Twig Hugger

Letting Go

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Fri, 09 Jan 2026 07:06:00 +0000

When I hug my kids, I tell them they are going to have to let go first, because I will hold on as long as they want me to. “I won’t let go first,” I say. Yesterday, I said it to my best friend. For four years she has bravely endured pancreatic cancer. So many people say she is lucky because pancreatic cancer usually takes people so quickly. Selfishly, I can say I am lucky to have had her for four years, but looking at what she has had to deal with doesn’t make me think of the word “lucky.” She is now truly at the end, and it is so hard to say goodbye.

No matter how weak or tired she is, when I lie next to her in her bed she reaches out her hand for me to hold. She has moments of talking, opening her eyes, laughing, crying, listening, nodding, but she is fading. Her hand stays in mine. She lives on the other side of town from me, and for years when we have visited each other, we are careful to leave before traffic. Yesterday I went to say goodbye, but I couldn’t let go first. I told her I wasn’t going to and she had to, but she squeezed my hand tighter. I told myself I could wait another few minutes. I kissed her on her forehead and told her I should really go, and that I would be back tomorrow. She didn’t squeeze my hand, but she didn’t exactly let go either. She just opened her hand with my hand resting on top, as if to say, “I’m not going to let go first either, but if you have to go, you can slide your hand away.” I paused and told her she was tricky. She looked up with whatever brightness is left in her blue eyes and smiled at me.

Two weeks ago, I had to go and say goodbye to her two days before Christmas. I was heading to New York to see family for the holiday, and it looked doubtful that she would still be alive when I came back. I witnessed her saying goodbye to other friends and family in the days before me, and somehow didn’t think I would have to be in that position—until I did. It didn’t feel right, like saying goodbye to a boyfriend when we were still in love, but broke up because of a geography issue. Walking away from someone whom you still want to be with hurts, and that feeling was painful and familiar. Walking away from someone you might never see again was worse.

Witnessing my close friend deteriorate has been uncharted territory that I didn’t expect to venture into. I have learned lessons I didn’t want to have to learn. I have cried more tears than I thought my body was capable of crying. I have navigated personalities that I would have otherwise avoided, but patiently tolerated because I love my friend. I spoke with doctors, called in hospice, sent her children to camp for kids touched by cancer, met with a death doula, read books about dying, and learned to give her advice only when she asks for it.

When I went home to New York, I didn’t realize how much of my life was consumed with her dying. It had such a huge hold on me that I didn’t notice the pain in my gut until it went away for a few days. When I flew back here to LA, I exhaled in relief because she was still here. I had hoped for two things while I was gone: that she wait until I came back or that she pass peacefully in her sleep.

On my first visit to see her once I was home, it was clear that even in the week I had been gone, she had gotten weaker. She has lost so much weight that you can see her bones even under a baggy sweater. She goes between opening and closing her eyes. She has windows of time when she is alert and can engage in conversation. In those windows we somehow manage to laugh about old memories, stupid jokes, or reminisce about the good and bad advice we gave each other over the years. We have had a long, wonderful, close friendship for over twenty-six years, and I am so grateful. I just thought there would be more.

She has always been a good friend, the kind I didn’t know I needed until I met her. We went on adventures. We became adults together. We met our spouses. She made my wedding cake. I threw her a shower. She had her hand on my belly when I was pregnant the first time and felt crazy kicks when we listened to live music. I listened when she needed me. She was the only person I let watch my baby when I was a new mom. I was there when she gave birth for the first time. She was there when I struggled with anxiety. I was there when she got down.

She had lost her very attentive, loving mother when she was young. My mother was alive, but I wished she could have been the attentive, motherly type. She was many other things, but not that. My friend’s mom lived on in her. She was nurturing, so generous with her heart, and loved me unconditionally—an acceptance I hadn’t felt before becoming her friend.

When she was diagnosed, her prognosis was promising. The doctors had caught it early and opted to do the Whipple procedure, a surgery to remove a part of the pancreas, a part of the small intestine, the gallbladder, and the bile duct. It is a difficult surgery, but often saves lives. She tolerated the surgery well, and her scans showed it prevented the spread of cancer. Unfortunately, her cancer came back. She did chemotherapy, and that worked for a while, even though in the days following the treatments she was miserable. When chemo results started slowing down, she signed up for drug trials. She tried three different trials, and either they made her sick or they didn’t work. The cancer grew and started to take over. She got sick, she couldn’t eat, she lost weight, she was frail. It hasn’t been easy to witness and must be so much harder for her to manage day after day.

Every visit, I sit beside her and she reaches her hand out to hold mine. We do a lot of crying together, but thankfully we still do a lot of laughing together. I tell her I am proud of her and that she has been so very brave. We talk about dying, and she says she is ready to be done. I tell her we will take care of her babies. She smiles and squeezes my hand. I stroke my thumb over her fingers. She tells me she loves me, and I tell her I love her right back. We stay hand in hand, and for as long as I can, I will hold her hand. I tell her it is okay to let go whenever she is ready. I just won’t do it first.

So It Goes

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Thu, 06 Nov 2025 05:18:00 +0000

There is a recurring turn in my stomach that alarms me that all is not okay right now. The past few weeks have been a wild ride emotionally. School started back up, my best friend’s health dropped back down, and my parents, for the moment, are holding steady. While it is in my best interest to compartmentalize my concerns about the people I love so as not to be consumed to the point of complete distraction each day, it is not always an attainable goal. The trifecta of helping my daughter navigate school anxiety, my best friend accepting that the rest of her time will be spent managing her pain, and my parents aging is no small feat. I have been swinging between my own anxiety and feeling numb.

A week ago, my friend called me, and I said the normal, “Hi, how are you?” To which she said, “I’m okay, how are you?” I rambled for a bit about what was happening before school and how the adjustment to the new year was not smooth sailing. It wasn’t until after my rambling that she told me she was in the hospital. She has pancreatic cancer and has been battling it for over four years. In some ways, she is a walking, breathing, living miracle because no one usually lives this long with pancreatic cancer. In other ways, she is living and reliving a drawn-out nightmare. Tumors are all over her organs, pushing into her spine, and they continue to grow. Chemo was successful at holding the growth at bay for so long, but this type of cancer is sneaky. These cells, over time, seem to know how to grow again after the most powerful poison is thrown at them.

Last year, it seemed she was in the clear for a bit. Her doctor told her to take a break from chemotherapy and live her life. She took three weeks and went with her family to Greece. They had a magical time, and she felt great, but when she returned home to visit the doctor, her tumors were growing again. She started the dreaded chemo and spent every other week sick in bed for the days following her treatment. A few months ago, when it seemed the cancer was growing despite the treatments, she decided she was done — rightfully so. To have to sit for hours being poked and prodded, IV’d and infused, only to feel horribly afterward when it barely shrank the cancer, didn’t make sense.

She was faced with either joining possible medical trials or taking no action and accepting fate. She was chosen for a great trial here in Los Angeles but, sadly, was part of the fifty-percent placebo group. She flew to Utah weekly for a couple of months for another trial, but it made her sicker than the chemo did and thrashed her stomach. So now, here we are: she is in pain but getting palliative plans to keep it at bay with daily doses of strong pain meds. She is tired, groggy, at home, and waiting. We talk every day, and sometimes we laugh, but we also talk about how much this sucks — and then sometimes we cry.

My constant people are my husband and kids, my parents, and her. Here at home, I ache for my girl who is trying to navigate anxiety, college prep stress, feeling overwhelmed, and dealing with disappointment. It is interesting to observe how much pain you can feel when someone you love so much is hurting. The pain elevates even higher when you don’t know how to help them. As a mother, you want to hold your babies close and fix whatever hurts. As my children get older, I have to learn where to help and where to just hold; either choice hurts.

My dad is tired and old but thankfully okay right now. He also has a best friend that he speaks to every day. They are like brothers and have been since they were thirteen. His best friend’s heart has been working at thirty percent for the last year, and he is so frail and so tired. The last few weeks for him have been hard, as they found a tumor in his leg and treated him with radiation. His already weak system has been put to the test. He is not doing well and spends most of the day sleeping. I don’t know how much time he has left, and it will be hard to lose him, but for my dad, it will be devastating.

I called my dad a few days ago, and he asked how I was doing. I told him I was feeling a little down, and he said he was too. It is rare for him to be candid with me emotionally. He shares happiness, laughter, and joy, but if it is fear, sadness, or disappointment, he holds it tighter to his chest. I was grateful that he was able to open up to me, given that if any one person could understand how he was feeling on this particular subject, it was me. We shared the difficulty of watching a friend deal with illness and fatigue. We shared how, despite advanced medicine being capable of so much, it is not a magic cure-all. We shared how it is likely that, sooner than we would like, we will both be saying goodbye to our best friends.

I don’t know what it will feel like, as I have never lost a close friend before, but I do know the loss will be a big one. Like my father and his best friend, my friend and I talk daily. I anticipate that realization, when I go to call her, will be alarming for quite some time. I imagine that when I want to ask her a question that I know only she can answer, I will feel the finality of loss even greater. For my dad, who is already working so hard to find the strength to get up and out for even one outing a day, these blows will likely strike extra hard. His life looks so different from what it did even a few years ago, so his connection to the people he loves is what keeps him going. His calls to his best friend daily are his lifeline.

I don’t know how we will navigate the next few months. I can’t predict just how shocking losing someone is, even if you know it’s coming. No roadmap, practice, or preparation will soften the sting. Accepting loved ones dying is something our culture hasn’t done very well. Years ago, most people passed peacefully at home. Today, over sixty percent of sick people die in hospitals. We do so much to “fight” to keep people alive and so little to educate ourselves on how to let them go. As I try to quell the spinning turns in my stomach, I know this much is true: I will respect whatever my friend wants to do when she decides she is done, and I will soak her up as long as she wants to stay. I hope to be a source of comfort and understanding for my dad. He and I will only be a phone call away from each other, and I am grateful we have each other to talk to. It helps.

Metaphors

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Mon, 29 Sep 2025 22:47:00 +0000

My kids started school again today. The end of summer is never a favorite time for me, and the start of school was personally anxiety-provoking. My children both have some of their own anxieties, but thankfully, nowhere near the level I would reach yearly. Each year when they start school, I quietly whisper my fears to friends, my husband, or my sister, carefully not letting my kids in on how triggering the big day is for me.

Being a mother is something I have wanted to be since I was a little girl. Meeting the right person to start a family with wasn’t easy, and then trying to start our family wasn’t easy either. We persevered, though, and to say we got everything we hoped for is an understatement. It was as if someone pressed the restart button on our lives when we became parents. When my daughter was a newborn, I spent so much time staring at her and marveling that she was mine. My life, my role,and my job all changed after becoming a mother. I made sacrifices, gave up some goals, made some new ones, and had zero regrets. As my daughter now begins planning for college, it is difficult for me to process that while I will never stop being her mother, she will leave this home we built and start her own adult life and experiences. This is what we all hope and wish for our children. It is healthy, but also hard.

Last night, I watched as both my daughter and son chose their first-day-of-school outfits, packed their backpacks, and made plans with friends to head into school together. Pride filled me as I witnessed how calm they were. I took the dog for a walk and took some deep breaths, trying to quell my own butterflies. Old habits die hard, it’s true, but this year feels bigger because it is my daughter’s last year of High School. It is her last first day of school, and the last day they will head off together. My mind is spinning that we're already here at this point. I know everyone says the days are long and the years are short, but how did it go by this quickly?

With the end of summer comes the end of the unstructured freedom that ten weeks off from school allows. My son skated, surfed, and biked to his heart’s content this summer. My daughter worked her first job as a day camp counselor and made money while playing with kids in the ocean. She did an internship, worked on her college essays, and saw friends. We traveled, we celebrated milestones and birthdays. We had a lot of fun in the sun.

As a send-off to our summer, we surprised the kids and took them parasailing this past weekend. They were more hesitant than we expected, and not only did they want to know what the surprise was, but they also wanted us to be on the boat when they did it. They were scared and had many questions. “Does it really go one thousand feet up?” They asked unsurely. We went on the boat with them and watched their faces teeter between fear and excitement as the instructions were given to them. When they were all harnessed next to each other, they took their seats on the front of the boat facing us and their backs to the water. As the boat sped up, the parachute filled with air, and they lifted up and away. My son’s expression was wide-eyed and surprised. My daughter had a huge smile and bright eyes. As they lifted further and further away, I felt a tug in my gut. I hadn’t been scared for them, I too was excited, but suddenly my babies were too blurry to see anything other than their outlines. A slight panic fell over me as I watched them high in the sky. They felt too far away from me, yet the rope tethered them to the very boat I was on, just like their umbilical did years ago. Maybe the cords that connected us to each other were also quite long and just felt shorter all curled up. I looked it up, though, and an umbilical cord at its longest is not even two feet. They were 998 feet further from me. For someone who suffers from anxiety, I am thankfully not overly worried about my kids. I ask questions, make sure they are safe, but I don’t let my mind wander to the worst what-ifs. I did on the boat, though. I let myself drift into the worst-case scenarios for a few dark moments. Then I calmed myself down and looked at them with a smile on my face. They are growing up, they are doing it well, and they are soaring.

This Point In Time

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Tue, 20 May 2025 03:44:00 +0000

This was a big year for me. I turned fifty, my book was published, I had time with my family, and there was much to celebrate. All good things are not the reality of day-to-day life, though, and like joy, disappointment, sadness, and change are all real too. Shortly after my birthday, as if my body got the memo that it was now fifty, I spotted a few grey hairs. I also started feeling tired more often, and with no change at all to my diet, I gained some extra weight in my midsection, thanks perimenopause.

My teenager was in the weeds with the academic demands of junior year of High School, and her stress level reached record highs. My twelve-year-old, who plays hard, visited urgent care for X-rays enough times that the tech knows his name. We lost money in stocks, and had an awful loss in an election, and now have to ride out another term with someone who is taking our country backwards. All of this to say the curveballs have been thrown.

I went to London recently and saw one of my best friends. We picked up exactly where we left off years ago, and after running into each other’s arms and crying with joy at seeing each other, we talked, and laughed, and talked some more. We discussed how life can be so busy and full enough at times that you don’t even know what day it is. We spoke of our children and our parents, and how overall, even at its craziest, we live very good lives with so much to be grateful for. She mentioned a quote she had read from a rabbi that she had seen, where he says something about wishing you a life with many problems. I am not getting it exactly right, but the gist is that if you have a major problem in your life, it consumes all of you, leaving no space for anything else. If you have room for many problems, you also have room for many blessings.

A few months ago, I set my hand down on top of the cover of our grill. It isn’t ever used, but there have been times in the last few years when it is as if some phantom switch is turned, and it is incredibly hot. This was one of those times. I signed the side of my hand, and it blistered within minutes. It was painful and annoying. One week later, as I pushed down a carton into my recycling bag, a sharp object poked through the bag and cut my finger. It would not stop bleeding and was right on the joint of my finger. Much to my chagrin, my husband and I decided it was best to go to urgent care. I got a tetanus shot, soaked it in iodine before getting it closed, and bandaged it. It was quite painful and didn’t heal right, but in the grand scheme of things, small problem.

My best friend is dealing with a terminal illness and running out of options to help her. She feels lousy after each round of chemo, and at this point, it isn’t helping her enough anyway. Big Problem! We handle the details of her being sick with tears and laughter, which is as good as we can get with such dark times, I suppose. We joke about cutting out sugar, stress, and annoying people. We pretend to plan a trip to an island together where she can just stare out at the ocean. We laugh about her choosing her own urn on Amazon and keeping it in her save for later items. We crack each other up more than we cry because we still have the choice to feel it whatever way we want. For now.

The house I grew up in will always feel like home to me. I admire how some people are able to go clear out and sell their childhood homes and view it as just a thing. My parents are old, and admittedly, I live in denial that they won’t get better. I hear myself say “If “they die, rather than “ when.” My sister is the opposite. She is very practical and business-like about what we should do to prepare. My brother, the middle child, is in the middle of us on this. I still try to get my dad to exercise and continue building muscle mass, and my sister suggests that his body is giving out and that I need to accept that. We will need to figure out what we are doing with their home and all the logistics, but in the meantime, I still hope for muscle rebuilding and recovery. This is very much a normal part of life. People don’t live forever, but for me, this too is big!

Wherever I get a call with bad news about my parents, I start to think about how very little stays the same forever. My daughter will go to college, and our family of four that we have spent years building will change as we know it. I might not have a family home to go back to when my parents are gone. My best friend, whom I call all the time, might not be able to answer my calls. Sad as all of this is, this is part of life. We have celebrations and disappointments. We have accomplishments and we have losses. I keep thinking of the song “Landslide.” Change is coming my way, I know that. For now, though, I can only focus on this point in time.

One Word Answers

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Tue, 20 May 2025 03:39:00 +0000

When I had my first baby, we were invited to a wedding just a few weeks after she was born. No cell in my being was ready to leave her with anyone. I didn’t know it consciously, but I suppose I became one of those attachment parenting types. I had always wanted children, and when my husband and I wanted to have a baby together, it didn’t quite happen on our timeline. We had waited a long time and experienced a lot of challenges before the title of parents was bestowed upon us. When that moment finally came, we were ready. There was no difficult transition into parenting. I was in love instantly and found being a new mother a wondrous time. I was grateful to have the opportunity to stay home, and when I was itching to get back to work, I created opportunities that included her being by my side.

That wedding when she was a few weeks old could have been an opportunity for a date alone with my husband, but we were both so new at parenting that we spent the whole time out concerned about her. My husband’s cousin watched her while we were out. She had five of her own children, so she was overqualified for caring for our newborn, but still, we worried. We called her too many times to check in. We asked if she was okay, and did she need us to come back. When we arrived back after the wedding and reunited with our baby, I felt such huge relief. We were together again.

I have been one of those overly involved moms. I took her to mommy and me classes. I volunteered at my daughter’s preschool and later elementary school to come in once a week to teach yoga. We attended lots of family events and activities together. I became the PTA president of her elementary school. I advocated for language lessons, an International festival, and a new fundraising event, and added some friendly competition as well as a new sense of community. My daughter was always happy to see me at her school. She always ran up to hug me if she could and didn’t seem to mind having her mom around. She seemed to appreciate it.

Happily, the most important role I have had in my life is being a mother. Being a mother takes the top spot for how I identify myself. I am proud of how I parent, and I feel very connected to my children. I wouldn’t say I am a helicopter parent or a controlling parent, but I would say that I am aware of what my children are doing, and how they are doing, and I am available to them. As elementary school ended and middle school began, I stepped back from volunteering at school. It was time for my daughter to have her own space. My husband and I did start going out on dates again. I started working more, and in the summer, our daughter even went to summer camp for a week on her own.

Walking into my house, it is hard to miss family photos all over the walls, in albums, and even a pillow version of one of my favorite holiday pictures of my two kiddos bundled into hats, scarves, and sweaters. I remember where each photo was taken, the outfits that have since come and gone, and even the way their red, round cheeks felt to kiss back then, when they were a little fuller. I knew that these little kids would grow into big kids, then teens, and one day grow up into adulthood. I have heard a million times or more how time flies and to enjoy the moment, and I thought I understood. Now I see those photos of my little children, and I never imagined I would have to mourn the loss of them being small. I didn’t know how much I would miss their five fingers curled around my thumb or washing their downy hair for them, or the high-pitched voices they grew out of.

We have been lucky that my daughter and I have gotten to spend a lot of time together. We have always been close as a family, and she and I have special things we love to do together. We love seeing theatre, and movies, visiting animals, snuggling our dog, skiing, taking new adventures, traveling, going out to brunch, and trying new lattes together. We have been close, and she has always been open with me in sharing everything from friend drama, sharing who she likes, how she is doing with school, and the goals she has for the future. She is sixteen now, and this school year has been the most challenging yet. She is more stressed than I have ever seen her. She is busier than she has ever been. She is working harder than she has ever worked. She has also experienced the reality of disappointment. As much as we want to believe that if we teach our children to go for their dreams, their dreams will come true, the truth is that it is not always the case. She has reached up and out for some big things this year, and some of them slipped from her grasp. This is important to learn in life, and I am grateful to be able to be here to hold her through her pain and let go when she is ready to try again, and yet I know we won’t always be in the same place in the future. We will likely not be in the same house, the same city, or the same state.

A friend told me that her sister used the password of a date for some of her logins. The date was the month that her daughter would leave for college because she couldn’t wait for her to go. She told me that it is not uncommon for mothers and daughters to start pulling away from each other a year or two leading up to college. It is a subconscious protection measure in preparation for the separation that is coming. I hear things like this, and my reaction in my mind is feeling sad for these people. I think that could never be me, or that it's too bad she can’t enjoy these last few months with her child. Well, here I am, a few months late, and I understand this more than I want to. This is not a choice I have made to have friction between my sweet girl and me; it’s just there, and she isn’t feeling as sweet these days.

There is this polarizing pushing and pulling that I feel is happening to the two of us right now. She needs me less than she did, she wants to need me less than she does, and doesn’t like it when I still need to parent her. She wants to believe she knows what is best for her; she doesn’t want my opinions, but comes running to me to help her before things fall apart. She wants to be independent but doesn’t want to do her own laundry, make her own food, or get her own transportation. She is moody, and I know I am not supposed to take it personally, but I still do. She wakes up and gets ready for school, and is so full of angst that she can barely talk to me. She gets home from school with so much on her plate that she doesn’t have a minute to talk to me. She sits at dinner, and if she is preoccupied, she will barely answer our questions with one word. At times, I feel the need to increase the speed at which I am talking to her because the window of time she has the capacity to talk to me is so limited.

There are days when I confront her on some of this, and she has no idea that she has done anything to upset me. She doesn’t understand that if I get snubbed every time I reach out, it doesn’t make me want to extend my hand so much. She doesn’t understand that some days I resent her, or that some days I drop her off at school and want to cry. She doesn’t understand that I miss my little girl and am having some serious growing pains trying to get through this transition while she grows up. I do want her to understand that she cannot be rude or disrespectful. She needs to understand when to show gratitude and that she is not just entitled to all we provide. She needs to understand that she has new responsibilities that come with getting older and how to manage them in her day-to-day life. She does not need to understand that she is hurting my feelings, that I am having trouble letting her go, or that I am jealous of the hours she spends talking to her friends. Those are part of the whole package of parenting. Like it or not, I am going over this bump in the road.

She is a budding filmmaker and last year made a short called “Still My Little Girl”. It was a beautiful, bittersweet story about the relationship between a mother and daughter when the girl was nine and then again when she was a teenager. She showed that at nine, the mother was the apple of her daughter’s eye, and as a teenager, she could barely look her in the eye. She did not play the teenager, and I did not play the mother. This story wasn’t ours, but she seemed to be foreshadowing what was coming up the pike for us a year and a half later.

Every bit of what she is experiencing right now is normal. Junior year school stress, social navigating, deciding big future decisions, budgeting her time, managing what is on her plate now, while trying to prepare for what is ahead. It is a scary time, and I understand. I want her to know I understand. I will have a day or two where I can’t say anything right, and then a day like today where she asks me for a hug and neither of us wants to be the first to let go. I know that as far as teenage drama and angst, I have a wonderful kid, and it could be so much worse, but I also miss the amount of time she could spare for me. I need to lower my expectations and gratefully settle for the time we do have together. I do wish, though, that she could humor me when I check in and inquire how she is doing with more than one-word answers. I’d settle for two.

Sad For Her

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Sat, 17 May 2025 01:39:00 +0000

A few months ago my daughter participated in a theatre competition. Growing up around theatre I had never heard of doing it competitively. This was a competition for high school students, and although it sounded light and fun, it was anything but. As the mother of a boy who competes regularly in team sports, I am accustomed to intense sports parents. I agreed to volunteer for the theatre competition, unaware of what I was signing up for.

When I signed up to help, I thought it was to drive up snacks, drop them off, and leave. I signed up to be at the competition all day. It was intense. There was a musical category, dramatic scenes, monologue, make-up, costumes, category after category of theatre kids trying to win each round to go on to the next. My daughter’s school had a competitor in almost every category. I had no idea how stiff the competition would be. My daughter was in a group performing a musical stuffed into about eight minutes. Together with her cast, they got through round one, which everyone does. They had hoped to move on to round two and only six of the ten groups would go on to the next round. Having seen them along with the competition, I was certain they would move on. I was wrong. For whatever reason they were in the bottom four and the competition ended there for them.

All ten of the kids were in tears. They were shocked at the results and hugged each other sobbing about how unfair it all seemed. After all, it is art, it is subjective. I knew they did an amazing job, but the play was controversial and dealt with some strong themes. Maybe the judges weren’t open-minded enough. It was a heavier piece than most of the others, maybe it wasn’t light enough for the judges. It wasn’t a common musical, maybe the judges preferred a show they were familiar with. Whatever it was, it was upsetting and none of us could believe that it ended so soon for them, without any plans of getting to perform it again, it was over.

The director of the theatre program came with us that day and as she watched the students navigate their upset she posed a question to some of us moms. “Did we think our children’s hurt is harder for them or us?” At that moment watching my daughter and her friends crying, I felt awful for her, but it seemed she was taking it harder than me. I wanted to help and immediately offered her and her friends ideas of how to make them feel better. I told them that if they wanted to get a chance to perform the piece again we could figure out how to make that happen. I hurt for and with her but didn’t think more than her.

That director’s question has entered my head again in the last few days. For the whole school year, my daughter has hoped and planned for a project for her film class. She had to make the tough decision between doing film or theatre because the times conflicted and much to her chagrin she couldn’t do both. She chose film because ultimately this is what she wants to study in college, and with it being her junior year she wanted her portfolio to reflect her interests. Each year the film program offers an opportunity for six of the fifty or so kids to present a pitch to the other students. This year about twenty-three kids pitched their ideas. The class then votes that night on the ten they would like to see more of. Those ten then write a script and do a table read for the other students and they vote again on their top six.

My daughter’s pitch was one of the top ten chosen and she worked tirelessly for weeks on her script, hoping to secure one of the six coveted spots. Based on what she told me about the other ideas that were being flushed out in class, I was impressed with the complexity of her idea. There were four or five others with a lot of potential too, but a handful of kids who stopped coming to screenwriting class, and a few who didn’t finish their idea. We felt good about her chances. We were confident based on the time and effort she put into her work. When the day came to do the table reads, I went in to help her read for the part of the mother in her script. I listened to some of the other scripts. I took in the room of teenagers sitting and listening to script after script looking bored or looking at their phones. I wondered how they could focus on storylines and shoot details while sitting for two hours after sitting in classes all day. They had no scripts in front of them to follow along to. The sounds of the reader’s voices blended in a monotonous tone. How will they be able to vote on which scripts were their favorite when they all blended into each other?

When it was my daughter’s turn there were two left after her. We all read the script nicely enough, but the room was tired, myself included. When the two read after her I think everyone perked up a bit knowing it was ending soon. I felt the last three as well as one or two others stood out clearly to me as stronger stories. I drove us home feeling optimistic, but a few hours later we were shocked and disappointed. Her film wasn’t chosen. The last two read after hers were, but two of the other strong ideas weren’t chosen either. If that disappointment didn’t burn enough, she had developed her script together with a little pod of three other girls who had also been chosen and all three of the others’ films were chosen to be made, but sadly not hers.

As I reeled and tried to make sense of my thoughts, I realized how flawed this decision process felt. One of the other kids whose film idea was one of the top ten is a senior in high school, and this would be her last opportunity to participate in this program. One of the scripts chosen, that in my opinion wasn’t complete, was done by students who didn’t show up for many of the classes. Lastly, there was one student who was chosen last year as well and has already had this opportunity. It all felt unfair. The results were out though and there was not anything to do about it. As a parent, I contemplated pointing these things out in an email to the teacher, but to what end? My daughter didn’t want me to, and at a certain point, I felt it should be the students bringing these questions up, not the parents. Also, life hurts sometimes, life can be unfair, and we don’t win every time. That reality is sadly one we can’t and shouldn’t protect our children from. Yet still, it hurt so much watching her sadness and feeling it too.

As I tried to sleep that night I kept tossing and turning thinking about how much this stings. The next day in film class they all went in but were released early because of the long day they put in the day before. When my daughter stood up to leave she looked at her pod of three and asked them if they were walking out too. They stared back at her and said they had to stay for a class for the kids whose films were chosen. She left without them, waited to get into my car, and then started to cry. Today in her dance class the teacher gave a shout out to her friend on her film getting chosen and asked her to tell the class what her film was about.

I have been trying to find positive ways to spin some of this for my daughter and myself. I keep trying to let it go but it keeps popping into my head. She is doing her best to stay strong and resilient while I am doing my best to hide from her that I am not. So back to the question from the director about who hurts more, the parent or the child when the child is sad, and in this case I would say both of us are so sad. This time she is seemingly shaking it off a bit faster than I am, but kids mimic what they see, so I am doing my best to constructively move on and away from what won’t be the last of her heartaches. I am also modeling what it looks like to persevere and find that next opportunity because this is not the last.

Another September

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Mon, 30 Sep 2024 05:35:00 +0000

In the past, I have always dreaded September. It felt like a month-long version of a Monday. I would mourn the end of summer and have to prepare myself for the monotony of school starting again. It was always daunting and the anticipation of a year of academia would kick off my anxiety with a bang. When I stopped attending school, I still suffered from the Sunday night blues and the September end-of-summer bummer. Old habits die hard.

Recently, one of my best friends shared with me that her daughter gets very anxious every Sunday night. My friend shared with her daughter that I used to call her crying Sunday night after Sunday night in our twenties upset that the weekend was over. I would tell her I was anxious about the week starting and she would remind me each time I did that it was only the anticipation itself that was upsetting me. She would assure me that when Monday morning did come, I would be fine. She was mostly right. I then tended to anticipate the worst. I love that I have become an example for her daughter now, and I hope that she sees me now as someone who has been able to keep that anticipation in check.

I don’t get anxious on Sunday nights anymore. Sometimes I am sad that the weekend is over and feel the weight of responsibilities upon me. The routine lunch making, waking up early, and having to get out the door doesn’t always give me that warm welcoming feeling, but it doesn’t fill me with dread either. My children have had some of my anxiety passed down to them, but even with that, they manage it much better than I did as a child. Despite being sad, overwhelmed, or nervous for the first day of school they were able to keep their eyes on the parts they looked forward to as well. It hasn’t been all roses and butterflies but school provides them opportunities socially (even though that part can suck sometimes) academically (also sucky sometimes) artistically, creatively, and athletically in ways that we are all grateful for.

It isn’t often but once in a while, I will get that uninvited familiar pang of dread at the end of the weekend. I will try to determine if it is just that my body remembers the routine so well or if indeed there is something that I am upset about. It has been two years since my life was turned inside out and backward by debilitating anxiety, so at times I get anxious about being anxious. Mostly, these days I am counting my blessings for being on the other side of the journey. I am so grateful and relieved to be healthy. Each day is a gift and now that I have learned how the other shoe can drop at any point, I don’t take my days for granted.

I have learned to accept that there is only so much in my control. While it might look like other people around you might have it easier, no one gets through life without a struggle here and there. I allow myself the grace to take one beat at a time since I can overwhelm myself when I try to plan too far into the future anticipating (there it is again) what is next. I remind my children to do the same when they fear for the whole school year ahead of them instead of one moment at a time. I have taught myself and the kids about talking to themselves and building your confidence. I have explained what parts of life we can step into and change and where we need to step back and let things be.

Even in the overwhelming month of September, I am present, wide-eyed, and happy to be here. I am also compartmentalizing. I have a lot to celebrate this month and my cup is full. Twenty years with my husband, a published book, and a big birthday coming. I have to give room for the sad stuff too and while life can be wonderful it is not always fair. Positive thinking is amazing, but you can’t mantra away cancer and disease. My best friend has terminal pancreatic cancer and she has been nothing short of a walking miracle since getting diagnosed three years ago. She has been told it’s gone, it’s back, you are defying odds to things aren’t looking so good again. She compartmentalizes her time by accepting what she can’t change, trying her best to beat bad odds, and being focused on being a mother to her three children.

Last week on September 11th I thought about lives lost in 2001 and mourned those I knew as well as those I didn’t. The next day I celebrated my anniversary and was basking in the memories from twenty years ago. On the same day, my friend got the news that her cancer was growing once again. She wasn’t ready to share the news with anyone so just the two of us talked about it together until her doctor weighed in the next day. After that, her husband posted the news on Facebook and as I read his words I grew upset with him. She is so private and it’s not her style to announce things to the world. I also came to understand that it was easier for me to get angry with him for his words than it was for me to allow myself to feel the devastation from the reality of his words.

With half of the month behind us already I am holding on tightly since it can be quite a ride. There isn’t much to be gained from looking too far ahead so I am stopping whenever possible to breathe in the moment. Time has a way of moving too quickly and I want to stretch it out to last a bit longer. Even in September.

Unimaginable

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Sat, 24 Feb 2024 01:21:00 +0000

Everybody has friends that they used to be so close to and then time and distance comes between them. Most of the time you can see pictures of that person on social media and get the posted version of their life. You can tell if they are single or got married if they still live in the same city they used to, or if they have children. It doesn’t equal a real friendship with that person but it is better than having them slip out of your life forever.

I have one of those friends. There was never a conflict between us that tore us apart. We never had a falling out. I never intended that we wouldn’t always be friends. We lived across the hall from each other in New York. The building was on 71st Street on the Upper West Side. It was an old brownstone that was seemingly divided into a bunch of tiny apartments. It was a walk up and she and I lived on the fourth floor. My place, you could not even call it an apartment, was on one end of the hall, and hers was on the other. In between us, there were two other tiny apartments. She and I both had a window, but that seemed like the biggest feature. We each had a loft bed, a stove, and a tiny toilet with a shower only big enough to squeeze into. When you opened the front door it hit the loft bed because there wasn’t enough room for it to swing all the way open. The only sink was a tiny bathroom sink with a medicine cabinet over it where you could keep toiletries and dish soap.

Between us, those two other tiny apartments didn’t even have a window. They each only had a glass skylight overhead. One was occupied by an old woman and the other by an old man. They weren’t friendly but they seemed to be friends with each other. They tolerated us youngins. My friend and I would sometimes open both of our front doors to make the hallway appear to be part of our “apartments.” More often than not though we would go out down the street to grab food, take a walk, or sit and talk somewhere. When Krispy Creme came to NY there was a location dangerously close to us around the block. The first time we tried them we couldn’t get enough and ordered seconds together.

That was a moment in time in our twenties. We were both recent college graduates just taking our first steps out into adult living. We hadn’t quite landed and didn’t know where we would put our feet down. She was living on her own in a new country having grown up in Prague, and I was living on my own in the same city I had lived in my whole life. When another friend of mine asked me if I wanted to drive cross country with her to try living in Los Angeles, I had to make a really hard decision — one that would impact the rest of my life. I remember weighing the pros and cons while sitting in my tiny apartment. I didn’t want to move so far away from my family. I didn’t know if I wanted to say goodbye to NYC. I wasn’t sure of how I would get started once I made it to California. I didn’t want to leave my friend across the hall, but as I sat in that tiny apartment I looked at my belongings I had a feeling if I stayed I would just end up like the two people in the hall who probably lived in these apartments their whole adult life.

That was twenty-five years ago, and I never moved back. I go home to visit often, but I am a California Girl now and I love it. My husband is from here, and we have started our own family here. When I go back to NYC, I try to see as many friends as I can but once I had kids that became harder and harder. I had to settle for updates online as a poor replacement for seeing people face-to-face. My friend across the hall married the boyfriend that she had met right before I left. They stayed in the city for a while building their careers before eventually having a little girl. A few years later they had a little boy. I was excited for her as well as in awe because I too eventually wanted to start a family and she seemed to get the whole package.

A few years later I too got married, then had a little girl followed by a little boy. We all had our hands full and before we realized years had gone by since we were in touch. A few years ago I saw a photo of them all out and we said a quick hello to one another. Then yesterday I saw she posted a photo of her son saying she is missing him, especially on his birthday. I scrolled back to see if it had ever said anywhere else anything about what happened to him. There wasn’t much but it didn’t take a lot of investigating to see a photo of him a year ago without any hair, and then another with him ringing the bell at the hospital when he completed treatment. I went back and reread the message from yesterday over and over. It didn’t seem possible that he could be gone. Maybe she said she missed him because he was away somewhere. He couldn’t have passed away because he was not even sixteen, and it all would have been too unfair. I could not process what I was reading. It was too unimaginable

When I became a mother a friend of mine gave me a book called “Operating Instructions” by Anne Lamott. In between nursing, changing diapers, and trying to catch up on sleep I read the book. She spoke of wanting her son to become all these great things when he got older and then stopped herself and said “ I don’t care what he becomes just Oh dear G-d please let me outlive him.” That quote has stayed with me every day since I read it with my tiny infant in my arms. When I send them off to school or camp or even to a friend’s house I say a little silent prayer that they will be safe and live longer than me. It is my biggest fear that some tragedy harms my children and stands in the way of them living a full life.

I could not accept that this nightmare had been lived by my friend. Her son’s bright personality always came through from what little I saw of him. Stunned, I wrote her straight away and said that I had seen her post. I said I didn’t know what had happened but I was thinking of her. She wrote back with such a direct statement about how and when she lost her boy. She said he had Leukemia and was treated and came out of treatment okay, when he went back a few years later he once again completed treatment and was healthy. They had planned on doing a bone marrow transplant and that is when things went wrong. He got an infection and sepsis. He did not make it and passed away. She wrote these words to me followed by how losing him has been so hard on the three of them and that they are learning to go on. My heart sank as I read her words and I began to cry. My stomach tightened and my head hurt because I couldn’t swallow how unfair this news was. How final!

I let myself sit for a while before writing her back. I wasn’t even sure how to respond to her devastation. She had asked me when I would be back in NYC next and there will be no excuses to put off seeing her when I go. If I could beam myself to her right now to hug her I would. I went to sit on the couch where my son was sitting. I sat behind him and hugged him so I could breathe him in. He couldn’t see my face, or my tears, but all I could think of was that my friend couldn’t hold her boy anymore. I held on as long as he would let me. I will never let go first. Time is precious.

Left Out

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Tue, 28 Nov 2023 21:36:00 +0000

It is really hard to be a teenage girl. It was not easy for me getting through the trials and tribulations of being a teenager. It is even harder watching my daughter going through them. In addition to just being hard because the age is challenging, adding in today’s social media, text message threads and photos of absolutely everything, there is no way to be oblivious to what your peers are doing around you.

About a week ago, I was already hormonal when I lifted my phone to scroll Instagram. I should have stuck to the dog videos since they usually lift my mood, but instead I stumbled on a post of my local friends all out to dinner together. They all live in close proximity together, and I am not around the corner so to speak so I understood it was a neighborhood thing, but still I felt left out not to be there. It stung as I looked at the multiple photos of them sitting around a table, posing outside the restaurant, and smiling in every shot. Even though I wasn’t a neighbor I wanted to be part of the group.

My daughter’s first year of high school was bumpy socially. When she started on the first day she felt sure of one thing and that was that she and her best friend from elementary school would be friends forever. She knew she could count on having at least one good friend she could count on. After so much time over the summer together, doing theatre together, and babysitting together what they really needed was probably a break. Instead, they headed into freshman year together and the tight knots of their friendship bracelets started to unravel within the first few weeks. Who knows exactly what happened? Perhaps, one felt threatened that the other was able to make new friends easily. Perhaps, one was holding a grudge for things done months before but because communication wasn’t her strong suit she never spoke up. Perhaps one also turned all of their mutual friends against the other. In any or all of these cases it is not easy for a couple of fourteen year olds to navigate.

I had a realization recently that a friend and I were not as close as I thought we were. We met when our kids were still in preschool. We started them in Kindergarten together. We used to go have lunch here and there, we worked out together, and tried new beauty products together. We had fun and we talked often. Until we didn’t. Things change, situations change, people can change, but I didn't really realize until I was learning things about her from other people. Our texting seemed to slow down, we didn’t go out as much, and although she was always nice when we did speak we weren’t a part of each other’s day to day anymore. It seemed to take me a long time to figure it out, but I finally did and in that one shocking moment when I did, it hurt. It was followed by a sense of relief too. I hadn’t noticed it, but I was working so much harder than she was, and I didn’t have to pull all the dead weight of a non-functioning friendship. I felt sad, but I felt lighter.

Last week my daughter had tentative plans with a group of friends. She had also checked in with two other friends to see if she could hang with them. They told her they were going to be with two guys so it would be awkward if she joined. She never heard definitively from the first group so after waiting to hear from them she went over to a different friend's house. On the way she ran into the two girls who were supposed to be with the two guys, only they were just hanging with another of their girlfriends. It was indeed awkward, but not because they were with two guys, but because they weren’t, and yet they never let her know. My daughter hung out at a different friend’s house but on the way home from that she ran into her other group of friends who never called her back to include her in their evening plans. She was in the car with my husband when they pulled up to a stop sign only to see all of her “friends” with very concrete plans that didn’t include her. They all made eye contact and then my daughter asked my husband to please drive away from this most uncomfortable encounter.

She was crushed, understandably. Just one of these run-ins would have hurt, but two in one night felt unbearable. I was mad and wanted answers for her. I suggested she talk to the one close friend who kept being vague about plans but she didn’t want to confront anyone. She said she felt she was on shaky ground with everyone in that group because she didn’t hang with them all as consistently as they hung with each other. I cringed as the next day she didn’t reach out to say, “Hey, that didn’t feel great last night, what happened?” text, but instead sent a “hello” as if nothing happened. It has been over a week since then and there has been no response to her friendly text. My daughter is regrouping and she no doubt needs to reevaluate the groups she has been friends with. The thing with groups is it doesn’t seem to matter if you are friends with one or two people in a group when they all get together it can feel really awful being on the outside.

When I saw the photo of a bunch of my friends out together, having fun, laughing in a group without getting to be part of it, I immediately thought of my daughter and all she is going through right now. I shared with her, that I felt left out, but that what she was feeling this past week was probably as bad as it will ever get. I shared that life is full of FOMO, and exclusion, but that it is rarely as in your face as it was for her. I also explained that as hurt as I was, the first person I called when I was sad was one of my best friends. That friend is not in that group and if she was I would never felt excluded in the first place. I listed off for her the friends that I have that only ever make me feel safe, loved and accept me fully for who I am. I explained those friendships take a long time to get right but when you do you hold on for life.

Listen and Nod

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Wed, 15 Nov 2023 21:04:00 +0000

The right words haven’t come together for me yet to be able to explain to my children why certain people are just mean, or that not every system is set up carefully, or that not everything is fair. I have been faced with the challenge of providing this explanation quite a few times now as a parent and I have not successfully come up with an authentic, honest answer that could provide them any insight. The closest answer I can come with is that people do strange things sometimes, it’s part of life, and we have to learn to deal with it.

That response doesn’t make hurt feel any less painful, or injustice seem any more fair. It’s hard to fathom learning for the first time how corrupt history was and how so many people were treated cruelly for so long. It is even harder to watch through your child’s eyes that hate still exists in today’s world. Time has healed a lot of wounds but there are so many deep cuts that continue to bleed. Our children try to absorb everything we teach them, and I try to lead by example, but it is impossible for them to not see on their own the flaws in what is supposed to be equality.

Globally you can’t shield them from the fact that war exists. You teach children about hunger and poverty. We teach about how wrong it is for people to be mistreated for being different but then have to point out often how that still happens. I spent my late teens and my twenties in a group whose mission was to expose racism and antisemitism to other kids around New York City. I recently saw parts of what I did all those years ago and was sad to see how much of the material is still so important to keep teaching today.

I know I am not alone in wanting to teach our children to have an innate sense of gratitude for what we do have, and we have a lot. We are not hungry or poor, we are healthy, and that is not only enough, but also a lot. There is a question looming for me though about how as people we are evolving going forward. With technology drastically changing the way we interact with each other, I can see it daily when most of my children’s friends have trouble making eye contact. When my friend told me that my daughter was the only child at her son’s birthday party who said “thank you” for having her, I didn’t think to myself that I did a good job parenting her. I thought instead, what is happening to people that manners are so rarely taught the same anymore. We all had to live through the pandemic, but our children in important developmental years of their lives were isolated from peers. That has its ramifications and it is hard to ignore how apparent they are now.

This week my tolerance for adult behavior towards children wore thin. A teacher was condescending to my daughter in a way that only a power-hungry adult can be. It was over something small and what could have been a teachable moment if done respectfully, but instead it was patronizing. The only lesson my daughter learned from it was how to steer clear of the way this teacher overreacts. She learned from classmates that this is not an uncommon behavior for this woman, and to nod and agree when she goes off on you. I was upset to see something blown out of proportion and taken out on my daughter, but it made me realize how many horrible teachers I had and survived as a kid. I’ve been reading “Lessons In Chemistry” lately, and if you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it, but I almost couldn’t get past the first few chapters because it takes place in the fifties and women were so mistreated that it was hard to read. I do appreciate where we have made progress.

My friend also was tested this week by immature adult behavior when her son was left out of a group not because he had any conflict with any of the other kids, but because one of the kid’s fathers held a grudge about his own son’s bad luck. The dad took his misplaced anger out on a different kid. If this makes no sense to you, trust me when I say it is because it makes no sense. People do strange things when they are hurting, and sometimes the easiest thing for them to do is hurt back. It is proven time and time again that this method does not work, but yet it doesn’t cease to occur. It reminds me to remind my children, and myself that we can’t explain everyone else's behavior. All we can do is try to be kind to one another, and show as much grace as we can when things go awry, because they will. We have come so far, but we still have a long way to go, and a lot we can learn.

Mourning Time

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Thu, 05 Oct 2023 21:06:00 +0000

Saturday night I didn’t talk to my dad. That is pretty rare, as I speak to him once a day, if not twice. I am very close with him, and our calls are usually just updates of our days, but sometimes he drops big comments about being old and how he won’t be around forever. On Sunday when I called my dad to ask him how he was, he said he was a lot better than the night before. He had been out with my mom at a music concert when he started to not feel well and needed to take a seat. He started having chest pains and difficulty breathing. After a few minutes, he was ushered to a first aid area where they determined they should call 911 and an ambulance came to take him to the hospital.

At the hospital, they determined that he was likely having a heart attack. After some blood work and tests were done his heart seemed normal, but it seemed that the levels in his liver were off. After a few hours when he felt better, the hospital sent him home. I had been afraid to call him too late that night with the time change between New York and LA, but little did I know he was up until one in the morning. When I talked to him the next day, he sounded no worse for wear and quite happy to be home.

My father is ninety-five years old. He is sharp as a tack and can answer any question I throw at him. If it is about what is happening in the world today, he is knowledgeable and happy to explain current events that I might not understand. He loves the arts and still pushes himself, no matter how tired he is, to attend live music events, and theater and go to films weekly. He remembers details from his youth and can retell a story without forgetting a single beat. He reads book after book, studies French, and never passes up an opportunity to learn new things. I want to be like him when I get old.

At ninety five though you are considered quite old. His body is slowing down and he suffers from aches and pains. His knee hurts him something awful most days and he could use a replacement, but no one will operate on someone his age. The risks and complications are too risky and so he has to do his best to manage the pain. I know that he won’t be here forever, but when he told me what happened Saturday night I was reminded of that reality and that in just one day everything could change for him. For my family. For me.

Last summer I suffered from what was diagnosed as treatment-resistant depression brought on by long covid. Nothing in my life was going wrong and I had actually been quite content, but out of nowhere in the weeks following having COVID, my anxiety crept in and my joy seeped out. My anxiety led to depression and after nothing I tried would work, I felt lost in a hole without any light to crawl towards. I eventually found a treatment plan that worked for me, but it had its side effects too. I suffered from memory loss. I suffer from memory loss. I was told that over time my memory would return, and I asked over and over for clarity, would my memories return or would my ability to remember return. No one could really answer but I was told to wait six months and see. I am healthy now, and I do not write those words lightly. Finding light to reach for was no small feat and I am so grateful to be on this side of all of those hurdles now.

It cost me time with my children, time with my husband, my friends, and my family and it cost me a lot of memories. It took me a while to reconnect with my children and build back the relationships that I had with them. They saw a different version of their mother that was unfamiliar to them. Naturally, they gravitated toward my husband for those few months. When I did start to feel more like myself we were all taking baby steps back to normalcy. I was saddened to feel so disconnected from these two humans whose lives I had been so much a part of. My identity was so defined by being their mother, that it was hard to build back who I was while waiting for that part to recover.

Change didn’t happen overnight and it was a slow crawl back to comfort, but eventually, we all got closer again. I overcame, healed, and grew from my pain. My memory is better but it isn’t great. It has been a challenge seeing photos of myself from a few years ago and recognizing that was me, but not being able to recall where I was, what I was doing, or who I was then. For now the answer to the question of will my memory return or will my ability to remember return is that my ability to remember is back, but I am still waiting, and hoping that my memories do return. That being said though, I am healthy, functioning, and well.

The events of Saturday night were a wake-up call for me. I realized that I might lose my father very soon. At ninety-five, every day is a gift and no matter how long I want him to stay, he does have to go at some point. That is the way this life thing works. I spoke to my husband, who sadly has lost both his parents. I told him about my realization that no one gets out of here alive and asked him if there was anything he could have done to prepare himself for the loss of his parents. He said no, and that he has no regrets about the time he spent with them and how he got to say goodbye. If I could choose I would like to be there with my father to say goodbye but I know we can’t time such events.

I can’t spend my days trying to prepare myself for a looming loss ahead of me. Nor can I spend a ton of time mourning the loss of time that I lost with my children due to my own illness, but time does seem so very fleeting. Time never felt so precious as it does to me now in this moment. The idea that my teenager will only have two summers before she leaves for college, or that my little boy will start his adolescence soon and might not want to hold my hand quite as much, is a lot to swallow. It is hard to imagine a day when I don’t have the urge to pick up the phone and call my dad, even if he won’t be around to answer it anymore.
I am trying to soak it all in, live in the moment, and follow all the cliche advice. I will call as much as I can now. I will hold hands as long as I can. I will go above and beyond to make sure I spend as much quality time as I can with the people I love. I will do my best to not watch the clock as the seconds go by, but I will also try not to blink. I don’t want to miss a moment.

Night Before Nerves

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Wed, 13 Sep 2023 19:02:00 +0000

The transition from the end of the summer into the new school year has never been my forte. As a child, I would lay in bed awake the night before the first day of school nauseous with nerves. You never found out beforehand who your teacher would be, you just got who you got and hoped they would be nice. They weren’t always nice. I had moved into public school for second grade after starting out in a religious private school with uniforms and uniformed seating. Our desks were lined up in such a way that you weren’t close enough to any of the other students and could only look straight ahead at the teacher. When I walked into my new classroom in the middle of second grade I was amazed at how alive it was. There was color everywhere, on the walls, the clothes of the children, and the desks were set up like tables so that we could all face each other. My new teacher, Mrs. Lee was a tall African American woman with the friendliest smile I had ever seen. She was the sweetest welcome into a new school year that I ever had.

It went downhill from there. I had a pretty mean third grade teacher who would tell some of us, myself included, that maybe we belonged in the learning disabled classes, whenever we didn’t understand something right away. She taught the class how to macrame that year, and I just couldn’t grasp how to do it. She wasn’t patient enough to teach me, so I just sat there while my classmates all completed complicated looking hanging pot holders. She wasn’t nurturing, kind, and I didn’t get much out of that year except lower self confidence. In fourth grade, I had a better teacher, except once in a while out of nowhere she would scream at us. It began happening more frequently as the winter approached and shortly after that many of us began learning the smell of alcohol and that our teacher smelled of it many mornings. Eventually, she was let go, but it was almost the end of the school year by then. She could really startle the class, and it was pretty sad that we had an alcoholic teacher, but she was still better than the one before her in third grade. She was actually a good teacher when she was sober, and the class was all in it together. She didn’t single anyone out the way the third grade teacher had.

I got a nice teacher in fifth grade but I think I was pretty shaken by then. I hated when summer ended, because it would mean that all freedom, and fun must be over. When some kids got excited about going out to buy school supplies, I dreaded it. It felt like the beginning of a ten month academic prison sentence. Despite my protest each fall, I did have to attend school. I didn’t like it, I didn’t want to go, but eventually I got used to it. I was never a great student, but I was social so I made friends and had fun with them. I made it through all twelve years and even graduated college. I wouldn’t say it was the life changing experience that it was for some, but I did it.

As a mother I have gone to great lengths to make sure that my children’s education will be a positive experience. Starting with preschools, I researched obsessively and spent an unhealthy amount of time learning about the many different philosophies and styles of preschool teaching. I thought maybe if I didn’t choose the right fit for my child that I would set them off on the wrong foot academically. I snapped out of that mindset one day when I took my toddler to the local park and saw a lovely group of teachers playing with their students at the preschool set right there next to the swing set less than a mile from our house. Friendliness, happy children, and convenience won out and we had two beautiful years at that school. We moved when my son started preschool, but I learned by then to use the same criteria when looking for a place to send him. His preschool was set on the same campus as my daughter’s elementary school and we were all happy that they were together. We chose where we wanted to live based on what area within our price range had the best public schools nearby. I involved myself, maybe a bit too much, in their elementary school, and with the exception of the post Covid year, elementary school has been a wonderful experience. It gave us a community of people who we now consider close friends, it introduced us to pretty incredible teachers, resulting in both my kids getting a great education and leaving fifth grade with a sense of self esteem I couldn’t have even imagined when I was their age.

Tonight, on the eve of the beginning of Middle School for my son, and tenth grade for my daughter, I want to wish them both a wonderful year. Our once sought after school district has had a bit of a bumpy ride post covid, but there is so much good worth fighting for, and so many new principals and people in new positions that it is promising. We almost pulled our daughter out of the high school last year in hopes of finding something better, but no place we looked didn’t come with its own new set of problems, so she stayed. It wasn’t perfect but she did so well and accomplished so much. My son who starts tomorrow at a huge public middle school wishes he could attend his elementary school for one more year first. I have the same wish, but there is no getting off this moving train and they have to grow up, even if I don’t want them to. He is nervous, overwhelmed and unclear as to how it all works. My single one and only goal for the evening is to not pass on any of my anxiety to him. It is to remember, and to remind him, that this feeling of being afraid is temporary. He will be confused and lost the first few times he tries to find his classes, and that is okay because he won’t be the only one new to the school. He will be uncomfortable with what he needs to remember, who he needs to remember, and where he needs to be. I will remind him that discomfort will go away as soon as he gets used to being there, and that in time he will adjust. I will remind my daughter that high school feels like the most important thing in the world to her right now, but that it isn’t all of who she is. No one finds high school easy, and that she has navigated it with grace so far. I will remind them both that no matter what happens at school, their home life will not change. We are here to let them be heard, hugged, and helped whenever they need it.

Taylor Time

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Mon, 28 Aug 2023 18:54:00 +0000

My daughter is a fan of Taylor Swift. She loves her music and knows all of her songs. She wasn’t a super Swiftie, but when she heard last fall that Taylor was going on tour she wanted to get a ticket. She looked into the pre-sale tickets and found them for $150 each. The cost of concert tickets in general have gone up significantly in the past few years and we also couldn’t think ahead nine months to when the concert would be. So we made a fatal error and told her to wait. Little did we know that the prices for tickets to this show would rise so quickly or that there would be a major fiasco with scalpers buying tickets to jack up the prices so much.

We put it aside and didn’t think about it for a few months and then Taylor began her Eras Tour. Along with her friends, my daughter started getting excited about the idea of going to her concert. We had a budget for what we would allow her to spend on a ticket and there wasn’t a single ticket that fit in that budget. These tickets became one of the most expensive concert tickets in history. I couldn’t quite make sense of it. Why did it cost so much? Why was the fandom for her so big? I’m not a huge fan of hers. I appreciate her talent, her dedication and her endurance (she sang over 40 songs for over three hours) but her songs just don’t resonate with me the same way that they move so many others.

A week before the concert was coming to LA, I took a road trip with my daughter and her friend. On the way they began playing Taylor Swift and as song after song played, I listened intently to the lyrics and the music. I knew many more of the songs than I thought, I even knew enough words to sing along with the girls. I just didn’t feel swept away the same way some music can do that for people. I am in the minority there though as so many people are smitten by her, so many! Even as someone not super into Taylor, it was impossible not to feel her influence over the city as she started her tour. Every post on Facebook and Instagram had photos of people at the show. Every comment under the photos was about how there weren’t enough words to describe the experience of going to this show. Parents who took their kids said they were in awe as they watched torn between keeping their eyes on Taylor or on their kids faces as they watched Taylor. Friends that weren’t into Taylor went along with their kids and came out a fan. It was hard not to wonder if I was missing something.

I watched all week as my daughter tried desperately to find available tickets, but there were a lot of people also looking for tickets and a lot of scalpers taking advantage of that. The prices just kept going up, while the possibility of her getting a ticket went down. My husband drove her down on the last night of the concert. Trying to keep her expectations in check we told her the chance of getting a ticket was a pretty big long shot. We did say though that there was a good chance that if they got close to the stadium then maybe they could still hear some of it from the outside. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but I knew that she knew the window of opportunity for seeing this concert was practically closed. She got all dressed up, put on sparkly make up, and left with her one friendship bracelet that she made. They got down to the stadium and gave it their best shot to get in. There were definitely some tears at the realization that the mind boggling, life changing experience that all of her friends were all still glowing from wasn’t going to be experienced by her. She then literally turned herself around and joined the thousands of people who parked themselves as close to the stadium on blankets and folding chairs to experience the concert from the outside. Was it everything she hoped to see? No – but was it magical, yes! People from all walks of life, all around LA joined together to listen to the music, and absorb the energy that vibrated from the stadium. Together, they sang, danced and came together joyfully. The concert tour has brought in over five billion dollars, only a privileged few can afford to get that ticket, and despite not loving Taylor Swift, she is bringing people together in a way that we all so badly need. I have seen photos of Beatlemania, I have lived through the storms of desperation in the eighties for a Cabbage Patch Kid and have seen people on the brink of their sanity for the second coming of Christ. This Taylor Swift phenomenon is up there with those. Despite the craziness that comes with fandom, she is bringing a lot of sweetness that has been missing for a while now. Even on the outside of the concert my daughter was asked to trade friendship bracelets, just a sweet trend that comes with a Taylor concert. I know that the production of this concert was something spectacular to see, but so was what was happening just outside its doors. We just didn’t have to take out a second mortgage on the house to experience it.

Now

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Thu, 04 May 2023 21:28:00 +0000

It has been months since last I last wrote. In May of 2022, the four of us got Covid, and our lives were turned inside out. Our tests eventually were negative and we were ready to leave our collective diagnoses behind, but it wasn’t quite ready to leave me specifically. I wasn’t sure what hit me, but after some research, I learned about the symptoms of long covid and the side effects it can leave in its wake. I got brain fog, anxiety, depression, and dealt with a hormone imbalance. I was hit pretty hard and was not myself for quite some time. My children and husband seemed to bounce back a bit more gracefully than I did, but what I went through took its toll on all of us.

I received treatment for what I was going through, but it took some time to find what worked. It was a challenging time and one that shook me to my core. I could not have gotten through it without the help of my husband, my family, and my closest friends. I am so grateful for the gems of people that I have. They fill me up daily and I treasure them. Today I am much closer to being on the other side of all that illness. I am shaky and not so trusting that it is over. I struggle with having faith that it is all behind me, but I am taking one moment at a time, and enjoying each of those moments so much. I love my life and the people in it, so I am doing what I can to take that all in every single day.

My children had a tough summer right along with me, as my availability to attend to them diminished. Everything they knew about their day-to-day changed quickly. My husband stepped up and helped take over. It was a big change for all of us and it was not an easy adjustment. As a family, we found our way eventually. We shielded the kids from my hardest moments as best as we could. As an individual, I fought my battle and in time found myself again.

My daughter started high school and it has been quite the experience so far. She goes to our local public school, and it is not without its flaws. It is very big with over 2,000 students and it felt like she was so little to be heading into such a big school. The classes are fairly large and I think we all felt a little vulnerable sending her off that first day. There are many parts of her experience that haven’t been great, but there are also many parts that have been fantastic. She has a few supportive teachers that she loves. She has been meeting a lot of new people, and she adores the arts program that the school has.

The school musical is Les Miserables, which is quite ambitious for a high school. Many students came out to audition and she was hoping she would just get to be in the cast. She got the part of Young Cosette and was so happy. She loves being part of such a talented company of students. The quality of the production is so high that it is quite difficult to believe that it is a school production. The cast and crew came together and worked hard on this production. The experience has been such a gift that I think many of them, including my daughter, will be quite sad when it is over.

In addition to doing the play, she gets to participate in the fantastic arts program the school has to offer. She is learning filmmaking, scriptwriting, and takes theatre classes. Given that high school is still a group of adolescents trying to find their ways, there is often more drama off-stage than on. She has dealt with a fair share of difficulty with “friends” and friend groups. She has fallen out with someone she thought was her best friend, and with that comes feeling quite misplaced within what she thought was her friend group. I have my own opinions on what she should do, and when she should move on, but it is not my place to advise her on all of that unless she comes to me. Even when she does ask for advice though, it is her experience and in her time will handle it the way that feels best to her. As sucky as it all is, it is spot on developmentally and completely age appropriate. It pisses me off and I am often hurt for her, but she is definitely handling it all better than I ever could.

My son is ten right now and in his last year of elementary school. He and his friends are loving being the big fish as fifth graders. He has a big group of about ten friends that played together on a flag football team for a few months. He loved being part of a team, especially since it was made up of his favorite crew. He went to practices and games weekly. The whole season they played they only lost one game early on to this team that was slightly older and very strong. This did not deter or discourage any of them. In fact, they got up early every day before school and practiced flag football in the park together before the school bell rang. The team grew so tight and so strong that their game scores were often so high, while the opposing team would have zero points. When it came time for the final game, the Superbowl, they were faced once again to play the one team that beat them. The teams were very well-matched skill-wise, but the other team was older and much bigger than them. For a while, no one was scoring and the only thing going up was the tension of all the parents on the sidelines. Finally after what felt like so long, my son’s team scored a point. It was a remarkable game and a fantastic win for our boys!

He felt successful and accomplished being on that team. It built up his self-esteem, and his friendships with all of his teammates, and I believed it helped him navigate his anxiety as well. He learned that it is okay to be afraid and that you can still do what you need to do despite your fears. Even if he was scared before a game at times, he still played well and gave it his all. He is at times moody and stubborn as all boys his age can be, but despite that, he is also so affectionate and loving. He still skateboards which results in me being both extremely impressed and terrified simultaneously. He is a good boy and still feels like a little kid to me. His cheeks are still round, soft, and kissable. He is still easy to please between playing ball with him or gifting him something sweet. He still has such innocence that comes out in the questions he asks. I am holding still and tight to these moments with him as I know soon enough he will grow, and likely to be much taller than me.

My husband is remarkable these days. He is juggling managing artists, maintaining the investments we have made, as well as finishing up his masters degree in psychology. He has been a solid A student and writes these incredible papers that impress not only me but also his professors. He has not had an easy year either, and I am so grateful to him for holding my hand through the darkest of times.

We are both very active in our community. We step in with politics and get involved when we think it’s necessary. We share that passion and I am proud of some of the actions we take together. We both very much value our family time, whether it is with our extended family or our own. Our family is a priority. I appreciate the relationship that he has with his three sisters. Their parents have been gone for a few years now, and they stuck by one another not only to get through their loss but to be loving and supportive of one another day-to-day, every day. He is close with my family as well and that means a lot to me. He is also a dedicated father to our two kids and goes above and beyond to show them just how loved they are. He and I are both quite communicative with our kids and even with a teenager in the house, we hope the sharing they do with us doesn’t go away.

See Ya!

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Sun, 12 Jun 2022 05:52:00 +0000

It’s a celebratory time of year. The time of year when the kids are mostly thrilled to be done with school and the parents are teary about the transitions ahead. I am going to need to book therapy sessions now in advance for four years from now when both my kids have a graduation ceremony at the same time. This year my daughter commenced her middle school experience and what an experience it was. She started out as a petite sixth grader all too aware of the size difference between her and her peers. She experienced the overwhelming fear of not knowing where her classes were, she was afraid of being trampled in the hallway and dealt with mean kids asking her if she was old enough to be in Middle School. It took a few months for her to get her footing, and get comfortable.

She made new friends and connected with her teachers. She got used to the layout of the school and learned where to find her classrooms. She still occasionally got made fun of for being small, but she took it in stride. She was finding her rhythm and even seemed to miss school when it shut down. She would not return for over a year later and by then everything in the world had changed. Isolation for a middle schooler was really tough socially. Very few kids knew how to keep up relationships through a lockdown. She saw one friend and as many middle school friendships ended, it just ran its course probably due to just too much pressure. Despite the challenges of virtual schooling, with the exception of the nine total short days she did get to go in person, if there was one year of Middle School to miss, seventh grade was it.

When eighth grade started she was all in. Knowing it was her last year she took advantage of all it had to offer. She took improv, played on the tennis team, was on student council, and did both the fall and spring theatre productions. She settled into a great group of friends who were both supportive and smart. They inspired each other by doing projects and helping each other study. There was an awards night and each friend as well as my girl, got an award for excellence. Two of her friends were even the valedictorians. It was a special night. The commencement ceremony was yesterday and it was fun watching all of these kids dressed in their best. There were definitely some awkward shoe situations for many of the girls. My daughter, included, looked uncomfortable trying to navigate in her ill-fitting first pair of heels.

As each name was called cheers rang from different parts of the bleachers. Everyone was happy to be together in celebration of all the kids. The student body president spoke about conquering Middle School and what lies ahead in High School. She warned that it would be hard, but that they all lived through hard already. I am sure the workload and responsibility will be a bit heavier, but I have faith that after she settles in, she will shine in High School, just as she did in Middle School. She has learned that life can be full of surprising challenges, but that it also can just be full. May her cup runneth over.

Oh Boy!

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Fri, 20 May 2022 20:03:00 +0000

Today is the last day I will have a nine year old boy. As I reminded him of this before school this morning, we said that he would be entering double digits for a long long time. He responded with wise words.

“I hope I will be double digits and live long enough to be triple digits one day.”

I told him that was a good goal and with any luck and some good genes, he just might. I watch my child before my very eyes grow into this sensitive, beautiful boy. He has one toe in little boy and one toe towards tween. I love the rare occasions he still wants to snuggle in bed with me. I love his hugs, the way he puts his arms around me and moves his fingers in my hair, and his unsolicited kisses. The way he used to physically cling to me is gone, but in its place is one active, adventurous, fun-seeking kid.

Like many boys his age, he loves being silly, and often he doesn’t know when the right time to turn on the serious switch is. He gets carried away and doesn’t always pick up on the cues when not everyone around him thinks what he is doing is funny. He is overall a really good boy and is lacking a bit of maturity. What he isn’t lacking is a sense of fear that didn’t exist prior to the pandemic. He has separation anxiety, and if he is heading off to a new class or camp will be up the night before worrying about it for hours. He needs reassurance that he will be okay and safe when he gets there. I have promised him at times that he would be and I wasn’t exactly right. The past few years shifted everything as we knew it, so the way I thought things might work out didn’t always go as planned.

What I wish for him as he turns ten is that he taps into the reservoir of his bravery that he doesn’t even know he has yet. I hope that his bravery will be stronger than his fear. I hope that he can get beyond what scares him enough that he can reach his full potential. I see glimmers of it now in moments where he is able to turn on his focus despite whatever negativity he has lingering about. He has proven to be quite the athlete and I believe his confidence has grown from his accomplishments on the field, or in the skate park. I wish for him that he knows that he is smart, kind, sensitive, and sweet, and that at that I love him to the ends of the earth and back. I want him to know that we have his best interest at heart and that we have his back.

I once read that girls are difficult to raise and that boys are difficult to keep alive. This is relatable and makes me laugh. There are times when I am watching my kiddo drop down into a twelve-foot skate pool and skate around it at crazy speeds, or fly through the air as he lifts up off the top of a ramp. I watch these things thew the space between my fingers as my hand covers my face. It is hard to watch sometimes but he usually is fine. After all, we made it to ten, and he continues to soar! I can’t wait to see what is ahead for this sweet boy.

Two Years

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Wed, 20 Apr 2022 20:19:00 +0000

It’s been two years since our lives changed overnight. Two years ago we had each had a foot in both the pre-pandemic and pandemic worlds, one of which we were so familiar with and the other was entirely unknown. Everything prior to March 13th two years ago will be known as the before, the before the pandemic, before masks, before lockdown, and before all things zoom. It is important for me to commemorate this amount of time because we all went through a lot. Collectively and alone we suffered, we struggled, many survived and many did not.

Text messages went between my friend and me about what was happening in Italy. That seemed so far away so if they were closing their schools, it didn’t seem evident to me that we would be closing ours so soon. Another friend and I met at the park and talked while our boys played. She had already purchased a new play structure for her backyard because she was worried that if they closed schools that she wanted her kids to have something to do outside. Another friend bought pounds of dried beans and rice in case stores ran out of food, while another stocked up on anti-bacterial wipes. I watched them all thinking they were all over-preparing. I was one of those ignorant people who thought that it might take a few weeks but then everything would go back to normal. I was so wrong and they were so right.

Honestly, when schools shut down a week early for spring break, I was happy. I wasn’t happy with what was happening around the world, but I thought the kids could all use a break and we would all be back in three weeks anyway. I remember reading an article about how people were getting themselves more worried about Covid-19 than they needed to be and the anxiety they were causing themselves was worse than the virus itself. Whoever wrote that article was also very wrong. What started as an extra week of vacation turned into everyone's worst-case scenario. Hospitals were filled with dying patients. The virus was more contagious than anyone initially thought. People did indeed panic buy food leaving grocery store shelves bare. We were afraid to walk out our front door, afraid to touch our own mail, we wiped down everything from the outside world and stopped seeing other people.

After it was clear we would not be returning to normal for some time, we wondered how and when kids would be allowed to return back to school. When my friend told me that they wouldn’t reopen it at all that year, I couldn’t process her words. Unprecedented was the only word that would stick in my mind. None of us knew anything and we just got through the day as creatively as possible while wearing so many new hats. Teacher, chef, entertainment coordinator. I would clad a mask and take the dog for so many walks just to get out of the house. At one point early on I started to feel claustrophobic and asked my husband to take over while I went for a drive. I couldn’t be inside anymore and yet we weren’t supposed to go anywhere. I had to see something that hadn’t changed so I drove to the ocean. I didn’t even get out because we were not allowed on the beach. I just rolled the windows down and breathed in the salty air as I stared at the ocean. I was envious of its crashing waves, the tide moving in and out despite the pain that people were feeling everywhere, it kept moving unaffected by a lockdown. It made me feel at peace even if it was only for a few moments.

That last Friday before the lockdown began the final school bell rang and I walked my kids over to our friend’s house. We were unsure if we should be socializing, but we knew it might be the last time for a while so we let the four kids play in the house together while my friend and I had tea. This was all before masks and social distancing were in our vocabulary, yet even so we were afraid to get too close. We were careful to wash the mugs and spoons we just used because we knew nothing about how this new virus could spread. When we said goodbye that afternoon, little did we know how very long it would be before we would step foot in each other’s houses again?

The last day of school came and went without any ceremony. My daughter was in sixth grade and after such a challenging transition to Middle School, she had finally started to like it when it all shut down. Middle school is hard enough to get used to in the best of times so if there is any age to avoid your peers I suppose I would choose to lose out on middle school. My son was in second grade and having the best school year. He loved his teacher and had a wonderful class of kids. For him, it was devastating to end the school year with zero closure. That summer came and there were no camps to send kids to. There was no traveling to see the world. There were no family get-togethers, so my friend and I tried to make the summer as interesting as possible. We took lots of trips to the beach, which had opened again for the summer. We “traveled” by doing crafts, eating new foods, and learning about other countries. We did scavenger hunts. My kids and I painted rocks, did a lot of sidewalk chalk, we raised chicks, fostered kittens, and played a lot of board games.

That August we took a family road trip because it was safer to manage than getting on a plane. It was one of the best experiences we have had as a family and one that we talked about doing but only made happen because of the pandemic. When school started up again it was all online which was a nightmare that was only countered by the fact that we could get out of town and zoom from anywhere, so occasionally we did just that. These little trips were our self-preservation. I baked more, cooked more, read more, and created more. The quiet time together wasn’t all bad. I am forever grateful to have had one year that went by slowly enough to really see my children. When it was time to go back to school, all of us were ready. I would be lying though if I said there weren’t things I missed about the slower pace the pandemic made us take.

Now two years later, things are back to a new version of normal. We still wear masks a lot of the time. We still don’t just go into each other’s houses. Lots of people just work from home, but school is back in person. In some ways, I am still really missing the interaction I had a few years ago. In other ways, I am content with a simpler life. The virus has been a roller coaster but it now seems a lot more in control and a lot less deadly. The world is by no means in a great place these days, but we have come a long way together, and I will take whatever peace comes my way. May we all be healthy, safe, and at ease again soon.

A World Without Ned

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Fri, 04 Mar 2022 17:29:00 +0000

As a teenager, I met Ned after he came to see the Off-Broadway play I was in. He was looking for a young girl to play a role in the play he wrote called “Funky Crazy Boogaloo Boy.” He asked if I would meet him at a pizza shop by a subway train stop downtown to show me the script, and see if I was interested. He explained the play was going to be done at his theatre company, Naked Angels. As he explained this to me on the phone he must have heard my hesitation, between the word Naked, meet him at this pizza shop, and the fact that I had no idea who he was. He asked if I wanted to bring my mom or dad with me, and that is when I knew he was a good guy.

The play that he came to see was directed by Liz Swados about racism and antisemitism. It was creative, educational, loud, heavy, and intense. It was an incredible theatrical experience, both for the audience and for me in the cast. This play was many things and meant so much to me, but it was far from what would be considered a traditional play. Liz was just as eclectic as her art. She was unpredictable, extreme, and fiercely protective of us. Our cast was made up of mostly teenagers and for the four years we worked together she became our theatre Mama. It was sometimes a complicated relationship but we loved her, and she loved us.

When Ned met me for a slice of pizza he handed me his script and told me a bit about his play. It was the story of a Jewish teenager falling in love with a Black girl. It took place in the sixties when navigating each other's communities was nearly impossible. It was such a beautiful, funny, and poignant story. In comparison to what I had been working on with Liz, it was a much more traditional piece of theatre. I liked and understood what his vision was right away. Before I even got my slice, I knew I wanted to be a part of it, but I waited to hear everything he had to say before saying yes. He gave me the script and told me the role he wanted me to consider was the fourteen-year-old little sister. She was annoying and irritating to her brother because her music and makeup seemed trite compared to his real-world relationship problems. I fanned the script glancing page by page to see how many lines my character had.

Ned laughed and said, “You are a true actor right there, counting your lines before you commit.”I laughed because I realized at that moment just how obvious I was being about it.

Ned was kind, patient, and had smiling eyes that seemed to beam out joy. I was excited about the script and excited to work with him. The schedule worked out perfectly with the other play and along with my friend Shawn, we were able to be a part of both these fantastic productions. My days were full of rehearsals for Ned’s play and performances for Liz’s play. I felt like both provided a sense of family with both these theatre parents guiding the way. The contrast between the two of them was clear. Liz was the tough one, and Ned the gentle one. I loved them both.

Ned was warm and welcoming to everyone who was part of the play. Every time we walked into rehearsal he would say “There he is, or there she is.” making all of us feel so important to him and to the production. This was his way, not only did he make you feel like he was happy to see you, he legitimately was happy to see you. The play was a great experience between getting a chance to work with a great cast of actors, and meeting a slew of successful thespians who came to see the play. When the run was over I was disappointed to have to say goodbye to everyone. Many of us stayed in touch, including Ned and me. I finished college and found my own tiny apartment on the upper west side. By chance, my new place was a block away from Ned and we would occasionally run into each other, or plan on a walk or cup of tea. When I moved to Los Angeles Ned sent me off with a piece of paper with a name and number on it. He told me when I got settled in I should give his friend George a call. I was twenty three and leaving the only city I ever knew to try something new. I had mixed feelings about leaving my friends and family in New York, and I wasn’t sure how long I would last in LA, but I had to give it a chance.

I called George a few weeks after arriving and it was like talking to a piece of home. I didn’t know him, but because he was Ned’s friend he felt so familiar. They grew up together and were high school buddies from the Bronx where my mom also grew up. George and I became close friends. We went to movies together, he introduced me to a lot of his other friends and helped me get work when I needed it. We talked about seeing Ned whenever we went back to New York. George shared the news with me when Ned got married and later had his son. When I met my husband and later when I had two kids of my own, I stayed in contact with Ned and George.

A few years ago I found out that Liz passed away and it shocked me. I didn’t know she had been sick. I always thought I would go back to New York and visit her again. As I get older and more people I know pass away, I am trying to find a way to process loss. There are moments when because of the time difference it is too late or too early to call my dad in NY. I sometimes wonder if that feeling of missing the chance to talk to him is what it will feel like when someone I love is gone forever.

One day while my daughter was at school and I was home with my toddler, George and Ned surprised me to come for a visit. They arrived at my house together and it made me so happy. I could see the sweet relationship they have had over the years, and when they both walked in Ned hugged me, took a look at my son, and said “there he is.” My son was barely one and smiled up at Ned with his mouth wide open and his two little teeth gleaming up at him. We had a wonderful visit the four of us. I never imagined it would be the last time I would see Ned.

We stayed in touch checking in now and again. George would fill me in on what projects Ned was working on, how old his son was, and how his family was doing. George would always tell me when he saw Ned and would send me his regards. A few days ago when I saw Geroge’s name pop up on my phone I smiled, but my smile fell instantly when Geroge told me that our friend Ned had died. He lost a battle to two types of cancer. A battle he barely shared with anyone. In true Ned form, he kept the light in his eyes strong even as he suffered so that he could go to work and could provide health benefits to his wife and son.

I can’t believe that I won’t see his smiling eyes again. The world lost another good guy, and I lost a great friend.

Soar

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Thu, 24 Feb 2022 06:05:00 +0000

There is a recurring dream I have often enough that it is clear enough in my mind that I have to remind myself it is just a dream. I am standing on two feet, I bend down and lift straight up off the ground. Once I am high in the air I lean forward and soar. I fly through the air watching the ground below me as I pass it by. It feels so real and so effortless to fly up and above the ground below. I am alert, aware, and present in my body. I have to lean a certain way or I get shaky, but I know what I need to do to correct my positioning and steady myself.

Flying dreams are not uncommon, and I do wake up realizing that I can’t actually fly, but the feeling isn’t unlike when I used to figure skate. Every Olympic year a flood of memories of my skating days rush in. I became a figure skater when the 1988 Olympics were barely over. I watched Ekaterina Gordeeva and Sergei Grinkoff skate. I was so enthralled by their speed, their grace, and their enthusiasm. I wanted to do what they were doing and couldn’t wait to try. I begged for my parents to sign me up for a skating lesson and loved every second of it. My first coach is still a close friend to this day.

I rarely skate these days. My daughter who now is the same age I was when I started competing, really loves to skate. A few years ago she showed interest in taking lessons but there isn’t a rink nearby and the closest one is a fancy expensive training facility that was just too expensive. There was a local rink right near where we now live but sadly it was closed down the year before we moved in. I have a feeling if it was still there she would have followed in my skate steps. Similarly to me, she was inspired to skate from watching the Olympics. Last Friday night I took her, along with her friend, and my son to skate down at the fancy skate center. I decided to skate too since I didn’t want to sit in a cold arena. I pulled out my old skates from the garage and when I laced them up at the rink the foam from inside the tongue fell apart. There was no edge left on my blade since I have had these skates since I was seventeen. They weren't as comfortable to put on as I remember.

I took the ice and it felt familiar enough to skate around holding my son’s hand. He has only skated once before and wanted my help. Once he felt comfortable enough to let go, I tested my own comfort level. As a skater I was always taught to skate into the ice as opposed to on it, meaning deepening my knee bends and connecting to the ice a bit. I found this more challenging than I remember it to be. I used to take off speeding on the ice, turning backward, and doing crossovers around the rink. My blades didn’t feel sharp enough to skate into the ice and it had been a long time since I flew around the rink forward or backward. I asked myself if I missed it, and I didn’t, but I did miss the feeling of coasting off the earth. I missed the feeling of being in control at a faster speed than I am off the ice. I missed feeling the cool breeze as I glided around the rink. At the end of the session, all I could muster up the courage to do were a few single jumps and a few spins.

Friday nights at the skating rink are a teen's hangout. It makes sense and I was happy to see so many kids doing a fun activity together. My son and his friends were the youngest on the ice, and without a doubt, I was one of the oldest. It felt odd to see figure skaters practicing that weren’t even born when I was practicing like them. In my mind, I thought I would one day get a coach, relearn everything I used to be able to do and maybe even compete again. I don’t have that drive anymore though. I stumbled onto a Facebook page for figure skating adults and spent some time reading some of the posts. People complained about how much ice time and lessons cost. Or they were looking for a certain type of blade soakers, that you use to soak up the water after you have skated. They posted about finding time to skate around their work schedules. I didn’t join the group, this wasn’t me. I don’t think being an adult skater is in the cards for me again. Surfer yes, skier yes, swimmer yes. I do think I get some of the same feelings from those three activities. I don’t have as much confidence doing them as I used to on the ice, but especially swimming quenches my thirst for soaring off the earth. I love being underwater and moving in what feels like another world.

My daughter wants to go back to skate again tomorrow with her friends. I will gladly drive them to the rink, but I won’t be bringing my skates this time. As I stay in touch with my skating friends they update me on the skating world that they are still very much a part of. They all had daughters who are now skaters themselves. They are again waking in the early hours of the day to get to a skating session before the school day begins, only now they are just the drivers like my dad was for me. I am grateful for all the chauffeuring around my dad did to get me from rink to rink. I am often the chauffeur now and it can get old fast. My daughter still asks me from time to time if she could try a skating lesson sometime, she knows that her schedule is pretty full these days with other passions she has. She is in the school play, plays tennis and loves filmmaking. If I can help it she will keep pursuing areas where she can soar off the ice. The competitive world of figure skating can be pretty cold. I’m happy to have her skate with her friends on those teen Friday nights. I will drop her off next time though.

Stay Gold

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Mon, 13 Dec 2021 22:53:00 +0000

After three months of rehearsal, my daughter got to participate in her first play this past weekend. She couldn’t eat for two days leading up to the performance, and the morning of opening night, she wasn’t sure she could make it through to the evening with the nerves she was feeling. She went through a series of “what if” questions with me, and I did the best I could to reassure her that it would all work out in the end. This was an experience that she and I had both hoped she could have experienced earlier on in her middle school, but if she gets to finish out eighth grade in person then this year will be her first, last, and only year of middle school.

For years to come, I think I will mark the passing of time by before and after the pandemic. Photos, trips, and memories will be defined by mask wearing. Despite the incredible advancement of science stepping in so quickly, I think it will take quite some time until the impact of last year’s lockdown lessons. My two children have lasting memories of the challenges they were dealt with during school last year. My daughter seemed to lose all muscle memory of socializing with her peers. This happening when socializing with peers at this age was arguably the hardest even without the pandemic was like salt on the wound. She stayed in her bedroom hour after hour trying to stay as engaged as possible while she stared at her screen. She was comfortable reaching out to friends on her own but also didn’t want me to reach out for her. Other than the memories we made together as a family, it was a lost year for her.

My son had a hard time navigating school on a laptop, but it was fewer hours. In hindsight, I should have gotten him help to supplement how little he was getting, but my priority was to keep him moving, social, and outside as much as possible. He was younger and so it was a lot easier to make that happen for him than it was for me with my daughter. He seemed to be getting by okay, but his very rocky adjustment back into school as a fourth-grader makes it apparent how much he lost by missing a year. He is still struggling to catch up and as a parent, it is painful to watch his self-esteem drop the way it has recently. We are giving him the extra help he could have used last year – better late than never.

My daughter’s adjustment back into school this year could not have been more opposite than that of her brother’s. She was a wilting flower that got a drop of water and came fully back to life. She found her ability to socialize again, which I am sure was challenging for all of them, but so very needed. She was so excited to be back in school and took advantage of all it had to offer. She made the tennis team, joined improv again, got super involved with the student council, and auditioned for the play.

In seventh grade, part of the required reading was the book “The Outsiders.” This year the school decided it would be the play they would do. One of the many reasons for this choice was that like the characters in the play, the students had all endured a difficult life experience living through the pandemic. Everyone could identify with accepting their situations, trying to re-identify with themselves, and trying to overcome hardship. The play was also about gangs, violence, and the ongoing battle between rich and poor, which in reality was also relatable to a lot of the kids who participated in this production. It is a large school so the roles were double cast to allow more students to participate.

My daughter got the news that she was cast as Pony Boy, who is the lead character who not only acts with the other characters on stage but also talks directly to the audience narrating as the play moves along. She had wanted a part in a play, but she wasn’t prepared to get the lead, nor was she so sure she wanted it. She worked hard though and in the end nailed every single line. I don’t think I let out my breath until intermission. She blew me away with her focus, acting ability, and dedication. I was proud, I am proud!

There is a poem by Robert Frost that Pony Boy recites to his best friend Johnny.

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Later in the play, Johnny from his death bed explains why he disagrees with it and tells Pony to “Stay Gold.” It is a sweet moment that became the famous quote from “The Outsiders.” Admittedly, I am guilty of poking fun at how cliche that line can be. I even bought my daughter a sweatshirt with the quote on it, because I thought it would be “cute” to have as a memory from her experience. As I watched her on the stage, the words took on a new meaning for me. I watched her with a group of friends, some old, some new, all working together. I watched how she was part of this production along with all the other kids, after being locked inside alone last year. I watched as all of these kids, despite what the world has gone through, were gold again.

The play wasn’t without flaws, it is middle school after all. The wigs were all a bit odd, there was some backstage rumbling into hot mics, and the kids had to do the entire production from behind their masks. It took some effort to figure out whose line was being said by who, since we couldn’t see their faces, but despite it all, they all came alive and were shining.

The other night my husband was telling me how he had caught up with an old friend. He told me that when they asked him how he was, he had answered that things were really good. I was surprised at his positive spin. He is and has always been a glass-half-full person, but after every blow he has been hit within the last few years, he is still able to focus on our health, home, and family. I admire him for that. I have had a harder time finding all the positives when I can’t quite see the finish line clearly. I appreciate that we are on our way, but I miss working together with people. I miss a sense of community and teamwork. I catch glimpses of it in bits and pieces, but I don’t feel connected quite yet. I feel hopeful and watching these kids reminded me that we can and will all shine again. Even behind the mask, there is a light in our eyes that has been able to “stay gold!”

By November

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Wed, 27 Oct 2021 05:54:00 +0000

When my daughter started Kindergarten she cried and clung to me on the first day of school. The teacher’s aide had to take her from my arms as I ran out so no one could see me crying. The next day she wrote a note to us saying, “I’m not goin to school” and then clung to the couch when it was time to go. Other than the missing “g” she had written her note so well that I thought maybe she didn’t even need to go to Kindergarten. We kept taking her back and in those first few weeks, the drop offs didn’t get any easier. The teacher let me know she was okay once she settled in for the day, but saying goodbye each day was brutal. In the second week of school, a mom who had been watching me suffer each morning told me something that I keep reminding myself of lately. She explained that she was a teacher before she had her own kids and she always noticed that each year for some kids, it would take until Halloween for them to settle into the school year. She said there was something about Halloween that helped bring the kids together as a class and she hoped that would be the case for my daughter as well.

She was right and by November my daughter stopped crying at drop off. She started again after every vacation, even after Spring Break with only weeks left to the school year, but she eventually got comfortable at school. Every year since has included some tears, fears, and in most cases both for both of my children when it is time to go back to school. This is hard to watch as a parent, but not unexpected since I also struggled every year to settle into school. At around third grade, my daughter stopped crying on the first day of school, but she is yet to eat anything for breakfast on those first few days due to nerves. In sixth grade, at the beginning of middle school, she had an especially difficult transition. She would get into my car after school and plead with me to let her stay home the next day or to homeschool her. Little did we know then her wish would come true, but by then she had finally settled in.

It is difficult to know as a parent, when to save your child, and when to keep trying. This year my daughter was nervous, didn’t eat, and was not excited to go to school, but it didn't take her long to sink her teeth into school. She acclimated so well this year, which will hopefully be her one (and only) full year of middle school. My son was more excited to go back to school this year. He has had some teary start days in the past. He has gotten scared, clung to me, and needed to be the kid that gets to help the teacher in the morning, so he can be distracted from his sadness. Historically his morning jitters start to pass after the first few weeks. As a second-grader he really loved his teacher and had a pretty great class of kids, but then the pandemic struck and school hasn’t been normal since.

Last year being home all together, all day, every day, had its challenges. For my son the loss of learning and the loss of the love of learning were impossible to ignore. He would sit in for his obligatory zooms and then the struggle would begin to get him through his independent studies the rest of the day. His tears last year were followed by begging to return to school. When the doors finally opened for the last two months of school, he literally hopped into school he was so excited. Again, he loved his teacher and was so starved for social interaction that nothing could damper his mood. When it ended at the beginning of June we were all sad.

This year he is in fourth grade and after so much loss of learning and loss of time at school, he and a number of kids are working with a staff of interventionists to get them up to par. The school has had a lot of turn around lately though, and with a new teacher and a new principal, it was even more challenging to return to school. Fourth grade is also the year the class sizes go up from twenty four children to thirty. The first day he went in happily since he was thrilled to be back with friends and back to a full day. When I would ask him about his teacher he would respond with one word answers. He went off the second and third day fine as well, but then things started to shift. There were a few situations that came up that seemed out of character for him. He was having trouble navigating conflicts with other kids, being silly when he should be focusing, and shutting down when he didn’t understand school work. A particularly challenging kid is in his class and that has presented more than a few issues. I have received calls, had zooms and emails with his teacher. I even got my first phone call from the principal this year, and I’m taken aback how quickly a child’s disposition can turn so quickly.

It is really a perfect storm of post pandemic, missing a whole grade, and a lack of academic confidence. He has started to cry on the way home from school because the day was hard, crying himself to sleep at night because he doesn’t want to go the next day, and then crying in the morning because he is afraid to go. My husband and I are trying to give him tools to help get him through the day. We try to remind him to take one section of the day at a time. We remind him of the good parts of school that he likes. I pack him up with an arsenal of snacks, positive reinforcement, and a promise to see him a few hours later at pick up. What he is feeling is anxiety and I know it all too well. As someone whose makeup consists of the same fear of new beginnings, my heart breaks for him. I believe in genetics and that generation after generation passes down the will to live, and also the worries about living. Since it is in my nature to lean towards the more anxious side, I need to find ways to nurture his nature now too.

The day-to-day can be considerably more daunting when you add in anxiety. Things seem harder than they need to be, mean more than they need to, and feel scarier too. We are working with him to remind him that he has the ability to turn some of that noise down to a calmer, safer, and healthier volume. We have our work cut out for us, but I also am holding out hope for a magical Halloween, and that things will begin to settle by November.

Close Call

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Wed, 01 Sep 2021 05:54:00 +0000

We eat a lot of pizza. Mostly I heat up a frozen Trader Joe’s one, sometimes I make one from scratch, but ordering one in is a treat for us. Last night the kids were so excited that we offered to pick up one, calling it “a real pizza.” Before my husband went to pick it up, he and my son were joking around about where the best pizza place was. He headed out to our downtown area and when my son saw my phone ringing with his dad’s name across the top he answered “What do ya want?” He is silly ninety percent of the time, so I smiled across the room and listened in, but my son’s face changed quickly. He went from smiling. to confused, to scared, and then quickly handed the phone over to me. I picked it up expecting to hear my husband’s voice but it wasn’t him.

“I am calling from your husband’s phone. Your husband has been in a car accident.” said the voice on the other end of the phone. I was still trying to familiarize myself with this voice. I wondered if it was a friend he had run into and my husband was laughing standing beside him? That isn’t really his sense of humor, so this must be someone who doesn’t know us that well.

“Is this a joke?” I asked, hoping that it was.

The tone of his response made it clear that he wasn’t joking. I think he said something about wishing he didn’t have to make this call, but my head was spinning too fast to catch on to any of his words or to find any of my own. Eventually, I managed out an apology for thinking he was joking, but I was too afraid to ask the most important question, “Was my husband ok?” I needed him to just tell me. As if I said anything my words would actually have the power to change what had already happened. He told me that his car swerved over the sidewalk and into a wall. He told me my husband had a concussion. He told me that my husband was confused. Those three pieces of new information swam around in my head for a few seconds. My first thought was why would anyone drive into a wall? My husband wouldn’t do that. Then I worried that maybe his phone had rung, or worse he tried to text someone, but that didn’t seem like my husband either. I asked if he was bleeding or if any bones were broken. He told me my husband was sitting up with his legs crossed, confused but talking. His legs crossed. That sounded like my husband.

The man who called me said that my husband's phone seemed damaged and he couldn’t hear me that well. If I wasn’t convinced before that he had been talking about my husband I was certain now. He asked if he could call me back from his cell so he could hear me, and those few seconds waiting for this stranger, who was connected to my important person, felt like forever. This time when the phone rang, it was a name I didn’t recognize, a person who I hadn’t talked to until a few minutes before, and yet someone I depended on deeply to tell me it was all going to be okay. My thoughts began to clear enough for me to ask detailed questions. I needed to do something and suggested I come to the accident site, but the man said my husband was likely going to be taken to the hospital. He told me he would stay on the phone with me to keep me updated. He also sent me two photos to show me what the scene looked like. He confirmed that the ambulance would be taking him to a nearby hospital. I thanked him, got my kids in order so I could leave them for a bit, and head out to see my husband.

When I rushed through the doors of the ER of our closest hospital, It was more familiar than I wanted it to be. We had been here before. Just over three years ago my husband and I were hit by someone who ran a red light. We aren’t even done dealing with the mess from that accident and here we are again. In my effort to get to my husband as quickly and safely as possible, I completely forgot about Covid. There was no one allowed in the ER or anywhere in the hospital. My husband had been moved to a room and I was handed a piece of paper with a number to call for updates. I left the ER and sat down outside on the closest bench and cried. Since I couldn’t be beside him, I settled for as close as I was allowed. I texted my husband to tell him that I couldn’t get in, and when he responded to his texts I could tell something wasn’t right. He asked me where he was and then asked a few confusing questions like if the kids were in an accident or if someone was in trouble. My stomach dropped as I reread his questions.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I think you are confused.” I wrote. I waited a while longer outside, alone on the bench. I knew I shouldn’t drive until I calmed down. I knew it was common to be confused after a concussion but I didn’t know if that was all he had. I wanted to learn more, to talk to a doctor or just to be told he was going to be fine. . If I wasn’t going to go in to see him after a while I decided to go get the pizza he ordered. The kids would be happy to have it. By the time I parked my car, I saw more texts from my husband, this time all of them made sense. He told me the police came to let him know that the man who had hit his car was drunk, admitted guilt, and was arrested. He told me that the driver was so apologetic to him and kept saying he wouldn’t leave my husband’s side until he knew he was taken care of. He also said that the man who had called me was such a gentle, kind man who helped him out of the car when he was still unconscious and there when he came to wait for the police. Then my husband said I should go get that pizza.

On my way back to the kids I drove to the site of the accident. There were huge skid marks, shattered pieces of plastic, shards of glass, and a piece of what was once our bumper. The tire tracks went right up on the sidewalk and threw the planter of dirt that had been behind the cement barrier that was shattered into crumbles. We don’t know exactly how the other car hit ours and from what direction since my husband blanked out for the entire accident, but we were told the whole thing was caught on video. I don’t care about the car. I'm not worried about the details of insurance, or lawyers. I don’t have it in me to be angry at the man who drank and caused the accident, but I wouldn’t go as far as my husband who feels bad for him. It is over now. What I do care about is that I almost lost my husband, again and I am so happy I didn’t.

When I drove from my house to the hospital I saw neighbors out walking their dogs and I was jealous of the simplicity of their evening. I thought about how long it has been since life has felt normal. Every time I reach for a piece of even a new normal, it slips from my fingertips. The next day my husband was home. He was checked and given the all-clear.

He was told to expect his head to ache for a few days and maybe his body too. I woke him every few hours as instructed to make sure he was okay. When I brought my kids home from school, my son asked for help with his math homework. My husband jumped at the chance to sit with him, and as I watched them both I felt the words “Thank you!” flow over me. Things may not be normal for a while, but if the four of us are together, then we can wait as long as it takes.

Being Negative

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Fri, 27 Aug 2021 19:42:00 +0000

This time last year we took our kids' first day of school photos of them out in front of our house like we always do. They didn't have backpacks and they didn’t have shoes on. They also didn’t go anywhere but straight back in the house to log on for school. They did not return to school until mid-April and when they did finally go in it wasn’t all day and it wasn’t every day. Last year we locked down at home in the face of a raging pandemic. My husband, my two kids, and I spent every day working separately, but together all from inside the house, all of us in front of our computers. It was fraught with problems, but we did what we had to do and got through it.

This year when my children stood side by side for their picture on the first day of school, they were finally actually going to school. It was the smoothest first day of school both kids ever had. There were a few nerves, but no tears, and overall a lot of excitement. They both came home looking more enthusiastic than I have seen them in a very long time. It was then that my emotions kicked in. I was all over the place. I was thrilled for them, but suddenly furious about what we lost last year while staying home. To see the light on both of their faces, to see the twinkle in their eyes, making it impossible not to realize how long their sparks had been out.

At drop-off at the elementary school the next day a pediatrician friend of mine joked that she gives school one week before it shuts down again. I feigned a smile and a laugh, walked away, and tried not to show my concern. The Delta surge is posing a big risk, especially to unvaccinated people, which is the entire elementary school student body, but one week? I know we will likely have some positive tests and some, maybe many families will need to quarantine, but I just want my children to have normalcy back in their day to day. I was hoping for a few months, or at least weeks, but we might all have to settle for days.

I am not prepared to have my children at home for another school year. Without a doubt, it was not healthy for any of us. Children need other children, and I need quiet time. When a friend mentioned to her husband that she needs a plan if the kids end up having to be home due to Covid, he told her she was being negative. I don’t agree with him on this one, we aren’t wondering what will happen if schools shut down. I think it is likely that they will at some point shut down again. Maybe just for a group of kids, or a grade level, class, but it will likely happen. I don’t have a plan in place for how it will work for my family, but I do know I will scream.

We have all been thrown into the fire, we have experienced collective trauma, and all of us have had to mourn life as we knew it two years ago. The rate at which our lives changed was so rapid that eighteen months later, we are still trying to process it all, and we are adults. For our children the idea that one day they can go to school, and the next they can’t is baffling. I remember that first month of the lockdown being faced with so many of my children’s questions, none of which I had answers for. We still have a long way to go with this virus, and there will be a lot more unknowns about what the future will look like.

With the vaccine there came a sense of calm, hope, and freedom. I thought it was the beginning of the end, and maybe it still is, but the initial restart button on our lives didn’t stay pressed long. With the Delta variant, the lambda, and other variants we don’t know about yet, we went one step forward and two steps back. I am relearning the Greek alphabet while I try to keep track of variants. I make sure my kids leave for school each morning with water, lunch, snacks, books, and the right mask. Simultaneously things feel normal and bizarre as we go from hardly leaving the house to full days of school, meetings, sports, after school activities all within the last week. Just walking up to the gate of school on the first day, my muscle memory kicked right in. I walked up instinctively as I had for years, but then I saw the cones lined up to mark off the lines the kids were to stand in before entering the school. I saw the sea of masked faces. I saw the parents being asked to move into a line beside them to avoid crowding. It is impossible to not feel the impact this virus has had on all of us, but when I see these kids excited in line waiting to enter their school, I am grateful. For each and every day that they get to go to school this year I will celebrate.

Wishing all the kiddos out there a fantastic normalish year ahead while I am also being as realistic as possible. As soon as the school starts testing all the students there will be calls home to come pick up your kids from school. It is only week two into the school year and already three friends of mine at other schools have their kids quarantined this week due to a positive covid test for a child in their child's class. So while I hope for negative tests all around, I don’t think I am shooting negative vibes into the universe when I think about when not if someone around us gets a positive test. I will make sure to stay distanced when I find out, not just because it's the safe thing to do, but also because my scream is likely to break the sound barrier. Desperate times call for desperate measures!

Wires Crossed

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Wed, 04 Aug 2021 04:39:00 +0000

As a former competitive athlete who suffers from anxiety, I have spent much time this week thinking about Simone Biles. My first reaction to her pulling out of the Olympic all-around events was admittedly selfish: I was disappointed. I wanted to see the GOAT win it all. I was excited to see her lead her team to glory as she flew through the air, nailing her signature moves. As the experienced Olympian on the team, I watched the way she had inspired her teammates when they were getting cold feet about stepping into the Olympic arena and competing at such a monumental level. She was the role model guiding the rookies through their first Olympic games. She seemed unstoppable, unconquerable, and undefeatable. She was solid, strong, and in amazing shape until she wasn't.

I don't know what it is like to compete on an Olympic level, and perhaps many of our daughters won't either. The weight of an Olympic gold medal for the country may never lay on the shoulders of many of our children. The press might not follow them around, snapping photos of their every move from what they ate at breakfast to who you spend your time with and what you wear. Regardless, their lives will come with their own share of strife. Simone Biles has shown us all that even among the best of the best, no one is perfect. Even if you can gain a perfect score, it comes with a price. By stepping down, she wasn't letting her team down; rather, she was gracefully taking time to heal. It just shocked a lot of people when it came from her, an athlete with limitless potential actually reached her limits.

There is so much to learn from Biles' decision to take the time to care for her mental health, for women, and especially for our daughters. We are given mixed messages early on. I was told to step out of my comfort zone, put on a stiff upper lip, or even to suck it up. Sometimes these are motivating, and effective, but more often than not the reason someone said these things to me was so that I would get over whatever I was feeling and press on. We know at this point with enough evidence that different genders are capable or incapable of doing the same thing, yet it still seems that there is a stigma when it comes to mental health for any gender that one who is struggling is weak.

As a parent, I have made efforts early on to allow my children to feel what they are feeling. I don’t want them to push past sadness, anger, or joy because someone tells them they aren’t allowed to feel the way they feel. I tried to acknowledge what they are upset about when they are sad, mad or frustrated. That being said, I strive to give them the tools to recognize their emotions and assess what is happening for them, so that they can learn how to process their feelings for themselves. I make mistakes all the time though and have heard words come out of my mouth when I am impatient, that contradict the things I have said when I am calm. When I heard myself say “you don’t have to cry about that.” I bit my tongue a bit too late. The words fell and left my messaging confusing.

We are all human. Some, like Biles, are capable of superhuman athleticism, but we can all learn from her to take time to care for our mental health when we need it. Even if the timing is terrible and there is a lot on the line, mental health comes first. Many of us get injured and injury needs to stop being looked at just as a physical issue. She is not a quitter in my book, but a winner for recognizing she needed help. It takes courage to choose to protect your health over winning a medal. This was not an easy decision and it took a lot of bravery for her to speak up about her needs.

The message her decision sends is one that has been long overdue, especially in the world of competitive sports. She was direct with herself and her needs. She took them seriously even as the world around her expected her to do something entirely different. Historically, we have seen athletes push themselves even when they are injured to the point of breaking. Simone Biles has already dealt with so much pressure, pain and trauma. She knew when to put her foot down for herself. That is worth more than gold.

Camp

noreply@blogger.com (Shea) — Sat, 24 Jul 2021 05:57:00 +0000

When I went to sleepaway camp as a kid it wasn't always a successful experience. I was extremely anxious. I lasted a week without eating. I couldn't sleep and I cried enough tears to fill the camp pool. Despite everyone trying to help me figure out how to navigate adjusting to camp life, I pleaded to be picked up. At the end of that torturous week for me, my parents came to get me. I immediately felt better but little did I know how detrimental it was to not master skills that could get me through future situations like this when they occurred, and they did occur.

That wasn’t my first camp experience and wasn’t my last either. As an athlete, my passion for my sport outweighed my fear of summer camp. When there was an opportunity to go to a sleepaway camp that also had two hours of skate time built into it, I decided to try again. Not only was my experience successful, but I also loved it. I loved the ability to start over at camp and get to know people who didn’t know me my whole life. I loved the freedom all of us felt being in a beautiful setting in New England. I love that there was both structure and an ability to choose certain activities throughout the day. I loved all the friends I met at camp and the memories that I made there.

With two kids who are camp age now, I had hoped they would get the opportunity to experience the positive aspects of camp as well. Both of them also have some anxiety, and I had hoped that might not interfere with them going to camp. My daughter went for three summers in a row to a one week camp. It was actually just from Monday to Friday, but it was a big hurdle for her when she went. She went with a friend and although she told me she cried on Tuesday night, her counselor helped her get through it, and she enjoyed the rest of the week. The second year she had a fun time, and the third year she went with a different friend and got a little panicky about the idea of not being able to reach us when she needed us. Despite that, she completed the week successfully.

Last summer when we discussed possible ideas, she said she didn’t want to go back. The decision was made for her when all camps closed due to the pandemic. After a year and a half home with us, she said she wasn’t comfortable going away this summer. She wanted to go but didn’t want to be somewhere where she couldn’t call or reach out if she needed us. I explained why camps do this, and that calling us could actually make it harder, but she decided she didn’t want to try. My nine year old on the other hand wanted to go to a sleepaway skateboarding camp. I wasn’t sure he was ready, but I looked into a way to make it work so that maybe I could work there while he attended. The camp was interested in involving me in some way, but their communication was flawed and I kept getting redirected from person to person without much success. Meanwhile my son was determined to attend this camp and even received a scholarship for skateboarding. He told me he didn’t want me to come because he wanted to do this on his own. I was proud of his bravery and wanted to support him.

He showed no sign of fear in the weeks leading up to camp. In fact, he showed nothing but excitement. He was counting down the days and couldn’t wait to get there. The morning we were to drive him up to camp, he said he had butterflies, but that he was still excited. My husband, my daughter, and I were all more nervous for him. I wondered how he would do and tried to prepare him as much as I could before we left to say our goodbyes. We were allowed to walk around the camp with him for over an hour before leaving, and he was thrilled to explore with us. When it was time to walk him back to his cabin, I expected to have him greeted by his counselors and swept into an activity, but that didn’t happen. Instead of counselors for the young kids, they have a few dads that stay in the cabin with them and supposedly look after them, but there apparently is no real training to coach these dads on how to help these kids adjust to camp.

“It's time for us to say goodbye now buddy. We love you so much.”

My kiddo’s eyes got wide and glossy.

“I’m a little bit sad,” he said

I assured him it would be ok once he got busy and that the goodbye was the hardest part.

“What am I supposed to do now?” he asked.

That is where I started to feel uneasy. Where was the get-to-know-you activity, or the happy counselor to take him to a fun game so that he was distracted? I assured him that the fun would start soon. We got a call later that night from him. He borrowed a cell phone, which I thought was not allowed in camp, but at that moment I was so happy to hear from him that I didn't care.

“I’m a little bit scared. I don’t know that much people here.” He said.

Before I could respond he asked me if I wanted to speak to his new friend, and when I asked him what his name was, he said he forgot. It got us both laughing and he went on to tell me what he was excited about. The next day we got another call from him and he was having a blast. Tuesday afternoon when the phone rang from his new friend’s number I answered excitedly to hear from him, but instead of him telling me about his fun day, he was crying.

“Mama, can you come up here and just lie with me?” He asked

I tried to keep the conversation positive and get him to tell me what he did that day. While I desperately tried to help him, I also got so upset that he was sitting in his cabin, on a cell phone, with no one physically present to help him. I knew the worst thing he could be doing was sitting alone on the phone talking to us and crying, but I didn’t know how to help him. He was able to tell me some fun things he did and I was able to get him to go out with his friend to skate again. I hoped that would be the last call, and when he called that night he sounded a bit better. The next day though he called crying and asked to go home again. My husband and I called the office telling them to send someone to help him, and they did, but once he seemed happy they stopped. We toyed with getting in the car to get him, but there were many reasons why we didn’t. We wanted him to succeed. We hoped he could turn the experience around and have more good than bad. I sensed he was upset when he talked to us, but when he was skating and with his new friend, he was quite happy. He told us he won two competitions and was excited about his prizes. He asked us to put more money in his canteen account so he could buy more junk food. He was thrilled that he succeeded in landing a kickflip which was his skateboarding goal for the week. By Thursday though he called us, inconsolable. My husband and I tried to figure out what to do, and we called the camp office again and demanded they send someone to our son who was sitting alone in his cabin. It was the hardest day that we have had as parents. Harder than him having surgery. Harder than our daughter’s first week of middle school (although that comes in a pretty close second) and harder than the time we couldn’t find him that one time at the beach for a few minutes. It was harder because those were short lived moments before we could wrap our arms around our children and breathe a bit easier. I counted six phone calls home crying before a woman from the office went to him and helped. She also called and reassured us that he would be taken under her wing. It was a day (6 actually) and a dollar short, but I was relieved to hear he was in good hands. She is staying in touch with us and updating us on how he is doing and when she promised us she would keep an eye on him all day today, I hung up and cried. It has been a stressful few days, and I hope for his sake that he can have a great day today. We pick him up tomorrow morning and I cannot wait to squeeze his little unshowered body.

While this camp might be a skateboarder's dream come true if you are a teenager, it has been a bit of a nightmare for a nine year old. He has learned a lot, had a few great days and made new friends, but the camp has a lot to fix to make it work for younger kids. I have a lot of notes to share with the camp director, but I will wait until my boy is back in our arms before I press send. I don’t know if I will be able to get my kids to go to camp again, but I know that it can be magical when it works. I’m not giving up on the idea, but if I send them, I will likely be found vetting every single staff member before I leave them anywhere again.