Auld Lang Syne

Yep! That was us!

We got a Christmas card this year from my sister-in-law Jean Marie. In it, was a yellowed clipping she had saved—an interview Steve and I did with a Valdosta, Georgia newspaper when we were on our theatre tour waaaaaay back in 1979. It was pretty weird to read comments from my 23 year old self.  We told tales of crazy tour happenings (we performed in hundreds of schools in five states during 1 ½ years on the road—believe me, there were crazy stories aplenty). I showed the clipping to my kids, and they were predictably amused.  Julie looked at the photo and said, “Mom, you were pretty back then!” and, diplomat that she is, she immediately followed up with, “Not that you aren’t still pretty!” (Good try, Jules!) It was fun to go down memory lane, and got me thinking of all the years, and especially the New Years, that have transpired since then.

Long ago, we’d observe New Year’s Eve with our dear friend John Carter in Atlanta. John would prepare a fabulous dinner, we would have a champagne toast (we were never big NYE partiers) and call it a night. After our children started arriving, it was all we could do to stay conscious until the televised Times Square ball drop. But as the family grew, we still had some memorable midnights together. I recall the arrival of the new millennium, for example. Like so many others, we (mostly I) feared a massive computer crash as we hit the year 2000. To prepare, I had purchased several gallons of bottled water and, for some reason—a sale, perhaps?—an ungodly quantity of canned beets (never on our regular menu). We huddled anxiously in the family room, preparing for the worst (the worst being a future of canned beets). At 12:01 AM, we ascertained that all was well with the power grid, hit the hay, and the next week all the beets were donated to a food pantry.

Then my five were suddenly grown up, and usually not home to ring in the new year with us. But Steve and I remained exhausted homebodies. We’d take a stab at a romantic dinner à deux, and then conk out halfway through Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. Wild times!

And now here we are, on the verge of 2016, light years from that silly 1979 interview.  Our youngest will soon be the age I was when I gabbed with that Valdosta reporter. And then, in the blink of an eye, little Aiden will be 23 too.

It is rather unlikely I will see January 1, 2050 myself, but even before that, 2015 will seem like a yellowed clipping from far in the past.  That’s the way life goes. So may I try to live my remaining years to the fullest, and welcome 2016 with an open and optimistic heart.  For I truly believe there are still some wonderful adventures ahead for me…and for you, too.

Christmas 2015 (we managed to stay up past Aiden's bedtime!)

Happy New Year.

A Very KonMari Christmas

This is what happens when you read Marie Kondo’s bestselling book on the Japanese art of tidying up, two weeks before Christmas…

Sheridan on Santa's lap 1987

Dear Santa,

I have been very good this year as I am sure you know. I have not gotten a speeding ticket, or a parking ticket, nor have I had a winning lottery ticket, but that’s beside the point.  I pick up my clothes (generally) and do the dishes (from time to time). I don’t take out the garbage, rake leaves or mow the lawn, of course, as that is men’s work. My language, while occasionally salty, is still rated PG for the most part. I haven’t coveted my neighbor’s oxen. No wait, that’s the Ten Commandments. But you get the idea.

I don’t wait in line to sit in your lap because that would be super creepy, but I still have a few requests for Christmas morning.

I would really love your sleigh to arrive at my door, to cart away everything that does not bring me joy. That would include my leather pants from 2004 (what WAS I thinking?), my collection of mismatched socks, and my winter jacket from a time when I was small enough for it to actually zip up (see 2004). I would love Rudolph to take a huge passel of books back to the North Pole, because, honestly, the odds of my re-reading The Thorn Birds are slim to none. I am ready to relinquish my juicer, my ice cream maker and three of my springform pans (I have been anticipating the call for a trio of cheesecakes, in vain). Do your reindeer operate in reverse, dear Santa? Because I have a dumpster full of unwanted stuff, and I’d much rather empty out than fill up at this point in my life.

What else does not bring me joy? Junk mail! Why, in the age of the internet, do people keep sending me flyers for their pizzerias and their car washes? In the spirit of KonMari, it’s all going straight to recycling anyway, so spirit it all away, Santa! Speaking of the world wide web, I’ve about had it with spam that eludes the folder. If “Brittany” wants to meet me for a good time, she can help me load up your sleigh.

As my home is decluttered and becomes pristine, I expect to attain an exhilaration I never knew when I was knee-deep in Lego blocks and Barbies. I’d tell you to deliver this bounty to other houses, but honestly? I’d be happier knowing that other people are living in vast, vacant spaces like me. Empty closets, empty shelves. No need for storage bins. Bliss!

But Santa, don’t expect me to part with the 350 drawings of a sunset by 3 year old Sheridan. Not gonna happen. Or Rose’s baby teeth. So if I’m keeping those, I may as well ask for a flat-screen TV. And, while you’re at it, a screened porch.

Thanks, big guy. You’re the best.

Love, Elise

What Not To Wear

I know it was the 60s, but what the heck was I wearing?

Rose and Julie are home for Thanksgiving, which can mean only one thing: a marathon viewing of TLC’s epic “What Not to Wear.” For the uninitiated, WNTW style mavens Stacy and Clinton stage interventions involving hopelessly frumpy/sloppy/trashy-looking women. Their sad wardrobes are examined as S and C hold their collective nose, and, mostly, thrown away. Then the unfortunately attired subjects are handed $5000 and coached through a shopping spree. At the end of the show, after being more suitably clad, plus having hair and makeup transformations, the Lucky Ladies parade in front of their applauding friends.

 My favorite episode from yesterday starred Denise, a flight attendant given to wearing a big blonde bouffant hairdo, eensy-weensy skirts, most with sequins or frills, and enough makeup to stock a branch of Sephora. Denise thought she looked “super cute,” and wondered why she wasn’t attracting the right kind of attention. Denise almost burst into tears as her glitzy costumes were flung in the trash can, her hair extensions were discarded, and her huge globs of foundation and eye shadow were wiped off.  When she appeared as the “new” Denise, you could just tell that she would revert to spike heels and big bows in her hair within the week.

Which got me thinking. What kind of attention am I attracting with my appearance? My wardrobe is chock-full of items from LOFT, a relatively stylish store. My hair is regularly colored and cut. I am already a makeup minimalist (lipstick is reserved for special occasions). So why do I feel certain I would not pass muster with Stacy and Clinton?

I think it’s my laziness at play, for the most part. My hair only really looks good during the 24 hours immediately following my appointment, because flat ironing my tresses makes my arm hurt. My clothes only attract the attention of spots and stains, which leap onto me as soon as I exit my bedroom (a situation only made worse since the arrival of baby Aiden, who regularly baptizes me with smushed banana and goldfish cracker crumbs), and it’s too much bother to change. And speaking of change, I haven’t replaced my mascara since 2013 (I think you are supposed to pitch it every couple of months).  I like to think I exude insouciance and a certain bohemian flair, but I fear I most resemble someone who does not own a mirror.

It’s so easy to laugh at the hapless Denise and the other misfits on “What Not to Wear.” It’s harder to think of myself as one of their ilk. The odds of my snagging a reality TV show and five grand in mad money are slim to none, so I’m going to need to go DIY and stage my own intervention. Starting tonight. Out go the ancient blush and ink-spotted jeans.  I pledge to fuss with the hair again and wear lipstick on a more regular basis. No one may recognize me, but I will be proud of myself for a change.

Some of the more stylish Seyfrieds!

Playgroup Redux

CLC Playgroup makes pine cone birdfeeders

Yesterday morning, at age 58, I hosted a playgroup at church. My grandson Aiden accompanied me (which gave me a little street cred). We had five families with a total of seven kids under age five. To say it brought back memories would be an understatement. Why, I felt practically 28 again! Except for the part where I could hardly get up off the floor after building with blocks! And took a nap immediately afterward! 

For the uninitiated, “playgroup” is a lifeline for young parents who fear their vocabularies have shrunk to whatever is the letter of the week on Sesame Street. Ideally, the adults chat while the kiddos interact. Doesn’t always work out that way, but everyone tries.  I remember loving just getting out of the house, whose walls were, horror-movie style, rapidly closing  in on me.

Back in the day, we were mostly stay-at-home moms. Over coffee and calorie-laden pastries (a boon for those of us aspiring to lose those pesky extra pregnancy pounds), we swapped childrearing tips and generally solved the problems of the world. I made several lifelong friends from playgroup, and have enjoyed seeing their little ones become terrific young adults. But there were some challenging mornings in East Oreland for sure.

Alone, the kids were each a total delight. En masse, not always so much. Hair was pulled, dolls were swiped, and the tears would flow. There were a few sturdy toddlers we steered clear of (mine were on the small side), lest the wee Seyfrieds be mowed over on the quest for more Duplo blocks. The first-time mom tended to hover, and be totally distracted by any hint of unhappiness from her little precious. The fifth (or sixth) time mom tended to keep on gabbing through epic battles over Tonka trucks and My Little Ponies. I was somewhere in the middle, not 100% obsessive about playground dramas, but acutely aware of my kids’ behavior in public (not always stellar).

Rare PJ playgroup pic--"Driving" a tractor at Merrymead Farm

Random playgroup memories include Sheridan, who contentedly pushed a toy car around all morning, oblivious to the others. Then there was Evan my escape artist, who always added excitement to any field trip to pumpkin patch or zoo. Rose was notable for snubbing the other children altogether, in favor of sitting up at the mom’s table “chatting.” By the time PJ and Julie came along, I felt I was aging out of playgroup, and gravitating more towards the elementary school parents.  It was with a pang that I one day realized my playgroup days were over.

Until yesterday. It was a joy to return to playgroup after such a long absence. While their issues are different (many more moms work full time), we are at heart the same, trying to do our best to raise the next generation. I loved being with my younger counterparts, and felt very encouraged about the future. This new crop of youngsters is in great hands.

So bring on next month! Save me some coffeecake— and help me up!

Pulling it Off

In some areas of my life, I can pull things off well enough. The performance of Steve’s play “Science People”

Me as Marie Curie!

done on one rehearsal (I didn’t say I was good, I just said that I did it). The holiday party, held the day of a snowstorm when my five young kids were home from school, preventing me from any preparation until about 20 minutes before the guests were due to arrive. In this case, I spent the evening noticing the undusted furniture, the baby toys peeking from under the sofa, and the vague, unpleasant odor emanating from the kitchen trash can. But I “pulled it off.”

However, I don’t pull off surprises well, especially complicated ones. I have written elsewhere about Steve’s 40th birthday bash and the ruse to keep him out of the house (it backfired and he got home in record time, long before most of the guests got there). And even when I am just invited to someone else’s surprise party, it is all I can do to keep from blurting out the secret to the guest of honor-to-be (“What am I up to this weekend? Well, I’ll be with you, eating your birthday cake and…oops.")

So when Julie informed us that she was planning an elaborate surprise for Rose’s 27th this week in NYC, I immediately hearkened back to my less-than-stellar attempts at shock and awe. Surely the weather would be horrible that night (the plan involved lots of outdoor walking from spot to spot)! The expensive bakery cupcakes would be stale! None of her friends would be able to make it! We would be left, soaking wet, sitting alone in a karaoke bar eating bad cake. 

PJ and Rose karaoke

I shouldn’t have stressed. My kids, unlike me, have a remarkable ability to pull things off. From passing tough midterms to giving speeches in class, effortlessly parallel parking and successfully wearing scarves—it usually works out for them.  And, of all my children, Julie is tops at pulling off tricky things. She planned (and executed) Sheridan and Ya-Jhu’s wedding reception while she was still a teenager. I recall her checklist for the happy day, ending with something like “5:00 PM. Music off. Lights up. We did it!” And everything went off just as planned.

While I barely pulled off leaving work early so that we could get to New York on time, Julie sailed through
and hit every mark. PJ would greet Rose as she left her office (surprise #1). Dad and I would be waiting in a tavern across the street (surprise #2) We’d walk to Rosa Mexicano for a special dinner (#3). Meanwhile, a wide assortment of friends Julie had contacted from all parts of Rose’s life would assemble at Planet Rose Karaoke to await our 8:30 PM arrival (fourth and final surprise). Done, done, done and done! Rose was totally shocked and very awed. Oh, and the weather was lovely. And the cupcakes were delicious.

Way to pull it off, Jules. Thanks for an incredible evening.

Queen of Denial

I live in a perpetual state of denial, about almost everything. Just one example: I haven’t been to the dentist in several years because I know my gums are receding and he will tell me that and then I will have to do something about them, which will wind up being terribly painful both to mouth and pocketbook.  Instead, I brush often but gingerly, and try to smile in a way that does not betray a set of gums that is going out like the tide.

Smiling Carefully!

Similarly, I make a point of avoiding medical professionals in general. Whenever I accompany one of the kids to the doctor’s, I don’t touch any of the dog-eared issues of Yachting World and Highlights for Children lying around the waiting room. I just know they have recently been handled by sick people, such as the guy three chairs over who has been coughing up a lung for 15 minutes. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of getting a flu shot, but somehow feel that hands off the People magazines will keep me well.

I deny the irrefutable fact that I have regained the 20 pounds I lost when I started taking Wellbutrin nine years ago. Those size zero dresses and pants still occupy much of my closet, because I refuse to believe that I will never weigh 105 pounds again. I deny that I am getting older by dyeing my hair (that’ll fool ‘em!) and, in lieu of pricey anti-aging creams, I just look in the mirror without wearing my eyeglasses, which immediately erases my wrinkles. Btw, for many years I denied that my vision was getting worse and even now, the specs remain in their case for the most part.

I hate winter weather (which makes Philadelphia of course a perfect choice of residence). I therefore wear shorts and flip flops until the first snowfall, willing the temperature to climb back into the Swell 70s again. This clever wardrobe decision has been known to make me ill, which I also deny by never taking any cold remedies, even as my nose runs like the proverbial faucet.

Never took it. Never will.

Around the house, I refused to believe there was anything wrong with the refrigerator until the meat in there almost started to cook, and that the chimney was in desperate need of repair until bricks began falling into the yard. At work, my computer is in its dotage and while deep down I know it will go kaput any day now, I refuse to back up my files.  If I allowed myself to feel shame about the immense amount of clutter in my office I might have to clean up, so I pretend the teetering stacks of books and CDs look “artistic.”

In short, I deny more things than an accused criminal on the witness stand.  Reality, as the saying goes, bites.  So why face it until you absolutely have to? Mine is a dream world where gums heal themselves and laptops never break. You’re welcome to join me!

Too Many Hats

A rare hat photo

Clarification: this is not a post about millinery. I have owned a mere handful of hats in my lifetime, most worn before the age of 10 (my Nana was all about the Easter bonnets for little girls). After that, whenever I attended Mass, I affixed a Kleenex to my hair with a bobby pin. No joke, that’s what we all did, “to show respect in God’s house.” Never mind that we looked like a bunch of lunatics with tissue issues. When I wed Steve I wore, not a veil, but roses in my hair. Now, even on the most miserable wintry days, I would rather freeze than don a knitted cap and afterwards deal with the dreaded “hat head.”

So no, those are not the hats of which I speak. Instead, I’m talking about the phrase “wearing many hats” to describe someone who does several different things, either for a living or avocationally: the chef/painter, the doctor/cellist. It is assumed that the multiple hat-wearer does so with ease and skill.

I confess that I do enjoy hearing people introduce me at my speaking gigs (“she’s an author! She’s an actress! She’s a church worker! She’s a mom! ”) That is my cue to shrug humbly and smile. But you, dear blog readers, deserve to know the truth: I am no better at wearing many hats than I am at skydiving. My hats slide off at the drop of a…well, you know. I put them on in the wrong order. My hats are the wrong color, the wrong size. Many of them do not suit me at all.

Case in point: this past week.  I was called upon to be, among other things, a Spiritual Formation director, writer and grandma. The entire week I put off what I knew needed to be done, including final prep for the Confirmation retreat, a writing assignment for the Coldwell Banker Real Estate website, and reading  to, and cuddling with, Aiden.

Turned out to be WAY too many hats. I lost track of the weather forecast and was thrown for a loop when

Confirmation parents emailed with concerns about looming Hurricane Joachim.  I wrote my Coldwell Banker assignment, “Top 3 recipes this fall with Philly flavors!” about things like super-rich creamed mushrooms and was about to hit “send” when I finally read the mandatory keywords: Top 3 HEALTHY recipes. My recipe, featuring two cups of heavy cream and a stick of butter, might as well have been called The Widow Maker, so it was back to square one, just hours before the deadline to submit. And with all this, poor baby Aiden waited in vain for me to read him his favorite board books.

Please read to me!

So this week it’s no multiple hats for me. I will work at a pace I can deal with. I will aim to do one thing well instead of ten things poorly. And if my only achievement is reading Goodnight Moon to my little guy…it will be a very good week.

On the Transmigration of Souls

I remember I was watching the Today show when the first reports came in. It seemed a plane had flown into one of the twin towers. The next hours, along with the rest of the country, I watched, utterly horror-struck. Another tower hit. The Pentagon. Tower #1 collapses. Tower #2 collapses. Another crash in a field in western PA. So many planes falling from the sky to unspeakable destinies.

I remember that “end of the world” feeling. I remember driving to school to bring our children home. I remember that night, after it happened. The eerie silence in the skies as all the planes were grounded. It was as if we were all poised, listening for the next sound, and we heard nothing.

In the days to come, the how, the why were of course on everyone’s minds, but, pre-eminently: the who. Who happened to be at work early at the World Trade Center on September 11th? Who missed being killed because they missed a train, were sick that day? Who chose to jump from a 100 story height rather than face the inferno behind them? Who sacrificed themselves by plunging back into the crumbling buildings to save others? What were the stories behind the faces plastered on “missing” posters  throughout the financial district of New York City?

I was born on the lower east side of Manhattan. I know the area. I didn’t know a single victim, but still I mourned. My New York-based cousin Gerry went to far too many funerals in the days that followed, of friends who worked at Cantor Fitzgerald in the towers.

As it does, life went on. The families of the fallen did not readily recover, still have not, never really will. And now here we are, 14 years down the road. My Sheridan, who was 17, is now 31. Little 6 year old Julie will soon turn 21. They have their own memories of that terrible day, and as time passes, those will fade.

So what do we hold onto, as 9/11 recedes into the past? Not hatred, I hope. Not retribution, I pray. I think we need to hold onto the silence that followed the noise.  I believe in that silence, if we really listened, a loving God spoke to us. “I have caught them all in My arms,” He said. “They are safe with Me.”

We none of us know our last moment on this earth. It may be a momentous, hideous event. It may be a final gentle breath as we drift away at age 90. But I think we need to find peace with that knowledge, and remember that we are, all of us, caught in God’s arms, and that whatever comes after this is glorious. Glorious.

So bless the victims, the survivors. And as in the Middle East other precious people’s world continues to implode, we pray that we humans may finally learn, and say, and mean, never again.  In the end, please God, may love win,



John Adams' On the Transmigration of Souls







 

Starting Strong

Stop me if you’ve heard this one (from me):

Aiden has been off-the-charts cute this month (what’s new?) Unlike all other babies on earth, he has learned to walk, and eat table food, and wave. Uniquely, he kisses us on request, “plays” piano with Yaj and Sher. No other baby who ever lived says “mama” the way he does (also “nana,” and I’m positive he means me). He does this thing where he points to ceiling fans with a dramatic intake of breath (“ooohhhh!!”) as if God created ceiling fans just for his enjoyment.  Can you name another tiny one who does that? Didn’t think so.

I HATE to rub it in, but Aiden is super special. We hit the infant lottery with this guy. Did I tell you he carries the TV remote with him everywhere, and knows how to use it? Well, at least to turn the TV on to the “static” channel? And also he puts random objects up to his ear (even pieces of paper) à la iPhone, whenever we say to him “Helloooo”?

Helloooo?

I know, I know. Baby Einstein. But we’re waiting to apply to Harvard until he’s in kindergarten, because we want to be fair to everyone else.

Aiden is carried aloft, daily, on a magic carpet of love. His incredible parents have given him such a great foundation, teaching him that the world is a beautiful place of endless possibilities. Ya-Jhu reminds him that he is never far from her arms, her comfort. Sheridan teaches him that Daddy can be a goofball, making the MOST bizarre faces at him, crawling around with him as if he, too, (a 31 year old man), is still a toddler at heart. His aunts and uncles shower him with affection and attention. Grandpa Steve rates “pick me up” gestures (when said Grandpa is working on the tempting computer).

My heart breaks wide open when I hear of babies who are hurt, abused or neglected. These are the most vulnerable of all humans. But some parents just can’t do it. They are stretched beyond the breaking point with mental health issues, with severe financial woes. And so we hear of the tragedies. I’ve heard people say, “You need a license to drive, but not a license to be a parent.” And it’s true.

I can speak as the mother of five children, who for the first seven years of marriage didn’t want children. I waited until I was emotionally ready to nurture a child from conception to—well ,let’s face it, till forever. It’s a life sentence, this parenting thing, and not everyone can, or should, attempt it.

And so I rejoice that my little Mushroom (I know, I know, I am the queen of cringe-worthy nicknames) is here and is so loved by so many. And I pray that every baby coming into this crazy mixed up world is a wanted baby, a cherished baby. They deserve no less.

So happy 15 month birthday! Love you, Mushroom!

So much love!

To the Left, To the Left

Mirror image. That is my LEFT hand.

Well, true to form, I missed National Left-Handers Day (yesterday). We Leftys are too busy saving the world to be bothered by random celebration dates!!

Seriously, though, I am left-handed, and proud of it (though annoyed by the right-handed world in which I live and try to cut with scissors). It was pretty obvious from the start, and I was lucky enough to come into existence after the Great Lefty Purge of the early/mid 20th century. My mom Joanie was a victim in the 1930s, when her attempts to write were roundly chastised, then systematically broken by the Ursuline nuns (who, to be fair, were just following orders). As a result, Mom not only had atrocious right- handed penmanship, but I swear it affected her brain. You’ve heard of Left Brain and Right Brain functions? Well, there was also Joanie Brain, the woman who never forgot ANYONE’S birthday, but also left the burner hot on the stove with a glass pan of lasagna on top of it. Fourth of July fireworks had nothing on that explosion of pasta and sauce!

As a child, I noticed that it was impossible to execute a smudge-free thank you note. As an adult, I struggle with everything from coffeemakers to can openers. It was a small thing, this attempt to re-orient myself to What Everyone Else Can Do Easily, but it really bothered me. And of course, I gave birth to two Leftys out of five children (Evan and Rose). Sorry, kids!  I do notice that I do some things righthanded, like playing tennis (or would if I did, which I don’t). In my way, I have Joanie Brain, too!

Looking back at history was not a heartening endeavor. The Latin word “sinister” means “left-handed.” Left-handedness has been traditionally allied with bad luck and the wrong choices. It was no fun to go through life as a synonym for a horror movie, let me tell you! And now we have the political Left and Right. I’ll let you sort that out for yourselves, but I will admit to a preference for my handedness in this area.

There are so many famous leftys!! Barack Obama and Bill Clinton (surprise, surprise). And George H.W. Bush and Ronald Reagan (to be bipartisan). Albert Einstein and Jerry Seinfeld.  Paul Mc Cartney and Maurice Ravel . Strange bedfellows if ever there were some!   Google “leftys” and be amazed. We may be only 10% of the population but we are mighty!

I didn’t ask to be born left-handed. I can’t control that part of myself. The world seems to be oriented against me and my ilk. But I remain proud of who I am, and so should you, righty or lefty.

Does that sound familiar?

Maybe it’s time to finally admit that we are all different. And that different is OK. More than OK.  Part of the Divine Plan.

So the next time you see a lefty, slap him/her five (and let them dictate which five). It’s all good.

My favorite leftys