A Tribute to Les Miserable

While watching a production of the Broadway classic Les Miserable, I stole a glance at my 7-year old niece Amy, sitting two seats away.  Although she is a creative child who loves to dance and sing, I still had doubts she would understand the complicated tale of love, loss, revolution, and redemption. What's more, the 3-hour show, devoid of spoken dialogue, tells the entire story through song.

Yet, as I studied the expression on her sweet, young face, I knew, then and there, that my niece had fully embraced the experience.  Amy's wide, innocent eyes glistened with tears as she watched the show's tragic heroine Eponine sing tender words of comfort as she lay to rest in the arms of her unrequited love.

Don't you fret M'sieur Marius
I don't feel any pain
A little fall of rain
Can hardly hurt me now
You're here, that's all I need to know
And you will keep me safe
And you will keep me close
And rain, will make the flowers grow

Amy was not alone.

I too, felt my cheeks wet with emotion as many in the audience wiped tears from their eyes.

I had seen Les Mis countless times - the Broadway production in New York City, the national touring production in Philadelphia, and of course, the movie version starring Hugh Jackman.   I knew about Eponine's heart-wrenching destiny. I knew every word of her final song. I cried each time she drew her last breath. Yet this time, this time....the tears that flowed were more than tears of sorrow. They were tears of wonderment, of pride, of joy.  For I simply could not believe that the actors whose talents struck such an emotional chord with their audience were high school students!

Yes, high school students!  Shawnee High School students, to be exact.

Last year, when my teenage daughter Melissa told me her school planned to tackle Les Mis, she could barely contain her excitement.   Like her parents, she had also seen both the stage and screen version and had fallen in love with the story, the characters, and the music.  For over a year, Melissa and her friends analyzed their high school's decision to produce such a difficult show.

She was thrilled to be a part of something so special, cast as an onlooker with a solo in the cart crash scene, and lending her sweet vocals to the "Girlfriends of Students" ensemble.

After countless late afternoon and weekend rehearsals, opening night had finally arrived! My husband Bob and I sat in the audience, waiting with anticipation for the lights to dim, excited but still unsure that high school students could pull this off.

I am happy to share that those kids, those high school students, proved us so very, very wrong!

We. Were. blown. Away.

The actors poured every ounce of their passion, energy, enthusiasm, and talent into bringing the characters to life.

It was, by far, the best production of Les Miserable that I have ever seen!

Congratulations to the entire cast, crew, and Jim Sheffer's orchestra.  And a special tip of the hat to music teachers Gina Kehl and Rob Joubert who had the faith and confidence in their students' ability to shine!

Melissa with Bob and me following her performance in Les Miserable

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The "Lost" Newspaper

On Friday, February 21, as the crowds enter the auditorium of Shawnee High School in Southern NJ, they will be taken back in time to mid-19th century France as a group of talented young thespians perform the hit Broadway classic Les Miserable!

What this has meant to the Weinstein family is endless treks to and from the school to transport my 16-year old daughter Melissa to rehearsals. (She does a great job as part of the awesome ensemble, as "Onlooker #3" in the first act and as a"Girlfriend of student" in the second act!)

During the week, she can usually charm her way into finding a ride home from a compassionate mom of one of her friends, or my husband Bob or I will leave work early to pick her up.

However, rehearsals are also scheduled on Saturday.

Early on Saturday.

Really early on Saturday!

The day when I do not have to pound on the alarm clock at 6:15 am.

The day with no deadlines. No obligations.

The day when I can curl deep under my warm covers for as long as humanly possible.

But alas, the show must go on.

For the past few weeks, Bob and I have taken turns arising from our weekend slumber to ensure Melissa made it to the stage on time.  This week, after graciously accepting Bob's offer to drive her, I said my goodbyes as they walked out the door then happily climbed back to bed.

A half an hour later I awakened to the sound of chaos as Bob's angry voice reverberated throughout the house.  Bewildered, I walked downstairs, only to find Melissa, who should have been at rehearsal, sitting in the living room on her computer, indifferent to her father, who paced the kitchen floor, phone in hang, in the midst of a full blown tantrum.

"We got all the way to school and they told us rehearsal has been rescheduled for 10," she said, without taking her eyes off of Facebook.

Ok.

That explained why my daughter had mysteriously reappeared in my living room, however, I had yet to learn the reason for my husband's rage.

My curiosity led me into the kitchen, where I witnessed the following interaction between my spouse and an automated female computer voice.

Automated voice: "If you did not receive your paper this morning, say yes"

Bob: "YES!"

Automated voice: "What was that? I didn't get that. Please repeat your response. If you did not receive your paper this morning, say yes."

Bob: (as he forcefully punched random buttons on the phone): "YES!"

Automated voice: "What was that? I didn't get that. Please repeat your response. If you did not receive your paper this morning, say yes."

Bob: (as he continued to pulverize random phone buttons) "YES!"

Automated voice: "What was that? I didn't get that. Please repeat your response. If you did not receive your paper this morning, say yes."

Bob: "YES!"     "YES!"   "YES!"

At this point I tried to ask him what was going on, however, the maniacal expression he shot in my direction told me, loud and clear, to wait until the phone call  had ended.

Automated voice: "Ok.  Thank you.  We will replace that for you.  Please say "daily" or "Saturday" to indicate what paper you need to have replaced.

Bob: "Saturday."

Automated voice: "What was that?  I didn't get that. Please repeat your response."

Bob: "Saturday!   "Saturday!"   "Saturday!"

And so on it went for another frustrating ten minutes until Bob, satisfied that he would get a new newspaper, finally slammed down the phone.

"THOSE MORONS DELIVERED LAST SATURDAY'S NEWSPAPER!" Bob explained in exasperation.  "I WAS ON THE PHONE WITH THEM FOR 20 MINUTES AND I COULD NOT EVEN GET A HUMAN BEING!!!!"

Hmmmm.

I found the whole scenario rather odd.  We have certainly had instances where our newspaper has been delivered late, or not at all.  But for them to actually deliver last week's paper....it just didn't make sense.

For the past month, our area has been blanketed with storm after winter storm.  Perhaps last week's  newspaper had been buried deep under layer upon layer of snow.  In light of a minimal thaw that occurred during yesterday's rare sunshine, maybe last Saturday's paper had suddenly become visible, and Melissa picked up it, thinking it was the current edition.

No sooner had I presented this hypothesis did I realize it could not be right.  For you see, last Saturday, Bob, Melissa, and I had climbed into the car very early for a drive to New York City to attend a Beatles festival.  I remember taking the newspaper and throwing it into the car, thinking that we'd read it in our hotel room.  Well, we never did read the newspaper. In fact, now that I thought about it, last Saturday's newspaper still sat on the floor of the passenger seat of my car.

"Wait," came a voice from the living room, as my daughter suddenly became interested in this turn of events.  "Did you say that last Saturday's paper was on the floor of the car?"

Seems that this morning as Bob and Melissa headed out for her rehearsal, Bob asked Melissa to grab the newspaper from our driveway and bring it into the car.  So, as instructed, she put the newspaper on the floor of the passenger seat....not realizing that last week's newspaper was there also.

Unbeknownst to Bob, he inadvertently grabbed the old edition from the floor of the passenger seat, came inside, took off his coat, made his coffee, and sat down for what he thought would be an enjoyable, relaxing breakfast reading the paper.  That is  - until he saw sports scores from seven days prior!  That's when the proverbial "you know what" hit the fan.

Upon the realization that the current edition of the newspaper sat a mere few feet away in the passenger seat of my car, I looked at my husband with a grin.  Seems his tireless tirade against an automated voice had been for naught.

Melissa walked out to the car, retrieved the current edition, and handed it to Bob, who wasted no time sheepishly burying his nose in the sports scores.

Later that day as we walked to the car we noticed, sitting there peacefully on our driveway on top of the snow, lay our "no longer needed" replacement newspaper.  I guess those "morons" at the newspaper managed to get it right....this time!

Our no longer necessary replacement newspaper!

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Melissa Fell Down!

Back in the days when dinosaurs roamed the planet, when visions of iPhones had not yet materialized in the mind of Steve Jobs, members of the general population were forced to capture the daily antics of their children on huge, bulky, complicated video cameras that even my husband Bob, a former TV director, had trouble operating.

Yet there he stood, camera in hand, in the middle of the sidewalk in front of our tiny townhouse in a suburban New Jersey town called Hillsborough. The subject of his attempt at an award-winning documentary? My daughter Melissa, three years old at the time (now 16), who would be attempting her first ride on her new tricycle.

My mother-in-law Pearl, enjoying an extended family vacation away from her North Carolina home, watched proudly from the sidelines as Melissa (with help from mommy) mounted the trike.  My little cherub placed her feet on the pedals and began her slow journey along the sidewalk.  All went well until it came time for "The Turn"!  Yes. The "treacherous" turn from the sidewalk onto the short path that led to our front door.  I suppose that Melissa, lacking the well honed skills of a seasoned tricycle rider, misjudged her approach. Turning the wheel too far to the right, gravity took over and my baby landed face down on the sidewalk.

Much to my chagrin, instead of helping, Bob continued filming Melissa as she lay there, waiting for her mommy to pick her up and make everything all better.  Fortunately, we found minimal damage on my offspring or on her bike, so we continued our carefree afternoon of pedal pushing down the pavement.

All was well.  That is...until later that evening when we snuggled onto the couch in our cozy living room and popped the video into the VCR (a rudimentary machine used to watch moving images).  The events of the afternoon filled the screen.  A smiling Melissa, waving proudly as she tackled her first bike ride.  Then came the "tragedy" of the misjudged right turn, a quick image of my horror-filled gasp, and the camera panning to a tight shot of Melissa face down on the sidewalk.

Bob, Pearl, and I turned our attention from the Melissa on the TV screen to the Melissa who sat cuddled next to us on the couch.  The twinkle in her big brown eyes had all but disappeared, and her mouth had formed that distinctive pout that signaled the start of her tears.

She pointed to the TV screen and cried out in anguish.....

 "MELISSA FELL DOWN!"

I instinctively embraced my baby, assuring her that everything was just A-Ok.

That's when I heard the noise.

Uncontrollable giggles.

Yes. Fits of roaring, uncontrollable giggles coming from Grandma Pearl.

Realizing that her beloved grandmother was laughing at her, Melissa cried even harder.

Sigh.

To this day, my mother-in-law still roars with laughter when we retell the tale of Melissa's inability to make a right turn. In fact, that inability is still a cause for laughter!

Last Monday, my "baby" experienced another milestone in her young life, her first driving lesson!  I waited with anticipation by my office phone, anxious for details of her inaugural trip behind the wheel.  As soon as I heard her voice, I knew all had not gone according to plan.

"How was it?" I asked with excitement.

"Horrible," came her morose reply.

"Oh no," I exclaimed. "What happened?"

"Well mom, let's just say there are tire tracks across our front lawn."

With a tremendous amount of difficulty, I stifled a giggle, knowing that my laughter would not help comfort my daughter, who was already close to tears.  She went on to explain how, lacking the skills of a seasoned driver, she misjudged her approach to the driveway.  That, coupled with the instructor's stern demeanor and lack of clear instruction caused her to panic.  As a result she hit the accelerator a bit too hard.

She feared her mom and dad would either be angry or find the incident extremely funny. And quite frankly, she didn't know which reaction would be worse.

Privately, Bob and I did find it funny.  We bent over double with laughter!  In time, Melissa laughed too, as she took Steve Jobs' trusted invention out of the pocket of her jeans and snapped everlasting evidence of her first time driving a car.

Much like her first time riding a tricycle, I'm sure we'll be laughing for years to come!

The tire tracks on our lawn created by first-time driver Melissa!

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Loathing the Laundry 

Hidden inside the linen closet, across from the hall bathroom in the house my parents purchased in 1962, sat a faded pink hamper that played host to a daily stream of dirty socks, shirts, towels, and jeans. The image of my mother bending over the hamper, sorting the clothes into the designated "whites" and "darks" and carrying them down two flights of stairs to the laundry room 3,000 times a day is permanently emblazoned in my memory.

My mom would "oh so carefully" place the clothes into the washing machine, turn the dial to the appropriate setting based on the color, texture, style, make, and model of the garments in question, then tune in to the soaps to pass the time until the transfer from washer to dryer.

She chose the dryer cycle with the expertise born of experience, making sure nothing ever shrunk or shriveled.  Then she tuned in for a relaxing hour of "As the World Turns" until the sound of the buzzer told her it was time to painstakingly remove and fold each precious item with care, lest even one member of her family of five set foot outside in wrinkled clothing.

In my own small family of three, one might think that the use of mountain climbing equipment to get to the top of the laundry pile is completely unnecessary.  This is NOT the case.

Why?

I will answer with one word.

Melissa.

You see, with every 24-hour cycle, my 16-year old daughter Melissa seems to wear 14 tank tops, 22 sweat shirts, 39 pairs of pants, 274 sweaters, 1,345 pairs of pajamas, and 52,763 pairs of the socks.

In contrast, my loving hubby Bob, devoid of any desire to show off the latest fashions, wears the same two pairs of jeans for days on end before placing them in the "to be washed" pile.

As for me, to avoid wearing nothing but sweat pants each day, I cram my work clothes in with Melissa's stuff, not really caring if I'm seen in the same suit more than four times a month.  In fact, in vast contrast to my mother's June Cleaver method of cleaning clothes, here's how I, a full time working mom, tackle the task.

Step 1
At 6:30 am I take garments of every size, shape, color, and texture and shove them all into the washing machine together, hoping the cold water setting (which I never change) will prevent my red sweater from "bleeding" onto Bob's underpants.

Step 2
Before I go to sleep that night I transfer the clothes into the dryer.

Step 3
The next morning I pull the clothes I want to wear out of the dryer and leave the rest in there, telling myself I'll hang and iron them later.

Step 4
Later that day Melissa takes the laundry and throws the entire unfolded, now wrinkled pile onto the top of the dryer, picks out the clothes she needs, and leaves the rest for me to fold.

Step 5
That evening, I venture into the laundry room, throw in another load, steal a quick glance at the rumpled bundle still sitting on top of the dryer and - as I imagine accepting the honor as House Wife of the Year - ignore the clothes and climb into bed.

Step 6
Repeat steps 1 through 5.

I have often wondered, as I routinely stare with disgust at my own, never-ending mound of dirty clothes, why my mother never demanded that my dad or any of her three children help with this daily duty.

Finally, I posed the question.

"Mom, why didn't you pick me up by the nape of my neck and make me do my own laundry?" I asked, thinking about motivational techniques to get Melissa to embrace the joys of washing her own clothes.

"Well," she sighed.  "I had my routine, it was just easier to do it myself."

For the record....I DO NOT SHARE HER SENTIMENTS!

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New Year's Day

Today is New Year's day.  I am sitting here thinking ahead to the long months of January and February, where daylight is scarce and winter weather advisories warn of weeks of plunging temperatures. 

Yet for today, just for today, I keep thoughts of cold and snow at bay while relishing in the memory of last night's celebration.  Gone are the days when New Year's Eve came with pressure to have the very best time dancing and drinking the night away.  Instead, my husband Bob, 16-year old daughter Melissa and I spent the last evening of the 365 day cycle in the comfort of our home, surrounded by people we love. 

The adults gathered in the family room to chat and reminisce as the clock ticked down the final hours of 2013, while the teens took over the living room... away from their embarrassing parents.

When the infamous Times Square ball prepared for its midnight drop, we poured the champagne (sparkling cider for the kids) and all gathered together, adults and teens alike, for the final count down.

10....9....8....7....6....5....4....3....2....1   HAPPY NEW YEAR!

I plopped onto Bob's lap and planted the first kiss of 2014 on his lips, as the kids popped open their containers of dollar store confetti!  Then came the hugs! Lots and lots of hugs as everyone in the room captured the moment of joy, of a new beginning, of a promise for 365 new days of peace, good health, happiness and love.  

Finally, as the adults tried their best to stifle their yawns, we cleaned up the confetti that now littered my carpet, piled the dishes in the sink, said our goodbyes, and wearily went to bed. 

Tomorrow we'll return to work and school and exercise and diets, but today, just for today, I'm content in knowing that 2014 started out right!

Happy New Year to all of my wonderful readers, and thank you for visiting my blog!

Bob and me at our New Year's Eve celebration!

Sibling Differences

(This is a repeat of one of my favorite blogs, originally posted last February)

Ask anybody and they will tell you that there are people on the branches of their family tree exactly like my Aunt Gloria.   No children, loveless marriage, obsessed with her dog, martini drinker, snobbishly passionate about art, ballet, and orchestra, and unable (or unwilling) to relate to anyone under the age of 16.

Until I reached early adulthood, I never quite knew if my Aunt Gloria realized I existed.   Technically my great-aunt, (my grandfather's sister), she and her husband George were a permanent fixture at  holiday dinners.  After planting the obligatory welcome  kiss on my cheek (which I always tried to wipe off without her seeing), she only had eyes for one - just one - of my parent's three children....my older sister Bev.

Something about my sister's personality captivated Aunt Gloria, and a result, Bev became the lucky recipient of her attention.   At the time, I told myself it didn't matter, that my aunt was old and snobby and crabby and that I didn't want to talk to her anyway.

My brother Steven, six years my junior, didn't seem to care.  But to me, it really did matter...

It mattered a lot.

She liked Bev better than me, and, not understanding why, in the mind of a painfully shy preteen girl....I came to the only rational conclusion I could at the time.....I must not be good enough.

As an adult, I can now look back and not fault my sister at all for being on the receiving end of my aunt's affection.  And in fact, in the waning years of her life, I reconnected with Gloria, and I feel blessed that, before she passed away, she had the chance to meet my 5-year old daughter Melissa (now 16).

Gloria treated my sister different than me because quite simply, she is different from me, just as all siblings have those remarkable, unique characteristics that set them apart.  As adults, we develop a deep love for our siblings, and celebrate our differences, as I have certainly done with both my brother and sister.  But as children, in most families, sibling rivalries abound, leading to jealousy and hurt only made worse when an adult who should know better showers one sibling with more love than another.

Like my Aunt Gloria.

Fortunately, as a mother, I have not had to cope with the pain of witnessing my own daughter suffer this kind of emotional confusion when adults favor one sibling over another.  I inherited my beautiful step-daughter Jessica when she was in the throes of her teen years.  However, by the time her sister Melissa came along, Jessica had entered young adulthood, living a life of her own.  My daughters, though so incredibly close, never lived under the same roof, and the two decade span between them keeps them immune from typical sibling battles.

Not so for my dear friend Angelica's sons Chris, 16 and Brandon, 13.   Incredibly close in age and with each other, they could not be more different in personality.  Recently, they told me about a negative experience that brought back memories of my own childhood, and my Aunt Gloria.

In response, I gave Chris words of support that I wish someone had shared with me. I told him, "Brandon is awesome because he's Brandon.  You are awesome because you are you, and don't ever change who you are because the people that come into your life who matter will love you for who you are."

Indeed, I speak from experience.  I have long since grown out of my painful shyness, yet the fundamental personality traits that were inherent in that preteen girl who sat ignored by her aunt at family dinners are still very much a part of me.  Thankfully, my wonderful husband Bob accepts  all of those traits.  He loves me for who I am.

So to my beautiful, talented Melissa who I love with all my heart, and to every child who has ever felt less than wonderful about themselves, I shout from the rooftops, "You are wonderful, you are awesome, don't ever change who you are!"

                                      Me with my wonderful siblings Steven and Bev!

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Catching Snowflakes on Your Tongue

I originally posted this in February, 2012.  However, in honor of our first snowfall of the season (9.4 inches in my southern NJ town) I thought it would be fitting to post it again! Enjoy!

After four weeks of festive frivolity, December eventually fades away, leaving January in its wake.  There’s a deep reluctance to spend, a strong desire to diet, and the cruel realization that the days are too short, the sun is scarce, and the bitter cold air bites like a knife.

Then, when all hope seems lost, I wake up one morning to see the landscape transformed by flakes of white powder that now cover nearly every outdoor surface.   This fleeting moment of beauty is made all the more wonderful by one simple fact…it is Saturday.  No need to drag myself out of bed early to shovel the walk and brush off the car so that I can navigate the treacherous roads to work.  I can lie in bed, relax, and enjoy.

Sadly, I know it will not last.  The temperature will slowly inch higher by the few degrees needed to turn fancy white flakes into boring drops of rain.  But until that transition takes place, I look out the window and relish the memory of another winter day, 13 years earlier.

My reaction to the snow on that weekday morning was quite different that the peaceful reaction I feel today.  I had to wake, shower, dress, get my three year old daughter Melissa (who is now 16) up, dressed, and fed.  Then I cleaned off my car, came back inside, and stuffed my little pumpkin into her coat, boots, gloves, hat, and scarf.   Finally, harried, and frustrated, I struggled to get my little girl and all of her winter coverings to fit into the car seat.

We drove to the day care center without incident.  Melissa sat silently in the back seat, watching the snowflakes fall in earnest.  We arrived.  I parked, and anxiously glanced at my watch.  Yes, today, I would certainly be late for work.   I unhooked the car seat and helped her out, and with, perhaps, a bit too much edginess to my voice, encouraged her to move faster. 

We started to walk towards the entrance to the day care center when suddenly, she stopped.  "Now what?" I thought, again glancing at my watch.  She looked at me, then tilted her head up to look at the snow, and said..............

“Mommy, I can catch the snowflakes on my tongue.”

I came to a dead stop.  Thoughts of traffic and work and being on time no longer existed.  Nobody had ever told my beautiful, sweet little girl about the simple pleasure of catching snowflakes on her tongue.  She had figured it out all on her own.   In her innocence, she reminded me that sometimes, life’s most precious moments come at unexpected times, and you have to stop and smell the roses, or in our case, stop and catch the snowflakes, as it were.

I took her hand, looked up at the sky and held out my tongue.  Together, we just stood there, catching snowflakes.  I’m not sure how much time passed, or how many flakes landed in my mouth.  I do know that once we decided to move on, my daughter’s face, nearly hidden under the hat and scarf, had lit up with delight, and I became much more relaxed, the prospect of being late no longer mattered.

As time goes by, there are so many wonderful moments with Melissa that touch my heart.  Some I will remember, some will fade away.  But a snowy January morning, when a three year old girl experienced the simple pleasure of catching snowflakes on her tongue for the very first time, will stay with me forever.

My 3-year old daughter Melissa and I enjoy a snowy day, winter, 2001

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