Thirteen days later, thirteen lessons I've learned from Sandy.

Hurricane Sandy made landfall over a week ago and left 41 dead in New York City, including 21 in Staten Island alone. Lives have been devastated in our beautiful borough. Houses were destroyed and cars washed away to the tune of $50 billion, second only to Hurricane Katrina in US history of natural disasters.

To read the stories of those who perished and those who continue to suffer in Sandy's aftermath is difficult without getting emotional because they were one of us. They were our family, our friends, our neighbors, our fellow Staten Islanders. Any one of them could have been any one of us on a different day, a different time. But they weren't. And here we are, left with the responsibility to help them and to appreciate all we have at a time when so many have lost so much.

I've jotted down a list of important lessons I've learned from Hurricane Sandy so I won't someday forget and, more importantly, for my three daughters to read. Maybe a few items will help remind you, too. After all, what good are life's challenges if we can't rise above and become better and stronger?

So here it is. Please keep praying for those affected by Hurricane Sandy. God bless Staten Island. God bless America.

Thirteen days later, thirteen lessons I've learned from Sandy.

1. HUG YOUR CHILDREN EVERY DAY. I read the story of the father and son from Oakwood who were found dead in their basement from Sandy's powerful surge, locked in each others' embrace. The dad's hand was covering his son's head, as if trying to protect it. The young man was a twin, like two of my daughters. Our children are all miracles and make life worth living. They are our future. They deserve our love. Hug them.

2. VOTE. Yesterday was Election Day, and our civic duty of voting in the officials who get to represent us should never be taken for granted or overlooked. It is the hallmark of our great nation. I was amazed to see those ravaged by Sandy who found their way out of their floods and rubble to a voting booth, or who cast their vote by affidavit. Why can't we? We have no excuse. If you don't vote, you don't get to complain.

3. REMIND YOUR CHILDREN HOW LUCKY THEY ARE. On Monday NYC children went back to school after a week off because of Sandy's devastation. However, many of them reported to classrooms with just the clothes on their back and nothing more -- no pencils, no crayons, no notebooks, no jackets. Emails were forwarded to me this week from PTAs asking for donations of basic school supplies our own children probably take for granted. Remind your kids how lucky they are to have houses in which to live, warm beds in which to sleep, and everything they need to learn.

4. APPRECIATE CONVENIENCES. Filling up our cars with gas this week has been a three to four hour ordeal with lines as long as a mile. Not since the gas crisis of the 1970's has this energy emergency happened. And we were all happy to get on the queue. When things get back to normal, exercise the same patience and be thankful for all the modern conveniences we enjoy, which leads us to the next item.

5. ENJOY THE LIGHT. Power outages were widespread in New York because of Sandy, now numbering about 526,000 people, down from a peak of 2.2 million. Being in the dark for a few days reminded all of us to appreciate electricity and all the wonderful things it brings: refrigerated food, lighting, television, computers. Remember what it felt like to be in the dark. The nights were long and cold, weren't they? Appreciate the warmth of your heat, luxury of telephones and clean drinking water, while you're at it.

6. HUG YOUR PETS. I read the story on SILive.com of the brother and sister who shared a house in Midland Beach. They did not evacuate their premises soon enough, afraid of leaving behind their beloved pets, and died from drowning. Pets are important members of the family. Enjoy them.

8. HELP YOUR NEIGHBORS. The outpouring of assistance toward the clean-up of the homes that were wrecked by Sandy has been unprecedented. Almost immediately, volunteers delved in to sift through the debris, to help each other. Food was delivered. Funds were set up, fundraising events held, and donation drives were organized. Everything was collected for hurricane victims, from clothes, shoes and socks to baby formulas, diapers, and toiletries, to cleaning detergents, work gloves and trash bags. Social media connected people who needed help with people who wanted to help. The road to recovery is long but together, Staten Island can do it. Always have, always will.

9. TEACH YOUR CHILDREN CHARITY. I think children do as we do, not as we say. By watching their parents do the right thing to help others in need during times of catastrophic events, these same children learn two valuable things: a) How to someday become thoughtful, compassionate adults, and b) Live by the Golden Rule.

10. TELL YOUR PARENTS YOU LOVE THEM. The story about the couple who drowned in Hurricane Sandy and found underneath a powerboat that washed ashore days later was very sad. The husband was elderly and frail and his wife couldn't evacuate them soon enough. Their daughter spoke about how much they loved each other and how much she loved them. Where would I be today, were it not for Jess and Narcy Santos, my parents? So tell yours how much you love them. Do it today because who knows what tomorrow will bring.

11. TAKE PHOTOGRAPHS. During post-Sandy cleanup, countless pictures were found, from wedding albums, to baby portraits, to photos of great-great parents, to casual snapshots. Some were new, many very old. This speaks to how important memories are and how they should be recorded and treasured. Certainly keeping the memories alive in your heart is what's important, but pictures are a wonderful aid to jog memories that are or may soon become faded.

12. PRAY. The power of prayer is without limit. Faith is unshakable, even in times of seemingly hopeless disasters. I believe without the prayers offered up --- by folks in our borough, from all across the country, and from all around the world who watched Sandy unfold on television --- the affects of Sandy would have been exponentially worse.

13. LIVE EVERY DAY AS IF IT WERE YOUR LAST. Sandy has reminded us that our lives can be changed in a blink of an eye. Life is short. Love your children, appreciate your family. Laugh hard with your friends. Find what you truly love in life and do it often. Life is about giving, the sharing of your unique, God-given talents, to those who need it, to those who deserve it, and even to those who don't appreciate it. As my good friend says, there are many things in life you cannot control, so concern yourself only with the two things you can control: your heart and mind. And as I always say, do things with passion or not at all.

Stay strong, Staten Island.

Weathering the Monster Storm

http://blog.silive.com/gracelyns_chronicles/2012/11/sandy_reminded_us_that_our_isl.html#incart_mrt

STATEN ISLAND, N.Y. — They called her the 100-year storm. We were warned of her imminent danger and painstakingly prepared as best we could for her arrival.

At first we weren’t overly concerned, but then the phone calls started to come in, closing schools, canceling piano and soccer, postponing birthday parties. We started to take her more seriously.

My husband stockpiled batteries, water, flashlights, ice. He put away all the patio furniture, took down all our Halloween decorations. I cooked a week’s worth of meals, bought canned goods and a can opener, and did eight loads of laundry, making sure all the kids’ homework was done, should we lose power.

We braced ourselves for her landfall. Two days later, she is gone and was more devastating than anyone ever imagined. Her name was Hurricane Sandy.

Like most of New York City, Long Island and the Jersey Shore, my family and I were affected by Sandy. But unlike many of the tri-state area, we were among the lucky ones who only suffered loss of electricity, phone and cable, and minimal property damage. I thank God for that.

In Queens, 111 houses burned down because of Sandy, in a close-knit community of firefighters and police officers, many of whom had lost family members on Sept. 11, 2001. Lower Manhattan has been blacked out, Battery Park residents evacuated.

Water from the Hudson River to the left and the East River to the right pummeled Manhattan. Images of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel getting flooded looked surreal. Subways and buses were crippled, DUMBO submerged. Jersey beach houses disappeared, boardwalks crumbled.

My friends on the Upper East Side were not affected, but my brother-in-law, an orthopedic surgeon who lives in Murray Hill, was. Like everyone below 39th Street, he was without water or electricity, his patients among the hundreds in NYU Langone Medical Center and Bellevue infirmed who were transferred to other hospitals because of the loss of power.

When I spoke to him Wednesday night, I was glad he was OK. He had not showered or charged his cell phones for a couple of days and was preparing to stay with unaffected friends in Forest Hills.

Nationwide, the death toll is 50, 30 from New York, 14 from Staten Island.

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Tanker washed ashore on Front Street by Hurricane Sandy.View full sizeDr. Gracelyn Santos
Homes were devastated in South Beach. Entire floors blew away and people were left to sleep in the cold -- and in the dark -- in Eltingville.

On Front Street on Staten Island, near the Alice Austen House, a 700-ton tanker was washed ashore by Sandy. I took my three daughters to see it, assuring them that it was not a sight they’d see again soon.

Driving around neighborhoods in the vicinity of my dental offices in Meiers Corners, Westerleigh and Castleton Corners, 200-year-old trees were downed by Sandy’s 70 mph winds. Great Kills, New Dorp Beach, among so many other communities, were damaged.

Luckily, my in-laws in Grasmere never lost power. Wednesday night we visited them and brought over Chinese takeout for dinner in exchange for use of their electricity to charge our Apple products and Wi-Fi to get some work done. We were so happy to see them, relieved they were unscathed.

My husband Michael’s aunts were not so lucky. Over the shrimp with lobster sauce and hot and sour soup, they described how their Dongan Hills basement flooded, filled up like a fish tank with 10 feet of water.

Their cherished personal belongings were destroyed, their washer-dryer, refrigerator and stove ruined. One of their cars washed away.

Septuagenarians, they described how they were preparing to evacuate when the waters almost swept them down Greeley Avenue. It felt like a scene from the Titanic, they said.

They’d never been so frightened in their lives. They thought it was the end. They were happy when the nightmare was over and that they made it out alive.

As my 12-year-old daughter, Charista, was eating her sesame chicken, she got a text from one of her classmates. One of their mutual friends, a 13-year-old eighth-grader from Tottenville, was not so lucky. She was confirmed dead from Hurricane Sandy. Surely she was mistaken, I thought.

I logged onto SILive.com and, unfortunately, it was true. The young lady and her family didn’t evacuate their homes when Sandy hit our borough, as advised, because they had been looted after Hurricane Irene last year.

On the sidebar of the article was a report that two Staten Island brothers, ages 2 and 4, were separated from the mother by Sandy and have not yet been found, even though rescue workers were searching tirelessly.

Two minivans that were dredged up did not produce them. We said a prayer for them before we went to bed that night, still in the dark.

Wednesday was Halloween and my three daughters did not go trick-or-treating out of respect for the New Yorkers, especially Staten Islanders, whose lives were changed forever last week.

My kids told me they didn’t need any more candy when so much sadness was around them. They were more worried about their Lola Nars and Lolo Jess — my parents — who didn’t have electricity and heat, like most of West Brighton. I’d never been prouder of them.

They were sad that large trees smashed their friends’ houses in half, that they saw on the news that bad people were looting businesses in the wake of the destruction.

Even though I canceled the Halloween party at our house, Charista still extended an invitation to her best friend to come over, a break from the heartbreak of her Midland Beach home being ruined. She couldn’t come, as her family was busy searching for a rental place while they rebuild their home ... and their lives.

Amidst this chaos and post-Sandy horror, some good lessons have been learned. We realized that the family and friends we love and care about are the most important things in life, that everything else can be replaced.

We realized that life is short and precious and could be changed forever at any given moment, and must therefore be cherished and not taken for granted.

We realized that prayer is powerful and love is important all the time, but especially in desperate times of need, and that it is the greatest comfort, above all else.

We realized our time together as a family last week, with no electricity or fancy electronics, playing board games and enjoying conversation, were some of the best ever. We realized we should try to do it more often because we want to, and not because we have to.

Sandy reminded us that, even though no man is an island, our Island is tough, and its folks will survive.

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.