Nice to Meet You

Another (and an older)  curly-haired alien version of me.
(My mom really got into perming my hair after the first try)

“Come closer,” she beckoned me, her perky voice failing to conceal a slight edge, her big bright smile not reaching her eyes. Warning bells sounded off in my head but I could not say no, nor run away. I was rooted in my spot, paralyzed.

“Oh come on,” she said soothingly. I looked at my neighbor Ilana, she with the green eyes and the beautiful thick, wavy blond hair that I envied. She nodded at me and smiled, reassuring me. I looked at my cousin Leah, who nodded as well. As their blond and black heads bobbed in unison, I felt comforted. They both had their turns and they were all right. I bravely took a few steps forward until I was face to face with my summoner, Arlene. Alternately revered and reviled by the children in our neighborhood, the proclaimed bully of the block was not wearing her trademark scowl today, nor were her dark eyes their usual stormy sea. Today she was different. Friendly. Today she smiled and called us pretty. Today, by some miracle, she had wanted to spend some time with us, and give us a makeover.

Arlene turned me around and touched my dark hair, tied neatly in a ponytail by my sweet mother who was waiting for me at home. “Your hair is so pretty,” Arlene said, her fingers smoothing my hair. “And today, I’ll make it even more beautiful.” I held my breath as I heard a snipping sound. One snip to the right, then one snip to the left. “Now, you’re perfect,” she said. I exhaled. It was quick and painless. I crossed back to my friends.   

She looked at the three of us and beamed. “Now you three are the prettiest little girls on the block,” she said. She and her friend marched away as we turned to each other. My cousin smiled. I felt anxious as I touched my hair. To my relief, my ponytail was still intact. My hair felt exactly the same.  I broke into a smile. We hugged each other giddily, laughing out our fear, our anxiety, our glee. We then proceeded to play, skip rope, and make chalk drawings on the sidewalk with our other friends, all the while exchanging secret, conspiratorial smiles with one another. We had just been given the secret stamp of approval by the big girl, by the most important person on the block. We felt grown up, important, and special. Finally, it was sunset and time for all of us, even us freshly ‘anointed’ ones, to go home.

I was getting ready to take a bath, and my mother sat me down and loosened my ponytail. She gave a loud gasp as she removed my hair tie and my ponytail, a full five to six inches of hair, floated and fell like soft dark feathers on the floor. “Lesley Anna,” she exclaimed. “What happened to your hair?” I stared at the shiny clumps of hair in confusion. I stammered and tried to explain to her that Arlene just wanted to see it, and put a few touches to it to make it nicer. My explanations were overlapped by a scream from upstairs, which sounded a lot like Tita Susan, Leah’s mom, soon followed by a loud, bloodcurdling scream next door. It was Ilana’s mother. I miserably thought of Ilana’s thick golden waves which reached past her shoulders, more beautiful than that of any doll or corn-haired fairytale princess, and in that moment, felt sorrier for her than I did myself.

On Butterflies, Bras, and Tenth Birthdays

My Birthday Girl :-)

One night many, many years ago, I had just finished feeding a two-month old Sophie and had laid her down on her crib. I turned on our night light and flicked off the main light, then hovered over her crib and stared as she slept, her mouth formed in a charming little o, with her hands high above her head, as if in sweet surrender. Her eyelids fluttered, and I felt an overwhelming surge of love for this new, strange, lovely little creature that I was just getting to know. Impulsively, I swept her back up into my arms, and held her as I sat down on my bed. I held her close to my heart, and with the wisdom of mothers knew that this precious time I had with this baby version of my daughter was to pass quickly, and that I was cherish it. Then and there I promised myself that no matter how tired I was, or how my arms ached, or how much I wanted to sleep, that I would hold her and carry her as much as I could before things changed, before my baby grew too much and changed.

I remembered this moment, and wistfully so, when Sophie and I were driving home in the car with my father early this week. I had been so busy with work even from the week before, and had worked straight through the weekend and right up to the beginning of the new week. My father asked Sophie if she felt bad whenever I was away.

She leaned towards him and said in a clear voice: “Lolo, I love my Mama but we don’t have to always be together. She has her priorities and I have school and things to do.”

“Really now,” my father teased in a low, booming voice. To which she replied, “Yes! Who knows, she might need to go to India –“

“India? Why would I need to go to India?” I asked in amusement.

“I don’t know, maybe for work someday. But you have priorities-"

“You do know you’re my biggest priority, right?” I asked pointedly.

“Yes, Mom,” she said impatiently. “What I’m saying is you have things to do and I have things to do. We can’t be together ALL the time. If we were together all the time, then that would be creepy.”

My father roared with laughter as I giggled, then sighed. Sophie as a practical, no-fuss preteen was becoming more aware of her independence, and was beginning to see herself in terms separate from her parents, from me. She was in the process of changing, and was growing physically, emotionally, and mentally at lightning speed, and it truly was an exciting time for her. And as she sheds old versions of herself and begins her movement to maturity, I cannot help but feel a sense of longing, of loss for what was, for what we have had to say goodbye to, to give her the space to bloom and grow.

Early last year, I broke the news to her that she needed to wear a bra. Armed with the new training bras my supportive mother-in-law had bought, I told her the news in a bright and perky manner. (I believe it was something along the lines of, “Guess what? You now get to wear an ultra cool sports bra! Woohoohoo!”) She laughed in disbelief and insisted I was joking. I became more serious and told her that it was true, that her body was developing and that this was something she needed to do. She took everything in, her face slowly crumpling as she cried. I told her that it was okay to feel awkward, and that it was part of growing up.  But I saw the expression in her eyes and knew that she understood that something precious was to be lost, that she would now need to learn to be more aware and conscious of her body.

“I’m scared,” she told me. “I’m scared of growing up,” she said. I held her in my arms and opened my mouth to say “Don’t be,” but changed my mind. Instead, I said, “It’s okay. It’s okay to be scared.” And after our embrace, she stood up and I helped her wear a bra for the very first time, my heart breaking a little as I silently bid goodbye to the blissfully carefree little girl who never thought of her body, save for figuring out how it might run faster or jump higher.  

In a Sea of Yellow Paper Roses



Happy swimmer

It is ten o’clock in the evening and I am a woman obsessed. I am in the thick of preparations for Sophie’s 7^th birthday, and she has decided to have a dainty tea party at home for a few select friends. Her favorite color is yellow, and I have come to the important decision to fill our humble little house with yellow paper roses. I envision a multitude of paper roses hanging from the ceiling, strewn on the floor, lining our staircase, huge yellow paper roses pinned to her guests’ clothing, fetchingly attached to their hair, placed by the foot of the table, on the couch: just a bounty, no, a truckload, nay, a veritable sea of roses to play around with. I have made fifty and I am tired but determined, amused but angry with myself. All she wanted was a simple tea party with nuggets, iced tea, and caramel cake and here I was, slaving away in my self-made paper rose factory. Fifty is enough, I try to convince myself. I shake my head. Of course it isn’t. I was on a mission and I was not going to stop until our entire house was stuffed to the brim with paper roses, so stuffed that little yellow roses flowed from out of the windows and through the door.

“Wow.” I hear her awed voice behind me as she beholds her yellow paper flower sea. She plops down beside me. “Can I help?” She asks.

I sigh and try to dissuade her. I had already nailed my process down to a T. Remove Japanese paper from plastic. Cut to appropriate size. Put together a few sheets and fold like an accordion. Fold accordion in half and attach floral wire. Twist. Open up accordion again. Toss into pile with others. Once critical mass is reached, approach the pile, open each accordion up one by one, and voila – a new batch of paper flowers is created. With each round my efficiency has increased. Left alone to my devices I would reach 100% efficiency and achieve my goal of drowning the entire house in paper roses in time for the party the following day, I just knew it.

Happy Father's Day, Dad :-)

Me and my handsome dad at Universal Studios

There are too many precious moments and unforgettable experiences shared with my father to document in one blog entry, but as we celebrate Father’s Day, there are a few specific instances that I remember and look fondly on:

I was in the second or third grade and an avid fan of Debbie Gibson. Nights were spent jumping up and down to her energetic hymn Electric Youth, or singing her ballad Lost in Your Eyes emotionally to my Ken doll. (Or was it the stuffed bear substituting as a Ken doll? I don’t think my mom even let me have a Ken doll at all.) I was over the moon with excitement when I found out that she would be performing in an open field concert a few towns away from ours. My classmates and I eagerly planned what we would wear, ways that we could find each other in the crowd, and how we would get Debbie Gibson’s attention from far, far away. Nearing the concert, however, there was a hurricane forecast. As my classmates backed out of our plans one by one, I held steadfast to my dreams of seeing my idol in the flesh.

My dad picked me up after school on the day of the concert, asking me if I still wanted to push through despite the weather forecast and the ominous gray skies. “Let’s do it,” I declared passionately, fastening my seatbelt. He gamely drove on. The rains poured, but on we went. The rains grew stronger but still, on we went. We were at a turnpike and at nearly zero visibility when my father stopped. He asked me quietly, and ever so gently, if I still wanted to go on. I looked out and saw sheets of rain pouring down, the lights of other cars an ever so distant blur. The only thing to do was turn back.  My mouth quivered as I said we could go back home, then I abruptly burst into tears.

Book Love: Leo the Late Bloomer

"Are you sure Leo’s a bloomer?”

asked Leo’s father.

“Patience,” said Leo’s mother.

“A watched bloomer doesn’t bloom.”

One of my favorite things to do is spend time at the children’s section of Fully Booked, looking for new stories to develop for our storytelling sessions with Make Believe. We are always on the lookout for stories that bring us vibrant and dynamic worlds, with incredible spirit and heart, and with memorable lessons to teach both children and adults alike. (We are so all-out in our storytelling sessions that even adults companions become a very invested audience, oftentimes watching us in sheer amusement, as if asking, what are these grown, crazy people doing?) We consider the books we adapt as our partners and our jump off points in the creative process – they define and paint their worlds so richly that it becomes a joy for us to explore these, and then bring these to life to our audiences.

Imagine my sheer delight then, when I saw a copy of Leo the Late Bloomer sitting on the shelves, waiting for me to notice it! Written by Robert Klaus and beautifully illustrated by Jose Aruego, Leo the Late Bloomer was the story I had adapted into a play for the very first children’s workshop I had ever handled, some twelve (yes, twelve!) years ago when I was still a preschool teacher in the wonderful school Create. This was pre-Make Believe days, and I had loved this story even then, for its lovely, delicate telling of the story of a late bloomer set in a colorful, vivid jungle. I saw in it so many possibilities for staging, and loved the lesson at the heart of it. 

A Little Princess

“If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the star at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers.” – The Little Prince

Me with my beautiful, blooming rose :-)

She entered our room on the first day of classes, a shy and sweet little thing, with bright eyes and a lovely smile. She seemed quite proud of her purple Elsa dress - she held the edges of her skirt and swayed slightly. Her name was Princess, her yaya shared. I stepped forward to greet her, and to invite her to create a costume with the pieces of fabric we had laid out for the children’s use. She promptly burst into tears. We soon began the class. Her tears escalated into sobs, the sobs morphed into loud wails thus causing my co-teacher, Neil, to take her out for a breather. She no longer wished to return after that. And so ended our first day.

Princess arrived the next workshop day in a blue Elsa dress. She took a few, tentative steps from the door, looked around the room and the classmates that were calling her, and was quiet. I held my breath, waiting for her reaction. And yes, she burst into tears again. This time, however, and after much persuasion, she agrees to stay inside the room. And so ended day number two.