Six, sweet, and sublime

My little prince,

Today you are six. You are full of energy and excitement, and your little face (which everyone tells me mirrors my own) is so expressive that I want to kiss your round cheeks every time I see you. 

Right now, you let me. 

Right now, you say, "Mama, you're my honey girl." 

Right now, you still curl up next to me in the mornings, even before I open my eyes, and say, "Hi Mama, I love you. Will you snuggle me?" 

Right now, you are fiercely loyal and loving, and I am incredibly lucky to see shades of the man you will become when you grow up: respectful, kind, and gentle.

You have your wild times too - you like to run around shrieking with laughter, and you want so much to keep up with your big sister. You have become a daredevil in the pool, and you vacillate between being my baby and a true little boy. You trotted off to camp for the first time and made new friends. You rode the current at the beach and your first roller coaster. You've grown so skinny and tall, and you will start first grade this fall. And even though I know you are growing up, I hold the memory of the first time I ever saw you so close to my heart. 

When I was pregnant with you, I had a little scare and I wanted to make sure you were all right. It was very early in my pregnancy, and I went to the doctor alone because your Daddy, Nanny and Papa were all away. I was nervous, but I thought to myself, "Okay, it's just you and me, kid. Hang on," so I packed Emerson into the car and prayed all the way to the doctor's office. When your sweet big sister (who was only 3) asked the ultrasound technician if her screen could play Dora cartoons, my worried face broke into a smile, and knew I had to be strong for both of you, no matter what. So I took a breath, said another prayer, and hoped you'd be in there. And suddenly there was a small scribble of your heartbeat, and I knew you were there, and you were mine.

You and me, kid. You completed our family and made my dreams come true. You and your sister are the greatest gifts I've ever known.

Happy sixth birthday, my sweet son.

Love, 

Mama

Escape to the Cape

I was never a South Shore girl. My summer vacations always included trips up north to New Hampshire or Maine, or super south to Florida.  My few visits to the Cape were anticlimactic at best - standing in a crowd at Clancy's or waiting in line for mini-golf, ice cream, batting cages, go-karts (or basically anything else) left me feeling lukewarm about Cape Cod. 

But when my dear friend K suggested we visit her at her summer home in West Dennis, the kids and I were so psyched. My kids and K's kids have gone to school together since kindergarten, and K is the perfect blend of smart and sarcastic. We've laughed through abysmal school years, innumerable nook reviews, and many bottles of Riesling together, so I knew spending time with her and her kids anywhere would be a blast, especially at her home-away-from-home on the Cape.

We headed to the beach much later than one would usually do so, but it was perfect. No crowds, no worries. The kids played for hours until hungry bellies made us leave in search of snacks. I usually hate restaurants with cutesy spellings, but I couldn't resist Kream n'Kone and I'm quite grateful. Not only did we dine in the finest beach style (you can walk in sandy and sweaty and still feel human in its open dining space) but the portions were terrific. Heaping piles of fried clams, lobster salad and chicken fingers later, we called it a night.

The next morning, I had a baptism - I shall never look at muffins the same way again after a trip to Woolfies Bakery in Dennis. The muffins were ENORMOUS and, even though we arrived later than the usual morning crowd (due to kids who were up until all hours watching episodes of Bunked), we still got some of their coveted chocolate chip muffins. And some blueberry muffins. And a cinnamon swirl croissant that looked like a massive danish and was worth every single calorie.

Though we had no business getting into bathing suits after that feast, we headed to the beach, where the weather was perfection. Our kids rode the warm currents (we were on he Nantucket side), sought out mussels, eels, and crabs, and enjoyed the sun and sand all day. We bumped into old friends, caught up on our favorite gossip, and had snacks and drinks until late afternoon.

Our final stop was The Summer Shanty, where the kids took over the Adirondack chairs on the lawn while my friends and I commandeered a perch overlooking both the kids and the boats docked behind them. I strongly suggest one of their haddock sandwiches, which came with a coleslaw that was both vinergary and sweet. I'm not a slaw fan, but this was excellent (it could have also been the amazing lemonade/Citron/Chambord dream drink I was sipping, interestingly named the "Wando"). Though the restaurant was packed by the time we were finishing up, an early afternoon visit yielded coveted seats and the perfect scenery. My Cape friends know all the tricks!

My quintessential summer experience was packed into just one full 24 period, but it was enough to make me fall in love with the Cape. Even the trafficky ride home didn't quell my joy and gratitude toward my pal and her family. Though the connotation of things "going south" is usually negative, I think I can join the summer folk who disagree; this North Shore girl will be on 93 South again soon!

The Reader by Bernhard Schlink My rating: 4 of 5 stars This novel is hard to define: is it a lyrical love story? A heartbreaking work of historical fiction? An intro to philosophy and self-evaluation? Ironically, it is short novel (about 130 pages on my iBook), but an extremely weighty one that will have you contemplating secrets, forgiveness, and the balance between the history we observe and the personal choices that can change it all. View all my reviews

Orange Is the New Black by Piper Kerman My rating: 4 of 5 stars Despite my "always read the book before watching the movie" proclivities, I finished the OITNB series before starting this book. While the show is sensational and provocative, this memoir is far more thoughtful and careful. I enjoyed Kerman's descriptions (though there are lots of people to keep track of throughout) and tracing the connections between which real person-inspired-which character was interesting. A solid, honest read about a life in lockdown, and a reminder that Kerman's mistake happens every day. View all my reviews

Red

It could be a scene from any Italian childhood; when I was little, every Sunday dinner was spent at my grandparents' house; my grandparents' five daughters and their husbands and children would gather around a huge oval table laden with Italian delicacies that had been lovingly prepared the night before. Huge bowls of salad dripping with Italian dressing (of course) and giant black olives my cousin Tommy and I would wear on our fingertips. Giant bowls of my favorite curly spaghetti, enormous meatballs, thick rolled bracciole filled to bursting and held together with toothpicks, platters of ripe melon and grapes. 

My cousins and I would fill ourselves to the brim, and then run outside to play. I don't remember what we talked about, but I do remember endless games of chase and hide and seek, climbing on the aluminum swingset, leaping into the giant swimming pool, playing with my cousin Gia's pet salamander Newton (who met an untimely end and dehydrated in the sun while we played outside for hours) and having a solemn burial of a tiny tree frog Tommy and I found in the yard. It was a beautiful, adventurous time in my childhood.

But at the heart of it all, the food, the fun, was my grandfather. A Sicilian, blue-eyed redhead, he  was nicknamed "Red." He loved so many adventures; his ancestors were fishermen, he was brave and wonderful and wild. "Who's better than you?" he'd ask us, winking, with a smile and a deep dimple in one cheek. There was nothing he wouldn't attempt, whether performing a jackknife dive off the diving board, or rearranging all the cement tiles around the pool into a new pattern. I remember mixing meatballs with him on Sunday mornings, listening to him whistle or sing in the kitchen as he cooked, always wearing a spotless white t-shirt and teal pants. He was so strong, so tall and broad and muscular, that he reminded me of Popeye, and when he would swim shirtless in the summer with all of his grandchildren, I remember feeling so proud that he still looked like the fighter he was in his younger days. 

In fact, his strength was legendary to us kids; when we'd play outside and come zooming into the house because we were scared of the bees circling us, he'd smack one with his hands, and brush the remains away to show us there was nothing to be afraid of. He drove giant eighteen-wheel trucks for years, and when he accidentally got the tip of his finger slammed into the door of one of them, he drove himself to the hospital. The same strength and resolve he had as a young soldier stayed with him always, both physically and mentally. He would lift and carry us like we were just toddlers, even when we were in elementary school. I remember one feast where he carried me on his shoulders so I didn't have to walk, and how he'd use his large, powerful hands to lift my cousins high in the air so they could touch the ceiling, toss us up in the air, or delicately extract one of the hundreds of splinters we got climbing around in the yard. When I got a bloody nose that wouldn't stop, he calmly reminded me to be brave as he rolled small strips of paper towels and dipped them in ice water for me to put under my upper lip, just like a real fighter. He made us feel invincible, but he gave us the tools to stand on our own, too. He taught us all to swim when we were just toddlers, so we would never be afraid of the water. He never wanted us to be afraid of anything.

But when he passed away, I was 21 years old, in the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college. We were heartbroken to have lost the patriarch and heart of our family. We tried to carry pieces of him with us, literally and figuratively; I held his watch, another grandchild had his glasses, another his gold Italian charms. We were nearly superstitious with sadness and fear; going on without him seemed impossible. 

When things are too blindingly and painfully real, they become surreal. My mom confided that he didn't really feel gone; she felt like he was in Florida. Maybe he was on a long roadtrip. And it was always how I preferred to remember him; somewhere warm and beautiful, driving near the sparkling water he had always loved. 

Like anyone who misses a loved one, I longed for a sign. I tried to dream of him, I wrote compulsively about my feelings and sadness. I started a scholarship in his name at the high school where I teach. I wrote his name in our wedding program. I met a man with the same beautiful spirit of adventure, an Irishman who loves to cook as much as my grandfather did. I thought of him daily. I still do. I wished he had more time to meet my husband, my kids, my adult self. And then my daughter was born with the same beautiful red hair. 

Today we went to Mass to remember the 25th anniversary of his passing. We went to lunch on the water and raised a glass to him. The sun glinted off the water, and my daughter's red hair. 

Happy 4th birthday, John Sawyer!

Dearest John Sawyer,

Happy 4th birthday, darling boy! Four years ago yesterday, I went to the hospital to have you, and you spent one extra day on the inside. We were all so deliriously excited to meet you, and when you arrived, you made our dreams come true, little prince!

Four years ago today, you were born as chubby and delicious as I had hoped, with slate-gray eyes and your daddy's dark hair (of course it all fell out, came in blond, and then changed to the light brown it is now). 

You are full of energy and excitement every day, and you fill me with so much happiness! Here is a picture of who you are today:

Today, you woke up with a smile to a room filled with balloons. You are like a teenager - you like to wake on your own, and you get a little grumpy if someone else wakes you! At night, you often ask for "another snuggle" before bed, and you always ask us to read you a "bedtime  stah-ry." Today, your favorite is The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Today, you still come crashing at me around corners and smash yourself against for me for a powerful surprise hugs. You are getting so tall, buddy; you can almost knock me down, but I don't mind.

Today, you still are crazy for apples, apple sauce, and especially apple juice! You will seek it out in the refrigerator yourself if we're not moving fast enough.

Today, you love the park, which you pronounce like "poke," especially the slide at the Wakefield Lake, right near our old apartment.

Today, carry around an orange toolbox (much like last year's love for Orange Shovel) and you put all your "fings" (things) in it. Most of your "fings" are Mickey or Tsum Tsum related.

Today, you love the water in any form. You can swim in the pool in your Nemo life vest, even in the deep end. You love jumping in the waves, and you had so much fun on our vacation in the Outer Banks. You are so sweet and loving, and when a wave takes you down, you look to me for help. Just a "thumbs-up" lets you know you're fine, and in a minute, you're off again. Unless your face gets wet and you need extra snuggles.

Today, you love Mommy and Daddy so much - you run to Mommy for cuddles and Daddy for roughhousing like a real little boy. You love when Daddy throws you high into the air and you beg, "Again! Again!" and no one can resist you.

Today, you still love your sister so fiercely that you want to be just like her. You come to all her practices, rehearsals, and performances, and you tell her, "You did a great job, Emmasin!" You admire her, you follow her, and though you both drive each other a little crazy, when I watch you play happily together, my heart swells with joy. I am so happy you have each other to share life with, and that you will always have her hand to hold.

Little one, little son, I hope you always feel the love that surrounds you, today and always. You have made me so happy and I wish that same happiness back to you each day. Your light shines in my life and I love you for it. Thank you for being the sparkle in my eyes.

Happy, happy fourth birthday, my darling son!

Love,

Mommy

Sweet Stylish Surprises

As a teacher, I am completely overwhelmed by the happiness my job brings me. Whether it's the pride in seeing my students' major accomplishments, like when one of my favorites got into her dream school, Brown, or when a handful of my students scored 5's on the notoriously hard AP Lit and Comp test, I feel so proud of them I could explode. Even their minor successes make me smile, like mastering the material on a tough quiz. But most of all, the knowledge that one day they are going to grow into incredibly awesome people who make a giant contributions to this world makes me feel like I have been given a gift just by knowing them.

And just recently, I got an incredible gift back!

I was nominated and won the NIC+ZOE Teacher Appreciation Giveaway; I was nominated by my family, friends, and students, and was chosen as the winner! 

This ‪#‎teacherappreciationweek‬, nominate a teacher who has made a positive impact on you or your child and they could win a $1,000 NIC+ZOE wardrobe and a total makeover! You have through Sunday to nominate - click below!

NIC+ZOE Celebrating Teacher Appreciation Week

In Celebration of Teacher Appreciation Week, NIC+ZOE is giving one well-deserving teacher a total makeover! Makeover includes $1,000 to NIC+ZOE, styled by Lisa Donovan and TESstylist's Lydia Santangelo, hair, makeup and more!…

WOOBOX.COM

I was beyond thrilled! The clothes are both artfully and classically designed, and the materials are rich and luxurious. The company is a mother-daughter design team, created by Dorian Lightbown and named for her children, Nicholas and Zoe. All of the clothes are designed to #makebusylookgood, and the Chestnut Hill store where my dream day began was as beautifully modern as the clothes it houses. 

There, I met up with the women who would make my day unforgettable: 

First, I met Erika Hemingway, Account Executive at iHeartMedia, my former student and the most charismatic and energetic person I know. Her enthusiasm and exuberance really propelled the event from its inception, and having her by my side made my experience as heartfelt as it was exciting. 

Erika led me to Lisa Donovan from Kiss 108 (the daytime voice on "Matty in the Morning" who was as stylish and stunning as she is petite) and Lydia Santangelo of TESstylist (Boston's top fashion stylist who was as gorgeous and glamorous as the models with whom she usually works). Both women were my stylists for the day. Next, I was introduced to the incredibly talented Zoe Chatfield-Taylor, Director of Merchandising, and the "Zoe" of NIC+ZOE. All three women were so warm and lovely, it felt like I was hanging out with friends (very beautiful, fashion-forward friends), so I shed the black LuluLemon sundress I'd been wearing as a uniform this summer, and happily turned myself over to their expertise.

Over champagne, Shauna Richmond, of the J.T. Macken Hair Salon in Winthrop, curled my hair into smooth beachy waves and gave me smoldering smoky eyes. Gail Saviano, the General Sales Manager for iHeartMedia, and Elizabeth Doherty, the Social Media and Marketing Manager for NIC+ZOE, rounded out our celebration, and over the next few hours, the word "celebrate" defined the day! In fact, I felt like a celebrity as I tried on outfit after outfit; lush sweaters and scarves, perfectly cut wrap dresses, chic fitted tops and jackets, crisp blouses and sleek trousers. The most remarkable combination was in my favorite outfit: a floating silk handkerchief dress and a whisper-thin cardigan. 

The fashionista in me loved trying on every outfit, and with my team of "glamour girls" remarking about their favorite looks, I experienced all the emotions a woman wants to feel in her favorite clothes: classically elegant, confidently professional, coolly sophisticated, comfortably relaxed.

Though I have a graduate degree in Linguistics, those words escaped me that day, and I must have repeated the word "amazing" a thousand times to describe my experience, but it was truly awesome to be around such incredible women, all of whom were celebrating the day with me. 

As the event came to a close, I got to select $1000 of merchandise for work and play, and my makeover concluded with generous gift cards to many of my favorite places: Tuscan Kitchen, Princess Jewelers of Burlington, Elements Massage, and Elizabeth Grady, as well as a bottle of Lamarca Prosecco, compliments of Busa Wine & Spirits. I walked out of the store with my arms full of carrier bags, and my heart full of gratitude for the kindness and generosity of each of the women.

I'm humbled to have spent a day being appreciated for doing something I love doing. I am so grateful to my family, friends, and Austin Prep students and parents for nominating me, and for giving me the chance to have such a fantastic experience, as well as to the wonderfully gracious women who made me feel so special with their recognition; as I share my gifts with my students, they shared their gifts with me. How lucky we all are to be doing what we love! 

From the bottom of this thankful (and now, very beautifully dressed) teacher's heart,
Marla 

Great Wolf Lodge

Taking the kids to Great Wolf Lodge for New Year's was a blast! Here are a few little things I would suggest for the next trip:

1) Bring flip flops. If you are staying overnight, all the waterpark fun is included, and there's enough to keep you busy for days! The waterpark is hilarious and fun, but even if you're just walking through it, you might end up with wet feet. I also brought water shoes for my little guys. They aren't a necessity, but it makes watching your toddler climb his way through the shallow kids' pool like an adventurer look even cuter =)

2) Speaking of water, bring a water bottle, Starbucks tumbler, Shakeology thermos or other capped container. Your kids will ask for water at least a million times, and rather than carry around an open plastic cup, be prepared. You can fill up at any of the dispensers with water, or you can purchase a themed one for $12.99 and fill it with soda for the duration of your stay. Ugh. Fortunately, there's a Dunks onsite.

3) If you are going to be there for more than a few days, get the Passes (I got a Paw for Emerson and a Pup for John Sawyer - they're divided by age). They give you pretty good deals on the things you'll see around the Lodge, such as snacks, candy, and the stuffed animals from "Creation Station" that look just like (and fit into the same clothes as) the ones you'd find at Build-a-Bear. Checking the items off the list can be really fun, the kids love all the treats, and it's a fun way to spend time.

4) MagiQuest - This a fun and interactive wand-waving adventure where the kids wave their wand at screens located throughout the Lodge to gain points and uncover jewels. IT IS ALSO A MAJOR TIME SUCK. So if you have a little one who doesn't want to swim - or you don't feel like spending a fortune in the arcade - this is the way to go. Just know it will eat up a few hours because you're walking all over the Lodge to find the Magic Pixie Pool's secrets. The wand comes with the Paw Pass, but the additional doodads that make the wand do extra-cool stuff costs extra....which leads us to...

5) Bring lots of money. The Lodge is a cross between Chuck E. Cheese and Disney. The food is expensive and not super (although the burgers at the Lodge Wood Fired Grille and the pizza at Hungry as a Wolf were excellent) and many of the activities are not included in the price of your stay, such as the video games, mani-pedi's at Scooops and other activities in the Northern Lights Arcade, Howlin' Timbers Play Park (which has toddler rides, mini golf, Ten Paw Bowling Alley, and the Howler's Peak Ropes Course). Knowing this ahead of time can let you plan which areas to hang out in, or to avoid.

Have a great stay!

My Starter Kit

One of the most exciting days for Austin seniors is the day the yearbooks arrive; the students and staff are always excited to see the Omega, and since much of our student body is with us from grade six (affectionately nicknamed "the lifers") the students page through with good-natured groans at the images of their younger selves, while simultaneously loving their recent snaps. They usually enter one of their teachers' rooms in large groups, to settle in and leaf through their copies, and while initially the conversation is boisterous and hearty ("Dude, your sixth-grade hair? You have a mushroom!" "Ahhh, look at my semi date? Ewww!") within minutes, a hush falls over the room, and they get lost in nostalgia. 

Sometimes, their reveries are interrupted by each others' questions ("Who was that girl at the prom with the crazy dress?") but this year, while looking through my copy, I did the interrupting. I had stumbled on a slang term I'd never heard before.

"What's a 'starter kit'?" I asked my seniors.
"It's the things that make you, you," replies one of my most laid-back seniors, a tall gentleman who would continually enter my classroom with a lazy "Hey girl" to me, despite my repeated suggestions that he discontinue the practice. "Like yours, Ms. P? Yours would definitely have a giant Starbucks green iced tea," he replied.
"A copy of The Great Gatsby, obviously," his friend intoned.
"Dance stuff," chimed in another.
"High heels, French manicures and makeup," from a senior who, perplexingly, slept through most of my classes. Guess she had one eye open for fashion.
"Pretty stationery and good pens," piped in a blonde girl.

And it was enlightening, to see the way kids saw the pieces of what "made" me, me. The little necessary outward things that defined who I am, or at the very least, who they thought I was. It made me think: what are the things that truly make me, me? That make me feel alive? That intrinsically make me feel grounded, yet light? 



There are so many things I love to do: spending time with my kids is at the top of the list. But being a mom is draining, and sometimes my "mom" definition simply isn't enough. I am not a better mom when I don't have time to dance, read, put on some lipstick and write a long-overdue thank-you. And sometimes those pieces get lost, because I am busy "putting the kids first," or feeling supremely guilty if I don't! For example, I love to dance, and while I have been teaching it non-stop for the last 22 years at Austin, I rarely get to an actual class for myself. Lots of my inspiration comes from videos that I watch on my iPad late at night, or from organic choreography sessions with my seniors. My personal dance has been limited, and I realized it was making me sad to lose that part of myself. This summer, I vow to take my 44-year-old self to class, and to reclaim a part of me that has long since been asleep. 

Let's hope Tylenol and muscle relaxers don't become part of my new starter kit.

(UPDATE August 10: I have made it to nearly two weeks of classes. My flexibility is a faint shadow of itself, yet I love every minute of my class. There are some familiar faces and some fun new connections. The choreography is as cool as ever. And I? I am loving my time being myself again.)

Visions of Sugarplums, or Because Ballet

My earliest memories take place inside a dance studio; it is where I spent the majority of my childhood, it's where I learned the value of hard work, discipline, limits, and successes. So it was no surprise to anyone that the joy in my heart to find I was expecting a daughter was immediately paired with a vision of a little girl in a tutu. And, eighteen months after she was born, Emerson was in her first recital, and she's been dancing ever since.

My hope was that my daughter would love dance as I did, not only because it was something we could share, but because I knew the beauty and artistry of dance would affect her whole life, as it did mine. From dancing school recitals at the John Hancock Hall to national competitions, from dance companies to starting a dance program at Austin, I have loved it all. Here's a fact: I have been dancing or teaching dance for all but three of my 44 years, and I continue to love it in new ways each year.

But there is a fondness in my heart for the holiday season and the Nutcracker that is beyond description. As a child, I danced in the Boston Ballet's Nutcracker, and while my time there was equally exhilarating and exhausting, the memories are as familiar and comfortable as a broken-in pair of pointe shoes, and ones I am not likely to forget. All of it - the intricate maze of tunnels under the Wang Center stage itself (the Ballet now calls the Opera House their home), the giant costume closets, the enormous practice rooms for the principals and company members, the fleeting glances into the dressing rooms of the ballet royalty  -  was like stepping into a fantasy world. If I close my eyes, I can still remember the excitement of standing in the wings, trembling next to such legends as Elaine Bauer and Laura Young, who, in my twelve-year-old eyes, were like angels on earth. It was a precious, special time, and one I was looking forward to sharing with my own little dancer.

Since her earliest days, I'd taken her to Nutcracker productions, including the one I choreograph at Austin. I have photos of her as plump as a little jelly donut, sitting among rows of my ballerinas in their sparkly tutus. Needless to say, when the opportunity arose for Emerson to audition for a local production of The Nutcracker, my heart leapt. We chose the perfect leotard, I pinned her hair into twin buns, gave her a big kiss and sent my six-year-old on the first dance audition of her life. And she made it. She was selected for her dream role: a mouse.

Naturally, we were thrilled beyond belief. The rehearsal schedule fit perfectly into my own Nutcracker rehearsals, and Em skipped off to practice with a smile. And then came the updates:

"Mommy, we got our places today, I'm Mouse 5!...Did you know that we are very important because we fight the Nutcracker and almost win?...I get to drag off the Mouse that gets shot because I'm really strong...Did you know I get to stand near the Mouse King in the wings?...We have to be very quiet when we are backstage because we have to be professionals...Mommy, will you be in the audience for all my performances? Mommy, next year, can I do it again? I want to be a Cherub. And then a Party Girl. And then Clara."

And so it went. My little Mouse was amazing, and I watched every performance with tears in my eyes; not only for the gift I have been given in having a daughter, but in having one with whom I can share some of the things I love. I am not certain whether her love for dance will be as encompassing as mine; she will grow and change and develop her own directions (followed by her own little brother who wants to do everything she does - her own Fritz, if you will) and I will applaud everything she does, onstage or off. 

But for now, my little girl has visions of sugarplums dancing in her head, and my heart is filled with love and gratitude in a million different ways. 

Merry Christmas, everyone.

The Way We Were

Teaching in a high school gives me a rare perspective of aging; I can see where I've been, when I am going, and often, I get a glimpse of what I must look like to my students. A few years ago, one of my female students rolled her eyes at me and said, "Ms. P, you have NO idea what it's like to be a kid." And while a piece of me secretly congratulated myself on appearing so together that this student thought I was a mature, well-adjusted adult (HA - she didn't see the package of Swedish Fish I was planning to eat for breakfast in my purse) another piece of me looked back at my high school days and the way things seemed back then, and the images we all project now.

I was lucky. For some, high school is a battlefield, one whose scars last longer than the battle itself. But I loved high school. I loved my friends, I loved being a cheerleader, I loved finding my way through those years with a combination of teenage trepidation and bravado. I loved taking my first steps into adulthood and falling flat on my face (literally and figuratively - I tripped down the stairs and fell on my chin in front of my football player crush. Well, one of them.) As an only child, I loved the closeness of our class, and the way my friends became family. I would like to think I was kind and fair most of the time, though I know I wasn't always, but whether running from the cops at Florence Park, swaying on the gym floor at one of the dances, cheering on the sidelines, or navigating our first heartbreaks and heals, we seemed to have fun all the time. 

Going to my reunion last night was as fun and exciting as high school was, and connecting (or re-connecting) felt easy and fun. The faces looked the same (although the nametags helped!), and warmth and hilarity was still underlying most of the conversations. As kids, 25 years ago, there was no way to tell that we would still be friends, or even want to, but as the night wore on, we broke off into groups, shared stories, reminisced, moved around and started all over again. There were tears of laughter, old jokes revisited, and photos taken again and again. Sure, parenthood and life in general had changed us, but not in the ways that mattered; we still have a lot to laugh about. And what stories we'll have to share with our kids - if they are lucky.

Being Saved

In a prior post, I had written about losing my students, and about the effect it has had on me as a teacher. Imagine a chance to get a piece of one of them back.

Let me start with an admission: I have hoarding tendencies. I am extremely sentimental, so the treasures my students give me for holidays, birthdays, or end-of-the-year gifts are extremely precious. Not only do they mark a sweet and specific time in their lives, but they also hallmark milestones in my early teaching career. When I was hoping beyond hope that I was reaching my students, it was wondrous  to receive a gift like the sweet shell my students painted on vacation to give to their "favorite teacher." Or the 7th grade baseball trophy with "Your (sp) the best teacher ever" taped over its base. These treasures are priceless in every way.

That being said, after a 20 year a career, I have been blessed with multitudes of cards, letters, books, and little treasures. I want to keep every one of them, and I have managed to do so fairly effectively.

I usually try to purge at the end of the year, while my students are industriously engaged in their exams, and I can sort through the materials I've collected, and no longer need. Last year I parted with volumes of potential textbooks that I received during my tenure as an Adjunct Professor at Bentley; yes, I had saved them merely because they were addressed to "Professor Pascucci" (and yes, purists, I realize I am not a true professor…yet).

But this year at Austin, there was a bit of an upheaval over the summer; the new construction and division of some of the classrooms resulted in a great deal of old things being removed from the building. Though I wasn't directly affected, my classroom got a new floor (and, thankfully, the rug that looked like the setting of multiple crime scenes was finally removed) and my enormous locked cabinet in my closet-free classroom was moved twice, and the contents threatened to explode into my new, pristine room.

So, during a particularly blue day, I decided to sort through some of the videotapes (!) that I had stored in there. And my breath caught.

For in a boyish, seventh-grade scrawl, I saw the name Steve Baxter. Steve was one of my bright, brilliant students with deep intelligence, dry humor and wit and sharp sarcasm. He loved words and writing; he was lyrical and natural and honest and artistic in everything he wrote. He was also gone from this life far too soon. And now I had a piece of him. And I had to share it with his family.

A quick scroll on Facebook yielded his mother's name, and a visit to the White Pages gave me her number. Terrified but determined, I placed the call, and when her machine picked up, I said something like this, which was what I left as her Facebook message: Hello, Mrs. Baxter,
I was Steven's English teacher at Austin Prep years ago; I still teach at Austin, and I found a video Steven and his friends made in grade 7. While the quality isn't super clear, Steven is behind the camera as well as in front of it, and I thought you would like to have it. Please contact me at your convenience at (xxx) xxx-xxxx.
Marla Pascucci-Byrne

Within an hour, she had called me, and was on her way to meet me at school. We embraced in the doorway and reminisced about her beautiful son. She gave me the advice to "enjoy my beautiful children" before she left to bring the video to Steve's father, as today was his father's birthday, and they planned to watch it together. 

In a confluence of chance and clutter, I had made someone's day better, and, at the risk of sounding trite (which wouldn't honor that bright, beautiful student of mine) maybe the things we save can save us.

The War of the Words

As a lover of words and language, I actually enjoy ferreting out the perfect and proper words for any situation. And though I have little in common with Jonas' mother from The Giver, I know I have said "Precision of language, please!" to my students many, many times. When my friends tell me I'm articulate and eloquent, I feel like it's the highest praise. But this is one of those times when words are escaping me, and the complexity of their usage is leaving me confused. 

What's the correct word for feeling both blessed and overwhelmed? For feeling happy and sad at the same time? For feeling blessed with not one, not two, but three jobs I love (motherhood, teaching, and teaching dance) and sometimes, they all drive me crazy? Some days, I feel like I can decompress - but what's the difference between decompression and depression?

There are a million blogs and articles that outline the roller coaster of motherhood: the incredible highs, the crushing lows, and all the minutiae in between. But what about the flashing speed with which things change? What is it called when your day swoops and whooshes, and sometimes crashes? Then there's a peaceful lull…until the next turn? You can practically hear the clattering of the car as it click-click-clicks up the incline.

At the risk of sounding overly metaphorical (who, me?) I will offer some real-life verbal snapshots that all happened in one day, and maybe you can make something out of them:

• The window I thoughtfully left open for cool air turned my bedroom into a freezer.
• The sweet son who breaks into a run to hug me when I come home became a needy koala  encircling my neck. He will not allow me to put him down, and literally curls up his feet and howls when I try to put him on any surface.
• My darling daughter makes me a beautiful picture with markers. It's heartfelt and detailed and precious - and in Sharpie marker that has seeped through to the couch.
• The skinny jeans I was so happy to fit into are now too big at the waist and are continually snaking down my hips. While this is a positive thing, it means I spend more time hitching up my jeans than a cowboy. I have not the time, money nor energy to purchase new ones at this point. Yee-haw. 

This isn't the first time that I have had a tough time finding a word to ; when I was pregnant with my son, my husband called to ask what he should pick up from the store. The exchange went like this:

          "So what do you need, Marls?"

          "Um, you know, the stuff? For the morning?"

          "No, can you be more specific?" 

          "You know, the stuff that you put on the thing…(gesturing pouring with one hand while holding the cell in the other)"

          "I honestly have no idea what you are talking about."

          "The STUFF, Pete! It's white? You put it on the cereal!"

          "Um, (chuckle) 'milk'?"

          "Yes."

I have a degree in Linguistics, but trying to come up with the word "milk" was like trying to pick up an ancient, crumbling file from a dusty file cabinet. I'll blame baby-brain for that incident.

Fortunately, my word-blockage isn't contagious. In fact, while I seem to be at a loss for words (or at least the correct ones), John Sawyer's long-awaited "language explosion" is taking place; he is stringing words and ideas together faster than he ever has before, and they happen to be hilarious. The other day, after I had smooched on his rosy cheeks, I told him, "John John, you're delicious!"

          "No, YOU de-la-la, Mama!"

          "John John, YOU'RE de-li-cious!

          "Mama, YOU de-la-la!"

And on it went. Two days later, out of the blue, while driving in the car, I heard his little voice peep up.

          "Mama?"

          "Yes, buddy?"

        "YOU de-la-la!" followed by fits of baby laughter, which might be the sweetest sound in the world.

So maybe the answer is a word I haven't learned yet. Maybe it's not paradox, parallel, dichotomy or contradiction. Maybe it's not a word, it's a feeling - a wave that rolls out and back in with regularity.

Tonight, I will leave you with the truest words ever spoken by my daughter: "Mommy, I still love you, even when you're mean."

Sigh…and the wave rolls out.

First Grade

We did so many things this summer: went on adventures near and far, saw many (but never enough) friends, and, most importantly, made memories and milestones. Em learned to swim underwater, John Sawyer learned to squeak, shriek and demand "Beppa Bee - snork" which is his way of asking to watch his Peppa Pig video. (The animated piglet enthusiastically announces 'I'm Peppa Pig' and then snorts the way we do when we've laughed too hard, and hearing John's version of this in his baby voice is hilarious. But I digress.)

Anyway, it was a summer of firsts in a lot of ways: the first time we went on a sailboat together, the first time we went peach picking with John, the first time we went on the Swan Boats together, the first summer with our new-to-us swingset and new pirate boat in the yard.  John Sawyer had his second birthday party, but it was his first party that he didn't share with his sister.

And mostly, I was first in command. Don't get me wrong, my husband is a present parent. But like most teacher-parents, we get used to our summer rhythm as the other parent trots off to work, and we become first in command. I am the one that plans the day, makes the meals, cleans the messes and kisses the boo-boos. I am the one who cuddles the Elmo doll, wraps American Girl in her blanket, and picks the snacks for the road. I am the one who packs the bags, brings the extra diapers, wipes and outfits, and remembers the chargers for the various electronic devices that give me a little peace in the car. I am the one who digs under the carseat for the source of the mysterious scent (once it was an apple slice, once a fried clam. Not kidding.) 

Toward the end of the summer, being first was getting taxing. Some days, my calls to my husband increased throughout the day with frequency and frantic undertones. Some days, I couldn't wait to pass the baton when he got home. On those hot summer nights, I would hop in the car, turn up the radio, drive to Target (aka Mom Mecca) and wander the aisles, blissfully alone. Strolling through the store, I could shed the heavy Mommyness of the day, and regain a little of myself. Some days it felt like the summer would never end. Some days, I missed the structure and routine of the fall, and I could feel my hands reaching forward to turn that calendar page.

But it wasn't just the routine of stay-at-home-motherhood that was wearing on me; it was the kids' burgeoning independence. Some days, the kids really pushed their limits. John Sawyer, in an attempt to recreate everything he sees his sister do, went down the slide for the first time, alone. The combination of his wet swimsuit and his chubby little bum made him zoom much faster than either of us anticipated, and he landed a foot from the base of the slide, shocked and crying, reaching his arms to me. Em, in an attempt at newfound confidence, decided to step further into the cold water at Hampton Beach despite my warnings, and a wave knocked her over. She was startled, but stubborn, and kept insisting, "I'm FINE, Mama," even though I could see she was scared. So many little firsts, as they test themselves, and me. 

But tonight...

Tonight, my first born and I are wearing matching pajamas with our names on them, right below a giant pink heart. Tonight, Em went to sleep a former kindergartener, and will wake up a first grader. My melancholy, emotional heart is so proud of the little girl she is: sweet, smart, beautiful, brave and curious. I hope her first day is exciting and fun, and that it goes by so fast.  So many of her firsts already have, and while I look forward to every one of them, and while I know I have to let my children grow up, I hope they will always reach back for me. And I promise I won't mind not being first.

For What It's Worth

Sometimes, judging the value of something is impossible, and the question, "Was it worth it?" is just plain ridiculous. 

We all know that those treasured photos of friends, lovers and relatives that are no longer with us (either from relationships deceased or defunct) are worth more than diamonds. And the little surprise compliment given to us on the day we feel particularly low can make our day. When I was pregnant with my son and feeling especially balloon-sized, a former, now deceased, colleague told me I looked "radiant," and he paused and smiled before saying, "You've got that glow," and it literally made me beam. 

Those are obvious treasures, like the chipped dishes we may save from our first apartment, the tarnished keychains from high school proms, the tiny clothes from our kids' first days and the like. Yes, those things have a "worth," right?

But yesterday I made a grave error in judgment. I let John take a late nap. And the aftermath was hell. 

Honestly, the whole reason for the late nap is one that all of us as parents can relate to: I let John Sawyer take a late nap because I was tired. Me. I was dead. After a full day with the kiddos that included the building of multiple cities in multiple formats (blocks, Duplo Legos and the "real"/small Legos) the three of us headed out in search of fun and went to two different parks. In the words of Sissy Spacek as Loretta Lynn in "Coal Miner's Daughter," I was "about ready to die." So when John Sawyer fell asleep in his carseat on the way home, covered in ice cream, I carried his sweet and sticky self up to his room and let him snooze. I thought it would be "worth it." I was so wrong!

At first, I didn't realize how late it was. But as the clock struck 6 and his Royal Chubbiness showed no sign of waking up, I sent in the big guns, also known as Big Sister. If anyone can get him to budge, it's her.

No such luck. On he snored. And I let him. Because I was wiped out too. Some small part of me hoped he was exhausted enough to sleep all night - or maybe wake up around 5 a.m. 

But it was a nightmare. Somewhere between 7:30 and 8, as Em drifted off to slumber, John woke up angry and fretted and cried, snacked and snarked and cried some more. It's as though he knew it was late, but was frustrated because Daddy and Mimi weren't around. He wanted to play, but was falling over because he was still so exhausted, but couldn't bring himself to submit to sleeping again. Somehow I thought he'd go back to sleep around 10, or maybe even 11 (horrors) but that I'd be able to settle into a late-night Housewives marathon and chill out. No way.

We changed his pjs. We watched a little Peppa Pig. We had a little snack. We sat on the porch swing, which usually chills him out. We went through that cycle of 

• snuggle him and rock him and put him down while he's practically sleeping
• silently creep out the door with exaggerated steps like a cartoon
• wait for him to cry, and listen as the cries turn to shrieks, tell myself he'll fall back asleep
• when he doesn't, let him cry it out for 15 minutes until my actual heart breaks and I have to pick him up again 

Repeat. Repeat. Repeatrepeatrepeat until almost 1:30 a.m.

Let me be clear; John Sawyer isn't a bad sleeper; on the contrary, he's been a dream baby since the beginning (which makes up for Em's projectile vomiting and general sleeplessness for her first five months). But age 2 is bringing a lot of changes, and we're all still adjusting to them.

"Worth," gets recalculated all day - the lollipop that you know is impending tooth decay on a stick is worth it when you need to finish that conference call in the car. The rules you make for yourself as a parent or as an adult can go right out the window.

Today I feel hungover and hellacious. All the MAC concealer in the world can hide these bags but a green tea might help. And if the kids are going to be parked in front of the tv, for a bit, it'll be worth it.

Happy birthday, little one!

Dearest John Sawyer,

Two years ago yesterday, I couldn't wait to see you, and your extra day on the inside was both a blessing and a challenge, because I wanted to meet you so much! And then two years ago today, I got my wish, and I remember every detail about it. That day will be imprinted in my mind, if I am very lucky, until I am very, very old. In another letter, I have written you all the details of that day so you can read it with your loved ones. But if it's one thing you have taught me, little one, it's to live for today. And today...

Today, you wake up happy and sing your self to sleep.

Today, you come crashing at me around corners and smash yourself against for me for a powerful surprise hugs.

Today, you say, "I don'knooooow" and hold your little palms to the sky.

Today, you can say, I'm "two" but the "two" sounds more like the "tu" in "tutu" and you usually hold up a few fingers. Sometimes two of them, sometimes three of them.

Today, you proudly shout out the letters that you know when you see them. "H" is your favorite. We don't know why.

Today, you are crazy about apples, apple sauce, and especially apple juice! You ask for " Mama-appa -juzh-bu-Emma-cuh-peeezh?" every morning, which translates to, "Mama, apple juice in my blue Elmo cup, please?"

Today, you love Elmo so much that your entire birthday party is themed around him.

Today, you do a happy dance when you see cookies, leaping from one little foot to the other, and you say "Mmmmmmmmm!" when you get one. You love graham crackers and oreos.

Today, you 'dance" by throwing your elbows back and swinging them. You love dancing, probably because your sister does too.

Today, you love your sister so fiercely that you want to be just like her (again, an admirable choice) though you forget she is nearly six, and you, just two. For example, yesterday, we went for our first sail, and since Emerson took a dip (well, a half dip - the Maine waters were colder than Hampton, and that's saying a lot) you squealed until you dipped your little chubby feet off the side as well. You admire her, you follow her, and you though you both drive each other a little crazy, when I watch you together, my heart grows. I am so happy you have each other to share life with.

Little one, little son, I hope you always feel the love that surrounds you, today and always. You have made me so happy and I wish that same happiness to you every day, today and always. Thank you for being the sparkle in my eyes.

Happy, happy second birthday, my darling son!

Love,

Mommy

Have You Heard?

First, let's start with the backstory: I have bionic hearing. I hear everything, all the time. I hear people whispering in line behind me, I hear all the squeaks and shrieks (thank you, John Sawyer) in my house in the middle of the night, I hear the incredibly subtle underlying soundtracks in movies (heartbeats, mellow rainfalls, and geographically accurate birdcalls) even. I hear my students whispering in the back row of my class and, unfortunately, the subjects they are whispering about, and though they test me at times, I always catch them. I hear it all. 

In one of the great ironies of my life, my husband is slightly hearing impaired, while I am particularly sensitive to noise. We like to joke that, when we are very old, my eyesight will be gone, he won't be able to hear anything and we'll toddle around together. He'll tell me I look beautiful even though I've applied lipstick to my eyebrows, and I'll completely misquote poetry to him and he'll smile in agreement. We like to think we'll balance each other out.

But sometimes my auditory gift is just too much - it can be distracting and annoying. At parties, I hear conversations happening simultaneously on both sides of the room. John's endless renditions of "Elmo's Song" are endearing, but become grating very quickly. And when Emerson plays video games on the iPad, it sounds like they're happening on my shoulder. 

Lately, however, Emerson, age 5, has been saying she "didn't hear me" say certain things. Yet I know her hearing is perfect. 

"I didn't hear you, Mommy!"

Mommy ain't buying it.

I know that 5 is a distractable age, but at the risk of sounding melodramatic, her words seem particularly manipulative as ours is a semi-hearing-impaired household, so my husband's actual inability to hear her sometimes does not equal Emerson's choice to deliberately ignore my words. 

Yes, I can understand how she "didn't hear me" when I was on the phone with my boss, when I surreptitiously asking her to stop leaping on a sheet of bubble wrap, gesturing silently and wildly for her to cut it out whilst the bubble wrap emitted pops that sounded like gunfire. 

And yes, perhaps she "didn't hear me" when I asked her to get a diaper for me as I chased her mid-potty-training brother, who was also in medias poop and left a package on my bathroom floor. And her bedroom floor. And his bedroom floor. 

Maybe she didn't hear me when I asked her to quit squirming in her chair at breakfast at the risk of  knocking over my life force Starbucks unsweetened green iced tea and John Sawyer's bowl of Cheerios and sliced peaches. Both were full and untouched. John Sawyer cried just a little more than I did.

But when I warned her about throwing a foam cube backwards over her head at the trampoline park, and she "didn't hear me" and gunned a stranger in the face with said cube, I had HAD IT. Immediately after the cube-in-face moment and subsequent apologies, I informed Em she was tv/iPad/iPod/computer free for the day. 

"Are you listening, Em? I told you not to throw that cube, and you heard me and did it anyway. Luckily that nice lady wasn't hurt, but you lost all of your privileges today. No devices."

"I heard you, Mommy."

I expected to hear grumbling all the way home. I expected to hear her cry at the injustice of being taken to task. Here is what I have heard instead; I have heard my daughter:

• Singing dozens of songs on-key (which is a genetic mystery) while playing with her dolls 
• Creating multiple drawings for all family members
• Reading four books aloud
• Building an elaborate railway system for her napping brother
• Making a list of menu options for the upcoming week
• Generating a Christmas wish list and belting out holiday songs with new words

Now that's what I like to hear. 

In addition to being a Gold Medalist in the Hearing Olympics, I also tend to be a perfectionist. I want things to be done completely, thoroughly, and hopefully, with a little bit (or a lot) of enthusiasm and style. I am  used to my students listening (or pretending to listen) when I teach. So maybe my expectations are a little high. Coupled with the onset of summer, and with it, my idyllic dreams of fun days with my kids, maybe my expectations skyrocket. Like most teachers, I want to pack each day with as much fun, laughter and excitement as possible, so I can reach back for these happy days when I'm up to my ears in college recommendations and work obligations, and take a sip from them like they're a nice, relaxing glass of wine. With that being said, I'm afraid I may turn into Chevy Chase in vacation when he informs his kids, that they're "On a quest...a quest for fun!" and well, here's the rest: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=makeONYZfXM

I want to give my kids happy experiences, for their own memories as well as my own. And like all quests, sometimes we get lost along the way, but we discover something else pretty cool. Sometimes things backfire - in a perfect way. Sometimes, you just have to listen.

Week in Review: Neat and Complete? Oh, but no.

As I get older, I am aware of my affection for things that are “neat and complete.” Like the perfect card that gets mailed on time, the playdate that goes by smoothly, and the laundry that is washed, folded and put away. These days, completion seems to bring me a satisfaction that has no parallel.

On Thursday, I had such a day – I completed the in-text vocabulary list of a 500+ page summer reading book that I’ve never taught before, ordered new textbooks and finished some administrative tasks connected to my new position, and, in an attempt to make my health and fitness a priority, saw my terrific nutritionist who is really helping me to turn my diet around. On my way home from my appointment with her, I stopped at a farm stand and, inspired, bought tons of fresh fruit and veggies that we all enjoyed that day.  We swam, had showers and a nice dinner, and went to bed happy and exhausted. 

Neat and Complete, right?  Evidently the duration is only about twelve hours. Because the last day and a half has been a mess.

Yesterday I was preparing for my parents’ 44^th wedding anniversary, which is also my dad’s birthday. I planned to write something cute on one of the slates my husband keeps in the basement, pose the kids for a little photo on the porch swing (while strategically leaving out the windowsills that have been scraped down for our next home project – trim painting). On my quest for chalk, I headed to the garage and stepped on a silver of glass that lodged itself in the pad of my left foot and I almost went through the ceiling.

After trying to dislodge it myself with tweezers, a hot shower, and a lot of prayer, I called my dad to watch the kids while I headed to Winchester Hospital (where they’re masters of delicately removing things – they once extracted a fake Styrofoam sparkly berry from a shoplifted Christmas ornament Em stuck up her nose when she was three). ANYWAY, plucking out glass is a lot more intricate that it sounds; I had an x-ray, lots of paperwork, and a genius nurse named Allison who took it out in less than two minutes.  Thank God. But in the midst of all this, I forgot a hair appointment, missed a barre class, and managed to piss off both of my kids so they decided to fight with each other all day.

After the glass in foot disaster yesterday, I thought today would be simpler. It was not. Much like an unfinished play that constantly begs for revision, my life is messier by the minute. I will spare you all of the gory details, but here's a small plot outline. If I tell it in third person, it's easier to laugh about it:

Setting: LuluLemon dressing room

Cast: MARLA, filled with newfound confidence and excitement to buy workout clothes, her daughter EMERSON, her son JOHN, and his overflowing DIAPER

Plot summary: After trying on a few items, MARLA lifts JOHN out of his stroller to give him a snuggle and realize his entire stroller is full of poop, as the DIAPER has somehow disintegrated. 

EMERSON (horrified, shouting): OH NO! THERE IS POOP EVERYWHERE - IT'S DISGUSTING! JOHN, THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE! YOU ARE SO GROSS!

JOHN giggles in response.

SALESGIRL (knock knock): Is everything okay in there, Maria?

MARLA: Um, it's MARLA, actually, and I think we have everything under control. Thank you.

There is absolutely no conceivable way that the recovered wood dressing room doors provide any protection against the stench emanating from the usually sweet JOHN. MARLA digs all the wipes out of the package in the back of the stroller, changes JOHN into an outfit she originally intended to return, and tried to recover some dignity on the way out the door while smuggling a plastic bag full of refuse, including the malfunctioning DIAPER under her arm.

...and scene.

For Good

In a reflective moment of post-graduation melancholy, I have been listening to “For Good” from the Broadway musical “Wicked” in various forms. The original cast version (Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenowith) is incredible, and the crush I developed on Anna Kendrick after “Pitch Perfect” is only escalated her performance with Kristin Chenowith here  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEdnIvnCko8 

It’s an ode to growing and outgrowing each other, and it’s perfect for us as teachers, who, if we are very lucky, are told that “we change lives.” But if we are very, very lucky, we are changed ourselves.

I've heard it said,

That people come into our lives

For a reason

Bringing something we must learn.

And we are lead to those

Who help us most to grow if we let them.

And we help them in return.

Well, I don't know if I believe that's true

But I know I'm who I am today

Because I knew you.

…

It well may be

That we will never meet again

In this lifetime.

So, let me say before we part:

So much of me

Is made of what I learned from you.

You'll be with me

Like a handprint on my heart.

And now whatever way our stories end

I know you'll have rewritten mine

By being my friend.

…

Who can say if I've been changed for the better

But because I knew you.

I have been changed for good.

It’s melodramatic to say that every student changes our lives, but they exist for me in groups. TrevorMaddieMaxAileen exist for me as one beautiful, intelligent, intertwined conglomerate. CeciliaAmyPaige were truly the beating heart of the dance program this year. I could go on and on, but I will keep it simple: I thank them for a terrific year, and I certainly have been changed by their energy, enthusiasm, and exuberance.