waiting to strike?” 

      “Well, actually, it’s not that simple,” I began, happy to clarify. “I believe that terrible, violent, terrifying things can happen, so that they won’t happen.” 

      “Ah,” she said, nodding and leaning back again with what I thought was a posture of serious contemplation of my idea. When she spoke again, both her words and her inflection conveyed a mixture of pity and reproach. “I had no idea you were so powerful.” 

      Walking to the parking lot afterwards, I remember feeling suddenly uneasy about having revealed this particular belief system. I’d been nurturing my “horror film philosophy” for a while but I’d never actually said it out loud before, and I felt a little exposed. Like she’d lured me into some kind of trap and then got all judgmental on me. What started that whole conversation anyway? Oh yeah, God. That’s it. She asked if I believed in God and we ended up talking about slash ‘em up, serial killer movies. Well, not “we” actually, just me. That probably pissed her off. There’s probably something blasphemous about that. Shit. 

      I should point out that at the time, I’d fairly recently had my first real experiences with tragedy and loss. The kind of senseless catastrophes that nearly everyone experiences sooner or later; that mark the beginning of the end of that sense of invincibility all young people enjoy. Ultimately, I’d responded to this with a fierce resentment about the lack of notice, and I began to obsess about the myriad careless ways people could set themselves up for that kind of ruthless ambush. 

     Suddenly, things like going about one’s daily activities without a moment’s anticipation of the scope of possible tragedies that might strike seemed arrogant and reckless. Attending to the mundane routines of eating a meal, or ironing a shirt, without once considering that at that very moment, irreversible tragedies might strike, became for me like portals to cataclysmic events. In the interest of self-preservation I suppose, the fact that I’d been blind-sighted became the central issue, and I developed a perspective on life (and death) that focused on preparation for the next one. My resolve to never feel completely safe was, therefore, a preventative measure, like hanging garlic on the door to ward off vampires.

      I had no idea you were so powerful. 

      That sentence had marked the end of our little chat session that day, and the beginning of a series of chats we would have over the next several months. She would, over time, gently coax me out of this convoluted mindset. She was the first person to suggest to me that believing in my own ability to influence events, whether it was through a kind of hyper-vigilant apprehension or any other method, was not just a painful way to live, it was actually pretty contemptuous of the idea that there was, in fact, a power greater than myself. And that, by the way, was the height of arrogance. 

      Oh yeah, God. 

      In the thirty-plus years between then and now, I’ve found it challenging, to say the least, to have that complete confidence in God that Ceeje had. I say I do, and I certainly think I do most of the time, but relinquishing that illusion of control, trying to stop attaching all kinds of weird meanings to a variety of talismans, can be a very slippery thing for me. I’m a lot better at it when life is going according to plan and the people I love are happy and safe. Oh yeah, then I’m a model of reliance on a divine authority. “Everything happens for a reason” is such a serene axiom to embrace when everything is going well. It’s all part of God’s plan. Surrender, under these circumstances, is so sweet. 

      Part of the reason that all of this comes to mind has to do with the conversation that I had with my doctor recently after my annual check up. He’s an older guy, my MD, and once he finished up his review of the numbers, assuring me that all was well, he took off his bifocals, set down his clipboard, and looked me in the eye. “So, how’re you doing?” After telling him I was great, for some reason I felt a welling up of emotion. “I’m fine, really,” I said, fighting back tears, “It’s just that I can’t sleep.”  We had nice conversation after that, and by the end of it I realized that he’d basically told me the same thing Ceeje had told me thirty years ago: That worrying like it’s my job is a lot of wasted energy and no matter how much I do it, no one is going to put me in charge of the future. 

      Intellectually, this is not news to me. What did surprise me was the immediate, gut-level certainty I had that part of the reason I was doing it was because, deep down, I still have the idea that if I don’t do it, I’ll be punished for my naiveté. I worry like it’s some kind of vaccine. As though imagining disastrous outcomes for a number of situations somehow immunizes you from those worst-case scenarios. 

      It’s nuts. 

      The truth is, I find myself thinking about Jason more than I’d like to admit. His looming presence is manifested in a variety of ridiculous behaviors on my part, and I tend to recognize them only in hindsight. I can, for example, become utterly committed to the idea that if I worry half the night instead of sleep, I’ll hear him coming and be ready. If I go to the gym and run (too long) or pedal maniacally (for too long) on the elliptical, I can fool myself into thinking I can take him, axe and all. If I clean and organize and label things just so, he won’t be able to get past the barricade of orderliness I’ve arranged. If I tick off all of the items on my crazy schedule, he won’t be able to slide the blade of his machete between the layers of efficiency I’ve created. 

      Oddly enough, when I am gripped by the conviction that these rituals are what’s holding it (or me), together, and that doing anything less would be akin to investigating that noise in the basement with nothing other than a flashlight, I’m the last to know. Nor does it occur to me during these times that if I were to direct half of that energy toward cultivating a deeper faith in the God of my understanding, I might just have a shot at not only peace of mind, but I’d free myself up for becoming a greater source of support for those who need me. 

     Which brings me to my kids. As a parent, it’s a fascinating thing to watch your child and recognize, with sudden clarity that their mannerism just then was exactly like yours. Or to hear the inflection in something they just said and find that it was so much like your spouse’s that it’s eerie. They imprint so much more than we realize. In some ways I’ve tried really hard to be aware of this. I consciously conceal, for example, my wildly out-of proportion anxiety about things like the dentist, horseback riding, and sharks. 

      Still, my youngest can be a bit of a “fretter.” She goes through periods of getting herself all tied up in knots about everything from grades (nothing but A’s will do), to global warming. During these times, her motto seems to be that it’s never too soon to begin to obsess about the future: How she’ll manage in high school, where she’ll go to college, even what type of career she’ll choose. As a small child, the sight of homeless people made her cry. When she began suffering from migraines last year we suspected that these things might be related, and sure enough, we left the neurologist’s with a prescription and a recommendation to help her find ways of de-stressing. I couldn’t help but feel like she was furiously treading water in my end of the gene pool. 

      I rarely trust simplicity and this is as simple as it gets: I don’t have to become the guy who makes fun of Jason, and scoffs at the notion that bad things might happen (he gets split down the middle by a chain saw, or impaled to a tree for crying out loud). But I don’t have to live life like the cowardly lion either, who hopes his repeated incantation “I do, I do, I do believe in ghosts” will somehow keep him from harm. I believe that Ceeje was right about all of it. There really is only one way to prepare for a future that no mortal can predict or control, and that is to live today with optimistic enthusiasm. 

     So, at the risk of sounding all New-Age-y, I’m making some changes in 2016. My resolution begins anew with each new day. I will try to remember to just breathe; to enjoy things more and to have more gratitude for each moment of each miraculous day. To love more, and laugh more, and to ask God every single day to give me the willingness to trust in Him and let tomorrow take care of itself. I’ll let you know how it goes. ☺ 

 12 Jan 2016 

 Pain 

      Just got back from a nice five-mile walk/run up here in Cape Cod. I run a little more of those miles than I walk these days, and I’m pretty happy about that. The minute I feel my hip start to complain I stop running and start walking. As I told my husband the other day, I’d rather do this and able to do it again tomorrow, than be grounded for a few days with a really inflamed joint. He just smiled and said, “That’s great honey. So unlike you!” What he means is that, historically, moderation has not exactly been my “thing” but that’s another story. I’ve had to learn this approach to exercise, and I had a good but very demanding teacher: Pain. 

      It all started on a beautiful summer day in 2009: We were out on the boat in Cape Cod Bay and our youngest and two of her friends had just taken a giggling, hair flying, grinning ear-to-ear ride on the tube. My husband steered the Boston Whaler sharply to the right and then the left, and when the tube hit the wake they shot up in the air and squealed with sheer joy. It looked so easy, and fun, and I wanted to do it too. 

      When it was my turn, I decided that the best way to get from boat to tube was to descend the ladder and, on all fours, back onto the tube. I did this for two reasons, 1) I figured that this way my hands would be facing the handles, as they should, without me having to awkwardly turn around, and 2) I wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of basically mooning everyone on the boat. Seemed logical enough. What happened, however, was that once my lower body was on the tube and I was in the process of letting go of the ladder, I realized that my weight was not distributed evenly. It was, in fact, pretty much all at one end of the tube; that end being the one closest to the boat. My awareness of the situation occurred in the precious few seconds I had before the tube pitched forward. Instinct took over. In an effort to avoid having my face slam into the back of the boat, I let go of the tube with one hand and with more velocity and force than I thought possible for me, wind-milled my right arm around to break my inevitable fall. 

      So, yeah, I broke more than my fall. Somehow they got me, my arm hanging uselessly at my side, back onto the boat. Three little girls under the age of seven sat across from me with wide-eyed apprehension so I whispered when I told my husband, “I might get sick.” With all the concern and compassion of a man who loves his boat almost as much as his wife he whispered back, “You look really pale. Do you want me to help you get to the side of the boat?” 

      It took about forty-five minutes to get from the house to the hospital in Hyannis. The pain was excruciating. The throbbing in my arm and shoulder was a thing in and of itself. For some reason, it was very important to my husband that I eat the sandwich he’d packed for me before we left. He suggested it more than once. The first few times, I merely shook my head no. After that, I stopped answering him altogether. For one thing, I was nauseous as hell. More importantly, however, his suggestions were an irritating interruption to my counting. Like a woman in the last stages of labor and childbirth, I was on another plane. In my mind, I was counting to one hundred, and then starting over again. The only thing that existed for me on that drive was the counting. Not the car, not the radio, not the sandwich. The counting and the pain. The whole of my consciousness had narrowed to those two things, and I could endure nothing else. 

      The hospital X-Ray revealed two fractures of the greater tuberosity of the humerus (the big ball of bone where the arm meets the shoulder). They gave me some type of pain-killing injection, put me in a sling, and sent me off with a prescription for pain meds and instructions to see my orthopedist when I got home to New Jersey. By the time we got back to the house we were all laughing about it. It seemed like a silly thing, mildly embarrassing. Our girls jokingly agreed to tell people that I’d suffered an “extreme wakeboarding” accident. Above all, it was an inconvenience. I’m a personal trainer, and this would affect the bootcamp class I led in the early morning, as well as my own workouts. Still, I figured in a couple of months I’d be good as new. No biggie. 

      I saw my first orthopedist about a week later. He took another set of x-rays and outfitted me with a bizarre looking sling intended to immobilize that shoulder. In early September I went back to work as a middle school teacher. The very first day back we had all kinds of professional development workshops to attend. By the afternoon session, I deliberately chose a seat in the back of the room and hoped no one noticed the tears streaming down my face. I figured out early on that Percocet made me feel crappy, but the pain was unremitting. I kept thinking that If I started taking it, when, exactly, would I stop? It wasn’t just my shoulder at this point either; my whole arm ached all the time. 

      I white-knuckled it for the next three weeks. When I returned to the orthopedist, I described the pain and said that I’d noticed an even greater reduction of my range of motion during that time. I asked if he thought I should have an MRI. He was dismissive. Told me he’d send me for one if I wanted it, but he didn’t feel it was necessary. He recommended that stay I immobile one more week, and then begin physical therapy. I left with yet another prescription for Percocet. 

     At five weeks post injury I began PT. Immediately, my physical therapist used the term “frozen” to describe what was happening with my shoulder. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I did know that I was on a mission. “Just tell me what to do,” I said determinedly. “I’ll work through the pain.” I was so willing to “work through it” that one of them told me later that they were all concerned that first week that I might pass out. 

      And yet, it didn’t help. In fact, the pain seemed to be getting worse, and my range of motion seemed to be decreasing. Writing with my right hand hurt, driving and working on the computer was worse, and writing on the board or playing the piano was out of the question. I was a regular runner at the time, but I found even a brisk walk left my shoulder and arm throbbing for hours. I began to joke with my family about the possibility of just cutting my arm off and getting a hook. “I could be really useful with a hook,” I would say, curving my fingers into a “C” shape. 

      At night, the pounding ache intensified. When I did sleep, I slept badly. Always overtired, I counted the days until my next doctor’s appointment, and when the day came, my husband came with me. “She’s really not a complainer,” he told the Dr. “she’s in a lot of pain all the time, and it’s gotten worse, not better.” The doctor shrugged and suggested a cortisone shot might help. I guess I should have known I was in trouble when he asked my husband and one of the nurses to hold me down for the injection, but when the Lidocaine kicked in, the tension I’d felt melted. I felt….nothing, and it was blissful. 

      “This is awesome! Is it normal that I can’t feel my neck or chin though?” I asked, half-crying, half-giggling. Needless to say, they quickly ushered me into the x-ray room where a nurse sat with me in the dark as I cried. I didn’t know at the time that they were sort of hiding me from the other patients in case I was having some kind of allergic reaction and went into anaphylactic shock. I didn’t know that my husband was out front arguing with the office staff, demanding my records and x-rays (he had already decided we weren’t going back). All I knew was that it didn’t hurt anymore. The nurse patted my hand and consoled me, telling me I’d be okay. I tried to explain to her that I wasn’t crying because it hurt. I was crying with relief. It was the first time in seven weeks that I wasn’t in constant, inexorable pain. The absence of it made me positively giddy for about an hour. Then, all I wanted was to go to sleep. I was exhausted. 

      Unfortunately, the only thing about that injection that worked was the local anesthetic, Lidocaine. Within 24 hours the throbbing was back with a vengeance. Back at school on that rainy, muggy, Monday morning I gave in and fished a Percocet from the vial in my bag with hands that were literally shaking from the pain. I taught my first class of the day measuring out the pain by the hands of the clock. I noted each ten-minute increment and silently committed to just ten more before I…before I what? I never finished that sentence in my mind. Ten minutes, repeat, ten more. When the bell rang I waited for the halls to clear and then began my walk to the bathroom furthest from the classrooms. 

     On the way there, I cradled my screaming right arm with my left, and gave my undivided attention to the floor tiles. Carefully measuring my stride, I focused on putting one foot exactly into the center of one gray floor tile, then the other into the center of a red one. I just have to make it to the bathroom, I thought. One gray one, one red one. Once inside, I called my husband. As soon as I heard his voice the uniformity of the tile game fractured like a kaleidoscope on fast-forward. “I can’t take this anymore,” I sobbed. “It never lets up. I swear, I’m not kidding about getting a hook. I want to just cut my arm off…either that, or drive my car into a brick wall.” 

      The very next day I had my first appointment at Hospital for Special Surgery. Right away they did an MRI and, in addition to confirming that I did, in fact have a terrible case of adhesive capsulitis (otherwise known as frozen shoulder), I had also torn my rotator cuff in that accident. “Frozen” shoulder is the term they use to describe a condition where the surrounding soft tissue becomes wildly inflamed. It thickens and hardens, causing a decrease in range of motion and a shitload of pain. In general, it lingers for about a year. My new doctor scheduled another cortisone injection for me that very day, this one guided by ultrasound. When she handed me yet another prescription for Percocet, I refused it, told her I had plenty and that I thought it might make me depressed. At that point, she wrote two new scripts; one for PT and the other for Vicodin. 

      That entire school year I went into New York at least once a month, sometimes more for Dr.’s appointments. I got cortisone injections every three months and went to PT three times a week. In June, I had another MRI. This time, she showed me how the rotator cuff tear had worsened, and despite my history with inflammation and frozen shoulder, my best option was still surgery. To her credit, she was honest. She warned me about the difficult recovery, said it was likely I’d become “frozen “ all over again, and told me that people who had total shoulder joint replacement had less pain afterwards than the rotator cuff repair folks.

      Well allrighty then. 

      I had my surgery almost a year to the day of the accident. In the interest of saving time, I’ll give you the highlights of year two: Rotator cuff surgery is hell. By the time I returned to work in October I had developed frozen shoulder again, and soon after, my other shoulder began to throb as well. I ignored it until I couldn’t ignore it anymore, until the obsessive counting of things to pass the pain/time was interfering with my life, then told the doctor. She immediately sent me for an MRI and a cortisone injection. I would have two more on that side before the situation merited surgery as well, although far less complicated or invasive. More PT. 

      Basically what this amounted to was year two of chronic pain. It became the very center of my existence. It was the filter through which I experienced everything. It drove my actions, and my thinking. I would catch myself moaning involuntarily, and look around to see who had heard. It was an evil enemy presence, and I rotated through periods of being at war with it, trying to ignore it, and then surrendering to it, trying to make peace with it. We went everywhere together: To work, to my kids soccer and softball games, to the supermarket and out to the movies. It needled me at breakfast, lunch and dinner, and it reduced me to tears at least once a day. It changed me. 

      I am a person who endures through laughter. I can joke about nearly anything, the more irreverent, the better, and yet, I found myself smiling mirthlessly at things I once found funny. At times, it felt like it defined me. I became the human barometer. I knew before the six o’clock news did that it was going to rain tomorrow. Pain told me loudly and clearly. Sometimes I experienced it as a solid block of sensation. Other times it was a pulsing, living thing, at once separate from me and a part of me. Certainly I thought you could see it when you looked at me. It was so big, and loud, and mean, and insistent. I was crumbling under the exponential pressure of it. It was always there, and it was wearing me down. 

      In between PT and cortisone, I took prescription anti-inflammatories when I could get them, but getting them isn’t easy. Here’s what I learned about pain management practices: Narcotics are shockingly easy to obtain. You want Percocet? Piece of cake. When I mentioned my shoulder/arm situation to my gynecologist, even she offered me a prescription for it. Vicodin? Like taking candy from a baby. Then, somewhere along the line I picked up a prescription for Tramadol, which is described as being a “narcotic-like”, pain killer. It had none of the side effects of the other two and was truly a Godsend for me for a time (oddly enough, although most healthcare professionals agree that, “Yeah, that’s the best,” it is often the last considered when writing prescriptions). But anti-inflammatories, while not dangerously addictive opioids, are h ell on your stomach and most Orthos are loath to prescribe them. 

      I used to look at my impressive cache of painkillers and think, no wonder so many people get hooked on these things. They’re so abundantly accessible! I consider myself fortunate in that I hated how fragile they made me feel emotionally. Percocet in particular left me nauseous and brittle. I was on the verge of tears all the time. I’m not being dramatic when I say that prolonged pain is corrosive enough by itself, coupled with depression it is the stuff of suicide, and I don’t know how one can experience chronic pain and not be depressed. Add Percocet to that and you’ve got a frighteningly toxic cocktail. 

     So, good ole over-the-counter Ibuprofen became my drug of choice. Frozen shoulder worsens at night so I took them every night, sometimes several times a night, so I could sleep. Once, when I admitted to this regimen, my physical therapist reluctantly divulged a good stomach-saving tip: Take Omeprazole (over-the counter strength Prilosec) first thing in the morning before eating to protect my stomach lining, and then take the Ibuprofen after eating breakfast. That became my routine. 

      I dreaded rainy days. Rainy, cold, damp days intensify inflammation. Standing on the sidelines of my kid’s soccer and field hockey games was often insufferable. I got special therapeutic massages and went to a kooky little acupuncturist who gave me bruises the size of oranges. I researched foods with anti-inflammatory properties and began drinking a concoction of hot water, ginger and cayenne pepper every morning (after my Omeprazole). The dad of one of my daughter’s friends referred me to a quack in Colorado who sold pricey special herb patches for reducing inflammation and controlling pain. I ordered them in bulk. 

    I knew the aisle for sports related injury soreness at CVS like the back of my hand. A drawer at home grew heavy with tubes of BioFreeze and Arnica, Blue Emu and Aspercreme. After visiting family in Wisconsin, a friend at work brought me back a mentholated gel used on horses with tender flanks. I tried it. I took krill oil, glucosamine and turmeric supplements. Hell, I would have entertained the idea of an exorcism or a voodoo hex if I thought it would work. Desperation isn’t discriminatory. 

       And then I stopped talking about it. When people asked, “How’s the shoulder?” I’d shrug and say, “Okay.” I knew that even if I could describe the exhaustive grind, the emotional fragility, the sleeplessness, it wouldn’t matter. People don’t get it, and frankly? It’s boring. It’s the same record over and over and over and over. Yup! It hurts. Still hurts! Hurting again! Sharp, dull, throbbing, pulsing, pounding, stabbing, aching, sickening screeching PAIN. And the answer to “You should try…” was always, “I have.” There’s no cure. That makes people uncomfortable, so you say, “Okay.” And you feel abysmally alone. 

      Then, just when I was beginning to see the light at the end of the upper body tunnel, and had started training for a half-marathon, I began experiencing a new pain – this one starting at my hip, and running down my entire right leg. And it got worse at night. Keeping me up. Rain, cold, humidity, sent my right leg throbbing like a lighthouse searchlight. Oddly enough, when I ran, it felt fine, when I stopped, I was limping. WTH? 

      Enter year three of pain. Back to the orthopedist. More MRI’s. This time, a torn labrum in my hip. Did I want cortisone? She asked, or maybe I’d like to try a new type of injection, one that uses your own body’s Platelet Rich Plasma to heal itself? “It isn’t yet FDA approved, so insurance won’t cover it. It’s gonna hurt like hell when I inject it, but people have had good results, and with your history of adhesive capsulitis…” 

      “Okay. Yeah, sure. When can I do it?” 

      Over the next eight months I got two of them. Thousand bucks a shot. More PT (they got me my own Christmas stocking that year). The good news? Eventually, those injections worked. It took some time, and I am cautiously optimistic. 

      I have developed the habit of personifying the pain. I know that it lurks there, like a predator, waiting for me to give in to the urge to push it too far, to run that extra mile, and it might pounce and drag me under once again. I am grateful to live relatively free of pain these days. I promised myself a few years ago that I’d never take that for granted again, but I often do. The absence of it is oddly unremarkable. It slinks off gradually, almost stealthily and you don’t even notice it right away, and then one day you wake up and think, dare I think it much less say it? (Because it lives and breathes and it will hear and punish you for this respite, for your relief.) 

I know others who suffer and I have a special understanding of who and what they live with. I feel a level of compassion for them that I didn’t always have. I hope my eyes say go ahead and talk about it. I won’t be bored, or turn away too soon, and if there’s no cure, I swear, I can take it. Introduce me to the evil twin, the traitor living in your body. I get it. I do. 

 27 Aug 2015 

 Words and Music 

      I learned to read music before I learned to read words. Those odd little opaque symbols that represent notes and tempo and phrasing were my first alphabet, and translating them to sounds on the piano felt natural to me. I was no prodigy, and yet, I have this distinct memory: I must have been four years old, just before I had my first lesson. I remember having a clear sense that I would be able to do this; that some part of me, in fact, already did. At my very first lesson, my hands slid comfortably into position on the keys as though into well-worn gloves, and my teacher looked skeptical when I denied having ever done this before. 

      At the piano, I am what people used to call “classically trained,” which is not at all as grandiose as people imagine. What it means is that for years I spent countless hours with C.F. Hanon’s The Virtuoso Pianist, learning scales and arpeggios, and my entire repertoire of study was concerned with the “classical” composers. I practiced, often with a metronome ticking, observing music expressions written in Italian, and following phrasing notations made by the composer. As a more advanced student, I had a teacher who insisted that I memorize the notes and phrasing of the Bach Inventions and could say them aloud before I ever played them. 

      If this sounds very strict and Victorian, I can assure you that for me, it didn’t feel that way. It suited me in ways I could not have defined back then. There was a discipline in the way I was taught that was oddly comforting. I could count on these things being static and sure: the staccato of the Bach, the dissonant precision of Prokofiev, the indulgent angst of the Chopin. It would be a few years before my mother began to say that she could tell the kind of mood I was in by what I played and how I played it, but from the beginning, there was some intrinsic connection between the music and my inner workings. 

      I had a similar experience with learning to read words. The prospect of it thrilled me! I assumed that not only was I meant to read, but that I would love reading the books that lined the shelves in our house. I pretended to read long before I actually knew how. I would hold books on my lap (often upside down,) the way I had seen my brothers and sisters and parents do it, contemplate the hieroglyphics on the page and in my mind, I made up the stories that I knew were hidden there. I knew that someday the mysteries of this code would reveal themselves to me, and that this would be a very, very good thing. 

      It is hardly surprising then, that at the very heart of the adult me, there is a dorky adolescent who is fifty percent “Band Camp,” and the other fifty a (library) card-carrying word nerd. For as long as I can remember, I’ve kept a little notebook filled with words that I especially like. I am the gal who is always slightly more obsessed with the goings on in the “Pit” during Broadway musicals than I am with the actual play. I leave movie theaters talking about the sound track that no one else seemed to hear. Last Spring, I saw Johnny Matthis perform, and while my husband talked non-stop about his long and trailblazing career, all I kept saying was, “But did you see his pianist? He did all the arrangements and he was conducting that entire orchestra with one hand and playing with the other – it was nuts!” 

      I love all kinds of music, and have an appreciation for rap that my students find amusing (me being so elderly and all). The linguistic complexity intrigues me, and the cadence reminds me of songs I’ve made up when I had to memorize things. To this day, I can only name the continents if I sing a little song in my head in which each is named. There are instrumentals that can make me cry. Add words to that, and well, there are certain places that combination can reach within me that even I cannot access voluntarily. 

      This is, I realize, probably at the very core of why I find it difficult to play the piano for an audience. The music is so tied to my emotional make up that it often leaves me feeling too exposed and vulnerable. Years ago, someone who didn’t run, and who couldn’t understand my need to run for miles asked me what, exactly, it did for me. I thought for a long time before I answered, struggling to find the words to express what I wanted to say. In the end the best I could do was this: “Have you ever heard the very beginning of U2’s “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For?” I asked him. 

       “Yeah, I think so.” He said, looking perplexed. 

      “Well, that’s kind of what my head sounds like until I run.” 

      “Ok,” he laughed, “I’ll guess I’ll have to listen to that. But tell me this, what does it sound like after you run?” 

      Again I struggled for the words, until finally, “A Chopin Sonatina.” 

      “Weird.” He said. 

      “Yeah,” I said simply.

      I know that the connection I feel to words and music is in some ways unique to who I am. And yet, who among us could have learned the ABC’s without that song? Who hasn’t exclaimed, “Oh! I love this song!” And turned up the radio feeling strangely proprietary about what my daughter would call her “jam”? I like to ask my students, “How many of you know all the words to your favorite song?” Without exception, every hand goes up. Then I give them an evil smile and tease them saying, “You are so busted right now! There is no reason you can’t memorize everything you need to know for Friday’s test!” 

      Sometimes these two loves of mine collide in strange ways. I imagine, for example, Joan Baez telling Bob Dylan, “Babe, really though, don’t you mean ’Lie Lady Lie’?” Like a game of Operation, some songs connect viscerally to places and people and situations: I cannot hear Natalie Cole’s This Will Be (An Everlasting Love) and not belt it out too, chasing away any remnants of a bad mood. Elton John’s Bennie and the Jets? It will forever remind me of a girl named Joyce who I walked to school with every day. Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street makes me think of a boy I knew who will never grow old, and the entire David Bowie album, Ziggy Stardust, brings me right back to the kitchen of my very first best friend and the drinking parties we had at her house in high school. 

      I was a Beatle girl first and a Rolling Stones girl second. I listened to Donna Summer’s On the Radio album over and over so many times that my brother once yelled up the stairs to me, “Enough is Enough Tricia!” A friend, and the son of my old piano teacher, introduced me to Warren Zevon. We sat in his room listening to “Werewolves of London” and turned to one another to deadpan the line, “I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vics - and his hair was perfect.” Then we’d smile, feeling like he was our own personal and very cool discovery. 

      The other morning, I set my iPod to “shuffle” and stepped on the elliptical. About forty minutes later, a song came on that I haven’t heard in a long time. At one time, it had special significance to me, yet I began to sing along, grounded and unmoved by those ancient associations. Then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, just as the string section swelled and the vocalist began again, some instantaneous charge was ignited, fusing the past and present and causing my voice to catch. A bark-like sob discharged obstinately from my now short circuiting lungs. Almost as quickly as the moment began, it was over. 

      What the hell was that? I wondered, wiping tears with the back of my hand. But some part of me understood that the music had travelled straight through the insulated me like a hot, electrical current, aiming straight for the bare conductor somewhere deep within. The result? Musically induced momentary overload. 

      I’m home alone tonight, a rare thing these days. I sat down and played the piano for a solid hour-and-a-half and in that time I believe I ran the gamut of my emotional arpeggios. I still like the discipline of the classical composers, but a few years ago I had a small treble clef tattooed on my inner ankle with the words “a piacere” above it. An admittedly rare Italian musical phrasing instruction, it means to play “as you like it.” 

      In life, as well as at the piano, I need the reminder that sometimes not following someone else’s rules is okay too. I can trust myself to find the words, make the choices, and know that whether I am right or wrong, the sound that demands to be felt is true: A piacere. 

 21 Nov 2014 

 The Acrimonious Acronyms of Education 

      It’s a peculiar time to be a public school teacher. I have just spent the better part of the last ten months “teaching to the test” as they say (all the while encouraging us not to say it) because I had no other sane choice. In April, I paced fretfully as my ELA classes sat for the LAL section of the Big, Bad NJ ASK state test. My colleagues and I feel enormous pressure to ensure that our (read: our student’s) scores make AYP so that the DOE lifts the “Focus School” designation, which will force a hasty retreat by the ever-present RAC team. 

      Then, just as we all heaved a sigh of relief at having that behind us, we were reminded that our students still had to take a combination of four MCU tests; one covering the final unit, and the other three representing a “post-test” administered to see if we (teachers) met our SGO’s this year. Tiered with a variety of growth percentages associated with the myriad ability levels in a single classroom (thank you, NCLB), the final Excel spreadsheet analysis requires a level of mathematical wizardry that make my English teacher’s eyes twitch with anxiety. 

     The final numbers will inform our SGPs, which are linked to our educator codes, which become part of our final evaluations, which tie directly to our continued enjoyment of gainful employment. After all of that, the only thing left to do was to compile a binder of “artifacts” that prove that I carried out the PGP (which used to be a PIP, then a PDP– stay with me here) I developed last year, and then create a new PGP for next year. My new one includes methods of teaching three-part objectives that will prepare my students for the upcoming PARCC all the while pretending to not be “teaching to the test.” Natch. 

      When, you ask, did I have the time to plan and implement meaningful, engaging classroom experiences while slogging through this artifact uncovering, evidence building, number crunching spectacular exercise in what corporate employees refer to as good ole C.Y.A.? (Cover Your Ass.) Ha! As the kids (remember them? See paragraph #2) say: LOL. 

      The real irony is that the more gnashing of teeth that goes on with regard to these test scores, the more irrelevant the actual children who generate them seem to become. I have found myself more than once this year holding my breath as I ran my index finger down two rows of numbers, exhaling only when I got to the bottom and confirmed that the second column was equal to, or higher than, the first. 

      I used to look at the names too. 

     It used to matter to me a whole lot more who was doing well and who was struggling and why. I picked up on things like changes in handwriting or a sudden drop in grades. The comments I wrote on their essays in purple ink addressed the content of their essays as often as the construction. Only a few years ago I would not have considered trying to provide students with a prepared set of examples to use in almost any explanatory quote essay, or a single generic metaphor to use to get points for including figurative language. I would not have advised entire classes to kill two birds with one stone in terms of point gathering by beginning any picture prompt essay on that state test with the English teacher’s one-two punch, the hook-dialogue combo, “’Wow!’ Said Tom.” 

      When I coach them to do these things, I call it a “tool chest.” In my mind, it’s more like the frenzied clamoring for the daggers and spears placed in the cornucopia at the start of The Hunger Games. It’s not just that it’s a numbers game now instead of a word game. It’s that it’s a game, period. Survival is the goal and it’s quantifiable. The key players, however, are nameless and faceless to the people who are making decisions about them and for them. 

      Meanwhile, here’s a succinct little example I like to give people about just one of the many failings of NCLB: I teach writing. If a student in my class has been I&RS’d and winds up with an IEP that recommends a modification that says “Whenever possible, allow this student to speak his responses instead of writing them,” then by law, that is what I have to do. If I don’t, his parents have grounds for a lawsuit. Against me, his writing teacher. When April comes along, and that same student has to take the state test, that IEP simply won’t fly. He may be given additional time, but he will have to write the essays. Here again, the state plays by different rules and we are left scratching our heads going, “Uhm, WTF?” 

      Another curious morsel: The “Model Curriculum,” conceived and designed by the DOE, now drives everything that math and English/Language Arts teachers do, as well as when we do it. For ELA, however, the MC recommends that we teach the persuasive essay in the first few months of the school year. Then in April, just prior to that Big Bad test, they recommend that we teach the narrative. This is particularly baffling when you consider the age group. 

       Dear NJDOE, Have you MET the average 13 yr. old? Here’s a fun idea:          Send one upstairs to get something, and then hold your breath. When they come back a half-hour later (if at all) empty handed and completely mystified about why they went up in the first place, you’ll be lucky to get CPR. 

      Love, 

      Middle School Teachers 

      Did I mention that the persuasive essay is also the “big ticket” item on that test? Forty-five minutes long and worth more than twice as many points as the narrative essay. Upon reflection, the sequencing of the Model Curriculum KMYW (Kinda Makes You Wonder). Knowing all of this, I personally defy the MC and go back to the persuasive in April. Wildcard rebel that I am, I also explain to kids the point system that will be used to score their (read: my) essays. 

    I provide a frame of reference for them that I think might help. I tell them to think of it like a video game or a sporting event, or if necessary, The Hunger Games. One is reminded of the great coaches of the past, the Knute Rockne’s, the John Wooden’s, (or maybe just John Belucshi’s Bluto speech in Animal House?) as I wrap up my final motivational pep talk with…“We’re after points, guys. We need lots to win! Now let’s go out there and kick some NJ Ask!!!!” 

      There is no doubt in my mind that teaching kids to write clear, effective arguments is an important life skill that will serve them well no matter what they decide to do with their lives. Still, the minute we get a break from all of this testing and formulaic writing, I dive into what I consider the fun, creative stuff for the few remaining weeks we have. This often includes poetry and the personal narrative. 

      One of the activities I’ve done for a few years now is the “Chicken Soup Story.” First, we read a bunch of them. Using the Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul or Pre-Teen Soul books, I photocopy what I think are stories that cover a variety of topics that will interest both the boys and the girls. We read them out loud and talk about them. I keep about a half dozen copies of those books on the shelf in my room and encourage students to borrow them and read as many as they can. 

      We discuss how sometimes, the events described in them are small, but the impact on a life is big. We wonder aloud about why sometimes those who seem to “have it all” are unhappy, while those with real challenges appear to find joy in their lives. We talk about the value of things like honesty and trustworthiness, determination and forgiveness. We define what it means to have good character, and how much there is to learn not just from our experiences, but how we respond to them. 

       This is, quite obviously, The Good Stuff. Along the way they enthusiastically identify the themes of each selection, and admire the word choice and vivid imagery provided by the authors. We note how well snippets of dialogue move the story along, and how after the main character’s epiphany (what plot diagrams call the climax) there is some type of resolution, even if it is only a greater understanding of some aspect of life. By the time that I tell them that they too, have had enough experiences in life to create an original Chicken Soup Story; that they can reflect upon and write about what they’ve learned from these experiences, there is an energy in the room that I haven’t seen all year. They are genuinely excited. They want to tell their stories. 

      And tell them they do. It is the end of May by then, and as I read their stories I finally “meet” my students. I discover that David had a two year-old sister who died last June and he worries all the time about his mom’s sadness. Marco’s dad was a gang member and is now in prison. He wonders if his dad remembers him, because he hasn’t seen him in years. Angie wants so desperately to be popular, that she goes along with the nasty, bullying tactics of her friends, and then goes home and into her small apartment feeling so guilty that she methodically cuts herself with a razor. Rosa’s uncle molested her for years, but he was a drug addict then, and he’s clean now so it’s “all good.” Delilah wants to be an artist, and those doodles she’s constantly drawing in her notebook? They help her organize her thoughts before she writes in a way no graphic organizer would. Carlos is living at the YMCA in one room with his mom and younger sister. That’s why he didn’t come to detention that time, because he doesn’t take the regular school bus home, there’s a special one that comes for him every day. He wrote about how he was glad he had this opportunity to tell me this in “private.” Luis, a serious, considerate boy, is the oldest of three children, and the only one who is not severely autistic. It’s sometimes hard to focus in school because his parents need his help with his siblings, and he feels protective of them as well. Krystal’s parents went through an ugly divorce last summer, and she had to go to court and choose which parent she wanted to live with. No one seems to be paying attention at all in Destiny’s house, because she stays up until 2:00 or 3:00 every night texting, Instagram-ing and Facebook-ing. As a result, she is often so tired during the school day that she gets in trouble for falling asleep. Raphael cooks dinner every night and takes care of his two younger siblings because his dad works nights and his mom is working two jobs. 

      But why would we want to know anything about that? That’s just messy, that is. You can’t calculate it, and there’s no section on the bubble sheet for that #2 pencil to code in the right letters or numbers for exhaustion or depression or anxiety or pain and then write a well-organized five-paragraph essay either supporting or refuting the value of same sex schools using details, facts and examples to support your opinion until you see the words STOP! Do not go on until you are told to do so. 

      I understand the need for all the numbers. Truly, I do. The concept of data-driven instruction looks really good on paper too. I get it. It’s a logical approach that seems to make sense just as I’m sure NCLB seemed back in 2002. I just think that some really important stuff is getting lost in the process. The connection I have to my students as people, for one. All the components of a student’s life that can’t be quantified for another, and the sense that this new world has a kind of survival of the fittest sensibility for teachers that leaves us with no option but to squelch every instinct we have about the real, true indicators of instructional effectiveness in favor of making our quota. 

      In an effort to keep the educational conveyer belt humming we’re becoming factories, funneling nice, neat black numbers into little white squares on a grid. Numbers that often have little or no real connection to the people they represent. Numbers that, when all is said and done, are really being used to evaluate teachers, not to help students. 

 20 Jun 2014 

 The $1 Valentine 

      A few years ago, I had a bubbly, brown-eyed girl named Zoey in my 8th grade class who was head-over-heels in love with one of the 8th grade boys. She talked about little else, wrote Jonathan inside the hearts that she drew all over her notebooks, and became apoplectic if his name was called over the PA system. 

     Her devotion to the crush she had on this boy was common knowledge; her openness about it endearing. She even talked to me about it. When I asked her if he knew, she rolled her eyes, smiled widely, and nodded her head yes. When I asked if he returned her affections, she glanced away, pulled her black, high top Chuck Taylors up onto the seat of her chair, pressed her chin down onto the knobby knees of her skinny jeans, and shook her head no. She explained to me that boys like him did not go out with girls like her. “He is way out of my league right now,” she explained, still smiling. “He could have anyone,” she said, throwing her arms wide to illustrate the point. 

      This fact, however, did little to lessen the single mindedness of her obsession, or to prevent her from sharing her worship of him with anyone who would listen. I knew Jonathan. He had the confident kind of good looks that kids now refer to as ‘”swag,” and in truth, he probably did have his pick of those 7th and 8th grade girls. Tall and lanky, he wore his dark brown hair short in the back and long in the front and carefully disheveled. He walked the halls with the athletic gait of a boy who knows he’s popular, and looked down at his adoring posse through amused hazel eyes framed by long, black lashes. 

     I had him in another class and found his cockiness disappointing. He couldn’t help but know how beautiful he was, I supposed, but he seemed to believe that this, combined with a certain amount of oily charm would get him through. He’d flash his dazzling white smile at me and explain that he’d forgotten his homework, or that he didn’t have time to study because basketball was in season. When I told him that this did not excuse him, that brilliant smile would quickly fade and he’d mutter something bitterly under his breath. The “it” girls around him would commiserate with him about the unfairness of it all, and would sometimes offer to do it for him. More than once, I’d seen him turn on the charm to get others to do his work. 

      In short, I thought privately that Zoey could do so much better. She was quirky and bright and creative and funny and I didn’t like seeing her devote so much emotional energy to a boy who, in my opinion, was conceited, manipulative, and vapid. 

      I was the advisor to the school newspaper back then, and Zoey was a valued staff member. We were gearing up for the February issue, which ran the much-anticipated Valentine’s Day messages. Kids could buy the space to write a message for a friend or crush for $1.00. Zoey was an eager promoter of the Valentine’s Day messages. I knew, as everyone did, that she had purchased and written several for Jonathan, so I worried a little more than usual about how willing she was to put herself out there for this boy. Not only could I not imagine him caring very much about her declarations of love, I was afraid that he and his friends would be unkind about her lack of subtlety. I also knew that while he would have many admirers, there was a good chance she wouldn’t have any. 

     The V-Day Messages were our biggest fundraiser (second only to the sale of a DVD that our paper once mistakenly advertised as the “8th grade ‘Copulation’” instead of Compilation). Kids would line up to get those little slips of paper, and then write sweet assurances of love and friendship. They sent them to their bff’s as often as they sent them to the boys and girls that they “liked”. 

      The messages had to be carefully read and sometimes edited, and then typed up prior to the publication of the paper. They were printed alphabetically by the name of the recipient, and it never ceased to amaze me how many were addressed to “Babe.” Those beginning with the name “Jonathan” were a close second. I couldn’t help but notice that he, on the other hand, had not sent one. 

     It was not unusual during this time for students to come running to my classroom waving dollar bills, hoping to get a message in before the deadline, or hoping to retract one already written (middle school romances being short-lived and fickle and all). I always typed them up myself, to avoid the inclusion of any inappropriate messages and that’s what I was doing in my classroom one day after school just before Valentine’s Day when Jonathon tapped lightly on the door. I looked up and the first thing that struck me was his sheepishness. The swaggering self-assuredness was gone, and he stood there for a minute, hands in pockets, shifting from foot to foot, looking everywhere but at me. “Jonathan?” I began, “Are you alright? What’s up?” 

      He pulled one of his hands out of his jeans pocket, and out of it dropped a dollar bill onto my desk. “I need to buy a valentine,” he said, glancing up at the board with feigned interest. 

      “Well, the deadline has passed Jonathan, it’s really too late at this point—“      

     “Mrs. H., please.” He said simply, imploring me with his eyes. 

      “Okay then, make it quick.” I sighed, slipping him the paper. He wrote quickly, folded the paper in half and tossed it onto my desk. By the time I unfolded it and read the name he’d written on the line next to the word “To” Jonathan was gone. Smiling to myself, I placed it at the bottom of the pile of messages I was working on and continued to type. The paper would go to “press” the following morning and I needed to get these done. 

      Near the end of the next day, the school paper was distributed. Students quickly grabbed their copies and immediately flipped past the regular school news to get to the pages at the end, the ones with the valentines. Some of them elicited smiles and some prompted tears, and still others caused fights (mostly among girls), but it was the very last one that I’ll always remember: Zoey T. - You flatter me and make me smile. Happy Valentine’s Day. – Jonathan. 

      It would have been so easy for any 14 yr. old boy to blow her off, to make fun of her ever present adoration with his friends, and dismiss her as some geek stalker. Perhaps Zoey was right. Jonathon was never going to feel about her the way she felt about him, but judging by her elation over that one sentence, it was more than enough for her to be acknowledged and appreciated by him. It did not escape her (or me) that hers was the only one he’d sent, and that small, sweet gesture forever changed my impression of him. 

     Jonathan did understand his power, and he had risen to the occasion. He knew didn’t have to love her back. All he had to do, was be kind. 

 16 Feb 2014 

 It’s a Different World….Or is it? 

     I was eight years old and in fourth grade the day it happened. I was walking to school one morning and had just gotten to that larger-than-usual lot six houses up from mine, when I noticed the large, black car driving slowly next to me. I looked over, and saw that the passenger side window was down. The driver, a man with dark, slicked back hair was saying something to me, but I hadn’t heard him. I paused, and took one step closer to the car. “Excuse me?” I said politely. 

      “Do you want to earn ten bucks easy?” The man repeated, his voice quiet, urging me to move closer. 

      “Oh, uhm, no thanks.” I said simply and I continued walking. I wasn’t scared. In fact, I was almost certain that he meant raking leaves. I didn’t like to rake leaves, and I wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers, so I figured that raking his leaves was out of the question. It was a no brainer. I met my friend Randi at the corner as usual and we walked the remaining two blocks to school. The conversation with the man in the black car never came up. It just didn’t seem important to me. 

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    I didn’t trust my memory, so I asked my mom about this the other day: “Mom, how old was I when I began walking to school by myself?” 

      “What do you mean?” She began, mildly incredulous. “You always walked by yourself!” 

      “You didn’t walk me? Even in Kindergarten?” I prodded. 

      “Of course not. Well, maybe the first day. All you kids walked.” 

      It wasn’t a long walk. The equivalent of about three blocks. Sometimes I walked with my brother, who was three years older than I was. Eventually, I began to walk part of the way with a friend who lived on the top half of my long, oak-tree lined street. She met me at the halfway point. There were exactly seven houses between my house and the corner where I met her. Between the sixth and seventh house there was a larger-than-usual lot that had even more oak trees. I remember that when I first began walking to school by myself, I was little enough to be terrorized by an unruly gang of squirrels who hung out there in the autumn months. Every day, when I got to that part of the sidewalk next to the larger-than-usual lot, I stopped and watched them dart around, frantically collecting acorns. At times we’d reach a kind of stand-off, the squirrels staring me down like delinquent teenagers until I’d gather my nerve to take off and run straight through them, often in tears. 

      I am from a generation that did not have formal “play-dates”. We went outside. We found the other kids who were outside. We played until it got dark, or our mothers called us home. The house I grew up in sat in a kind of small suburban valley bordered on two sides by sloping hills. The houses on my side of the block all had small backyards that ended in a narrow wooded area that rose up and separated them from the backyards the next block over. I spent countless hours in there, playing hide and seek, looking for fossils, collecting leaves or filing jars with lightning bugs. I played often with the boy next door and we called it “the jungle.” 

      One summer morning, I filled my father’s Marine canteen with water and we took it with us. All afternoon, we were explorers in the jungle, carefully rationing out the water in that canteen so that we would “survive.” Another time, convinced that we had seen a snake slither down between the roots of a tree, we snuck back into the house just long enough to grab two towels and two pieces of lined paper before heading back out. We didn’t hear our mothers calling to us at dinner time, but I will never forget the sound of his mom’s laughter as she described to mine how she had found us sitting cross-legged beside the tree trunk, towels wrapped around our heads, blowing into sheets of paper rolled up like “flutes,” which we were pretending to play in an attempt to charm the snake back out of the hole. 

      The most trouble I ever got in as a kid happened when I was six years old. I was a couple of blocks over at my friend Patti’s house when we decided we wanted to go to the park. The park, however, was an off-limits trip for me without a grownup. The park meant crossing Lakeside Avenue, a wide, four-lane mini-highway at the bottom of Patti’s street. I called my mom to ask if I could go. Her answer was a firm, “No.” In an uncharacteristically brazen attempt to persuade her to change her mind, I pushed her, pointing out quite reasonably that Patti was seven. Mom wasn’t having it though, and she proceeded to launch into an equally rare explanation of why. She told me that Lakeside Avenue was too dangerous for a six and seven year old to navigate alone. 

      If asking her twice was unlike me, what I did next was just sheer lunacy: I went anyway. I went, and have this picture in my mind of Patti and me, smiling as we walked, single file, with our arms outstretched for balance, as though on a tight-rope, along a log at the edge of the lake when Billy, Patti’s brother, came running toward us across an open field like Paul Revere, yelling, “Tricia! Tricia! Your mother knows you’re at the park! She knows and she’s coming for you!” 

     Holy Mary, Mother of God. This was bad. This was very, very bad. This was scary. Another child might have tried to run or hide. I knew that my only choice was to go home and face it. I walked up Morningside Road and turned right onto South Prospect Street, where I saw her at the other end walking toward me. I trudged toward her, walking the proverbial “Green Mile.” Suffice it to say that for at least a week, my sore rear end was a daily reminder of the consequences for being sneaky and defiant. And of course, in addition to breaking one of the few rules she had about where I could play, I had scared her. My dad had a little joke about mothers in general, saying that in these circumstances, “That which doesn’t kill you, gives her the right to.” 

             ************************************************************* 

     Randi and I were in the same class. When we arrived at school on the day the man in the black car spoke to me, our teacher, Mrs. DeJohn, chose Randi to begin “Show and Tell.” Usually, Show and Tell consisted of a half hour of kids holding up cool snow globes from Disney, or a really sweet piece of quartz from a museum gift store that would make everyone wish that they too, had one. 

      Not that day. That day, Randi stood up in front of the class and told the exact same story about being approached by a man in a black car as what I had experienced. Funny thing was, at that moment, lots of smiling little 4th grade girls started eagerly waving their hands saying, “Me too!” 

     It seemed exciting! We looked at one another, marveling at this thrilling coincidence. None of us really noticed at first that Mrs. DeJohn had walked quickly out of the classroom to the main office down the hall. That night, I was in my PJs ready for bed when the doorbell rang. We rarely had evening visitors, so there were plenty of questioning looks between my siblings and parents as they went to open the door. A few minutes later, I was sitting on the couch between two large police officers, feeling very self-conscious in my pajamas, looking at hundreds of pages of mug shots in a big black binder. 

      I didn’t choose the right guy, which later on, wasn’t surprising to me at all. I hadn’t really paid attention to him. The fact that he stopped me and asked me that question seemed a bit odd I suppose, but there didn’t seem to be anything menacing about it. To be honest, those squirrels terrified me a hell of a lot more. I didn’t pick up on danger at all. And as I write this, I think of my 10 year-old daughter, who is two years older than I was at the time and the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. 

      Randi was the one who “caught” him. A few days later, she saw him again. This time, she was able to point him out to her mom, who called the police right away and they picked him up. Turns out he was a pretty scary guy. Adults were tossing around words in low voices like pedophile, and child pornographer, and then they’d glance over at us kids, pointedly turn their heads the other way, and speak in whispers. 

              ************************************************** 

      My youngest, Elizabeth, has always ridden the bus to school. Her bus stop used to be at the nearest corner to our house, which is visible from our dining room windows. Until this year, I walked her, and waited with her-and never considered allowing her to do this alone. In fact, on those days that she took the bus home, if there were no parent waiting for her, they wouldn’t have let her get off the bus either. 

      This is the world we live in now. This year, the bus picks her up directly across the street from our front door. It was a significant rite of passage that, as a big 5th grader, she asked if she could walk to the bus stop and wait alone. Doing this was a point of pride with her for the first month or so of school, and then a few weeks ago, just prior to the announcement that the famed New York WNEW DJ, Dave Herman, was arrested for attempting to transport a 7-year-old to St. Croix with the intent to engage in sexual activity with her, there were two attempted “lurings” of young girls in our town. Parents were notified immediately via mass emails, and the kids were told too. 

     The next morning, I watched as she walked down the front walk and crossed the street to wait. I had just closed the front door and was standing in front of the dining room windows scanning the empty opposite side of the street for her when, before I had a chance to panic, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find her there, shaking and crying, saying, “I’m scared. Come with me.” 

      I hate the fact that she is afraid. I hate that when she asks to go play by the creek behind our house I say yes with a twinge of uneasiness I doubt my mother ever had. I hate that when her very best friend moved from the house next door to a couple of blocks over, she lost the ability to just yell, “I’m going to Lulu’s,” and walk out the back door. I hate that I sometimes feel like the “helicopter parent,” overprotective with an overactive imagination. I hate that those emails fuel that fear. 

      I think that I had a much simpler childhood. But did I? Dave Herman is 77 years old for God’s sake. How many women my age owe their damaged bodies and psyches to that particular monster? Were we just naïve? Or is it the fact that things like this were only spoken of in whispers? That parents whose children were victimized made sure that they were also “protected,” so that they weren’t stigmatized as well. “Protected” translates to a generation of kids who were told not to talk about it. Who were molested, and then silenced without explanation. What that translates to, is a nightmare I cannot imagine, and I realize that while I do not want my child to live in fear, I’m glad she is more cautious than I felt the need to be.  We talk often about the idea that no adult stranger ever needs her “help”, and if she really believes they do, that she should say, “I’ll be right back with my mom/dad.” 

      I wish she’d come in the house more often with the smell of fall leaves in her hair after playing outside for hours. I wish her biggest fear had to do with a constellation of gray squirrels racing around her, or her mother’s wrath for breaking the rules. She doesn’t know the specifics, but I could tell by her reaction that morning that she understands that there are other, more sinister things to be afraid of, and it comforts me and breaks my heart in equal measure. 

 8 Nov 2013 

 Cape Escape, Part I 

      The drive up is, at best, five hours. We live in New Jersey, so we say that, “the drive up.” Rhode Islanders taking the same route refer to it as going “down”. If the kids are with us, among my responsibilities as annoying parent is that of identifying the crossing of state borders by turning in my seat to announce, “Connecticut Welcomes You!” Our youngest likes to count the bridges along the way, and she knows that it is the fourth bridge that really matters, the milestone that means you’ve entered another kind of place. 

      If you travel in the wee hours like we do, you can avoid the four lanes of traffic that typically merge toward it, and there’s something truly magnificent about the Bourne bridge at dawn, how it scoops you up and over the shimmering canal, and then eases you down depositing you right smack in front of the rounded, Disney-esque, topiary of the words “Cape Cod”. This, however, is nothing more than cheerful irony. As we navigate the bustling hub of traffic entering and exiting the rotary that surrounds it, we have arrived at what natives of the area refer to as “up Cape.” 

      Our final destination, however, means continuing to wind around and follow the flow of traffic north for at least another hour, heading “down Cape.” The second rotary has considerably less fanfare, but has the distinction of being referred to as the “elbow” of the Cape. Soon after, the main arteries of highways give way to numbered, vein-like, county roads, off which smooth paved local streets are carved out between dense, green forests. They twist and turn, snaking up and around in gentle rolling hills until you lose your sense of direction completely. Slivers of images beyond the trees distract you. The shock of red as a kayaker glides quietly along a lake, the cool, mercury glint of a kettle pond appearing and disappearing among the leaves of flowering dogwoods. 

      If you’re renting, or here for the first time, what you’re looking for at this point is probably one of the thousands of dusty capillaries of dirt roads sneaking through canopies of White Pine and Bebb Willow, Scarlet and Black oak. They appear as little more than sandy paths the color of fortune cookies amidst the green. Often carpeted in dead pine needles, you’d never imagine the secret treasures beyond, the surprise they’ll reveal at their end. 

      Something about them draws me in completely; I long to explore each one and sometimes, especially in the off-season, my husband will indulge me and we’ll pick one or two of these roads and plunge in, submerged in the deep, dark, emerald of the pines, then ascend from the undergrowth just in time to happen upon a cluster of rural mailboxes, hear the cry of a gull; small clues that hint at the possibility that there’s something up ahead. And then nothing. The road might narrow to the point that the wild blackberries and sheep laurel slap the car doors as you bounce along, and just when you begin to think you must have gone wrong, all at once, the shadowy cape of branches and thicket come to an abrupt end. There, with some great, sweeping flourish, the woods unfurl, giving way to a panoramic expanse of endless deep turquoise water punctuated with white caps, and mirrored by an impossibly blue sky dotted with bleached white puffs of cloud. 

      All of this a picturesque canvas, the backdrop to a small settlement of manicured lawns carved out between moors of sassafras, witch hazel and wild beach plum bushes. Upon each sit the greyish brown of cedar shake cottages. Framed by lavender and hoards of pink hydrangeas, they arrange themselves like paintings at the edge of a cliff. 

      Our house sits like the dot on an i at the end of one such dirt road. Camouflaged by tall pines and low-lying lady slipper and beach heather, it is barely visible even at the top of the road. Once you make the turn onto the driveway there’s a small oval of blue beneath a lantern, the same blue as the shutters on the house beyond, with “Haefeli” etched into it. To the left is a perfect postage stamp of a lawn, bordered by a white picket fence and an arching white trellis, through which you glimpse the first patch of blue water just beyond. 

      New Englander’s like to name their homes. The early settlers did it out of necessity, before there were street names or house numbers. More of an affectionate tradition today, the names range from reverent to humorous, reflecting life’s mottos, inside jokes, a personal philosophy, or just clever wordplay. Whatever the sentiment, they are not chosen hastily, and to their owners, they hold great significance. The blue plaque above our garage reads, “Searenity” and it seems to me now that it was one of the many things bought as a retaining wall of ownership; a valiant effort to stake our claim on a thing of beauty, and deny the possibility of loss. 

      From this side, the side we call “the back” although it’s really the front, the house appears to be quite pleasant. Average sized, typical expanded Cape style, detached garage. You walk in the front door to face the staircase, the living room to the right. Even if it’s your first time here, you’ll put your bags down on the long weathered bench against the wall and follow as though some kind of magnetic pole was pulling you left toward the kitchen. You might tilt your head down at this point, and when you look up, no matter what the weather is, your eyes widen, a small, murmured “Oh,” leaves your breathless lips, and you stop dead in your tracks. 

      The great room sits three steps below the sea green of the marbled kitchen surfaces. Shaped like a ship’s bow, the walls, what there are of them, are white. The muted beiges of Orientals break up the warm glow of the hardwood floors beneath, and a big, comfy, “L” shaped couch in a pale buttery yellow takes center stage facing away from you. A couple of strategically placed armchairs covered in white sailcloth follow suit, but what they do face is not a television, and you won’t notice anything in that room right away anyway, because you’re not meant to. The real attraction lies beyond the eight enormous windows that form the “walls” on the starboard and port sides. Designed to showcase what no interior designer on earth could even hope to conceive, they make up the “front” of the house, and through them, a spectacular view of the ever-changing grandeur of the shoreline appears to have been captured all around you in one huge, continuous, white framed, sequence. 

      Trust me on this: It never gets old. 

      Aside from the memories our family has built here, this is the very heart of the house. A good thing to keep in mind, because being in it is the closest you can be to sitting in the copse before the dune grass, protected from the elements, looking out on the colors of the water and the sky; things that have always been, and will always be. Things at once immutable, and unremittingly changing. Things that no one can take away. 

      There are few things in life I treasure more than the early morning on the Cape. Waking to the lazy, rhythmic sound of the tide, I’m generally the first one up. I slip downstairs, pour a cup of coffee and take in that magnificent view. Eventually, I make my way outside for what used to be a long run alone, and has become a long walk, often with my husband. 

      Depending on my mood, I jog out the dirt path to its end and then choose: To the left a stretch of undulating pavement takes me a few miles past kettle ponds and out to the main road. The right leads to the salt marsh, and beyond that, First Encounter, a stretch of beach that marks one of the first stops made by Myles Standish before he moved on to Plymouth. The way to the latter is my favorite. The blue Manitoba flycatcher boxes stand deep in the marsh to attract the greenhead flies, a real necessity especially on days where the wind is still and the tide is low, and millions of Fiddler crabs scuttle around the muddy edges close to the road. 

     There is a very specific Cape Cod sort of Americana along this road too; heart shaped, painted driftwood American flags and my favorite, an arrangement of clam shells pressed into the soil on the side of the road, painted to create a seaside version of Old Glory. At its end, the road is lined on both sides with the dunes, the tall sea grass curved in frozen arcs as a reminder that stillness doesn’t last for long near the sea. 

     In recent years, as the fear of losing this place to forces outside our control became more acute, we’ve savored our time here with a fierce determination. My husband, who found the original house and realized a childhood dream as he built it, railed at the writing on the wall, channeling his rage into a myriad of improvements. Each project ensured a fortress-like permanence, an impenetrable force field of devotion to his promise. On occasion, he’d disappear and I’d find him on the upper deck staring straight through sunsets. With his face bathed in the orange glow of the early dusk, he’d detail the plots of elaborate strategies, swearing “As God is my witness” soliloquys, cursing the fates that led to this, and ultimately sighing deeply. “We are here now,” he’d say. “Today, it’s still ours.”  Another year would go by and we both believed it. 

      Then, a few months ago, a maelstrom of forces collided and the threat could no longer be ignored. Right to the bitter end, (and probably beyond) we fought and haggled and reasoned. We schemed and bargained and we prayed. But in the end, the decision was made for us, and other priorities prevailed. Battle weary and still disbelieving, we alternated between numb acceptance and weepy grief. “It will be alright,” we told one another, “we’ll find another one.” 

      Mitch Album wrote, “All endings are really beginnings, we just don’t know it at the time.” So here we are. We gathered this weekend not to mourn, but to celebrate the time we’ve had in this house, and to scout out our next one. The girls brought enough fireworks to make July 4th seem small by comparison and we set them off on the beach our first night. Last night at dinner we recounted our favorite stories. It was our youngest’s idea. She said we should each tell one memory that was funny and one that was “endearing” about the house. We willingly obliged, going around the table, laughing until we cried as each of us shared morsels of history and I was struck by what they all had in common, by what was strangely conspicuous to me about each of those memories: None of them had to do with the house. Not a single one. 

      Our love of this place, our history as a family, does not require the wood, or the glass, or the marble, or even the view from that room. In that moment I knew that we did the right thing coming here this weekend and that the cycle of our grief is almost complete. We looked at some beautiful properties today, and although I will always feel an inextricable bond to this place, I’m beginning to feel excited about starting again. I can go up to bed now, and know that late tonight, when I wake as I always do, I will listen for the sound of the surf, and rise to marvel at the reflection of the moon on the water. I will hear the soft rustle of the curved dune grass and it will serve to remind me that all that is most beautiful here, all that I treasure most, endures because it will bend rather than break. 

      We will find another dream on Cape Cod, but wherever our next house is, I know now that bow or no bow, it’s just the vessel. Our love for each other, the sound of our laughter, and the strength and resilience we share, those are the true elements of our “Searenity”. 

 Haefeli Time Capsule 25 Bay View Dr. Eastham, Ma 10-14-13 14 Oct 2013 

 My Baby Turns 18 

      Eighteen years ago today, I wore my favorite maternity dress to work, a pastel floral that was both cool and comfortable; two things that cannot be overstated when one is eight months pregnant. It was, as I recall, one of those gorgeous spring mornings when it seems that virtually overnight, all of the trees had conspired to birth new green buds. The cherry blossoms debuted their spectacularly brief appearance, and everywhere you looked, clusters of pink petals pressed against a background of clear blue sky. On the drive to work, I sang along with Sheryl Crow about how all she wanted to do was have some fun. 

      I began my workday in a “Status” meeting, and somewhere around the middle of it, I looked around the table at my all-male co-workers and said, “Would anyone mind if I left? I feel a little��. off.” Never had this group agreed on something so quickly. Lots of enthusiastic nods. I stood, and as I as walked to the door, almost an entire month before my due date, my water broke. 

      What happened after that has all the elements of an I Love Lucy episode. Thankfully, only one of the men seemed to notice that something was up, and he followed me out of the room. I was talking to one of the secretaries at that moment, both of us staring down at my now soggy shoes as I murmured something like, “So I guess I need to go home now?” 

      “You can’t drive!” She exclaimed, and seeing my deer-in-the-headlights expression, took charge. She turned to Rick, the man who had followed me out, and barked, “You live near her. Can you take her to the hospital?” 

      I barely remember getting into the car. What I do remember is the sudden panic I felt when Rick said to me, “Just think, by this time tomorrow, you’re going to be a mother.” 

      “Yeah,” I said, dazed. 

      I was thinking about the baby shower gifts still in their packaging on my dining room table at home. My shower was only two days before. I wasn’t ready. How could this happen today? I wasn’t having contractions, but all of a sudden, I was scared. I asked him to drive a little faster. Forty or so minutes later, we arrived at St. Barnabas Hospital in Livingston. 

     I knew my husband was meeting us there, but I didn’t know the older couple that was walking out of the hospital as we walked in. Rick greeted them warmly with anxious promises to, “talk to them later.” I gave them a hurried, “Hi!” and waddled through the door, conscious of their inquisitive glances in my direction. Jeeze, haven’t they ever seen a pregnant woman before? I wondered distractedly. “Who’re they?” I glanced at Rick over my shoulder. 

     He stopped walking for a minute, and I turned to face him. With just a hint of hysteria, he replied, “My in-laws.” 

     We both lost it. “Oh, Reeekkky, you got some ‘splanin’ to do!” I managed to spit out right before I peed my pants. 

      Nineteen babies were born at St. Barnabas that day. Emily Walsh Halpin was one of them. She was only five pounds, but then, she was only seventeen inches, so she didn’t really look scrawny, just sort of miniature. They handed her to me and I looked at her teeny- tiny body and face and said, “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” and I cried a little. When the pediatrician came the next morning to check her out, he declared her perfect, and added that, “Sometimes good things really do come in small packages.” 

      These are the things you remember. This is the story I told Emily every year on her birthday for years. There are other little details I remember too, like the outfit I brought her home in. It was a white onesie with rosebuds all over it. Preemie sized, it was still way too big for her. As they wheeled me out of the hospital holding her in my arms, I tried for a look of Mona Lisa-ish serenity, the way I thought new mothers were supposed to look and feel. What I really felt, looking down on this perfect little human, was something closer to terror. I looked around desperately for the person who would hand me the “book” before they let me take her home. You know, the “how-to” manual, the guide. Keeping Your Newborn Alive: For Dummies. 

      I had three full months off from work for maternity leave, and they proved to be one of the most stressful periods of my life, a murky, emotional, Bermuda triangle of bliss offset by grief and loss. I was inexperienced and she was colicky. I had never been a great sleeper myself before her arrival, and after she came I teetered on the verge of exhaustion all the time. I walked miles with her in my arms throughout the old Victorian house we owned, wondering what I was doing wrong, and if she would ever stop crying. Once, during our nightly walk the song “Happy Together” by the Turtles came on the radio and she suddenly stopped crying. After that, it became “our” song, and I sang it to her every night, long after her infancy: “Imagine me and you, I do/ I think about you day and night/ it’s only right/ to think about the girl you love/ and hold her tight/ so happy together!” 

      My marriage at that time, always an erratic EKG of highs and lows, had entered a cold, flat-line of silent accusation and resentment. By July, after one final downward spike, I packed up my white Celica and left. I was nursing two- month old Emily at the time, and the day I moved, my milk dried up. 

      And then, at the beginning of September, my father died. I had stopped at my parent’s house on my way home that night to see him. I looked at him sleeping in the hospital bed my mother had arranged for him, then kissed his head and left. About an hour later, as I sat rocking Emily in my rented home, I heard the phone ring. I knew. I let it ring. I rocked. I gazed at my sleepy baby, who was fed and warm and I watched her eyelids twitch and her mouth make little O’s. I closed my eyes, breathed in her baby smell, and kissed her soft, downy head. Finally, I put her down in her crib and whispered, “I don’t think you’re going to get to know your Grandpa.” Then I forced myself to make the call to confirm what I already knew, my dad was gone. 

      For a long time, I recalled the autumn that followed with an aching sense of loneliness and self-doubt. When I left him, I never imagined how many times I would go from staring at my infant, memorizing her little yawns and sighs, her smiles and hiccups, to glancing up instinctively, longingly, to meet the eyes of her father, the only other human on the plant who I believed would be equally rapt. At those moments I felt my single parent-ness most acutely, and I learned quickly to convert the funneling spiral of sadness that came with it into anger at his shortcomings, and at myself, for not being “enough” to change them. 

      Now I remember that period as being one filled with too many blessings to count. My superiors and colleagues at work were like family to me. The night I called my boss (and friend), to tell her all that had transpired during my maternity leave comes to mind. “What can we do to help?” was her sincere response. The memory of that still chokes me up. They rallied around me, letting me work from home two days a week, taking a never-ending interest in my “Emily” stories, and whether or not they actually were, doing a great impersonation of “rapt”. 

      Then there was the fact that the other three days a week, my mother, only three blocks away and happy to have Emily all to herself for a while, took her so that the only concern I had about child-care was how much she would be spoiled. It is no exaggeration to say that Emily came as a gift to both my mother and me at a time that could have been defined by loss. In ways we could not, and did not articulate, this new life saved each of us and gave our days a light-ness and a hope that held more power than the pain. She simply filled us up. 

     Here are the pictures, the flashbacks, the slideshow in my head: She was a pea in a pod that first Halloween. Right before Christmas, I propped her in front of the fireplace and took beautiful photographs of her right before the fire department had to come because I doused the Duraflame with water when we were done and the house filled up with smoke. The first time she went to her father’s overnight, I walked around feeling like my arm had just fallen off and I cried myself to sleep. She walked at nine months. In fact, one of the first words she said was, “Awk!” holding up her chubby arms for me to hold while she took her first aided steps. The summer after she turned one, my sister and I rented a house at the beach for a week. Several times each day I coated her in sunscreen before setting her down in the sand where she rolled around and emerged like a breaded chicken cutlet. 

      When Emily turned two, I bought a little white two-family house. I painted her room pink and planted a little garden in the yard while she sat next to me on the grass babbling lines from a book we’d read many times called The Story of Little Babaji (a presumably more politically correct version of my beloved, and now banned, childhood favorite, Little Black Sambo, although for the life of me, I cannot see the bias or the difference other than this child is Indian instead of African). Every night we played the same game while she soaked in the tub. I would close the shower curtain a little bit and say, “Where did Emily go? Is she in the kitchen? Is she in under the table?” And from behind the curtain she would answer “Noooo!” her voice giddy with the notion of fooling me. Over and over I would ask if she was here or there and she would answer me from behind the curtain. Finally, I would yank it back and “find” her and she would scream with delight. It never got old. 

      She got her first big girl bed in that house, and I smiled sleepily each night at the sound of her bare feet padding from her room to mine. One spring night I came home from a stressful day at work and noticed the maple seedlings all over the driveway. I put down my bag, picked one up, pealed it open and stuck it on her nose. Then we opened more and threw them up into the air to watch them spin to the ground. “Helicopters!” I exclaimed. “Hep-ti-collars!” She repeated happily, and I laughed out loud, my workday completely forgotten. 

     After I realized how much she loved the rhyming sing-songy words of most children’s books, I decided to try reading poetry to her instead. Every night for weeks she requested Robert Frost’s, “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”. I added some gestures to it for her, pointing at my head when I said, “I think I know” and other motions that I thought would give it meaning and entertainment value for her. She was not quite four the night she stopped me from reading it again saying, “I’ll do it,” and to my delight she did, reciting the entire poem, adding a little shimmy of her own as she said, “He gives his harness bells a shake!” 

      Then there was the summer evening that she styled my short hair for me, adorning my locks with at least a dozen little bows and clips, kinda like Buckwheat in the Little Rascals. We both agreed I had never looked better. After dinner we heard the tell-tale jingle of the ice cream truck so I grabbed my wallet and her hand and ran outside to meet it. A neighboring mom and I stood making small talk as we waited our turn. Right before she turned to leave she gave me a sly smile, “So Trish, where’re you going?” 

      “Going? Where would I be going? What do you mean?” I asked perplexed. 

     She gestured to her head, and then mine, and at that moment, standing outside in front of half the neighborhood, I remembered the state of my hair. 

     This would prove to be a theme. One of her earliest school picture days I sent her off with her “bob” cut perfectly combed and secured with one tiny red bow clip. When the pictures came, she not only had the red bow, but several other clips and a hair band as well. It seems that she was working the, “If one is good, ten are better” philosophy. At the time, I was actually a little upset about her crazy little “do”. Now, it has become one of my favorite pictures. 

      Funny how that happens. 

      I called her my, “OK Mom,” kid, because that was her standard response to me, no matter what I said. She was never defiant or fresh. Really. Once, when she was about four, she used a bad word and I marched her into the bathroom and just grazed her front teeth with the soap. Honestly, it was not a true bar-of-soap-in-the-mouth thing. I just wanted to make a point. Boy, was she furious. She stormed away and then stormed back in, face red, fists balled, and she shook her little finger at me and said, “I’m thery, thery, thery, angry with you!” 

      Suppressing laughter, I countered with, “Well, then we have something in common, because I’m kinda angry with you too!” 

      “Humph!” She snorted, and stomped away. 

      Emily was four when I remarried and seven when I had her sister, Elizabeth. That same year, her cousin, who shares the same birthday, went off to college. I think that’s what prompted her to tell me for the first time that when she went to college, she wanted me to be her college roommate. “I promise not to hold you to that,” I told her, but for years afterward, she insisted that she still meant it. 

     Today, she is eighteen. Her life has not always been as charmed as what I’ve written here implies, but whose is? On the other hand, some of the challenges she has faced have been enormous, and she has handled them with more grace than I could have at her age. In three short months, she will go off to college, and no, I will not be her roommate. What I will be, is, well, sort of abbreviated. Not missing an arm perhaps, but not quite as whole as I am with her here. 

      I have always said that my children saved me from a life of complete self-absorption, and I cannot quite imagine my life without her here. I will miss all that she is, and she is so many more things than I can describe. She makes me laugh. Even as a child she had a very dry, sophisticated sense of humor. When she was in Middle School, I once stood over her, furious, yelling at her for listening to her iPod on an impossibly high decibel saying, “You’re going to go deaf from that, and I’m NOT GOING TO PAY FOR YOUR HEARING AIDS!!!! She looked up at me and after just the slightest pause, threw back her head and laughed. I ended up laughing too. Lately, I have to remind her not to make me laugh if we’re in public and I’ve been drinking a lot of water. It’s dangerous. 

     Over the years I have been in awe at her capacity for forgiveness, and shocked by the irrevocability of her stubborn streak. Her eyes communicate everything you need to know about her inner climate. Her smile, which reduces those eyes to mere creases, is nothing short of radiant. She is a wonderful writer, and a gifted photographer. She is resilient. She not only survives the difficult events of her life, she survives with a determination to be happy. She is aware of this, because it was a decision. A decision she made at seventeen after losing her father to cancer. She decided to be happy in spite of anything. 

      I cried when I read her college essay, and not because she chose to take the obvious route and play the pity card, but because she didn’t. She described some of the difficult things she had endured, yes, but instead of capitalizing on the woe-is-me aspect, she focused on what she had learned: “From blissful to brutal, my exposure to the ups and downs of life presented me with a decision; I could potentially retreat into my anger and sadness or I could do the opposite. I could live my life with the glass half full, and accept that things will not always be easy, but life will go on, and I can always find a way to thrive.” 

      Yep. That’s my kid. I’m so proud of the woman is she becoming and sometimes I honestly don’t know where she came from. 

   We’ve been blessed. In many ways raising a child does take a village, and over the years, every time I glanced up from her to ours, including family, friends, and caregivers, they have never failed to offer us “rapt”. She even told me the other night at dinner (in what I like to think was a partially kidding tone) that she might still be willing to have me as her college roommate if only I wouldn’t nag her so much about the fact that her room’s a mess. That was sweet, and tempting as it is, I still promise not to take her up on it. But man, am I gonna miss this kid and count the days until her room is messy once again. 

 23 May 2013 

 Straight Talk 

      After a busy weekend of our kids’ soccer and softball and field hockey games and practices, Monday mornings in my house can be a grim reminder of all of the things left undone. I race around the kitchen making breakfast and lunches while my husband rifles through my youngest’s backpack, firing comments and questions at me in rapid succession: “Did we ever fill out that form for Elizabeth’s camp stuff?” “We really need to get that basement cleaned up.” “Are we going to make something for the Harvest Fest?” 

      On a good day, I smile inwardly and simply answer the question or murmur agreement. On a bad day, or after a long week of forced togetherness like the one we just experienced compliments of “Sandy,” these types of questions illicit answers mildly tinged with irritation: “Ooooh! Oui Oui! I love it when you speak French to me!” I coo sarcastically. Because, of course, what he really means is “Moi,” and sometimes, I guess I just wish he’d say so. At least I think I do. The reality is that there’s a solid chance that on some days that wouldn’t go over well either. 

      On the other hand, speaking French to me occasionally is a giant step up from another kind of question. The one that begins, “How would you like to….” For that one, the cartoon rendition would show the words screeching down a giant lightening bolt headed straight to the top of my aluminum spine. The thought bubble would read: No I wouldn’t like to, thank you very much. How would you like to just ask for what you want instead of acting like you’re doing ME a favor? Sometimes, he goes the flattery route. School and camp forms will pile up on my desk for all of the kids and he’ll shrug in an aw shucks kind of way and say, “You’re so much better at this stuff than I am. I’ll help you if you need me to.” Allow me to do the translation: I hate filling these papers out and I never want to see them again. Please take care of this and then let us never speak of it . 

      Ugh. As my sister and I like to say, “If only everyone were a lot more like us.” Humph, and tsk. 

      Okay, okay, so I probably have a few annoying habits of my own when it comes to communicating clearly. What I think of as “gentle prodding” for example, some people might perceive as manipulative. Passive-aggressive even. I’m sure my husband is not at all fooled by my fondness for questions like, “Do you want me to take out the recycling honey?” I’ve also caught myself beating around the bush with that that oddly indirect-direct question, “Can you not put the dirty glasses in the sink?” I sometimes find the “I” statement favored by relationship experts to be a tough one to swallow. I know I should say things like, “I feel devalued when you bring your best friend into the delivery room while I labor to have our child.” And yet, I’ve heard my own pre-epidural voice squeeze through clenched teeth to utter things closer to, “Dude, he takes one more step into this room and you won’t live to see your newborn.” 

      A long time ago, I decided that when I reprimanded my children, I wanted to do so in a loving way. My own mother had sounded and looked furious when I broke the rules, and the effect that had on me was that I felt, at that moment anyway, that she really loathed me. The very idea that she raised seven children without ever having read a single book about child rearing is a concept that my generation finds reprehensible (and she finds hilarious). I didn’t want my kids to ever feel that way. I read the books. I embraced the mantra, I don’t like what you did, but I still like you. Now a senior in high school, my daughter doesn’t hesitate to tell me that she has always found it enormously creepy that I smile when I’m describing both her crime and her punishment. Truth be told, I see her point. 

      A friend of mine told me that both she and her husband prefer to deliver many of their most difficult messages through conversations with someone else while in earshot of the other. It might go like this: He comes home one night and is snappish with her. Then, over dinner, he’ll announce to the kids that he’s cranky because he’s, “Really tired because I didn’t get home from work until late last night and had to be back in the office early today.” She will then turn to the family dog and loudly apologize for forgetting to refill his water bowl saying, “I just haven’t had a minute to think all day” and then patiently ticks off the number of chores and responsibilities she has managed to jam into her day. I’m sure marriage counselors have a name for this style of indirect banter. I’m equally sure it falls into the category of “frowned upon,” and yet the message is abundantly clear. 

      As a teacher, my students who return after a day’s absence often ask me, “Did we do anything yesterday?” I try not to feel insulted. I’m fluent in this language and know that what they really mean is, “What did I miss?” Unfortunately, my standard reply, “No, we waited for you,” is frequently misinterpreted. Pronoun usage is at its most interesting when report cards come out. Inevitably I will hear one child say, “She gave me a C,” and another say, “I got an A.” 

      I’m considering embarking upon an experiment. I’m going to be more direct. To consciously choose my words in a way that is a clear expression of what I’m trying to say. I’m sure it’ll save a lot of time, which will free everyone up for better interactions overall. No more reading between the lines, no need to crack the code. What you hear is what you get. Oh yes, I think this is going to be good. But on second thought, maybe I should ease into this. Practice on the dogs first. Yeah, I’ll start tomorrow. 

 4 Nov 2012 

 Schoooool’s Out. For. Summah! 

      The big joke among middle school teachers is that hardly anyone chooses middle school. Middle school is the true pariah of school districts. Most teachers start out in the high school or at one of the elementary schools, and for one reason or another, get transferred. Some couldn’t find a job in their subject area in an elementary or high school. Once in, however, many middle school teachers wouldn’t leave if you (ahem) paid them. Maybe it’s because we have the privilege of bearing witness to a metamorphosis. There are few phases in a child’s life where they undergo so much transformation. 

      It’s a weird, complex age, the whole twelve-to-fourteen year-old period. I teach the new ones, the seventh graders. Making the transition from elementary school to middle school is nothing short of exhausting, and frequently traumatic for them. No longer are they in one classroom all day with their best friends. They arrive, with brand new backpacks and sneakers and excitedly navigate a brand new building, filled with new kids and new teachers. Gone are those sweet little desks that held all their books and papers. In their place are hall lockers with new lock combinations to deal with in that frenzied three-minute timeframe they have to get from one class to another. The novelty of changing classes for each subject is tempered by the fact that they change teachers as well, and each of us have different personalities, expectations and breaking points. By the time they get to fifth period lunch and realize their “bff” isn’t there until sixth, the shine is pretty much off the penny. 

      The drama of changing clothes for gym cannot be underestimated. They’re riding the fence, both physically and emotionally. Some days they really want to be treated like little kids, others, they’re convinced that they are mini-adults. This is the age of braces and unfortunate forays into hair and makeup experimentation. It marks the onset of puberty and all the emergent feelings that accompany that. The girls, many of whom already occupy the bodies of women, tower over the boys in seventh grade, but by eighth I’m often looking up at those same boys teasing them, saying, “What did they feed you this summer?” 

      Most of all, they’re goofy. Seventh graders get hysterical while reading “A Christmas Carol,” every time the character named “Dick” is mentioned. They have to be reminded (often) of the necessity of deodorant, and don’t even get me started on the copious spraying of “Axe” in the hallways after gym. They write all over their hands and arms, and are obsessed with their cell phones and chewing gum. 

      If their name is Robert, and you ask them what they’d like to be called (Rob? Bobby?) It is entirely possible that they will misunderstand and reply, “The Dark One.” Girls with beautiful, old names like Catherine will take the opportunity to reinvent themselves and ask to be called “Lexie.” They develop crushes, form cliques, bully one another and are young enough and idealistic enough to believe that they have a great shot at being a professional skateboarder, actress or rapper (in my district, I have yet to have a child lay claim to President). To them, the eighth graders seem arrestingly exotic. The eighth graders, well aware of this, work their worldly image for all it’s worth; “making out” in the hallways, rolling their skirts to make them shorter and whipping out that hair elastic to cinch their shirts tighter in back. They call the “little” seventh graders “cute.” 

      I teach Language Arts, what we used to just call “English.” In my school, Language Arts and reading are actually separate subjects, so what I really teach is writing. In September, when I first get them, if I assign an essay, more often than not, I will get a paragraph. Then I have until April and the dreaded NJ Standardized Test to turn that into five well-organized paragraphs. Along the way, I grade literally thousands of papers. 

      Sometimes I keep a private record of the “best of” the essays I’ve graded. I have included them here exactly as they appeared in their essays: 

      “Once I got lost and a stranger picked me up and drove me home. My mom was so happy she gave him four hundred dollars but he just gave it back. But my mom did let him date my sister…” 

      “I am trying to improve my grades so that I can be on the on-a-roll.” “Many reality shows are supposed to be real but most of them are fake. Studys of Julie Arts, which is an acting school, say that more then 67% of people need to know how to act when entering to be in an reality show.” 

      “Parents will save more money on clothes with hammy downs, and not hassle with new clothes when you can just past the clothes down.” 

      “According to the First Commandment, we have the right to free speech.” 

     “My aunt Linda was a teacher until one of her students made a website called ‘Ms. Linda Crowfeet STINKS!!’ My aunt got a law suit and won, but she still goes to therapy lessons four times a week.” 

      “My grandmother Becky had eighteen children in the years 2000 to 2002 and she went to the therapist once a week because it was hard for her to keep track of each one and pay bills at the same time.” 

      Back in 2004, I took the opportunity to use the fact that it was an election year as a “teachable moment.” Instead of essays, I had the kids choose a candidate, research their stand on the “issues” and then write campaign speeches. Many of these were priceless, (the comments in parenthesis are mine, I couldn’t help myself): 

      “I have a lot of other things to say about healthcare, but it would take forever, so I will move on…” (Oh, if only it worked this way in real life!) 

      “I will also give poor seniors free vitamins, and make hospital payments and education payments free!” (Free payments! Where do I sign?) 

      “Kerry is presenting a plan to identify, disrupt and eliminate terrorist networks. They will be hunted down and slaughtered. They can run but they can’t hide. He will use military forces if necessary…” (Ah, but only as a last resort…) 

      “Finally, I’ll talk about the environment. I say that since I have taken office, the U.S. has been enjoying air, water and land… " 

      “The last issue I’ll talk about is healthcare. We work hard and still don’t have enough money to buy ourselves a new outfit every month. That’s because we give so much money for healthcare and other programs.” (Ugh! I hate that!) 

      “I am very alarmed that Americans are concerned about Iraq and other foreign policies.” (Yeah, aren’t they aware of the outfit problem??) 

      “In addition, if what he says is true about doing enough for our environment, then why do we still have filters for our water? We aren’t satisfied. Why do thousands of people every month catch asthma from inhaling bad air? We aren’t satisfied, are we?" 

     “Education is very important because if you don’t have one you won’t get no where in life. The No Child Left Behind Act gives schools the chance to be flexible and learn new ways to spend government money.” (I ain’t touching this one!) 

       “I believe in making changes for my country such as lowering taxes, and making schools a little non-strict. I want to be as good a president as Bill Clinton, God bless his soul.” 

      “I offered a tax credit to dry cleaners that use environmentally friendly technology so it can clean and decrease the waste lagoons so we can swim in them again. I will also help the hog farmers.” (I just don’t know where to begin…) 

      “I have been thinking about starting a new program to keep forests healthy. One way is to allow companies to cut down trees that could end up being part of forest fires.” (Clever! Now why didn’t I think of that?) 

      “John Kerry is also a kind man because he chose me, John Edwards, as his vice presidential running mate.” (Hmn…) 

      Someday, I’m going to write a long, detailed essay challenging the rotten propaganda Chris Christie has generated about New Jersey’s teachers. I’ll extoll the virtues of my co-workers, talk about the fact that most of the teachers at my school have Master’s degrees they’ll never get reimbursed for, work longer hours than most people imagine, and spend a ton of their own money on supplies that make school better for kids. 

      I know of at least one teacher who buys her own class set of paperback books for her kids to read, and another who keeps a loaf of bread and jars of peanut butter and jelly in her closet. She often makes sandwiches for those kids who forgot to bring their lunch, or have none to bring. Most of us have second jobs. 

      The faculty at my school have identified and helped children who were being hurt or neglected at home, cutting themselves, starving themselves, using drugs, and being bullied for their sexual orientation. They’ve come in early and stayed late and tried, really, really, tried, to develop lessons that were dynamic and engaging and meaningful. The creativity, compassion and dedication I work alongside with fairly blows the mind. 

      Yes, there are perks. I have loved being able to be home in time for most of my kids’ soccer and field hockey and softball games. Having the summers off? I kid you not, it rocks. But on this last, hot sweaty day of the school year, sitting in a 105 degree classroom with a bunch of the quirkiest pre-adolescents on the planet, who were asking me again if next year, I will really mail to them the letters I had them write to themselves for 8th grade graduation (and yes, I will), my irritation was interrupted by a young, first year teacher who I mentored this year. She came by to chat for a few minutes, so we talked about summer plans and then said good-bye.

     I got one of those glimpses of how quickly it all goes by, and what a gift it is to be able to share this awkward slice of their lives. That young, bright, poised, first year teacher was my student back in 2001. What a remarkable thing it is to remember her then, and see her now. 

      The bottom line is that no one goes into this profession for the money, and if you go into it for the shorter hours, vacation days and summers off, you won’t last. As for me? Well, I’m in it strictly for the laughs. :) 

 21 Jun 2012 

 How a Corporate Climber Went Back to the Classroom 

      In mid-August of 2001, I ended a fifteen-year run on the track of Corporate America, spent mostly with one large company. Leaving that firm, that world, was a wildly spontaneous decision on my part, fueled by the perfect storm of lifestyle changes, bad career choices and a rare opportunity to return to public school teaching. I felt exquisitely lucky that August. I had no idea how lucky I was. 

      I had wound my way around and up throughout the firm and landed in Communications, where that English degree was finally put to good use and I got to write for most of the workday. I made a respectable living, the people were fun, and my work was valued. Still, when I saw the internal posting for a Communications Director spot, a little voice egged me on. Not only would this new job be a nice promotion, it would secure the all-important “Vice President” title as well. A title that was, in a large financial services firm like this one, coveted as much for the attendant ego gratification as it was for the annual cash bonus it merited. Sure, it reported directly to a First VP with a monstrous reputation, but all the right corporate buzzwords were woven into this one job description: Lucrative, high profile, high exposure. 

      It was a two-hour interview. She was everything she was rumored to be: Arrogant, high-strung and mercurial. Somehow, she got me to agree to a month-long “audition” so to speak, during which I communicated with her mainly via email, and then sent her speeches and articles and presentations appropriate to the things she described. Toward the end of the month, she called me at 5:30 in the afternoon and said that she needed a speech for the opening ceremony of a corporate-wide event. “No problem!” I chirped enthusiastically, then, with a little nervous laugh I added, “Wait, isn’t that tomorrow?“ Unapologetically, she assured me that she was, in fact, scheduled to deliver said speech at 9:00 a.m. the following morning. There was a pause, and she finished with a deadly coy, “Oh, well, maybe it’s too much to ask.” 

      I heard the challenge in her tone and knew this was a test. I was frantic. I did my best impersonation of nonplussed. “I’m on it,” I told her, and then I called the babysitter and asked her (again) to stay late. There were others taking a stab at that speech too. She chose mine, and that was the day she asked me to “name my price.” Her choice of words unnerved me, but once again, I shook it off. In keeping with the “go big or go home” mentality I was working at that point, I told her (in an equally even, challenging tone) an absurdly high number. She didn’t flinch. There, I thought, game on. 

      The truth is that I was as close to selling my soul to the devil as I would ever be and I should have never, in a million years, imagined that I was anywhere close to being in her league in any kind of game, much less the game I was signing on to play. 

      The older me, the one who reflects on this and other times in my life, wonders about the fact that I disregarded every instinct that I had about her. She made no attempt to camouflage her difficult disposition, and I sensed early on that the hoops she had me jumping through were getting higher and higher. Why was I not asking myself if I could work for someone like that? Instead, I embarked on this mission to excel, to please, to succeed, frankly, where no man had succeeded before. 

      Which brings me to the notion that I could have, for example, just listened to the man who currently held the position. He was more than willing to share his experiences (not to mention his anti-anxiety meds) with me. He explained to me that because he had not yet been with her for a year, the only way he could transfer out from under her and still stay with the firm was if he was willing to see the firm’s counseling service and plead emotional problems. As it turns out, he was. And he did. 

      Ego is such a formidable force. I dug in my Brooks Brother’s heels, looked away from the evidence and my obstinate resistance to considering it seriously. There was something familiar and disquieting about my own choice in that regard that lingered like old perfume. Ego notwithstanding, there were probably a number of factors that knit together my stubbornly skewed perception. I had remarried the year before, but the financial insecurity of the single mom was still with me, as was the secret suspicion that I wasn’t good enough. I had something to prove, and was probably rein-acting something personal; hoping that this time, it would have a different ending. The really creepy part is that I think she honed in on that. As a former trial attorney, she had a knack for making quick and accurate assessments of people. I’d bet my bonus that she was gifted in terms of jury selection. She could smell vulnerability, and she was shameless about capitalizing on it. In a very dysfunctional way, our pairing was serendipitous. 

      It was the end of January when she called to offer me the job. I remember her exact words: “I am pleased to offer you the position, and to meet your salary requirements as well.” With a quiet reserve I did not feel, I accepted her offer, briefly discussed an official start date and hung up the phone. I walked calmly to the nearest ladies room, checked every stall to be sure I was alone and then I let out a delirious whoop of joy. There may have been a few salsa moves a la Victor Cruz. I’m certain that there was fist pumping and an exuberant chorus of one yelling “Yes! Yes! YES!!!” 

     Had I known at the time that this moment would be the best I was going to feel for the next six months, I would have reveled in it even more. 

     If things had turned out differently, I’d spin this is as a cautionary tale: Denial and greed and pride, oh my. But the luxury of hindsight compels me to view it as one of life’s watershed moments, one that would soon trigger other watershed moments, and before it was over, huge chunks of my life would be altered and re-defined. Here was this not entirely blind curve in the road and I was just entering the turn, all juiced up on a dangerous cocktail of adrenalin and ambition. 

      I moved into my new offices by Valentine’s Day and the honeymoon period began. I would split my time between Princeton and downtown Manhattan, just as she did. The first two months were filled with certain regular initiatives that became my main focus. Little by little, however, these were interrupted by unreasonable demands; ancillary “projects,” the corporate writer’s equivalent of, “Would you pick up my shirts from the cleaners?” 

      One of these was a “roast” that she absolutely had to have for an old friend of hers whose retirement party was that same evening. I’d never met the man, and she insisted that she was too busy to fill me in. His secretary was out of the office that day as well. I hadn’t a thing to go on other than one of his colleagues telling me that he was “bald, and liked to golf.” A normal person with a normal boss would calmly discuss the impossibility of the situation with their superior. Knowing this was not an option, I went into the bathroom and threw up instead. Then I wrote it, flying by the seat of my pants the whole way. 

      By April I was having regular migraines. At the end of May, the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend to be exact, Boss-zilla interrupted my daughter’s sixth birthday party at our house. “I. NEED. YOU!” She screamed accusingly into the phone. I’d learned to keep my responses level, unemotional. Don’t feed the monster. She was fairly hysterical as she spewed her diatribe straight from the deck of her summer home in the Hamptons. 

      That evening, after cleaning up party debris, I got on the computer and stayed there until the wee hours creating a PowerPoint presentation with talking points and the stump of a speech on the same topic. I hit “send” at about 4 am and fell into bed. Then I turned off my phone and didn’t look at email for the rest of the weekend. When I got back to the office on Tuesday, she ignored my presence, but left an “Action List” on my desk consisting of thirty-two items due at the end of the day. Later, I would discover certain intriguing details of a brouhaha that took place after she had presented my weekend work to her superior, calling it “unusable.” He declared it “outstanding.” As I read his email expressing his appreciation for my “fine work,” I felt a glow of satisfaction that only slightly eased the knot in my stomach. Above the subject line I saw that Boss-zilla been copied on that email. 

      Soon after, in June, she called me in to declare a speech I’d prepared for her “turgid.” I almost laughed. She continued, saying something like, “You know, it’s kind of pretentious-“ 

      “I know what turgid means.” I cut her off, my tone a warning. 

      We locked eyes. I held her shocked gaze knowing that my own was cold. Bring it. 

      At the end of July I saw an ad in the paper for an English/Public Speaking teacher at a nearby public middle school. I had taught high school English briefly right after college, and daydreamed of going back to it someday. Add to this the fact that my new husband and I had four school-aged kids between us, and together we agreed that I should send a resume. I was at the beach on vacation when they called me for an interview, and by the time I went back to work, I had my letter of resignation in hand. 

     I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect her to try and convince me to stay, which she did. Pulling out all of the stops, she used everything at her disposal actually, to change my mind. Another watershed occurred with shocking clarity, revealing what I’d been so reluctant to see before; that ours had all the earmarks of an abusive relationship. And just like that, it was done. Shifted. Over. All the angst, the self-doubt and the ire that she inspired just vaporized. My secretary, who had taken the call when the offer came, sat in my office with me and laughed until we cried over the fact that I was really going to do it, I was jumping ship big time, and for a ridiculously low new salary. 

     Ironically, here again, had I known what the future held for me, I would have reveled in the moment even more. 

      Two weeks later I was home, off for a few days before beginning my new/old career. The relief I felt was indescribable. I remember sipping coffee on the deck, marveling at the ubiquitous nature of landscaping in my neighborhood. I’d never been home to see it before! Never imagined there were so many of them! The sound of lawn mowers was incredibly soothing to me; a constant, lazy drone that I hadn’t really heard since childhood it seemed. It came to represent everything I’d missed sitting in sound-proofed, over air-conditioned offices for too many years. 

      One week after that, I was at the beginning of my first full week of teaching. As the kids filed in for my period 2 Public Speaking class, one of them said to me, “Mrs. H., did you hear? A plane just flew into the World Trade Center.” In a kind of fog, I went upstairs to the library where someone had told me there was a news program on the TV, along with a clear view of the Manhattan skyline. There was. 

      With excruciating slowness, details emerged about the attack. I stood there staring out at the clouds of billowing black smoke where there once stood two powerful buildings and silently contemplated the unspeakable evil behind these acts. I prayed for friends and family members. At one point, I tried to make out the two cousins to the Twin Towers, the North and South Tower of the Financial Center, and shivered, finding it difficult to breathe. “What day is it?” I croaked, to no one in particular. “Tuesday.” Someone answered. 

      I stared straight ahead, heart pounding, trying to process the thousands of emotions and scenarios running through my head, shifting like a deck of cards from terror to frustration to confusion and rage to uncomprehending gratitude. 

     Right up until three weeks prior, I spent Tuesdays at 2WorldFi, otherwise known as the South Tower of the World Financial Center. My office, on the 40th floor, faced the swiftly collapsing World Trade Center buildings. Thank you, Boss-zilla (who is, as of this writing, alive and as cantankerous as ever), for assuring me that most of my co-workers were fine too, in spite of the fact that the windows of my old office blew in like a child’s soap bubble in the wind, spraying glass and debris throughout the entire floor. 

 Our pairing had been serendipitous indeed. 

 12 Jun 2012 

 Oh, Baby 

     I recently attended a baby shower. In many ways, it was typical. Lots of pink decorations, great food, and a nice sized pile of presents wrapped in pastel paper. For the most part, the vibe was upbeat and supportive. Only the grandmother seemed reluctant to take the plunge and celebrate. She spoke little English, but her disapproval was palpable. She was all folded arms and a grim expression. Occasionally, she’d let out a disgusted “tsk, tsk,” accompanied by a bewildered shake of the head. It would be easy to assume she was angry. I figured she was sad. Or afraid. Her granddaughter, the mom-to-be, had just turned fifteen. 

      “Maria” was my student last year when she was in 7th grade. I may as well cut to the chase here; With any luck we hide it well, but teachers who deny the reality of “teacher’s pets” are lying. Maria was one of mine. Why? Maybe it was because she is so smart and yet so unable to envision a connection between that quick mind and her best shot at a ticket out of an underprivileged existence. Maybe it was because she is a tangled mess of contradictions; Street gang tough on the exterior, fragile and incredibly sweet underneath; Uber-responsible at home, and a complete flake about school; Intellectually sharp, and completely lacking in ambition. Maybe it was because I knew she was looking for love in all the wrong places, or maybe it was simply because she often trusted me enough to let down her guard with me. Perhaps I’m kidding myself about all of that. The reality is probably that I didn’t choose her at all, she chose me. 

     There was nothing unusual about Maria’s visit that September morning. I wasn’t the only person she had charmed, and she often wrangled her way into the school building earlier than most students were allowed. Once in, she frequently wandered down to my classroom for one of our early morning chats. This time, I knew almost immediately that something was up. She was nervous and edgy, literally wringing her hands, and she kept referring cryptically to some new “drama” that was unfolding in her life. Finally, she just spilled it, “I’m having a baby.” I had been walking around the room, pushing desks together and arranging papers, but at that point I stopped, and slowly lowered myself into one of my student’s desk chair. I didn’t have to ask, I knew by the way she had phrased it, by the way she didn’t say, “I’m pregnant,” but I couldn’t stop myself, 

     “What are you going to do Maria?” 

      “I’m going to keep my baby,” she announced, lifting her chin with just the tiniest bit of defiance, “I’ve always wanted to be a young mom.” 

      Young mom. When I think of young moms, I think of women in their early twenties. Married women. Women, period. This fourteen-year old person sitting in front of me was a child. A child who had learned at home what to say (in English) to DYFUS when they knocked on the door, and more importantly, what not to say. A child who had told me once that she and her mom had been arguing, and not about the fact that she was sexually active and out at all hours of the night, or even that she had done some creative “translating” of the notices that went home, but about the fact that Maria hadn’t been “there for her.” 

      “There for whom?” I asked, sure that I had misunderstood. 

      “For my mom.” She replied, so matter-of-factly that I could have cried. She was barely thirteen at the time. 

       There had been rumors last year of a previous pregnancy. One where nature had intervened and granted her a reprieve. For a while afterwards, she was quiet and subdued, pale and moody. Little by little, her outgoing nature began to emerge once again, and at about the same time, the hickies began appearing again too. These she wore proudly, like red and purple neck accessories, or maybe just the only visible, tangible evidence that somewhere, someone loved her. 

      I’ve lost a lot of sleep over this kid. 

      She left my district shortly after we had this discussion. DYFUS surprised them this time, and certain realities of their living conditions could not be overlooked. Thankfully, there was a family member in an another town willing to take them in, and once she was settled, she got in touch with me. At that point, the usual and important boundaries between student and teacher were no longer imperative or practical. I simply decided that I was going to do what I could for her, and see her through this. 

      We exchanged cell phone numbers and began to have fairly regular conversations and dinners. We talk about her schoolwork, which high school she should apply to in her new town, her family, and the boyfriend who just turned eighteen and is idealistic enough to be excited for the birth of his child, and naïve enough to assume that his offer to “help her” with whatever she needs is a generous concession to his role as father. She brings me her sonogram pictures and her fears about childbirth. We talk about what motherhood is going to be like and how much it’s going to cost. 

      Only recently, she came to my home and met my kids. She sat at my kitchen table while I cooked and wrote down the recipe and the steps of the preparation. When we were done eating, she politely asked if she could take the leftovers home. Without so much as a glance in my direction, my girls started rifling the cabinets for other things she could take too and I knew then that they were right there with me, drinking the Kool-Aid. Maria had cast her spell once again. 

      When I drove her home that night, I apologized to her for missing her birthday, explaining that my oldest daughter’s father had passed away and it had been an all-consuming week for me. “That’s okay,” she responded, and then went very quiet for a while. When she spoke again, she said this: “My dad is dead too. He was murdered in our country.” 

      She’s excited to have her baby. Says she can’t wait to be a mom and all of her 8th grade friends tell her what a great mom she will be to the little girl she is carrying. I cannot deny that she has a nurturing sensibility. I’ve seen it in action with her six-year old brother, and her sweet, but emotionally fragile mother. She is a caretaker for sure and she longs for the unconditional love an infant can offer. 

      But who will take care of her? 

    This is the last and most compelling of her contradictions: This conspicuous lack of self-pity or bravado. Just an innocence that is incongruous with the experiences she has had already in her young life. She simply doesn’t know how to have expectations. She is that overused term: survivor. Figuratively speaking, dodging bullets has been a way of life for her. She has no doubt that she can do it all, because well, what choice does she have? 

    At times, I swear, the desire to take care of her and protect her is overwhelming. I have this picture of her in my head from her shower. The young boy is beside her, his arm slung awkwardly around her shoulder, smiling self-consciously for the cameras. If not for her giant belly, it could have been an eighth grade dance picture. I doubt she’ll have one of those now, and I understand completely why the grandmother looked so grim. A baby is such a beautiful, life-changing miracle, but who among us was really ready for that change? I thought I was, and I still struggled at times. I also had a lot more in the way of resources than she does, I can tell you that, and I wasn’t trying to get through freshman Algebra at the same time. 

      I hope Maria accepts all the help that is offered her, and I hope she is offered a lot. I hope she finishes school, and has the chance to go to college. Most of all, I hope this child brings her immeasurable joy, and that she is loved and cherished by everyone around her, because no matter what else Maria does, it will never be more important than this. 

 9 Apr 2012 

 Run Away From Your Problems 

     Anybody remember the 1977 best seller, The Complete Book of Running? Great book. The cover was a picture of the author’s bare legs topped off by a pair of red running shorts. When he wrote it, Jim Fixx had a story to tell about his journey from overweight couch potato to confirmed running junkie. His message was clear: Barring very few physical considerations, you too, can be a “runner.” I read it in the early 80’s and there are a couple of odd tidbits in it that cling to the cobwebs of my brain even today. For one thing, Fixx claimed that while perspiration produced by sedentary folks was stinky, the sweat generated during running was “virtually odorless.” “So, go ahead,” he encouraged the corporate masses, “Take that run during your lunch hour, skip the shower, and suit back up!” Eeeeww. 

      True or not, this is, in my opinion, just one of those things that give runners a bad name. This conjures up images of the Boston marathon champion Uta Pippig, who, with diarrhea streaming down her bare legs at the finish line, told the TV commentator that she “looked worse than she felt.” Uta, sweetie, you just crossed a widely televised race finish line in front of thousands of onlookers. You did not stumble incoherently out of the Amazon having just survived against insurmountable odds! You are giving the average spectator way too much credit. I’m pretty sure there were only a handful of people who cared how you felt at that point, most were horrified at first by how you looked, and then by your shamelessness about ignoring it for the sake of a run. 

      Then there was Amber Miller, who ran/walked the Chicago marathon at 39 weeks pregnant. She later noted that race medical workers seemed “startled” to see her as she hauled that huge belly past mile markers. No kidding. She actually began laboring during the race, and about seven hours later was fortunate enough to deliver a healthy baby girl. To her I can only say, “Dear Amber, There’s no ‘do over’ in pregnancy and childbirth. There will, however, be other races.” And then there’s ole Jim Fixx himself, who dropped dead of a heart attack at aged 52 while he was, of course, running. 

      There’s an undeniably elitist mentality among runners too. Secretly, they’re all purists, believing that running is far superior to any other exercise because it requires next to nothing, there’s no class at the gym, no equipment, and no instructor. All you need are your legs and a pair of sneakers. You just go out the door, thumping bass music optional, and it ends when you want it to end. “Elite” runners, especially marathoners, don’t even bother to conceal their condescension when you mention things like Spin classes or Zumba. They smile, and maybe even throw out a dismissive, “That’s great!” Right before they tell you that you should just run. Or not. Which may be even worse. Because then you might be getting the pat on the head, the atta boy reserved for the little kid who just struck out…again. 

      In spite of all of this, I am happy to be counted among those who love to run. There’s a part of me that completely understands the mania of it, the unadulterated compulsion to hit the pavement. I was a runner for the better part of 30 years. My Sauconys are the first thing I pack when I go on a trip. I have run on boiling hot asphalt and cool early morning beach sand. I have made running playlists on my iPod to help me escape the monotony of the treadmill, and had near-spiritual experiences while running trails through the woods in Autumn. I have, as Jim Fixx promised I would, found it easier to breathe while running in the rain because of the higher nitrogen content in the air. 

      Here’s a little insight for those of you who think we’re nuts: Only non-runners see people out “jogging” and think it’s about weight management or getting a little exercise. “Real” runners find that attitude just a little precious. Real runners know the truth, and we can spin it a thousand positive ways, (and they would, in fact, beat the alternative) but it pretty much comes down to those whacky madcap twins: Addiction and Obsession. 

      I recently posted a “status” on Facebook that was essentially a good long moan about how much I needed a good run right now. An old high school friend who has been sidelined with an injury commiserated with me, saying that she literally cried when she drove past people out running. God, I so got that. I was really glad she said it too, because I had felt it and thought I was being melodramatic. Truth: I have never heard anyone express anything close to that kind of desperate yearning to get on the elliptical, or to (yawn) go into warrior pose at “Yoga in a Toga.” Oops. I’m sorry. That was a little condescending wasn’t it? Just a little slip. My bad. Maybe I’m just jealous. At this point I want to love both of those things, but I can’t seem to work up the same passion for them, and it’s killing me (softly). 

      My friend Vivian opted to have two hip surgeries in less than a year even though she was told she could live a completely “normal” life without them. That normal life, however, would not include running and for her, there’s nothing normal about that. This is a woman who has run a marathon a year for as long as I’ve known her. Being “grounded,” first by her injuries and then by her recovery period has been a tougher road for her than the ten plus miles she routinely does just because it’s a Tuesday. “I feel like a part of me has disappeared,” she admits. “I miss the wonderful feeling I get when the endorphins have kicked in, especially after a very long run, and I am on top of the world. It’s a ‘high’ that lasts throughout the day.” As a writer, she has found running to be a catalyst for creative ideas. “Sometimes,” she reveals, “I’d even run with one of those little golf pencils and a piece of paper in my running shorts.” In fact, her blog, Catching a Third Wind/ The journey from injury to recovery (www.athirdwind.com) was created in part to chronicle her surgical experiences and the dreaded physical therapy that follows, as well as to provide a forum for others who are temporarily derailed from running due to an injury or surgical procedure. 

      I’ve never run a full marathon and I have a bad case of marathon envy. I was training for a “half” when I began experiencing the pain that yet another MRI would reveal stems from a labral hip tear – the same tear my friend Vivian had repaired. My situation is a little different, and I decided to try a different path to recovery, but I can tell you that I completely understand her choice to Just Do It. And then do it again. 

      I personally prefer to run alone. Over the years I have just pounded anger, anxiety, frustration and fear right into the pavement. People have told me they’ve seen me (looking slightly deranged, no doubt) with my fingers flying, playing the air-piano as I run and I know it’s true. If it’s classical music on my iPod, I’m a featured soloist. During my runs I’ve carried on (both sides of) conversations that I wisely never ended up having, and composed letters I’ve never sent. I’ve mulled over the day ahead, and made up stories. I’ve cracked myself up, and let myself cry. I’ve left the house happy and contented, and come back euphoric and brimming with a sense of endless possibility. I’ve run to escape the bad neighborhood of my head, and returned to place more like Easy Street.

     I’ve prayed. 

     Hell, I ran when I still drank and smoked cigarettes! (And my buddy Jim told me, in a somewhat conspiratorial tone, that I could do that too.) In my twenties I ran off hangovers and, to borrow a Charlie Sheen-ism, the “cringeable” behavior that goes with all of that. 

     I tell anyone who is just beginning to run that the best kept secret about running is that anyone can be a runner. Anyone. Put on a pair of sneakers and go out the door. Start with five minutes, walk, do it again. It doesn’t matter where you begin, from the very first step, you are a runner. I also tell people that in my experience, no matter how long I’ve run, the first mile is almost always the hardest. It takes that long to get your rhythm, for your heart rate and breathing to level off, and to feel like you are in the “zone.” It’s after that first mile that the magic kicks in. I don’t think I’ve ever run far enough to “hit the wall,” but the “runner’s high”? Absolutely. And let me tell you, adrenalin is good stuff. What that means for me is that fairly consistently there’s a point on my run when I get this invincible, I could run forever feeling - as long as I keep running forward. But of course, my runs are always large loops. As I round the bend to head back, I’m reminded that you can run away from your problems at least temporarily. Sometimes that’s all you need. 

      Here’s another thing running guru Jim Fixx said, and I’m paraphrasing here: He said that in his opinion, running is to exercise what vodka is to alcohol consumption. In other words, it’s the most direct and potent means to an end. I haven’t tasted vodka in a long time but, for a variety of reasons, I like the analogy. Running is the most direct and potent means to an end, and the end is way more than exercise. It is, pure and simple, the best way I know of to untangle thoughts, dilute toxic emotions, and positively channel the overdrive nature of an obsessive personality. That’s the way it works for me, and that’s why I keep coming back to it. Cheers! 

 2 Apr 2012 

 The Brady Bunch? - Not!! 

     My husband likes to tell people that ours is a “his, hers, and ours” family. When he does, someone inevitably gushes, “Oh! Like the Brady Bunch!” A friend who knows us better overheard this exact exchange once. Without lifting her eyes from the newspaper in front of her, she grunted, “More like the Osbornes.” She was right of course. It’s a messy world here in the land of the “Five H’s”, as we used to call our patchwork of kids, and yet, recent events have given me cause to reflect more deeply about this complicated and quirky family that is the epicenter of my existence, and how far we have come. I have much to be grateful for, and sometimes, I take it very much for granted. 

      In all fairness, my husband’s description is accurate. When we got together, he had three children from his first marriage, I had one, and later, we had one together. It is not irrelevant to say that all of these children are girls. It is not irrelevant to point out that when we married, our kid’s ages ranged from four to ten, and that every single one of them was fighting to stake out their territory. Did I mention that we’ve never had fewer than two dogs at one time-that sometimes, there were as many as four? We didn’t have “girly” girls either. Our girls were the skateboarding, soccer/softball/basketball playing, as soon as it snowed, “let’s make a jump out of the deck steps and snowboard,” kind of gals. Get the picture? 

      And of course, though we were loath to admit it at times, they were children of divorce. At this point in my life, I don’t care what anyone says (and I will certainly catch hell for this), the fact is, there are very few positives about divorce for kids. No matter what the situation was before, once it’s gone they feel the loss, the sense that the earth is no longer solid beneath their feet. 

      I didn’t used to believe that. Didn’t want to anyway. I remember the first time it became eerily clear to me. I was at a Halloween dance at my daughter’s small Catholic elementary school standing shoulder to shoulder with the moms of my daughter’s two best friends. We had been brought together that year by our kid’s friendship, not the other way around, and it suddenly occurred to me that we were all single. I watched my child that night, in her yellow “Belle” dress with the long white gloves, searching her four year old face for some sign of….What? Incompleteness? A sense that she felt “less than” or maybe just different? Her two best buddies were seemingly well-adjusted, really sweet, happy little kids, but I don’t believe for a minute that they gravitated towards one another purely by chance. I think that being a child of divorce had already shaped those three, defined them in some really basic, fundamental way, and they had instinctively found one another and held on fast. 

     So, it’s really no surprise that when I remarried, I had hoped to seal the fault lines caused by divorce and create a bedrock of future security for all of our children. It’s probably also no surprise that for literally years, our girls struggled against the mantle of molten rock that simmered beneath their disappointments, and predictably, against one another. My husband and I were both ferociously devoted to our kids, and yet we sort of ridiculously underestimated just how hard it was going to be to merge these lives of ours into something that could be termed a “family.” 

     In retrospect, I think that trying so hard to force our happy ideal on our children made the first few years even more brutal at times. But Lord, how we tried! And cried…And fought. Then exhausted, we’d regroup, strategize, and rebuild. We read books about “blended families,” and “combined families,” step parenting and child psychology. We tried separating them, singling them out for one-on-one time, and then forced togetherness in the form of “family meetings” where most of the open “sharing” was communicated with scorching glares that shimmered like seismic waves across the dinner table, needing no verbal translation. 

     When our youngest was born, the one we had together, she proved to be like the last piece of tile in a complex mosaic, bringing everyone together in a way that seemed more complete and whole, but still, I cannot claim that she alone sealed the deal. 

     The best advice I got during this time came from a friend who stubbornly refused to indulge me in my complaints. I would call her, often in tears, vent my frustration, and then ask her what to do. Over and over she said simply, “It’s going to take time, and a lot of love. You respond to all of it with love. That’s all.” 

     Yeah. And in case of an earthquake, you drop, cover and hold on. 

     When did the tension recede? I wish I could tell you. Time is a funny thing. For all the times I wished and wondered if it would ever happen, when it finally did, it was crazily anticlimactic. If there was an exact moment when it shifted, I missed it. The earth did not move the way I would have predicted, and I doubt that any particular event preceded it. It seems more likely that it occurred so slowly, so gradually; that the concentric rings of our children’s radiating hostility attenuated, and then dissipated completely. What I do know is that seemingly overnight, the sullen silences gave way to sudden bursts of laughter. I came downstairs early one Saturday morning and on tiptoe, followed the voices I heard coming from the basement. Halfway down the steps I paused, closed my eyes and smiled as I listened to their giggles muffled by the comforter they were cuddled up beneath as they played video games together. 

      Confidences were shared and secrets protected. A fierce loyalty replaced accusing eyes and if someone was foolish enough to talk “smack” about one of them at school, they’d have all of the others to contend with. At one point, they seemed to have bonded over a collective eye roll whenever my husband or I spoke. Ah! I thought. This is good! “Us” against “them” became “them” against “us”! This felt like a very good sign indeed. This was as it should be. 

     Strangely enough, the day they sat around the family room doubled over with laughter, calling each another names and teasing each other mercilessly, I knew we had arrived. We were, officially, a family. Where once they had Do Not Enter signs on the doors to their rooms, now we can’t get them out of each other’s rooms. They have stockpiled memories that they pull out and revisit like cherished heirlooms. They stick up for each other, and when necessary, they set each other straight. They can argue and know they will make up. They can fight over clothes, and food, and who left the hair in the drain because they are better than friends, they are sisters. 

      When the oldest ones went off to college, they cried and held each other tight. And when one of them was in need, one by one they made their way home and rallied around her like, well, sisters. The love grows exponentially with each moment shared. 

      As a family we are a case study of challenges met with a stubborn kind of perseverance. At times it has certainly seemed as though against all odds, we have endured. The Brady Bunch, we are not. Norman Rockwell? Not so much. But as part of a demographic that boasts a 60% divorce rate (for second marriages with children), in many ways, we’ve thrived. So far, anyway, we seem to have built something here that has remained intact in spite of the cracks and fissures in our history. 

      Lately, it occurs to me that maybe the most significant proof of this is this magnificent gaggle of girls we have who, given enough time and with enough love grew to become best friends who no longer use the word “step” before “sister.” They have given me more than I can ever repay, have enriched my life in a thousand ways big and small. From them, I have learned so much. In many ways, they have raised me. I’ve benefitted from their warmth and humor, their vulnerability and their strength. I am grateful for their unwavering loyalty. For the family they first resisted, and then embraced so willingly. 

     Time and love. Who knew such a simple formula could yield such rich rewards? Oh, and don’t forget to drop, cover, and when all else fails, hold on tight. 

 18 Mar 2012 

 When There Are No Words 

     My oldest daughter’s father is seriously ill with cancer. It’s strange, I’m not exactly sure when I stopped referring to him as my “ex-husband,” or even just “Frank.” Even with the friends who knew us both when we were together, I still tend to use, “Emily’s Dad” when I talk about him. It’s easier. On some level, I think it began in order to attach some much-needed distance to a relationship that was once so fraught with emotion that it was nearly unbearable. This title erased our history, and implied that somehow, the relationship was solely with my daughter. It was a distilled version of “ex-husband,” of which, for me, the “ex” may as well have been a prefix meaning, “to fail.” 

      His weakened condition has brought up a lot of things for me. Memories that I had successfully suppressed for years have been resurfacing at the oddest moments, and I am awash in the feelings that accompany them, if only for a few minutes. A song on the radio, an aroma, a certain angle of my child’s face in contemplation can bring it on, and off I go, tumbling around in a tidal wave of love, or rage, or anguish. The awkward truth is that he and I didn’t have the luxury of “outgrowing” one another, or even something as mundane as falling “out” of love. Speaking strictly for me, the marriage ended with a deep sense of longing for another outcome. The one thing I think we both know is that there was a mountain of unfinished business. 

      It seems now that for a very long time after the divorce, anger was my very best ally in the fight against the pain. There came a time when I could no longer distinguish between the two emotions, and that too, would have to be worked out later. I had bought an old two family house when we split, and was glad that Emily would have a yard. I couldn’t afford an electrician, so a friend helped out with the new wiring I was required to install. When he was done, you would flip a switch in the living room and the lights would come on the hallway. It didn’t really bother me. In fact, years later I would say that my old house and I were completely in sync. We both had faulty wiring: If you traced my anger back to its source, more often than not, you would find something entirely different; sadness, fear, embarrassment, frustration, etc. 

      But it was all so long ago. In time, I did move on. I dated, fell in love and remarried. He moved on as well. If he and I tend to be a little too formal with one another when it comes to the co-parenting of our child, I suspect that is a shield we employ to guard against everything I’ve said before. It’s all very polite.      

     My daughter, however, is firmly entrenched in my past. She simply adores her father. She has his wicked sense of humor, and she looks like him too. She’ll come home from his house and tell a story about something he said or did, and I can hear his voice when she imitates him. I see him, with his head thrown back unleashing that big, booming laugh. They have worked the knots in their relationship and developed an ease with one another over the years that is enviable. They enjoy one another’s company; and truly, how many fathers and daughters can say that? People often say that she looks just like me, but when they do I always counter with, “Have you met her father?” More often than not, if they think she resembles me, they have never seen him. 

      So, as evocative as this has been for me at times, ultimately, it is she who rattles the cage of my reveries and eclipses whatever reality I think I exist in at any given moment. It is she who reminds me that the true reality is, that there is absolutely no heartbreak that compares to watching your child suffer. At sixteen, this kid has experienced more death and dysfunction that most people see in a lifetime. Cancer has been a constant, black thread running through the fabric of her life for literally years, taking one of Frank’s sisters first, and then one of mine. Her fifteenth birthday will be remembered forever as the day she sat sobbing in her room after finding out that both a close friend and her father had been diagnosed with cancer. The friend, thank God, recovered completely. But in her experience, this is the exception, not the rule, and at the moment, she vacillates between an anger and a grief that threaten to engulf her with their enormity. 

      No one understands this better than me actually, and yet, I am sometimes at a loss to know how to help her. The days she goes to see him in the hospital are the worst. I know that words are often not nearly enough, and the thing is to just hold out my arms and hold her. On occasion, when she is particularly raw, she tells me she cannot bear to be touched, so she pushes everyone away and is unreachable in a world of nothing but loud music and headphones. 

      A few nights ago, I sat on my bed listening to her choking, inconsolable sobs echoing off the tile walls of the shower, and I was paralyzed by the sound of it. I found myself in that barely breathing, heart pounding, heightened-sense state you experience when you think you’ve heard an intruder in the night. I didn’t even realize I had been crying along with her until I heard her weeping subside, and the water turn off. When she emerged, blotchy and red-eyed, I asked her if she was ok, and she kind of tossed her head and in a congested, five-year old’s voice answered, “Yeah, I think I’m done now.” 

      “I think I’m done now.” 

      During her most recent visit, she witnessed just how indiscriminate and cruel this disease can be. She watched as the last shred of his dignity was peeled away and his family, who had wished to protect her from the realities of his prognosis, could no longer encourage her to hope for the best. She sent me texts that whispered of her panic, of the crazy tug-of-war between her desperation to flee his room, and her fear of ever leaving his side again. Cell phone in hand, I paced the floor until the back door opened. She dropped her bags and ran straight into my arms and for the longest time we said nothing. Our tears said it all. 

      What I would like, at this point, is to prevent the inevitable. A simple solution; a win-win: Remission for him; a father for her. To go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow to find the facts have changed. To be able to say the words that would forever remove the deepening crease between her eyebrows, and put some color back in her cheeks. To promise her that yes, he ate today and will get stronger. Yes, the chemo is working. Yes, he’ll see her in her prom dress and her graduation gown. He tear up at her college graduation and walk her down the aisle. He’ll be there dammit, he will. 

      Here I am again, yearning for a different outcome, but this time, for my child. For his child. In the meantime, I’ve been too busy to sleep much at night. I’m knitting something very big and purple and ugly instead. What is it? Who the hell knows, and I don’t care what it is because it gives me something to do and I can’t read because I can’t focus on the words when I’m trying this damn hard to act sure and solid as a rock while secretly trying to bargain with God (craftily sandwiched between prayers because maybe he won’t notice?) and control the universe. 

      Last night I had this dream: Emily and I are driving at night to visit a college when I realize that we are driving without headlights and can’t see what’s ahead. Yeah. You don’t have to be Dr. Phil to figure that one out. 

      It seems like such a long, long time ago when she was a toddler and I was a single mom working full time and I thought it was really hard. I hated leaving her. Once, when I was talking to a co-worker about it she told me, “It is hard. But the thing nobody tells you is that they need you even more as they get older.” I think I remember that conversation so clearly partially because I wondered what the heck she meant by that. Need you how? When you’re still at the stage where you’re changing diapers and they can’t feed or dress themselves, nothing anyone says can make you believe that the teenage years are going to be anything but a breeze. Hell, her kids could drive! It was beyond the scope of my imagination. 

      When she was little, and afraid of things that came in the night we had a little routine that she liked. She’d tell me what she was afraid of, and I’d tell her what I would say to any “monster” that tried to “get” her. My part of this went something like this: “You go away you monster! You leave my Emily alone! Nobody gets to Emily without going through me, and NOBODY gets past MOMMY, so you just go away!” She bought it too. You could see the relief spread across her face like sunshine chasing a shadow. I was strong… I was invincible… I was MOMMY. 

      Like everything else, I had to learn the hard way that what that woman told me that day was true. They do need you more. But there’s another thing “they” don’t tell you, and that is that around the same time, the pendulum of your power swings way over to the left of invincible, and that it’s a lot easier to offer protection than it is to teach acceptance. To stand by and watch while your child learns that often, the most painful things in life teach us about our capacity for compassion, and resilience, and that sometimes, they even leave something in the wake of all they take. That when the time comes, there is Grace in being willing to relieve someone we love of their suffering, even if it means the continuation of our own. 

    Because Emily, though I wish with all my heart that it were so, I’m afraid you’re not nearly “done yet.” 

 7 Feb 2012 

 In Style 

     My mom is 87 years old. When I showed up at her house last week wearing my best pair of “distressed” designer jeans, she looked me up and down and then asked me what had happened to my “dungarees.” When I explained that the worn spots and holes were intentional, that they were, in fact, quite stylish, she pressed me further: “You didn’t pay for them did you?” I didn’t have the nerve to tell her exactly how much I paid for them, which, roughly speaking, equaled the national budget of some third world countries. Her question didn’t insult me because, you know, she’s kind of old. She says things like “swanky”, when describing a cool restaurant. What does she know about this stuff? 

      I was reminded of that conversation a few days ago when I picked up a magazine and read an interview with a very young, very overexposed (in every sense of the word), starlet. During the interview she revealed that after she gets a manicure, she actually requests that they scrape the tips of her nail lacquer off, so that the end result is a “look” that is chipped and worn. She likes this better, and goes on to point out that wearing it this way doesn’t then commit what is evidently the ultimate sin, of trying too hard. “She prefers this to that whole ‘polished’ look?” I wondered aloud. “She pays for this?” I shook the pages at my friend in disbelief. “Ridiculous”, was my final, disgusted word on the subject. 

      Somewhere deep down, however, I had a nagging sense of déjà vu. It continued when I went to the hair salon to have my roots tended to. I’m there like clockwork every five weeks. It is my firm belief that if you decide to color or bleach your hair, then you really must commit to it fully. Yes, it is costly, it’s also inconvenient, and it takes too long in my opinion. That is the price you pay for fooling with what nature intended. Do it right or don’t do it at all is my motto when it comes to hair color. In fact, about the only thing I look forward to about the whole ordeal is getting to sit and read silly magazines without feeling guilty that I should be doing (or reading) something else. 

    I’ll just go ahead and admit it: I have been a fan of Drew Barrymore ever since she dressed up E.T. like one of her dolls. I followed her troubled youth in the media and I sometimes feel like I know her a little. It’s probably a tiny bit weird how proud I am of how solidly normal she appears to have emerged from the dysfunctions of her childhood and early fame. She’s a cheerful survivor of a ruthless business as well. So, when my husband recently criticized a photo of her sporting two-inch deep “rootage”, I jumped to my girl Drew’s defense. “She’s probably really busy. I’m sure she’s not the typical Hollywood prima donna type, running to the salon every two weeks. Cut her a break.” 

      Weird. 

      But I was wrong. As I settled into my chair at the hairdresser’s (slightly high from the fumes of the color processing on my head), I read the most recent article featuring Drew. Peering awkwardly through shingles of highlighting foils, I learned the truth, and the truth is, not only does she want her hair that way, there’s a name for it: Ombre. 

      I had to look this up. The word itself is French. Well, of course it is. If you’re going to have roots down to the tips of your ears and call it fashionable, you may as well give it a French name right? The literal translation is, “graduation”, as in; your hair gradually gets lighter at the ends, because you’ve let it go so long your roots are really long. According to a style trend website, (which featured dozens of Hollywood types embracing this look) “It’s a beachier, more natural looking version of the enduring ‘visible root’ trend.” 

     Lord! I thought, it’s an updated version of another “root trend”? An ‘enduring’ one at that! And I missed it! Completely! These women are not too busy after all. They’re not even too lazy. They’re going for a more natural look; A devil-may-care, slightly bored, I’m not trying too hard look. Oy Vay! They’ve gone Ombre. 

    While I am in no way a slave to trends or fashion in general, I do make an effort to not succumb to the middle-aged mess syndrome. I don’t want to become dowdy. I find myself walking a fine line these days in terms of deciding what is “chic” and what is simply too young for me. I have a hunch Ombre hair is one of the latter. It’s right up there with the “smoky eye,” (which looks to me like smudged mascara and liner after a long day teaching Middle School), the Lady Gaga shoes with the six inch platforms, and something called “Grunge Chic”. I will admit to having tried black nail polish and that too, ended up in my daughter’s room. High-Waisted, bell-bottom jeans? As my friend Maryann says, “I wore them the first time.” 

      It’s funny, when I was in my twenties I was way more conservative in my tastes. I was all about the classic wool pant, blazer, and crisp white button down. In my thirties and forties I sort of careened off in the opposite direction for a while. I got tattooed for one thing. Several times in fact. Cut my hair really short and dyed it blond. I think it was partially an, “if not now…when?” kind of thing. Besides, I had left a long run on the corporate track and gone back to teaching. I no longer had to wear suits and pantyhose. I was having fun with it. 

     Now, in my (very) early 50’s, I have a new fashion mantra, which was previously known only to my daughters and close girlfriends. You won’t find it mentioned in any magazine, although I’m convinced that it should be. It is C.T.S.U., as in, Cover That Shit Up. I’ll lift something off the rack and note, “This is a good CTSU top!” Or, “I need more CTSU bathing suits this year.” Come to think of it, I’m about ten minutes away from Not Your Daughter’s Jeans. At least I don’t call them dungarees. 

      Among the looks I will not be rocking anytime soon: I will not walk around with dark roots, deliberately chipped nails, anything with “micro” or “mini” in the description, or any makeup trend that looks like it was applied in a crack house. If this is trying too hard, well, then I’m guilty. Or maybe I’m just getting older. I did, in fact, ask my daughter a few minutes ago if she had any more crème rinse. “Crème rinse?” she asked, looking completely baffled, “What’s that?” 

      “A swanky version of conditioner” I replied dryly. 

 28 Jan 2012 

 Lessons 

      One of the most important classes I took in college was horseback riding. When I first saw it listed in the course offerings as an option for fulfilling my physical education requirement, I was giddy. I had never been on a horse before. Everything I knew about horses had come from television shows and movies. The night before my first class I fell asleep with romantic images of beautiful smiling people on horseback. They galloped down the beach (sometimes in white dresses) at sunset, with their hair whipping behind them. When I woke up that morning, I was chomping at the bit (sorry, couldn’t resist), to join them. 

      The course was being taught at a local indoor riding academy. About eight of us had arrived at the start time, and we stood in the lobby/observation area watching riders trotting past us, practicing “posting” atop sinewy chestnut mares. The sounds of their hoofs was muted by the protective glass between us, and the soft, deep, brown soil floor of the rink. Our instructor came to collect us and immediately ushered us through two sets of doors into the long, brightly lit stable. 

      The smell hit us like a wall; a mixture of manure, damp straw, sweat and leather. We got an insanely brief lesson in how to approach a horse from behind without getting kicked in the head, how to saddle and bridle it, where to hold the reigns as you walk it, and were told to assemble in the rink in five minutes. 

     The horse to which I’d been assigned was a glistening mahogany gelding named Midnight. Stick my fingers in this creature’s mouth? Was this a joke? First of all, I was pretty sure my horse’s teeth were much larger than the average horse’s. Secondly, horses in general seemed a lot bigger and taller than they did on TV and thirdly, the way ole Midnight kept throwing his head around was a sure sign he didn’t want me to do it either, and that was enough for me. 

       Finally, I got a friend to do the bridling for me. On the walk to the rink I failed to hold the reigns close enough under Midnight’s jawline and this allowed him to swing his enormous head up and over and into my chest repeatedly. With a girly little squeal I’d push it back. I hated this already. Once in the rink we were told to mount our horses. 

      I needed a set of those little steps to get my foot in the stirrups and swing my leg up and over. Once up, I sat up straight in the saddle, looked around, and tried to resist the urge to throw my arms around Midnight’s muscular neck and hold on for dear life. Where was that knob that was supposed to be on the saddle? Why did he insist on dipping that long neck down to bury those steamy flared nostrils into the earth? I had the sensation that I would just slide right down and that wasn’t entirely bad. Bad was how crazy vulnerable I felt. Midnight was a veritable freight train of a horse; all taut, rippling muscles. I didn’t expect to be so high up. What if he took off? What if I fell off? What if he fell on me? I didn’t like this at all. My palms were sweaty, my throat was dry and tight. I was very, very afraid. 

      I knew what was coming, could feel the heat creeping up my neck to my face, my bottom lip began to quiver pathetically, and then, to my absolute horror, I started to cry. At this point, the instructor, who had been a tad drill-sergeant-like, walked over to me. She saw the tears, the snot running down my nose and her expression softened. Quietly, and kindly, she began to tell me a story. It was about an experience she had had with an out-of-control horse. It seems that her horse had gotten spooked by something, and took off like a bat out of hell through the woods where she was riding. No matter what she did, this horse would not stop. In fact, the more she pulled on the reigns, the faster the horse went. 

     Right about the time that I was wondering what in the name of God she was thinking telling me this at this moment, she got to the punch line: Finally, in complete frustration, she dropped the reigns completely. At that point, the maniacal horse unexpectedly slowed to a cantor, and shortly after that, stopped completely. “You see,” she explained gently, “The tighter I held onto the reigns, the more I was driving the metal “bit” into his mouth, and he was just trying to escape the discomfort.” Our eyes simultaneously came to rest on my white- knuckled hold on the reigns. I looked back up at her, and, terrified as I was, I let go. 

      I never forgot that story either. This particular metaphor plays over and over in my life like the lyrics to a favorite song. To this day, every once in a while, I find myself so consumed with fear (what if?) that I catch myself in that white-knuckle control mode. When it becomes unbearable for me, and everyone around me, I try to make a mental checklist of the things I actually can control. Inevitably I find that it’s a pretty short list. In fact, what I can control usually comes down to exactly one thing: My response to whatever it is that is happening! Simply put, my attitude. 

      I can beat my head against the wall trying to change this person or that situation, try to manipulate events and outcomes and all it does is make me crazy until I let go of the reigns. I throw my hands up and just accept what is. There’s some kind of magic in that. Because somehow, every single time, the minute I let go, something changes for the better. 

 18 Jan 2012 

 Im-Perfect Parenting 

     My oldest child, Emily, is sixteen. I know, ‘nuff said, right? Actually, she is a terrific kid. When she was younger, I referred to her as my, “Ok Mom” kid, because that was her response to everything I said. Easy. Not defiant or tantrum throwing. Yep, I had a perfect kid. I used to stand on line in grocery stores watching other people struggle with unruly toddlers who were angrily demanding that their mother’s leave RIGHT NOW, or complaining that THESE ARE NOT THE GUMMIES I LIKE!!! And I would smile understandingly at the mom while secretly thinking, “Jeeze. Get that kid under control!” 

      Some of you will be happy to know that I’ve paid the price for that particular brand of smugness with child #2, who is not, shall we say, of the “people pleasing” variety. Who has, in fact, not only pitched grand mal fits on the grocery store line, but has launched glass jars of pickles over the side of the cart and loudly demanded to know why the fella on line in front of us was so BALD. 

      Hmn. Karma’s a bitch. 

      Elizabeth’s 5th birthday party was, in fact, a “princess” theme. But since we had invited the boys in her class, we kind of kept that on the lowdown and I made sure that while the little girls got pretty pink princess goodie bags (with crowns and pink nail polish inside), the boys got really cool laser swords. There was one little boy, however, who really wanted a princess goodie bag. Now, far be it from me to impose gender restrictions on party favors, but I simply didn’t have enough. So, I kept shoving the cool sword at him and he kept stealing other girls’ goodie bags. The whole thing kept me pretty entertained during the last half hour of this soiree. 

      Finally, when the last “princess” had left, and I had pried the pink goodie bag out of his hands and placed it safely in hers, I handed him the sword yet again. His sweaty little hand reached up to grab mine and coax me down closer to his face, “You know,” he began, little beads of sweat forming on his pink cheeks, “My mom really doesn’t like it when I come home from parties without a goodie bag.” “Hmn.” I replied. And this time, I smiled with understanding. Period. 

      Of course, grocery store line tantrums and birthday party etiquette turned out to be the really easy stuff, and it turned out that the child formerly known as the “perfect” child, was as delightfully flawed as the rest of us, thank God. At the moment, she has me slightly dizzy over a subject that instills fear in every mother’s heart: The Driving Permit. Don’t misunderstand me. Here again, my firstborn started out just like a dream. She passed the written exam with flying colors, went fairly unwillingly to her driving lessons with a foul-mouthed, chain smoking driving instructor who is beloved by the local teenagers. She got enough driving hours to get her permit, and then had one teensy little incident in which she parked a little closer to the sidewalk than the curb. We laughed about it. I thought it was a non-issue. 

      Somehow, I failed to notice when she quietly tucked her permit away in her jewelry box and never asked to drive again. When I asked her if she wanted to drive, she invariably said, “I don’t have my permit.” Cool, I’d think, as I slipped behind the wheel. Still, as time went on, her reluctance began to seem weird. What the heck? I thought kids were dying to drive? God knows I was. When she started to point out cars on the road that she’d really like to get for her birthday, my response was incredulous, “Are you kidding? You don’t drive! You think when you turn 17 and get a license you’re going to be handed a car?” Clearly we had to have a talk. At this point, she reluctantly admitted that she was afraid to drive. Of the two issues at hand here, (the assumption that there would be a car being one of them) this, I thought, we could negotiate and work through. 

     Once I agreed to abide by a few hundred (okay, okay, I’m exaggerating!) “rules” for when she did drive, she agreed to move the permit from the dresser into her wallet (baby steps!) Among her rules are the following: #1 – No music or cell phone use is allowed (pinch me!–this alone may reinstate her perfectness) #2 – No one can TALK when she is, a) Merging onto a highway, b) Making a left-hand turn (really? Okay, I guess…), c) Exceeding a speed limit of 40 mph or, d) Performing ANY type of parking. There’s a certain amount of irony to this considering the fact that as she drives she never stops talking; to other drivers, pedestrians, parked cars and other inanimate objects. 

 I’ll say it again, hmn. But not, of course, during left-hand turns. 

     She’s getting better. A lot better, in fact. Her confidence is increasing in direct proportion to her driving ability and she asks for the keys all the time now. It’s all good. By the time she turns 17 in May, she will be ready. A fair amount of her friends have already reached this particular milestone and I have gotten glimpses of what our next big conversation will be: The car issue. We live in a town, like many other towns, where extreme affluence and abject poverty co-exist. Our family is, thankfully, somewhere in the middle. Many of her friends, however, fall squarely in the extreme affluence category. Two of them just got brand new cars for Christmas, and I just don’t know how I feel about this. 

      No doubt it’s a lot safer to buy your kid the Mercedes version of a military tank instead of letting them drive a $400.00 1967 Volkswagen Bug like I did, but there are other consequences of such indulgences. Entitlement can be a very dangerous thing in and of itself. Sure, I’m aware that there’s a middle ground here, but seriously, what happened to borrowing the family car to go to your part-time job to save money to get your own car? As the youngest of seven children, when we waxed philosophical about the cars, or anything else we wished for, my father (born and bred in Pennsylvania), liked to say, “Well, like they say in the Old Country: ‘Sava you money.’” 

      I often say that the only thing I’m sure of about being a parent is that I’m not making the same mistakes my parents did. But boy, have I made others. Lots of them. Back when my children were perfect, I didn’t worry about this stuff. 

 Hmn. 

 9 Jan 2012