Keeping the Faith

I have always been a Catholic.

Catholic grade school, Catholic high school, Catholic college. Catholic volunteer program after college. Catholic school teacher.

I loved making all my sacraments. I loved the "smells and bells" of Mass. I loved learning about the saints, attending Communion services at lunch, performing service in the name of Jesus.

Without a doubt, my husband and I were going to raise our kids Catholic, and pass along all of the traditions that entailed.

And while there were certainly things I didn't agree with regarding Catholic doctrine (especially as I got older and my views started leaning left), my Jesuit teachers, colleagues, and friends helped me overlook this. They taught me that it was okay to question and challenge things while remaining "a good Catholic."

But then we left our Jesuit bubble in NYC. And while I tried to find connection and meaning during Mass in our new parish, it just never clicked. I found myself sitting in Mass, completely disengaged. I chalked it up to trying to wrangle my toddlers into submission during the service, but there was something else. An anger, a longing brewing inside of me. I began to wonder about a lot...and didn't feel there was a place and space to voice that wonder. What if my son comes out to me one day? What if my daughter wants to pursue a leadership role in the Church? Why does the pro-life argument never seem to encompass capital punishment, addiction, homelessness? Why am I looking for excuses to not attend Mass?

The breaking point came in 2011. A grand jury report came out against the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, listing over 30 priests guilty of "inappropriate conduct." Within a few months, a number of schools were closed without warning. Looking at my two children over breakfast one morning, I broke down sobbing. How could I raise my children in a church that seemed so anti-children?

After a long talk with my husband, we decided to try something else. We were looking for a church that would fit all of us as a family. And that didn't seem to include the Catholic church.

So we started attending an Episcopal church in our neighborhood. What a difference! Our daughter went off to the nursery; our son attended their amazing Sunday school run by a former kindergarten teacher. The pastor and parishioners were warm and welcoming. We could actually listen to and participate in the service. During one of the first Sundays, I was feeling a bit guilty, but it dawned on me that God was still with me...it was just a different house. And yet...

...there was still a pull, a question mark. So at the end of year one, we sent our son to a Vacation Bible School at a Methodist church our neighbor attended. At her invitation, we decided to try it out.

There was still a nursery and a Sunday school; still warm, welcoming parishioners. And yet the service (which, truth be told, was a bit stodgy at the Episcopal church) was joyful and uplifting! I could actually feel myself relax and find peace each Sunday. The entire family looked forward to church (in fact, on the odd Sunday when we didn't attend, our kids would question us right away).

And in the meantime...this incredible Pope Francis (a Jesuit!) had to get himself elected and be all awesome. Pause. A Jesuit pope!? Who actually lives and teaches as Jesus did? Could this be the change we had been waiting for?

We started researching Catholic parishes in our area again. So the one in our neighborhood hadn't been a great fit...maybe there was another one? Possibly? Hopefully?

But then the decision was made for us.

At Back-to-School Night, we were looking at our son's "Writing Journal". His teacher had the students draw a big heart on the first page, and fill it up with ideas of things they love so they would always have inspiration to write.

Our son's heart included pictures of our dog, a T-Rex, a basketball, our family...and in the middle, a giant cross. On one side, he had written "God". On the other side: "My chrch".

All I could ever want from a church, any church, is for my children to find and explore their faith.

Who knows what the future will hold...but for now, we have found a spiritual home at Hope United Methodist. And I am eternally grateful.

Gummi Bears and Gratitude

Today was one of those rare, precious days.

A perfect parenting day.

Well, more like a perfect kid day, with me as the grateful beneficiary.

It started with both children sleeping "in" (which means past 7 a.m.), and then quietly sneaking into our bed for a snuggle. No barging in, no elbow in the stomach, no loud demands for breakfast or a viewing of "Doc McStuffins". Just a good ten minutes of peaceful snuggling.

After breakfast, Teege suggested that he and Kelly ride their scooters to the playground. Said scooters, bought just in time for the spring, have been used approximately 5.5 times by each child this summer. Part of this is due to our very hilly street; part is due to parental laziness; part is due to children's reliable rejection of anything fun and slightly expensive that you buy for them. So I was thrilled by the suggestion. Of course, it was on a day when we had a doctor's appointment that cut right into fun time, so we wound up just driving. But still, his intention was welcome.

I brought along a coffee mug, foolishly optimistic that I'd be able to sip peacefully whilst the children played. Not to be...but that was okay, because their requests have become, I'm realizing, quickly approaching an expiration date. I'll happily hoist Kelly into the baby swing...because her feet are starting to almost touch the ground. Of course I'll go down the slide with Teege...because it's almost like carrying him, which he never needs anymore.

A few other kids showed up, and I observed as my own cheerfully welcomed them into their play. TJ ran the introductions, always proudly presenting "my sister Kelly who is three," and I just sat back and watched as they navigated the waters of social interaction. A few friends have recently likened becoming a parent to watching your heart leave your body...and I totally get it. You can't help but burst with pride when your offspring do the right thing, or feel their pain just as deeply when they are rejected or disappointed. Luckily, today their friendliness and kindness paid off. My heart sang.

We then had to hit Home Depot for a few things, and Kelly surprised both of us by quietly entertaining herself while we checked out granite countertops. No climbing out of the cart, no knocking off a row of samples in one fell swoop. She even charmed our cranky salesperson by suggesting that one granite sample "looked like the outer space sky!"

I had promised the kids that they could finally spend their summer piggy bank savings on a trip to Five Below. I told them exactly how much money they had and what they could spend Both kids walked--WALKED--up and down the aisles, together, carefully considering their options, said please and thank you to the cashier, and carried their bags themselves. No whining for more stuff; no running or pulling crap out of bins.

During Kelly's naptime, TJ opened up his purchase (a set of Bey Blades), and invited me to "do a battle" with him. I put him off as I went about folding laundry and answering emails, but when he invited me again--sweetly, hopefully, without a trace of whining--I had to relent. We spent the rest of the afternoon playing Bey Blades, a long-forgotten Matchbox racetrack, and testing out paper airplanes. This is kind of a big deal. As first grade is approaching, he is primarily into his daddy these days. Cuddles on the couch with Mommy are becoming a distant memory. So spending some one-on-one QT with my little guy--at his invitation--was priceless.

He helped me prune his overgrown pumpkin vine (which is taking over our entire front walkway--all from one seed planted months ago), but soon disappeared. When I looked up, he was proffering a handful of gummy bears. "For your hard work, Mommy," he affirmed. "I picked one of each color because I wasn't sure which was your favorite."

After he and Daddy left for their camping trip, it was time for "ladygirl night" with Bells. We had dinner on the deck, chatting about preschool and how excited she was to see her friends and teachers. After changing into our pj's, we snuggled up together to watch "Tangled."

As I put my sweet girl to bed tonight, and then chatted with my superdude on the phone, I couldn't help thinking...perfect day. One of those days you don't necessarily see coming, didn't plan for, and hope it's not fleeting. And when it keeps on going, and going, and surprising you incessantly...well, you need to document it as soon as possible.

Love, Loss, and What I Wore

...is the title of a play currently running in Philly. It's basically a collection of stories, told by actresses, that share the common thread (pun intended) of clothes.

I am definitely not a clotheshorse or fashionista by any means. Part of that is dictated by time and finances--a teacher's budget and parent's schedule does not make for long, leisurely trips to the outlets (half-hour jaunts to Kohl's or TJ Maxx are more my speed). Part of that is I always think I was born in the wrong era--I love the slingback pumps and tailored suits my Grandmom sported in her engagement pictures, and I'm convinced that my wiry curls were meant to be slicked back with pomade under a smart little cloche hat.

But if I had to choose a couple of pieces from my nostalgia closet, I guess it would go something like this...

1) My prom dress. I got it at Lancaster Dress Company with my mom; it was probably the second one I tried on. Cream-colored lace, off-the-shoulder, long sleeved, with a tiered skirt. It was comfortable, beautiful, and I felt like a fairy princess in it. I loved it so much that I wore it to 2 proms--my own, escorted by Bobby, a short, sweet little sophomore, and my friend Jim's. I had met Jim doing shows at a local boys' school, which closed after his junior year. I convinced him to try out for my own school's play senior year, and introduced him to my circle of friends. Although we were never romantically attached (he is now happily partnered up with a great guy), he later told me that he asked me to his prom to thank him for saving his senior year. "Without you," he said, "I never would have been 'in'."

2) My red suede Marcia Brady vest. I spent many a paycheck in high school and college at the Lansdowne Thrift Shop. "Vintage" style was starting to take off, and I found some fantastic pieces which, after several rounds in the washer, no longer reeked of mothballs--true bell-bottom jeans, retro skirts, old-man cardigans (which Kurt Cobain had made cool), and the odd piece of grandma jewelry to funkify any outfit. But my best find was a form-fitting maroon suede vest with big toggle buttons. I wore it to numerous college parties and bars, always garnering compliments. "I got it at the THRIFT SHOP!" I would crow. Macklemore would be proud.

3) My grey high school jumper. Going to a Catholic school, we had a choice of uniforms--grey or plaid kilt with a white blouse and maroon sweater, or jumper with a Peter Pan collar, finished off with penny loafers and maroon tights or socks (always pushed down around the ankle, even in the dead of winter). After suffering through freshman year in the kilt combination (which got hotter and itchier as summer approached), I opted for the jumper. The jumper also required an emblem sewn over the heart, with different colors representing which year you were in. Senior year, I wore the same emblem my mom had worn on her jumper years before (in addition to the very important badges I had earned as a senior, such as "Chorus Treasurer" and "Spanish Honor Society President"). Many a morning I still wish I could just throw on that jumper, instead of rooting around the closet.

4) My khaki "safari style" dress. One hot summer day in 2001, I was wandering around Century 21 in Manhattan's financial district and happened upon this simple khaki dress. As a teacher, I was always looking for cute and comfortable dresses, and this was perfect. Plus, it had multiple pockets (great for sticking my MetroCard in a jiffy). On the first day of school that year, I donned my new dress and went off to meet my freshmen. Little did I know I would wind up spending almost 36 hours in that dress, and how much it would reek of smoke by the time I took it off. Every year since, on 9/11, I wear that same dress.

5) My wedding dress. Although it wasn't my first choice, it was still a beautiful dress--cap sleeves, beaded bodice, and a fabulous train that bustled up under a bow. My veil was a "Juliet-style" coronet, and I wore NR's grandmother's pearls. The day was long and hot, but I savored every moment in that dress, knowing I would never wear it again.

6) My first maternity shirt. Practically the minute I found out I was pregnant, I ran out to Target and bought a maternity top--a blue Liz Lange wraparound shirt. I wouldn't be showing for another five months, but I proudly wore that shirt as a badge of honor, convinced that everyone could tell. I was also so terrified of doing anything "wrong" during my first pregnancy, including wearing a too-tight shirt, so I felt like I was giving my little baby plenty of room to stretch and grow (although he had nothing to stretch for a while!).

7) My Levis. Yup, just a plain old pair of flare jeans that I bought right off the shelf without trying on. They're probably about ten years old now, and every time I do a closet cleanout I mean to throw them away, but I just can't. They have served me well on mission trips, auditions, movie dates, maternity leaves, you name it. I can't let them go. They are tragically out of date now in this skinny-jean world, but I love them and they love me. Case closed.

8) My navy Calvin Klein dress. Several years ago, I was called in for a third interview for a job I desperately wanted. I knew I needed a killer outfit to seal the deal. I got my hair and nails done, and combed through multiple stores until I landed at Marshall's for something else. And there it was--a navy button-down CK dress with a smart little tie belt. I tried it on and felt like a million bucks--it was flattering and gave me a sophisticated confidence. Although it was an oppressively hot day, I marched into that interview feeling terrific...only to not get the job. I was devastated. The dress hung in my closet for a year, a pathetic reminder of my crushing disappointment. And then...I was called in to interview for my current job. I got the dress dry-cleaned, donned it again, and on another hot day, strode in with all the confidence my bruised ego could muster. And I nailed it.

There have been others in the mix...my grad-school uniform of tank top/floral skirt/flip-flops, my retro polka-dot bathing suit from high school, the red wool coat trimmed with fake cheetah fur I found at Andy's Chee-Pees in the East Village...all artifacts from vastly different times in my life, all worn with a purpose, all costumes for who I was, when I was, where I was. Perhaps not all attached to love and loss, but definitely what I wore was what I was.

Dream Achieved.

Okay. I'm not THAT bad.

My very first drama teacher was a fabulous woman named Rhonda. She wore fabulous scarves, had fabulous hair, and played fabulous music by Stevie Wonder. She made us all feel like the special little snowflakes we thought we were. Every time I entered her theater classroom, with the soft spotlights and air-conditioning blasting, I felt safe and secure enough to take risks and push myself.

I had other terrific drama teachers throughout middle school (Lenny, Terry), theater programs (Colleen, Tina, Rob), and college/grad school (Theresa, Peg, Frank, Joe, Vincent). And all along, I hoped to one day be in their ranks.

But it wasn't enough to just teach drama. I had spent my formative years at a Quaker school. And while I certainly had my share of adolescent woes, Quaker education laid the foundation for my open mind and social conscience.

Senior year of college (before the days of Facebook), a friend sent around one of those chain email surveys that were totally inane (favorite ice-cream flavor! favorite Saturday morning cartoon!) but suddenly fascinating when you were supposed to be studying for finals. One of the questions was "dream job". I quickly typed in "Teaching Drama in a Quaker school."

I knew the chances were slim to none. While there are a number of Quaker schools in the Northeast (specifically the Philly area), teaching jobs there are highly coveted. Drama teaching jobs are even more coveted (since often there is just one teacher at a school--you are a lonely department of one).

So I got certified to teach English, and used that to build up my teaching resume--directing and teaching theater whenever I could squeeze it in. Entering the drama classroom or rehearsal room was always, ALWAYS the highlight of my teaching day. I remember so clearly directing a scene in the mini-theater at Cathedral High School (in midtown Manhattan), probably in my mid-twenties, and catching myself so alive and energized. "This is it," I realized. "I am GOOD at this. I LOVE this."

Upon moving back to PA, I used that old English certification to snap up a job teaching English at a private girls' school. "This will be better," I convinced myself. "I'll have more time for my baby now that I'm not directing." But after 5 years of mountains of essays, a breakneck monotonous schedule, philosophical differences, broken promises of actually allowing me to teach a drama class or start a legit theater program at the school, and another baby, I could feel the slow burn...of burning out. I had another a-ha moment...but not quite as lovely as my previous one. I was walking across the beautiful campus one day, and just felt my spirit sort of...slipping away. "Why aren't I happy?" I asked myself. "Why can't I just appreciate that this is a perfectly good job?" But I was a drama teacher trapped in an English teacher's body...and everyone knew it. I started going on interviews for something more in my field, always coming right down to the finish line...only to be told "we're going with someone else." My friends and family patiently listened to each disappointing story, only to pat my hand and tell me, "Something better will come along."

And then...some sunlight started to peek through the clouds. I applied for a "part-time English position; theater experience preferred" at--ding ding ding!--a Quaker school. I was to teach 2 English classes and produce the school shows. They hired me the day of my interview, and I just finished a blissfully satisfying, joyful, energizing first year. I can't tell you how many times I caught myself saying "Yes, THIS. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be."

Last month, I signed my contract for next year. I'll be teaching 2 English classes, 3 Drama classes, and still steering the entire theater program (I opted not to direct for the time being, which will allow me more "Mommy time").

"Hold fast to dreams," Langston Hughes wrote. I was beginning to think that was futile and, perhaps, selfish. But I did hold fast. And this is no longer a dream deferred, but a dream achieved.

Birthday Week!

When I first found out Kelly's due date--March 10--I freaked out a little. "Oh nooooo..." I wailed. "That's the day after Teege's birthday...it will take away from his special month..." (Ah yes. The notion of a birthday "month". One of just many concerns of the parent of a single child, which quickly melted away once #2 came along!) 
 
I remember waddling around the grocery store on TJ's 3rd birthday, days after giving birth (and roundly disobeying doctor's orders by driving there), desperate to pick out the perfect birthday cake (and already giving myself a giant, painful, appropriately Irish guilt trip for not actually BAKING it). We were so concerned about TJ being somehow scarred by sharing his birthday week with his younger sibling that we celebrated his party a whole month earlier that year, just to ensure that it would be ALL ABOUT HIM. I shuddered to think about--GASP--all the future joint birthday parties they would have to share.  (We also tried to expiate our guilt by getting him a Wii that year. A freaking Wii. FOR A THREE-YEAR-OLD.)
 
 But we figured it out. 
 
Well, 6 years of parenthood have taught me that--surprise!--kids can be amazingly resilient. With their birthdays being four days apart, it simply makes for a festive, joyful week of celebrating both of our children. This year, we started off with a joint party at a local bouncy place (which, I believe, I had turned my nose up at in this very blog several years ago). It was terrific--they provided pizza, paper goods, and tons of activities for the kiddies. We didn't invite their entire classes--just a few special buddies for each, plus their cousins. For favors, we gave out wooden model sets to the boys, Make it/Bake it stained glass kits for the girls (total 80s throwback), and painting pads for the little ones. Throw in a few cakes (one dinosaur, one princess--yes, I have CAVED) from Acme and we were good to go.  
 
For the actual birthdays, we did a special dinner (local pizza place for Kelly, Mickey D's for Teege) followed by dessert with close family (cupcakes with purple frosting for Kelly, ice cream sundae bar for Teege). At dinner, we started a new tradition--each family member shared what they love about the birthday kid. We also squeezed in a living room slumber party one night (we had done this over Christmas break one night, sleeping with the Christmas tree lights on).  
 
On Sunday, NR and I were actually kind of...bummed that Birthday Week was over. 
 
With TJ's birthday being on a Saturday this year, I was more reflective than usual. I couldn't help but relive that long, terrifying day in the delivery room...the neverending labor, the shock of finally meeting him, and the terror--yes, sheer terror--I felt that night when NR left me with this screaming, tiny newborn. I remember clutching him awkwardly in my arms, feeling so alone, staring out the hospital window at the streets of Hoboken, wondering how on earth I would ever feel maternal. Mourning the life we were leaving, and so uncertain of the life we were beginning.  
 
But we figured it out. 
 
Flash forward to three years later, after a cakewalk delivery for Kelly, and a joyful day filled with family and friends. That screaming infant in Hoboken had turned into a fascinating little boy whom I was deeply in love with. Yet now, my fear was how I could possibly share this all-consuming love with another little one...my new baby girl. 
 
And I figured it out. 
 
As for parenthood...while the joy is insurmountable, there are new challenges all the time. And with two very different children whom I love equally and probably irrationally at times, I'm learning that "good" parenting can mean different things for different kids. Just as a woman's body was made to give birth (and recover!), so too does a mom's heart--and expectations--adjust accordingly. There will always be more room, it will always adapt.  
 
That's not to say I have it all figured out...yet. :)

Death Becomes Me

Pretty much the world's laziest blogger. Chalk it up to the holidays and then back-to-back productions (performing then producing), plus the usual nonstop craziness of parenting, teaching, and living. I'm always amazed by those dutiful mommy bloggers (moggers?) who somehow manage to write these thoughtful, witty, provocative posts EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. They must have the world's best-behaved kiddoes, or an unlimited supply of 5 Hour Energy, or superhuman multi-tasking skills. If I pump out a few entries a year, I feel like a champ.
 
So I just finished up my yearly venture onstage. I've decided that no matter how tempting the play or juicy the role, one show a year scratches the acting itch just fine, thank you. I get to exercise my chops a bit, learn something new, meet some cool peeps, and then it's back to once-a-week yoga or night out with girlfriends for "me" time. It is a very delicate balance between being a bitter mommy, a present mommy, a mommy with healthy interests, and neglectful mommy. NR is super supportive and encourages my theater jaunts, but as much as I love it...I love being around for bedtime, too!
 
I firmly believe that continuing to hobbies/friends/interests models many important lessons for your kids (commitment, loyalty, pursuing passions, etc.), but it can be easy to get TOO caught up in that as well.
 
Anywho, this particular theatrical endeavor was one of the most challenging I've ever encountered. I played "Woman in Aviatrix Outfit" in Arthur Kopit's "Chamber Music." It's an absurdist play from the 60's set in a mental institution. All of the women believe they are someone famous--Joan of Arc, Susan B. Anthony, etc.--except that it becomes clear throughout the play that my character may actually BE Amelia Earhart.
 
So, the challenges:
 
1) The Dialogue. When I talk about memorization with my acting students, I always urge them to memorize the story first, and then let the words fall into place. Yet there was no clear spine to this play--just a bunch of crazy chicks yelling at each other. So instead, I tried to memorize the "movements" (as in music). There were crescendoes and climaxes, fermatas and rests. This was also helpful since there was very little blocking (we were seated for most of the show), so I couldn't even use physicality to attach to the lines.
 
2) Lack of Connection. My character was the outcast of the play, so I had no "partner" to connect with onstage. Lonely for an actor, but valuable for the character. The actresses offstage, however, were fantastic...not a diva in the bunch.
 
3) A Wig. I haven't worn a wig in a play since I was 19, and forgot how much I HATE them. You just can't touch your head the way you normally would, which limits your movements, but you also kind of want to fuss with it because it's so foreign, which then brings attention to the fact that it's "A WIG." Kind of like when Wendy Williams or Kathy Griffin start petting their weaves. Plus, wigs are itchy and sometimes painful. However, it was so completely different from my own hair that I got a kick out of it.
 
4) Dying (again). The last play I did, I was murdered in the final seconds of the play. My throat was slit, but I was already on a bed and managed to die face down. For this play, I was strangled by a mob, had to collapse face up onstage, lie there for about 10 minutes, then be picked up and placed in a chair for the final moments. The whole sequence was carefully choreographed, and we ran a fight call every night before the show. Still, it was nerve-wracking. Thank God for practicing yoga and "corpse pose"--my heart was pounding and my breath was ragged during the murder, and I had to quickly slow it down for the actual death. One night my shirt was yanked up during the murder, and I was convinced that I was flashing the audience...but what was I going to do? Come back to life for one second of modesty to rearrange myself? And during final dress, that damn wig slipped above my forehead, exposing my very non-Amelia brown curls. =0
 
Needless to say, my kiddies were not able to come see this show. As much as they "get" make-believe, they just didn't need to see Mommy Gets Murdered. We were trying to explain to TJ one night why he couldn't come, so NR told him that "some of the ladies in the play say bad words." TJ's eyes grew big, and he asked, "Do they say the 'b' word?" Shocked, I inquired what he thought that was. He tiptoed around the dinner table and whispered in my ear, "Butt?"
 
Here's hoping that's the WORST thing he'll hear in the next show I do. :)

26.

What is there to say?

As a parent, I have cried numerous times over the weekend. Picking up my son's dinosaurs and Legos, thinking of the toys those children left behind. Sharing chocolate-chip pancakes with my kiddoes on Saturday morning, thinking of the weekend those children never woke up to. Singing "I Won't Grow Up" from "Peter Pan" with my daughter, thinking of those children who will, indeed, never grow up.

As a teacher, I was shaken to the core on my commute this morning. I replayed numerous nightmare scenarios in my mind, imagining all the points of entry a gunman would have into our school. Mentally plotting out hiding spots for my students in the various classrooms and spaces I teach in. Thinking of what I would possibly to say to them in such a situation. What I did tell them this morning was that I would protect them by any means necessary; that they would be safe.

As a citizen, I am outraged. There are so many questions, which will never be answered. What was Adam's motive? Why an elementary school? Why did his mother have all those guns? Why is it so easy to buy a weapon (and multiple ones at that)? Why don't the mentally ill have better access to health care?

And the worst...why did God allow this to happen?

As we enter into the holiday season, I am not seeking any answers. Instead, I am fully embracing and welcoming the usual Christmas craziness. I will not complain. I will not get stressed. I will accept life for the big beautiful mess that it is, and I will squeeze my precious children very tightly through it all.

Wishing Your Life Away

LOVE Park in Philadelphia, which is right next to my school, has been transformed into "Christmas Village." Basically it's a winter wonderland of vendors--some selling cool stuff (authentic Russian nesting dolls, hand-dipped chocolate-covered fruit), and most selling crap (Philly snowglobes, Liberty Bell mugs).

I am obsessed. I walk through every day and have to buy something: a cone of roasted cashews, a lavender sachet for my Secret Santa, you name it. But something caught my eye the other day that not only caused me to stop for a moment, but gave me something to ponder the whole ride home until bedtime.

There is a "Wishing Wall" set up at the entrance (you can see it on the left in the pic above). For $4, you buy an ornament, write your "wish" on it, and hang it on the wall for all to see. ($1 goes to the Make-A-Wish foundation.)

I paused for a while and read all of the ornaments. Some were hilarious ("TO MEET ONE DIRECTION PLEEEEZZZZ!"); others were painfully poignant ("for mom to beat cancer"). All, however, naturally had a sense of longing, hope, and faith.

I started thinking about what my wish would be for this year. Obviously there are the usual general wishes for the common good (peace, joy, etc.). But personal wishes?
I was happily stumped. All of my wishes have come true.

At the risk of sounding obnoxious...it's true. I have an amazing husband, two beautiful kidlets, a happy home life, good friends, a job I love, health...everyone I love seems to be in a good place.

Is it just age, I wondered? Am I just more content, at 36, then I was 10 or 15 years ago?

So I did a little experiment on the way home. I tried to think back to the year 1997--a year that profoundly changed my life, for a number of reasons--to see what exactly I would have wished for, had there been a "Wishing Wall" in my life that Christmas...

2011...to find a job that fits my professional and personal needs
2010...to be home with my baby girl
2009...that TJ will adjust well to his new brother or sister
2008...to start acting again
2007...to not miss Loyola (and our lives in NYC/Jersey City) so dreadfully
2006...for a healthy baby
2005...to know what "the next step" should be
2004...to find peace in my new job
2003...to get out of the city
2002...to be home in PA for Christmas
2001...to be with my fiancee during the holidays
2000...to know what the future holds
1999...to be a better teacher
1998...to fall in love
1997...to be a better person

It's kind of an interesting assignment...to view your life through the lens of desire, and observe how those hopes changed (or were exceeded beyond your wildest imagination!).

I couldn't ask for anything else this Christmas. I am truly blessed. So I guess my wish this year is related to gratitude...how to channel this joy and contentment into somehow paying it forward.

Sowing my (Quaker) oats

I'm teaching at a Quaker school this year. On the one hand, it's like coming home--I attended a Quaker middle school, so I was used to Meeting for Worship, striving for simplicity, "peaceful resolution to conflicts" and all that jazz.

However, just like going from attending a Jesuit school to teaching in one, I'm finding that when you preach, what you practice suddenly makes a lot more sense--simply by virtue of the fact that you're constantly examining your mindset in the classroom. How do I impart Quaker values to my students? How do I exhibit these values myself? How do they imbue my teaching?

One of the main principles of the Society of Friends is finding "that of God in everyone." Easy to say, tough to do. But at one of our first new faculty orientations, a speaker told us, "You were all brought here because of the light we saw in you. It is our hope and expectation that you will strive to find the same light in the students you teach." A veteran teacher shared that when she approaches a difficult parent-teacher conference, she often reminds herself of this challenge. "I try to remember that these parents are honestly doing the very best they can with what they have," she said. "Maybe I don't agree, but that's not for me to judge. It's my job to find a way to work within that framework."

Us newbies recently gathered again, with a month or so of school under our belts, to check in and discuss how we saw Quakerism being played out here. I shared what struck me about a recent faculty meeting. We were discussing some senior boys who were being, well...typical senior boys. The conversation started getting a bit heated, but our director stepped in with a challenge: "I hear what you all are saying. But I need to ask you all to look for the good in these young men as well. Let's try to find what will work for them, to make them the best versions of themselves they can be." There was an audible silence in the room, as everyone took a breath and reminded themselves to find the light in these boys. And indeed...in the process of actively looking through a new lens, I have seen some glimmers since.

It's a good reminder to look for the light in others not just at a cozy little Quaker school, but in the real world as well. Honestly, isn't everyone doing the best they can with what they have? That may not fit our definition of "best," but who are we to judge?

11 Years Ago.

Last year, I finally wrote down my memories of 9/11 and the days immediately after. Today, in the spirit of healing and peace, I share an email I wrote the weekend after the attacks:

"My boyfriend lives on the Lower East Side, about 3 miles from the Trade Center. On his roof, he has what used to be a breathtaking view--the entire NYC skyline. Unfortunately, the prevailing image these days is the smoke coiling through the sky.

We went on the roof Friday night at 7 with one little candle. After fighting the breeze, we finally managed to keep it lit. Surveying the other rooftops and street below, it appeared that we were the only ones who had received the vigil e-mail.

But a few people must have seen us up there, because we slowly started seeing others gather on their roofs. We all smiled and nodded at each other--unheard of in New York.

The waiters and chefs from the Middle Eastern restaurant across the street even stopped serving for a few moments, to step outside and bow their heads. It was a beautiful sight.

Later that evening, we were walking by Bryant Park in midtown. A shrine had been set up with hundreds of candles, but Thursday's rain had evidently put them all out. A young man hurrying by (no one ever strolls in New York) stopped, paused to look at the darkened shrine, and took out his lighter. He spent about 15 minutes patiently lighting and relighting the candles.

Bryant Park was to have hosted "Fashion Week" last week--there were tents and runways set up for the event. It has been transformed into a volunteer recruiting/supply drop-off center. I've also seen many bars/restaurants with "Emergency Supply Drop-Off" signs in their windows.

On Sunday, our church in Chelsea was filled to capacity. People actually sat in the aisles and stood in the back for the entire 2-hour service.

During the homily, the priest said it's easy to ask, "Where was God on Tuesday?"

I certainly can't answer that. But after seeing events like the ones I've described, the generosity of my students in giving of their time and supplies for the victims, and the hundreds of collection centers and shelters springing up in Manhattan, a city that once seemed so cold and unfriendly, in just a few short days...I can certainly say I've seen the face of God a thousand times over."

Inn-ventures

Last Wednesday, I woke up to a beautiful summer morning, anxious to start my new job downtown. I kissed my family goodbye and strolled down the block to my easy new commute--a trolley and el ride into the heart of Center City.

Little did I know how quickly life would change in just a few hours.

After a pleasant morning of meeting my new colleagues, learning about Quakerism, and enjoying a fabulous lunch at Marathon, I strolled through Love Park towards the el station. I pulled out my phone to see that my aunt had called (who lives down the street from me). "Don, it's Aunt Marilyn. I have Rocco, but please call me back. It's an emergency."

!?!

Upon returning her call, I found out that our neighbor's house (which is attached to ours) had caught on fire. I texted Nick, my dad, my other neighbors, anyone I could think of who might be able to beat me home. It was the longest ride of my life.

When I finally got off, I was greeted by fire engines, cop cars, and the sickening smell of smoke--a smell which triggered horrible flashbacks to another sunny September day many years ago. My neighbor Sandi (whose house had caught fire) hugged me, sobbing and apologizing. She had simply put on a Crock Pot and gone out for a few hours. Their house was now completely destroyed.

Piecing together the story from others, here is what happened. A neighbor heard Rocco and another dog barking like he had never heard before. When he looked outside, he saw smoke pouring out of Sandi's air conditioner. He called 911 just as an off-duty cop was driving up our street and saw the same thing. My aunt immediately notified the cops that we had a dog, and they got in through a window to rescue him. They said there was so much smoke and soot in our house they couldn't see the poor little guy.

My dad and aunt escorted me past the insurance adjusters, who were already swarming like vultures. We walked through the house, which reeked of smoke and was covered in soot. Immediately my eyes started burning and my throat closed up. I tried to pull myself together to call our insurance company, who said they could probably get someone out "a week from Thursday." !?! As Nick dealt with them from his cell phone across town, I was asked to sit down with some amazing Red Cross volunteers who gave me some advice (get Rocco to the vet, wash any clothes you can with dish soap), and provided us with a debit card to get some groceries and toiletries--since we were NOT to return to the house to inhabit anytime soon.

A restoration company showed up and told us to take out 2 weeks' worth of clothing which they would do a rush cleaning job on. 2 weeks...? That seemed a little extreme, but we grabbed what we could and set off to camp out at my parents for the night.

In the interim, we traveled down to North Carolina for a wedding--and while the wedding was absolutely gorgeous and wonderful, getting there and back was a nightmare due to insane flight delays. Teege and Kelly were troopers, but it took a toll on all of us after an already crazy week.

We didn't get back until 9:30 Monday night (oh, and we were all starting school the next day), so we stayed at my folks' one more night. The next evening, we moved into the lovely Residence Inn in Berwyn, which is geographically inconvenient but clean and quiet. We also get a hot breakfast every day, which helps a lot. The kids keep calling it "an inventure."

Family and friends have been great--dropping off extra clothes for the kids, care packages, dinner and playdates--and both of our schools have been extremely supportive. Still, we're terribly homesick and anxious to just be back in our home, which won't be for another week at this point while the restoration crew does their thing (air scrubbers, sanitizing everything, washing ALL of our clotes/curtains/linens/etc., replacing carpets, repainting, etc., etc., etc.)

In the midst of all the stress, we keep reminding ourselves how lucky we are. So we have a smelly house for a few weeks. So we'll have to deal with construction next door for the next 6-8 months. So we had to take TJ's first day of kindergarten picture in a hotel instead of outside our house. So what. We didn't lose anything--or, more importantly, anyone. Nobody did.

We just can't wait to get back home.

Chick-Fil-A-Follies

Oh boy.
There used to hang a poster in my classroom that stated "Stand up for what is right, even if you're standing alone." I have always, always encouraged my students to speak their minds and speak them well--and that everyone has a right to be heard, if not agreed with. For example, my parents are pretty conservative, and I tend to lean left in most of my philosophies. But I love my parents, and they love me, and we just sort of agree to disagree. We listen to each other, and often tease each other for our differences of opinions, but ultimately know that we digress. And that's OKAY.
So when Dan Cathy, CEO of Chick-Fil-A, first stood up for what he believed in by stating his opinion against gay marriage, I thought fine. While I completely disagree with him, he's entitled to his beliefs. It's not like he was preventing homosexuals from working in his restaurants or buying his food. My refusing to eat his delicious food is not going to change his mind.
But then I find that he has given quite a bit of money to blatantly anti-gay organizations. Now this was a different matter. I CAN choose to put my money where my mouth is--and as a supporter of marriage equality AND tolerance, I can say no more Chick-Fil-A for my family. (And man...do I LOVE their food.)
There has been a great deal of name-calling and fighting in the land of FB on this matter. (FB, for all its wonderful ways of connecting people, unfortunately has also brought out the armchair activist and passive-aggressive politico in many of us.) Lots of right-wing fire and brimstone spouting a la: "you think you can bring down a righteous Christian organization by not eating their chicken nuggets? HEE-HAW in yo' devil-courtin' face!" Likewise, my liberal friends are calling Dan Cathy all kinds of nasty names.
Well, I don't expect to bring down this organization. Nor will I picket outside their restaurants or post nasty memes on my FB wall. But I learned from a young age that you can choose which businesses you can support, simply based on principle. My parents boycotted Breyer's Ice Cream and Scott paper products for years, after the companies were sold and taken over by corporations that fired many of their longtime local employees. My dad had taught the sons of some of these workers in Chester, so in a quiet show of support, our family stopped buying these products. Similarly, when my husband was coaching basketball in New York, he refused to let his boys play in a Nike tournament due to their sweatshop practices (and calmly explained to the boys his reasons.)
We make choices every day about what kind of people we want to be, and what we want our children to be. My parents taught me a quiet, personal, respectful way to protest in the form of boycotting. I will do the same for my kids, too. And in this case, I believe the truly CHRISTIAN principle of loving our brothers and sisters is not being supported by Mr. Cathy.
But I sure will miss those addictive little chicken nuggets. :(

The 900-lb. Gorilla

Can all the good a man does in his lifetime be erased by one bad decision?
That's the question I keep pondering throughout this entire Penn State debacle. Early yesterday morning, the bronze statue of Joe Paterno was dismantled. There was much debate over the fate of this sculpture. Some editorials in the Inquirer suggested leaving the statue, but turning his head the other way--to signify his apparent indifference to the Sandusky scandal. Others suggested adding a small figure of a weeping boy. But the university president ultimately chose to remove the figure completely, stating that its presence was ultimately divisive.
I have no problem with this for several reasons. One, I'm not entirely sure why anyone deserves a statue while they're still living--it seems like premature canonization (and I couldn't help but think "golden calf" every time I saw this image.) Second, as a mother and educator, I say good riddance. This man, while not a perpetrator himself, certainly seemed to hide one for quite some time--thus putting dozens of children in harm's way.
What gets me is the slightly disturbing reaction from PSU alums. Now, I am not an alum myself, so I don't completely understand/appreciate the reverence people feel for this institution and man. But I read one account of a woman weeping and wailing, "The outside world doesn't understand what we're feeling. Our hearts are breaking."
Seriously?
You want to talk hearts breaking? May I point you towards the twenty young men whose innocence and childhoods were stolen from them? The mothers who are ruing the day they ever let their sons near Jerry Sandusky, thinking they had found a strong father figure? The countless other victims of abuse who will always remain silent, out of fear, shame, or despair?
I'm aware that JoePa was a dedicated coach, teacher, philanthropist, etc. I feel awful for his wife and children, and the legacy that is now left in ruins. But I also feel that it is dangerous to let anyone--no matter how much good they do--rise to such a position of power that they start to feel and act as though they are infallible. We are all human; no one is above reproach.
And the saddest part is...no matter how many people are fired, how many penalties the NCAA imposes, or how many times JoePa's name and image are erased from buildings or plaques, none of this will take back what Jerry Sandusky did to those children.
Now THAT breaks MY heart.

Spring Break, Baby!!

I am coming off a blissful, slightly indulgent 11-day spring break. My break did not align with NR's this year, which meant it also did not align with the kiddies. And while I was extremely jealous that he got to spend a whole week at home with them, I guiltily admit that I loved, Loved, LOVED having so much time to myself.

The first half was a whirlwind of "ohmigodthekidsarenthomewhatallcanigetdone?" Allow me to take stock of what I got done--if for no other reason to see it in print and congratulate myself:

1) Cleaning. While we have broken down and hired (gulp) a cleaning woman to help us out once a month, our very small house gets dirty in about three seconds. Legos, crumbs, and half-eaten doggie chews seem to self-reproduce overnight. And it must be the Irishwoman in me that gets a sick pleasure out of snapping on the rubber gloves and furiously attacking the toilet.

2) Readying the house for Easter. I get that annoying "Family Fun" magazine each month, which crows about "ridiculously easy!" crafts and goodies that require an engineering degree and certificate from Le Cordon Bleu to execute successfully. So when the holidays approach, I am elated if I can at least throw up a new (ready-made) wreath on the door, change the garden flag, and scatter some cheesy crap on the mantel. This year, I was bound and determined to put up some damn paper Easter eggs in the window. You know, the kind every teacher usually hangs up? Well, they are nowhere to be found these days. NR kindly tracked down some spring-related window clings for me...meekly apologizing that they weren't exactly "Easter". Whatever. I got the baskets ready which, truth be told, were probably 60% for the children and 40% for NR and I to devour after they go to bed.

3) Grading for two days straight. Like, from 9 a.m.-4 p.m., x2. Take THAT, jerks who smugly surmise "how NICE it must be to get ALL THOSE DAYS OFF."

4) Editing my wardrobe. After 2 pregnancies, I had clothes in 3 different sizes and still a few maternity items floating around. Not to mention questionable purchases of old, such as the size 14 jeans I bought in a weepy, sleep-deprived haze from the Jersey City Target 2 weeks after birthing TJ, because "well that's JUST how my body LOOKS now, I GUESS!!!", and a funkadelic retro turtleneck that used to be my "paaarty" shirt...in college...fourteen years ago. I managed to cull 3 trash bags worth of stuff. You're welcome, Purple Heart.

5) Braving the crickets and cleaning out the basement. Bad mommy threw out 2 bags of toys. Nope, did not donate. Nope, did not post on Freecycle. Threw. Out. I doubt very much that even the neediest child would have any use for an armless Green Lantern procured from a Happy Meal 3 years ago.

Once that was said and done, I got to "do me" (isn't that what the kids are saying these days? Or at least the Kardashian Banshees?). I got my haircut. Got a FACIAL. Did some shopping. Baked 2 loaves of banana bread. Took a yoga class.

But best of all, I got to really revel in being a mommy. Because I was rested, focused, and recharged, I had the energy each night to play with them, read a million stories, and ENJOY the bedtime routines (instead of rushing through them because of the work hanging over my head, or the exhaustion/stress I'm battling.)

There are numerous blogs being posted all over FB--mommy confessionals, I guess you would call them--about what a bad job they think they're doing, and how they're trying to be okay with that. So I guess this is confessional too, of a sort. I got to stay home for a week and take care of myself and my home. But dammit if that didn't recharge my mommy batteries as well.

"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.