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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Lisa the Broadway Sensation!

Growing up as the middle of three children, alone time became a rare, albeit welcome respite from the daily squabbles with my older sister Bev and play time with my baby brother Steven.

My tiny bedroom, which boasted brightly colored walls painted to match the orange shag carpeting, played host to two twin beds, two dressers, and not nearly enough closet space.   My side of the room, much to my neater sister's chagrin,  could best be described as a "slob paradise". Yet I didn't care.

For when Bev wasn't around, my bedroom became my haven. My escape. My place where it felt safe to unlock an imaginary world where I could become an adored actress, a best selling author, or a world famous rock star.  Yes, with my brush microphone in one hand and tennis racquet guitar in the other, I'd sing along to my 45 records, giving the performance of a life time to sell out crowds.

45 records...it's how we listened to music in the dinosaur era

Just when I thought that being an actress, author, and rock star wasn't enough....my parents introduced me to something truly mesmerizing! Live theater!  At the tender age of 10 I joined Bev, my mom and dad in the orchestra section at the Forrest Theater in Philadelphia to watch the national touring company production of the Broadway hit "Annie".  Surely, if a precocious little red head could bring the house down by belting out "Tomorrow" like there was no tomorrow, then I could do it too.  It didn't matter that at 10, the gawky years had begun to rear their ugly head.  It didn't matter that producers of Broadway musicals were not looking for shy little girls with stringy hair, glasses, and braces, who didn't know how to adjust to figures that had become "feminine" much too early.

Yes, none of that mattered.  Alone in my bedroom, I too belted out "Tomorrow" like there was no tomorrow, practicing for hours on end for my Broadway debut.

I only had one teensy weensy little problem.....

I couldn't sing.

I didn't know that I couldn't sing.  Or shall I say, I didn't know that I didn't know how to sing.

I'll explain.

When the radio played one of my favorites songs and I attempted to sing along, my family members chastised me for not staying on key.  It may seem strange, but I had absolutely no idea what it meant to sing on key.  I tried to correct the problem to no avail, because I didn't know that I didn't know how to sing.

Without my own personal Maria Von Trapp to teach me Do Re Mi, I survived my teen years and all throughout my 20's not realizing that when others sang "Do", I would more than likely be singing "Re" or "Fa" or "Ti".  It all sounded the same to me.

Enter my "oh so patient" husband Bob.  Early in our courtship, Bob realized his girlfriend had a sweet sounding voice, if only she could sing in the correct key.  But instead of chastising me, Bob took a different approach.....

He taught me!

For some reason he chose the song "Age of Aquarius", (From the musical "Hair" for the young folk reading this blog) forcing me to sing it again and again and again until I began to understand the difference between the key of C, D, E, F, G, etc.  And with that understanding, I finally learned how to sing.

Over 20 years later, I can proudly share that, thanks to Bob, I have realized my dream of becoming a Broadway sensation  singing without enduring taunts from anyone within a five mile radius.

While I may never smile down from the stage at an adoring crowd, I get to do something even better....live vicariously through my 16-year old daughter Melissa!  You see, Melissa has been blessed with the musical talent I lack...and then some.  She taught herself to play guitar, and her beautiful singing voice is as sweet as an angel.

In the coming weeks, I will happily play the role of proud mom as Melissa performs with the prestigious All South Jersey Senior High Chorus.

As for me, I'll be glad to demonstrate my singing ability for anyone brave enough to listen....
.....When the moon is in the 7th house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars, and peace will guide the planet, and looooove will steer the stars.  This is the dawning of the age of aquarius, age of aquarius.....

Bob is Forbidden to Buy in Bulk

Within ten miles of our home, situated in a typical suburban shopping center, sits the "Buy in Bulk" Super Club store, inviting the gullible to walk through its doors and take advantage of all of the supposed "huge savings."

If you look closely as you approach the entrance to the Super Club store, you'll notice a small sign fastened to the door.  This sign carries a very clear message:

Bob Weinstein Not Permitted

Yes, that's right. My husband Bob is banned from the "Buy in Bulk" Super Club store!

Why, you may ask?

For the answer, I take you down memory lane to the first year of our marriage.  On the way home from work one day, Bob decided to peruse the aisles of our local Super Club store.  While perusing, he determined that our cozy family of 3 desperately needed a 10-gallon jug of maple syrup, which of course, was on sale.

Just how many pancakes he thought my step-daughter Jessica and I were going to eat, I'll never know.  (My daughter Melissa, now 16, had not come along yet)

To this day my Bob is mesmerized by the concept of buying in bulk...even though the only people who live under our roof are Bob, Melissa, and me (Jessica is now happily married). Oh, and I suppose I should also include our cat, since Bob insists on buying in bulk for him too.  (The darn kitty will be munching Friskies until the next Millennium)

I'm not sure why bulk buying holds such allure for Bob, but it may have to do with growing up as one of 10 children (4 belonged to his mom, 6 belonged to his step-father).  Every night at his dinner table, 20 little hands grabbed for the grub.  If you didn't take charge, go in head first and act quickly, all would be gone.

Perhaps that's why, some 4 decades later, he's afraid we'll run out of... everything.  Our weekly trips to the supermarket turn into an argument within every aisle.  Armed with his envelope of coupons, Bob sets out to do battle. While in contrast, my goal is to:

Seek.
Find.
Pay.
Leave.

It's not unusual for Bob to come home every single week, with:
48 roles of toilet paper. ("We'll use it!")
12 bottles of diet coke ("We'll drink it!)
5 cartons of zip lock plastic bags. ("We'll store it!")
15 jars of soup (We'll eat it!")

Usually I just sigh, put up with Bob's "Buy in Bulk" mentality and make room on the shelves for all of the things we don't need.  However, I reached my boiling point with the coffee.

Yes, the coffee.  The 7 ounce container of instant coffee that normally sells for  $13.

A fortune, I know.

However, every other month or so the super market or local drug store will offer a half price sale on the coffee.  When Bob learns of this fantastic bargain opportunity, he is first in line at the store the day the deal goes into effect, and he comes home with as much coffee as he can carry (or as much as the store will allow him to buy).

Over the past few months, it seemed the store has offered the half price coffee more often than not, causing my husband to make his frequent pilgrimage to the store, salivating with excitement with each successful purchase.

I made room in the pantry for 3 containers. Then 6.  Then 9.

"Stop buying the coffee!" I exclaimed in exasperation.

"But they are on sale, and we use them," came his attempt at a rebuttal.

I made room in the pantry for 12 containers. Then 15.

"BOB IF YOU BUY ANY MORE COFFEE I WILL SHOVE IT UP YOUR YOU KNOW WHAT!"

Still, he didn't listen.

In an effort to figure out where to put all of these containers of the coffee, I decided to schedule my annual Cleaning of the Pantry.

I found coffee containers hidden inside a bowl, behind the flour, under the trash bags, next to the cereal, etc...

In fact, to prove to Bob just how large our incredible coffee collection had grown, I took the containers out of the pantry and lined them up - all 19 of them - on the kitchen floor!

At long last, I made my point!

When Bob saw his coffee containers lined up like little soldiers, he couldn't help but laugh.

He has since promised he will not purchase any more coffee until we are down to 3 containers.

So if you happen to drive by my house and spot my hubby lying on our front lawn covered in coffee grinds, you'll know he broke the deal.

Learning to Accept My Middle-Aged Self

When I look at photos of my elementary school years, there are a number of adjectives that come to mind.  Young, innocent, gawky, and dare I say.... nerdy.  My long, stringy hair fell limp onto my shoulders, while my horrible vision dictated the need for glasses so large they framed half my face.

However, there is one adjective I would not use when I see the face of my former self smiling from the pages of decades-old photo albums. That adjective is "fat".

Quite simply, as a young girl, I did not have a problem with my weight. Yet at the time, I felt like a whale compared to my peers. Taller than most of my fellow students, I went through the grammar school years convinced that my body took up much more width and depth than those of my classmates.

At no time did this feeling become more pronounced than when the school nurse performed our annual physical exams.  A homely looking woman in her 60's, she checked any semblance of compassion at the door prior to entering the building each morning.

She had us all stand in a line, waiting to take our turn on the scale. I cringed with terror as my turn to step on that dreaded apparatus inched closer and closer.  It seemed my waif-like classmates barely weighed enough to be alive, while the number on the scale that described my body weight might as well have been 3,752 pounds.

Making matters worse, the school nurse insisted on announcing each student's weight with a voice that echoed off the walls with such force that everyone in line, yes, even the boys, now had knowledge of the deepest, darkest secret I swore I would take to the grave.

I suppose it didn't occur to her that it really matters to young girls if others know what they weigh.

It certainly mattered to me.

It mattered a lot.

And unfortunately, it still does.  That is why my 16-year old daughter Melissa calls me a hypocrite.

Yes, that's right. A hypocrite.

Seems I earned the hypocrite title during my attempt to explain that teenage girls shouldn't focus so much on body image, but rather on all of the wonderful things about themselves.  I told my daughter she is beautiful, has a radiant smile that lights up a room, a singing voice as sweet as an angel, and a passion for guitar that has pushed her to develop into a musical talent in her own right.

In response, she said, "Mom, how can I think positively about myself when you are always commenting on how fat you are?"

Sigh.

I had to admit, she was right.

I experienced my heaviest weight the year following Melissa's birth. Seems I still considered it "healthy" to eat an entire bag of Oreo cookies, even though I was no longer eating for two.  Thanks to the arduous task of giving up nearly all carbs, I eventually shed the pregnancy pounds and then some, dropping two clothing sizes in the process. Yet despite my best efforts, while walking the path on my life journey towards the inevitable "change", some - not all - but some of the weight came back to stay, resulting in sagging in parts of my body that had never sagged before.

Today, at age 48, I wear the same size clothing that fit me at age 16.  I felt large then.  I feel large now.  
However, Melissa's eye-opening revelation forced me to take a step back and reevaluate my perception of my middle-aged self.  I have a wonderful husband who loves me, a good job, dear friends, an amazing step-daughter and the most incredible teenage daughter any mom could hope for. We have a roof over our heads, we are healthy....we are happy.

So why should body image matter?

The answer?  It shouldn't.

And I'll try to remember that every time I look in the mirror at my magnificent middle-aged self!

Enjoying a spectacular autumn day with my beautiful daughter Melissa!

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A letter to my 15-year old self
*This is a repeat of a blog I originally posted in March, 2013. Melissa is now 16, but the words still ring true!

During a recent trip to the book store, I found myself flipping through the pages of a hard cover  collection of letters by celebrities to their 15-year old selves.  Since then, I have often wondered what I would tell my 15-year old self.

I look at my daughter Melissa, well into her 15th year, and I see a young lady full of life and spirit.  Most evenings, when home work is complete, she'll sit on the couch and pick up her guitar and start strumming away, sometimes adding her sweet vocals to the mix.

My 15-year old self longed to be so much like the 15-year old young lady I marvel at now.  I longed to step into the spotlight and mesmerize audiences with my amazing talent.....but alas, my lack of said talent, along with an inability to sing on key, kept that dream at bay.  Instead, God blessed my beautiful girl with that ability.  Perhaps he just wanted to save it for the next generation, or perhaps the blessing is that I can now revel in my daughter's gifts from the perspective of a mother, and know that those gifts are also my own.

So as I watch my daughter evolve into such a remarkable young woman, I try to remember how I perceived the world when I turned 15.  Shy, insecure, with a stream of never-ending crushes on boys whose names I no longer remember.  So full of wonder for my future.  Would I ever feel pretty, thin, or at least comfortable in my own body?  Would I ever find someone who would love me?  Would I ever experience the joy of becoming a mother?  Would I use my love of writing in a way where I actually might make money?   Would I go to college?  Make new friends?  Travel?

Of course, the answer to all of these questions is a resounding YES.  However, I would not reveal that to my 15-year old self, for I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, or run the risk that my words of comfort could cause actions that would change my future and the place of contentment and happiness that defines my world now.

So, to my 15-year old self, I write the following words.

Dear 15-year old Lisa,

You will experience joy and endless laughter.  You will find friendships so strong their bonds are unbreakable.  You will discover the love of a man only found in fairy tales.  You will also learn that, at times, life may throw challenges at you.  Tears and heartache will fill your heart...but it will pass, and you'll be better and stronger for it.  

Quite simply, please Lisa, just follow your heart and I promise, everything will be ok.

With love,
Your 47-year old self


And to my own daughter, who, despite her active life full of music, friends, laughter, and love, still asks herself some of the same questions that once plagued her mother, I write the following words.

Dear Melissa, 

I lack the ability to gaze into a crystal ball and reveal what awaits you in the years to come.  But I can say with near certainty, my words of wisdom to my 15-year old self are the same words I will share with you.  

Quite simply, my dear sweet girl, just follow your heart and I promise, everything will be ok.

With love, 
Your mommy

Mother and daughter bonding during a recent trip to Disney!


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Teaching Melissa to Drive

"Mom, will you help me study for my driver's ed test?" pleaded my 16-year old daughter Melissa.

I admit, I tried to pretend I didn't hear her request.

Why, you ask?

Shouldn't I be a dutiful mother and help my child study?

No.

I had just plopped my weary bones onto the couch in the family room where my husband Bob had been enjoying his mandatory "Sunday Evening Sports TV Viewing".

Football.
Commercial.
Switch to hockey.
Commercial.
Switch back to football.
And so on.....

I had recently returned from food shopping, put away the groceries, poured myself a diet coke, and filled a bowl with pretzels.  Yes! The woman who never sits still might actually (it's so hard to even say the word) RELAX!

Alas, t'was not meant to be.  My baby needed me. Football and hockey and yes, even Bob, would have to wait.

We settled in at the kitchen table where Melissa handed me a sheet of paper with answers to common sense driving questions scribbled across the page.

Q. What does the fuel gauge measure?
A. Duh.

Q. What does the steering wheel do?
A. Duh.

Q. What does the flux capaciter do?
A. Send Michael J. Fox back to 1956 (Just kidding, that question really wasn't on her test)

After 30 minutes of mindless back and forth, it suddenly occurred to me that a real life scenario would do a much better job of reinforcing the rules of the road.

So, for the first time in my life, I let my daughter, my sweet little girl, my baby.....GET BEHIND THE WHEEL OF A CAR!!!

Before the local law enforcement officers arrest me for allowing a cherub to drive a car without a permit, rest assured that we did nothing more than sit in the driveway with the motor running.

Yes, that's right. I actually had Melissa put the key in the ignition. And, as the engine roared to life, she shuddered with equal parts anticipation and equal parts terror!

After she marveled at the ability to adjust the seat and steering wheel to her liking, I pointed out the mundane aspects of our automobile.

Speedometer - check

Odometer - check

Fuel gauge - check

Rear view mirror - check

Brake - check

Accelerator -  VRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

She stepped on the accelerator so hard, had the car not been in "Park", it would have crashed through the garage, the living room, the family room, the bathroom, the kitchen, our neighbor's house...etc.

Unable to hide her surprise, Melissa turned to me and gasped, "I DIDN'T EXPECT IT TO DO THAT!  (followed by a few choice expletives)

My response?

I simply threw my head back and laughed and laughed and laughed.

As we walked back into the house she mumbled in fear about never, ever getting behind the wheel again, a sentiment that's just fine with me, because 16 is simply way too young to operate such a complex piece of machinery.

My, how I have changed.

For years I counted down the days until the calendar turned to April 22, 1981.  For on that day, I would turn 16.  Then I could finally experience the thrill of getting into the driver's seat, turning the key in the ignition, and taking off to anywhere I wanted to go!  No more walking or riding a bike for me....I'd be a legal, licensed driver!!

Until I reached that fateful birthday, "pretend" driving would have to suffice.  As a young school girl, my friends and I would climb behind the wheel of my mother's "no longer functioning" 1969 Rambler. I am sure, at some point in time, my mother actually drove the Rambler. However, for as long as I can remember, the car sat idle, defunct, parked outside of our house, a perfect vehicle to propel young imaginations to a future where, as licensed drivers, we could travel to the supermarket, the bank, the drug store and all sorts of "exotic" locations frequented by our hum drum parents.

The 1969 Rambler

Finally, the day came for me to take my driver's test, and I am embarrassed to say........I failed.  To this day, I blame my ineptitude on my mother, who had the nerve to start an argument with me on the way to the Department of Motor Vehicles. (Now that I am the mother of a 16-year old, I can say with much certainty that the fight was most likely started by my 16-year old self, not my mom.)

A few weeks later, I tried again, with dad as my escort to the Department of Motor Vehicles.  This time, I am happy to say.......I PASSED!  I could now, finally fulfill my life-long ambition to drive a car!

The envy of all of my "not yet 16" friends, I couldn't wait to hit the road.  My parents purchased a huge, ugly, brown, boat-sized vehicle that I happily navigated throughout the streets of my neighborhood. The front seat, wide enough for a basketball player to sleep comfortably, stretched straight across, without any pesky gear shifts or cup holders separating the driver's side from the passenger's.  Every weekend I trekked the short distance to my "not yet 16" friend Wendy's house. She'd hop into the car I had affectionately named "Betsy Boat" and slid all the way over until she was practically sitting on top of me. Then I let her take the wheel of the car, while I controlled the brake and accelerator, and around the town we drove!

How we were never arrested, I'll never know.

Wendy and me

Today, Wendy and I are both moms to 16-year olds. Will our kids try the same type of "illegal" shenanigans with their friends?  We'll probably never know.

What's more, as moms we now have to worry about technology that didn't exist during the dinosaur era when we learned to operate a vehicle.

Will our kids reach for their phone while cruising down the highway?

Will our kids have the patience to wait to respond to the familiar ding of an incoming text until they are safely out of the car?

Sigh.

I could forbid Melissa to drive until she's 30, but I know that her urge to get behind the wheel will continue to grow stronger until I'll be forced to relent.

I'm sure, in a few months or so, after I finally get used to the idea that I gave birth to a child who can drive, I'll appreciate her willingness to run out for a gallon of milk.  But for now, I am, quite simply, just not ready to let her become a licensed driver.....because that also means I'll have to try to let her go.

And I can't.

Oh well, maybe she'll fail driver's ed.  One can only hope!


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