The Last Show

My husband Bob and I first enrolled our daughter in day camp at the tender age of six. While we were thrilled with the prospect of our offspring learning to swim, play softball, and create arts and crafts projects for display in my office, Melissa did not share our enthusiasm.

My cherub would have preferred to spend July and August taking advantage of one of the most important inventions of modern times (air conditioning). However, we had no choice. Bob and I both held full-time jobs, and full-time sitters were hard to find.

So my daughter suffered for seven long summers before we finally lamented. As a middle school student, she had matured far beyond the age where we could force her to board the bus for camp. Yet passing the time between seventh grade's end and the start of eighth by staring at the TV was simply not an option.

Enter an unlikely advocate in our quest for a more meaningful summer....Melissa's history teacher. When not spending his time educating apathetic adolescents about ancient Egypt, Mr. "D". served as Director of a summer drama camp production of The Music Man....and Melissa's friends couldn't wait to audition!

My daughter's excitement evoked memories of my senior year in high school when I joined the ensemble cast (despite my lack of ability to sing or dance) of an obscure musical called "The Boyfriend".  The experience earned its place among the best of my teenage years, and I couldn't wait for Melissa to capture that feeling.

I became a member of a diligent group of "Drama Mamas" who supported the show by selling ads in the program book, constructing the set, and staffing the refreshment table during intermission.

Forced to dress in early 19th century garb and placed unceremoniously in the back behind dozens of more experienced actors for every ensemble scene, Melissa nevertheless embraced the adventure and couldn't wait for more!

Bob and me with our "Maid" Melissa

During 8th grade she earned the title of "Maid" in her middle school production of Annie, and as a high school freshman, she rocked out as part of the cast of Footloose. 

But the pinnacle came during her sophomore year when her school took on the ambitious task of performing the classic broadway musical, Les Miserable.

When Melissa shared this exciting news, I admit to feeling a small amount of skepticism. How could a group of teens pull off such a powerful, professional musical where the entire story is told through song?

At the end of the day, the director of Les Mis cast her as a girlfriend of one of the students. It gave her the chance to showcase her beautiful voice as part of a group of young ladies singing a sorrowful melody about the sensesless loss of life of the young, idealistic students turned soldiers.

Aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins came
to see Melissa in Les Mis

All told, Les Mis broke records for the high school's show. Each of the six sold out performances found the cast bowing to thunderous applause by an audience on their feet in awe and admiration.

In her junior year,  Melissa joined the ensemble cast of Oklahoma, another chance to share the stage with the castmates and crew who had become the closest of friends.

Fast forward to February 27, 2016 when the curtain closed on the school's final performance of the fun-filled, whimsical Disney classic, Peter Pan.

It was the last show.

Melissa's last school show.

The last school show for all of the seniors who traded in countless carefree evenings and weekends in favor of long, tedious rehearsals. The last school show for the seniors who juggled homework and tests and lack of sleep while giving 100 percent to their passion for performing.

The last school show for the seniors who have evolved into incredibly talented actors and actresses in their own right, many of whom will go on to study musical theater in college.

The last school show for the moms and dad who spent countless frigid evenings waiting in their cars for their kids to emerge from late rehearsals.

The last school shows for the moms and dads who helped their kids learn their lines and practice their songs.

The last school show for the moms and dads who sold candy, built sets, and bought tons of tickets for relatives far and wide.

The last school show for the moms and dads who came to every performance, who watched with delight and wonder for that shining moment when their child took the stage - no matter how large or small the part.

The last school show for the moms and dad who supported, invested, and loved the experience with a passion that riveled that of their kids.

Next year at this time I am sure that Melissa will come home from American University in Washington, DC where she'll be studying communications and public relations. I'm sure she'll want to see the school show, and there's a chance I might go see it too.

But it won't be the same.

It will never be the same.

For the show has ended...and it's time to move on.

The seniors of Shawnee High School's production of Peter Pan.
Melissa, who played a Lost Boy, is in the first row, far right, wearing the white baseball hat.

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The Slide Show on Plaza Place

I cried when I heard the news.

My beloved grandparents were moving to Atlantic City.

Sure, it was only a 90 minute drive from our home in the northeast section of Philadelphia, but to a 10-year old girl, Atlantic City might as well have been on the opposite coast.

"We'll never get to see you!" I wailed, not realizing how very, very wrong I would be.

My grandparents' cozy, one-bedroom apartment on the 12th floor of a beach-front high rise became host to my family more often than I could ever have imagined.  The building, called Plaza Place, was so named not because it boasted rich and famous tenants, but because it was built on a street of the same name.

We certainly visited during the colder months, but it was those summer days...those warm sweet summer days, that captured our fancy.

My older sister Bev and I spent our adolescent Plaza Place days flirting with the cute teenage lifeguards at the pool or helping our little brother Steven build sandcastles on the beach. Evenings in 1970's pre-casino Atlantic City brought everyone to the boardwalk, the place for parents to see and be seen while their kids played skeeball at dozens of arcades or rode the coaster at the now defunct Million Dollar Pier.

But the best part of a trip to my grandparents' apartment?

The slide show!

After one of my grandmother's delicious dinners, the family would relax for a bit before heading to the boardwalk. That's when Bev and I begged my grandfather to bring out the slide projector.

He pretended to object at first, but Bev and I knew we would always get our way. He'd set up the screen, pull out the projector, place the slide deck on top, all the while hiding the twinkle in his eyes.

Instead of developing his film into the more traditional photo album-ready prints, my grandfather chose to have his pictures made into thousands of slides, and ninety percent of them contained what I considered to be incredibly boring images of vacation destinations from exotic locales across the globe.

However, my grandfather took delight in "secretly" placing family photos at the end of each vacation slide deck. That meant we were forced to politely sit through what felt like 3,794 images of Russia or Spain or Portugal or Egypt. We waited in anticipation, listening to that distinctive "kachunk" sound the projector made when my grandfather pressed the button to advance to the next slide. We never knew which images would appear on the screen. Pictures of Bev and me holding our infant baby brother, pictures of us frolicking in the ocean, pictures of birthday parties, dance recitals, holiday dinners...he had them all. Precious memories placed strategically at the end of each deck.

Today those memories are stacked unceremoniously amid dozens and dozens of boxes of slides bathed in decades of dust and grime inside my parents' garage.

Lost memories hidden in slides that are impossible to see without a projector and screen.

Lost memories that someday, someday, I'll find a way to transfer to prints.

Not surprisingly, there are very few photos of my grandfather hidden amongst those slides, for he took pride in his skills behind the camera, not in front. When a devastating stroke took its toll, my grandfather passed his treasured Nikon to me.

As a young adult, I used my grandfather's gift to capture autumn's spendor, spectacular sunsets, and scenic gardens in spring-time bloom. But I soon realized what I longed to capture belonged not to nature, but to my heart.  I captured photos of the college friends who joined with me on the journey through our 20s, where fun began when the work day ended as night clubs held promise for finding our future Mr. Right.

I captured photos of an adorable guy named Bob whose title soon changed from boyfriend to husband.  I captured photos of a newborn baby girl named Melissa....a toddler at play...a pre-teen frolicking with friends in the ocean...birthday parties, dance recitals, holiday dinners....I had them all.

Today, instead of viewing treasured family photos on a screen in my grandparents' Plaza Place living room, I can simply scroll through life's moments conveniently stored on my phone. Yes, the technology has changed, but the time-honored tradition of reliving my memories has not.

In the coming months, I'll add photos of a high-school graduation to those memories....and before long, bittersweeet images of college move-in day.

Perhaps, just perhaps, when my "baby" is tucked away in a distant dorm, that's when I'll finally find the time to tackle the ardous task of transferring those slides to prints.

And while my daughter embraces her exciting future, I will embrace my distant past.... where summer nights found my family gathered in a cozy living room to watch the slide show on Plaza Place.

Me (in the orange coat) with my sister Bev and our beloved grandmother Ann.
One of thousands of pictures stored in my grandfather's old slides.

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House for Sale

It felt right.

Everything about it felt right.

Well, almost everything. I'll admit, some repairs were needed. And yes, some updates were in store. But the oversized, cozy, eat-in kitchen more than made up for the living and dinings rooms, both decorated with wallpaper that perhaps had been in vogue when purchased circa 1971.

Despite the hideous wallpaper (which has since been torn down), the house met all of our criteria for that long-desired "dream home".

My husband Bob and I found this house thanks to my new job, which required my family to relocate from central New Jersey and look for living space two hours to the south in the spring of 2004. The sale of our tiny townhouse gave us the money we never thought we'd have to make a down payment on a single family home.  A small down payment, but a down payment nonetheless.

We moved into our dream home and two months later, I watched my 7-year old daughter Melissa board a yellow bus, enroute to start first grade in a new school, in a new town.

A new town with new friends to make! A new town with parks and playgrounds to explore! A new town with parades and festivals, quaint boutiques, and neighborhood restaurants where you'd be sure to run into familiar faces week after week.

Our home played host to holiday dinners and birthday celebrations, sleep overs and pool parties. Our home played host to many a night spent helping Melissa with home work assignments, rehearing for school musical auditions, planning youth group events, watching movies together, or simply talking about school, friendships, and of course, boys. Many a night we sat in comfortable silence in the living room, Melissa working on the lyrics to an original song, while I held the computer on my lap, working on yet another blog.

I knew that the days in our dream home were numbered. I knew we wouldn't stay there forever. I knew that the barbie dolls and building blocks that littered the living room floor would soon give way to video games and DVDs, backpacks and text books, and finally, college applications. And I knew that once my Melissa traded the safety and security of our dream home for a tiny dorm on some far away campus that Bob and I would be getting closer to trading  in our dream home for something smaller, more manageable.

I just didn't think it would happen so soon.

My heart didn't want to let go. My heart wanted to hold on.  My heart clung to precious memories of a place where Bob and I raised a sweet little girl and watched with awe and wonder and pride as she transformed into a beautiful, talented, smart, creative, ambitious young lady. A young lady in her senior year of high school. A young lady all too ready to take her rightful place this autumn as a freshmen at American University in Washington DC, three hours away.

My heart held on, but I knew better, and so did my much more logical husband. College came with a price tag, and Bob convinced me that reducing our monthly mortage payments by downsizing would certainly help.

So today, a "For Sale" sign adorns our front lawn and before long, new owners will make their own memories within these walls.

We plan to stay in or near the town we have grown to love. But no matter where we go, or where we live, the dream home where I raised my baby will always be mine. It will live on in precious memories.

It will live on in my heart.

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Beatles Songs and Lullabies

The  "Meet Baby Miles" party had been a huge success. After five months of sharing photos and videos of our grandson with family and friends, my husband Bob and I finally had the chance to show off the world's cutest baby in person.

Thankfully, despite his usual protest at being cooped up in his car seat, Miles fell into a deep sleep while his mommy (my step-daughter Jessica) enjoyed the quiet, uneventful three-hour drive from Washington, D.C. to our house in southern New Jersey. (Her husband Brian was saddled at home with the flu.)

As soon as they walked in the door we were greeted with smiles from Miles (rhyme intended!), and those grins weren't only reserved for us.  He cooed and smiled and laughed and delighted in being held by nearly a dozen of his biggest fans.

At day's end, when the last of the family had walked out the door, Jessica decided to spend the night rather than tackle the long drive home alone during the late evening hours. She took Miles upstairs to my bed, and, with her sister (my 18-year old daughter Melissa) lying by her side, fed the baby,  read him a book, and then attempted to lull him to sleep.

Only one problem.

Baby Miles wanted no part of it.

I fought the urge to join them and instead stayed downstairs with Bob, determined to keep out of the way. I figured too many people in the room would serve as a hinderance rather then a help as they tried unsuccessfully to convince this adorable baby to enter a world of dreams.

From the downstairs living room I heard laughter. I heard cries. I heard cooing.

What I didn't hear was silence.

Finally, I gave in and joined my daughters and grandson on the bed. The baby sat quite comfy in his Aunt Melissa's arms, smiling and cooing and doing nothing that indicated he would ever fall asleep.

Taking advantage of my arrival, Jessica decided to leave us alone for a bit so she could get herself ready for bed.

As his mother closed the door behind her, I cradled the baby in my arms. Melissa snuggled under the covers next to me, giving big smiles to her nephew, who returned her affection with giggles.

Sleeping baby Miles

Drawing on the motherly instincts that sat dormant for nearly two decades, I picked up baby Miles, placed his head on my shoulder, stood up, rocked him gently, and sang him a lullaby. The same lullaby I sang to my newborn baby girl nearly 18 years earlier.

When Melissa had entered my life, I never knew, I never realized, I never imagined that I could love someone that much. I never thought that my heart would burst when I held her in my arms and rocked  her to sleep, singing a Beatles song called "I Will" that I claimed for my own. A lullaby that would forever bond my daughter to me.

Who knows how long I've loved you
You know I love you still
Will I wait a lonely lifetime
If you want me to I will

For if I ever saw you
I didn't catch your name
But it never really mattered
I will always feel the same

Love you forever, and forever
Love you with all my heart
Love you whenever, we're together
Love you when we're apart

And when at last I find you
Your song will fill the air
Sing it loud so I can hear you
Make it easy to be near you
For the things you do endear you to me
Oh you know I will
I will

I instinctively sang those words to my grandson as I rocked him gently in my arms. And as he slowly closed his eyes, I looked over at my 18-year old daughter cuddled so comfy in my bed.

She too, had drifted off to sleep.

The lullaby still worked. An unbroken bond held together by love.

My 18-year old daughter Melissa at 4 months.The lullaby that worked then still works now!

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The Call From the College

The hospital room in the maternity unit had suddenly become quite crowded. My husband Bob, 18-year old daughter Melissa, and I surrounded the bed occupied by our daughter Jessica and her husband Brian, who cradled a tiny miracle....their newborn son, Miles.

Although we could have easily stared at our grandson's sweet face for hours, logic dictated that this labor-weary couple desperately needed rest.

While killing time over sandwiches in the hospital cafeteria, Melissa asked a question, that, little did we know at the time, would forever change her destiny.

"Dad, how far is American University from here?"

Predictably, Bob whipped out his trusty iPhone and repeated the query to Siri, who informed us that travel time to our destination consisted of a mere two miles.

A few minutes later we arrived at the Washington, D.C.-based school with the goal of simply running into the Admissions office to pick up a few brochures, then returning to the hospital. As luck would have it, we stumbled in at the start of a campus tour, and although we lacked a reservation, the sweet woman at the registration desk invited us to come along.

By the time we showed up again in the cramped hospital room, American University had moved to the top of my high school senior's "must apply here" list, a compilation that also included colleges in Philadelphia, Boston, and New York State.

Everything about American University felt right for Melissa, and the close proximity to her sister and newborn nephew came as an added bonus. (I won't mention that the three hours from her parents didn't seem to bother her one bit.)

American University only accepts about 7,000 of the 17,000 plus hopefuls who apply each year, daunting statistics that did not deter my daughter one bit. We attended seminars hosted by admissions counselors, watched videos created by current students, and digested every word on the school's website. Through her research, Melissa carefully and methodically made the choice to apply Early Decision. This type of application is a binding agreement, meaning, if accepted, Melissa must agree to enroll.

So while my offspring began the arduous process of completing the application and responding to 3,974 essay questions, Bob and I began the arduous process of responding to the 3,974 questions on the financial aid forms.

1. Do you own your home?
2. Do you own a car?
3. Do you own any vacation properties?
4. Do you own a business?
5. Do you own a lawn mower?
6. Do you own a blow dryer?
7. Do you own a toaster, a microwave, a television, a computer, a food processor, a waffle maker, a popcorn machine, a DVD player, an exercise bike, a kitchen table, a dining room table, dishes, silverware, mugs, shoes, skirts, dresses, sweatpants, underwear, etc....
8. Would you be willing to sell all of the above to finance your child's college education?

As the Early Decision application deadline approached, Melissa received an invitation to come back to American for a more in-depth experience, including another tour (during a cold October rain storm) and the opportunity to sit in on an actual classroom session conducted by one of the school's esteemed professors.

The day also included a helpful seminar on financial aid options, where the prospective students  gave their full attention struggled to stay awake while their parents popped Xanax and planned how they'd live out their golden years inside a cardboard box atop a city street grate.

Finally, the day arrived. The essays were written, applications were complete, financial aid forms were turned in.

With little fanfare, Melissa hit "submit".

Next on the college search agenda?  Wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

First we were told a decision would be forthcoming by December 31, 2015. Then we were told a decision would be forthcoming anytime between December 15 and December 31. Either way, those dates seemed like 4,375 weeks aways. So all we could do was wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

December 15th came and went. Same for December 16.

On December 17 my cherub called me at work. Seems a friend who had also applied Early Decision to American had already posted about her acceptance on Facebook. Yet Melissa still had not heard a thing.

No acceptance letter came in the mail that day, leaving Bob and me fearing the worst.

"Let's check your portal page on the school's website," I suggested. "Maybe it will tell you if the letters have been mailed."

As luck would have it, moments after a peek at the portal page, which revealed absolutely no information whatsoever, her cell phone began to ring, indicating a call from a Washington, D.C. area code!

Bob and I tried to listen in, but all we could make out was a man's voice on the other end of the line. In the meantime, trying to focus on the conversation and get away from her meddling parents, Melissa walked into the kitchen, then the living room, then the dining room.... (her efforts were for naught as we followed her through the house, clinging to every word she said, which sounded something like this:

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Ok."

"Yes."

"I think so."

"Yes."

"Thank you."

Finally, she:
1. Ended the phone conversation.
2. Looked at her parents.
3. Shouted "I GOT IN!"
4. Burst into tears.

Happy tears! Tears of joy! Tears of relief!

And I cried right along with her.

Tears of joy! Tears of pride! Tears of sorrow and loss as the realization hit with full force....my baby will be going away to college.

My baby will be leaving home....leaving me.

But for now, I will treasure every moment as she experiences all of the "lasts" of senior year and prepares for the next, exciting chapter in her life.

Congratulation Melissa, American University Class of 2020!

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Getting Tossed off the Cruise Ship

After nearly 22 years of wedded bliss I am happy to share that my husband Bob and I never bicker. All of our moments are filled with sunshine and roses and smiles and laughter.  We skip through the house, singing silly love songs, proclaiming our love for each other 24-hours a day.

Yeah, right.

The love is there, in fact it's always there.

But do we bicker?  Of course we bicker!

We bicker over the usual things that cause many a marital rift - money, chores, or his insistance on driving like a homicidal maniac every time he gets behind the wheel.

Yet in the end, the love is always there, and we tell each other so every time we part ways, whether it's leaving each day for work, or before hanging up the phone.

My Bob is kind and caring and affectionate. Whether he is giving me a much-needed hug, or soothing away my stress with a well-timed back massage, his touch is always sweet and gentle.

Except at night.

In the middle of the night to be exact.

I usually start my bedtime routine a bit earlier than my hubs, preferring to wind down by snuggling in bed, curled up with a good book. Bob, on the other hand, watches TV to lull him to sleep, which works quite well.  He typically conks out on the family room sofa, only to wake up in the wee hours of the morning, stumble up the stairs, and join me in bed.

Most nights I don't even wake up when he crawls under the covers, I just take comfort in knowing that in the morning I'll always find him there by my side.

Except for last night.

In the middle of the night to be exact.

Seems my darling husband had what one might describe as an unusual dream.

He worked on a cruise ship and had the strange assignment of throwing people overboard. In fact, his strange dream came with intricate details. He had to toss one respresentative from each of our country's 50 states off the luxury liner and into the sea. (Imagine the odds of a representative from each of the 50 states being on the same cruise ship. That must have been some dream.)

Unfortunately, seems like I was the chosen cruise ship passenger from New Jersey, or at least that's the only thing I can think of to explain my husband's behavior.

There's nothing quite like being in a deep, deep restful sleep when all of the sudden the fist of your betrothed hits you square in the jaw.

I have read articles about the body's reaction to being attacked. In that instant, the brain decides to either:

1. Fight

OR

2. Flight

I could have chosen Option 2,  jumped out of bed and allowed him to throw the pillows overboard. (There are 4 pillows on the bed, he could've easily knocked off Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, and Arkansas.) But instead I chose Option 1, figuring if I didn't attempt to wake him up, who knows how many bruised body parts I'd have before he got down to tossing the rep from Wyoming off the ship.

My poor Bob, obviously unaware of his actions, awakened to find his wife beating the crap out of him and screaming, "What the hell is wrong with you!"

Of course, having no control over his dreams, he felt absolutely terrible for his actions and apologized more times than you can imagine.

Nevertheless, I think I'll encourage my love to simply stay on the sofa tonight.  Either that or I'll wear body armour to bed. Because you never know when that cruise ship will sail again.

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Mornings with Melissa

Each morning, My 18-year old daughter Melissa's iPhone alarm rings at 5:45 am.  As for me, I enjoy those last few moments of precious sleep until my clock radio shakes me awake a mere 15 minutes later.

As I stumble into the bathroom to embrace my routine, she's already downstairs eating breakfast.

Ocassionally, our fiesty feline will try to convince me that his favorite human (Melissa) neglected to serve his morning friskies.

"Did you feed the cat?" I croak, standing at the top of the stairs, barely concerned that this question has replaced the much more loving, "good morning sweetie" as the first words spoken to my teen at the break of day.

"Yeah," comes her barely coherent response.

Satisfied that the cat has simply feigned starvation, I ignore his plea for more food and force myself into the shower.  It is here that thoughts of the day ahead fill my mind.  Work deadlines, errands to run, appointments to make....all while washing and rinsing my hair.

It is when I am finally toweled and dried, standing in my robe, blowdryer in hand, that I actually see my teen for the first time each morning. She pops in and gives me a hug, yells goodbye to her still sleeping dad, and as the echoes of my "have a great day" wishes reverberate down the stairs, she closes the door behind her and gets in the car, ready to start another day of school.

Our mornings weren't always this devoid of emotion.

As a newborn, Melissa's days were met with diaper changes and bottle feedings followed by snuggling with mommy for her morning nap. Kisses and hugs were in full supply as I unwillingly got her ready for daycare a few months later and made the transition to working mom.

The toddler years involved picking out outfits and getting her dressed and combing her hair and squeezing her tight.  The elementary school years came with more independence, yet I still helped her

pick out her clothes, fed her breakfast, smoothered her with kisses, and watched as she climbed on the bus, waving goodbye as she started her day.

The middle school years found me hiding in the living room, a paranoid mother peeking out the window to make sure she safely boarded the bus.

Now she is in high school.

Senior year in high school.

And our morning interactions are nearly non-existent.

But we make up for it at night.

For it is bedtime when my daughter seeks me out, hunts me down, and tells me about her day. We talk about homework and teachers, tests and college applications,  friend drama and boy crushes, youth group meetings and school play auditions.

I realize that these days are fleeting, and the nearly non-existent interactions that provide the foundation for our days will be all but gone by this time next year, as she'll be getting ready each morning inside a dorm room instead of the bathroom down the hall.

But if my cherub needs to talk, to seek me out, to hunt me down, I will always be there....just a phone call away.

Melissa and me at her Junior Prom, March 2015

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