The Apology

I stood there, frozen, with a basketball in my hands as I listened to the daring taunts of my preteen peers.

"Throw it Lisa"

"Throw it Lisa"

"Throw it Lisa"

The target? The garage door of the Smith House (not their real name).  My peers had been bombarding that garage door all day in a successful attempt to annoy the Smith family. For reasons I'll never know, they decided that I should have a turn, and handed the ball to me, a shy, gawky 11-year old who most certainly knew right from wrong.

If I threw the ball I would betray all the good my parents had instilled....if I didn't throw the ball I knew that my preteen peers would find a new target....me.

Be bullied or become a bully?

Those were my choices.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith had three sons, ages 4, 7, and 10.  To this day, I'll never quite understand why the Smith family was so disliked by every kid on my street.

Those poor Smith boys were teased.

Relentlessly teased.

Most of the time the assaults were verbal, although on occasion the oldest Smith boy bore the physical brunt of one or more of the brutish boys on the block.

On that fateful summer day, the kids had decided that pounding the Smith's garage door with a basketball would be a great way to while away an afternoon.  Each time the ball hit the garage door, Mr. Smith screamed out the window for them to stop, giving those kids even more incentive to take turns throwing the ball with all of their might.

Then they handed the ball to me.

Be bullied or become a bully?

Much to my overwhelming regret I chose to become a bully.  I threw the ball, which hit the garage door with a sickening bang.

An uneasy silence followed.

We waited for Mr. Smith's familiar scream out the window.  But no scream came.

Suddenly.....the unthinkable happened.

Mr. Smith came storming outside as a group of petrified preteens scattered in every direction!

No sooner had I run into the safety of my house, a knock came at the door.

IT WAS MR. SMITH!

Even though at least a dozen kids had thrown a basketball at his garage door that day, Mr. Smith chose to speak to my mother.  I suppose he thought of me as a good girl.  A shy, gawky 11-year old good girl who wouldn't succumb that easily to peer pressure.  He expected bad behavior from the other kids...but surely not from me.

I don't remember my mother's punishment that day, nor after all this time does it really matter. I just know that nearly 40 years later, the memory still haunts me.

Shortly after that incident, a "For Sale" sign went up on the Smith's front lawn. I heard that they moved to protect their kids. They found a neighborhood where their sons could grown up without being bullied.

For years I longed to apologize to the Smith boys for the small role I had played in forcing them to move. But I soon learned that saying sorry isn't always the best way to go after I received a very strange apology from a woman I barely knew.

Her guilt-ridden words came via Facebook messenger.  She wanted to apologize for something mean she had said to me during our senior year of high school, way back in 1983.

I had no recollection of the incident. What's more, I had no recollection of this woman. I didn't remember her name, nor did I show any glimmer of recognition when I viewed photos on her Facebook page.

I wondered why, after all of these years, she had reached out to me. If she somehow thought her apology would make me feel better after being the target of a hurtful diatribe spoken decades earlier, she failed miserably. Why on Earth would I want to be reminded of something hurtful that had long been forgotten?

Perhaps she wanted to assauge her own guilt, rather than ease her victim's pain.

That's when I realized that my reason for wanting to apologize to the Smith boys was completely selfish. I too, wanted to assauge my own guilt, rather than ease their pain.

I reconnected with one of the Smith boys not too long ago.  I appreciated his warm greeting even though he barely remembered anything about me.  He had been blessed with a beautiful wife and children, and most important, he seemed quite happy.

I could have apologized for throwing the basketball against his garage back in 1976.....but why bring up something that had probably long been forgotten.

So I didn't apologize.

There was no longer any need.

Me, circa 1976 - during my gawky preteen days

To learn more about preventing, stopping, and responding to bullying, visit http://www.stopbullying.gov/

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The Mother's Day Video

My small family reluctantly stumbled out of bed much too early than should be allowed for a Saturday morning.  After listening to our alarm clock force us awake at 6 am every morning of the work week, my husband Bob and I longed to take advantage of the weekend break and cuddle for just a few minutes longer under the cozy, warm covers.

But alas, t'was not meant to be.

Dozens and dozens of teenagers were waiting for my 17- year old daughter Melissa's arrival at their youth group weekend retreat located at an overnight camp roughly an hour and a half away....and mom and dad could not disappoint.

We ran through the house, grabbed our coffee and keys, and gently encouraged Melissa to get it in gear, lest her friends dare start the fun without her.  Before walking out the door Melissa pointed to a sealed envelope sitting suspiciously on top on her computer keyboard.

"You are not to open this until tomorrow morning!" she commanded.

"Ok," I replied with a shrug.

"I'm serious," she said. "You can't open it until Mother's Day. Promise me you won't open it until Mother's Day."

"Ok, ok, I promise, now let's go!"

As Mother's Day dawned the next morning, I realized with a twinge of sadness that the people who meant the most to me, the people who had made me a mother, were not there.

Melissa would come home later that day, happy and exhausted from her weekend retreat.

Bob had kissed me goodbye an hour earlier as he put on his "music producer" hat and headed to a studio to put the finishing touches on five beautiful, original songs that Melissa wrote and recorded. He too, would be home later that day.

I knew a call would come soon enough from my step-daughter Jessica and her husband Brian, whose love spanned the three hour distance between us.

Yet, at that moment, in the wee morning hours, my family seemed like worlds away.

I was a mother, alone, on Mother's Day.

Fortuately, I still had the envelope. The suspicious envelope that sat on top of the computer keyboard, waiting to be opened.

I pulled out a greeting card which contained the following instructions, hand written by my daughter.

Step 1: Go to my lap top
Step 2: Open it
Step 3: Located in the middle of the screen is an icon that says "Mother's Day Best Day" Click on it
Step 4: Watch and cry

She should have included "Step 5 - Get Tissues".

The video featured Melissa playing guitar and, with a voice like an angel, performing a cover of  "The Best Day", a heartfelt song written by Taylor Swift as a poignant tribute to her mother.

As my baby girl sang, a photo montage transformed the computer screen into a visual history of my cherub's life journey with mom by her side.

Melissa playing in the snow, bundled so tightly she could barely see.

Melissa dressed as Tigger, experiencing Halloween for the first time.

Melissa and mom splashing in the pool.

Daddy and big sister Jessica.

Birthdays and holidays.

A high school awards ceremony.

The Junior Prom.

My tears came without warning.

Uncontrollable tears.

Tears for a young lady whose childhood seemed to have slipped through my fingers...despite my monumental efforts to never let go.

Tears for a sweet baby who has evolved before my very eyes into this incredible person who is now in high school, who drives a car, who writes her own music, who volunteers as president of her youth group, who works a part-time job, who spends hours laughing with her friends.

Tears for a beautiful young woman who has less and less time ......for me.

Next year, she will graduate high school and continue on her life journey alone, with mom no longer by her side.

Yet, the time and love she put into the video told me one very important thing.

I still matter.

And I know I always will.

                   ~

Click the link below to watch Melissa's Mother's Day Video.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DfuIpBCLmJM

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*Bathing Suit Shopping
(A great way to build self-esteem)

Walk into your neighborhood book store and head on over to the self-help section.  Once there, you'll be sure to find rows upon rows of well written words of advise from self-proclaimed doctors, psychologists, and get well gurus who will gladly fill your head with pages of wondrous wisdom designed to lead you on the path to endless joy and self-fulfillment.

However, I have a faster way to get  you thinking about how wonderful you are.

Go bathing suit shopping.

Seriously.

In every department store in the world, sales reps should change the signage from "bathing suit" department  to "self-help" department.  For once there, you'll hear women crying, screaming, pounding their heads on the walls, all in an effort to "let it all out" and follow that glorious path of self-improvement!

It had been quite some time since I took this self-improvement journey.  However, during a recent visit to  our local swim club, I looked down at the bathing suit fit snugly on my body and noticed a (gasp) tear in the fabric.  Hoping my fellow pool mates would not see the 10 foot long  quarter inch rip across my stomach, I hurriedly threw a t-shirt over my head and hid my suit from public view  for the remainder of the day.

Of course, after discovering this wardrobe malfunction, I realized I could no longer don this particular piece of swim wear, leaving me with only one bathing suit left in my closet.  I could opt to wear this same suit over and over, however, my pool mates would most certainly notice.

Pool mate one:  "Can you believe Lisa is wearing that bathing suit again?"
Pool mate two: "I know, she wore it last weekend, can you believe it?"
Pool mate one:  "She probably didn't even wash it."
Pool mate two: "Well at least she's not wearing that horrible suit with the 10 inch tear."

With no other choice left to me, I set out to procure a new bathing suit, and to build some self-esteem along the way.

So off I traveled to the department store and proceeded to the "self-improvement" section. I suppose many women had already visited this part of the store for enlightenment, since the majority of the suits were marked at 60 percent off.  Woo hoo!  I felt better already.

Although the self-improvement section had slim pickings, I managed to find a handful in my size (whale).  Carrying suits of yellow, orange, black, and blue, I made my way into the dressing room.  The distinct sounds of sobs told me I had come to the right place.  I smiled to myself, knowing that so many other women were coming here to feel better.

I secured the dressing room door and wrestled with bathing suit number one, which immediately transformed me into a hippopotamus.  Although the "zoo animal" look certainly was chic, I decided to keep searching.

A sizzling, multi-colored number beckoned to me, and I happily struggled to get my various body parts through and under and around and over the multiple twists and straps.  I glanced in the mirror, only to see a reflection of a well endowed woman who revealed much more of her "endowment" than anyone but her husband should ever see, if you know what I mean.  I could feel the lump start to form in the back of my throat.  Oh boy, my self-esteem monitor was really started to rise!!

Next came a black beauty which promised to turn each woman who dared squeeze through the straps into a runway model.  I put one leg in, then the other, and up I pulled.  Yes, I could certainly see myself walking down the runway in this little baby....if I had been modeling MATERNITY CLOTHES.

The lump in my throat grew in size as I wiped a tear off my puffy cheek.  I was not afraid to let my emotions flow freely and fully embrace this self-improvement stuff!

One more to try on, a conservative blue and white bland bathing suit which sat alone on the rack, marked at 80 percent off, and praying that someone, anyone, would take it for a spin.  This time, the suit slid on quite easily, and my "endowment" fit nice and snug and secure in all of the right places.  I turned to look in the mirror and there, staring back at me stood......my grandmother.  Perhaps the suit was a bit too conservative.

With tears flowing freely, I took all of the bathing suits and threw them on the floor of the dressing room, feeling much, much to good about myself to properly return them to their hangers.

I walked out of the department store empty handed, but with a healthy dose of renewed self-esteem.

I can't wait to go suit shopping again!!!

Me at about age 5...the last time I felt comfortable in a bathing suit!

(*This post originally ran in May, 2012 - and I still "enjoy" bathing suit shopping just as much!)

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The College Visit

I graduated from Temple University's School of Communications and Theater with a journalism degree in hand, ready to conquer the "real" world and leave my carefree college days behind.

I could barely imagine nearly three decades would pass before I returned to the school, located two miles north of Philadelphia's thriving center city.

A school that held so many memories.

Good memories.

Awesome memories.

Memories that came back, in all of their vivid glory, when I set foot on the campus on a recent Friday, my daughter Melissa, a high school junior, by my side.

Melissa came to this college tour somewhat unsure of what to expect. The product of a suburban upbringing, she originally dismissed the idea of a large urban campus like Temple, thinking that a small rural or suburban college would suit her just fine.  However, when I learned she wanted to emulate her mom and study public relations and communications, I strongly suggested she at least visit my alma mater.

The university has changed, grown, evolved with the times.  In my day, if a student ordered a "Grande Espresso Macchiato" from the campus cafeteria, she would get nothing but a confused stare in return. Today, students can order their macchiato at 3:00 in the morning if they want, thanks to the 24-hour Starbucks that provides much-needed caffeine to co-eds cramming for finals.

But improvements in the coffee offerings are just the beginning.  In my day, (the paleolithic era) students wrote their term papers using an electric typewriter. Today, the campus boasts a sophisticated tech center with hundreds of MACs and PCs, new restaurants, a hotel, and the completely renovated and barely recognizable student center where I whiled away so many hours of my college experience.

Yet, some things still remained the same. The famous hut selling piping hot soft pretzels to ravenous students, the open spaces, the trees, the park benches where, as an incoming freshman, I sat quietly observing the new world around me, relishing in the joy of knowing it was ok, on a campus of 25,000 students, to simply be alone.

It had been a cathartic contrast to high school, where it was defintely not ok to be alone.

In my high school, students were unfairly labeled by their peers as   "the popular kids"  "the geeks"  "the jocks", or "the druggies."   But then, there were the students like me. The lonely, awkward kids who failed to fit into any of these categories.  The kids who didn't draw attention...who failed to be noticed. The kids who were loners.

Loners who were unfairly labeled as losers.

College changed all that.

I entered Temple University and embraced my individuality, my solitude, my willingness to sit alone on a park bench where nobody judged me.  It was a feeling unlike any I had experienced in my young life.

I felt liberated.

I felt free.

Happily, the solitude I so willingly embraced did not last for long. A group of friends entered my new college world. Friends who became inseparable during my tenure at Temple.  A group of wonderful people who never put a label on me, who only loved me for me....and 28 years later, still do!

The soft echoes of those carefree days full of friendship and laughter followed me as Melissa and I joined the guided campus tour. We visited the tech center and the School of Media and Communications, the dorms and the dining halls (Melissa's favorite!).  We learned about the curriculum, the wide range of course offerings, the extra curricular activities, internships opportunities, and dozens of ways to get involved, make new friends, and gain valuable experience in preparation for the "real" world.

In my daughter I could sense that familiar longing to break free from the confines and conformity of high school and embrace this new world far beyond the comfort of our quiet suburban neighborhood.

As I looked at Melissa, her face full of wonder, the memories of my college days began to quietly fade away.

For this day, this wonderful moment in time, belonged to Melissa's future, not to her mother's past.

And whether she chooses Temple, or finds another school that's the perfect match, if she's anything like her mom...I know she'll do just fine!

Melissa and me, during a tour of Temple University, enjoying a "famous" soft pretzel

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The Junior Dinner Dance

Ah, the Junior Prom. (Or as my daughter Melissa's school calls it -  the Junior Dinner Dance.)

That exciting right of passage where teenage girls - in true Disney Princess style - glow in their floor length gowns as their tuxedo-clad Prince Charmings (AKA - teenage boys) escort them to "The Ball"!

Months and months in the planning, the day of the Junior Dinner Dance (JDD) had finally arrived! We woke up full of excitement, looked out the window and were greeted by the beauty of the first day of spring.

Wait.

What?

SNOW?

It can't be!

A chance of flurries, they said.



It will probably change to rain, they said.

Nothing to worry about, they said.

There's no way this will turn into a major storm, dump six inches of heavy white stuff on the Philadelphia area, cause power outages, and nearly cancel the prom.

But wait, I am getting a bit ahead of myself.

Melissa and her friend Gabby were scheduled to begin the "Princess Transformation Process" at our house at 1 pm.  First hair, then make up, then gowns, then shoes, then off to their friend Lena's where nine couples (and 18 sets of parents) were planning to gather for the obligatory pre-prom pictures.

However, nine couples and 18 sets of parents had not counted on winter extending its fury into the first day of spring.

How were the "Princesses" going to walk in their gowns and  "Glass Slippers" when the scene outside our window looked more like Siberia than suburban New Jersey?

I proposed a solution. The girls would complete their hair and make up at our house, wear jeans and snow boots to walk to the car, then put on their gowns upon arrival at Lena's.

Crisis averted.

In the morning, Lena's mom sent out a frantic email to all of the parents, begging them to bring golf umbrellas to cover our "Princesses" - lest even one snowflake fall onto their hairspray-infused heads.

I ran to the drug store, parted with $25, and ran out with an umbrella large enough to cover the population of Rhode Island.

By the time I arrived home, everything in sight had disappear under a thick blanket of the forecasted  "light flurries", including the path that the "Princesses" would need to walk from the front door to the car.

I grabbed a shovel and set to work.

Crisis averted.

In the meantime, the two "princesses-to-be" were surrounded by curling irons, combs, brushes, bobby pins, hair spray, blush, eye shadow, foundation, lipstick, and my curious cat who stuck his nose into everything, much to the girls' chagrin.

Fearing that the ten minute drive to Lena's might take much longer due to the storm, I hurried the girls along, hoping they could achieve perfection 15 minutes ahead of schedule.

But the storm has one more trick up its sleeve.

The thick snow was wrecking havoc on our township's power lines.

The lights throughout the house ominously blinked on and off, on and off, and on again.

Melissa and Gabby grabbed their curling irons.

On and off and on again....

Melissa and Gabby created one more curl.

On and off and on again....

Melissa and Gabby unplugged their curling irons.

On and off and....darkness!

But it didn't matter. Electricity was no longer needed.  These two Princesses had, indeed, achieved perfection!

At Lena's, a professional photographer captured the beauty of each Prince and Princess as the proud parents snapped away with their iPhones. Suddenly, every mom and dad heard the familiar tone alerting them to an incoming text - from none other than the principal of the high school.

The JDD had been postponed from 7 to 8 pm, explained Mr. Principal. However, if road conditions did not improve, he would seriously consider cancelling.

Eighteen teenagers and their parents let out a collective groan.

Then we waited, and waited, and waited.

An hour later, Mr. Principal texted again. The snow had turned to rain, roads were getting better, and my "Cinderella" would finally get to go to the ball.

Crisis averted.

Or so we thought.

Eighteen sets of parents had all agreed to share the cost of two limos to provide round trip transportation for the kids.... limos that should have been parked outside of Lena's home.

So we waited, and waited, and waited.

Finally, the driver turned onto the street, blaming the storm for his delay.

One by one, each Prince and Princess, a golf umbrella in hand, cautiously made their way through the slush and snow and climbed into the limo.

Crisis averted?  No. Not yet.

Eighteen sets of parents watched with baited breath as the limo driver tried again and again to back out of the steep, snow-covered driveway.



Finally, he made it onto the street.  Eighteen Prince and Princesses were off for the time of their lives, while eighteen sets of parents breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Crisis averted!

My daughter Melissa (far left) and her friends pose for the official Junior Prom photos.

*In honor of St. Patrick's day, I am sharing a post that originally ran in March, 2012.  I have made some minor edits to the original post.

Melissa vs. The Leprechaun 

For my teenage daughter Melissa, St. Patrick's Day marks the anniversary of her "terrifying" encounter with a leprechaun.  Step back in time with me, if you will, to March 17, 2007.  When the aptly-named third grade teacher Miss Green (I am not kidding) read stories about these fabled, feisty Irish fairies to her young charges, Melissa and her friend Sarah became determined to actually catch one of these mischievous munchkins.  Even though leprechauns have outwitted generations of trap-setting Irishmen, two  nine year old girls were convinced that they, and they alone, would succeed!

Melissa and Sarah spent hours developing a comprehensive trap-setting plan.  Step one involved a St. Patrick's Day eve sleepover, for surely that would be the best day for a leprechaun to be caught in the act.  Our house became the designated leprechaun lure, with Melissa's bedroom setting the stage for the over-the-top trap!

As Sarah and Melissa approached the task at hand, they decided the best way to trap a leprechaun would be to turn the bedroom into a "little green man" resort and spa.  Steaming hot water helped to transform a soup bowl into a soothing leprechaun hot tub.  Construction paper and green crayons invited the leprechaun to express his creativity, while green confetti and Lucky Charms cereal set the celebratory mood.  Barbie dolls were dressed in their Sunday best as they sat ready and waiting for the leprechaun to invite them to play, and of course, gold coins aplenty (the chocolate version) were strategically placed in a bowl in the middle of the floor.

As the girls put the finishing touches on the trap, they started having second thoughts about their devious plan.  Suddenly, it seemed like trapping the little guy would not be a very nice thing to do. But still, they didn't want their hard work to go to waste.  That's when Melissa and Sarah crafted a new plan. If the leprechaun came, he would not have to worry about being duped by two nine-year old girls. Instead, the girls would simply observe him at play while they pretended to be asleep.

With all of the wheels in motion, the only task that remained was to climb into bed and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And while they waited, excitement turned to trepidation, trepidation turned to fear, then fear turned to terror.

What if the leprechaun became evil?

Would he attack them?

Were they safe?

WHAT HAD THEY DONE?!

In the meantime, the "leprechaun" waited and waited and waited for the girls to fall asleep so "he" could sneak in undetected and check into the resort and spa.  The "leprechaun", who in reality stood 5' 5" tall, had long brown hair, and answered to the name of "mom", slowly tiptoed into Melissa's room. The girls moved ever so slightly, perhaps sensing a presence.  Mom froze, waiting until both girls were silent and still.  Then mom tipped over the water, tossed the barbies around, stole most of the gold coins, and used the green crayon to write a note of thanks for the fun.

In the morning, the girls woke up and were absolutely astounded by the site!  The leprechaun had come and played in the bedroom and made a mess and left them a note, AND THEY SLEPT RIGHT THROUGH THE ENTIRE THING!

As for the leprechaun (AKA - Mom) instead of placing the newly found "gold" in the pot at the end of the rainbow, she stuffed the coins were into the bottom of a sock drawer, never to be seen again...or so we thought.

~ ~ ~

About a year later, I asked Melissa to help me with the laundry.  I folded the socks, while she put them away.

"Mom, why are there gold coins in Daddy's sock drawer?"

Uh oh.

Danger!  Danger!  Think fast!  Think fast!

"Well, the leprechaun must have put them there to hide them from you."

"Oh, ok. That makes sense."

I heaved a sign of relief.  My naive little daughter actually believed me!

Or so I thought.

A few days later as we struggled through the nightly ritual of brushing of her long, knot-infested hair, she asked the question I had been dreading.

"Mom, are you really the leprechaun?"

Uh oh.

"What?  No, of course not!"

"Really Mom, it's ok, you can tell me the truth, I won't be mad."

"Seriously sweety, I am not the leprechaun."

"Really Mom, I won't be mad, I promise."

"Alright sweety, you're right.  It was me," came my guilty admission.  "I was really the leprechaun, it was me who snuck into your room in the middle of the night."

Pause.

Pause.

"YOU TRICKED ME!  YOU LIED TO ME!   WAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

So much for Melissa's promise of not getting mad.

Oh well.  Since I had already blown my cover, I decided to also come clean about the tooth fairy and Santa Clause.  Being Jewish, the latter didn't bother her quite so much, but I made her promise not to spill the beans to her friends who still believed in St. Nick.  Even though I had spoiled the fun, Melissa's friends still deserved to enjoy a few more moments of childhood innocence.

In trying to bring to life to my baby girl's imagination, I had donned an alter ego, only to lose her trust once my secret was revealed.  If I could, I would become the leprechaun every year, even when she is married with kids of her own.  I want her to relish in those childhood fantasies where the existence of little green men is never questioned, and fairies really do exchange teeth for treasure.  For all too soon, reality takes hold and childhood evolves into a grown up world, devoid of fantasy and wonder.

This year, as St. Patrick's Day approached, Sarah called Melissa and invited her to a March 17th sleepover. Seems the girls want to relive the past, treasure the memory, and just maybe, reenact their terrifying showdown with the leprechaun.

Perhaps they're not quite so ready to grow up after all!

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A Valentine's Day Like No Other

One of the best things about living in the southern part of New Jersey is that we can fill up the gas tank, hit the road and be in my home town of Philadelphia in 30 minutes, at the beaches and casinos of the Jersey shore in 60 minutes, in New York City in 90 minutes, and in our nation's capital in three hours.

However, when it came to planning a Valentine's weekend getaway, my husband Bob and I were stumped.  We had the choice of all of the great places listed above...but we've been to every single one of them, over and over and over again.

We wanted to escape the cold and mundane that had defined our winter. We wanted something new. Something different. Something romantic. Something fun. Something within a few hours drive from home.

The weekend held an extra incentive for us to get away.  Our 17-year old daughter Melissa would be boarding a plane to Atlanta for a leadership conference sponsored by the B'nai B'rith Youth Organization (BBYO).  We could pack our bags in search of adventure without having to worry about leaving her home alone.

But where to go?  Where to go?

Bob, an American history buff, had long sought to take a vacation visiting civil war battles sites (yawn).  But this time, unless we wanted to brave arctic tempertures, touring historic outdoor battlefields would have to wait until the warmer months.

So where to go, where to go?

A quick google search revealed an indoor civil war museum about two hours away in Harrisburg, the capital of Pennsylvania (yawn). Not romantic. Not really fun.  But it did count as something different, within a few hours drive from home.  We booked a hotel near the museum, made dinner reservations, and looked forward to a getaway, no matter how potentially boring it might be.

Come Valentine's morning, I jumped out of bed in preparation for our mini "vacation".  An hour later, with my hair curled to perfection and my suitcase packed, I gently encouraged my sleepy honey to rise from his slumber.  He sat up, put his feet on the floor, and attempted to lift his body into a standing position, only to fall back onto the bed.

He tried to stand up once more, only to have the same thing happen again.

"I feel dizzy and nauseous," he said in response to my look of concern.

"Give it a few minutes," I replied. "Maybe you're just groggy."

My advice proved useless, as an attempt to walk across the bedroom nearly caused him to fall flat on his face.

I made him some toast, hoping beyond hope it would be the miracle he needed to get past the nausea and start packing for our trip.

"Lisa, I am really sorry but there is no way I can go away feeling like this," he said.

"It's ok," I lied, trying to hide my disappointment.  "We can go another time."

Sigh.

One of the best hair days I ever had would be wasted on another cold, mundane weekend at home.

I changed out of my "going away" outfit, put on comfy sweats, then poured myself a bowl of cereal while Bob tried to sleep off his sickness.

An entire day with no plans stretched out before me.

A Valentine's Day with no plans.

What to do?  What to do?

I decided to use the gift of unexpected time to work on a scrapbook I was making for a friend's birthday.  As I dove into the ardous task of scouring through 2,479 photo albums, the realization hit me.  Here I was, sitting on the living room floor, knee deep in photos, while my poor husband lay upstairs in bed, sick as a dog.

Ok, so we wouldn't be spending Valentine's Day learning about the Civil War. We wouldn't be going to the hotel, or eating at a great restaurant.  But certainly, we could still be together!

I picked up as many photo albums as I could carry, heaved them upstairs to my bedroom, and plopped down next to Bob.  Together, we looked at picture after picture, the images taking us back to first days of school, vacations, holidays, and birthdays.

As the hours passed by, we watched TV.  We laughed.  We cuddled.  We hugged.

And slowly but surely, he started to feel better.

By the end of the day, I no longer longed to get away.

By the end of the day, life no longer seemed quite so mundane.

I had the love of my life, right next to me in bed.

It was a Valentine's Day like no other.

It was the best Valentine's ever!

My Bob...the best Valentine ever!

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