A Baby Step...

It has been a long time since I posted anything here. If this blog were a house, there would be squirrels living in the empty rooms. So much has happened, and yet nothing has happened which is probably why I haven't written. It doesn't seem like it is worth it to post if there hasn't been a whole heck of a lot of growth. I have never given myself credit for baby steps, and I really should. If not for the baby steps, I would be nowhere. It is just frustrating that my life is the personification of "same fight, different day." Of all of the cliches that my life has embodied, that one, while not being the saddest or most tragic, is certainly the one that will test my sanity. So here is a baby step back to posting and maybe it will be easier to do now that I have written even this little after all this time.

The Audition

My son has wanted to be an actor ever since the day I took him to see a production-for-children of Peter Pan at the local playhouse. The minute the play was over, while the other kids were probably talking about what they wanted to do for the rest of the day, my son was talking about what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. Despite his young age (only 7!) he articulated his feelings perfectly. He said, "I want to do what they did." I thought it was adorable.

Years went by and he was still speaking about becoming an actor. It was not anything that I had planned for him through my pregancy, and his baby years. I can remember rocking him in the wee hours of the morning, whispering softly into the downy hair covering the dimple at the top of his head, "you can be anything you want to be: a doctor, a lawyer, a scientist, the president of the United States." For me, it was clear: he was brilliant, beautiful, and blessed by God. He would do amazing things.

In my defense, I got it half right. He certainly has done amazing things; just not the things that I had envisioned. On Saturday, he amazed me once again. He auditioned for a spot in acting conservatory. They estimated that roughly 600 people would be auditioning. There are fewer than 25 openings. The odds took my breath away. I was a basket case. I was jittery. I could not control my anxiety.

My son was just...well, amazing. He greeted every single person as though he had known them his whole life. He was friendly to the others auditioning, laughing and commiserating with them. I saw him mentally preparing, but not once did I see a doubt creep in. He was ready, he was prepared and I was so proud of him. The consummate professional, he did not allow himself to feel anything until it was over. Then he and another prospective student laughed with each other over their nervous energy.

Now we wait. It is extremely hard for me. I know that my son would be an asset to their conservatory. But the conservatory would offer so much to my son as well. His pursuit of his dream has sometimes made him a misfit. Most boys his age cannot fathom the commitment he has to make to the company when he is involved in a play: every weekend, 15 hour days, time spent learning lines during the week, blocking, choreography, run-throughs. As his mother, even I have had a hard time with it.

Being a part of this conservatory would give my son a place with like-minded people. I pray that they could see what a great fit it would be.

It's October, For Heaven's Sake!!!

I walk to work. It is 16 long avenue blocks in the city and at a brisk clip it takes me twenty minutes. I like the walk, I like the view, and it is the only part of my day that I am not listening to someone, or figuring out what to make for dinner while I'm supposed to be listening.

As I was walking toward work the other day, I realized that it was October already. Having grown up in the big city, October means a lot of things to me: Halloween, pumpkins and apples, the time you finally get to wear all those cool back-to-school sweaters you stocked up on, and it is the month when the landlords start sending up heat to their apartments. This stopped me in my tracks. I had to do some mental calisthenics to make sure I was in my right mind. Yes, it actually is October; yes, it is the time of year when the landlords start sending up heat; and yes, last night I ran my air conditioner. Something is not right about this.

Not only was I not wearing a new sweater, I was guiltily wearing an obviously "spring" outfit that I should have packed away in the spare closet by now. I had actually had the thought, when getting ready for my day, that I hoped no one "in the know" would see me in my floral skirt and linen-like camp shirt so far past Labor Day. But with temperatures still in the eighties, I just could not bring myself to wear something more seasonably appropriate.

Many will say, and they are certainly right, that we should rewrite the fashion laws, among others, to more accurately reflect modern times. But I am a creature of habit. I grew up with certain heuristics, rules of thumb, and I have steadfastly held on to them. And that is why, knowing that I ran my air conditioner in October has been gnawing at me lately.

My friends say that warmer weather all year round will be delightful. No more bitter winds and slush to slog through. It feels wrong. When my older cousins abandoned calling the parents by "Aunt" and "Uncle," I could not. It felt wrong. When my doctor said I could call him "Peter," I could not. It just felt wrong. And I don't care how hot it is or how much I needed to run my air conditioner in October, it just feels wrong.

My Daughter Wants a Doll for her Birthday

My daughter is turning five and has asked for a doll for her birthday. There is nothing unusual in this, I asked for dolls when I was little. As I anticipated the arrival of my beautiful daughter, I dreamed of playing dolls with her, setting them up on pillows and having tea parties together. Unfortunately, the doll she wants is a Bratz doll.

For those who don't know, Bratz dolls are scantily clad dolls with oversized lips which have that annoying line outlining their lipstick, ostensibly from lip liner (apparently Bratz girls don't read the magazines; you are supposed to match your liner to your lipstick). Even the Bratz baby dolls are heavily made up and adorned with jewelry. From the looks of these dolls, I think they would eschew tea parties in favor of the latest fruit laden martini.

I played with a beautiful effanbee baby doll which smelled of powder and had cute baby rosebud lips. She was my baby, my friend. She later shared my affections with Chrissy a doll with a hole in her head so that you could give her long or short hair, depending on your mood, by pulling it out of the hole in her head and then pressing her navel to roll it back inside. When Chrissy's hair got too tangled, I fell in love with my Baby Tender Love, a doll with pores and soft baby-like skin. None of these dolls would have inspired the Police to write Roxanne. Not so with the Bratz dolls.

The Bratz dolls look like juvenile delinquents. Bad news. The kind of girl your mother warned you about, the kind of girl a decent boy would never bring home to his mother. I've told my daughter that we don't approve of Bratz dolls in our family. But she is really too young to tell her why.

She isn't getting her hearts desire for her birthday. And what makes me so angry is that someone must be buying these dolls or they wouldn't continue being sold. There are people who actually think these dolls are appropriate. I don't know what age the dolls are marketed for, but in my opinion they aren't appropriate for ANY age.

Tonight, a mother cries...

Tonight a mother cries. She is the same mother who, on Friday night, continued to have hope that her son would beat his leukemia as he had his cancer. The cancer treatment put the cancer into remission, but caused the leukemia. He would have graduated from high school in June. Tomorrow he will be buried. My heart is broken for this woman I have never met.

I, too, have a son who is a high school senior. Tonight his fresh mouth and snarly attitude made me feel awful. So often, lately, I question why he hates me when all I want is for him to grow up to be a fine man. And I thought of the woman who will never see her son grow into the man he would have become. I cannot fathom her grief, her despair, her limitless faith.

As mothers, we all too often point fingers at each other: she lets her kids drink soda, she lets her kids play violent video games, she doesn't seem to care what grades her children get, she stays at home, she leaves her kids in day care. All of the criticism we level at each other means nothing tonight. A mother is crying because the best person she ever knew, the person she loved best, has died. We feel a pain, but even as we do, we know that it is nothing like hers.

Tonight, a mother cries. And every mother cries with her.

Top Ten Ways You Know We Are Back at School

School has started. I have a high school senior, a sophomore, and a kindergartener. And I am a teacher. How do you know that we are all back to school? Here is a list:

10. My house is a mess.

9. I no longer have time to Gather.

8. There are four school bags plopped in the foyer.

7. My checking account is empty because of all of the back-to-school sneakers, shoes, jeans, underwear, boxer shorts, gym socks, binders, pencils, pens, erasers, folders, notebooks and fees that I have been shelling out money for.

6. My TiVo is no longer taping shows because I have not had time to watch anything and it is full.

5. I am making lunches while I put on my make-up.

4. I've been tempted to tell my principal that the dog ate my plan book.

3. Despite buying all of the aforementioned school supplies, I had to fill out emergency cards in brown crayon.

2. I sent tissues and paper towels to everyone's teachers, but we have no toilet paper in the house.

And the number one reason you can tell we are all back at school:

1. My idea of cooking a homecooked meal has dwindled to Top Ramen noodles and a sliced tomato.

Happy New Year

I am a teacher. I make New Year's resolutions twice a year. Like most people, I make them as the new year approaches, after the busyness and chaos of the holidays. I take time to take stock and figure out where I can make improvements in my life. But I also get a clean slate and a new beginning each September as the new school year approaches.

There is an old joke about teaching that the three best things about the profession are June, July and August. Any teacher worth her salt knows that these are the months, after the busyness and chaos of the preceding school year, to reflect and ask the hard questions about what you could have done better, brush up on your subject matter, and make improvements. Somewhere in there you try to rest up and restore yourself to yourself.

Although I hate the end of summer and its slower pace, I do feel excited by the prospect of a new year. I mark this fresh start with tangible tokens of newness: new pens, pencils, papers, and the latest organization system that I am sure will beat the one from the year before. And then I buy tissues, vitamin C, hand lotion, jugs of hand sanitizer and granola bars. It all gets packed in my "new school bag" which I convince myself will be sturdy enough to last the whole year.

Before long, the school year will start to drag. I will feel stressed, forgetful and bone-tired. A thought will creep in that I've got to make some changes fast, or the quality of my life will be strained. And it just so happens that this will occur right around December 31st: the perfect time for a clean slate and some new resolutions.