Great Wolf Weekend

My triceps and hamstrings hurt, I'm partially deaf in my right ear and completely deaf in my left, and my ring finger has been bent backward, a portion of its fingernail ripped off. I am sunburned, still woozy and sleep-deprived. My abs are sore and my contacts are soaking in saline to rest my weary eyeballs. My hair is unruly from chlorine and I'm a touch dehydrated. This can only mean one thing: it was another successful Great Wolf weekend.

For the past few years, my family and I have spent a weekend with my children's friends and their families in the popular water park in the Poconos. Our original group of about 15 people has ballooned to more than 60 from approximately 18 families. It is a much-anticipated family tradition of water fun and frolic with friends. We love it.

Myriad indoor water rides abound at Great Wolf Lodge, a veritable feast for the senses the moment we set foot there. Those double doors swung open and thick chlorinated steam hit me like a Beluga whale, carnival music queued in my head.  My three daughters delighted in the splish-splashy fun in store as the lifeguard-clad teenagers, whistles around their necks and Disney-esque smiles (in a good way), handed me a dozen heavily starched white towels.  Ubiquitous signs reminded us to have fun but not to run or dive.

My children's favorite?  The family slide. Sounds innocuous enough, right?  Guess again. It registers high on the excite-o-meter, but keeping up with my 12-year-old daughter, Charista, and her friends certainly reminded me I was a middle-aged dentist and had the body of one.  I felt the burn in my legs, trekking repeatedly up the 2-3 flights of stairs. Navigating slippery water park steps, scantily clad and barefoot, is harder than it looks.

At the top we were asked to step lively into a round, yellow raft, and then abruptly kicked into motion by a Croc-wearing, tousled-hair young man with abs for days (as my daughter's friend noted). Teen heartthrob then ordered us to keep all appendages within the raft at all times and to please not panic and let go, should we become airborne. What?!

We hurled down the twists and turns at top speed, mostly backwards, various body parts bumping the sides of the slide and each other. I kept my eyes shut tightly, mapping a plan of emergency protocol should our adventure go awry, and quietly prayed until it was over, which eventually it was. Phew.
My attempts to explain to my three kids that I unfortunately cannot partake any further watery thrills were futile. My 9-year-old twins, Tatiana and Angelica, grabbed my hand and led me to their second favorite attraction: The Froggy Challenge. Yes, that's right, Froggy Challenge.

The point of this ride was to hop along a length of a pool, balancing from one absurdly wobbly lily pad to the next, each free-floating and quite slick. You're to make your way across six lily pads on one of two paths, without falling into the murky pool depths below in which the aforementioned lily pads were anchored.

On the bright side, there was a rope ladder above onto which one may grab for balance.  On the down side, it seemed superhero legs and keen balance were integral for this and unfortunately I seemed to have misplaced them both on my four-hour drive to this Poconos oasis the day before in rush-hour traffic. But I digress.

The twins begged me to try it.

Now mind you, my kids know I'm game for anything. You want Mommy to expose her always-covered, less-than-perfect thighs all day in a swimsuit in which I wouldn't otherwise ever be caught dead in the name of family fun? Sure, I can do that! And what? This weekend allows me NOT to wear any makeup, for fear that my mascara will transform me into Alice Cooper after a few hours of being dunked in grossly warm, public pools with hundreds of others? Bring it on! But this? No way, Jose.

Needless to say, the twins convinced me. There I stood, ridiculously frozen at the Froggy Challenge starting line, amidst all the little kids waiting their turn.  I really must love my kids, I thought.  I tried to observe the adventurers who went before me, trying to pick up any helpful hopping hints. Pathetic.

Make no mistake, it looked hard.  I almost changed my mind, but not before I became rattled and rushed by a bunch of snot-nosed little boys behind me, who started yelling at me that it was my turn and to go, go, go. Even the grungy lifeguard made eye contact and chirped his whistle impatiently at me, as if to signal, hurry up, lady, and do it already. A quick Hail Mary, and I hopped right on.  Note to self: Forget bathing suit next year and lounge in the cabana with the other, more self-respecting moms.

Beginners luck saw me safely to the second lily. My tight grasp of the ropes up above made my knuckles white. Proceeding carefully along, I smiled a nervous, insane smile, secretly hoping that nobody had an iPhone at the ready to capture what must've been my most pathetic image and make it Facebook photo post of what not to do at Great Wolf, even if your kids beg.

I mentally blocked out the ambient noise, but could still hear my children rooting for me, with their "Way to go, Mommy!" cheers.  Soon I found myself half-way through the challenge, on the fifth lily pad, starting to feel proud of myself but still trying my best to look thin as possible every step of the way (trust me, this is what almost all moms over 35 are thinking almost every minute of the time when in swimwear).

Then it happened:  I slipped. Panic overcame me, but I managed to grab the rope above and quickly regained my balance. Disaster averted! I took a deep breath and jumped onto the lily pad No. 6.  Only two more to go.  Now I see in the corner of my eye that the twins' little pals and some of their parents had stopped in their tracks to see what my kids' commotion was all about. Oh great. Just what I need. An audience.

I slipped again.

Instantly, I was almost completely horizontal, in an undignified position as one can be found, hanging onto the overhead ropes for dear life, wishing everyone watching had lost interest and walked away. Yeah, right. Would you pass up the chance to witness this debacle?

I was reminded I had little to no upper body strength. Why did I never learn how to do a proper push-up? I heard a few "Whoas" and "You got this, Mommy" from the peanut gallery. Not really helpful, but there was no turning back this nightmare. I took a deep breath, dug deep, and pulled myself back up into a standing, more dignified position, on this ridiculous challenge.
It worked! I crossed the finish line.

Well, that was exciting. The kids and I headed to the snack counter. What a morning. As I took my wallet out to pay, the new rope burn on my pinky smarted. How do I let these things happen, I wondered.  But that moment, Tatiana and Angelica gave me a big hug,  smiled, and told me they were proud of me.

Then I knew why.

My Unforgettable Tennis Debut

STATEN ISLAND, N.Y. -- There are a few precious things in life that give me pleasure on a regular basis: The sound of my children laughing, a great book, dinner with friends, my mom's cooking, 80's music, patients who love their new veneers, a pretty sunset, hugs from my husband, a sale at Barney's, the Brooklyn Bridge, joking with my sisters, the beach, listening to my dad's stories, photography, writing.


And tennis. That's right, tennis, that wonderfully exhausting sport that guarantees time with my friends twice a week while channeling my inner Serena and burning off calories from foods I never should've eaten in the first place.


I am in two morning tennis leagues, which may sound like a lot, but really isn't. As a stressed-out, working mom, exercise is not a luxury; it's a necessity. I'm particularly fond of one group, comprised of 11 lovely and uniquely remarkable Staten Island moms from varied personal and professional backgrounds. You have your obstetrician-gynecologist, your attorney, your physical therapist, your homemaker, your pharmacist, your certified public accountant, your executive director/co-founder of a Staten Island non-profit, your restaurant owner, your former microbiologist/public health administrator, your registered nurse/college professor, and your dentist/newspaper columnist (yours truly). Indeed it is a privilege to call them my friends because they all have hearts of gold.


No other form of exercise could drag me out of bed, into an immodestly short skirt, and onto a tennis court by 8:30 a.m., especially on frigidly cold mornings, but I love it. Conversation is easy. We all share three passions: 1) A drive to be the best mothers we can be; 2) A need for regular cardio and friendly competition; and 3) An enjoyment of coffee and egg white omelettes with feta cheese and spinach (hold the onions but bring some Tobasco, please), a popular selection when we invariably indulge in our post-tennis, workout-negating breakfasts.


This morning, eight of us converged upon two courts for 90 minutes of fun. Doubles, of course, because with our collective 25 children, who has the energy to play singles? Playing well is hit or miss, no pun intended, and today was my lucky day. My lovely partner and I killed both sets, 6-1, 6-0. As the foursome ritually shook hands at the net after the final set and before we all proceeded to the diner for breakfast, someone lovingly joked, "Wow, Gracelyn, great playing. Big change from that first time we played together, remember?"

OK, deep breath. Smile and take a sip of your Dasani. Did she really have to bring THAT up?

I'm kidding, of course, but bristled momentarily at the mere mention of one of the most humiliating days of my life.  Five summers ago, when I decided I wasn't getting any younger -- or fitter -- in my mostly sedentary lifestyle, I resolved to take up tennis. After all, how many calories did I burn throughout the day, sitting on a rolling stool, drilling teeth? Not much.

Factor in that immediately afterward, I proceed to my car and sit some more, driving my kids to sports, Girl Scouts and piano, after which I further sit to eat dinner and help with homework. My once decent figure had essentially been destroyed by two pregnancies -- one with good-sized twins -- and my once fast metabolism had screeched to a halt and morphed me to a doughy, unhealthy, not-size 4. ACK. But I digress.

Countless hours of private lessons and group clinics under my belt, the day of my tennis debut arrived. It was a warm summer day in 2007 and to call it unforgettable is an understatement. Clad in cute tennis whites from Paragon, I admit I was nervous. My backhand insecurities were palpable and seemingly my nervous heartbeat audible.

As welcomingly polite as everyone was, I wanted to make a good first impression and demonstrate to my new, ridiculously beautiful and athletic tennis friends I'd be a good addition to their league. At best, I wanted to wow. At very least, I didn't want to make a fool of myself. Unfortunately, things didn't go as planned.


The first few games were a blur, but I clearly remember double-faulting often and missing some easy lobs which came at me so slowly they were practically going backward. Initial performance? Lackluster! Surely I was better than how I was playing.

Growing frustrated and generally uncomfortable with people feeling sorry for me, which they probably were, I re-grouped and stepped up my game a little. I took a deep breath and focused, using visualization techniques and saying a few Hail Marys. Applying everything I'd ever learned in every tennis lesson I'd ever taken, I let 'er rip and -- whammo! -- things started looking up.

Soon it was 40-15, us, and then 5-3 games, us, then even a set victory. It worked! Perhaps I wasn't the worst tennis player they'd ever had the misfortune of inviting to their league! Tennis ego inflated at this point, I played the net for the second set.

I moved easily to and fro, starting to feel all my practice was paying off. I made a note to myself to give my three daughters a re-vamped "all your dreams are possible if you work hard for it" Mommy speech when I got home. Look at me, I thought, returning slices with ease, getting some good returns in, not disappointing my partner. I was on Cloud Nine.

That is, until what I call "my initiation" happened.


We were winning 3-1 and it was our service, 30-15. Nice volley ensued and everyone was having a great game. But then, all of a sudden, a torpedo shot came at me with such velocity and such a brilliant angle -- a shot clearly I was too inexperienced and perhaps too out of shape to ever get -- that it looked impossible to return. But, of course, I went for it anyway.

I was kind of caught off-guard, stupidly mentally admiring how well I was playing thus far. I snapped my brain back to attention and at top speed, I raced to the right from the midline, hyper-extending my forehand to make contact and VOILA! I lost my balance on the gravelly, Har-Tru court ... and slid fast and furious, squarely into the fence. Oh, the humanity!

I wanted to die, certainly from embarrassment more than my injuries, which were minor. The next few seconds found me just lying there, on the tennis court, knees scraped, shoulder bruised, and my tennis whites not so white. I'm not sure if I lost consciousness or not, but I found out first-hand what truly being "winded" was.

For the life of me I couldn't catch my breath long enough, even for a moment, to answer the gasps of disbelief of what had just occurred from all who witnessed my tennis wipe-out of epic proportions. Weirdly, it occurred to me at that moment that maybe tennis wasn't my sport.

Everyone quickly hovered over me to make sure I was still alive. I was. I tried desperately to regain my composure. I couldn't find my racquet. Or my dignity.

Then the questions started from what seemed like far-away voices. There were lots of "Are you OK?" and "Oh my God, Gracelyn, what happened?" I also seemed to recall a few "Are you hurt?" and "Good God, woman!" Then there were, "Did you break anything?" "Should I run and get ice?" and my personal favorite, from my fellow-dentist tennis friend, "Is your disability insurance premium paid up?"

They picked me up and dusted me off. I walked it off for the next few minutes, checking to see if I had fractured any bones, pulled any muscles. I hadn't. Just a beat-up ego.

I forced a smile on my face enough to finish the second set, which we lost, and went straight home. I took a shower, iced my knee, Neosporined my cuts, and went to work. What a morning. Who would ever think doing difficult wisdom teeth extractions later that day and some fillings on some uncooperative pediatric patients would be the highlights of any day?

But they were.

Retro Kiddie Birthday Bash

One day when my three children and their friends tell their children what kinds of birthday parties they had or the kinds they had attended in their childhood, I do NOT want to be remembered as the mom who threw a bad one, nor do I want to be NOT remembered at all.

My twin daughters, Tatiana and Angelica, recently celebrated their ninth birthday and I was up to the challenge of planning and executing a good birthday party they wouldn't soon forget. In an age when the cost of birthday parties have skyrocketed through the roof, sometimes totaling close to a thousand dollars when all is said and done, many schoolchildren have morphed into social butterflies and are very familiar with the term, "Been there, done that."

I can rattle off the myriad birthday parties my kids have attended, including their own, in their collective twenty-one years of party-going. There have been the basketball parties, the Zumba parties, the pottery parties, the Build-a-Bear parties, the mani-pedi and up-do parties, the make-your-own-pizza parties, the swim parties, the ice skating parties, the bowling parties, the Jenkinson's Boardwalk and Great Adventure parties, the slumber parties, and the the learn about fish and mammals at the NY Aquarium parties.

Then there were the Hibachi with fire and flying cutlery parties, the laser tag parties, the jewelry parties, the dinner and a movie parties, the Staten Island Zoo parties (my personal favorites), the Staten Island Children's Museum parties (my other favorites), the ubiquitous jungle gym/rock climbing parties, and of course my twins' personal all-time favorite: getting picked up in a pink stretch limousine, make-over and rock-music, runway fashion show party, replete with feather boas and a take-home video of the extravagant day's events.

Each of these parties were more interesting, creative and more looked-forwarded to than the last and my twins are just in the fourth grade. Because they've basically had the same core circle of friends since kindergarten, my quest to make a party that was fun and not done before was a tall order. And there are no harsher critics than pre-teen young ladies, so I proceeded carefully.

I thought long and hard, while driving, while waiting for patients to get numb, while cooking dinner. Then it hit me. I'd give the twins the kind of birthday party that I still remember fondly from my own childhood, now that I'm *ahem* thirty-nine years old: a REGULAR birthday party! How perfectly novel!

Wouldn't it be nice, I thought, to invite their closest friends and treat them for a few hours to a birthday party, one without the extravagant bells and whistles, without the technology or fancy destinations, without the stale pizza and "keeping up with the Joneses" anxiety-riddled mentality? Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. But at this point, we had come full party circle.

My twin daughters celebrated their ninth birthday with a good, old-fashioned birthday party. Fifteen of their closest girlfriends from their class and sports teams were welcomed to our home, where there were presented with bead necklaces, party hats and noise makers... and two hundred cupcakes. That's right, two hundred. And yes, I was quite busy the night before. They promptly rolled up their sleeves and decorated them with vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry frosting, sprinkles, sugar flowers, cookie crumbles and M+M's. Did I mention the whipped cream, jelly beans and pretzels?

They had to be pried away from their dessert creations so as to be directed to the next activity: the very underrated game of... hold onto to your retro hats... pin the tail on the donkey! Each of my daughters' guests giggled with delight upon removing her blindfold and discovering where her tail had landed. Certainly every part of the donkey imaginable was covered with tail stickers (we were afraid homeowner's insurance wouldn't cover pins) and everyone was in fits of laughter at each turn. Their requests for another round were denied. There was no time, for next on the agenda was... freeze dance and limbo!

My twelve-year-old, Charista, was the disc jockey as the Lilliputian party crew immediately delved into groovy mode, demonstrating some most impressive and elaborate dance moves, including Meaghan, who was temporarily on crutches from a soccer injury. The sheer, joyful sounds of dancing, clapping and jumping were none that I'd heard for a very long time at my children's birthday parties past. It was music to my ears.

Dance winners even received prizes: an "Eight Ball," the fortune-telling black orb, and an Etch-a-Sketch, both so popular in the late seventies; Kerbanger toys and Pop Rock candies, also throw-backs from when I was in the fourth grade at Sacred Heart School; and battery-free microphone toys, because who doesn't want to go home and sing in front of the mirror and pretend she is a rock star?

The children's pleas for more freeze dancing was answered with a couple of games of musical chairs and a few rounds of "hot potato," the latter so nerve-wracking that towards the end you could cut the competitive tension with a knife, but each game invariably followed with fits of laughter. Even the girls who tired of participating retired to our family room and opted to play not with the Wii or XBox. Rather, two or three of them chose to play with the dollhouse. No batteries, no online gaming. Just imaginations. Their sheer enjoyment, especially my twins daughters', caught my eye and warmed the cockles of my heart.

Tatiana and Angelica blew out the birthday candles on their Egger's ice cream cake, smiling ear to ear, exhausted from the fun. It was then time for what they told me was their favorite part: presenting each of their friends with giant goody bags, each of which they had painstakingly shopped for and assembled the night before with their favorite candies and toys.

"After all Mommy," they said to me, "the goody bag is the best part of a party and a good goody bag shows that you care about your friends because they can go home with it and play with the stuff inside and have even more fun, and they always will remember your party and the good time they had."

And with that, and the few "Thanks for the best party ever" proclamations that I overheard some of the little girls saying as they gathered their coats and beautifully decorated cupcakes when their parents arrived to take them home that evening, I knew the shindig was a success.

Alas, what was old was new again and I had given my kids memories they will hopefully treasure when they're grown, not unlike the treasured memories my mother and father had given me so many years ago. And that's what life is all about.

Plus, there were leftover cupcakes.

Yesterday My Heart Was Broken

Yesterday My Heart Was Broken - October 2, 2012

     Yesterday I had my heart broken. And it wasn't by a man, either, because I've been happily married for sixteen and half years.  Plus, it would've more understandable because all romances go badly until you find the right one, right?  Rather, this heartbreak is excrutiatingly painful because she was dear to my heart and my trust was implicit. The person who broke my heart was my friend.

     Or I thought she was.

     Today I mourn the death of  a cherished friendship. It hurts. I've not had my heart broken in quite some time and had forgotten how sad it is, how unpleasant, how it affects you to the core. Eating and sleeping are not as effortless as they once were for my mind is reeling and trying to accept the reality she wasn't the person I thought she was.  

     Who was she all these years, anyway?  I ask myself how I could have been so blind -- so naive -- for nine years. Yes, that's right, nine. Twelve months shy of ten. Almost an entire decade, a quarter of my life.  That's a long time to have been fooled, no?  But why would I have been at all doubtful or suspicious? She was my friend.

     Her betrayal unfolded last night, and I wanted nothing more than for it to not be true. But there it was, plain as day and there was my denying it.  It's funny how the older we get and the tougher life gets, the more denial and compromise we learn to cope with, right? Wouldn't it be nice if we could pretend certain things never happened, that our family and friends were perfect, for the sake of keeping the peace and enjoying the status quo that we all work so hard to achieve and enjoy?

     But the facts were laid out before me, the cold, hard truth. I'd be a fool to allow myself to continue my friendship with her, and "Momma didn't raise no fool."  I admit, however, that despite her grave lack of character, for a fleeting moment I entertained the idea of overlooking her duplicity.  That's how much I loved her as a friend.

     Like many of you, I don't let many people into my circle of confidence. And when I do,  I like to think that my judgment of character is impeccable, or at the very least, I'm able to weed out the lemons so as to spare everyone from wasting time and energy on cultivating a friendship that ultimately goes nowhere.  

     Her deception exepted, I thought her the perfect friend. Like me, her children were her world. She was thoughtful, unpretentious, a caring daughter, a devoted wife  and an hilarious friend.  Our conversations were uplifting and often ended up with tears streaming during our knee-slapping fits of laughter.  In my daily grind of drilling teeth, driving my kids around,  making dinner, helping with homework, and keeping a tidy and charming house, my  life was enhanced by her friendship.  I felt lucky. I felt loved.

     When we first met our eldest children were only toddlers at the time and I think my nine-year-old twins were still infants, her youngest a just glimmer in her husband's eye. A lot has happened since then, endless hours of commiserating when the going got tough and celebrating when things didn't seem so bad, even for a little while.

     I think that's the part I'll miss the most:  the talking, the comfort from having someone understand me without having to fill in the details because she lived through them, too.

     My eldest daughter, Charista, who is twelve, saw the sadness in my face when I picked her up at the bus stop yesterday and was very concerned about my despondency.  I filled her in on what had happened and she gave me a hug, telling me not to worry, not to cry. How lucky I was that she was there at that moment, so wise and caring. I cherished for a few seconds her embrace and kiss on my cheek, a role reversal of a daughter comforting her mother. She reassured me it would be hard but I should endeavor not feel so badly because what my friend did was wrong.

     Charista was absolutely right. Sure it smarts right now and I'm not even sure how long it'll take for me to lick my wounds and for a scab to form. I do know that eventually it will. It always does and I am way too busy to languish in self-pity over a friend who apparently didn't value our friendship as much as I.  So life goes on. Tomorrow is a new day. Out with the old, in with the new. Onward and upward.

     But we all know these are just words and words are cheap. She broke my heart.  Today I've laid our friendship to rest but saved the best parts to be visited from time to time because the good times will always be just that--  good times. I choose to believe those memories were made by two friends who enjoyed and respected each other.  Those memories will not be soon forgotten. 

     In the days ahead when I think back on our former friendship, unfortunately my smiles will invariably be followed by bitterness. But I promised myself that --- if you can please bear with me to hear one more cliche ---  it is better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all.

My Initiation into Tennis

     Early this morning I played tennis -- doubles, because singles is simply too exhausting. My league, comprised of ten lovely and remarkable Staten Island moms, converge on two courts every Wednesday morning for 90 minutes of fun. Playing well is hit or miss, no pun intended, and today was my lucky day. My partner and I killed both sets, 6-1, 6-0.  As the foursome ritually shook hands at the net before we all proceeded to breakfast, someone lovingly joked, "Wow, Gracelyn, great playing. Big change from that first time we played."

     Did she have to bring THAT up... one of the most humiliating experiences of my life? 

     Five summers ago, I decided that I was not getting any younger -- or fitter--  in the mostly sedentary lifestyle I led. After all, how many calories do I burn, sitting all day doing crown and bridge, after which I sit some more, driving my kids to basketball and swim practices? Not much.

     I resolved to take up tennis.  I delved into group clinics, bought a couple of cute outfits at Modell's and bit the bullet.  I joined a summer tennis league at the urging of a fellow racquet-wielding dentist friend of mine and soon opening day arrived.  The sun was glorious, the sky was blue, and was it me or was everyone -- except me -- a size 2 and glowing with their perfect smiles and impressive tans? And what was up with all the 3:2 leg to torso ratios and looking fabulous in very short tennis skirts, anyway?

     To say the first few points of the first set was underwhelming is the understatement of the year. My insecurities about my backhand were palpable, my racing heartbeat probably audible. As wonderfully welcoming and polite as everyone was TO me on my tennis court debut, I distinctly sensed the pity they must've had FOR me.  I double-faulted and missed some easy lobs, coming at me so slowly it was practically going backward. 

     Generally uncomfortable with people feeling sorry for me, I stepped up my game a little. I took a deep breath and focused, and let it rip. I used visualization and applied everything I'd ever learned in tennis lessons.  I channeled Serena and Maria in every Grand Slam I'd ever watched in my life, and -- whammo! -- things started looking up.  Soon it was 40-15, us, and then 5-3 games, us, then even a set victory.  It worked!  Perhaps I wasn't the worst tennis player they'd ever had the misfortune of inviting to join their league.

     Tennis ego inflated at this point, I played the net for the second set. I moved easily to and fro, returning lobs, slicing away.  Then it happened... an angled shot came at me with such velocity... a shot that clearly I was too new (and too old) to ever get... but I went for it.  At top speed, I raced to the right from the midline, hyper-extending my forehand to make contact... lost my balance on the gravelly, true-hard court... and ran right into the fence.  Oh, the humanity!

     I wanted to die, not from my injuries, but from embarrassment. The next few seconds were a blur and found me lying there, on the side of the court, knees scraped, shoulder bruised, and my tennis whites not so white.

     I'm not sure if I lost consciousness, but for sure I found out first-hand what being "winded" was. I couldn't, for the life of me, catch my breath enough to answer the gasps of horror from all who witnessed my wipe-out of epic proportions. 

     Trying desperately to regain my composure I had left, everyone hovered over me, to make sure I was still alive, as I lay pathetically on the tennis court. I couldn't find my racquet.  Or my dignity.  Then the questions started from what seemed like far-away voices started.  There were lots of "Are you ok's?" and "Oh my God, Gracelyn, are you hurt?" Then there were, "Did you break anything?"  "Should I run and get ice?"  And my personal favorite, from my fellow-dentist friend, "Is your disability insurance premium paid up?"

     They picked me up and dusted me off. I walked it off for the next few minutes, checking to see if I had fractured any bones, pulled any muscles. I hadn't. Just a bruised ego.  I forced a smile on my face enough to finish the second set, which we lost, and went straight home. I took a shower, iced my knee, Neosporined my cuts, and went to work. I downed two Motrins.     

     Looking back, I can now laugh at the events of that morning now, thankful I can hold my own of late on the tennis court, thoroughly loving the two tennis leagues I play in now. Tennis and photography are still my MOST favorite things to do in between work and taking care of my family. I still have the tennis outfit that was ruined that day, however, just as a reminder  of my truly unforgettable first day of tennis. In the worst possible way.

      

Mornings... UGH!

     I get more done on weekday mornings from 6:30 to 8:30 than I do any other part of the day, including some days at the office, drilling teeth for crown and bridge.  When that dreaded alarm clock rings,  I pop out of bed, and my heart races from 0-60mph in 3 seconds flats. I feel around for my eyeglasses (too chicken to go for Lasik), trip over a few toys and hangers in the hallway, and make my way into the rooms of my three sleeping beauties, as my Mom used to sarcastically call my two sisters and me when we refused to get up in the morning.

     My repeated pleas for my twin 9-year-old girls to lay out the clothes the night before that they want to wear the next day fall on deaf ears, so one of two things happen: they tear their closets apart looking for something cute (and clean!) or they go to school with an atrocious, mismatched outfit. When the latter happens, I tell my friends that I had a board meeting and it was Michael's turn to dress them.

     My eldest, 12-year-old daughter attends a private school, so she wears a uniform. You'd think this would simplify things. But it doesn't. Someone has to wash all these blue blouses, skirts, sweaters, navy socks and "fleece" and that someone is yours truly! Thankfully, however, she is pretty much auto-pilot in the mornings and is on her school bus by 7:05 am.

 

     Making the twins' lunches in the morning is usually met with the falling in to queue for me to do their hair for the day, brush and "pretties" (what we call ponytail holders in my house, which seem to be disposable;  I am pretty sure I'm putting Mr. Scunci's -- the hair accessories maker -- children through college with the money I spend at CVS on his stuff).

     As I place their lunches in their school bags, the eggs are sizzling in the frying pan... two eggs scrambled and two eggs over easy, because twins liking their eggs the same way would be too easy and less annoying.  For third grade last year, it was cold cereal and whole milk and a banana if I had gone to Key Food the night before. Then, at Costco, I noticed they were piling my cart high with Frosted Flakes and Cocoa Puffs.  That was the end of cereal. 

 

     At the bus stop, I find a 5 minutes reprieve from the hustle and bustle that is my morning when I get to chit-chat with other bus stop moms. They are smart and funny and usually snap me out of  daily early-morning heart attack. But as soon as the bus pulls away, I rush home, clean up breakfast dishes, put a load of the aforementioned blue uniforms (and towels for their swim practices) in the washer.

     Then, I chop up some onions and potatoes and put them in the slow cooker.  Add to that mix some soy sauce, paprika, baby carrots and chicken breasts (thick sliced, because the thin slices are more expensive and it's all thin, anyway, if you slices it up into strips) that I defrosted the night before... and voila--  dinner will hopefully be ready tonight at 5 pm.  I make sure to press the "on" button.

     At this point I breathe a sigh of relief. I saunter upstairs and put my makeup on, pop my contacts in, tie my Medusa hair into a bun, and head to work. My children have recently taught me how to blast some dance music on from my iPhone while docked in the iHome thingy, so all that blares on while mentally mentally make the transformation from "mom" to dentist."

     My patients sometimes ask me why I'm always in such a great, happy mood at home.  Truth be told, my hours at the office are my relaxation. My hours at home, being the best mom I can be for my three daughters, is the real work.

 

 

    

 

    

 

 

My Senior Year at Curtis

     Another school is year is upon us and I ran into a fellow mom who I call my "bus stop friend" because I only see her at drop-off and pick-up.  Anyway, she was second-guessing her decision to transfer her daughter out of Catholic grammar school this year and into public school for the fifth grade, and asked my opinion on the matter.

     I reassured her that everything would be just fine. I am the middle child of three daughters in my family, and at the end of my junior year at an all-girls Catholic high school in the late 1980's, my parents got upset over something school administration-related, which escapes me at the moment but was pretty earth-shattering at the time, and -- whammo! -- I started my senior year, and my younger sister, her freshman, at Curtis High School.

     Make no mistake, I was a major dork at sixteen, but I was a straight-A student, Vice-President of the Student Council, and Editor of the school newspaper. It was quite a transition for me and I was understandably anxious to bid adieu to uniforms and my friends and hello to everything new.

Curtis High School, Staten Island, New York

     

     But the move proved to be a great one in that I was placed in the Scholarship Program at Curtis and took all college-level classes, including an AP English class taught by the excellent Mrs. Trefousse. She has since passed, but left an indelible mark in my unforgettable senior year in high school. Her teaching style was tough but elegant and I held her in high esteem.

     Mrs. Trefousse inspired creative writing in me like I'd never experienced before and I'm not lying when I tell you that I relished every moment in her class and pored over all her assignments endlessly into the wee hours. I had trouble falling asleep the nights I completed a story, in the hopes that in the morning she'd select my work to read aloud to our class of what I believed to be very talented writers.  And when she did, I basked in the glory of her approval, and this warm feeling of pride was one of the sweetest in the world, making all the writing and rewriting worthwhile. And it was all in long-hand back then.

     She was also one of the chaperones on Curtis' senior exchange student trip to France, where I had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and privilege to live with a French high school senior, Arnaud, and his family.  Yes, I was assigned to a male student, since I was "subbing" for the boy who couldn't make the trip that year and there were no "girl families" left.  Looking back on this, I'm kind of surprised my parents allowed me to go. On the other hand, I had never given them one iota of a doubt to not be completely trustworthy in my youth (which really speaks to my aforementioned dorkiness).

     Arnaud is also now a dentist, and we have since lost touch, but I will never forget my time with him, his family, and my new-found Curtis friends, studying and enjoying ourselves in Paris and Montchenot, France. The culture shock and the laughs, the black turtlenecks and dark trench coats I picked up from Canal Jean Company in the Village to wear out on the town, "playing the part" to fit into my pre-conceived notions of the European fashion landscape... all delightful parts of an incredible experience.

     Incidentally, I'd been back to Paris in the late 90's with my husband, before the kids were born, and it was also great, but markedly different. Experiences in our youth will always be in a dreamy, unparalleled class of their own, right?

     My great Curtis memories are certainly the stuff to keep me company in old age. But above all, there is a singular person whose memory I'll cherish most of all: my best friend at the time, Daniel. We became fast, good friends, and he single-handedly gave me a social life that year, making sure to include me in his elite circle, comprised of the same kids with whom I took the AP classes, with whom I travelled to France, who I suspect were very ready, were it not for Daniel, to let me languish in my transfer-student awkwardness.

     Daniel was one of the funniest people I'd ever had privilege to know. He was smart. And kind. Once, there was a flower fundraiser on Valentine's Day at school, and he thoughtfully sent me a white carnation during homeroom, signifying our friendship, so that I wouldn't feel left out when the other girls in my class were delivered dozens.  He asked his friends to include me when they had parties. He accompanied me to senior prom. We'd take the ferry after school and explore Manhattan, visit museums. Were it not for him, I'd be telling a sadder, lonelier story right now. 

     The last time I saw Daniel was at graduation and we drifted apart as we headed to college, but not without appreciation in my heart for all he had done for me. Three years later, one of the most difficult days in my 20's, in my life really, was speaking at Daniel's memorial service. A junior at Vassar, he had perished on Pan Am Flight 103 in Lockerbie, Scotland. 

     So as the bus screeched to a halt to bring our children to school that morning, I reassured my bus stop friend that her decision to transfer her daughter to a different school would work out just fine. At the very least, I told her she could always change back. At the very best, her daughter will make some unforgettable memories.

Danny Rosenthal, my date for Senior Prom, Curtis High School, June 1986
 (Photo credit:  my dad, Jess Santos)