When the Bough Breaks

Now...if you'll just indulge me for a moment while I engage in a little pity party...

Life since Super-Storm Sandy has been rough.  I lost the back of my house thanks to a very large and very old oak tree.  It took out the deck, the patio door, part of the roof and a few windows.  That should be enough to make anyone spin in circles for awhile. 

I was at work when the storm was brewing.  My boss held a meeting complete with three different maps from different weather agencies predicting the location and intensity of the storm.  I work for some very smart people.  They really understand weather patterns and storm terminology.  I usually just wait for a storm to hit and then gather up the video to send to everyone with a newscast.  When my boss took us all aside and explained how bad Sandy was going to be, I took it very seriously.  He’s not an alarmist and he knows what he’s talking about.  We don’t usually prep for storms in this way.  And when we do, we’re not usually talking about the storm hitting us…here…where we work and live.

 I got my staff up to speed.  Got them all booked into hotel rooms so that we could keep the newsroom going as we covered the storm.  As daylight hours diminished and night set in, it seemed like it took forever for the storm to hit.  When the weather agencies downgraded Sandy to a tropical storm, I thought we might be in the clear…but that’s when all hell broke loose.  As I watched our TV monitors in the newsroom, I could see little explosions happening all over the New York City and lights going out building by building.  I had our reporter on the phone trying to help her find her way out of waist deep water in very flooded Battery Park City. Memories of 9/11 rushed in…here we were again, in our own city which suddenly felt like a foreign and unfamiliar landscape.  Lower Manhattan had become a no-man’s land once again.

When I finally got a breather, I called home to check on my husband, my mother-in-law and my son who were battened down in a heatless, powerless house.

 “Hi, honey, is the power still down?”

“That’s not all that’s down.”

“What do you mean?  What fell?”

“The tree.”

“Which tree?” I hesitated because I think I knew which tree.

“THE tree.”

Long pause…

“What?”

“Yep.”

“Holy [expletive]. Is everyone okay?”

“We were in the front of the house when it happened.”

“Thank God…damage?”

“It’s bad.”

“Great.”

“You’ll see when you get home.”

That’s how it began.  That was October.  It’s now January.  We just got our insurance check and just last week, the roof was rebuilt and the siding replaced.  I still have a boarded up house, broken deck, and broken windows.

But the worst part for me, surprisingly, was what Sandy did to Evan’s new tree house.  I wrote about the building of that tree house in one of the issues of Baby Bloomer. It was an epic project taken on by my husband last summer – a true labor of love that we both took pride in.  We talked about how every child dreams of such a tree house – place to play and create memories. Something magical and special.

When the tree house was finished, Evan climbed the ladder and explored every nook and cranny - pirate saber in hand.  We saw his whole future before our eyes through the windows of that tree house.  The tree we built it on felt rock solid and impenetrable. Of all the trees we have around our house, we never dreamed that one would come crashing down.

 Evan didn’t play in it much until his friends came over.  Then it was climbing, sliding, and swashbuckling galore.  The windows opened into the leaves so that he could feel like a member of the Swiss Family Robinson.  It was a dream house…a place we knew would be his for as long we lived in our house.  My husband and I joked that now we could never move unless we could take that tree house with us.

Well, the house lasted just a few months before Sandy took it down.  Evan was furious and to this day talks about fighting the evil “Sandy.” While we work on rebuilding our real house, we continue to mourn the loss of that tree house which lies in pieces at the side of our yard.

While there are many who lost everything to Sandy, it seems silly to obsess about something that was really a toy.  No one was hurt in the storm – a blessing.  My house is still livable – a blessing.  Insurance will cover the damage – a blessing.  I am grateful.  But for some reason, the loss of the tree house still hurts.  Like the houses we live in and care for, the places we make memories, live our lives, and feel hope or sadness.  It is these places that become the focal point for family and friends – keeping us connected to the people we love. 

This tree house was a symbol of the life we hope to build for our boy.  It’s about the magic of childhood; the glorious freedom of imagination.  It was about building him a space of his own where he can dream, play, and maybe even one day hide from his crazy parents.  It was about hope and the future. It was about building something special for a boy we treasure beyond ourselves.  This tree house was built with the same kind of love we put into the roof over our heads.  The joy on Evan’s face when he first climbed the ladder to the tree house is marked in my memory forever but so is the anger in his eyes when he saw it twisted and broken the morning after the storm.  And it wasn’t just us that seemed to mourn the loss.  When the neighbors came by to see how we fared through the storm, all eyes went to the battered tree house.  I could see it in their eyes too: a house can be fixed – windows are windows, and a deck is a deck, but dreams are not as easy to rebuild.

There...I said it.  Now we'll get on with it.

Enough!

I have worked in the news for 25 years.  I am a journalist and a newsgatherer.  I find video from around the world and share the images with people who subscribe to our service: affiliates, international broadcasters, Internet resources, talk shows, whoever needs news video – I give it to them.  Sometimes the stories are fun – like a one-time-only sale of beer in the USA by Trappist Monks in Belgium trying to raise money to build a new monastery; or the piano from the movie “Casablanca” selling at a New York City auction.  That’s how my day started yesterday.  It was fun. 

We didn’t cover those stories because…the fun never lasts long where I work.

I have seen horrible raw footage for many, many years.  I have cleaned up wars so as not to offend audiences at dinner time.  I have grudgingly blurred nude art work so as not to “offend” the eyes of the innocent.  I have furiously not distributed images of hundreds of dead babies in Syria.  I have shown long distance shots of smoking plane crash debris.  I watched two enormous buildings burn down before my eyes, trying to avoid the fear and heartache as I searched for the best camera angle.  I have heard a man scream while being beheaded in Iraq and another while discovering his murdered daughter’s body in a college dorm room.  I have watched children dangle from windows as they flee mass murderers.  I’ve done my job.  I’ve never cried.  I’ve hidden behind the news by providing the images.  I have buried the pain so I can keep on working.  Instead of feeling, I tell jokes. I drink wine. I watch movies.  I hug the people I love as often as I can.  I squeeze my little boy until he tells me to “stop.” I tell him stories about good versus evil where evil always loses, and bad guys always become good.

I am tired.

Yesterday, for me, was the end of holding back.  I put my head down on my desk periodically as the news dwindled in - in all its confusing fluidity.  I took deep breaths and kept going.  The world needed the video.  I needed to be factual and distribute the image of the right killer.  The world needed to get their reporters on the air.

I needed to breathe air.

Ironically it was our office Christmas party on December 14^th.  We share gifts and have a baking contest.  I argued with a co-worker as to whether or not such festivities were appropriate on this day.  It’s the one thing in that newsroom that many people look forward to each year.  My gut wanted to carry on.  His wanted to shut it down.  We compromised and managed to keep it very low key.  Nothing would make the day any better so what did it matter anyway?

As I went on to Facebook periodically to find information on the killer, the victims, name spellings of survivors…I stumbled upon images of 3 babies born that day to friends and extended family.  Three beautiful faces wrapped in soft blankets, wearing those baby hospital hats, one with a Christmas ribbon on her head.  That’s when the tears started.  Those beautiful babies, those joyful parents, the havoc taking place just north of where I sat.  So much joy.  So much tragedy.  So much confusion spinning around my head.

Despite everything I’ve seen, I’ve never cried about the news until yesterday.

I cried when I squeezed my little boy when he ran to the door shouting his usual excited, “Mommy,” and tried to hide my sobs as he looked at my eyes and kissed my cheek.  I told him I had a bad day – just like he had had the day before when things in his gym class didn’t go so well. I thought about all the Mommies and Daddies who wouldn’t hear those happy shrieks as they walked in the door that day.  I put my boy to bed last night and cried about all the empty beds in Newtown, Connecticut.  I breathed in my son’s breath.  I kissed the back of his head.  I absorbed his tiny snores.  I thanked the universe for my blessing and cried even harder for those who longed for their own blessings as they sit in shock and wonder what the hell happened and why the most precious thing in their world was snatched away for no good stinking reason.

Many of you reading this may believe in the antiquated 2^nd amendment to the United States Constitution.  Please rethink that stance.  Please in the name of the hundreds of people who have died or been wounded in the last decade as a result of mass shootings.  In the name of the babies who died yesterday.  In the names of the parents who wish they had died instead.  In the name of the siblings, the grandparents, the aunts, uncles, cousins, and best friends whose lives have been changed forever.  Please rethink the law that no longer pertains to who we are as a people today.

Many of you reading this may not believe in universal healthcare.  You may not have given mental healthcare a passing thought.  Please, again, in the name of everything we are…think and rethink.  The mentally ill cannot take care of themselves, they should not own guns, they should be assisted by you and me even if it means paying more tax.  We live in a society of people where one action affects another and another…its never ending.  We don’t live in a bubble.  Lucky us – the ones who can still hold their babies in their arms.  Lucky us.  Now let’s reach out to those not so lucky.  It won’t kill any of us to pay more tax to support society. 

For those of you who want to tell me to shut up – say it – it’s your right under an amendment that has actual meaning.  As a journalist, I’m not supposed to express my opinions, let alone write about them.  As a human being and as a mom I will never be silent again.  I will fight the gun laws now with everything I am.  I will fight for my boy.  I will defend my family, your families, the earth, humanity with my freedom of speech but never with a weapon of mass destruction.

There is no argument anyone can give me about the right to bear arms that I will not tear down, rip up, destroy, and smash to smithereens with my ability to think, speak, and love.  Try me.  I’m up for it. 

I'm Not Ready!

I am a sucker for my son’s hair. Always have been. When he was little he didn’t have very much hair and when it started to grow it was soft and gold.
As far as I’m concerned a baby’s hair belongs to Mommy. It’s hands-off for anyone who thinks a pair of scissors should enter the scene. When Evan’s hair started to curl upward just past his neckline at about two years old, my husband thought it might be time for a trim. A quick tiger-mama glare in his direction was enough to cap that thought.  But, I did do a little trim here and there when no one was looking but each precious strand of spun-gold went into a zip-lock bag and was hidden away in my own private treasure chest.

I know I’m not the only mom to go through this. Maybe I’m a little more obsessive-compulsive about it and I know it has more to do with not wanting the baby years to end than anything else.

The baby years are so wonderful. The feel of my little boys’ soft cheek against my face when we cuddle under the blankets at night or the feeling of his little fingers encircling mind as we snuggle up and watch “How to Train Your Dragon” for the 50th time on Netflix. It’s magical and time is fleeting and I’m not willing to let it go. To hell with spreading his wings: None of that is welcome here inside my cocoon of baby-bliss.

I cried when I took Evan for his first official haircut at the mall. It was one of those warehouse type chop-shops full of buzzing buzzers; TV sets blaring; video games blasting – all the trappings to distract our already ADD generation of young boys. As my baby’s hair landed on his shoulders and slipped to the floor, I grabbed at it and held it in my sweaty palms as my husband looked on smiling and shaking his head. I had reluctantly agreed to this first official cut. For Daddy it was a necessary baby-step. A first. But for Mommy it was a thousand steps closer to moving into the dorm. No! Stop! I’m not ready. This is way too fast for me.

Okay, reality check:  I didn’t have a baby just to fulfill my own needs. We send our kids off to school on a bus; we hire the babysitter to keep our marriages in tact; we untangle their arms from around our necks when we leave the house to go to work. Eventually, even a crazy mom like me, has to cut their child’s hair. Of course we have kids to expand our families, to continue a legacy, and to fulfill a dream, but we also have them to watch them grow. To beam with pride as they (with our help) become the people they are meant to be. Holding them back because we’re not ready to let go isn’t doing what we’re meant to do.

So, last week, I took my son for another haircut – one of many since the first – but this time, it was different. I took him to a real barbershop. The kind of place where greetings are on a first name basis; no-credit-cards; lots of sports-chat; a take a number and wait kind of place that I thought only existed in Leave-It-To-Beaver-Main-Street-America – not a mile down the road from my house. It was a long wait and my normally impatient child seemed to be just as intrigued by the atmosphere as I was. We waited because this is where I wanted Evan to be. His hair had grown long and thick – just the way Mommy likes it. The light-brown mop with its golden hues had grown knotty and dense, but still forming those little curls around the neckline – still my baby.

When Evan was called to the old-fashioned chair, he climbed up without hesitation despite the lack of taxi-shaped baby seats complete with steering wheels. No fire truck with push-button siren for this kid – just a barbershop chair with a booster seat. As the black cape was wrapped around him and a little piece of paper towel tucked inside the neckline, Evan said, “I’m ready.” He grinned from ear as his beautiful hair hit the ground. I snapped some photos to prevent myself from lunging for those locks. Was mommy growing up too? Not so fast, I’m not ready!

But this is one of many milestones ahead of us – and trust me – I’m clinging to every last shred of babyhood as I watch my boy grow. One day those pink cheeks will be covered in a bristly beard and he will do whatever he wants with the hair on his head. He is here to spread his wings and I am here to watch him fly as I rummage through my treasure trove of memories, photos and zip-locked bags of gold.

Video Collections

 

How to Train Your Dragon - LIVE August 2012

 

Evan and Maddy at Disney Animal Kingdom May 2012

 

Evan Sings "Old McDonald Had a Farm" in 2010

Kiddie Cruise: A Review

Kiddie Cruise: A Review

By Amy Wall Lerman

I have a lot on my plate between managing my work and home lives and have virtually no organizational skills.  I store information in imaginary folders that get tucked away inside layers of brain tissue - in other words - I forget – a lot.  My whole life exists in the belly of my Gmail Inbox so I’m required to carry around a mobile device to remember pretty much anything. This is one of the reasons I rolled my husband out of bed a little too early on a Saturday morning, dressed my son in his best pirate garb, and set off for a 38 minute drive to Manhattan’s Pier 40 for a Sunday afternoon Hudson Riverboat pirate and princess themed “Kiddie Cruise.” 

Pulling out of the driveway I reached for the email (which I someone managed to remember) that indicated the time, date and directions and felt my heart skip a few beats when I noticed the day of the week.  The word “Sunday” screamed out at me from the page as my son shouted “Arrrr” and jabbed me in the arm with the plastic pirate hook we bought for him at Disney World last June. In the midst of my panic, I wondered what would be worse, my husband’s annoyance at my flakiness (although, he’s quite used to that) or my son’s disappointment when I told him my mistake?

I prepared myself to walk the proverbial plank when I leaned over to my husband and said in a very low voice that I’d made “bad mistake.”  When Evan declared he had to go potty, we took the opportunity to drive back home and break the news to him. He took it surprisingly well – especially when we told him that we’d go visit his cousin after digging through the local library for pirate books and movies. 

Sunday morning was déjà vu, minus the flakiness. I let Evan’s daddy sleep a little later; I dressed up my pirate again; packed a bag of necessities; and we headed off to “the big city” where our boat was docked.

As we waited on a long line and were processed through a rather confusing boarding process, I took the time to survey the exterior of the boat.  It was like any Manhattan ferry boat – kind of dingy and rundown with Hudson River grime coating the hull.  For a moment I wondered if the boat would have that dank mildew smell and if the princesses hosting the activities would look more like Cinderella after the ball, but I was pleasantly surprised.  Although the interior needed some touch-ups and the bathrooms could have been a little cleaner, the boat itself was quite comfortable.  Nothing was stinky, and the princesses looked all pink and glittery in their gowns and tiaras as they rocked the house as both DJ’s and dance instructors.

We were supposed to set sail at 12 p.m. but it didn’t actually pull out until about 12:20 – and I gather much of that had to do with the dysfunctional line-up procedure still underway on the dock. 

We didn’t really mind that the boat was late on departure.  My husband and I surveyed the scene while Evan, although impatient, took in the view of Chelsea Piers out the window. Many of the kids were dressed up for the adventure and almost all of them immediately lined-up to get their faces painted – an activity Evan is happy to live without.  The woman doing face painting must have been stiff and sore by the end of her work day because I never once saw her take a break – there was always a child’s upturned face at the tip of her brush.

Once the boat set sail, the party really started.  Our tickets included limitless beverages and a packed lunch. The choice of sandwiches was limited but perfect for kids – either turkey and cheese, or a jelly sandwich (without the peanut butter I take it due to the danger of kids and allergies).  While my husband went to get the lunches on the upper deck, my son collected the little plastic pirate coins from our table and ate a bag of free baked chips – which seemed to be available in limitless quantities. 

The lower level was full of kids of all ages – from newborn babies to 8 and 9 year olds.  A handful of seasick parents lingered in chairs close to the walls while trying to eyeball their kids from afar.  My husband and I are lucky – we have good sea-legs but a mom turned to me and asked if she looked “green.” I couldn’t help but be impressed at the sacrifices parents are willing to make so their kids can have a good time.

The upper level, while fully protected from the elements, had a consistently cool breeze blowing across the deck as the boat sped across the river.  While views on the river were spectacular from all the decks, the upper level seemed to bring us even more up close and personal to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and downtown Manhattan.  Over the past year, I’ve notice from afar, the progress being made on the construction of “the Freedom Tower,” the new building going up where the old World Trade Center buildings once stood,  but viewing it from the river was like seeing it for the first time.


While grownups gathered family together for photos, many of the kids crowded around a craft table, painting, drawing, coloring, and sticking stickers.  There was even a tattoo station on the other side of the room.  Evan didn’t participate in any of the upper deck activities, he was too busy dancing and singing with the princesses on the lower deck. But perhaps the highlight for my son, and the other kids, was the puppet show. 

Barry Keating, owner of “Starmites,” and no stranger to musical theatre for adults and children alike, performed joyfully and effortlessly for the kids. With an array of puppets ranging from a naughty monkey who tricks the puppet master by hiding on his head to a Las Vegas-style grand dame reminiscent of Wayland Flowers’ “Madame.” With his one-toothed dragons and his disobedient, flipping, dime store doggie, Keating had the kids giggling from start to finish. I watched Evan belly-laugh so hard that he could barely sit upright.

By the end of the 90-minute cruise, Evan, despite his obvious exhaustion, managed to sword fight for a good 20 minutes with his new (albeit short-term) friend, “James from Brooklyn” while other families lined up to disembark.

As Evan was falling asleep that night he was still giggling about the puppets and asking when we’d go on another “Kiddie Cruise”.  I told him, “Soon.”  And I meant it.

Bubbles Bubbles Everywhere!

THE GAZILLION BUBBLE SHOW

A Review

My husband and I took our son to see The Gazillion Bubble Show in New York City last week.  If you haven’t heard of the show, you should definitely check it out.  Created and performed all over the world by the Yang family, the show is pure delight for kids and adults alike.  While tickets are not exactly cheap, the grins on your children’s faces may well be worth the price ($45-$65 – keeping in mind that the best seats for direct bubble-interaction are right in the front row).

Not knowing what to expect when we walked in, we found that all the seats have a great view of the stage, and pleased that ours were just 4 rows away from the bubble-making action.  When we located our seats we noticed that to the right of the stage children were having their photos taken inside a giant bubble.  We dropped our stuff and immediately headed over to watch.

When Evan started to climb the stairs to be next in line, I noticed the sign: “Me in a Bubble – $20.”  It was too late to say no to Evan without a bubble-deprivation-inspired meltdown.  I asked if we could take our own picture but was told no – I suppose that’s understandable even though $20 seemed a bit steep. When they brought our photo to our seats before the show started, Evan squealed at the site of himself inside an enormous bubble and when he wasn’t chosen to go on the stage with other child volunteers in the middle of the show, I was very grateful to have this photo as a consolation prize. Not to mention it was the object he took to school for “show and tell” the other day.  Not too bad for $20, I’d say.

After what felt like and interminable amount of self-promotion and advertising before the show began, the stage lit up and the bubble-blowing commenced – a relief because my ADD child was beginning to squirm in his chair and ask, “Where are the bubbles?”  I have to admit that at this point I was beginning to wonder about whether or not this would be an enjoyable show.  I mean, why are they advertising to whom they’ve already sold?  You have us, we’re here.  The ones who need the ads are outside the theatre, not inside!

But when the show began, all these thoughts were lost in a world of magic.  Melody Yang was the “bubble artist” for this show and at just 21 years old, she was a charming performer.  The expressions on her face were initially her sole interaction with the audience and she proved herself a master of silent communication – evoking laughter and applause with a simple glance, smile, or wink.  I often enjoyed watching her more than the bubble art she was creating which ranged from complex floral shapes multiple tiny bubbles inside enormous bubbles.  She even danced between bubble “tubes” made by gigantic bubble wands.

Two television monitors on either side of the stage gave the audience different views of Ms. Yang’s artistry providing full visualization of her craft – an excellent idea on the part of the show’s creators/producers.

 While I enjoyed the rather out of place laser light manipulation show/dance performed by Ms. Yang near the end of 80 minutes of bubble-fun, I also found it to be out of place and a little jarring.  It felt again like it was more grandiose self-promotion with a cornered audience.  I’m quite sure this was a way to demonstrate what’s next for the Yang family of performers.  At least it was a fun interlude, but it’s not what I came to see.

I suppose in that sense I’m a theatre purist: Show me what I came to see and save the ads for Playbill.
Jaded New Yorker though I may be, I was mesmerized by the bubbles, engaged by the performance; enthralled by the lights; and thrilled at my son’s joyful ooh’s and ahh’s as he leapt out of his seat to grab at the glistening magic. Those bubbles bounced and bobbed by the thousands, amidst changing multi-colored lights, in all their bubblicious glory.  I loved all that – almost as much as my 4 year old.
Who knew there could be so much joy in a roomful of soap?

The Gazillion Bubble Show is playing now at New World Stages Theatre in New York City.  For tickets call Telecharge at: 212-239-6200 or visit www.telecharge.com.

Having it All

Having it All 

I have recently been told that Women Still Can’t Have it All.  In an article in the July/August issue of Atlantic Magazine, Anne-Marie Slaughter, a former Director at the US State Department, told the women of America that we’ve been sold a bill of goods by the women’s movement. The article says that we really can’t be moms and have careers - and be really good at both.  Yet we continue to strive for exactly that. 

The article has caused quite a stir among moms who work outside the home, with outcries of: “How can this working mom be so anti-feminist?” And, “What right does she have to speak for me?” To the opposite side of the spectrum: “Right on…you sing it Sista’.” 

I’m somewhere in the middle – floundering in the quagmire of my own reality. While I am currently attempting to “have it all,” I don’t really “want it all.” Basically, I never thought I could have it all which is one reason I’m a later mom.  I’m often torn between the challenge of having a career and the reward of being a mom.  I hate the tug-of-war that exists between the two and yet, and until I can be in two places at once, that’s my world.  But will it really take the paranormal to attain balance?

When I had my son at age 42, I had absolutely no idea how I would make it all work in family-averse corporate America.  We are the only advanced country in the world not to have universal healthcare and one of the only ones not to have a national vacation policy or decent time off for maternity leave. There is little interest on the part of large corporations to take care of their employees by assisting them to balance their personal and professional lives.  And why is that?  Wouldn’t it make for a happier workplace? Happy employees are more productive and loyal, aren’t they? Would it kill these multi-billion dollar powerhouses to spare some extra vacation time? Give assistance with childcare? Let a woman nurse her baby for a few extra weeks?  And if they’re worried about parity for childless employees, why not incorporate some family leave days?

  

Admittedly, I’ve internally raged at the women’s movement for dangling that carrot – forcing one door to open while another is slammed in my face.  Like an abandoned child, I feel like I’m flying blind without a friendly hand to guide me.  Where are those women now - the mothers of my so-called equality? They certainly aren’t running the corporations or the government.  In fact the loudest women out there just want to shut more doors in my face. The feminist movement died – even some of its leaders have died - leaving their daughters and grand-daughters balancing a laptop on one hip and a baby on the other.

But how can I blame the women’s movement for making me think I can be Sr. VP and Supermom?  My mom’s generation got the ball rolling and my generation not only dropped that ball, but continues to sit back and watch it roll into the gutter. The women’s movement gave me choice; they gave me the opportunity to lead a different kind of life than the generations of women before me – for that I am grateful.  The women of the 20th Century, suffered so that I could have choices.  They made it possible for me, not to just dream of having it all, but to actually strive to have it all – and so I am – whether I want it all or just a piece of it all.

What’s next liberated women of the 21^st Century?  It seems to me that what needs to change, as Ms. Slaughter points out so well in her article, is the corporate and government attitude toward families with working parents, and women in particular. We need to stop waiting for things to change and start pushing for change.

Thank you, Ms. Slaughter, for opening another door – at least – for me.