Because I'm a Teacher

I just had to write tonight. My work life has been a bit rough lately. The everyday of my life has driven me into an exhaustive state I don't remember feeling since I finished grad school a year and a half ago. I have faced challenges that have made me feel weak and unsure of myself. Some of the challenges have been self imposed, others have sort of happened to me. Can I say that? Can I acknowledge there are things out of my control?

As for the self-imposed, I accepted two course assignments in my adjunct role at the local university this fall. This, a mere 4 months into my new role as the lead academic administrator of a local private school for at-risk girls. Though I have been an adjunct for almost 5 years now, most of my work at the university has been during the summer. In years past, I was teaching in public school and enjoyed summers off. The adjunct work didn't interfere with anything, except maybe vacation plans. This year, I was asked to take a fall course- one I have taught countless times- and thought sure, why not? After all, I worked full time and went to grad school for years and somehow managed to complete my doctorate. How hard could it be to work and teach a course with which I was intimately familiar?

Less than a week before classes started, I was asked to teach another. This one was a graduate level class. How could I say no? I asked if I could trade the undergrad class for the grad class and teach just one class. Some flattery and my ambition convinced me I could and should take both. It's good money and one of the classes is small, I was told. So in true character (my mom always said I was at my best when I had too much on my plate), I took them both and trudged through a semester at a new job with a few more than 40 college students between the two classes. I'm tired just thinking about it. Time off wasn't really time off, and weekends grading papers reminded me of hours of lost leisure time while I worked on my dissertation. One class probably would have been ok, but two really did me in.

At work, things like staffing issues and the challenges that come when you work with at risk youth can be beyond our control. Small agencies feel the pains of even one person who lets the others down. Each of these incidences has a much stronger ripple effect than they do in a larger organization. Everyone feels it. Don't get me wrong, we get the positive accomplishments, celebrations, and successes in the same way. But boy do the growing pains hurt.

It was brought to my attention recently by someone for whom I have a great deal of respect, that I am a perfectionist and a bit of a control freak. I always jokingly referred to myself as Type-A, and my family members endearingly jab at me for it. But in the workplace things are different. I'm Type-A on steroids if you will. You see, I don't want my name or reputation on anything sub par. I believe in what I do, I am passionate about education. I studied curriculum and instruction because I believe at the heart of everything in school, is the instructional practice of the teacher. The standards and the curriculum, they have their role, though I think an overemphasized one. But that's another blog post. What matters most is the relationship between teacher and student, and the experiences created by teachers during instruction. If I am the Academic Manager, I expect the instruction to be top notch. I am not discounting the variables out of school that we can't control, I am referring only to the time we have with our students during the school day. This is why when my English teacher quit, I would not hire a teacher just because I need one... even though at times I have felt desperate. The right person usually comes through the door if you are patient.

But what that means for me is until I find said person, I am the best one to temporarily fill the role, as I am the only one available who is qualified. Meet the current substitute for English class. If I was not in administration right now, I would more than likely be teaching Language Arts or English. So although I knew there would be stress to fulfill my regular job responsibilities, I was excited to spend some time teaching English- I'm a teacher first, right? Well that depends who you ask. It's funny how the students reacted to me. Lots of heavy sighs, groans, and eye rolls as they entered the room sent the message loud and clear, I had my work cut out for me. One student even said it wasn't a real class because there was no teacher. Can you imagine? This is an eleventh grade student who clearly was not making the connection that to become an administrator meant you had to be a teacher first (at least for a little while- in my case about 15 years).

This was perhaps the challenge that exhausted me the most this week, and likely will continue to until I find the right person to teach English. I spent the week trying to convince middle and high school students that I'm a teacher! I tried to engage them in discussion about their assignments, work with them in groups, and facilitate lessons, only to be shut down. Full disclosure: I was completely defeated, deflated, bull dozed, and insulted. I relished the opportunity to spend time with them and be their teacher rather than just cave in to warm body syndrome. I cried last week. A lot. I felt like a new teacher. I was consumed by the stress of all the above mentioned things, but I think most of all, my feelings were hurt. I have never in all my roles at all the schools I've worked at, been someone the kids didn't want to see or interact with. I tried straight up lessons, I tried to get creative. They tried to get me to leave them alone. It was disheartening to say the least, and I gave up. I was bailed out by others who offered to take the classes. I let them. I'm not proud of myself, but I needed to get away from the feeling I felt.

So now it's Sunday night and I'm getting ready to go back and try again tomorrow. One more week until winter break. I rested a lot this weekend. I talked through what was going on with my family. I've regrouped. I talked to my best teacher-friend writing buddies who all teach English/Language Arts. They gave me ideas and some great resources, and I've got a plan. I don't know if it's going to work, but I'm going to give it a try. I'm not going to let them get to me. I'm going to prove to them that I care, that I want them to learn. They're not going to scare me away that easy. Because I am a teacher, that's why.

Why We Didn't Have More Children

Sometimes you think you are over something and you are not. Really, it is your brain trying to convince your heart that everything is alright. Or it might be the well-meaning loved ones in your life trying to soothe you and help you cope, who convince you it is all okay. It may even be the insensitive or cruel people who somehow believe your pain is unwarranted, who insist you should just get over it. But what if you pretend, you go through the motions, you lie to people and say you are okay and act like you are over it, but you're not? What if on a given day when you haven't given it a recent thought, you turn on the TV, open Facebook, or pull up an email, and Bam! It smacks you right in the face as if to say, "Yeah right. You thought you were over it? Wrong!"

My husband and I have been a couple since we were teenagers. We married after dating for about 7 years. It would surprise few to know we were sexually active before we got married (judge if you must, but really?). I am sure our son can even deduce that. We were generally responsible about our sexual activity; birth control, regular doctor's visits, and monogamy. We always, or at least I always prided myself with our peers, our son, and even the youth I worked with over the years, on the fact that we only got pregnant once, and we planned it. We proved it was possible to be sexually active and responsible.

In November 1997, after almost two years of marriage, my husband and I decided we were ready to try to start a family. I was relieved to be off birth control, and we agreed to just let things happen. No counting days. No ovulation kits. Just good old fashioned marital intimacy whenever the mood hit us. We carried on like we always did, just without contraception. As women usually do, I knew my cycle, and though I wasn't counting days, taking my temperature, or scheduling interludes with my husband, I did anticipate the time of each month when the question would be answered. Are we having a baby? There was little frustration or anxiety, I knew these things took time. I tried to resist the urge to take a pregnancy test, knowing if I waited just a couple of days I would either get my period or not.

For the first few months I did. Then one day in March I just got a feeling. This is going to be it. I just know it. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't that I thought I could feel myself getting pregnant as some women insist they can. It was just a feeling, probably caused more by hoping than knowing. I picked up a test from Walgreens a few days before I was expecting my period and went out of town for a couple of days on a trip for work. I made a deal with myself that if my cycle didn't start while I was away, I would take the test as soon as I returned.

It didn't. So I did. And I was.

Four months after casually trying to conceive, I was pregnant with our first child. First. I can say first while telling the story in past tense, because that's what Jacob was to us when he was born, our first baby. Pregnancy was amazing. I loved the way I felt. I enjoyed watching my belly swell, and the wonder of a growing life inside me. I experienced a little morning (ok, all day) sickness early on and sciatica towards the end, but I had a healthy pregnancy and I loved being pregnant. On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, 1998, he was born. Our son Jacob came into our lives as perfect as any healthy new born baby can be. When I went to my OB for my six week check up, she swiftly asked, "So, you ready for another one?" It was her way of leading into the discussion of going back on birth control because the months following childbirth are often a woman's most fertile. Ever heard of Irish twins?

After getting over the fact that I was physically unable to nurse, I loved being a mom. I felt comfortable in my role, and I had a great deal of support. My own mother told me I was much calmer and more confident than she ever remembered being, and my friends seemed to think I was relaxed and down to earth in my parenting. I matured as a woman and developed a sense of self-assuredness. I knew I was a good mom. So it was only natural that within about 3 years I was ready to grow our family. My husband and I decided to try and get pregnant again. Though we hadn't set concrete plans, we were pretty sure two children for a family of four was what we wanted. I had already stopped taking birth control and now we would like the first time with Jacob, let nature take its course. We continued to nurture a healthy, intimate relationship and expected within a few months, another baby would be on the way. 

Not this time.

By the end of the year, I was starting to feel frustrated. Plenty of sex. No baby. My annual exam was normal and I talked to my doctor who encouraged me to use an ovulation calendar to track my cycle. I was in good physical health and i wasn't quite thirty. There was no reason to believe there was any problem. "You're just not hitting it," she would say referring to my ovulation window. Meanwhile, well-meaning people in our lives were starting to drop hints- some subtle, some not so much. They would say playfully,

When are you guys going to have another baby? 

Jacob wants a brother or sister to play with.

How about a little girl?

We could only respond with a half-hearted chuckle and shrugged shoulders. After while it took everything in me not to cry on the spot. Smiling and saying, "We're trying," made me feel violated and inadequate. It was difficult enough to deal with our inability to conceive, but comments from other people just made matters worse. For months we continued the same routine. I would start numbering the calendar the day I got my period. I questioned whether to begin at the sign of early spotting or when true flow began. I thought maybe I was counting wrong and that's why we weren't conceiving. We tried every recommended pattern of sexual activity to increase the probability of conception, and still nothing. Every 28 days I would get a lump in my throat when I had signs of PMS, and by day 30 I was crying with the start of my period. Alone in my bathroom trying to hide my sadness from my husband, and everyone else. I just couldn't understand why nothing was happening.

By now Jacob was getting ready to start kindergarten and we experienced some stressful events in our family, followed by some changes in our careers. We stopped worrying so much about it because maybe it wasn't the right time anyway- at least that's what I told myself. Continuing with a healthy marriage and sex life, and a lack of focus on trying to conceive we carried on with our lives. I worried despondently that this was it, there would be no more babies. This is when the guilt started. I worried about Jacob being "an only." My parents wanted more grandchildren. My husband would love to have a Daddy's Little Girl. And what about me? Had I swaddled my last newborn, changed my last diaper, snuggled my last baby? I was starting to mourn the loss of something I never had... a second child.  These feelings would lead to even more guilt. How dare I feel sorry for myself. Some women can't have any children at all. Shame on me. Isn't Jacob enough? Guilt about guilt can be a heavy burden to carry.

A couple more years went by, all the while we kept trying. (I haven't been on birth control since around 2000). More changes brought a move, some financial challenges, and a little boy who wanted a sibling. Every purchase of a car, our home, furniture, was done with the consideration, what if we have another baby? In 2007, I started to realize that Jacob's tenth birthday would be the following year. It was now or never. If I didn't get pregnant by the time he was ten, my husband and I agreed it would be too many years between them and it might be time to give up.

By now I was working at a local elementary school where the big joke was if you don't want a baby, don't drink the water! Baby showers were as common as faculty meetings, and we were always celebrating another teacher's pregnancy. Maybe this will be it, I wished secretly and desperately. We decided to go full force in our effort. That meant check-ups for both of us. Him for healthy sperm count and activity, me for possible Fallopian tube leakage. While I was waiting in the doctor's office to discuss the results, I picked up a magazine from the table in front of me. You know the one with stacks and stacks of scattered magazines. I picked up the parenting magazine with the cutest baby on the cover, and while I was skimming the table of contents I came across an article titled: Why Can't We Have Another Baby? My heart rate increased slightly as I turned the pages one by one, trying to locate the article.I was scared I would find all the answers I was looking for.

Turns out there's something called secondary infertility; a couple's inability to conceive a baby, even though they've had at least one child in the past. According to the article and several others I have read since, secondary infertility (SI) affects anywhere from 1 to over 3 million couples. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or devastated. For many, SI is caused by age or other health factors, but for others it is unexplained. My doctor confirmed mine and my husband's test results as normal, with no indication that conception should be a problem. Essentially, we were experiencing unexplained SI and we could keep trying or start considering interventions. We talked about it quite a bit, my husband and I. Neither of us is a big fan of pharmaceuticals, and we agreed I wouldn't take fertility aiding drugs such as Clomid. This was a personal choice for which I would never criticize someone else, one way or the other. We briefly discussed invitro fertilization and ruled that out too because the financial drain with no guarantees, and the likelihood of multiples beyond what we were prepared for. We came to the decision that risking the financial stability of the family we had was not something we were prepared for, and for us it would have been a financial risk.  So with that, it was over.

As with many couples, it was a more emotional corner to turn for me, than it was for my husband. Though he would have been equally excited for another baby as I would have been, I think he had already begun to let go of the possibility. I said it out loud, and we agreed we were okay. But inside I was heartbroken. Each of my best friends from childhood had now birthed three children. Women all around me- family, coworkers, friends were all having babies. I was dealing with the shame and guilt I had over the jealousy and hurt I felt with each announcement, trying to be happy for them, wanting to cry for me. I started to worry and still do, about my son being alone when my husband and I die. It sounds foolish, I know. I expect he will be married with a loving family of his own by then. But the thought still saddens me. With all the love and support of my husband and my friends, no one besides my sister will feel what I feel on the day I lose one of my parents.

Over time, the sting has somewhat subsided. The ache has dulled. My husband encourages me to anticipate the next stage in our lives when we watch our son become an adult and build a family of his own. A time to enjoy some freedom again. We marvel at our ability if we choose, to re-settle down as seniors wherever Jacob lands because there is no split loyalty to another child. We feel lucky to be able to afford most anything to Jacob, in time and finances, because we only have one child. He is an amazing and loving kid who makes us feel proud and fulfilled as parents.

But every now and then, a pregnant friend, the baby of a colleague, my niece and my nephews, all remind me of my latent desire for another baby. There's a little sadness deep inside me that few understand. And now, my first child 16-years-old next month is clearly my last, and I am making peace with that. As my husband once said to me in so many words, and as I shared with the family, friends, and the congregation at Jacob's Bar-Mitzvah, maybe G-d recognized that we made such a perfect baby the first time that it became clear we couldn't possibly make another one so well. So G-d just stopped here, with Jacob. I like that theory, and I'm sticking with it.

Nothing Like an Old Friend

This piece was started on September 27, 2014 and completed October 25, 2014.

We're on a road trip. A short one; only a couple of hours from the west coast to the east. We're flashing back to a time in our lives when our hair was a lot bigger, and our waistlines a little smaller. A time when we needed the rock and roll that flushed through our veins as much as we needed air to breathe, and the raw passion of teenage love fueled and energized us. It is all about the 80's today. Pop, rock, and other Decade of Excess has-beens trying to hold onto the last bits of fame living in the memories of middle-aged fans, nostalgic for a visit to their own younger days. We're off to the 80's in the Park Festival in Melbourne. But for us, this time, it's not just about the music. The more interesting story lies in the company with which we will be sharing the concert experience. It's a sort of double date, I suppose, which further adds to the sense of nostalgia. Cue the blurry-edged fade and flashback music...

It was the summer of 1989, after my sophomore year of high school. Several of my friends were leaving for camp, savoring the last year or two of childhood afforded young teenagers whose parents had means. My friend Dalia and I both needed summer work. We had earned our drivers licenses that spring, and gas, movie money, and cheerleading expenses wouldn't come easy. There was really no question about how or where to find a job. Unlike today, seasonal jobs for high school kids were in abundance in the 80's, and in sunny Hollywood, Florida there was only one place you could get a job that allowed for as much time to socialize as it did work. The local water park, Six Flags Atlantis, was the hangout for teenagers working and playing through the stifling hot summer months. Free admission with a guest on your days off, peers who ran the rides, and a semi-star-studded summer concert series at night, meant it was the ideal summer gig. We signed up to be lifeguards, the top dog position in the park (as opposed, to food service or customer service). They trained us, gave us suits and lifeguard tank tops, and we were official. I could probably write a short novel about the escapades of the days at Atlantis, but this is not the time, nor my purpose here.

One of several slides I operated as an Atlantis lifeguard.

June and July were filled with teenage fun and drama. We became friends with lots of local kids from neighboring towns and high schools. There was one girl in particular, Michelle, who we started to hang out with regularly. She and one of the guys we worked with, Rob, seemed to be developing a love connection. I found myself doing a lot of go-between. Picture cheesy high school stuff like, "She thinks you're cute," and "Why don't you ask her out?" One thing led to another and they started dating.

Meanwhile, Dalia and I met up with two guys who were visiting from Chicago and staying at their parents' vacation home for a couple of weeks. They had been frequenting the park quite a bit, and we hung out and talked on our breaks. We hung out a couple of nights after work, and then they left town never to be heard from again. I thought I really liked the guy (young and foolish) so I was feeling bummed that my summer crush was gone. Michelle and Rob on the other hand, were in full summer fling mode. It wasn't long before they were trying to find a friend for me. After all, I had been their Chuck Woolery. 

One day in late July, or maybe the first couple of days in August, I traded a shift with someone so Michelle, Rob, and I had the same day off. At their urging, we made plans to go to the park for fun. Remember free admission was one of the perks of working there. Rob would be meeting us there with a friend who they really wanted to introduce me to, and in a weak moment I agreed. I remember it as clear as day...

The two of them, Rob and his friend, were sitting at a table under one of the snack huts, chowing down unapologetically on chili cheese fries, an Atlantis favorite. I was so distracted by how gross I thought it was (still do- don't like chili), I didn't have time to feel self-conscious about the fact I was being introduced to a guy while wearing a bathing suit. To be honest, I wasn't blown away. I don't remember initial thoughts about his looks, again the chili cheese fries were in the way. He was a pretty typical looking kid of the time, sporting a summer tan and an 80's mullet. He was tall and skinny, and nice enough I guess, because I agreed to go with them all to the movies that night. We hung out for awhile, went down some of the slides, and I went home to change. My second thoughts about the double date were swayed away by my mom, who in true mom fashion said, "Go, it's a free movie."

Rob, Michelle, and Paul, picked me up that night and somehow I agreed (or maybe I didn't) to see whichever installment of the Friday the 13th series was out that summer. I remember being on one end and Michelle on the other, with the guys sitting in the middle. I was so annoyed that we couldn't talk to each other and I knew the guys planned it that way. The movie was unmemorable, except for a scene that showed boobs and made me feel extremely uncomfortable next to a guy I barely knew. The details of the rest of the night could go on and on, but this much history is enough to set the stage. In short, at the end of the evening, Paul and I sat in Michelle's driveway talking while Rob and Michelle were making out. We got impatient and had curfew, so I drove Paul home and we sat in his driveway, and talked well into the night. He kissed me. I went home. Paul worked for his dad who owned a sprinkler business, but visited me at Atlantis whenever he could. We started dating, and for the most part never stopped. In 1996, we got married. 

Why the trip down memory lane?

Soon after that summer ended, so did Michelle and Rob's fling. Paul and Rob, friends since they were kids, started going separate ways. Rob was a year ahead in school, so he was off to college in Melbourne. There were visits during breaks, and Rob accompanied one of my friends without a boyfriend to homecoming. But within about a year, Paul went off to school in North Carolina, Rob started dating a girl from his old high school, and the friendship started to fade. There was no blowout, no fight, just an organic fork in the road to which they each went in different directions.

Rob married Paula, his high school friend turned girlfriend in 1994 or 1995. We didn't attend; don't recall receiving an invitation. But we knew they were somewhere in Melbourne. So in 1995, when we got engaged, we tried to track them down and invite them to our wedding. No one really remembers, but I think I recall finding an address we were unsure of and sending an invitation. We got married in 1996, and they did not attend our wedding either. So with no particularly hard feelings, like many childhood relationships, this one faded into the memory book.

In August of this year, Paul saw on Facebook that a good friend from high school was killed in a motorcycle accident. Paul was really struck by the news of his friend Auburn's death. They hadn't seen each other in quite some time, but they shared a bachelor pad in the mid 90's, and he and Paul connected on Facebook a couple of years ago and maintained casual contact, as many do on FB. He always remembered Auburn a caring and kind-hearted person, and news of his death was heartbreaking, sort of surreal. Rob had introduced Paul to Auburn back in high school, and Paul knew that Auburn and Rob had been close buddies, best men in each other's weddings. He got to wondering if Rob knew about the accident, but wasn't sure how to contact him. After several attempts over the years to find him on Facebook, he had been unsuccessful. But Rob's sister had connected with Paul on FB awhile back, and he sent her a message. She confirmed they knew about Auburn, and sent Paul Rob's number, urging him to call.

Paul reached out to Rob, and the two talked for awhile, some quick catch up, and even quicker plans. Within a couple of hours, after not having seen each other for over 20 years, they decided to road trip up to Pennsylvania, where Auburn and his wife had been living, so they could attend the funeral together. Two long-lost friends, one van, and 24 hours each way to catch up on 20+ years. The guys picked up right where they left off at 18-years-old. Oh to be a fly on the wall in that van...

They shared grief over the loss of their friend, and their remorse over the loss of contact with one another. They shared the memories of an entire childhood. Both still married to their high school girlfriends, both loving husbands and devoted fathers, they discovered that while so much had changed, so much had not. Rob was a soccer player, and now his kids play soccer and he coaches. Paul was a swimmer, and now his son was a swimmer. They were both Boy Scouts, and now leaders in their sons' troops. They stilled enjoyed talking about a shared love of music and their high school shenanigans. They discovered they still had as much in common as they always did, maybe even more now. It was as if the friendship picked up right where it left off, but with more maturity and appreciation for it. Both men really enjoyed the road trip, felt good about being there together, to remember and to celebrate the life of their friend. It's as though the rekindling of their friendship was honoring the memory and the spirit of the friend they had just lost.

Paul and Rob agreed to keep in touch, and now, a month later, the two will unite their families and introduce their kids, who are near the ages they were when they shared a childhood friendship. Life has a strange way of bringing people together. Now Auburn's legacy of kindness and friendship lives on in the two friends who were brought together to remember him.

The boy in the black shirt and a mustache, right in the middle is Auburn,
the one to the left with the hat is Paul, and the one leaning in over to the left of Paul is Rob.

A more recent photo of Auburn and his wife Janet in Pennsylvania.

I Write

I want to write today.

I want to write today, but I don't know what to write.

I want to add another episode to my short story that seems to be gaining some momentum. But I can't seem to get into my characters' heads today. I can't decide how the main character should spill some important news to her best friend. I can't decide how she should tell her or how her friend should react, or what either of them will do or say.

I want to write a piece about my son's wonderful experiences through scouting, but with my disappointment about their policy in regards to gay leaders. I want to put aside the stance on that issue and focus on writing about the beautiful photos I took out at the camp last weekend, and how the scout and scout leaders' experiences there over the years makes it as peaceful and at-home as their own backyards. But I don't know how to separate one from the other, and reconcile the duality one feels when they believe so much in an overall organization but question their stance on a specific issue.

I want to write an article for a professional publication, and start building my academic writing resume so I can pursue the next phase of my career in higher education. But I can't decide what the subject of that article should be.

I want to write about my husband on a journey this weekend- twenty plus hour road trip with a friend he hasn't seen in over twenty years. They drove from Florida to Pennsylvania to attend a funeral and memorial for one of their high school buddies who was killed in a motor cycle accident last week. It's a fascinating situation to me- tragic circumstance leads to reconnecting old friends. But I'm still waiting for details beyond the roadside phone calls during the trip.

I want to write today. A poem, a story, an article, an excerpt.

But today, I settle for a blog post.

I wrote today.

Tomorrow

You may want to read my post Tonight, from last March before reading this post. It's sort of a continuation.

You want love? We'll make it/ Swim in a deep sea of blankets...
She awoke with a pleasing smile to the sound of John Mayer on the alarm clock. Her eyes opened to the reality of a night she couldn't forget. She looked around the room seeking affirmation that it was all a dream. The wine, the jazz, the vodka. The guy. She surveyed the room for evidence. It was all there; her black silk dress dripping over the chair in the corner, and her sling backs on the floor by the closet door. And of course the mirror. Another fight, another cracked mirror. Though she wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved, she knew it wasn't a dream. Really, there was never any doubt. What now?, she said aloud with her forehead in her hand. 

She could see that Mark had slept home but she didn't remember him coming in, which could only mean she made it home and passed out before he even arrived. He probably didn't even notice the dress and the shoes. Probably wouldn't have given it any thought if he had. Pompous bastard would think she was dressed for him. She could hear the shower and smell his body wash. Saturday. That meant golf. A half hour of small talk and a cup of coffee is all she had to withstand. Then he'd be gone for the day and she could try to remember how her night ended, and how she got home. She was so preoccupied she didn't even care to discuss what time Mark got home or how his "case" was going.

In the shower, Mark was preparing his opening argument for this morning's charges. As cheaters do, he was going over his story, practicing what he'd say and predicting what she'd say in response. When he was satisfied that he had his facts straight, he rinsed the last of the lather, turned off the water, and dried off. Carefully wrapping himself in the plush towel, he made sure to tuck it in just low enough that his hips barely held it on. Exposure of his washboard abs and a hint of his tan line would at least suggest he was interested in make-up sex. It was a game they played. He knew she'd shut him out and he was grateful because the only thing on his mind this morning was getting out of the house and over to the the golf course with his buddies.

A bit glazed over and lost in her thoughts, she put on her robe and tied her hair up in a knot. "I'll go put on some coffee," she said and quickly walked downstairs, after checking on the kids who were still sleeping. Surprised he got off that easy, but unwilling to find out why, he let her go, telling her he'd be down in a minute.

Downstairs they barely said a word to one another, just took their vitamins and drank their coffee. "There's fresh granola from the bakery if you're hungry," she offered knowing he would decline.

"You okay?" he asked her reluctantly with fear he might actually have to hear why she wasn't.

"Fine," she answered genuinely as she recalled a moment from the jazz club when the bartender called her a knock out. She was thinking about the man she met last night.

"Good. See you tonight." He kissed her on her cheek, grabbed a bottle of water, and he was gone. At just about the same moment she was giving thought to it herself, he came back in and asked why she left her car in the driveway. "You know how it pisses me off when I have to move your car to get mine out of the garage!"

"Um," she was searching for the honest answer. All she could retort was, "I went out for a drink with the girls and I didn't want the garage door to wake the kids when I got home." She suddenly recalled that the bartender drove her home. He was the one who left her car in the driveway. It really didn't matter though because Mark would interpret it as a deliberate move to get back at him for not coming home for their date night last night. She didn't care what he thought, and besides, she did go out for a drink. So what if her friends weren't with her. He slammed the door behind him and she declared in a loud whisper, "Asshole."

She was happy to have some time to herself to review the events of her evening out. She was grateful not to be hungover, and decided to take her coffee upstairs and run a hot shower. Maybe the steam would help her defog. She walked by the broken mirror and made a mental note to call the company who replaced the last one she broke. Then she smiled as she picked up her silk and put it in the dry cleaning basket. It was all starting to come back to her. She left her mug on the counter and stepped into the shower. She sighed in relief as she assured herself the bartender drove her home, let her in the house and called for a cab. Nothing happened. Well actually, that depends on how you define nothing. She hadn't been unfaithful. She didn't sleep with him or even kiss him. But, she wanted to. She felt an intimacy with him that had long been absent from her marriage to Mark. The way he looked at her. The way he listened. The way he looked at her. She allowed herself a few more minutes to relax and daydream. Then it was on with her day. It was a nice night, but today was all about her kids. They had plans for lunch and the pool with Rachel and her kids.

***

She and Rachel had been friends for years, longer back than their memories. Their kids loved each other like cousins and were excited about their play date. "Mommy," a voice called from the back seat. "Is Aunt Rachel making a watermelon boat?" Her kids loved fresh fruit and Rachel was a regular Martha Stewart.

"I'm sure she is. She knows it's your favorite."

"What about lemonade? Is she making her own lemonade?"

"Let's see when we get there, okay? Did you remember to put an extra t-shirt in the bag?" Two gleeful voices responded in unison.

"Yes!"

Spending the day at Rachel's was great for all of them. Watching their kids grow up together always prompted warm memories and colorful childhood stories. It was a great way to keep her mind off last night. No matter how hard she tried so far it wasn't working. She wondered if she could get through the afternoon without telling her best friend, and by the time they arrived she had decided she shouldn't have to. If she couldn't tell Rachel, she couldn't tell anyone, and if she couldn't tell anyone, she thought she'd explode. "Alright, everyone out. Make sure you grab your towels and I'll get the bag. Remember, no running through the house in your wet bathing suits. When you get out of the pool, dry off!"

Rachel opened the door before they made it up the path. The kids went running and screaming and there were hugs and kisses all around. As the kids went out back, the moms sat on the patio sipping lemonade and cautiously admiring their beautiful children. "So how was the theater last night?"

"Terrific, Rachel explained. The lead was phenomenal. What a voice! How about you? Why were you so anxious to go out last night? What happened to Mark?" She asked knowing the answer. Rachel knew her like no one else did, and that included the state of her marriage. "He didn't come home? Not even for date night?" She tried to appear angry  in response to Rachel's questions, but her friend wasn't buying her act. "Weren't you pissed?"

"I was."

"But you're not now? What was his excuse?"

"Come on Rachel, does it matter what his excuse was? We both know what he was doing."

"Bastard. How long are you going to put up with his crap? I know you're worried about the kids. But I'm worried about you." She had been there through it all. Rachel was there when she and Mark met, and she was the maid of honor at her wedding. She knew her friend wasn't happy.

"I know Rachel. But..." She was trying to find the words to tell her friend about her night on the town. Just when she thought she was ready, they were distracted.

"Mooooom!" It was a call of many voices meant for both of them. Their children were lined up along the wall at the deep side of the pool. They both looked over and heard, "3-2-1- Can-non-ball!" All five children thrust themselves into the air and hit the water for a giant collective splash. The moms laughed as the water sprayed over them. They remembered doing the same thing as kids.

"Now, what were you going to say?" Rachel tried to coax her friend into sharing what was on her mind.

"I was so mad. As much as an ass as he's been, he never misses Friday date night. I shattered another mirror."

"Eeek."

"Yeah, but then I put on the dress."

Rachel gasped, "The dress?"

"Yup, and then I went to Blue Velvet." It had been years, but the two of them frequented Blue Velvet quite a bit in their single days. Before all of the ladies got married, they'd meet there for drinks several times a week. "The music was fantastic. I forgot how much we loved that place."

"Why do I get the feeling from your face that there's more to tell?" She smiled at Rachel. Nobody knows you like a friend you grew up with. It was time to spill the beans.

A Purge and a Promise

It's been a long time since I've blogged, longer than I thought. It's been almost two months. I've been caught up in the chaos of my life, feeling uninspired, unmotivated, and worse yet, guilty for feeling paralyzed by the not so catastrophic crises if my life. At a recent gathering of my writing circle, my friend Natalie reminded me of the absurdity of comparing our personal muck to one another's. To minimize or invalidate our own feelings of unhappiness by comparing them to the "worse" or seemingly more extreme circumstances of our friends and acquaintances, is to deny ourselves the right to feel what we are feeling. It denies us the right to the human experience.

Lately, I have been living my life, just going through the motions as they say, rather than living in the moments. I have not been finding, or honestly even been looking for things to celebrate, to inspire me, or to write about. It's a rather sad existence, one I am determined to make temporary as I grab ahold of myself and shake it out of me. I never wanted my blog to be a place to whine or complain. The reality is however, that I'm feeling relatively uninspired and rather than resolve not to write for another two, three, however many months, I've decided to plow through by writing what's on my mind. Quite frankly, when my friend Helen and I set out on a journey last year, to make writing a daily part of our lives by starting a writing circle and getting our blogs going, never did we say all kicks and giggles. We just said, let's write.

So first a purge, then a promise:

Purge:

I've been working too much and too hard. I took a new job that is quite challenging. I'm not sure it's exactly what I want. In some ways it's what I didn't want, the things that kept me from joining the admin pool in public school. It has it's rewards too though, and the people I work with are terrific. But when I interviewed I thought it was a new job for the new school year. I didn't realize I was going to have to leave my job of 7 years (and all the colleagues-turned-friends and smiling faces that became so routine it was like being home away from home) six weeks before school got out. I didn't realize even though I had already accepted 12 weeks of adjunct work for the late spring and summer, I was going to have a full time job on top of that. I didn't realize how much I have come to depend on downtime during the summer to treat my sleep deprivation, my vitamin D deficiency, and my writing spirit. I sure do realize now. Though I have the pleasure of double income over the summer, and an increase from my last job, money does not buy you time or relaxation when you work full time. 

Working all summer was going to suck, but it would all be ok because I expected to be in a brand new home. That's the next best thing to vacation, right? Moving into a brand new home. Our house was up on the market and within a couple of weeks of starting above mentioned job, we got a buyer! Negotiations started, a contract was drawn up, and a closing date was scheduled. We packed boxes, sold furniture, had a garage sale and donated unneeded items. We found a house in a neighborhood we loved and could afford, with the down payment made up largely from the proceeds of the sale of the home we were selling. Two days before the scheduled closing, we packed up a U-Haul, moved out, cleaned up, and went to stay with my gracious sister-in-law and brother-in-law. All was good. We were slightly inconvenienced, but it would all be worth it in a few days when we unlocked the door to our new home. So we waited patiently.

And we waited. And waited some more. The closing date was pushed a few more days and a few more days. Don't worry their realtor told us via our realtor, they're cleared to close. Just details he insisted. So our realtor helped stave off the company selling us our new home. People behind the scenes worked hard to try to keep all the pieces together for us, as the closing kept getting pushed. We had now been living with my sister-in-law for 2 weeks. My husband was a train wreck. We couldn't stand to come home at night. NOT because of his wonderful sister and her husband, but because once the day's business was over, it was another day gone by with no closing. 

We had just about thrown in the towel, given up on everything. Then over breakfast at Perkins, we decided to become a team again.  Arguing and crying all week really did a number on us and we weren't feeling like ourselves. We talked, hugged, held hands, and decided everything would be ok. It'll happen. We just had to be patient. We rented a storage unit to unload the U-Haul that we had now had for 10 days, racking up fees to the sum of near $800. Before you call us crazy, remember we were originally thinking two days at my sister-in-law's with a U-Haul was better than unloading into storage and moving again. Our closing dates were originally scheduled for two consecutive days. But now, there was no telling what would happen. So after that breakfast at Perkins, we moved into the storage and returned the U-Haul. The guy actually felt bad for us and knocked two days off the bill. Drop in the bucket, but kind of him nonetheless. The weekend wasn't so bad.

I don't remember if it was Monday or Tuesday, but it doesn't matter. My realtor, also a dear friend, called me at work and I could hear it in her voice. What happened? The buyers lost their financing and it was all over. Both deals dead. Just like that. Buyers without financing equals no sale. No sale equals no down payment money. We spent the next two days moving back into the same house, and we've been here ever since. Minimal furniture, ten percent of my kitchen, no personal photos or decor, and our house back on the market. There seems to be more to the story about the buyers, but honestly I don't give a crap anymore. Knowing what happened won't change the series of events. Most of our things are still stored in the hopes the house will sell again soon. There's no way we're unpacking to pack again.

Finally, I've developed some weird anxiety in the past month. I'm not prepared to go into detail here, because it's a very specific and irrational anxiety I seem to have developed in response to certain images to which I was exposed. I know that sounds cryptic, but the best way I can explain it is to tell you to think of a time you saw or heard something traumatic or disturbing, and you just couldn't get it out of your head. Now imagine it stuck in your head, and causing nausea, sweating, or just nerves. That's what has happened to me. I've never had any kind of clinical anxiety issues in the past, never suffered from clinical OCD or phobias. But this anxiety is a mild case of that kind of thing and it's really upsetting to me. I'm finding coping mechanisms and the longer time goes since I saw the images, the more the anxiety seems to dissipate. I'm not sure if it's the issue itself, or the fact that I'm having the issue that's bothering me more. Those who know I me, know I'm a bit of a control freak. I was talking to my husband about it, and I can't seem to separate the two. Either way, it's very real and very unsettling.

So the summer of transition, or what I hoped to be the gateway to the next exciting phase in my life- new home, new job- has become a disappointment. I try not to minimize my feelings by saying it's not a big deal, my family is healthy, my marriage is strong, blah blah. Because while all of that is true, Natalie reminded me that I'm allowed to be disappointed, saddened, deflated about my current circumstances. Yes, there are people in the world who are experiencing far more catastrophic things, but my shitty circumstances are shitty for me. And I am allowed to feel shitty about it!

And with that, I am purged of the crappiness of this summer and ready to make a promise.

Promise:

I've got to find some inspiration again. In two weeks, both of my summer obligations will be over and I'll be back to just work. I say just work, because one of the nice things about my new job is that because I am no longer a classroom teacher, I usually leave work empty handed. I think about work, and stress about things that need to be done, the way others do. But I don't have papers to grade or lesson plans. I work balls to the wall all day, and then I leave and come home. I don't have to do anything until I get back the next day. 

I promise myself, with you as my witnesses, that I will find inspiration again.

The NWP Summer Institute starts tomorrow. My friend and colleague, Stacey and I, are facilitating together. We have planned all sessions for the next two weeks, and I'm involved once again in my passion, writing. I look forward to participating with the other teachers and drawing on them for inspiration. I will be writing.

I promise myself, with you as my witnesses, that I will find inspiration again.

I have started several pieces and I have a journal page filled with ideas for new writing. I'm going to write more. I may work on a book, start a new study, or just continue with daily blogging, but I'm going to write. It feeds me, and starving myself of it does not help solve my problems or make them go away. Even if my writing is filled with sadness, I will write. I'm not going to worry about my mood or what others want to hear. When we do this, our writing can become disingenuous. Pat Schneider says all writing starts as nonfiction. If we write our stories and our feelings, and things the way we remember them, we can always alter details for the sake of story later. 

I promise myself, with you as my witnesses, that I will find inspiration again.

I look forward to the next meeting of my writing circle. These women give me the courage to write and to feel. They listen without judgment, they support without obligation, they write and they share and they write some more. I can't wait until our next meeting.

I'm going to chase my dreams and put plans in place to help make them come true. Starting now. 

Gone

Miles won't come between us

you're gone 

but not forgotten.

Forgotten are the days giggling, 

playing, 

telling secrets.

Can I tell you one now?

I was forgotten a few times,

quickly not gradually,

out of sight out of mind.

Like a passing car on the highway 

or a bird in flight overhead.

When will you be back?

Call when you're coming.

We'd love to see you.

But no one journeys here.

No one really wants to know.

It hurts to leave,

to say goodbye...

at fourteen

at twenty-two

at forty-one.

The sun still rises and

sets.

Days come and 

go.

Months and years pass by

and life goes on,

with or without 

you.

Change

Change is inevitable. At least, that's what they say. We all know (or are) people who do not deal well with change. Why do some people fear change so much? I suppose it is fear of the unknown. The devil you know is better than the devil you don't I guess. Me, I like change. A new house, a new job, a new friend, a new book, new restaurant- they all open up endless possibilities.

My husband says when it comes to my career I have a seven year itch. To look at my work history you would likely agree. I guess eventually you get to a time in your job, or even a home or a relationship, when you feel like you cannot grow anymore. Sometimes it is because you feel trapped or suffocated, maybe it is just because the job or place or relationship has run its course. Some people do not want to grow, or they are afraid of growth. Perhaps they are afraid to outgrow a person or place of comfort, some place they love or feel comfortable. They plant their roots, grow deep and solid, and they stay where they are forever. Some cultures value, even revere it… the old the man who lives in the house in which his father was raised, the business that has been in a family for generations, it is all quite commendable. But there is something to be said for changing too- growing up, moving on, shaking things up a bit. Sometimes we need to cut the cord, spread our wings, take a giant leap!

Great pep talk, huh? This week I made a change. Actually, I have made several changes. My life is in the midst of half a dozen changes. I left my job of seven years (yup, the itch), my house is about to get sold, I started a new job, and I am awaiting approval on a mortgage for a new house. I have a teenager learning to drive, a brand new schedule, and an aging body of 40+1 that among other things has brought gray hair and acne. But some changes we have little control over.

I have to admit, I have never felt so ambivalent about a job change before. I never felt nervous, or worried. I did not leave my first day feeling excited or invigorated about the endless ideas and projects I could be working on in the future, though these possibilities do exist. However, I did not feel regret about the decision, or negative vibes about my new co-workers. Many of them have told me repeatedly how happy they are that I am there. Maybe it is everything I have going in my life right now. Maybe it is the ease in approach with which I have been handled. I am a jump right in person. I am a you hired me because I can do this person. I do not want to be tethered or handled, I want to get going. I do not want to be gradually released, I want to be cut loose. I do not want hours of orientation, I want on the job training.

I wonder if this is the right place for me, the right job. I do not feel unhappy. I do not feel nervous or scared. I just feel meh. That is an unusual feeling for me. I am high energy- active mind, collaborative nature. For me, meh just does not cut it. So now what? Only time will tell. We acclimate to some changes more quickly than others. Some change just takes time. Patience has never been one of my best qualities (thanks, Dad). Waiting to feel good about work, wanting to finalize the sale of our house, waiting to move to our new house, waiting on some important professional news, it is a lot of waiting.

There is one thing in my life that will never change- the one constant thing in my life- my family, all of them. I am married to my best friend, my partner in life. Like everything else we have experienced together, we will make it through these changes. Side by side, hand in hand, holding each other up, this too shall pass.

Three Years in Three Hours

     "You ready?"

     "If I get caught, my parents are gonna kill me." I had never done anything illegal before. Actually, that's a lie. Technically, speeding is illegal. So is drinking before you turn twenty-one. Alright, so is smoking pot, but not for long.

     "It's no big deal. I did it last year in Detroit, and I never got caught." 

     "Oh, of course. That means here in Miami, I'll never get caught." Great logic. I looked at my roommate and saw the face of John Bender in Breakfast Club. "Being bad, feels pretty good, huh?" But I was not Molly Ringwald, and nothing about this felt good. As a teenager I did a pretty good job staying out of trouble, avoiding peer pressure. Why now? Why less than a year before my twenty-first birthday had I decided this was it?

     Allison turned the engine off, I took a deep breath, and we got out of the car prepared to spend a couple of hours at the DMV. With a crackdown on fake ID's around the college bars, this was the only way to guarantee full access. Gone was the old school art of peeling back the melted plastic layers of drivers licenses and altering the date of birth to make the holder legal. No longer was it good enough to find someone legal who kinda looked like you, and beg them to lose their license so you could find it. It was go big or go home. 

***

     By the second week of sophomore year, Allison was bragging to everyone around campus how she got her unchallengeable fake, but not-so-fake ID. She took the papers of a relative, went down to the DMV and convinced them she lost her license. She got her picture taken, they gave her a new license, and she walked out the door. No biggie. "It was easy," she insisted. Back before digital photos and ID cards, there was no permanent record of what people looked like at the DMV. As long as you had the right documents there was no disputing you were who you said you were. At least that's what my roommate told me.

     There was only one person I could ask to let me do this, and if I got caught there would be a world of hurt brought down on both of us. If I was going to take a risk this big, it had to be someone who was as close to me and I could get, someone whose persona I could wear believably. I called my sister, Jamie, and asked her to help me commit fraud. That's not actually what I asked. It was more like pleading a case. I repeated all the things my roommate said to me. "It's foolproof!" 

     "What are you stupid? You don't even really drink." She was right. I hated beer, and I needed control. Staying sober while out with my friends helped me stay away from the bloated feeling of barley and hops, and insured we all had a safe ride home. "So what the hell do you need a fake ID for? You'll be twenty-one in less than a year." She thought I was nuts. Heck, I thought I was nuts. But I pressed on.

     "I don't even need it to drink, I just want to be able to get in. All the best bars are 21 and over." I said it so matter-of-factly as though it was actually a good argument. I really never did drink much. I would stand around talking to my friends, smoke a half a pack of Marlboro Lights, and watch everyone get drunk. But dammit, I needed the ID to do it. It was simple. All she had to do was give me her Social Security Card and birth certificate, and then run down a list of anything and everything that might appear on her driving record. "And you have to swear you'll never tell mom and dad. Even if you're pissed at me for something." Somehow she agreed, maybe because she doubted I could pull it off and wanted to see what would happen. Who knows. But she gave in, with one caveat:

     "If you get caught, I'm playing dumb and you have to tell mom and dad you stole my stuff."

     "Deal." 

     I spent about a week memorizing her social security number, and learning all the things on her driving record. Her tickets, Dad doesn't call her leadfoot for nothing. The fact that she held a license in three different states, that she's had this car and that registered in her name. I was ready.

***

     If I could suppress the rising vomit in my throat and the guilty look in my eye, I would be 21 in a couple of hours. I took a last studious glance at my sister's Social Security card and gripped the documents in one hand. Allison opened the door and a chilling gust of air blew over my face. The Florida air conditioning would guarantee I stayed chilled and on edge. I took a number and we sat down. I continued to repeat the social security number in my head and tried not to think about what would happen if I got caught. I'm not sure I had ever been more nervous in my life, except maybe the night I lost my virginity. But at least that wasn't illegal. I thought about leaving, but I was too scared to move. My number was finally called, and I stepped up to the counter trying to act nonchalant. 

     "Hi. Um. I need a new license."

     "What happened to your license?"

     "I lost it."

     "Do you have any photo ID?"

     "No, all I had was my license." I swallowed. The lump in my throat continued to rise. I tried not to look nervous. "But I have this." I showed her the birth certificate and Social Security card. She had really long, dark, brick red nails. She placed her hand over my papers and slid them over to her side of the counter. She clicked around, flipped through the papers, and never made eye contact. For this I was grateful.

     "Have you ever had a vehicle registered in your name?" I was relieved because I knew the answer. 

     "Yes. A Nissan Sentra hatchback." I let out some of the breath I had been holding.

     "What color?"

     "Blue."

     "Was it ever in an accident?" Shit! I didn't study that, but I remembered. 

     "Yes." This was the reason my sister was a good choice for identity sharing. Many of her memories were also my own. The inquisition continued.

     "Have you ever been licensed to drive in another state?"

     "Yes, in New York and New Jersey." The questions continued and I banged them out one by one. My confidence rose and I was pretty sure I had gotten through the toughest part of this ordeal. She gave me my papers back, and pointed with her long red nail across the room.

     "Take a seat over there and wait to be called for your photo." I waved over my friend and we sat waiting to be called for my photo. I was almost finished. It's funny how guilty you feel when you know you're doing something wrong. I was relieved because at this point I had passed for my sister. I had recalled the important facts of her identity and her driving record. 

     As soon as I saw them, I thought I was caught. They would have no way of knowing what I was up to, but they walked in and I froze. Three uniformed police officers came in talking and laughing. They stepped up to the same counter I was waiting to be called to. Here they are, I thought. I didn't fool the lady with the long nails, like I thought I had. She called them and they're here for me. I could feel the fear and the flush in my cheeks. I looked at Allison and we looked like two stoned teenagers running into cops at midnight in Dunkin Donuts. Like two deer in the headlights. My number was called and we stepped into line right behind them. The lump in my throat was back, and I thought I was going to puke.

     "Go ahead." One of the officers waved me in front of them. I didn't dare say no. I nodded and proceeded to the counter in front of them, wondering why they had waved me on. It turns out they were there getting their photos retaken for new police ID badges. I took another deep breath, and I handed another woman my papers. She pointed me toward one of those background screens. I stood as calmly as I could and fixed my eyes on the spot where she directed me to look. Click. Flash. Done. I walked in Sharon Daniels, 20 and walked out Jamie Daniels, 23, Stone Cold Outlaw.

Earliest Memories

Forever on my journey as writer, teacher of writing, and professional development consultant in teaching writing, I am reading a book in preparation for my work this summer with graduate students. We selected this book, one of two texts for the course, on recommendation from the NWP site director at Morehead in Kentucky. Writing Alone and with Others by Pat Schneider is absolutely wonderful, and I am enjoying interacting with it and getting to know the content. Throughout the book, there are several writing and thinking exercises, and the first one I found a bit challenging. Schneider suggests writing with as many details as you can recall, about your earliest memory- your recollection of being an individual person. This can be difficult because so many of our early childhood memories are those given to us by our parents, implanted on our brains through stories of "Remember that time?" or "I remember the first time you..." I really had to go back.

I know I used to scare the crap out of my mom as an infant, by holding by breath when I didn't want to eat something (I was a picky eater from the get go), but that I loved plums. I know that my sister used to call me Wawie, and my parents would say, "No, Lau-rie," and she would respond, "Yeah, Wawie," and they'd laugh. I know that I attended playgroup (in home daycare) with a group of neighborhood kids who became my buddies in elementary school. I know my mom met my best friend's mom in the hospital because we were a week apart and my mom had to stay in the hospital because she had a C-section (that used to be a major thing). But all of these are memories given to me by my family. I don't actually have any memory of any of it. My husband on the otherhand recalls lying on a changing table at daycare and looking out the window to see his parents coming in to pick him up. Wow, that is a very early childhood memory!

What stuck with me as I rewound the days of my early childhood, was the part when Schneider asked, Can you remember when you were first aware of yourself as an individual person? Wow. When do I recall thinking of myself as an individual person. That's more than a vague memory, more than a story your parents tell about when you were little. I tried to get back there, and the earliest clear memory I could pull up with details, was when I was three or four years old and attending Beth HaGan nursery school at Temple Israel in Great Neck, Long Island where I grew up.

    Temple Israel, Great Neck, NY

The building was large. Not like a school, dfferent. Wide space when you walked in the school side entrance, there were early childhood classrooms forward and all the way to the right before continuing through a threshhold into an open lobby area. That was where the grand entrance (shown above) was, and where the sanctuaries and ballrooms were. Religious school classrooms were immediately to the left. The doors were the way many of us remember old school doors to be, wooden with a glass window opening almost the entire top half of the door to glances from passersby.

The classroom in my memory is big, though this may be due to how small I was at the time. The wall opposite the door was mostly windows, maybe to the parking lot or a playground. This part I do not recollect. But the room, ah the room was filled from one end to the other with what might now be considered toys and play areas to the modern pre-school. But they were important parts of child development and learning to the nursery school of the 1970's (I'll make no commentary here about what was and what should be). An entire play kitchen equipped with miniature wooden appliances, cabinets, and counters- yes wood. Ne'er do I remember a single injury, not even a splinter. We somehow survived. There were dolls and puppets, dress-up costumes, hats, shoes, and jewelry. There were lots and lots of blocks, solid wood blocks.

The rugs were colorful, and they provided the perfect area to lay your blanket out at rest hour- it was never called naptime. Though I am unable to recall anything about the way she looked or sounded, I do remember an endearing Morah Doris (Morah, pronounced mo-rah, means teacher in Hebrew. Most preschool age children in the 70's who went out of the home for "school" did so at their church or temple. I went to my temple). I have many vague memories of my experience there, but two things stand out to me most about Beth HaGan (loosely translated, beth hagan means the youth house or home to the youth). The first is a phase my Morah went through, when almost daily during rest hour she would play a record of Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf. I cannot remember whether she read along with the record. 

    This version of Peter and the Wolf was very popular during the time period. 

To be honest, she didn't need to read the story, the music said it all. Even as a three or four year old, I knew the sound of the French horns. It was the intimidating and ominous sound of the wolf coming in and out of the story, and it terrified me! I would bury my head in my satiny ice blue blanket squeezing my eyes tight, waiting for it to end. Waiting for the flute to indicate the birds were back, or the violins that played when Peter was strolling along. I never told anyone. I never cried. I cannot recall if I would eventually doze into a nap or just ride it out, lying there awake and uncomfortable. But I can picture the record player. It was common in schools up through the 80's. It was a dark gray box-like model, where all of the parts were contained in the bottom, and a shallow lid would be taken off in order to play the records. The lid could be placed back on and secured with a buckle snap lock, and moved around from one outlet to another because the speaker was contained in the box. I miss the sound of crackling records, maybe not Peter and the Wolf specifically, but records in general. Even today though, hearing that piece even from a world renowned symphony, demonstrates for me the power of music to transcend space and time and place you back into a memory. It brings a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes.

The second memory I have of Beth HaGan is Friday mornings. Friday at sundown is Shabbat, the Jewish sabbath. Every Friday morning in nursery school we would each braid and make our very own individual challahs. Golden challah, egg bread, a staple at Jewish holiday and Sabbath dinner tables (except during Passover). At Beth HaGan we got to make our own. Morah would issue each of us a sheet of wax paper on which she would then place a blob of dough about the size of an adult fist. We would divide our dough into three parts and roll each part into snakes, equal in length. Then we would lay two snakes out from a point like sides of a triangle, one tip pressed on top of the other, and add the third one down the center with the tip pressed over the other two. The memory is so clear, I can smell the yeasty dough. FInally, we would braid the three pieces, over and under, all the way down to create the traditional Jewish challah. Morah Doris would then take them away on a tray and bake them. Before we were picked up from school at about noon, we were given our tiny loaves of challah to take home for Shabbat, some smaller than others because kids would always nip at the dough for tiny tastes.

         A full-size traditional challah.

Beth HaGan at temple Israel was the place I started so many things-my education both secular and religious, an understanding of my culture, friendships that would be an important part of my childhood. I remember attending children's services on Shabbat and during holidays. I also remember all kinds of special musical programs and events. I became a Bat Mitzvah at this same temple about 10 years after this memory, just before my 13th birthday.

My mom, sister, and me at a children's Shabbat service. Mom is lighting the Shabbat candles.

Tonight

He's tall, thin, and bald. It's hard to tell if he shaves his head, or if he's actually lost his hair. He has one pierced ear and a long goatee that appears to be turning gray gradually because it doesn't match his brown mustache. He wears wire-rimmed glasses, not like Harry Potter. The lenses are narrow and rectangular. He carries with him a backpack slung over one shoulder, and in the opposite hand an extra large Tervis cup with a plastic loop, filled with ice water dangling from his index finger. Fashion conscious he does not appear to be. He sports simple black pants, a black t-shirt, and black shoes. He has a Band-aid on his thumb from a minor incident at work.

In steady stride during the downtown lunch hour, he's thinking about where he can get a quick bite to eat and avoid the pretentious business crowd. Soundgarden jams through his ear buds and he considers stopping for a large black coffee instead of having a real lunch, but he knows he'll never make it through the afternoon without at least a sandwich or a slice of pizza. He reaches into his pocket to see what remained from last night's tips after putting money aside for his cell phone bill. Eight bucks and change until tonight's shift, and it would have to do. He refused to use credit cards. It was his life's mission to live debt free, so he lived simply and made due hoping for better times in the future.

He stopped into Mario's for a slice of mushroom pizza and a Cherry Coke with extra ice. There were two small tables available, one by the window and one in the back corner. Usually he would elect to sit tucked away in the quiet corner where he could read, but today he sat by the window. The sun was shining and he liked to watch the passers by every now and then. It was fun to size them up in fifteen or twenty seconds, conjuring up the details of their lives. It was like turning strangers into book characters. He liked to read. Not Sports Illustrated and Playboy like a lot of his friends. He liked to read books. He was smart and well-read, but you wouldn't know it. People judge him by his appearance, and his appearance hardly screams bookworm. In most circles he talks about comic books, sports, or the latest on Cracked. But with a woman, now that's when his softer more intellectual side comes out.

He finished his pizza and looked down at his watch. It was too late to go home or get anything done, but too early to go into work. He took a few minutes to people watch and then went next door to the used bookstore to kill a half hour before work.

***

Across the street the light changes to red, and little miss perfect crosses to the other side. Her strategically streaked highlights were pulled back into a long, neat pony tail that swayed from side to side as she walked. She hustles briskly, pumping her tightly defined arm on one side and gripping her shoulder bag on the other. Fitted in her lemon yellow tank top, her perfect C's sit atop fat-free abs, and are supported by trim thighs and a firm ass. Her hands are manicured, nails in neutral color and she has the perfect tan. The kind you only get from a bottle. The shoulder bag is the latest from the J.Crew spring catalog, and in it she totes a face towel for the gym, a tall bottle of Evian, and an umbrella snug in the curved edge of the bag. Completing the ensemble are "flirty pink" toe nails and yellow patent leather flip flops to match her tank top.

She's just finished Pilates and is stopping as usual, for a green tea. Always tea, never coffee, sweetened with a single Splenda no matter how large the cup. She's trying to decide whether to head back to the gym after lunch to pick up a spin class, or to head home. She doesn't work. She's smart and educated, but she lives for her kids. Shopping, spin class, Pilates. They are all distractions from her life when her kids are at school. She has a perfect-on-paper attorney husband, but he's too busy screwing his secretary in the mail room, or the bathroom at Starbucks to care about what she does during the day. He thinks she doesn't know.

She decides to take her tea and walk around the block before returning to her car. The sun is shining and there's a comforting breeze in the air. It reminds her of the early days in her marriage when she could show up at the firm with lunch and lure her husband out for a picnic lunch in the park. He couldn't resist the chance to lay on a blanket under a tree with her.  He would kiss her behind the ear and she would pull to the side so they felt each other cheek to cheek. It was that intoxicating feel of a new relationship. A feeling she longed to have back. But things were different now. She wasn't sure how or why, but they were. She enjoys a brief stroll back around to Main Street where she arrived in front of her kids' favorite pizza place. She makes a mental note to order a pie for dinner tonight, and instead of spin class she decides she'll pick up some goodies at the bakery and surprise them when she picks them up from school.

***

     She put on her best in an attempt to keep her husband interested for their weekly Friday night date. While the nanny bathed her kids she pulled her hair up with her favorite clip, smiling because she knew how her husband loved to pull it out as he kissed her before they made love. She zipped up her Ralph Lauren dress, slipped on her peep toe sling back sandals, and clasped her pearls around her neck. The ones he gave her when they got married. She put on some lip gloss, and dabbed on some color to go with her flirty pink toes. She checked her phone and then checked out the window. No car. The time was 7:30 and there was no sign of her husband or his car. She sighed. Though she knew her marriage was a sham, Friday nights were sacred. It was the one night a week they left the house together, lived the happy couple facade, and came home together, alone. Most weeks it ended with an obligatory love-making session that sated them both well into Saturday morning. At least until he got up to play golf. Now it was almost 8:00, and he still wasn't home. Bastard. She checked her phone again. This time she noticed a text, several actually:

Mark: I know it's Friday...

Mark: I know it's our night, but I have a big case...

Mark: I gotta work. I'm sorry xoxo...

Mark: I'll make it up to you.

Working? She thought. Bullshit! He's working over his secretary on the table in the executive conference room. She threw her phone at the mirror and watched her reflection shatter into spiderweb cracks. She knew exactly where he was and what he was doing, but he never did it on Fridays. She had no intention of running down to the office to catch him in the act. Instead, she would file it away with all the other reasons she resented him. This one under H for heart breaker.

     After she wiped away her tears and allowed herself a few minutes of self-pity, she shed her country club dress, and neatly hung it back in the closet. She scanned the closet until just the right garment caught her eye. There, that's it. It was the sexiest little black dress she owned. She hadn't worn it since the days her husband was banging her on the conference table because he couldn't keep his hands off her when she'd bring over dinner during late night case prep. Barely there black silk that hung just slightly into her cleavage, and rested ever so gently on her nipples, it was no secret when she caught a chilly breeze or a hot glance. It dripped over her shoulders and down into a perfect U, puddling at the sway of her back. No need for extravagant jewelry, the dress said it all. Just a pair of simple diamond studs, black strappy sandals on a three inch heel, and absolutely no pearls. She looked hot and she knew it. She was ready for a night out. If her husband wouldn't take her, she would take herself.

     She stopped to admire herself in the shattered mirror and tried to smile. Instead, she took a deep breath, pushed down the lump in her throat, and choked back the tears. She turned and walked toward the door and stopped in her tracks. What am I doing? she thought. Where do I go? It had been almost twenty years since she went anywhere on a Friday night without Mark. She thought about the things and places she loved that he never agreed to. Dinner on the beach, open mic night at the coffee house, the jazz club downtown. He said no to all of it. Tonight the decision was hers and hers alone. She decided a glass of her favorite Merlot and a little jazz might be just what she needed. 

     She left the bedroom and walked downstairs tripping over a Barbie and a couple of Legos on her way, bracing herself on the rail at the last step. She kissed her children goodnight and reminded the nanny to make sure they brushed their teeth and were in bed by nine, no exceptions. The kids told their mommy she looked beautiful, probably assumed she was meeting Daddy, and hugged her tight. Then they exchanged I love you's. The nanny gave her assurances and smiled with a look that could only be exchanged from one woman to another as if to say, "You look smokin'."A nanny knows all a family's dirty laundry.

     She got into her Beemer and turned on the blue tooth. She made a last ditch effort to coax one of her friends out to join her. She pleaded saying only that they needed a girls' night out. Rachel and her husband had theater tickets, and Sam was packing for an early flight to Aruba the next morning. She stopped at a red light and checked herself in the rear view mirror. It looks like we're really flying solo tonight. She was a bit nervous, but fueled by her anger toward Mark she suddenly felt invigorated. The light turned green, she stepped on the gas, and she drove downtown.

     The city was bustling. Lots of people, lights from the signs and traffic signals, and music of all types emanating from the entrances of various venues, from restaurants and cigar bars to nightclubs and coffee houses. She valeted in front of the Blue Velvet Jazz Club, slipped her ticket in her purse, and approached the door looking to both sides as though she was worried about being spotted. It was as though her body was betraying her thoughts before she even had them.

     She scanned the room surveying it for something, anything familiar. Who was she kidding? She hadn't hit a jazz club since she got married. Mark hated jazz. The best way to ease into this she thought, was to get over to the bar and start drinking. Normally the smoke would annoy her, but tonight it brought her back to the days before Mark. She sort of welcomed it. It was a time when she got to make choices about where and how she would spend her weekends. Sometimes the club with her girlfriends. Once in awhile a weekend at the beach. Anyway, those days were long gone. She wiggled her way in and stepped up to the bar. Two men in business suits paid their tab and got up, but not before undressing her with their eyes. They left, so she sat down and the bar tender approached her right away. "What'll it be?" 

     "Merlot?" she asked as if seeking approval.

     "Sure." He poured her a glass of wine and centered it on a fresh cocktail napkin. "Just let me know if I can get you anything else." He moved across the bar tending to other customers, topping off glasses, collecting tips from those who had come and gone. But he couldn't help but keep one eye on her. The attractive woman at the end of the bar. Alone. He wondered if she was meeting someone. Girls night out with her friends? Not a chance he thought. A woman like that had to be meeting a man. She never lit a cigarette, never checked her watch or her phone. She just sat there sipping her Merlot and gazing around at the crowd. Not like someone searching for someone, more like someone searching for some thing. He was intrigued.

     "Another Merlot?" She looked down at her glass and twirled it by the stem. There was one swig left. She gulped it down and looked at him.

     "Sure." She finished the second glass a little quicker than the first and appeared to be a little more relaxed. She had a bit of a glow, and her eyes had that glazed over sparkle of a wine buzz. Still alone, she hadn't exchanged more than a few words with anyone who tried. She lifted her hand, and signaled him over for another drink. He nodded to acknowledge her request, but finished the final garnish on a couple of cocktails at the end of the bar.

     She looked like an old cliche. Every guy in the place was hitting on her and she was turning them all down. She appeared to be drowning her sorrows in a wine glass. He watched her from the far corner of the bar trying not to stare but he couldn't help himself. She was beautiful. She swayed gently to the music and closed her eyes. He could tell she was hurting and wondered why. No doubt she's into assholes. He was probably a doctor or a stockbroker with plenty of money to give her everyhing she wants. He made his way back over to her. 

     "What can I get ya, another Merlot?"

     "Please." She paused and continued before he could turn. "Actually, forget the wine. Make it a vodka tonic."

     "Sure thing. With a lime?"

     "Yes. Two."

     "You got it." As he turned around she noticed what might be considered his best side. She had already noted his strong looking but immaculately clean hands, and his charming smile. Good teeth. Bald wasn't exactly her thing. But nothing was really her thing. She'd been with Mark since she was twenty four. She looked away and wondered what happened to her. Her life.

     "One vodka tonic, two limes." He stayed for a minute hoping she would say something. Anything. He had made up his mind she wasn't waiting for anyone. If she was, it should be clear to her by now he wasn't going to show. He went out on a limb. "Waiting for someone?" She sighed and took a sip of her drink carefully holding the swizzle straw to the side of her glass.

     "Actually, tonight I'm on my own." He couldn't help his response. Quite possibly listed in the first chapter of every bartender's handbook, he knew how it sounded the minute it came out.

     "Come on, a pretty lady like you couldn't possibly be-" She interrupted him.

     "Are you serious?"

     "Wow, I guess that did sound pretty bad. But it's really not often that a woman like you sits at my bar without, well, a date. Or at least waiting on a date to arrive."

     "A woman like me?" She was perplexed. She didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. "Let's just say I was stood up."

     "Guy's a fool if you ask me."

     "Well, I didn't. But thanks." She closed her eyes and sipped her drink again. The vodka streamed through her and so did the sultry jazz tune by the live band on stage. Once again the bartender stepped away to serve other customers. They began a bit of cat and mouse, chasing each other with glances but each trying not to let the other know. After she finished her third drink, she twirled her swizzle stick around in her glass. She lifted the glass to her mouth and eased one of the ice cubes in, sucking the last drop of liquor off it and allowing it to melt in her mouth. She gently shook out her hair, took a deep breath and moved toward the stage where the band was playing. He was watching her every move. She was mesmerizing. Elegant and sexy, and her vulnerability stroked by the alcohol turned to a tentative confidence. She closed her eyes and moved with the music. It wasn't really dancing, just feeling. The cocktails had loosened her inhibitions and her muscles, and she was feeling the soothing rhythms of jazz. Others were dancing around her, but all eyes were on her. The blue stage lights reflected off the instruments and cast an icy blue hue over her. The silk moved with her and her senses were heightened. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Any move, any attempt he made, would only be reciprocated out of need and hurt. But he decided he didn't care. As the night went on he hoped she would stick around until closing.  

     She continued to move, one song to the next, and light beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and neck. The band took a break and she stopped in the ladies room before returning to the bar to refill her drink. Two women stepped out and she was the only one there. A solitary stop infront of the mirror gave her a minute to reflect. She looked at herself, the way she looked in this dress. Why did she come here? She wondered why her life had become such a sham, such a living lie. What's wrong with me? What do I want? Her mind was flooded with questions for which she had no answers. The only thing she knew in that moment, warmed by the alcohol, aroused by the jazz, was that she longed for intimacy. She was sick of being a trophy wife, and cold scheduled sex once a week with a man who no longer loved her was not her idea of intimacy. She dabbed away the sweat, wiped her tears and resigned to think about it when she was sober. She decided one more drink and another set by the band, and she would call it a night.

     Another drink and several songs later, she forgot about her resignation. As the night wore on, many tried to dance with her. A few were successful, most were not. But she allowed only one dance before she walked back to the bar for a refill. He continued to fill her up, each time increasing the tonic and cutting back on the vodka. He hated to see a wounded woman drink herself to oblivion. By now he had lost count anyway and wasn't sure about her tab. It was getting late and he was starting to feel protective, though he wasn't sure why. Why was this woman any different from any of the other heartbroken drunks that came in and out of here each night? He wasn't sure. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn't want her to leave.

     "One more," she said for the third or fourth time. Each time she returned she got a little flirtier, giving rise to his confidence. He couldn't hold back any longer.

     "You want to tell me why a knock out like you, in a dress like that is dancing out there, alone? You mourning the date that never showed?" She didn't respond, just looked at him. She was annoyed by his comment but flattered he called her a knockout. "This place is crawling with guys and you're turning them all away. Any guy would give his right arm to dance with you."

     "Yeah, all except the one I'm married to." She realized as soon as it came out, how pathetic she sounded. Suddenly she felt embarrassed.

     "So, it was your husband who stood you up?" Now he felt stupid. A blind date who didn't know what he was missing was one thing. But her husband? 

     "Twenty years we've been together, married almost that long. He thinks I don't know."

     "Know what?" 

     "He's nailing his secretary. Regularly." He was shocked. What is it with these assholes? She had to be one of the most exquisite women he had ever seen. Maybe she's a head case.

     "I don't know why I just told you that. You must think I'm some kind of head case."

     "Nah." He chuckled to himself. "You can't imagine everything I see and hear in this place. You know what they say about bartenders..."

     "What's that?" She bated him. He told her all about the crazies that come in and out of a joint, talking to a bartender about all their problems. 

     "Like free therapy." He left her to attend to other customers but she couldn't help but follow him with her eyes. There was something about him, a kindness she hadn't felt from a man in a long time. He seemed smart, well spoken.

     

                                                             ***

     The band played final requests and last round was called at the bar. People started clearing out and he could count the number of patrons remaining. He scanned the room, realizing he lost track of her in the rush to fill final drink orders. He feared she'd left without a word and he'd never see her again. He sighed, there she was at the end of the bar sitting relaxed but despondent. He brought her a tall glass of ice water and served it with a wink. "Should I call you a cab?"

     "I can't leave my car here. Besides I can't... I don't want to go home." 

     "I can clean up here and we can go get a cup of coffee, sober up some."

     "Um. Okay. That sounds kinda nice actually." She sat and nursed her ice water while he cleaned up the bar and wiped down the tables. She wondered if she should call home and have the nanny come get her. She felt drawn to stay so she checked her cell phone. No messages, the kids are ok. He did a quick sweep and told the owner he'd be in early tomorrow to give the place a once over before opening. He offered her a hand and she took it. He pushed open the bar door and they were met with a cool evening gust.

     "Are you cold? There's a diner just down the block here."

     "No, I'm ok." He could see through the thin black silk that she had caught the breeze and he swallowed deep trying to hold back the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her. 

     "So you wanna talk about it?" He wasn't sure what to say.

     "I'd rather not."

     "Okay then. Let's get some coffee." They walked into the busy diner. The latenight favorite was full from one end to the other with after hours employees and late night movie goers looking for a post cinema snack. They were seated at a table in the middle of the restaurant, no booth, no privacy. She ordered french toast with cinammon sugar and he a belgian waffle with vanilla ice cream. They both had coffee. The rest just felt like a first date.They talked about her kids, but not her husband. They shared a little about their goals. He was paying his way through school, studying to be an English teacher. After years of working in the restaurant business he decided he wanted something more stable, a career that would allow him to nurture and share his love of reading. He didn't want to take out loans, so he works nights at the bar so he can attend classes during the day. She was a top student in college, journalism major. But she gave up her career to raise her children. She seemed sad, but ok with her choice.

     Three cups of coffee later, they found themselves talking about their favorite books and traveling, and movies. It was like they were old friends. With no apologies, he leaned across the table and said softly in her ear, "You are so beautiful." He sat back, "And the light dances in your eyes and the weight of the world lifts when you talk about your kids... He's a fool." She looked at him, and dropped her chin. It's been a long time since someone looked at her that way, saw deep behind her eyes. She felt conflicted. When she said "I do," she meant it, for better or for worse. But should she be forced to live in a loveless marriage? She longed for the gentle touch of a loving man.

     "If I had a woman like you in my life-" She closed her eyes and shook her head, tears streamed from her eyes.

     "Don't." A million thoughts ran through her brain. Run away with this guy? You don't even know him. A one night stand, really? I'm not like that, and he seems like he deserves better. Live in the moment she thought. Stop thinking about everything like it's a monumental decision. Instead of thinking, feel for a change. She smiled shyly at him.

     "I better take you home," he insisted.

     "Your home or my home?"