Broadway Baby

One of these days, I am going to exhume my collection of Playbills in the attic. It will be such fun to revisit the incredible theatrical events I witnessed over the years--especially the early years of our marriage. Back then, we were too stupid to save our money, and blew it regularly--not only on rent and food (arguably not stupid expenses) but on plays, especially plays on and off-Broadway. At that time, I still thought of myself as an actress, albeit one with no ambition to star on the Great White Way (which should have tipped me off). Steve was a bona fide actor, and I'm sure he did envision himself trodding the boards at the Shubert Theatre someday. In any event, we'd often find ourselves standing in the freezing cold (it always seemed to be freezing cold there, even in May) in the Times Square half-price ticket line, hoping to score cheap seats for the matinee or the evening performance.

And what wonders we beheld! Zero Mostel in Fiddler on the Roof. Angela Lansbury and Len Cariou in Sweeney Todd. Diana Rigg and Alec McCowen in The Misanthrope. Peter Firth and Anthony Hopkins in Equus. The exhilarating 1974 revival of Bernstein's Candide. The opening week of A Chorus Line (and yes, we knew it was going to be a hit). Armed with our precious tickets, we entered incredible worlds of illusion, and, for two hours, were swept away.

The arrival of the children put a rather abrupt end to our New York theatregoing. Orchestra seats at the Winter Garden = three months’ worth of Pampers (and that doesn’t include parking and the babysitter). No contest. Attending plays was relegated to the archives of my life, something I no longer did.  When I was feeling wistful, I’d listen to the soundtrack of Company and pretend I was in Row D, soaking it all in.  

There was a brief flurry of off-Broadway activity back in the 90s when our show about Howard Hughes, Flight, had two staged readings in New York. At the time, a real production seemed feasible. Pretty naïve. Now, I realize that 99% of all current hit shows either a) feature big names from the movies or TV b) are revivals of past successes or c) both. As a writer, that’s discouraging, because I know there must be a huge number of wonderful scripts that will never see the light of day because Angelina Jolie has passed on them.

I wish we could have swung family trips to the Big Apple to take in some plays, but we couldn’t. But now the kids are at or near the point in life where they have some disposable income to see an occasional show, and I heartily encourage them to do so. Some of my fondest memories involve sitting in the balcony at the Helen Hayes Theatre, and feeling my heartbeat quicken as the house lights dimmed, the orchestra struck up the overture, the curtain rose.

Magic time.

My Mouth Drops Closed

“Nana will be so proud of me that her mouth will drop closed.”
                                 --Maureen Rose Seyfried, 1993
 

You’re a character, Rosie.

But then you’ve always been one.

A flood of memories of small “Mo.” You wanted to grow up to be a clown, a farmer, or a recess aide. Your reaction to being sent to your room: “I’ll go, but only if you’ll let me SLAM MY DOOR.” Your ability, even at 6, to shock: “Mom, you know what I think is a great idea? Teenager pregnancy!” You went to “reform school” (actually Reformed Church Nursery School. That one raised a few eyebrows). You had times of high and low self-esteem: “I’m confident because I’m competent.” “I ‘bust’ myself first so no one else gets a chance to.”

You were a tiny spitfire with eyeglasses and curls. As my third child, but first girl, you had many of the traits of a firstborn: bossy, opinionated, critical, perfectionist. I can say that because I’m a firstborn too. Your relationships with your sibs were fraught with conflict. You and Evan, in particular, interacted like an incredibly dysfunctional married couple; he would tease, you would fly off the handle; you would pout, he would tease, and round the mulberry bush we went. 

Even though I wanted to throttle you at times, there was no denying your off-the-charts cuteness factor. I don’t know if it was the specs (you needed them from age 2, after eye-muscle surgery), or your low throaty voice, so jarring coming from such a little peanut…whatever it was, you won my heart, bigtime, and nothing ever changed that.

Fast-forward through school days (wish that had been an option!) You decided that you were a) a traveler and b) a businesswoman. At age 9, you opened Bon Mo Desserts, and sold really delicious homemade cookies, cakes and pies to our hungry neighbors. These goodies funded trips to London and Jamaica (what 11 year old takes her mother on vacation to Jamaica? Mine) and whet your appetite for more. 

High school brought Thailand (and your name change to Rose), college brought time in London and Italy. During that period, you worked as a Starbucks barista, in the international admissions office at Berklee, and served as a Big Sister in Boston. We never lost touch, but it was clear you had to ration your precious and rare free time. As a mom, I understood. As your #1 fan, I wanted more. 

And now I have it—in a way. Thanks to the magic of soundcloud and Youtube, I can see/hear you often, performing original songs. Facebook keeps us in contact too, as I hear about your insane current number of jobs in NYC: audio engineer, Foley artist, composer, editor, singer and the list goes on. 

Through it all, you remain true to yourself. You are a strong, compassionate, capable young woman (and yes, still a little opinionated and bossy). Inside exciting New York Rose, there still dwells precocious Mo—the girl I fell in love with the day she was born.

 I’m so proud of you, my mouth is dropping closed.

It's 11:00. Do You Know Where Your Children Are?

There was a TV public service ad, years ago: "It's 11:00. Do you know where your children are?" As a young teenaged babysitter, these words, intoned solemnly, gave me the creeps. I knew where I was--on the sofa in the Butlers' living room, trying to stay awake until the adults came home. I knew where the Butlers' children were (bed. I'd put them back there roughly 40 times in the last three hours). But in my mind I projected many years ahead, to a future where I would have children of my own, who'd be out cavorting in the darkness at 11:00 PM, Lord only knows where! Henceforth, I dreaded 11:00 PM, with its connotations of wild runaway offspring and parental cluelessness.

Nowadays, 11:00 PM is 5:00 PM for son Evan. He still has many tropical hours to go before catching up to my time in PA. As I prepare for (or am long in) bed, his Pearl Harbor workday is over. It is time to have dinner on the lanai, or enjoy a little Honolulu nightlife.

When Julie was in London in October, 11:00 PM was 5:00 AM the following day. If I wanted to chat, I needed to wait until at least 9:00 AM (but that would be 3:00 AM Oreland time, so I would not be a very fun telephone partner--unless you didn't mind gentle snoring as a response).

Rosie spent her high school junior year as an exchange student in Chiang Rai, Thailand. In this case, 11:00 PM was 11:00 AM (12 hours earlier). The best time to reach her was more like 5:00 PM (alas, our 5:00 AM). Arranging a time for a Skype chat was a distinct challenge, and we often missed connections.

In these instances, I was keenly aware of the distance between me and my loved ones. Indeed, it felt like they were on other planets--planets where they were midway through days I was only now starting to experience, or on the brink of beginning days I’d already spent.

But what I’m learning is, there doesn’t have to be a time difference for us to feel out of sync. Everyone’s schedules are so various that even those of us on the East Coast can go whole weeks without really connecting. Sheridan has a crazy work life that takes him from NYC to Philly to the Main Line to New Jersey. PJ is in his own Millersville world of classes and practices and yes, the occasional party I’m sure. Rose, now in New York, juggles at least 3 jobs at a time.

So. It’s 11:00. Do I know where my children are? For the most part, no. That’s where I count on God to know. They are somewhere, in dorms and apartments, on subways and buses. I don’t know, but I care so much. Parenting is a slow letting go of control, but never of loving.

Dear God, you love them even more than I do. Keep them safe tonight.

My Day in Tweets

Isn’t Twitter the coolest? Each tweet so spare, and yet they can be so eloquent! And then there’s the thrill of the chase (following and being followed)! Mind you, I’ve used Twitter exactly twice so far, but if it’s anything like Facebook and blogging (the gateway drugs) I know that soon I won’t be able to stop. The beauty part is that I can make my life (and me) seem so so much more interesting than things really are. It won’t be long before I can stop talking entirely, and let my tweets speak for me. Here is a typical day in my world, in 140 characters or less.

You beckon me to remain with you, my fresh-smelling love, but I must get up and greet the new day #CleanSheetsAreGreat

How bold dare I be this morning? This bold? I have no choice. Carpe diem! #MadeCoffeeTooStrong

Good morning, Joe! Good morning, Mika! Come right on in. Let’s all comment on yesterday’s primary! You are always such fascinating guests in my home! #MSNBC

Unwelcome surprise! I am drenched with a shower of icicles! Someone will pay for my misery! #WhoUsedUpHotWater

Life’s choices can seem so very narrow! Today it is either green wool or plaid cotton. What if I don’t want to wear either? #ForgotToWashClothes

My credit has been frozen. Help! #SteveTookIceScraperAmUsingVisaCardTo ScrapeCarWindows

In an unpredictable world, I have found a refuge of predictability. Reassuring! #MyOfficeSameMessItWasYesterday

A blank slate, full of opportunity. A beautiful white vista, unmarked by words: my computer screen #ChildrensSermonWritersBlock

Let’s have an adventure in June, and go totally "Overboard!" #PickingCurriculumForVBS

How relentlessly you pursue me! Day after day you call. SO flattering, yet once more I must say no. #YouthFundraiserSolicitation

Still a blank slate, still a beautiful unmarked white vista: my computer screen #LentProgramWritersBlock

On the road again! Another exhilarating six block drive home! #IReallyNeedMoreExercise

Out once more, afoot this time, admiring the beauty of nature with a friendly walking companion #WeReallyNeedMoreExercise

Creativity reigns! What gustatory suppertime magic can I work with one red pepper, cornflakes and spaghetti noodles? #NeverGotToAcme

My youngest child Julie, always a special joy! #DidSchoolworkAndCleanedRoom

I am invited to dinner at an active senior community! I am invoiced by our source of light and heat! Our Sports arrive, Illustrated! #MailCameIn

Disaster! Who knew a cornflake, red pepper and spaghetti soup could be so inedible, repulsive even? #BetterGetToAcme

Disaster plus! Who knew that burned cornflakes adhere so tenaciously to a soup pot? #NeedNewSoupPot

Alas! Words of hurt and betrayal, sent to me from a loved one in an Island paradise! How can I make things right? #ForgotToCallMySisterInHawaii

Sending words of hurt and betrayal to a loved one at Millersville University. How can he make things right? #PJForgotToCallMe

Welcome escape to a world of make-believe, where incredible things are possible. How long can I stay? #FallingAsleepWithMyBook

 Wow, I had a MUCH more thrilling day than I thought I had. Can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow!

Sometimes, I just love technology.

Bowled Over

I can't tell you how excited I am about the Super Bowl Sunday!! Really, I can't. Because I'm not. Oh, I'll probably wander through the family room at ad times, just to see what edgy humor and special effects a jillion bucks a minute buys these days. I might catch a glimpse of the halftime show, because I've been a fan of Madonna's since I was a little girl. But the gridiron competition itself? For one thing, I lack the background info necessary to truly appreciate the game (it is the Giants and the Patriots, right?) But more importantly, I lack the interest. And at this point in my life, I'm not afraid to say it. 

Time was, I was an utter fraud. Because Steve was a rabid sports fan, and because I was a rabid Steve fan, I feigned wild enthusiasm for the World Series, the NCAA Final Four Tournament, and the PGA tour. Couldn't wait to get up early and catch the action at Wimbledon. Never mind that, deep down, I would only have been intrigued by tennis if McEnroe and Connors were lobbing, say, a live ferret back and forth over the net.  

For the first few years we were together, we hosted a small Super Bowl party. Actress that I was, I rooted for the star quarterback as he snaked through a line of behemoths en route to that silly little victory dance. On pain of death, I'd still be unable to recall a single team or player from those golden days of sport. Can't even remember the commercials. Just a total blank. 

By the way, my make-believe enjoyment extended to the Bob Dylan tickets I bought for us in our dating days. What is the big deal about Dylan? Steve thinks he’s great. Don’t get it. But I dutifully rose to my feet with the crowd as The Great One mumbled that the times they were a changin'. 

Around about year four of wedded life, I dropped the facade. Miraculously, my marriage has survived the following revelations: 1) I truly detest Bob Dylan songs. 2) I will NEVER carry Steve’s golf clubs again (I’d once done this for 18 holes). 3) The second my hubby leaves the room, I switch from Sportscenter to the Food Channel. 4) I hate the Olympics! It seems they come along every 3 months or so, hyped to the nth degree. I am afraid to watch the young athletes' dreams crash and burn when they slip doing a triple axel, or bungle it on the balance beam, and feel they have a better shot at success if I stay far, far away. 

So what are my plans for Sunday evening? 

Nothing involving touchdowns, that’s for sure. The Crown Jewel of American Sports will glitter on without me. That leaves some popcorn in the bowl, and an open spot on our sofa. If you’re a fan, come on by. You and Steve can cheer yourselves hoarse. I am, officially, bowled over. 

Dream Dates

Julie and Steve fishing date

Once in awhile, someone will ask me the secret to raising five relatively normal, happy children. "Go out on lots of dates!" I always say. No, not the kind of dates involving sitters (though you need some of those too if you want a relatively normal, happy marriage). Instead, I'm talking about dates with your kids.

Early on, shortly after Evan arrived in fact, it became clear that Sheridan was going to lose 50% of our attention, and that figure would go down as more sibs hit the scene--and that would be true for the rest of them, too.

And so began the Seyfried tradition of individual outings with each parent and each child, every so often. Steve would take everyone out on their own for a "date" of their choosing, and I would do the same.

There was the afternoon at Funland when I almost sacrificed a thumb for PJ. We were playing Whack-a-Mole, and I was bent and determined to win my little love a prize. The whistle blew. I whacked away with the mallet. And whacked. And whacked. And finally dealt a stunning blow to my right thumb. Instead of a big stuffed elephant, poor PJ ended up with a sobbing, bleeding mother.


On another date, Sheridan accompanied me to a Philadelphia Orchestra concert and to dinner after. We ate Thai beef curry and glazed duck, 6 year old Sher chowing down like a pro: another diner actually stopped by our table to ask his age and marvel at his sophisticated taste. My Mr. Music politely said thanks, and added that we had just heard Brahms' Second Symphony. Fellow diner walked away, shaking her head (either impressed or disbelieving).

Evan was into a lot of action, which delighted Steve but challenged me. We usually compromised by going to an action packed, alien-filled movie, giving Ev at least vicarious thrills. Rosie was my shopper, so a trip to the mall was always the ticket. Julie and her dad bonded with afternoons at the water park. The kids always kept track of exactly who had taken who where, lest any of them miss out on parent-time. Steve and I felt like movie stars in those days, let me tell you, with our clamoring public!

Incredibly, even in their teens they asked for one-on-one time (albeit somewhere their peers were guaranteed not to bump into us). These were the rare, golden days when secrets were shared and future hopes discussed.

Evan and Elise, Kaneohe Bay, Oahu

Nowadays, the dates continue whenever possible. And, often, the kids now treat us (in Hawaii, Evan took me out to a lovely dinner every night). As a mom, I’ve made boatloads of mistakes--just ask my offspring. I yelled too much and expected too much and relaxed far too little. Regrets I have aplenty. There were so, so many times I wished for a do-over, and there are no do-overs in life.

But I think we got the “date” thing right. And that comforts me. I highly recommend them.

Scouting it Out

It's  Girl Scout cookie time again! I personally never eat a Thin Mint without reminiscing about Scout Days--my own and my children's. Given they inherited my genes, it's no big surprise that the little Seyfrieds bombed out of Scouting. We were, all of us, seduced by the spiffy uniforms. We were, none of us, prepared for the badges, and the great effort needed to earn them. Or the cookies/popcorn, and the great effort needed to sell them. Darn those spiffy uniforms! 

My one and only year as a Girl Scout, I was in third grade and still living in New York City. By April, my sash was still bare, as my fellow GS's busily sewed ’em on at quite a clip: not only did I not earn any badges, even if I had there was no one to sew them on--my mom Joanie proved that the day she subbed for our regular Scout leader at a meeting. We were working on a joint sewing project, and the fabric was spread across our laps. Mom chatted animatedly as her needle plunged in and out. At snack time, she arose, with the entire cloth sewed securely to her skirt. 

My other memory involves our "campout"-- in Brooklyn. We were staying in some park that had a large cabin--outside, the big city bustled. When it came time to forage for sustenance, we ventured out, compasses in hand, until we reached Gristede's supermaket, where we marched in (teamwork!) and surveyed the wilderness for edibles, which turned out to be Ring Dings and Coke.  Even in third grade, that seemed a little lame, so that was pretty much it for me. 

Sheridan and Evan both decided to try Cub Scouts, and good sport Dad was one of their leaders. Steve endured a series of meetings where the little hooligans raced around making ungodly noises, as the adults vainly attempted to restore order. They were worse at their campout—much worse. The bonfire? A great chance to play with flaming sticks! In the end, Steve decided he'd rather take his own, well-behaved, boys camping than babysit a bunch of zoo animals. Farewell, Cubs!

Rose and PJ skipped Scouts entirely (Rose had a brief--very brief--stint as a YMCA Indian Princess) but Julie wanted to be a Brownie. Tough year. I remember we were assigned Willow Grove Mall to sell cookies with another mom and daughter. This woman screamed at the girls to follow people who passed our table, begging them to buy. Longest few hours of my life.

Today at church, Parish Hall was packed with Scouts racing their cars in the Pinewood Derby. Every few years we know someone who makes it all the way to Eagle Scout. This program clearly works for some families. But not for us. And you know what? We’re all OK anyway. We may never get a badge in bugling, or pulp and paper (?) or first aid. 

Sher and Ev at the Pinewood Derby

But we can still eat the cookies, right?

This Old House

Stuyvesant Town in Manhattan--where I probably still belong

I have no business owning a house. Especially an old house. Everything about its upkeep irritates me, and I resent every penny spent on it (and that's been many a penny). Nothing interests me less than cleaning, unless perhaps it's gardening, so our property is pretty neglected both inside and out. Sometimes I picture trying to sell it, and the look of utter horror on the realtor's face as she takes the grand tour. Yes, the mammoth 40 year old air conditioner is still in the family room (we only turn it on when the temperature tops 90 degrees, because when we do it shakes the whole place and makes so much noise we have to shout to be heard). Yes, we still have only one (scary-looking) electrical outlet in the dining room, have never replaced our drafty windows, and we have been planning to refinish the living room floor since 1993. And yes, we're still living with tiny closets better suited for Tom Thumb's wardrobe. Our ideal buyer would arrive with a sledgehammer and just start from scratch.

Part of the problem, granted, is our ridiculously tight budget, but that's not all of it. I just really don't enjoy home ownership. My early years were spent in a New York City apartment, and as I recall it was heaven. Nothing to maintain, one quick phone call would get anything broken repaired. Best of all, when it was time to move, we could just close up shop and walk away. As I grew older, we began relocating frequently, living in three houses (New York, Massachusetts and Georgia). My parents were truly dreadful homeowners, like me, but we never lived in one place long enough to do much damage.  Our happiest times were spent in recently built apartment complexes, where you could even call someone to come change the lightbulbs (Mom actually did that). Atlanta was especially great because EVERYTHING there was new—new expressways, new mega-malls, new office buildings.

My dislike of old things is at the heart of it, probably. I see no value in antiques or vintage clothing, and while I appreciate what occurred at historic sites back in the day, I’d enjoy them more if they were, you know, less dusty.

So here I am, saddled with a house of a certain age. A house that, slowly but surely, is falling down all around me. A house that, now that I think of it, is a mirror image of myself—getting old, poorly maintained. Soon it will be AARP and senior discount day at the grocery store for me, and I hate the thought. When I’m in shiny new spaces of stainless steel and glass, I can forget for awhile that I carry quite so much history inside me. I can wipe the slate clean and start again.

This Old House

I’ll keep yearning for that sleek high-rise (and that sleek young Elise), but for now this old house is my home. Time to start taking care of us both.

Read to Me

"Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away..."

And so began the sleepytime ritual for five children of a certain age. They would toddle over to the bookshelf, pull down the volume of choice, and snuggle up for a story (or three). I will never forget the coziness and special-ness of those moments. I introduced them to the classics--Rosemary Wells, Dr. Seuss, Arnold Lobel--and loved every second of the telling. Not so much? When they would haul over the humongous Richard Scarry book of Cars and Trucks and Things that Go, endlessly poring over the big pages looking for the hidden Goldbug, or when they went on a Disney book jag (note to whoever penned these over-long and atrocious treatments of Walt's movies--101 Dalmatians was 101 pages at least--I hid your books and pretended to have lost them!)

 I figured once they were in school, that would be that. They'd learn to read and would need me no more. But (whew) they still loved being read to. Julie in particular had a favorite favorite series, Junie B. Jones, the adventures of a precocious--some might say obnoxious--young lady. I used to "do" all the different character voices, and for some reason Jules was charmed by my rendition of Junie B. So much so, that she asked me to come into her class and read from those books right up through 3rd grade. Don't know if the other tykes got quite the charge that she did, but everyone was always very nice, and asked me to come back with more tales of Junie and friends.

Since I was pretty young myself, I always LOVED to read aloud. Vivid memories include reading my sisters (then 10 and 13) Gone with the Wind in its entirety, on the back deck of our house the year we lived in Massachusetts. Took weeks. Lost my voice in the end. Well worth it.

When Evan was a freshman in high school, he began to get headaches, just about every day. It was hard for him to concentrate on schoolwork at all, reading in particular. I felt for him, but wasn't sure what I could do to help. Finally one day, it dawned on me: read to him! And so began another marathon Gone with the Wind performance (accents, differentiated characters and all). Every night, I opened that much-loved book and began to tell the next chapter of the story. My poor kid lay on the sofa in pain, but listening, always listening. As I would discover, Rose and PJ, in an adjacent room, were listening too. When the indomitable Scarlett intoned, "Tomorrow is another day!" I closed the volume reluctantly. I knew it marked the end of my read-a-thons with my children, and it hurt.

Today, they are all avid readers, so I guess my job was done well enough. But who will cuddle with me tonight, when this baby-sick mom reaches for Goodnight Moon one more time?

Elise reading "Jolly Mon" to Rose (and Julie if she's listening:)

Steve reading "Just Dad and Me" to Sheridan