"Garnet and Gray, we hail today..."

Just two years ago, I was writing about the closing of North Catholic, the scrappy little school in northeast Philly that I student taught at.

Never, ever did I think I would be writing a similar post about my own alma mater.

The Archdiocese of Philly just announced its plans to close 44 grade schools and 4 high schools--Archbishop Prendergast High School for Girls being one of them.

Now, I didn't LOVE high school. I had a pretty okay experience. I wasn't a standout in any way; I found my happy little niche with the choir and theater kids, excelled in English and Spanish, limped along in Math and Science, feigned enthusiasm at the pep rallies, had some great teachers (my junior English teacher, who actually made Beowulf palatable) and some pretty awful ones (one of whom spent the better part of sophomore History dishing dirt on her fellow teachers and telling us about the gun she kept in her glove compartment), and made some great friends that I am still close with today.

But there were things that made Prendie special, and that is what makes me sad--that other girls won't get to experience that. "Music on the Stairs" signaled the official start of Christmas break. The choir would gather on the grand staircase of the main entrance to school, and serenade the students with Christmas carols as they left for vacation. The month before graduation, you could "kiss a senior goodbye" by sending them a Hershey Kiss candy-gram (and being a girls' school, it was just a cute little tradition instead of something fraught with romantic drama and angst). And we were blessed with a gorgeous chapel--basically the size of a small church--which had served the children of St. Vincent's Orphanage, the original residents of the building. My friend Erin and I started attending the lunchtime Communion services senior year, and it provided a blessed few moments of peace and serenity in the midst of the usual high school nonsense. (I would also pop into the chapel alone on occasion when I just needed some quiet. For a teenager, this haven of sacred silence was literally a Godsend.)

And finally, the bell tower was the Holy Grail for bad-asses--strictly off-limits, and punishable by suspension if caught trespassing. The day before graduation, my friends Jenn, Trish and myself managed to climb up and paint our initials on the wall. I ran home and breathlessly confessed to my mom, a fellow Prendie alum, about our sordid crime. She feigned anger, and then quietly gave me a high five when my dad wasn't looking.

High school definitely wasn't the best time of my life. But it was pretty good, all things considered. I wore my garnet and gray uniform with a sheepish pride, and my heart swelled with mixed emotions on graduation day when we sang our alma mater for the final time: "Garnet and Gray we hail today, girls of Prendergast High..."

And now, girls who have had this tradition in their families for generations will have to find a new home. There are options, sure. But I know I was happy to share this bond with my sister, mom, and godmother, and also know how much I took it for granted. Prendie stood like a stalwart beacon on the hill at Lansdowne Avenue and Garrett Road; I just always assumed it would be around. As did thousands of families who are now wondering where their children will go next fall. As did 1700 teachers in the Archdiocese, who are painfully uncertain what will become of their jobs come spring.

It's a strange time for the Church. There is no choice but to downsize and consolidate; I get it. But I do hope it remembers that "pro-life" means "ALL life," and that they do everything within their power to help these families and teachers who have sacrificed so much for Catholic education.

The Christmas Crunch

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Every year I resolve to glide through Christmas like Mary Bailey herself--elegance and grace under pressure, wearing pearls and pumps to boot. Instead, I find myself galumphing around Target on December 23rd dressed like a refugee and beating myself up for waiting 'til the last minute for thisthat'ntheotherthang.

But this year was a little different. And I think part of that was due to trying out some new traditions, instead of stubbornly sticking with the old. (It also helped immensely that we were staying put this year. Last year's cross-country trek with a 3-year-old and a feverish infant was just the merriest little sprig of Christmas joy that anyone could hope for!)

1) Secret Santa
Years ago, my mom suggested to my (then) family of four that we should do a pollyanna. "WHAAAT!?!" we all screamed and raged, like she had suggested sacrificing the cat for Christmas dinner. "HOW DARE YOU, CHRISTMAS CRAPPER!!!????" But after a few years, it seemed to make sense (a mortgage and two kids will do that to you.) And soon after, NR's family followed suit. So instead of trying to figure out the perfect present for Cousin Cathy whom you see (maybe) once a year, we receive *one* person to shop for, an agreed-upon budget, and a list of helpful ideas for gifts. Headaches and guessing games averted. Thank you, Baby Jesus.

2) Planning Ahead
On December 26th of last year, the Teege started composing this year's Christmas list. By December 3rd of this year, we called it a day and decided it was time for Santa to get down to business. We asked my folks to babysit on a Saturday evening and attacked Toys 'R Us with a very specific, very researched list in hand. (And guess what--most of the Black Friday deals were still on. So there really is no reason to get up at 2 a.m. and fight all the other wacky jacks in line at the big box stores.) By the end of the night, Santa was all done, and we could calm down a bit for the rest of December. Plus, we made it into a date night by starting off with a dinner at Maggiano's. New tradition? Definitely.

3) Mass in the City
A few years back, my sister invited us to Christmas Eve Mass at St. Joseph's University for something different. It was beautiful (and of course, being presided over by a Jesuit, entertaining AND meaningful.) We thought it would be nice to go again, but they only had an 8 p.m. service...kind of impossible with rugrats. So we decided to try the Children's Mass at Old St. Joe's Church in downtown Philly. The church was gorgeous, the music adorable (the Children's Choir sang), and we got to sit right next to the nativity scene, which my children are obsessed with. Kelly kept wrestling herself out of NR's arms to stomp right up to the manger and proclaim "BABYJESUSBABYJESUSBABYJESUS!" while Teege asked where Baby Jesus' menorah was (perfectly valid question). On the way home, we listened to Christmas carols and got to see Boathouse Row all lit up on the Schuykill. Perfect way to end the day before scurrying off to bed.

4) Macy's Light Show
When I was a young pup, my city-born-and-raised dad was all about jetting around downtown on public transportation, taking me to his old haunts (a favorite trip was going to the magic shop at the Bourse, with a quick stop for nonpareils at the candy store.) I feel like I've failed so far at showing NR and the kids the same sights, so I suggested taking the train down to Macy's one day to see the annual Christmas Light Show and Dickens Village. Well, the train wasn't working (so we paid $30 to park) and the line for Dickens turned out to be 45 minutes, but it was still a fun, new thing for our little family to try, and it's on the agenda for next year as well.

Don't get me wrong...I love old traditions as much as the next gal. But I also think it's important, when you start your own family, to branch out and try new ones as well.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a blessed 2012 to all.

The Curtain Falls...

...on my latest theatrical adventure, "Sorry, Wrong Number" at Celebration Theater in Lansdowne.

This was the first production I've done *not* pregnant since The Exonerated back at The Attic in '06. I played Mrs. Stephenson, a haughty invalid who overhears a murder plot, and spends the rest of the play trying to get everyone and anyone to listen to her. It was a tremendous amount of fun playing a b*tch, and quite an acting challenge since I am bedbound for the entire play. I'm usually all about the business when acting--stalking around the stage, rearranging props, doing whatever I can to communicate nonverbally. So it was interesting to just use my voice, upper body, and anything within arm's reach to create a character.

I also LOVED the space we performed in--the Twentieth Century Club in Lansdowne. I grew up in this lovely little borough, so I just adored driving "back home" the past three months. The 20CC itself, a beautiful historic building built at the turn of the (last) century, was actually the site for our reception back in '02. And long before that, my dad and I did a magic show on the same stage. I got scolded for shirking my magical assistant duties and sitting on pumpkins during the show. (I was probably about 4...but still.)

I find it so important--ESPECIALLY as a mom and a teacher--to do something that feeds the creative spirit now and again. Meeting new peeps and playing make believe for a spell has certainly done the trick...and now I'm ready and renewed for the onslaught of holiday craziness just around the corner.

St. Connie

Last Saturday was the Feast of the Little Flower--St. Theresa. I don't often remember feast days of the saints, but this one was particularly special.

Freshman year of high school, I joined our parish CYO (Catholic Youth Organization). I hadn't attended the parish grade school, so I was a bit apprehensive about hanging out with a bunch of weird do-gooders I didn't know every Sunday night. But my mom had grown up in the parish, and wanted me to feel the same sense of community she had. In fact, many of her classmates' kids were members.

So I showed up--reluctantly--and was suprised by the mix of kids there. Preps in penny loafers sat alongside metalheads in Metallica shirts. It was overseen by a truly awesome priest, Fr. Groarke, who just "got" kids. (And no, there was nothing suspicious or weird about him, nor have there ever been any "complaints." He was just a truly awesome guy.) We did the usual youth group stuff--retreats, "lock-ins," service projects, the works--and the highlight was an annual weekend convention at the Valley Forge Sheraton. Picture a bunch of crazy Catholic kids running rampant from ballroom to ballroom...mildly chaperoned by guitar-wielding college students, the token "cool" priests, and mostly frazzled moms. Good times!

I made some great friends in the group--two in particular. Amy was a goofy artsy type a year ahead of me. We started walking to school together...much to the surprised delight of our moms, whom we found out had also walked together twenty years before, even meeting up at the same corner. Through her I met Chris, a sweet but terrifically sarcastic guy who shared my passion for music and theater. We wound up doing Summer Stage together, which pretty much bonds you for life. He was also EVERYONE'S prom date (his nice nature + tall stature being two key factors.)

The CYO kids generally bounced between Amy's house (where we would bake cookies and play on her dad's motorized chair that could zoom up the stairs) and Chris' (where we watched the very first season of "The Real World." I know, I was a huge hellraiser in high school.) Chris' saintly mom, Connie, always welcomed us with hugs, thoughtful questions, and the nicest compliments. She immediately made you feel like you were the only person in the room. "Oh, St. Connie," my mom would sigh whenever I raved about her. "She was always everyone's mom in the neighborhood when we were growing up. Looks like she's still at it."

After high school, everyone went their separate ways. But I would still see St. Connie at church and around the neighborhood. Every time, she would put her delicate hand on my shoulder and inquire about my life with a "Oh, hon..." And a few weeks after my wedding, she gave me the nicest compliment out of anyone. "That was such a neat wedding, hon," she said softly. "Exactly what a wedding SHOULD be. I've told so many people about it."

Every time I saw Connie, I immediately felt peaceful. She just exuded a quiet, lovely grace. It's not something you can learn or strive for. You just have it. She had it.

Two weeks ago, she lost her battle with cancer.

On Saturday, St. Philomena's was PACKED with people. Fr. Groarke returned to say the funeral Mass, and it was he that reminded us of the feast day. "Connie WAS our Little Flower," he reflected. "You are all here because of that little lady--that little flower that touched you in some way." As she was brought out of the church (to "How Can I Keep From Singing?"--a perfect choice), he led us all in a round of applause.

It was the most beautiful send-off for somebody who always led the applause for others.

Rest in Peace, Saint Connie.

You know New York, You need New York...

...you know you need unique New York...

So goes one of my favorite tongue twister warm-ups when I teach acting.

Seven years ago, I had the excellent fortune of teaching at an amazing school on Manhattan's Upper East Side. I was assigned a banged-up group of juniors with a terrible reputation for being difficult, unruly, and just generally annoying. Not only did I have the joy of teaching all of these juniors Brit Lit, I also had to teach them Speech. Plus I had a junior advisory group. I couldn't escape.

I forged through the year, determined to keep my head above water, and forced myself to like them. But a funny thing happened on the way to June...I fell in love with them. They just barged on in to my heart and made themselves at home. I came to know each of them, quirks and all, and just enjoy them immensely. Together, we marched through "Macbeth," built houses in Kentucky, West Virginia and Belize, served together in Camden, laughed together in the Commons, and cried together on retreats. I also managed to guilt many of them into taking a risk and performing onstage for the first time. And by the time graduation came two years later, they chose to dedicate their yearbook to me--still one of the greatest honors I have EVER received as a teacher.

So when an invitation to their 5-year reunion appeared in the mail, NR and I decided to return to the Big Apple--our first time back there together in several years. We booked our Bolt Bus tickets, left the kids with the grandparents, and scored a stay with a Jesuit friend of ours who lives around the corner from Carnegie Hall.

He urged us to walk up to the reunion. "Thirty blocks!?" I balked and whined, hoping for a taxi. But my frugal beloved pointed out what a nice night it was, so off we went.

And it was nice. Our favorite part was strolling through the Mall in Central Park--a place we had never gone. In fact, we realized how many "New York" things we had never done in the NINE years we worked up there. State of Liberty, Shake Shack, skating in Wollman Rink...oh, we did our share of touristy stuff during our JV years, but it petered out once we started working for real. Because, honestly, who wanted to wander through the Met when you had a stack of papers to grade in your tote bag? Who wanted to ride the swans when we had grocery shopping to do?

So it was a real treat to just savor and enjoy a city that has meant so much to us.

As we wandered through the Mall together--no tote bags or kids in tow, no chores hanging over our heads--we passed by several wedding parties having their picture taken. As we approach our ninth anniversary, it was a beautiful reminder of all we've been through together...and where it all began.

Ten Years Ago.

What a decade it's been.

This anniversary is always a tough one. For years, I was in New York on September 11, so the entire city took on a tone of haunted reverence and quiet thanksgiving. We all took a collective deep breath together, it seemed.

Now I'm in PA. And while people are certainly reflective and reverent, it's a little different. (For example, my school puts up a huge memorial in the cafeteria with giant photos of the towers in flames, Fr. Judge being carried from the ashes, etc. For me, it's too much. It's too painful.)

So I'll just share my story here, for those of you who read this.

On Friday, 9/7/01, I took the "E" train down to the WTC as I often did after school. I bought myself a smoothie and glanced up at those two testaments to capitalism--catching myself, as I often did in my early twenties, having a "New York" moment. Feeling like an ant, but like an ant that counted in the great scheme of things. I was here. I was doing it. Frank Sinatra would be proud.

The next night, my roommates and I went out to toast a new job. As we walked towards the Jersey City waterfront, we gazed in awe. "Look at the Twin Towers," Amanda sighed. "I mean, we live here! Can you believe it?"

That was the last time we would ever see them.

Tuesday morning dawned bright and sunny--a perfectly gorgeous day. As I stood in the Grove Street PATH station, the WTC train pulled up. It was packed to the gills. I usually got a seat on the 33rd Street train, so I opted to wait. This was at 7:45 a.m.

When I arrived at school (56th & 1st), my colleagues were marching in a circle holding picket signs. "Oh crap," I thought. "Here we go." Our union, the Lay Faculty Association, had finally decided to go on strike. I joined in with my friends and started thinking about how to rearrange my lessons for the week. My freshmen were starting that day, so I felt a little bad for them. What a way to start high school!

Pretty soon, news reporters started arriving to cover the strike. The girls were hanging out the windows, cheering us on and throwing down Starbursts. One of the Spanish teachers started singing, "Pagame, pagame mucho..."

One of the reporters got a call while she was interviewing us. I heard something about "World Trade Center" and "plane." As quickly as the newspeople arrived, they vanished.

"World Trade Center," another teacher said. "My husband has a meeting down there this morning."

I saw our union liaison, Vinny, pacing and talking on his cell. He looked up, his face ashen. He summoned us over. "A plane went into the World Trade Center. The Pentagon has also been hit. They think there's another one heading for the White House."

I started panting. Like a dog. My mind couldn't process it. Were we under attack? My lungs couldn't fill up with enough air--I just kept panting and gasping.

Our principal came out and asked us to put down our picket signs. "We need your help inside," she explained. Without a word, we threw down the signs and entered the building.

I went up to my classroom. A handful of girls were watching "The Net," starring Sandra Bullock, while a stranger sat at my desk. They had no idea.

The upperclassmen, however, must have gotten wind. Within minutes, chaos erupted in the halls. The bell rang to switch classes, and only a few girls came into my room. "Ladies, let's pray, okay? There...was an accident downtown...a plane hit...the towers...and we think it was on purpose."

They stared at me. I stared back, and then started the Sign of the Cross. What the hell else could I do?

Out in the hallways, sobbing and screaming. I looked outside. Jeff, one of my colleagues was racing towards the stairs. "What's happening?" I yelled. He stared at me. "The towers. They're gone."

I stared back. "What?"

"Gone. Fallen."

The panting started again. Gone? I had just seen them two days ago.

My students, overhearing, asked if they could call home. "Of course," I said, and let them go to the office (where, of course, everyone was running.)

Downtown. Nick was downtown. On the Lower East Side, but still...

I ran down the hall to where I knew one of the Holy Child girls would be. Holy Child was the sister school of Nativity, where Nick taught, and several of the graduates came to Cathedral for high school (where I taught.) My plan was to gather those girls and bring them downtown, since I knew where they lived. (Remember, these were the days before emergency evacuation plans. We had never counted on this.)

The first classroom I entered was full of freshmen. Some idiot substitute had turned on the television, which was just a screen of smoke. I looked away and told her I was taking some of the girls home.

"Um, who ARE you?" she asked snidely.

"I'm their teacher."

"Oh, one of the teachers ON STRIKE?"

I pushed past her and beckoned to the girls. They followed me, and together we found their classmates. "Miss, what are we doing?"

"Going home."

"Cool!"

Before we left, I stopped into the finance office to call Nativity. A math teacher had just hung up with her brother, who worked in the towers. She was sobbing uncontrollably. "He said...people were jumping out of windows...I told him to go home, just go home..."

We went outside. For some reason I thought we could catch the M15 bus. But once we started walking, it became clear we would be doing just that for a long time.

Straight down 1st Avenue, in the middle of the brilliant blue sky (God, it was a gorgeous day), we saw a large cloud of black smoke.

"Miss, what's that?"

"Um...I think it's a steam cloud or something. Hey, do you girls want to get a soda?"

We went into a little pizza shop and I bought the girls some Cokes. We chatted about their summer, how excited they were for high school, which Nativity boys they thought were cute. To this day, I am so thankful for these girls and the selfish distraction they provided me with. I had no time to freak out or panic. I had to be Miss Kelly.

Somewhere in the twenties, my old high school friend Dan came out of a pub. It was a truly bizarre, random meetup. We hugged and delighted in the happy coincidence. The girls giggled and said they were going to tell Nick. I haven't seen him since.

The further downtown we got, the more our awareness of what had happened grew. SWAT teams grew in number. People walked by us covered in ash and clutching masks. Police barricades started blocking the streets. I continued to distract the girls (and myself) by asking about their families and where they lived.

Around Thompson Square Park, where most of the girls lived, we parted ways. I finally made my way to Nativity, and Nick. The boys had all gone home.

We went back to his apartment on 4th Street. His roommates were gathered in the common room, watching the coverage on TV. Until then, I really had no idea what had happened. I swore I was watching an action movie. This couldn't be real.

Exhausted, I took a nap while Nick and his roommates went to donate blood. I woke up, vaguely remembering this horrific nightmare I'd had. Then I smelled the smoke. And that's when the tears started.

Nick had returned. The hospitals didn't need any blood. We thought that was great news at the time. It wasn't.

That night, we went up on the roof. No sounds but sirens. Horribly eerie for the city that never slept.

Two days later, we returned to work. By that point, the photos of missing people had started appearing in subway stations, on walls of hospitals, throughout the entire city. Within a few weeks, they would turn into memorials.

My faculty gathered in the theater before school to figure out what to do. We were shaken to the core, terrified, and heartbroken. How could we face our students? So many of them had lost family, friends, and neighbors. What could we do?

Teach, as it turns out.

My first period was senior Drama. The girls entered somberly, sat down, and stared at me expectantly.

I took a deep breath. "Okay, ladies. I'm going to give you a choice. If you need to talk, debrief, or just collect your thoughts, we can. Or, I have a whole lesson prepared on Classical Greek Drama. Your choice."

After a pause, one of the girls said, "I don't know about everyone else, but if I talk or think about it one more second, I'll go crazy. Let's just get on with it."

Another girl said, "Yeah, let's just learn something."

And so we did.

God, did we ever learn something.

Magic Up Our Sleeve

If I ever become a superhero (according to my 4-year-old, it's possible!), my origin story would begin here...with a close-up of a bearded, bespectacled man clutching a microphone, counting to three, and shushing an audience full of wide-eyed kiddies.

When I was about four years old, my parents started bringing me to the children's shows at Upper Darby Summer Stage. Every show began with the theme song, "Magic Up Our Sleeve," followed by the founder Harry Dietzler (insert bearded bespectacled man) urging us to count to three to turn off the lights and start the show.

When I was ten, I was finally able to join the Apprentice Program. I took daily classes in acting, improv, dance, music, and speech. I expected to only embrace dance, but was surprised by how much I enjoyed the other classes as well. I especially liked improv--the idea of flying without a net and diving into the unexpected. It taught me how to take risks and bounce back from failure or disappointment.

From there, I did five years of Children's Theater (playing everything from a dwarf to a mermaid) and five years of Mainstage (where my biggest role was Wife #5 in "Joseph"). There were lots of laughs (endless games of "Freeze Frame" in a sizzling courtyard), lots of tears (usually when I didn't get a part I desperately wanted), and of course lots of drama (both onstage and off.) But there were also lots of pleasant surprises--new friends, finding out I was kind of good at Shakespeare, and when Tina Fey (yup, she worked there during college) named me Summer Stager of the Week for IMPROVISING to cover a mistake during "Hans Christian Anderson."

Harry was kind enough to let me join the staff right out of high school, in a variety of roles: intern, assistant choreographer, stage manager, storytelling teacher. I found that as much as I loved performing, I loved sparking that desire in young people even more. When I was 21, he blessed me with the Big Kahuna--my very own Children's Theater show to direct. (It was "Sleeping Beauty," and it was freaking adorable.)

I then took a nine year hiatus during my time in JC. But every summer, I managed to meander back to good ol' Summer Stage to catch a show or just say hi. And when we returned to PA in '07, Harry welcomed me right back. I now teach acting and improv to the Apprentices, and can't believe that I get paid for such a fun, rewarding job.

On our last day of class, I always have a little reflection with the kiddies--asking what surprised them about the past few weeks, and what they will remember. Our kids come from a huge array of backgrounds (seriously, if you want to see a cross-section of every ethnicity and socioeconomic status, stop by Summer Stage. It's an unbelievable testament to arts education as the great bridge builder.) Yet across the board, the answers are always the same:

"All the friends I made."
"How much fun we had."
And my fave...
"That it's okay to be weird."

It's hard to explain this special program to people who haven't experienced it. "Oh...so it's like a theater camp?"

Um...sort of.

Someone once said, "your talents are God's gifts to you. What you do with those talents are your gifts to God."

Summer Stage teaches children to find their gifts, but even better, how to use them for the greater good.

Clang Clang Clang went the trolley...

I love the trolley. Is that gross?

I'm a big fan of public transportation in general. I will take two trains and a bus if it will keep me off the highway. (Anyone who's ever ridden shotgun with me will understand. I'm a Nervous Nellie behind the wheel...and Distracted Donna if someone's in the passenger seat.) While living in Jersey City, I would sing the praises of the PATH to anyone who would listen. "It's clean! It's quick! It's cheap! I get to NYU in 10 minutes! It only smells a little in the summer...!"

But here in Philly we have the trolley. Growing up, most of my high school friends didn't get their licenses until after graduation, since we could just hop on the trolley to visit each other or go to the Springfield Mall. Yeah, it smelled kind of funky, and the conductors were less than pleasant, but it was cheap, convenient, and got you where you needed to go.

And now we have a trolley stop right down the street. If I worked in the city, it would be a dream commute. (In fact, when the houses on our block were built back in the 30s, most residents commuted into the city...which explains our narrow street/shared driveways/teensy garages.) Two years ago, at the height of my son's "Thomas the Tank Engine" obsession, we spent many an evening sitting at the stop and waiting for the trolleys to pass.

SEPTA (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority) has recently been overhauling the tracks and stations, so our stop is now shiny and new (and lacking that lovely urine aroma.) So yesterday, we took a little trip on the trolley into Media (America's first "fair trade town"), had some burgers at Zac's, wandered around Ten Thousand Villages, and came back in time for naps. KG wasn't too impressed (she just wanted to run up and down the aisles, and Mean Mommy wouldn't allow it), but Teege loved it--announcing "WE'RE ON AN ADVENTURE!" to the other passengers and narrating everything that we saw (through a four-year-old's eyes, a creek becomes a river, some trees become a forest, and a group of stores becomes "a cool city.")

Don't get me wrong--I sure like my comfy Corolla. But for a touch of nostalgia and quality time with the fam, the trolley fits the bill.

Superhero Camp!

I cannot sing the praises of The Creative Living Room highly enough.

For the kid's third birthday, I wanted to do something special...particularly because his little sister was almost done cooking, and life as he (and we) knew it would never be the same. (Little did any of us know what a blessing KG would be...I was just wracked with guilt over how Teege would deal with sharing us. Who knew that he would become the best big brother ever?) We toyed with the idea of the usual "bounce house" places, but our Teege is a little on the shy side, and those places can be kind of alarming.

So I checked out TCLR, a lovely little place in Swarthmore, which offers all kinds of arts classes for children and adults. Allison, the teaching artist, custom-designed a dinosaur party for Teege. She led them through an hour and a half of music, creative drama, art projects, and games. We topped it off with pizza in their art room and cupcakes that my sister and I had baked. People still talk about it...it was kind of amazing. :)

When KG was born, I took her to their "Goo-Goo Gang" classes--a morning of music and activities for newborns, with an important dose of mommy-bonding. There were also "special guests": a baby sign-language expert, Reiki practitioner, infant masseuse, etc. One of the other moms started teaching an adult ballet class at TCLR (see earlier post), which kicked my butt in the best way possible this past year.

During the summer, most classes are on hiatus, so they offer a bouquet of week-long camps with various themes--Princesses, Music & Art, Animals, Greek Myths, Pirates & Mermaids, you name it. Teege just finished a week at Superhero Camp, and loved every second of it. They created their own superhero identities on the first day (he was "Starfish Man," with the power of the sea!), did super yoga, had super snacks (i.e. blueberry power smoothies), told stories, made up songs, went on a field trip to the local police station (to visit the REAL supers), and had a scavenger hunt on the last day looking for the "Litter Caper."

This place ROCKS.

Pool Yourself Together

I'm sitting in what has become my unofficial uniform of the summer--gold Old Navy flip flops and a slightly damp 2-piece bathing suit (modest tankini and skirted bottom, a favorite choice post-pregnancy). Out back, three beach towels are flung over the clothesline. It's official--we're a pool fam.

Oh dear Lord no, we haven't achieved Clark Griswold's dearly held dream of a pool in the backyard. We joined the local swim club this year.

The DH was a bit skeptical when I first broached the subject several years ago. To a born-and-bred Cali boy, the whole concept was a bit puzzling (especially since the Pacific Ocean was just a few blocks away.) Add to that a significant chunk of change required for membership, and one can understand my beloved's apprehension.

But our new neighbors urged us to join the waiting list when we moved to the 'hood, and "Mare" (the mayor of the block who called everyone "hon") offered to be our sponsor. So when our name came up this year, we plunged right in.

And it has been FABULOUS.

The swim club has become our favorite place to go when the kids are rammy, we feel imprisoned by the air conditioning, or we just want to escape for a bit. Since we don't go "downdashore" (unlike most Delco/Philly peeps, we're trekking up to Maine in August), it's so nice to just take a quick dip, catch some rays, and be back by lunchtime. It's even served as a pick-me-up when we're tired or just "meh" (i.e. last month I received some pretty disappointing news, and instead of moping around the house, we packed up the kids and jumped in the pool.)

No better cure for the summertime blues than a little sun and chlorine. :)

Fasting from Facebook

Several years ago, I was writing for an online magazine (which, sadly, folded due to this crummy financial fiasco we're in). One of my blog entries, entitled "Why I <3 FB," was a big fat valentine to my latest obsession--ye olde Facebook. I think my basic gist was how wonderful it was to reconnect with old friends, stay in touch without having to commit to a long-winded phone call, how funny is that this person knows that person and my-oh-my how flat is our world, blahblahblah.

That was then.

What once began as a fun little distraction during the Writers' Strike became a sick obsession. True, I never let myself enter the world of FarmVille or MafiaWars (or Bejeweled Blitz or CafeWorld or anything else that the "Hide" button was invented for). But I started to stalk. And compare. And despair.

And judge.

It's one thing to bump into an old friend or distant relative at the store, play the catch up game, glance politely at their cell-phone pix of offspring or the new house, and go your separate ways feeling congenial and happily surprised by the run-in. It's another to be swamped by their (often ill-informed) politics, their (embarrassing and cringe-worthy) attempts at humor, their (usually inane) minute-by-minute account of their day, their (AFFIRM MY BRILLIANT PARENTING/FABULOUS LIFESTYLE/CHOICE OF PARTNER!) parade of photos.

Oh, believe me, I am NOT innocent. But I found myself competing with and getting enraged by people that, in real life, I could care less about. On the other hand, I discovered more than I ever needed to know about people I actually liked...which sort of dampened my affinity for them, in some cases.

So, despite my very mixed feelings about Catholicism this year (see: most recent Grand Jury Report down here in Philly), I decided to play along and give up FB for Lent. I granted myself access on Sundays; after all, I don't have everyone's email accounts anymore, so there were times I genuinely had log on to set up a play date or find out where my next Book Club meeting was taking place (and more on my fabulous BC in a future blog!)

And I found...immense freedom and joy. I'm not exaggerating. Instead of comparing my life to everyone else's, I lived it. Instead of documenting every second of my children's development, I reveled in it. And instead of crowing to the world how much I love my husband, I told him.

Tomorrow is Easter. And I may just stick to this happy new habit.

Now off to play Easter Bunny...and I am going to actively fight the urge to splash pictures of my brilliant baskets all over FB!

If You Can't Take The Heat, Get Your *** Outta the Classroom

Much has been said about this Natalie Munroe, a teacher at Central Bucks (a local high school here in PA). She was suspended with pay for blogging about how her students were "lazy whiners" (and that was probably the nicest thing she said about them in the rant.)

Two camps have formed--one which vilifies her for attacking her students, one which applauds her for "telling it like it is."

As a fellow teacher, my initial reaction was sympathy and fear. I certainly understand what a frustrating job we have. I also have a FB account and (obviously) a blog, both of which I treat with extreme caution.

However...

When I did a little digging (and, granted, I don't work with this woman, I've never seen her teach, I have no knowledge of the school community of Central Bucks), I found that she's only been teaching since 2006. In one of her blogs, she writes about how "the students get worse and worse every year." Honey...four and a half years and you're already talking like one of those burned out 30-year-veterans bitterly chugging coffee in the faculty room? Not okay.

Second...EVERYTHING you post online is public. EVERYTHING. And as a teacher, sorry, but you relinquish (to a certain extent) your right to free speech. You are expected to model appropriate behavior, both in and out of the classroom (and now in cyberspace). When I was a younger teacher, my students constantly hounded me for info about my private life. While some of my easily flattered colleagues gladly volunteered such details, I would joke "Oh, I just crawl under my desk every afternoon and grade papers until you guys come back the next morning." They did NOT need to know what I did (even though it was hardly scintillating.) It just wasn't their business! I remember once mentioning that I liked the Cure, and a student perked up and said, "Wow, you have like this whole secret life!" Um, no...I just don't use the classroom as my personal sounding board.

Third...what I've read of Ms. Munroe's posts are dishearteningly negative and mean-spirited. One of the first requirements of teaching should be liking kids--quirks and all. I've certainly had disagreements with students, or personality differences, but I have honestly cared for each and every one of my students over the past thirteen years. They have inspired, challenged, and intrigued me. I miss them terribly when they graduate. One of the best things about FB has been the ability to see former students grow into amazing young women and men...and I'm humbled to think I had a tiny part in their journey. True, I've never taught in public school, and I'm sure there are challenges I've never dreamed of in that realm. But what I do know that wherever I've taught--from downtown Jersey City to the Upper East Side to bucolic Chester County--is that kids are kids, and need to be heard, loved and supported. That means different things, depending on the individual. It could mean a quiet conversation after school, providing a forum for them to shine, or numerous emails/calls home to a parent. But it is our job as teachers to find out what will work, and try our best. And if it doesn't work, you make peace with it and get on with your life. Maybe you complain with your colleagues in the break room, or hash it out over happy hour. But you do NOT blast the kids in a public forum.

I hope Ms. Munroe can learn from this experience and become a better teacher because of it. Or maybe it's time for her to move on.

"Just me and you, Mommy..."

Back in September (has it been that long since I've blogged? Um, yes. Suffice it to say that my return to work, a.k.a. leaving Kelly Bells, was much harder than expected, and I spent a lot of nights wallowing in self-pity, regret, and Oreos rather than working it out through my blog. But I digress...), I decided to sign the Teege up for a sports class. I thought hey, he likes to run around like a maniac, why not? Could be fun!

Or could be a colossal waste of money and negative energy.

Teege was much more interested in sitting on basketballs and announcing "I AM IRON MAN!" instead of shooting hoops or making a soccer goal. Which would have been fine...but he was the ONLY ONE. The other kids, egged on by psychotic soccer moms-in-training, tore around the gym performing their drills with manic precision. Teege would wander around aimlessly, bellowing "I'M THIRSTY" and wind up in my lap.

After suffering the hairy eyeballs from the other moms and getting upset beyond reason that Teege wasn't exactly loving it, NR and I decided to quit. The kid is three, for God's sakes. But how else to keep him away from the TV on Saturdays?

That's when we decided to start "dating."

Several years ago I attended Speak Up, a forum for teens, teachers, and parents to discuss drugs, pressure, sex, all that good stuff. At the closing address, one dad recommended "dating" your children. You can't just ignore your kids and then expect them to magically abide by your rules. Instead, dating can lay a healthy foundation for mutual respect, open communication, and ultimately (hopefully) positive behavior and good choices. So he suggested spending quality one-on-one time with your kid whenever possible--beyond just showing up at their games or required school events.

So on Saturdays, Nick and I rotate "date time" with the Teege. One of us will take him out for something special, without the other parent or Kelly. Sometimes it's an actual event--like a children's theater show, a Home Depot kids workshop (he's produced a picture frame, spice rack, and battery organizer), or a movie. Other times it's simply lunch at McDonald's, or hanging out in the kids' section at Borders for a while.

Teege absolutely loves it, and we do too. When we tell him what our special outing is going to be that day, his face lights up, and he'll say, "Just me and you, Mommy (or Daddy)?" At bedtime, he'll often want to talk about whatever we did, and when we'll get to do it again.

I know once he gets older and activities start to litter the schedule, these times may be limited. But I sure hope it's "just me and Teege" for as long as possible.

Back to the Ballet

A few weeks ago, I was in total shavasana bliss at the end of yoga class--centered, peaceful, full of gratitude for the world--when the woman on the next mat over turns to me and asks, "Kelly?"

A bit perplexed, I answered, "Um, yeah, my daughter's name is Kelly."

"No, no--Donna Kelly--that's your name, isn't it?" I nodded, and the woman smiled. "Hon, don't you remember me?"

I searched her face. I'd noticed her before--partially because she was extremely flexible, despite being in her 50's, and partially because she always brought our yoga teacher fresh vegetables from her garden. But I just couldn't place her.

"Hon...it's Miss Kaye."

My heart almost jumped out of my chest as I lunged for her and grabbed her into a huge embrace. "Miss Kaye!?! I've missed you SO MUCH!!!"

As a little girl, I LOVED to dance. I would raid my grandmother's scarf drawer, arrange myself into some 4-year-old version of Salome, and flit up and down her driveway for hours on end (much to her neighbors' amusement, I'm sure). When I turned 6, my parents wisely decided to channel my energies into a more focused outlet--dance class--but they couldn't afford a standard dance studio (with all the recital nonsense that went along with it.) So they signed me up for tap and ballet at the Y.

Every Saturday, I'd line up at the barre with twenty other little girls--our jellybean bellies proudly displayed in our Danskins--and dutifully follow our teacher, Miss Kaye. Miss Kaye was all business in her severe bun and ripped tights, but I absolutely adored her.

Of course, being the early 80s, my classmates eventually jumped ship for gymnastics...until I was literally the only student left. Miss Kaye continuted to teach the Advanced class for another few years. She even had me over to her house one day when I finally got my pointe shoes, teaching me how to sew the ribbons on. And she managed to find some performance opportunities for me as well, as a "guest artist" in her friend's dance studio recital.

She moved, but we kept in touch through letters for years. But even after the letters stopped, I still kept her in my heart as a teacher who completely believed in me--and someone I tried to emulate with my own students. I never forgot her.

I also never forgot my love of dance--particularly ballet. I went on to dance in musicals for years, but it was just never the same. Whenever I saw a picture of Degas' "Little Dancer," tears would sting my eyes. Whenever I watched ballerinas perform, my own legs would ache as I mentally did the steps along with them.

When the time passed for me to actually be able to take ballet again, I turned to yoga. I actually took my first class at the same Y I had danced in, so many years ago.

And here I was, at a yoga studio in Broomall, sitting next to my dear Miss Kaye. It was miraculous.

And amazingly coincidental...because I'm about to return to ballet for the first time in twenty years! Back in the spring, I took Kelly to a "Mommy & Me" class at The Creative Living Room. One of the mommies, a former ballerina with the NYC Ballet, mentioned that she was teaching an ADULT ballet class in the fall! ADULT BALLET! Woo-hoo! So I signed up, bought myself a pair of ballet slippers (that was fun--being the only adult buying for herself in a sea of 7 year olds...), convinced my sister and a few girlfriends to join me, and here we go!

I'm nervous but SUPER excited. Letting ballet get away from me has always been one of my biggest regrets, and it's not often that you get to relive a childhood passion.

Much less meet a childhood idol. :)

Live Free or Die!

So goes the motto of New Hampshire, birthplace of TJ's goddaddy, and more recently the destination of our first post-Kelly getaway. NR's good friend from college (finally!) got married, in a gorgeous outdoor ceremony at The Fells (see above).

It was a beautiful weekend for so many reasons. One, it was just heaven to get away for a night. I love my kiddies like a lioness, but I sure love my hub, too, so escaping every now and then is a very good thing. Two, his friend has had quite the rocky road to romance--not for lack of options, but just finding the right one to spend forever with took a while. Well, he certainly met his match in his bride, and it was a fantastic celebration of two strong-willed, adventurous, altruistic individuals coming together. Three, a slew of Nick's old college buds were there (whom he never gets to see, as almost all of them are scattered along the West Coast), so he got a healthy dose of male-bonding and stogie-smoking.

It was so breathtaking up there that we decided to pack up the kiddies in a few weeks and head to Maine. Although we're breaking the trip up with a stopover in Connecticut, it's still probably a ridiculous undertaking. But when you're young and poor, I guess you make questionable vacation choices. (Exhibit A: when I was about 8 months old, my parents decided to take me to Canada! And CAMP along the way! What in holy hell were they smoking?)

So stay tuned for some interesting post-vacay updates. ;D

Remembering "Norf"

In the midst of high school graduations this week, there is one school whose ceremonies I'm following with a particular sadness.

Northeast Catholic High School for Boys (or, as commonly referred to by locals, "Norf"), was where I initially cut my teeth as a teacher. And boy, was it a baptism by fire.

As I worked on my English education degree at St. Joseph's University, I had a hazy idea of who and where I would teach. Probably some idyllic private school on a bucolic campus...coaching my young charges (class size no more than 10, please) to write sonnets under an old willow tree as we drank deep from the well of literature. My students would be enraptured by my knowledge, my vintage clothes, my general coolness. I'd never raise my voice, or argue, or split hairs over a grade point. It would be a mutual admiration society for all.

Well, St. Joe's had other plans for me.

I received my student teaching assignment in the mail over Christmas break senior year: "Northeast Catholic High School: Cooperating Teacher, Joe Salvatore." A quick look at the map told me that North was at least an hour away by car or SEPTA. There were a number of high schools within twenty minutes of my house; wasn't there a closer option?

The answer was no--unless I wanted to teach in public school.

So off I trekked on the el every morning, landing bleary-eyed at the Erie-Torresdale stop. I'd follow the boys in their black sweaters to the stately old school, trudge up the steps, and make my way down to Joe Salvatore's classroom. It was a recipe for disaster. Here I was, barely 21, assigned to teach juniors and seniors in their second semester. These hulking boys were 2nd and 3rd track, which in 1998 meant they were generally not considering college. Most of them already had jobs lined up at their dad's auto body shop, or were planning to attend trade school. Not only that, Joe--or "Sal," as the guys barked at him in the halls--was a young, cool, beloved teacher. They were NOT thrilled with the idea of little Miss Kelly coming in and trying to teach them about analogies for SATs they would never take.

The first few weeks were hell. The principal, an Oblate of St. Francis de Sales, would rave about the "Salesian gentlemen" of North, but I had yet to meet one. Instead, I dealt with obscene gestures (and drawings on the back of tests), gaseous emissions (I dreaded the classes who came in after lunch), multiple double entendres, and eye-rolls/guffaws galore at my futile attempts. On more than one occasion, I entered the room to find all the windows open...which I found harmless, until Sal gently reminded me, "Donna, what happens to girls when they get cold?" Ai yi...

My classroom management was a joke. I'd clap my hands, bleat "settle down, settle down," and occasionally lose my temper. Lesson planning wasn't much better. Something that I was sure would take 40 minutes would be done in 5, leaving me to tread water until the bell rang while the guys shuffled restlessly.

After a particularly awful day (one which my supervising professor had visited, and left after a less-than-glowing review), I broke down. Sal tried his best to pick me up. "Kid, you're brand new at this. I can guarantee you'll be a master in a few years. Don't sweat it." He then started a practice of bringing me a Wawa coffee every Friday for surviving the week.

I needed to design a unit plan for my student teaching class, so we agreed that with my background in theater, Pygmalion would be a good choice. I started the unit with an exercise in stereotypes, which sparked a lively discussion about accents (being from Northeast Philly, the home of a distinctly horrifying if admittedly charming dialect, the boys loved this.) As we started reading and discussing the play and my comfort level grew, the boys slowly warmed up and began to humor me. They started turning in halfway decent work; I was able to appreciate their comedic timing (such as the day Peter went up to give a presentation, trailed by a dryer sheet stuck to his pant leg. "Hey Pete," Ryan called. "I see you have a little 'Bounce' in your step today!") Sal would often joke that I was the Eliza to his Henry Higgins--there was hope for me yet. And by the time my supervisor came for his final visit, he admitted that I made him miss teaching high school. "Would you accept a position at North if one was available?" I surprised both Sal and myself when I blurted out, "Oh, definitely." I had fallen in love with "Norf."

On my last day, Sal surprised me with a party--complete with donuts, Sinatra on the stero (I'd admitted my love for Frankie during class once), and an official North Catholic sweatshirt. After the dismissal bell, he turned to me, shook my hand, and quoted from the musical version of the play we'd just finished: "Kid, I've grown accustomed to your face. By George, you did it, Eliza!"

A few boys stopped by to say goodbye and wish me luck. We chatted for a while, and then I excused myself to run and catch the el.

But as I made my way down the main hall for the last time, my eyes started burning. Another teacher stopped me to ask if I was okay. "Ed, I just never--expected to actually like them. These guys were the best." He smiled and agreed, "North guys are pretty awesome." I then ran to the bathroom and had a good cry for several minutes.

These days, where I teach is a far cry from "Norf." I've finally reached that undergrad fantasy--small classes, idyllic setting, bucolic campus, and angelic students. But I still remember my North boys with the deep fondness.

I've often said that no education class can sufficiently prepare you for teaching except the actual student teaching experience. I am forever indebted to the boys of North Catholic for making me a teacher--the hard way. My "Salesian gentlemen" will always be in my heart.

Best. Baby. Ever.

Seriously. This little girl is unbelievable.

I remember babies like this. When I had Teege, I attended a new moms' group in Hoboken. Most of us showed up with dark circles under our eyes, milk stains on our shirts, juggling screaming newborns for 45 minutes to calm them down for what would turn out to be a 5-minute nap, if we were lucky.

But there were those token few moms who breezed in, looking remarkably put together, cradling sweet little angels on their laps. When asked to share their highs and lows of motherhood with the group, they would wax blissfully about what a magical, wonderful time this was, how much they were enjoying their cherub, blah blah blah...all while said cherub would either sleep peacefully or smile at anyone who looked in their direction.

The rest of us would glare. Bitterly.

Well, I now have one of those cherubs. Kelly is an absolute sweetheart. She cries for maybe 5 minutes a day, total--and only when she really, really needs something. The rest of the time she's napping, or giggling at me, or just checking out the world around her.

This makes my imminent return to work very tough to swallow.

At the end of June, I start teaching part-time for six weeks at a local theater. Then I'll have most of August off, and return full-time in September.

I guess this makes me feel good. I remember counseling a little boy at camp once, telling him that homesickness was a good thing--it meant that home was a pretty great place to be. I suppose that my not wanting to go back to work means that mommyhood is agreeing with me more and more. With Teege, my world was so topsy-turvy, I was ready to just start work again and get my life in order. I felt kind of guilty that I didn't really want to stay home. It had nothing to do with him...I just longed for a semblance of order. I also didn't really feel like a mommy yet. The concept was still so foreign to me.

(Interesting question for my parent friends...when was the moment you first REALLY felt like a parent? NR and I discussed this the other day. Interestingly, both of us answered that it took a scary injury for our little guy to submerge us completely into the parent 'hood. And this was after he was a year old!)

With Kelly, things are much calmer, and...I feel so much more confident. Even times when I'm home alone with both kids, there isn't this panic and fear that I always felt the first time around.

I know things will work out when I do start working again. Thankfully I have a pretty low-stress job, supportive co-workers, an awesome parenting partner in NR, and a terrific daycare lined up.

But after a day like this one, just snuggling with Miss Kelly and reveling in her sweet little smiles, I can't help but long for more.

Brought to you by Kleenex

One of the great perks of maternity leave is the blessing to become a couch potato. When you have a newborn sleeping snugly in your arms, and the stress of work but a distant memory, you have full authority to watch whatever the hell you want. Don't get me wrong, I've been reading a ton as well--but sometimes you just gotta turn the brain off and nourish it with mental junk food.

So I've been loading up my DVR with all kinds of crap that I wouldn't normally watch: multiple Lifetime movies, "Chelsea Lately," "Slings and Arrows" (a cancelled Canadian series from the early '00s about a Shakespearean troupe), "Arrested Development" (catching up just a few years too late), and "16 and Pregnant"/"Teen Mom." Those last two are doozies, and should be required viewing for anyone who's hit puberty.

The other morning I watched Catelynn's story. Catelynn is a chipmunk of a gal from Michigan who, with the support of her adorable boyfriend Tyler, decides to give up their baby daughter for adoption. The poor kids realize what a crappy hand they've been dealt in life (unstable mom, jailbird dad), and unselfishly realize they want better for their child. So they choose a fantastic couple to adopt "Carly," and bide their time until the birth.

I sat on the couch, holding my baby girl, sobbing hysterically as Catelynn gave birth and tearfully handed the baby over to the radiant adoptive mom. It takes a lot for me to cry at a movie or television show (anything during pregnancy doesn't count), so this was quite a weepfest.

It started me thinking on what exactly provokes my tears when it comes to entertainment. There are certain scenes from certain movies that get me, no matter how many times I've seen them. Here are a few...


"To Sir With Love": Sidney Poitier's character endures a tour of duty teaching at a crappy English public school. He's decided to leave and take an engineering job, despite some significant successes, and the kids surprise him with a going-away gift. Overcome by the gesture, he goes up to his classroom, where he's accosted by two brats who inform him he'll be teaching them next term.

As they run out, "Sir" stands up, pulls out the letter of employment, and tears it to pieces. He picks up a flower from his desk, pops it in his buttonhole, and returns to the farewell party and his students.

"The Bridges of Madison County": After a torrid 3-day affair, Iowa housewife Francesca decides to NOT skip town with a hunky photog, Robert. About a week later, she's in the car with her husband when she spies Robert's pickup in front of them. The light turns green, but he doesn't turn...waiting for her to maybe, just maybe, jump out of her car and escape with him. She grabs the door handle...but can't do it. After an endless pause, he pulls away. She lets go.

"The Notebook": I absolutely refused to read the book, and hated 95% of this movie. I thought it was a complete cheesefest, horribly written, overacted, you name it.

But man...when the nursing home aide comes into Ally's room at the end, to find her and Noah wrapped in each other's arms...if you don't lose it at this scene, you're officially heartless.

"Juno": I first saw this delightful little gem as a new mom. I knew something was up with creepy Jason Bateman from the get-go, so I was thrilled when sweet Jennifer Garner got her little bambino at the end. But that birth montage set to "Sea of Love"..."He was never ours, he was always hers"...oooh, boy. I've already decided that if Teege ever gets married, that is the song we will use for our mother/son dance. He has no say. Sorry.

"Friday Night Lights": One of the best "inspirational teacher" movies ever, if a rather unconventional one. (Sorry...as much as I love Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society," WHAT DOES HE ACTUALLY TEACH!?) The worst part of being a teacher, for me, is letting go of your students at the end of the year. When Coach takes the names off the roster, reflects on each player, and slowly tosses them away...holy cow. Emotional train wreck.

So which scenes turn you into a mess of snot and tears every time?

She's Here!

It's a Girl! Kelly Genevieve was born on March 5, 2010 at 7:13 p.m.

The Labor Story...

On March 3, I went to the ob for my weekly checkup. I was huge. I was sore. I was bored out of my mind after two weeks of maternity leave.

And I was freaked out, because just the day before I'd been to the hospital for an ultrasound. The tech informed me that Baby Romero was eight pounds...fourteen ounces. Yeeouch!

So after my exam, my doctor pulled me up to a sitting position and said, "So how do we feel about induction?" I had really been against it--I just wanted labor to start naturally (since I'd always planned on epidural, maybe it was guilt...like, it's bad enough I'm getting drugs to help with the pain, do I really need drugs to induce labor as well?)

I was also afraid that it would cause unnecessary stress. TJ was a pretty fussy baby, and I was always convinced that it was due to my 36-hour-labor. I so desparately wanted to bring this next baby into the world as peacefully as possible.

But the doctor talked me through it. The baby was nice and big, and was only going to get bigger. I was very close to my due date. But what finally sold me was this--he said this way, there would be no surprises. I could drop TJ off at my parents the next night and get him settled, then head on over to the hospital where they would start me on drugs. I would sleep for a few hours, and hopefully have the baby by morning. Best of all, if everything went well, we'd all be home in time to celebrate TJ's 3rd birthday on the 9th.

Sounded good to me!

So after conferring with my hub and mi madre, I went home, did some laundry, cleaned the house, and finished packing. It was SO nice knowing that Friday was the day! The next night, Nick and I took TJ out to dinner--our last dinner as a trio--and then spent some time with my family. We calmly drove out to the hospital (so different from the first time, where I silently cursed poor Nick every time he drove over a bump), checked in, and met with our adorable labor nurse, Amy. By 9 o'clock, I was all settled into the delivery suite, eating popsicles, watching "The Office" (oh irony of ironies, it was the delivery episode!), and waiting for the drug to kick in. I couldn't believe how relaxed everything was.

By midnight, contractions were in full swing, which meant I wouldn't even need the pitocin. I got my epidural (oh sweet pharmaceuticals, how I love thee), and just rested for the next few hours while they periodically checked on me. Around 6, Dr. Laveran examined me and said "Well, you're fully dilated--ready to start pushing?"

Oh crap. This was when they turned off my epidural with TJ--so I would "know when to push." I steeled myself and asked Amy, "So, are you turning off the epidural now?"

She laughed. "Why would we do that? I'll tell you when to push!"

Did she ever. After only 45 minutes of pushing (where, honest to God, I felt no pain--just pressure), out popped the bambino. I looked down to see what he/she was, but the umbilical cord was blocking the important part. Nick yelled out, "She's a girl!"

I almost fell off the table. I was CONVINCED that she was a boy; I'd mentally prepared myself for another boy. But a GIRL!?

Yup, a beautiful, happy, sweet-natured, mellow little girl. We now have "the millionaire's family." Very rich indeed. :)

Veggie Bombs (or how parenting makes you a big fat liar)

All right. I fold.

When I first heard about Jessica Seinfeld's "Deceptively Delicious" method several years ago (pre-kids), I smugly thought, "What the hell? Why doesn't she just teach her kids to eat veggies the old-fashioned way?"

Chalk this up to the many other preconceptions I had about parenting. SO much easier said than done.

We started out right with the Teege. Strictly breast milk for the first four months, slowly introduced (organic) formula, offered him every baby veggie food imaginable (which he happily accepted). Once he started eating "big people" food, we found that he loved fruit--esp. bananas, berries, and apples. "Ah," we thought, "what healthy eating habits we've instilled in our brilliant offspring!"

Then His Highness started developing PREFERENCES. No matter how many times we offered veggies with dinner, they were roundly refused. For a time we would just give him something else for dinner, but quickly realized that was going to be a slippery slope (and NR kept having flashbacks of his own mother bellowing to her picky charges, "I AM NOT A SHORT-ORDER COOK!"). So we continued to offer whatever we were eating, but started working out a bartering system ("If you eat one more piece of chicken/strawberry/please God anything besides macaroni, then you can have another biscuit.")

Well, when we met with our pediatrician last week, she set us straight--that while we thought we were calling the shots, clearly it was the other way around. Just keep offering "your" food, she encouraged--don't force him to clean his plate, but make it clear that there are no other options. She also suggested the Jessie Seinfeld method--pureeing veggies into sauces, just to allay our fears that the child was turning into a giant chicken nugget.

So I come downstairs the other night to find NR commandeering the Cuisinart, blending up a steamed veggie medley, which he then froze into "veggie bombs." He mixed some in with our spaghetti sauce the other day, and darnit if Teege didn't gobble it right up.

Is this teaching him how to eat veggies? Absolutely not. I get it. And we'll continue to offer real veggies with dinner (which will continue to be ignored until one magical day when our backs are turned.) But in the meantime, I know that he's getting some of the nutritional benefits.

This is just one example of many parenting philosophies we formally dissed and now embrace. I used to roll my eyes at the wild child lashing out at a harried mom in the supermarket ("Ha! Clearly she has zero control over this miscreant! I, however, will be a beacon of calm with my future angel.") Riiiight.

I certainly still judge parents--who doesn't? And as a teacher, it's almost impossible not to (although not necessarily right.)

It goes both ways. For example, there are those who think NR and I are nuts for our anti-spanking policy. We certainly weren't raised in hippy-dippy families where discipline didn't exist. We both got spanked; we both survived. We just don't want to hit our own kids. We're not expecting medals for it.

So what does that mean? It means a LOT of continual communication/agreement between the two of us as partners. A lot of research into which methods we think will work, and which won't. A lot of creativity (if I start the "1, 2, 3" warning, I'd better have an actual consequence--and firmness to follow through--by the time I get to 3.) The knowledge that although he's not yet 3, Teege certainly understands a lot more than he lets on (including how to charm the paint off the walls.) A lot of patience when dealing with the supertantrums and requisite time-out chair (thank God for yoga--seriously!)

And a LOT of humility in knowing that we'll screw up--a lot. So in the meantime, it's veggie bombs and time-out chairs. :)