Happy birthday, Daddy 11.26.12

Yesterday was my dad's 72 birthday and I told him I loved him. These spontaneous declarations of love are a brand-new development. Hard to believe, right? But it's true.

It never used to be this way when I was growing up, these lovey-dovey professions of affection. But now that I'm married with three children of my own, times have changed. I'm finally comfortable blurting it out whenever the mood strikes.

I tell him I love him on the phone, I tell him I love him when I say goodbye, I tell him I love him after he gives me a compliment, his now-famous words of advice or talks of pep…. Love, love, love. I suspect he is getting tired of it, but too bad. I'm enjoying it and have waited a long time for this. I take comfort in that he always replies he loves me, too.

Throughout my entire childhood I don't think I ever told Daddy I loved him. Not once. Of course I did and with all my heart, but it was not in my vocabulary, growing up. My dad was a very stern, authoritative figure -- still is -- but he simply wasn't the mushy type nor was he the type to tolerate any such tenderness.

 

 

Nevertheless, my dad is my hero. He is the first man I ever loved and I suspect no man loves or will probably ever love me more, with the exception of maybe my husband. Daddy is without a doubt the gold standard against which all other men who've come into my life are judged (my apologies to any ex-boyfriends who may be reading this and who know first-hand this to be absolutely true. Those were some cruel times, for sure).

My two sisters and I got our hugs and kisses from our mom. When it came Daddy, however, we were too busy being scared of him, always keeping our requisite distance. Looking back, I realize three things: 1) There was nothing to be afraid of; 2) That fear was, in fact, respect and we, as children, were always working to win his and my mom's approval (in a good way, not in the way that needs therapy); and 3) I was blessed with the most terrific parents anyone could dream of.

Growing up, I wanted to be a good daughter. I wanted them to be proud of me. A touch of sibling rivalry? Maybe. A good dose of trying to live up to their high academic expectations? Most definitely. Please don't judge. I think this is a good thing. When your parents believe that you are capable of doing your best, you start to believe it, too.

With their unconditional love, no challenge was insurmountable. They taught me to believe in myself, a very powerful tool with which I armed myself as I navigated dental school, residency, and now my private practice. This is invaluable and hopefully I can do the same for my own children.

Occasionally in my youth, however, I found my myself paralyzed with fear of failing -- and worse --- disappointing them. Did it make me a super-nervous kid? Probably. Did it make me realize that results are directly proportional to preparedness? Indubitably. So do I resent them now that I'm an adult for their method of parenting? Not one iota.

I'm sure many people can relate to this, especially the children of immigrants, as my sisters and I were. Mommy and Daddy brought us to the United States from the Philippines exactly 40 years ago this year, when I was… well, never mind how old I was. They traveled half way around the world in search of better futures for us, better educational opportunities. They wanted to live the American dream.

Both college graduates and newly married, my parents built a pretty cushy life for themselves and their three daughters in Santa Cruz, Laguna, the beautiful town wherein I was born, world-famous for the majestic Pagsanjan Falls. My dad was an accountant for a major pharmaceutical outfit there and mom was a schoolteacher. We lived in a spacious, luxurious home subsidized by my dad's company and even had employed a household staff. I have vivid memories of our my nanny and our housekeeper.

 

Oftentimes I fantasize of having domestic help now-- a cook and a maid would be splendid, indeed -- as well as a personal assistant. My plans are rudely interrupted by my reality of private school tuition, payroll, a couple of mortgages and, umm… electricity, not to mention a an outstanding student loan from dental school. When the twins were babies, I had a full-time, live-in nanny for three years. Now that was heaven, to come and go as I pleased. Unfortunately, so did the cash, and ever more swiftly. Plus, she got kind of annoying and didn't pick up after them as well as I would've liked. But I digress.

In the Philippines, my parents were living the life. They both came from large families and had a vast circle of friends. So for them to leave that all behind, move to another country and start over from scratch… well, to me that is just plain terrifying and blows my mind. I'm not sure I could ever be that brave.

Mommy and Daddy worked day and night when I was growing up. My dad always had two or three jobs to make ends meet. My mom worked the 11pm-7am shift at Doctors' Hospital for 30 years so she could be there during the day when my sisters and I got home from school. Now that's love. Talk is cheap, but the graveyard shift screams personal sacrifice.

I will not go into excruciating details about how lean those years were. But make no mistake, they were. We may not have had a lot of fancy toys or frilly dresses but what we did have was infinitely more important: love and laughter. Suffice it to say that our Barbie dolls were second-hand and I remember on a couple of occasions not telling my parents that my school shoes were getting too tight because I knew there was no money to buy new ones.

Even still, I smile when I reminisce about my childhood because there was always an overabundance of love. Mommy and Daddy taught us to love and to take care of each other. To love God. To respect everyone. As an adult, I appreciate these lessons are paramount to leading a life worth living..

So as I sit here, typing on my MacBookPro, wearing my Gucci pumps in my office in a center hall colonial that I help pay for every month because of my profession that was made possible by educational opportunities afforded to me by my parents' moving to the U.S, leaving behind the life they knew and their extended family, you can see why I feel indebted to them and feel the need to tell them I love them. And after all these years and their continued, unwavering support of everything I do, my respect for them continues to grow.

Happy birthday, Daddy. I love you.

Teddy Atlas Thanksgiving Give-Back

Teddy Atlas Thanksgiving Give-Back ~

It was all kind of serendipitous. Stuck in traffic last Tuesday afternoon driving to my parents' house in West Brighton, my 12-year-old daughter, Charista, noticed the Dr. Theodore Atlas Foundation building and asked me who he was.

It's a charitable organization named after a physician who provided free medical care to patients who otherwise couldn't afford to pay, I explained. It was started by his son, Teddy Atlas, an ESPN boxing commentator, who also trained Mike Tyson and two-time heavyweight champ, Michael Moorer.

"They didn't have to pay?!" Asked my 9-year-old twins, Tatiana and Angelica.

Not only were did they not have to pay for operations but Dr. Atlas made house calls to poor people until he was 80 years old, and founded two hospitals on Staten Island. Interestingly, one of them was Doctors' Hospital, where I myself had worked evenings and weekends throughout high school and college to defray my tuition.

My kids were amazed when I mentioned Teddy was an NBC commentator for the Olympics in Sydney in 2000, Athens in 2004 and Beijing in 2008, and that he lived on Staten Island. Like me, he also attended Curtis High School.

They loved that his philanthropy focused mainly on helping children and that he gets celebrities like Patrick Ewing, Tony Danza and Phil Simms to help Staten Islanders in need.

That night my children Googled the Teddy Atlas Foundation and learned they had bought a blood oxygenation machine for a little girl with a congenital heart malformation. They came to her rescue when nobody else would.

How nice it was, my daughters said, that money raised paid for central air for a kid who had a rare disease and whose skin blistered when temperatures rose. Then they bought health insurance for another kid with lymphoma whose family couldn't afford the cancer treatments, also arranging for them to meet NY Yankees stars Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez.

Charista mentioned she read in the Staten Island Advance that the Atlas Foundation held a fundraising dinner with lots of famous people each year at the Hilton. As a matter of fact, one of the reservation coupons for this year's dinner, held last week, was published on the same page recently as one of my columns.

Charista wanted to help. She immediately put her thumbs to work and began texting her closest friends, who she was confident would love to join her. She was right.

Certainly, 12- and 13-year-old eighth graders at St. Joseph Hill Academy and a couple of fourth graders at PS 29 didn't have the disposable income that celebrities, like the cast of the Sopranos, Charles Oakley, and John Starks (my favorite Knick in my dental school days, by the way) had. They didn't have income at all.

What they did have, however, were their willingness to help, their personal savings from allowances and babysitting, and the generosity to give it all away to those less fortunate.

All the girls agreed that helping children in need was the right thing to do so close to Thanksgiving, a holiday infamous for overabundance and overeating. To be so lucky was unsettling when so many had lost so much from Hurricane Sandy.

I had never been prouder of my kids and their friends, especially when they'd already done what the could the past 3 weeks: Made food for the disaster relief, helped with the clean-up, donated blankets and towels, prayed. They knew their parents donated money. They wanted to do more.

That night Charista's iPhone lit up for the next few hours with texts. Schedules were coordinated, ideas were brainstormed. The group was confirmed: Charista, Tatiana, and Angelica Mroczek, Ashley Iraci, Victoria Crispi, Raquel Pillarella, Amanda Aubry, and Angela Candrilli. Project Teddy Atlas Thanksgiving Give-Back was born.

They researched that the Atlas Foundation's food pantry fed kids year-round, distributing turkey dinners at Thanksgiving and toys at Christmas to families who couldn't afford them. The girls wanted help in the replenishment, even if just a little.

24 hours later on Thanksgiving Eve, we all arrived at foundation headquarters on Cary Avenue, Staten Island. Teddy Atlas himself welcomed us.

Eight young ladies had pooled all their money from personal savings and donated $500 to help other children less fortunate. Additionally, they donated canned goods, diapers, pasta, and cleaning supplies to help stock the food pantry.

Teddy thanked each girl individually and shared stories of the good their donation will do. It was because of caring individuals like them, he said, that the Atlas Foundation was able to buy a wheelchair and build a ramp for a little girl with Cerebral Palsy. She was non-verbal but had managed to thank him personally with a donation of a loaf of bread for the food pantry.

It's because of their generosity, Teddy explained, that a boy with cancer, who was so poor he slept on a mattress on a floor, returned home from chemotherapy one day to see his bedroom furnished with furniture, a television, and a wall mural of "Pirates of the Caribbean," his favorite.

When Teddy asked if anyone had gone to see Justin Bieber in concert the week before, half the girls raised their hands. His foundation enabled two little girls to attend. They were orphans and suffering from having witnessed the murder of their mother and suicide of their father. The concert was a reprieve for them, even for a few hours.

In an age of constant information bombardment, distractions and shorter attention spans, Teddy captivated the girls with his stories of all the good their donation would do to improve the lives of underprivileged children. From the looks on the girls' faces he made a wonderful impression on them.

He showed them the food pantry and they spent some time organizing the shelves. Soon the girls bid adieu to their new hero but said hello to their invigorated resolve to continue to look outside of themselves and find ways to help others.

As we all hugged our goodbyes that afternoon to start cooking Thanksgiving feasts for our families, I overheard the girls making plans to volunteer. One said she wanted to read books to orphans. Another wanted to serve food in soup kitchens. Still another said would hold diaper and baby formula drives.
And just like that, a Thanksgiving tradition was born.

After all, as I always tell my kids: To whom much is given, much is expected.

Biever Fever:An Enjoyable Night Out with my Pre-Teen

Biever Fever: An Enjoyable Night Out with my Pre-Teen

What I thought would be another ho-hum Monday night turned out to be one of the most memorable nights ever.

My 12 year old daughter, Charista, and I hit the town. And not just doing any old thing, but one of the most exciting things that we could ever have done together: Attend a Justin Bieber concert.

It was Veterans Day, so schools was not in session in observance of this important holiday to honor our servicemen and women. After a busy half-day of crown and bridge at the office, I was happy for some quality time with my three daughters. I helped them with their homework, cooked them a nice lunch.

Over my mushroom chicken and sautéed garlic spinach, their favorites, Charista mentioned Justin Bieber was in town and that some of her friends from school were going that night to see him at the brand-new Barclays Center in Brooklyn. How lucky they were and how much fun they would have, she said.

Normally, I do not splurge on such spontaneous luxuries, constantly instilling in my children the importance of the value of money and working hard and sacrifice... especially on a school night. But Justin Bieber was an exception, you see.

Whereas Tatiana and Angelica, my 9-year-old twins, are not fans, Charista and I are quite the opposite. Not only do both we enjoy his music, we both think he is downright adorable. His CD's play in my car ad nauseum and, like most busy moms with active children who play multiple sports, I'm always in my car. I've learned to love him.

Moreover, memories were still so clear in my mind of when I took Charista and her little friends a few years ago to see the Justin Bieber movie, "Never Say Never." The girls all sat straight in a row in the theatre, side by side, eating popcorn and Goobers, giggling and singing along. It was fun watching them have fun. I consciously tried to memorize every second of that afternoon, knowing it would soon be a treasured memory.

And I was right. Charista is now in eighth grade and had just taken the TACHS Catholic high school entrance exam last week. That she will be a high school freshman in September is mind-blowing.

She has matured so much lately: more self-assured, more focused on school and her swimming, more of a young woman than a little girl. At 5'6" she is taller than I, not to mention smarter and more beautiful. As a mom, I thank God every day and am so proud of her, as well as her younger sisters, for whom she is such a good and thoughtful role model.

On some level, maybe I wanted to cling onto every possible experience I could share with her because she was growing up so fast. After all, my friends with older children warn me that high school years fly by faster than any other part of their kids' education.

So against my better judgment, Charista and I cleared away the lunch dishes and promptly trawled the internet for two tickets -- on not one, but two computers. A few Google searches and faster than you can say, "swaggy," I decided to splurge and clicked the "place order" button. It all happened so quickly, despite our repeated difficulty in deciphering the almost illegible hieroglyphics on Ticketmaster.com to prove we were humans.

Barclays Center in Brooklyn is accessible most easily by subway so by subway we did go. Look at us, I thought, so mass transit-savvy! She wore her leather jacket, because she said that was what "Beliebers" do, their signature. Okay and whatever, I said, just don't flaunt your iPhone and hold on tight to your Coach wristlet.

Huge, noisy throngs of tweeners were abuzz and slowly filled the stadium when we emerged on the R train escalators onto Atlantic Avenue. We bought the obligatory overpriced $50 concert tee shirt and settled into our lower-level-but-not-on-the-floor-seats, feeling gratified we paid face-value and not the $400 per ticket we heard some fans coughed up.

A fantastic montage of memories we made that night, just Charista and I. Bieber sure puts on a spectacular show. The lasers were well-planned, the choreography well-executed and the fireworks and lighting design unexpectedly impressive. Jaden Smith and Cody Simpson opened, and their girlfriends, Kylie and Kendall Jenner, were there, too. Their seats were a little better than ours. Okay, a lot better. But we were thrilled nonetheless.

Charista received texts from friends telling her that Jay-Z was there, as well as the boy band, One Direction, of which Harry Styles is part. She has said on numerous occasions that she is the future Mrs. Styles, so I assumed Harry was her favorite and seriously thought my poor daughter would faint dead away if we ran into him. We never did, of course, but she still spent quite some time scouring the floor seats, in search of him.

The Biebs made a grand entrance, clad all in white, floating high above in a harness, enormous wings made of cymbals and guitars spread wide, much to the delight of 18,000 people.

He sang "Beauty and the Beat" and some oldies, like "Baby" and "Somebody," and "That Should Be Me." The noise level would have been intolerable were it not for my Classic Pharmacy-issued ear plugs, a little trick I learned at a Jonas Brothers concert many years ago. Whatever happened to them? But I digress.

Despite my urging for her to just watch and enjoy the moment, Charista took lots of iPhone photos and video of the concert, as did most of the audience, from the countless lights of cell phone screens that twinkled throughout. Instagram and Facebook must have lit up like Christmas tree those two hours, as well as YouTube.com the next day.

Charista beamed when Justin sang "Boyfriend" and "As Long As You Love Me," and, truth be told, I personally was quite ridiculously thrilled when he sang "Die in Your Arms," my favorite. And please don't judge. Again, I remind you I'm constantly immersed in Justin Bieber songs in the car because of my three daughters.

That is my story and I am sticking to it.

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.