I love the smell of flop sweat in the morning

Listen To Your Mother is only days away.  So close that as I write this my hands are trembling just a little because of the adrenaline that is flying through my veins.   It is so close.  I want to slow down time so I can savor the anticipation and keep it slow so I can feel every moment on Saturday.

It has been a long time since I have been back on stage. Actually, wait – My daughter’s elementary school does a take on American Idol for their annual big fundraiser. It takes place at our city’s high school auditorium.    It has become a tradition and a big community event.    Last year, I was one of the judges.  I was J Lo.  THAT was the first time back on stage.  As J Lo. 

As silly as it may sound, it was a watershed moment for me.  Backstage, before the show began, there was a buzz of energy and flop sweat.  When I walked across the stage, and became J Lo for the next ninety minutes, I knew there was no turning back.  I was home again.  I know this is dramatic – but I felt one with the theater universe, a connection. 

The stage has magic – whether that stage is on Broadway or a community theater in Ohio or a high school stage in New Hampshire.   It all felt right – making people laugh, staying in character, that specific sweat that only occurs in nervous anticipation.  I felt like it was back where I should be.  I made peace – with my absence from performing – and with honoring the power of ANY size stage.  High School stage.  The Majestic Theater in Boston.  All of the same talents are required.  All of them matter.  All of these performers and stages make the world go ‘round.

As I have prepared for LTYM, I have been giddy with the entire process.  Submitting my piece.  An audition!  It was so happy to just be auditioning – even if I didn’t make it, I was so damn thankful to have that experience – to have this affirmation that I am on the right path.  (I think I have spent a great deal of energy going the wrong way with my writing…)I have never been so excited to audition for anything in my life.  Because I believed in my piece with ferocious strength.  Because I wanted this so damn much.  Because it felt right.

I have known for a long time that I am better when I am collaborating.  My strengths come out when I am with a group.  I experience this when my girlfriends and I are creating songs or my husband and I team up on our parenting and collaborate on our life together.  I feel it when I am teaching with someone – I am always better when I share it with a partner.  When I lived in New York and I meet my friend Kirsty and we collaborated and created our show, Stephie in the Sky with Kirsty – it was pure performance magic.   I am still looking for a partner to write and create magic.  I know he or she is out there.  But I now know I cannot put my ideas on hold until I find this creative soul mate.  I have important stories to tell.

 I have found a new place with my cast members in Listen To Your Mother.  It has been a dream.  Supportive and honest and saturated with talent.   It has given my story a platform and a home and a microphone and a stage.

I am on my knees with gratitude.

You'll be swell! You'll be great! Gonna have the whole world on a plate!

Holyshit you guys,  I auditioned for this amazing stage show, Listen To Your Mother and I had one of the greatest auditions I have ever had, and that alone was the best feeling, knowing that I just killed it, because I was prepared and rehearsed and my piece was fucking hilarious and I felt confident and READY. 

Ready to be on stage again.  Ready to perform my writing.  Ready.

So I fretted and bit my nails for days and prepared myself for rejection – because that’s part of the business, right  - rejection.  I gotta have a thick skin, and be ready for people to say “NO”.  But it still hurts and I feel like I’ve been getting too many “No’s” lately, when really, my favorite word is “YES!”

 I left that audition soaring. 

Last week I received the exhilarating news that I had been chosen to be a cast member of the show – Listen To Your Mother. 

 Yes is a bright and shining atom bomb of joy obliterating the black hole of “No.” It is the ego boost that I wanted and needed.  I got all squishy and Sally Field, jumping around my house saying, “They like me!  They really, really like me!”  And then I turned into some character from a Quentin Tarantino movie proclaiming, “Damn strait those mutha fuckah’s wanted me!  That shit I wrote was goddamn HILARIOUS!  I pity the fool who wouldn’t take me.”  (I guess I turned into Mr. T as well.)

Yes pointed me back into the direction of stage. Yes confirmed where my passion and talent shine and where (oh, help me, I’m about to get all  Oprah-y) my soul does a Bob Fosse hip swivel, high kick to the beat of the word, “Yes, yes, yes yes, yes!”

Have I even explained what the show is about?  It's a national series of original work on stage, about motherhood - and it takes place on or around Mothers Day.  This year it be performed in twenty-four cities.  Wow.

There has to be a yiddish word for how I feel - a word that puts together pride and confidence and happiness from deep inside.  If you know it, please tell me.

I heart Taylor Swift

This letter to Taylor Swift first appeared over at my friends, femamom

Dear Taylor Swift-

Let me introduce myself – I’m Stephanie and I have two daughters.  We are huge admirers and fans.  I know you must be very busy right now, getting ready for your tour – My daughters and I cannot wait to see you perform this summer.  Did you know that you are going to be their first concert?  Seriously – a big deal.  For the rest of their lives, when they play the getting to know you game of, “What was your first concert?”  They will forever say, “Taylor Swift!”  (My first concert was Duran Duran – I will never forget my friend Alison crying during “Save a Prayer” and I was convinced that Simon LeBon was singing only to me.)

I want to tell you a story.  When I was in college I was at a party, hanging out and talking with the bravado that only happens at that age.  The conversation turned to music and what instruments people played.  When I was asked, “Hey Stephanie, what do you play?”  I answered, “ I play the skin flute.”  It’s crass, got a laugh and we all moved on.  But for years after, every single time I saw this one guy who was at the party he would always say to me, “Hey, still playing the skin flute?”  I always cringed.  I just meant it as a quick one liner to get a laugh – not for this shmuck to keep haunting me about it.  I got off lucky – I just had this troll pop up for years reminding me that I was such an expert at the skin flute.  Taylor, you have to have every single, impulsive sentence that comes out of your mouth blasted out on every online source possible.  And that can’t be easy.  I am grateful that every stupid thing that I said at 20 or 22 isn’t out there in the ethers.  Most of it is in my journals, which come to think of it, it may be time to burn them…

I’m afraid that you are having your skin flute moment. 

You dared to criticize our Patron Saints of Comedy – Amy Poehler and Tina Fey and you invoked the myth of unilateral female solidarity by stating, “There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women”. 

Because of your youth you didn't fully grasp that it was just a joke- yes at your expense, and that hurts –to tell you on worldwide television to stay away from Michael J. Fox’s son because you need a little ‘me-time’.  Your inexperience hasn't burned you enough yet with the sad realization that just because we are girls, doesn't equate that we are all going to get along. (And if you really think that there is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women, maybe you should swap out Tina and Amy for Camille Paglia  www.hollywoodreporter.com/.../taylor-swift-katy-perry-hollywood-3. Calm down Camille! We can’t all be Rhianna and get the shit beaten out of us by our boyfriends and turn it into creative gold or turn our asses to the camera like Jennifer Lopez and have it be groundbreaking just because she is Latino.)

Because you write publicly and successfully about boys and breakups, desire and dreams -all real and worthy subjects – your music is up for criticism.  It’s the way the world works.  Ask any artist– there’s always someone who is going to find some angle and flaw in your work and then tell you about it.   And since you haven’t given the public a Britney Spears-style melt down and crotch-shot, then they really have to dig to find something wrong with you.   

For what it’s worth –I am grateful that you are a strong role-model for my young daughters.   You write and create your own music – which they can listen to.   You follow your dreams and your passion and you seem true to yourself – and the women you are trying to become. 

And as I am still learning– you can’t please everyone.

With love and respect and jumpy claps because I think you are awesome,

Stephanie

P.S.

Maybe you want to give Amy and Tina another chance…

What's new pussycat...

The  last two months of 2012 kicked my ass and ground me into the dirt.  I was so happy to welcome in 2013.

It's a new year.   I am feeling super hopeful right now - and not just because Obama was re-elected.  There is nothing but change and action swirling around our home and lives right now - and I love it.

I have a bunch of exciting shit going on right now - and something needs to give.  Writing my blog has been where it has to give.   It was either the blog or exercise, going out with my girlfriends and getting booty.

We can have it all - just not at once.

My latest - I am proud and giddy to be a contributor for a fantastic and provocative site - femamom

Here's my  latest about how I don't feel sexy with grey hair

Along with a couple more...

About that asshole Elf on a Shelf
And trying to keep things Merry and Bright while grieving over the massacre at Sandy Point.

Heaven and Hell

These past few days remind me of how I felt in the wake of September 11^th.   I kept hoping that it really didn't just happen, that we all suffered from a massive hallucination and when I woke up the next day it would be erased.  And then when I accepted the awful truth of what happened, nothing felt right.   I walked around feeling as if I were constantly at a funeral – long stretches of great and uncomfortable sorrow, punctuated by side splitting laughter – the later helped to remind myself that I was still alive. 

There are multiple levels to how deep of a hole this tragedy has caused.  I keep pealing back the layers of connection and it is shredding me to pieces.  My connection starts at the top, being a human, an American citizen.  I have the sad realization that there is something fundamentally  decayed in a society that believes it is an individual’s right to own  multiple high caliber guns,  whose only purpose is to kill as many people as possible.  Since when did this ownership of violence become a right? If you cannot smoke in a public restaurant, you sure as shit shouldn't be allowed to carry a gun into that same space.  Fuck this Wild West mentality, fuck your ‘right’ to bear arms, fuck all of these guns, fuck this selfish, greedy monster, this I, me, mine attitude that is rotting us into oblivion.

As a mother I am afraid.   Afraid in a primordial sense, the same way I felt exposed and incapable after September 11^th.  That fear will always reside inside of me.  That fear comes to the surface when I bring the girls out, whether to the library or the supermarket and I always check and double check the exits.   My most basic job as a mother is to protect my babies.  When tragedies  like these occur I am painfully reminded of how little I can protect my girls. I tell myself, “You survived 9-11.  You dodged that disaster.   You will be OK.”  And now this massacre happens.   The game has been changed – again.  My loved ones survived  – but once again I will be fundamentally changed.

Our family does not go to church for many reasons.  But I have always felt that our daughter’s school serves a very similar purpose for our family.  We believe in public education and are proud to be a part of our school community.  It is vital to the soul of our neighborhood and an essential part of what makes our city thrive.  Cliff and I volunteer at our school - as many parents do- because we believe that it supports our teachers which in turn helps the children learn and grow.  We have a responsibility to each other and we are united at their elementary school for the same fundamental goals.

I am a substitute teacher at my daughter’s school.  I substitute for classroom teachers and for the special education teachers.  Over the course of a school year I experience the unique position of teaching and interacting with nearly every child in that school.  I think I could name nearly every one of them.   I love my job – truly, love it.   I love being a part of something that is bigger than myself.   I spend many hours each week at school, as a teacher and as a mother. It is a focal point of my life.

 School is a sacred place.  It is where magic and inspiration occurs every day.  It is where children learn to read and where many get their only meals of the day.  That sacred place has been violated.  I am so sad.   I don’t believe in the afterlife of Heaven or the damnation of Hell.  I believe that this earthly plane can be Heaven and Hell.  When Cliff or the girls tell me they love me I am in Heaven.  When I am cooking dinner and the girls are reading and doing homework I am in Heaven.  When we snuggle the girls to bed and after Cliff and I talk about our day and hang out together with our cat George, our home feels like a raft of safety, it is Heaven.  But sadly, it is punctuated by moments like this that we all have a bitter taste of Hell.

Christmas in Rite Aid!

I ventured out to Target last week to try and score some cute stocking snuffers.  Try as I might I could not get into the mood.  Nothing seemed to fit or made me clap my hands with Christmas glee.  Rare for any trip to the mega store I left with nothing. Nothing!  In my despair, afraid that I was slipping into a Scroogian holiday mood - which is verboten with two kids who believe -  I ended posting on Facebook something like, "If I can't buy it at Goodwill or Rite Aid it's not ending up under my tree".  One friend suggested buying tampons for all and then another posted that this was the beginning of a great holiday song.   So my friend, and funny man Rick Crowley and I wrote this one together.  It has brought back the smile on my face and put the jingle in my step.

Christmas in Rite Aid

It’s that magical time of the year

Filled with egg nog, parties and good cheer

But life and get hectic and busy and you need to buy gifts

For loved ones deserve a present that fits

No need to go far a quick drive in your car

It’s Christmas in Rite Aid!

Light up your Strikes and roll your own smokes

Tampons, pads and two-liter cokes

Toenail clippers and a can of Raid

It’s Christmas in Rite Aid!

There’s a nip and chill in the air

So shower your loved ones with rollers for her hair

Or maybe some Metamucil and Pringles

Will make her holidays tingle

It’s Christmas in Rite Aid!

So let’s pop a few Zoloft’s and burp-free fish oil

Maalox, Aveno, a balm for that boil

A six-pack of Ensure and a plug-on from Glade

It’s Christmas in Rite Aid!

Burts Bees for your chapped lips and RID kill those lice

A romance novella and 99 cent spice

Grecian Formula in a box cuz your hair went and grayed

It’s Christmas in Rite Aid!

Everyone needs these items, there’s no need to be shy

We’ve all had diarrhea, crabs or a sty

No gift will be wasted when you buy what friends need

To take care of gas, stinky pits and each month when we bleed

Happy Holiday’s to everyone goodwill to all

Please save yourself a stressful trip to the mall

It’s Christmas in Rite Aid!

Sexy Time

For the past two weeks, Cliff and I have been consumed in our search for a new dishwasher.  We have known this time would come; it’s been on its last legs for a couple of years now.  One morning  I tried to turn it on and it was dead.  No life. It didn't even grind to a dramatic halt.   Our dishwasher just said, “Fuck-it.  I’m done with you Lazenby’s”.  Kaput.  And so, the search began.

There is no glamour or excitement in researching and purchasing a major appliance.  It is a very mundane, grown up thing to do.  I didn't look for ovens when I was 24.  I can’t even attest to having one in my apartment since I survived on bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches from the deli, take-out and the French-fries served at The Bottom Line where I was a cocktail waitress. 

Cliff and I have been comparing, researching, opening and closing doors and stood in many a store wide-eyed and feeling dazed and confused.  We dragged the girls to Best Buy on a Saturday where they had their first lesson in never, ever stepping into and closing the door on themselves inside of a refrigerator.  We unsuccessfully tried to pull information out of the world’s worst salesperson, a dumpy, over bleached twat of a woman.  I asked, “Does this model have a food grinder?”  She would sneer and sigh and point to a sticker on one of the many dishwashers that lines the walls, “Well, all the information you need is right here”  Since I have never bought a dishwasher, I asked her, “Why would I need to take the racks out and re-adjust them?”  She blew out crypt keeper smelling breath at me and replied, “I can’t answer that question for you honey.  I don’t know your dish washing needs. ”   Here we were practically waving money in our hands because why else would a person be shopping for an appliance – this is not a browsing for fun kind of purchase-  and this peach of a woman couldn't wait to go on her cigarette break.

After endless comparisons and conversations about stainless steel interior versus plastic and controls on top or the front, we finally found one in our price range where the store offered a special with free delivery, pick-up and thirty eight dollar installation.  We pulled the trigger and bought it.    It’s a hard trigger to pull – not only because it’s expensive, but online we read hundreds of reviews, and there isn't a single dishwasher out there that doesn’t have at least one review that screams, “DO NOT BUY THIS DISHWASHER!  THE WORST EVER!  IT BURNED MY HOUSE DOWN AND ATE MY CAT AND IT DOESN'T T DRY DISHES PROPERLY!!!!!”

Yesterday Cliff calls me at work and says, “I went back to Home Depot to look at the one we bought and I dunno, I am afraid the racks are a little flimsy.  I was opening other racks and the ones on our model seems…weak.  Can you just come and meet me at lunch so we can compare the racks.”  I said “Sure babe, it’s a big purchase, I get it.   I want you to feel good about it.  And I giggle every time you say ‘compare racks’” .

We meet and there Cliff is in a sea of dishwashers, working up a sweat, comparing racks.  “Look at this, see how it wiggles around, flimsy – right?  And this other one here, more solid.  Do you see it?  Feel it?”  We compare more racks.  When Cliff gets focused on something, his eyebrows are mesmerizing.  They arch up and have a slightly sinister quality to the shape.  His eyebrows do this when he is pissed-off or when listening to some seriously heavy and loud music.  I love Cliff’s eyebrows.  They are one of my favorite things about him.

“I don’t know babe – they all are feeling nearly the same to me.” Cliff says, “You think I’m crazy?  Can we check out one last store just to compare?  How about Lowes.  We haven’t been there yet.”  “No babe, I don’t think you’re crazy.   No crazier than I am.  Let’s go - but I will not go to Best Buy with Mrs. Good Mood over there.”  We jump into our separate cars and race two routes to see which one is the closest and quickest.  Cliff won.

At Loews, the rack slide show begins again and we are approached with the opening line, “Can I help you?”  By a salesman who looks a modern day Grizzly Adams.   I jump in and say, “Quite honestly, we have already bought a dishwasher at Home Depot, but we are having buyers regret and rack remorse.”  I go through our entire spiel with this guy who patently listens.

It turns out this guy was the guru of dishwashers.  He explained why some racks feel loose, (because of their removability) and the ins and outs of how Maytag, GE and Whirlpool are one company, which are built in the U S of A and how Boch is anal retentive because it has a printout of how to precisely load each wash.  Cliff and the guru get into the minutia of why he should not get too hung up on exact make and models when looking at consumer reports and no, Home Depot is not trying to unload a bunk dishwasher on us. 

I think Cliff felt a bit better.  His eyebrows came down and relaxed.  “Thank you so much” I said, “I’m sorry we aren't buying one from you.  This has been so helpful.”  “That’s OK.  Glad I could help.  Seems like you did buy a decent dishwasher.   But here’s my card – because someday you will need a fridge.”

Every picture tells a story

Sophie is in an awkward phase right now – at least that is how I am seeing it.  Her body is growing in all directions, she walks into desks, trips over imaginary dust bunnies, her legs are hairy, her teeth are growing in all crooked and her hormones are beginning to play tricks on her brain.  Poor thing.  Even though I think she is lucky with the group of girls in her grade – I am starting to see which girls are going the too cool for school route, working the “What evah” attitude on for size.  Sophie has a heart as big as the great outdoors coupled with social naiveté  - I do not predict that she is going to be too cool for school any time soon.

She is in good company, because I never was cool at that age – or really anytime in those grade/middle/high school years.  You can’t rock, “What evah!” with thick glasses, a broken beak of a nose and braces.  But hey, if I wasn't saddled with those character builders, I wouldn't have developed my stellar sense of humor.  I pity all those pretty girls who turned out to be bland in their twenties.  At this point, their asses must be huge too.

To help Sophie through this time, twice a week for ten weeks, she has participated in Girls on the Run at school.    It is an amazing program that promotes self esteem and empowerment through workshops and exercise.  This program culminates in a huge girl power 5k.

This Friday when I picked Sophie up after school, she was a hot mess - didn't understand her homework, all sweaty from gym and lost her sweater.   As she flung herself up and over to look in the lost and found, she slipped and twisted her ankle.  The same one she cracked pretty bad at practice a month earlier.

I was hoping it would be fine – because I knew that Sunday – today - would be the big 5k day.

We arrived on time.  The weather was perfect late fall, sunny and crisp.  The stadium was filled with pop music,  teammates, coaches and parents vibrating with excitement,  ready to run and celebrate.  Sophie and I start off the race at a respectable  pace – and barely and half mile into it, she starts slowing down.  It was her ankle.  Her slow down became a stumbling walk, which turned into sobbing and limping.  Crying and leaning on me, she came to a complete stop on the side of the road.  We sat down in the grass and she bawled in my lap.  It was all over before it even started.

This event that she has worked towards all fall was just shit down the drain because of a clumsy move days earlier.  My poor little Calamity Jane.

 

My heart just hurt with disappointment as she was crying and watching groups of girls running by, doing what she should have been doing.   Disappointed for my own unrealized expectations – I was looking forward to this event with Sophie and as a family.  I was saddened by the sweet signs that Cliff and Katie made for us that they barely got to wave.  Disappointed by my expectation that together we would run over the finish line, smiling, buoyant with mother daughter love gliding in on Spice Girl size girl power.

It was a total letdown.   I was simultaneously wrestling with wanting to shake her and yell, “Are you kidding me?!  Your ankle hurts?!!!   Get up off your ass and do this shit!   It can’t hurt THAT BAD!!”  And my heart broken in two for her.

At this point Cliff and Katie have found us.   Cliff and I try to regroup and pull some parenting shit out of our asses.  Nothing had gone as planned.  We both looked at Sophie and said, “We think you would feel better if you get up and finish this last loop and cross the finish line.  Just walk slowly.  OK?”  She balked at this.  That was when I then said, “You will get up and you will walk across that finish line.  I don’t care how slowly you go – but we will do this.”

She was not too happy about it.  She protested.  She cried.  But Cliff and I stayed united on this one. 

Sophie, Katie and I made it across.  Not in any way like I expected.  But we did it.  Our car ride home was quiet.  Just Sophie and I.  At one point Sophie quietly chirped, “I love you Mama.  I’m so glad that I have you as a Mama.”

Happy New Year!

It is that seasonal tipping point.  The soft, beachy days of August are becoming farther away in my rear-view mirror of life and the back to school, work, volunteering, holy cow I need to use this crock-pot or we all are gonna only eat at eight O’clock every night, after school activity shuffle is fully upon our family. Kapow!  My tan is already fading.  Boo.

I feel like a cross between the lady at the circus spinning plates and a one-man band.  Part koo-koo crazy, part, “Wow! How did she do that?!”

 

crazy - right?!

 

I am trying to be very aware of the temperature my mood can bring to my family.  A harshly snapped comment at Sophie while we are all careening around the house in the morning can make or break a day.  I am learning that it really doesn’t help anyone of I lose my temper.   It doesn’t mean that I have to accept Sophie’s eye-rolling, whiny protests at whatever is bothering her pre-teen, roiling hormonal self.  I can use my calm airline stewardess voice – and simply take away her i-pod privileges, continue getting myself dressed (cue the evil, hand-rubbing, cackling, laugh of Mommy get- back)and give her a kiss later.

I don’t want the girls – or Cliff –or to see me as the yelling, wheel spinning, not getting anything accomplished, late for everything mommy.  And I’m not – most days. 

I am thinking about all of these things this morning.   I have always thought of September as the start of the New Year.   I believe that the new habits and rituals that I create and practice, the goals that I write down – really direct my path for the year.   

I like to believe in signs from the universe.  Signs that blink red-warning lights.   And signs where the universe lovingly whispers to you -"Hey honey.  You are going in the right direction."

 This is the first image that came up when I googled, "woman spinning plates". 

Look at Farrah - all back arched and sun in her California blond hair.  She's not worried.  Or crazy.  Or yelling.  She's spinning her wheels looking gorgeous and easy.   If that isn't an exquisite sign, I don't know what is.  Happy New Year.

 

The sky today was just as blue as it was eleven years ago

I have never written about my experience on September 11^th.  I’m afraid that if I write about it, I won’t do any of it justice, and my experience will be downgraded into a  Lifetime Movie of the Week.    Quite simply - that day just gutted me. 

This is not about a recounting of that day – although every year, Cliff and I do this together.   This ritual makes us feel better even though we know where the story goes and how it ends.  This history that we share gives us yet another layer of connection with each other.   

Here’s my thought - I feel as though we don’t have a national ritual that honors this day in a unique and respectful way.  I know that there are the ceremonies at the sights, and I respect and completely agree that they should remain solely for those people who lost their loves.  Sure, we post pictures on Facebook,and there are television shows dedicated the timeline of that morning - but what do we actually do on September 11^th to give it the respect it deserves. 

I fear that if we had the day off,  it would become a  “Holiday”.  In the way that Memorial Day has very little to do with actually memorializing those who lost their lives protecting our country.  Sure, there are parades, and for those families who lost a loved one in war, the day takes on a deep and somber meaning.  But come on – we all know Memorial Day as the kick off of the summer season.  Most of us have lost the meaning of Memorial Day.  I know I have.

So this is what I think we should do – September 11^th should be a national day of service and beauty. We should use this day to clean up beaches, plant trees, volunteer at a women’s shelter or ASPCA –whatever it is that you want to help and to give. 

We should take that day and create beauty on such an ugly day.  

 

Yesterday was the earliest I've gotten up all summer - and it was worth it

I took the girls to see Barack Obama speak yesterday.   More specifically,  I went with a powerful posse of girlfriends and their daughters.  It’s not every day that the President of the United States, the First Lady and The Vice Pres come to town.  It was an event that I wanted to take my girls to and that I was very excited to attend.

I mean - we made t-shirts for the event!

                                                   

I knew it was going to be a long day, with a fair amount of jostling for position and waiting in crowds in the hot sun – but I have years of practice from waiting overnight in line for concert tickets or attending many concerts and music festivals.
 

You talkin' to me 

 

I was getting a little loopy from the sun and sweaty bodies

 

                                                

  I was proud of my city – this massive event went smoothly, with no crazies, and the crowd maintained a respectful and easy atmosphere, despite the sweltering heat .    There was airport –like security and we weren’t able to bring in anything – no food or drinks.   Although I did manage to smuggle in pretzels, which I doled out as if we were on Survivor and I kept telling all the girls that they needed the salt because we were sweating out our body weight.  And there was water handed out constantly, which we drank and poured over our heads and down our backs.

             This was the point that my upper arm strength was in full-effect

  I felt so gratified from our day – from the girl power company, to attending this huge event  - I mean I took my daughters to see the President and Vice President speak in our own city!  Yowza!    But there was more to my satisfaction - I realized I have had this same feeling when I take a road trip with my daughters - solo.  At some point during every trip I think to myself, “ I’m in charge of these little creatures – I am completely responsible for their safety and well-being.  Wow!  I’m in charge?   How can that be?”  I usually have a moment of complete wonderment and holy-shit at the fact that I am adult enough to do this herculean task of being a parent.  The feeling quickly passes,  and I think , “Well, frick yeah I can do this – I’m Stephanie!  I kick-ass, I’m a damn good mom, and I never leave the house without a snack!” And I feel sure of myself and my ability and dexterity to navigate traveling and parenting together – successfully.

I had that same feeling of parental confidence after our experience at the Obama event.   I felt such pride -  in raising girls, speaking honestly with my daughters about what I believe in and why, and including them in this event.  Watching my daughters and her friends I appreciated this deeply responsible moment.  Hopefully, these girls will remember this day (well, maybe not one friend’s daughter who is four and she was kinda falling asleep).  As parents, we are building memories that are shaping the narrative of who they are and the people they become.  And I love that part of being a mother.

 And Michelle Obama is just gorgeous in person - when she stepped on stage, the crowd roared.  I screamed like I was at a rock concert.

 

                                                   

We got pizza and beer after - the best most luscious beer and pizza I've ever had.   (that's pizza dough on Katie's head - of course!)

 

What you should NOT say to Stay-at-Home Moms the first week of school.

Over the years, many well meaning people have doled out to me unsolicited, misguided platitudes along the lines of, “Oh, they grow up so fast!” and “Enjoy them while they are young.” And here’s one I love, “Breast is best!”(Not when I have a fever of 104 from Mastitis and my nipples are cracked and bleeding!)

 Along those lines, here is a guideline of phrases and sentiments that you should avoid.

 
10. After all those years of nurturing, quality time, won’t you miss them while they are at school?

9. See you at the supermarket!

8. Oh Goody – new blood! The PTA needs someone to head up the Election Day bake sale – come to think of it, have you considered being a class parent for your child’s homeroom? Or maybe the school carnival? Book Shelver in the Library? Hall Monitor? Book Sale?

7. Don’t you just miss it when they were babies – why don’t you have another child?

6. You would be really good at selling, Amway, Jewelry, Natural Cleaning Products, Vibrators, Nu Skin… Can I talk to you about how flexible the hours are?

5. You let her take the bus to school?! Don’t you know what happens on the bus! Well, I guess it’s OK for you – I just would never feel comfortable.

4. They don’t teach enough Arts at their school – Want to start a Home-Schooling Co-Op?

3. Honey, could you pick up my dry-cleaning?

2. So, when are you going back to work?

 
And the number one thing to NEVER, EVER say....

1. What are you going to do with all of your free time?

 

 

I have a tent for sale - cheap

 Lately I have been thinking about revenge versus karma, the timing of events and the meaning of why people enter your life for brief moments.  I am trying to understand what I am supposed to learn from these short and disastrous unions. 

When I was 24 I had a boyfriend named Lou.  He was the type of boyfriend that you have when you are young and don’t really know any better.   I wasn’t looking to settle down, just practice what it was like to have a boyfriend.  He was good looking in that, bad boy, dumb as a pile of rocks, really honey, we’re not here to have deep talks, you’ll hurt yourself, let’s just have fun with each other in New York City, kinda way.

We even took off on a cross-country trip.   Together, we bought a bunch of camping gear, including an ultra-deluxe LL Bean tent, plus the ugliest banana yellow 1979 Ford Country Squire Station Wagon, complete with faux wood-paneling.  I think it got 10 miles to the gallon and we drove all over this country.  I had a once in a lifetime experience, but at some point while we were driving through Tennessee I knew that the shelf-life on this relationship had expired.

We got back to New York and sadly had a very ugly break-up.    I remember being devastated by the fact that in one moment this person who I spent nearly every day with for  two years was completely erased from my life.  True, we needed to end it, but it still hurt and cut deep.   There were no follow-up phone calls after, no running into each other at the same bars we used to frequent – nothing. 

I kept imagining what I would say when I finally did see him.  I practiced many witty quips and bitchy remarks and eat your heart out outfits.  But our paths never crossed.

Until one day, nearly a year after we broke up.  By then, I was well over him.   But I wasn’t over the fact that he owed me about two thousand dollars from the trip we took. 

I couldn’t have planned the moment any better.  I looked good and I was with friends.  We said hi and  talked in an easy, nearly flirty way.   In all of my imagined scenarios leading up to this moment,  I never practiced what I said next.  I told Lou that I was going camping in a few days with my girlfriends.  I said, “Hey, isn’t this the greatest coincidence that we ran into each other, because don’t you still have the camping gear? “ I continued, “I have a great idea! Can you meet me tomorrow with the equipment and tent so I can borrow it?”  “Well, sure.”  Said Lou.  “But I really need it back soon – it’s so funny that you are going camping, because I’m taking my brother camping the day after you get back.”  I smiled and replied,  “ I promise, I’ll give it back.“

  As we walked away my friend Fred turned to me and said, “Steph – you’re not going camping.”  “No I’m not Freddie.”  We laughed and rubbed our hands like cartoon characters with vengeful glee. 

I was shocked that Lou actually met me.  He was standing at the entrance of Central Park, at Columbus Circle with this massive amount of gear, stuffed into an army surplus duffel nearly the length of my body.  We agreed that he would call me the coming Sunday and meet that day so I could return the gear.   He was going camping early Monday morning.

 Lou called when I ‘got back from camping’. I politely explained to him that I would be happy to meet and give him the camping gear, as long as he gave me a check for at least half of what he owed me from the trip.   It seemed like a fair deal to me. 

He didn’t get the tent. And I knew that he would never give me the money.  I needed to get in that last killing blow.  I also took particular satisfaction in the fact that I have never used the tent – I don’t really like camping.   Right now it’s in the same spot I left it back in 1995 -  in my parents attic.

This time last year I went through a similar break-up with a friendship and I’m amazed at the parallels between the two.   We were friends for the same duration as Lou and I were together.  Our friendship had its limitations as did my relationship with Lou.  The friendship ended ugly and we eviscerated each other from our lives.   And over the course of a year we never ran into each other.  It will happen when the timing is right – just like with Lou.

Lou and I were never meant to see each other until that exact moment.  I didn’t know this at the time, but my twenty something self needed time to heal and recover from a nasty break-up.  Maybe it prepared me for what I have gone through with this grown-up version of Lou.  There is a reason we have never run into each other -  we have been like opposite magnets, repelling each other, staying out of each other’s way.

I know I can’t really act in the same youth-fueled vengeful way – although I’d like to sometimes.  Maybe that is where Karma comes in to play.  I’ve stopped preparing what I would say to this ex-friend should we run into each other face to face in the produce isle.  My experience with Lou taught me that I really can’t plan these moments.

Both of these shallow relationships have truly taught me a great deal – about the distrustful nature of some people, that everything, every relationship runs its natural course, and we can’t always predict when it will end.   Some last a lifetime, some exist in perfection in grade school.  And some only last two years.

Happy Birth-day Sophie!

Today is Sophie’s birthday – She is nine.  Every year I like to remember moments of the day I gave birth to her.  I will spare you the details of the labor and delivery.  They are equal parts, gross and mind-bogglingly painful and miraculous. 

I was thinking today about the cheeseburger I ate right after Sophie was born.

You see, once you are admitted to the hospital you cannot eat anything.  They don’t allow you to.  From the time I was admitted to showtime it was some eighteen hours later.  When all was said and done, I was ravenous.     To my great relief and joy, the hospital was equipped with room service.

I ordered my afterbirth meal.  It consisted of a cheeseburger, Mac & Cheese, chocolate cake and a coke. 

Within minutes – no kidding – manna from heaven appeared right in the delivery room.  The nurses took Sophie to do their routine new baby check. I was left to savor the greatest, juiciest, most satisfying burger I ever had the pleasure of devouring.   I was making love to this cheeseburger, and the nurses came back with a minutes-old Sophie. 

“Ma’am, your baby!”  The nurse beamed at me.

I sat in bed chowing a mouthful of burger, and I stopped and looked at her quizzically.  “My baby?”  I thought.  “She must have the wrong room.  I don’t have a baby.”  And then it dawned on me, “That’s my baby!! Holy cow – I have a baby!”  I had a moment where I panicked, “I don’t think I can do this.  Maybe I don’t have to.  If I just keep eating she may just leave me alone.  Baby?  I just want to eat.  How am I going to eat?”

I took Sophie from the nurse and I proceeded to successfully eat my first of many one-handed meals, one arm wrapped around Sophie, the other feeding myself.  I knew that something inside of me had fundamentally changed.  My DNA was rearranged.  I crossed across the chasm and stepped onto the other side.

I enjoy being a girl

I haven’t blogged in a few weeks – and in blogging terms that can be the difference between gaining some new readers and losing a few.  I hope I haven’t lost any of you.  Maybe you have all been having the kick-ass summer that we have been having.  One filled with ocean waves and parties, chlorine stung eyes, hot dogs and movies.   We have taken road trips and strengthened friendships, old and new.    Our soundtrack has been full on sugar-pop music, with Katy Perry as the band leader.

Right now, Sophie is having a sleepover with three girlfriends.   They are giddy with girly silliness.   Loud as bullhorns, these girls have scarfed down pizza, created candy-filled sundaes and washed it all down with cokes (gasp!).  We all curled up and watched the movie, Big Miracle, about the whales stuck in the ocean in Alaska.  I have come to realize that nine year old girls love animals, pop music, nail polish and food.  We have all of these on hand. 

I woke up to the sounds of giggling girls playing Mad Libs – it amazes me that they are really doing exactly what I did as a kid on sleepovers –  calling out to each other, “OK, I need and verb.”  “Pooping!”  “Now, a noun.”  “Boobies!”  It never gets old.  It never changes.

I want to freeze this moment in time.   As much as I am starting to realize that nine is a transitory year – she’s growing out of being a little girl and I have already experienced the crazy brain of hormones starting to wreak havoc on her moods-I don’t want her to forget this feeling of freedom.

Sophie and her friends can fart and laugh and cuddle with each other.   They may have grown out of dolls, but stuffed animals are still necessary for sleep.  And even though boys have just begun to catch their interest, in a new “Oh my gosh I think he’s cute!” squealing kinda way – they are still friends.   And these girls believe that they are smarter than boys and their equal in sports.  Sophie is free to eat anything and not criticize herself for being “fat”.  “We are going swimming later, so I need more whipped cream on my pancakes!”  She regards her body as strong and gorgeous - and she has her own style – as all her friends do.  I love their confident outfits of plaids and leopard prints and feathers in their hair.

I know being a girl isn’t always free – I respect that they have their own real worries and fears.  The world is opening up, and not all of it is nice and filled with My Pretty Pony.  I am not kidding myself; I know that other girls are sometimes their own worst enemies.  But I say a little mommy prayer that Sophie and her friends can keep this camaraderie and individuality going through middle school.  Because being a girl and having girlfriends is one of the most amazing things in this crazy world.

Anyone have a spare xanax for tonight?

I have a confession to make.   I don’t like the 4^th of July.  I dread this holiday. 

The truth is, Fireworks freak me out.  I can’t stand them – there is not enough xanax in the world that keeps me from simultaneously wanting to wrap a towel around my head and crawl under a bed and haul ass far away when those explosives go off.  I would lead a very fulfilled life if never go to a firework display ever again, staying far away from the crowds of knuckheads and the random, heart stopping blowing up of cherry bombs and bottle rockets. 

I am true to what I have felt since I was a kid.  Loud noises have always made me shriek and jump –  the sound of a popping balloon makes my heart race.  As a kid I hid under the blankets during a couple of firework shows  and my parents were perceptive enough to realize – “hmmm she really seems unhappy…”   I grew up not going into the fray of bodies and noise.   When I was seventeen,  I gave it another  try  and my teenage bravado could barely hold at bay my internal terror of the relentless blasts.

When I lived in New York, I was able to escape the fireworks and traditional hoopla – the city cleared out on holiday and unless you made a point of going to the fireworks on the East River, I could easily avoid the mess. One year, I had fun watching the movie Yankee Doodle Dandy in Bryant Park.  Another, there was a Twilight Zone marathon on TV – I think I stayed indoors for twelve hours, only moving off the couch to answer the door for delivery.  That was an ideal 4^th of July.

I know that I am in the minority and I really don’t understand why I feel so strongly against fireworks.  I am not an anxiety riddled person – I just have always hated loud, blasting fireworks. 

But here is the rub – We live in a town that celebrates with a huge fireworks extravaganza and we have close friends who host a fantastic party right under the umbrella of the blasts.  Sophie loves the feeling of being so close to fireworks that it rattles her body – and while Katie must have earplugs in for the big finish,  (she is my daughter) she enjoys the party.   Sure, my family could just go to the party without me –but  I get worried that in such a crowed scene, Cliff and I need to have one-on-one defense to keep an eye on the girls in this situation.   I feel better thinking that my presence will magically protect my children from an errant missile exploding in their vicinity.

 I also can’t resist good party –and this one is filled with delish food, interesting people, and the greatest game imported from the mid-west…Cornhole!  Basically it’s bean bag toss, but the fourteen year old boy in everyone can’t resist the endless jokes of, “I’m next to Cornhole!”, “Wow, you are an amazing Cornholer.”  "You just missed the Cornhole!"  The Cornhole jokes never stop.  

 I hate to miss out on a good time with rockin’ friends. (hmmm, maybe that was part of the problem in college…).

Maybe in a past life I was killed in the French Revolution and I am trying to work out some karma.

Are you ready for the summer? Inspiration Monday

At the moment my front yard is a scene from summer since time began - I have five girls playing "Red Light Green Light"  and boys from the neighborhood are riding their bikes by, being loud and trying to show off.

Here we are at the super start of summer vacation. 

It was highly unusual to have no snow days this year - in turn we ended the school year "early" since we usually have to add on at least a week for the make-up days.  Because I don't feel beat up from winter, I feel as though summertime snuck up on us.  I am happy to have this week to get ready for the summer - set some goals, firm up plans, sign the girls up for art camp and pray to Mother Nature in New England that we warm up consistently here.  It's either 65 or 90.

Here's a sample to the grand start of the summer here.

  A little poolside cuddle on the last day of school - always a day of mixed feelings for my girls.  They had an amazing year, so it was hard to say goodbye to their teachers.

The next day the public library sponsored an event at a local park to kick-off their summer programs. 

For Father's Day the girls got all crafty with a good friend and made these amazing flower arraignments for Cliff and my Dad.  

Sophie and a friend giggling like girls in our front yard tree.

  At one point we had four different dads from the neighborhood in our driveway drinking beer. 

On top of all this fun, Cliff and I had a Saturday date and I painted and re-purposed two side tables and a shelf, a project I've been wanting to finish for a while, mainly because I hated looking at those scratched tables.

I love the summertime.

This is why I discovered there is a show called 'The Chew" on in the middle of the day

I had another entire blog post planned for today – which will just have to be put on pause for the moment  like everything else in life right now – because my Sophie pie is a barfy, sad, sick mess.   Poor lamb cannot keep anything down all day long.  And I would rather have the  nastiest head cold and a fever any day over a stomach bug.  And my poor little Sophie is very prone to those stomach bugs.  

As my girls get older, their colds come with less frequency than when they were babies and toddlers, but they sweep over them now with such a swift ferocity.    I am always caught off guard by my children’s otherwise independent demeanor to be swept away once they get sick their neediness is that of little baby birds. 

I am filled with contradictory feelings as well today.  In one part of me I am satisfied by this caretaking.  There is something elemental about knowing that I am the sole source of Sophie’s comfort and ease while she is rendered useless and limp like an over cooked noodle.  She is normally like a Thoroughbred, with all the speed and grace that comes with that animal.  But when she is sick like this – she actually naps and cries in mews like a baby kitten and keeps a crinkled worried brow glued to her forehead all day. Momma is all she wants and needs.  And that feels good because I am able to give this little creature that I love so much a little ginger ale and it makes her feel  better.

Yet, when they are sick – all time comes to a screeching halt.  I am amazed that the earth keeps turning and that there are highways filled with cars going somewhere because my world in an instant is telescoped into small, focused areas and actions -  Kid, kitchen, bathroom, couch.   Ginger ale, washcloth,  warmed up boo-boo snake (a magical rice filled tube sock, pre-school project, that cures all ailments)  All plans and items on my  to-do list I had for the day are done – and because of her frequency to use the bathroom – anything I start has to stop at any second.  (The only reason why this is even written is because Sophie is napping.  For the briefest of moments. ) 

Time really does stop for me – because anything place I was planning to be, go and do are done. And today was one of those days where I had it mapped out to the hour – and none of it is happening.   It is hard – but I have to let it go.

This is where the smashing contradiction of motherhood happens.   How can motherhood be so deeply gratifying yet soul sucking at the same time?  Why does holding her hair while she pukes feel so Nobel Prize worthy, so utterly necessary to keep the world turning?  I really don’t know why the New York Times isn’t covering the fact that I warmed up that Boo-Boo Snake 14 times today, wiped barf over 10 and sat on the bathroom floor with Sophie for countless hours and rubbed her back while she cried through each heave. 

I have to go - Sophie just woke up.  She rolled over, smiled at me and said, "Hi Momma."