Final Exam

Over spring break of my freshman year of college I came home and dropped a bomb. I informed my parents that I refused to return to college the next fall unless they consented to let me major in theatre. This was not a new topic of conversation in our house. I had graduated from high school wanting very much to major in theatre but had been told repeatedly that this was a foolhardy venture, that it was a reckless and irresponsible choice, one that my parents refused to financially support. So off I went to the Bronx with vague plans to major in English. Or sociology. Or both. But most definitely not theatre.

Over the course of my first year at Fordham it became increasingly obvious that there simply was no other academic pursuit that would satisfy me the way studying theatre would. I enjoyed my courses (well, except for math, which I failed) and didn’t object to studying theology, philosophy, literature, but at the end of the day I wanted the majority of my time to be focused on something about which I felt passionate and enthusiastic and in love. And theatre was the only thing that fit the bill.

So I marched myself home and laid it on the line to my parents: I would return to Fordham in the fall and major in theatre with their blessing. Or I’d come home for the summer, work like a dog, move into the cheapest rental apartment I could find, declare myself financially independent, reapply to college and hopefully qualify for a fat financial aid package. I would bankroll college myself.*

My parents, most likely horrified at the thought of having to explain to their friends why their oldest child was living in a VW bus and working 65 hours a week at Applebee’s, relented, and the next fall I enrolled as a performance major at Fordham’s Lincoln Center campus.

Until the moment I officially became a theatre performance major, I had balls as big as church bells. I had played leads in all but one of the plays I’d done throughout high school. I spent every summer at performing arts camp, staying on as a counselor when I was too old to be a camper. My freshman year of college I had the chutzpah to walk into my first audition for the Mimes & Mummers (Fordham’s extracurricular theatre group at the Bronx campus), smile winningly and say that I was really only interested in being cast in one specific role in their fall musical. And cast in that role I was. But when I crossed the threshold of the Lowenstein Building at 60th and 9th and officially became a student of the Theatre Department, my self-confidence and brass evaporated.

I spent the next three years studying theatre, which I loved, but performed rarely. The school put up twelve mainstage productions over those three years, and I auditioned for and was cast in one. I did more work in the school’s black box theatre, and in my senior year was cast by the same director in not one but two new works, but by then the hairline cracks in my self-assurance had become chasms. I had lost all my swagger. I was surrounded by scores of aspiring actors, most of whom convinced (some of them rightly) that THEY were the next big thing. Their hubris topped mine tenfold. In New York City, the most ruthless place in the world for an aspiring performer, hubris counts. It’s worth something.

And I didn’t have enough.

I graduated from college with my degree in theatre three and a half weeks after I started my first job**, as the marketing director for the Actor’s Federal Credit Union. The credit union was located in the Actor’s Equity Building in Times Square. I used this address to my advantage, often joking self-deprecatingly that hey, I was working on Broadway! But in reality, my job at AFCU was a cop out. An excuse to never go on one single audition. To give up.

I gave up with great gusto. After a year at AFCU I went back to Fordham as an employee and was accepted into graduate school there to pursue an MA in Public Communications. A year after that I was recruited by a former boss to join him at Tufts University. I reapplied to graduate school in Boston and ultimately earned a Master’s at Emerson College. I had two kids. I moved to Connecticut. There was no room in my life for theatre.

But still.

I found out about a studio nearby that was offering acting classes, and signed up for one. And then another. And then, inveigled by the amazing woman who ran the studio, agreed to teach a few classes here and there. I had another baby, and while I nursed him I started scanning audition notices. Most were for community productions of popular mid-century Broadway musicals, the kind of stuff I typically hate. But one day I saw an audition notice for a production of HAIR, one of the shows I was too intimidated to audition for when it was produced at Fordham. So I went. And I was cast. And the show itself totally sucked, but I was doing it again, I was acting. I wasn’t a lead and I was the oldest one in the cast, literally twice as old as the youngest cast member, but I was on stage and that felt great.

A year later I auditioned for another play, a production of Birth, by Karen Brody, and I was cast again. And again, the experience was neither here nor there but I was doing it.

And today I got a time slot to audition for a cabaret being produced in a theatre just a few miles away from my house. You would think that by now I would be back in that ballsy, cocksure place I lived sixteen years ago, ready to demand a role I am certain only I can do justice. But instead I feel like I am about to walk into an exam for which I have barely studied. I am nauseous and sweaty and unsure. I don’t know what to wear or what to sing or how to lose 10 pounds by Saturday. But I am hopeful that on that morning I will wake up will a hint of that former bravado and nerve.

Old habits die hard. Right?


*My last two years of college I pretty much did bankroll myself. I had a large renewable scholarship through my Dad’s employer, student loans, I worked as an RA which covered $3K of tuition/year and all my housing expenses. I bought my own books and earned my own spending money. My parents sent me $40 every two weeks for groceries, but that was about it. It wasn’t until just recently as I was pouring over my student loan statements that I realized just how much of my education I financed. (I told you I failed math.)

** Never, ever let anyone convince you that your potential for future employment is a good reason not to major in the fine or performing arts. Of the dozens and dozens of people I know who studied theatre, dance, music and fine arts, not one of them is unemployed, unless it is by choice (say, to raise a family). That’s a hell of a lot more than I can say for the people I know who majored in computer science and finance.

Growth Spurt

Much is made of the transformation that occurs between the moment a child is born and the day they celebrate their first birthday. In twelve swift months a baby goes from mewling lump of sweetness to an actual walking (often), talking (occasionally), solid food eating, tamper tantrum throwing, opinionated person.

Much less is made of the transformation that occurs every year thereafter. And even less than that is made about the changes that can occur in the 180 days that comprise the American school year.

And yet here I sit, 10 days before the end of Nina's first year of elementary school, and I am stunned by the changes in my firstborn girl.

One hundred and seventy school days ago Nina couldn't read a word. Yet a few weekends ago I attended the book signing for her first published work.
And last night she read a bedtime story to me.

One hundred and seventy days ago my girl had never heard of Michaelangelo or Van Gogh or Renoir, and she certainly couldn't have told me that it's easy to identify the work of Georges Seurat, for he painted dot by dot. Yet just a few weeks ago she painted this:
One hundred and seventy days ago she would have balked at the thought of performing in front of a large crowd. But in March she narrated a performance of her peers for an audience of at least 50.
And in May she read her own poetry aloud to an audience of a few hundred students, teachers and parents.

(of course her eyes were closed in the best shot I got.)

One hundred and seventy days ago my little girl had to be pulled from my arms and carried into school, so sad was she to leave her Mama for an entire day. And yet last week she march proudly away from me and onto the stage to accept a medal that magically transforms kindergarteners into first graders.
That little girl was all smiles as she posed with her amazing teacher...
...and was cool as a cucumber as she hung out on the kindergarten playground surrounded by 100 friends who 170 days ago were mere strangers.

One hundred and seventy days ago I had no idea that, come the next summer, I would have not just a daughter but also a reader, a writer, an artist and a performer.
And yet last night I tucked all of those people into bed and kissed them goodnight.

Catch ya later, kindergarten.

Commandments

I am writing in a quiet office during daylight hours with a mocha frappuccino at my side, and it feels as though I have entered a parallel universe. Setting aside time to write undisturbed is a completely new thing for me. Pretty much every single post on this blog was composed with a child hanging from my leg, or calling me from the bathroom that they need me to wipe them NOW. The soundtrack for my writing has been the theme songs from Little Bear and Franklin, and if you listened carefully, you might have heard the hiss of a pot of water boiling over onto the stove. If, perchance, I was writing and it was quiet, it’s because it was the dead of night and I was the only one awake. Those are the posts that are riddled with spelling errors, the ones I surreptitiously fix the next morning while I am supposed to be getting dressed. If I show up at drop-off sans mascara and with wet hair, you can be sure that I was up writing well after midnight.

None of that has a thing to do with what I feel like writing about. I’m just so happy to be writing in peace and quiet that I couldn’t not share.

Anyway.

What I really wanted to write about, what I was pondering as I accidentally spritzed myself with Pantene spray gel instead of perfume and attempted to solve the many child-related crises that erupted like a perfect storm just as I was about to walk out the door, is the importance of consistency and follow-through in parenting. Following through was what was on my mind as I shrieked, “If you ever write on my house again, you will never have access to another writing implement EVER!” at Nina mere seconds before making my exit, and the irony was not lost on me.

Pretty much any parenting tome will tell you that being consistent and following through are Commandments #1 and #2 when it comes to successful child-rearing. Overall I think I am pretty consistent as a parent, and my follow-through is OK in some areas, but in others it is sorely lacking. Part of my issue with follow-through is Commandment #3: Never Admit To Your Children That You Made a Decision in Haste and Absolutely Under No Circumstances Change Your Mind. My own parents subscribed to Commandment #3 with great devotion. If they told me I had to be home by 11 pm, there was no going back. I could have explained that at 11:30 pm, admissions reps from Yale would be showing up at Aaron Flamino’s house to hand out acceptance letters and tuition vouchers to all the remaining partygoers, but it wouldn’t have mattered. They said 11 pm, and they meant it. Yale be damned.

Commandment #3 was a hallmark of my childhood. When I was eight or nine years old my family was invited on a bus trip to New York City to visit the Statue of Liberty. In preparation for the trip my mother had purchased matching knickers for Liza and me. Mine were olive green. Liza’s were purple, because our mother loved her more. My dad, probably because he felt sorry for me for having to wear olive green knickers, told me I could use his Polaroid camera on the trip, and bought me several packets of film.

The morning of the trip rolled around and Lauren, who was three or four years old, woke up with a fever. It was decided that my dad would take Liza and me on the trip, and my mom would stay home with Lauren. We were instructed to don our undershirts, turtlenecks and knickers and get ready to go.

When you are eight years old, there is no greater injustice than being treated like a baby, and it was (and, I believe, still is) common knowledge that wearing an undershirt is very, very babyish. There was no way I would be convinced to wear an undershirt to New York City. My dad said that was fine. I could chose not to wear the undershirt and stay home with my mom and Lauren, but if I didn’t put it on, he’d leave without me.

Which he did.

He packed Liza up and they went off to New York City and left me home with my sick sister, a Polaroid camera, and a bunch of film.

I am sure there are a bunch of people reading this blog who just rose to their feet and started applauding. That they are shaking their heads in wonderment and thinking, “Now THAT’S good parenting. That showed her! When a parent says something, they should MEAN it!” But the thing is, the event didn’t TEACH me anything. It certainly didn’t make me want to start wearing undershirts. The only thing it showed me was that my father (who I adore beyond all reason and who was and remains a terrific parent) was as stubborn and pig-headed in that moment as I was. The main difference between us was that I was 8 years old and he was 36.

I want to be a consistent parent who follows through, but I also want to teach my kids that even grown-ups are prone to saying things they don’t mean when they are frustrated. I want them to know that taking the time to apologize and rethink their actions and their edicts is not a sign of weakness. And I want them to know that it’s wise to think first and speak second. Words are powerful things and when you let them loose without considering their impact, you are bound to regret it.

So when I get home I will apologize to Nina for shrieking and ask her kindly to not write on the cedar shakes that I kind of want to repaint anyway, but I will not reiterate a threat on which I know I will not follow through.

First, though, I am going to sit back and relax in my parallel universe and gaze out the window at the frolicking unicorns and leprechauns. I’d document them, but I left my Polaroid camera at home.

By the sea, by the sea...

(I told you he could fly.)

Is there anything better than romping with new friends in the icy waters of the Atlantic?

I doubt it.

*as usual, all photos can be embiggened by clicking on them*

My kid can fly.

What's your superpower?

*click the image for the "make this my desktop" worthy size*

(Fear not, Nina Fans. I know Lily Jane and Nate have been getting a whole lotta bloglove, but a super spectacular Nina post in the works. Stay tuned.)

on my nightstand

I looked back at my post about selecting a good book and think I may have sounded a bit stabby. Maybe even a little like someone who *gasp* doesn't like to read. Nothing could be further from the truth. I read voraciously, and at quite a brisk clip. I suspect that my frustration in finding a new book is rooted in the fact that I read so much so quickly that the kinds of book I enjoy aren't hitting the shelves fast enough.

That said, I found that writing about what to read really helped me refocus on finding the kind of literature I enjoy. I have purchased several books in the past two weeks (yup, breaking my own rules) and have been tearing through them. So, without further ado, here's what's on my nightstand right now:

Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri was, as I expected, flawless. If there is a living author who writes more lyrically, I'd like to know. Unaccustomed Earth is a series of short stories, some of which are interconnected, about Indian immigrants and their families, most of whom live in the greater Boston area. Lahiri's first two books, Interpreter of Maladies (for which she deservedly won the Pulitzer) and The Namesake, were equally compelling. I have not one iota of regret purchasing her works, as they have a permanent home on my bookshelf.

The Birth House is a debut novel by Ami McKay. It tells the tale of a midwife living in Nova Scotia in the early 1900s. It's on loan from Laurie who described it as average. I concur. I cannot, however, pass up a read that focuses on midwifery. Unless you are equally fascinated by the subject, I'd pass it by.

The Nurture Assumption by Judith Rich Harris, also on loan, aims to explain why children turn out the way they do. Harris maintains that kids are far less influenced by their parents than we have been lead to believe. I have only started scanning the book, which has recently been updated and revised, but I can tell I am going to like it. I like any book that challenges the status quo while simultaneously absolving me of any role in my children's misdeeds and poor choices.

Mudbound, Hillary Jordan's debut work, won the Bellwether Prize for Fiction. I'm a sucker for any book that's won a prize, and this one really deserved it. It follows two families in a small Mississippi town at the end of WW2. You should read it, in spite of the quote from People on the back cover.

Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay was recommended to me by employees in two different bookstores. It takes place during WW2 and apparently is a Halocaust story, but it has a quote from my beloved Augusten Burroughs on the cover, so I am willing to risk it. It's next on my list after...

Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout, has been stalking me for some time. I have carried it around while browsing (you know, like a talisman) but anytime I went to the store with the express purpose of buying it, it was sold out. I finally bit the bullet when I found the last available copy at Borders and had a coupon. I'm about a third of the way through and I don't love it, but perhaps I just need to read a bit more. I have a love/hate relationship with winners of the Pulitzer, but will reserve judgment until I finish this one.

From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg is on my nightstand because I bought it to read to the girls this summer. If you have children in elementary school, you simply must read them this story of a brother and sister who run away from home and shack up in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was one of my very favorite books as a child, and to this day I cannot use the bathroom at the Met without looking for Jamie and Claudia.

Some day soon I'll dedicate an entire post to my favorite children's lit, as well as books that I read again and again. But right now I am going to dive back into Olive Kitteridge and hope she grows on me. Did I mention the USA Today quote on the back cover?

If I could turn back time...

Remember when Lily Jane started her second year of preschool? I almost didn't even document it, I was so wrapped up in the drama of her big sis starting kindergarten. The next summer seemed so, so far away. Surely time moved slower those first few days of September.

Yesterday, my cute-as-a-button, upbeat, optimistic, camera loving, awesome, tiniest-in-her-class, generous spirited girl finished preschool. And this morning she asked if she could start kindergarten today.
And the clock ticks faster.