The mitzvah of tushy-shmushing

This morning, when I finished packing lunches and fixing breakfast, Asher was still asleep, well into the slow-wave sleep stage of his NREM cycle.  I needed to get him out of bed, dressed and fed within 15 minutes in order to catch the bus.  I tried lifting his blinds to let the sun wake him naturally and without human intervention.  He didn’t even flinch.  I tried peeling his covers back to liberate the trapped body heat and make way for a refreshing slap of cool, morning air. Nothing.  “Asher,” I whisper-sang.  “time to get up!”

I had no other choice but to go for bare bottom.   The recent heat wave has forced the otherwise acutely modest child to undress (under his sheets) and experience the freedom of nudity.  Unfortunately for him, my need to adhere to a schedule in the morning borders on compulsive, and his small, round tush is adorable bordering on irresistible.  His bum didn’t stand a chance.  From a young age, Asher has understood the long-standing tradition of tushy-shmushing amongst our people.  It's practically a mitzvah.  I grabbed his tushy and squeezed until he woke up laughing.

I have vivid memories of my grandmother’s visits.  When I was a little girl, she would sit down beside me and use her pincer clawed nails painted red and shellacked in acrylic to grab hold of the meager amount of flesh on my tush.  She was satisfied only when I let out a high-pitched yelp and then she'd laugh and ask, “Do you know that I love you?”  “YES!  YES!” I swore earnestly hoping she wouldn't doubt me and attack again.  I could feel the sting of her pinch long after she released me and fully expected to find a bruise on my rear after she left.  I had to stare at the afflicted zone for minutes “on end” incredulously registering that she left no marks.  “At least she doesn’t try to kiss you with her tongue like my nanna,” my friend said to me after I had grumbled about my grandma’s painful demonstration of affection.  I had to admit that I’d rather get a pinch on the tush than tongue in my mouth, so I didn’t complain after that.

I think about my grandmother’s ferocious love when I grab my kids’ tushes.  I realize in that moment when I’m reaching for their small bums that I’m not in control of my actions.  That, like my grandmother, I’m incapable of suppressing that Jewish mother’s reflex to take hold of those buns and squeeze. “Uch, I love this tushy!” I say in an enthusiastic voice I can hardly believe is mine.  For a moment, I consider the fact that the boys may not appreciate Mom’s attention to their tushes.  Only for a moment.  I can’t stop myself.  They are so round and soft and squishable like a stress ball toy but infinitely cuter, and no stress ball giggles or squeals after a loving clench.

I think about the day that Asher says, “Mom.  You really have to stop grabbing my tush.  I know it will be soon.  He is 8 ½, after all.  But I can’t help imagine that he’ll wait to initiate this quiet word with me right before his Bar Mitzvah--literally as in, “Mom, I need to read my haftorah now.  Let go.”  I hate to think that my tushy-shmushing days are almost over.

Maybe I should have cut myself off by now.  I’m sure there will be all sorts of vigilantes scrolling the interwebs looking for pervy behavior and calling foul because they don’t understand the wholesome, motherly love of tushy-shmushing.  Who’s to say if or when such behavior becomes inappropriate? The rules of tushy-shmushing are as nebulous and subjective as are the rules of breast-feeding older children and family bath time. For the record, we do have a family safe word that protects us all from torturous tickle sessions or rough-housing gone wild or any activity that becomes uncomfortable.  If anyone, grown up or child uses the word KAZOO, we must instantly stop whatever we were doing.  I’ll confess that the boys use it just as often to stop Mom or Mommy from crossing the line as we do with them.  “In our house,” Asher often reminds us, “you must respect KAZOO.”

Ultimately, it’s none of anyone else’s business if, when and how often we engage in tushy-shmushing as long as we are not damaging our children.  As far as I can tell, I haven’t yet left any marks.

Clearly an invitation for some shmushing!

Advice for my Fight Club children

I got home late last night after spending some time with some lady-friends.  Gabriella greeted me in the kitchen with that evening’s report.  "Your sister called.  And I successfully unwound the balloon string from the ceiling fan in Levi’s room.  Also, Asher couldn’t sleep and read books until about 10pm."  Shit, I thought.  He’s going to be toast tomorrow.

Asher is one of those kids who is profoundly impacted by lack of sleep.  He is anxious as it is, but adding lack of sleep often times results in a freak out at some point in the day that resembles a David Banner-to-Incredible Hulk transformation that cannot be mitigated.  He is inconsolable until his emotional spike has run its course and he’s left whimpering in a corner after much crying and yelling and nose running. 

I muttered a silent prayer to no one in particular that the next day would go smoothly and that I wouldn’t hear from his teachers instructing me to please collect him from school due to his monumental melt-down.  Then I proceeded to stay up, drink a cup of tea, make my lists for the next day, play on the computer for a spell and unwind…until too-late-o’clock.

This morning, Asher woke up without my help, which I considered miraculous when I usually have to resort to all sorts of loud and lovingly violent measures to get him out of bed.  He seemed completely refreshed, but I spoke to him gently and carefully just in case I might trigger a mood swing.

I busied myself in the kitchen making breakfast, assembling lunches and packing the backpacks looking forward to the minute I could unload the boys and have a quiet moment to myself.  I threw out another prayer that Asher would be ok today and then I thought I’d prepare him for the inevitable.

“Asher, I want to tell you something.  Try to listen and think about it.  You don’t have to respond or argue with me.  Just listen ok?”

“Mmm hm.”

“You know you stayed up really late last night reading?”

“Mmm hm.”

“I’m really glad that you are enjoying all your books, but you probably don’t realize how tired you are today.  You might not even feel tired until later.”

“I don’t feel tired.”

“I know.  And you might not feel tired all day.  Or, you might get a little sleepy later, and when we are tired, sometimes we get cranky and things bother us that don’t usually bother us when we’re not tired.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Ok, can you try not to argue with me for a second and just think about what I’m saying?”

“When you say ‘a second,’ you don’t really mean one second, do you?”

“No, Asher, I don’t.  That’s just an expression meaning for a short bit of time.  Can you listen now?  I’m trying to tell you something that might help you today.  If something upsets you today, I want you to try to take a deep breath and remember that you might be tired and that …”

“I am not tired.”

“CAN YOU JUST LISTEN TO ME WITHOUT INTERRUPTING OR ARGUING WITH ME?!?  CAN YOU DO THAT JUST ONE TIME?  I’M TRYING TO HELP YOU HERE!!”

And then I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I might be tired and that things would probably bother me today that don’t usually bother me.

“Sorry, Asher.  I think I’m tired, too.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Right.”

I took him to the bus stop, drove Levi to preschool and sat down to consider my mood and my actions and how I had benefitted from my own advice.  I realized at that moment that much of my advice is just as appropriate for me as it is for them.  I could see now that my children were like little mirrors reflecting all of my many flaws.  Or maybe they weren't even there at all.  Maybe my children are actually the Fight Club version of myself, and I needed to pummel their/my shortcomings out of them/me until I could reconcile my fully realized self...

...then I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I might be tired.  And after that, I thought of the nuggets of wisdom I’ve imparted onto my children that would in all fairness behoove me to take on board.

To my inner Asher:

• What you call managing expectations, other people call having a negative attitude.  Don’t be such a Deborah Downer. 

• The world will not implode if you are late for an appointment.  Relax.

• While I recognize that you are a fidgety person who needs to be doing something with your hands all the time, picking your nose is impolite and unhygienic.  Don't do it.  Or at least, try not to get caught doing it. 

• You have a lot of amazing ideas for inventions.  You need to write them down and get help with patents.  (I have witnesses who will testify that I came up with the idea of the iced bra years before it was invented in Japan when my menopausal friends kept opening up our refrigerator and to cool down while complaining about hot flashes and sweaty boobs.)

   

To my inner Levi:

• Try not to confuse hunger and boredom.  Get out of the kitchen, and go do something!

• While some people find you entertaining, you may forget where the line is and cross it occasionally.  You need to be more aware of your audience and think before you speak.

• I realize that just about everything you find is special in its own way, but that doesn’t mean you have to hold on to every leaf, marble or piece of fuzz.  There is joy in de-cluttering your surroundings.  And if you can’t do that, at least make sure your pockets are empty before you put your jeans in the laundry.

• If you’re feeling sluggish and needy and require more hugs than usual, you probably need to poop.  Go grab a book and take a minute for yourself.

I'm sure my list will expand now that I'm painfully aware of my transference tendencies, but this is a good starting point.  I'm sure the boys will inspire more rules of Fight Club over time...if not later today.

Mazal Tov, Marscilla!

Had I been sitting with my mother when the news first hit that Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan had wed, she would have immediately exhaled a disgusted sigh and lamented the state of the Jewish people.  It was the same when Steven Spielberg married Kate Capshaw.  “At least his first wife was Jewish,” she said desperately trying to find the loophole that would allow her to still worship the man who brought our people Schindler’s List.   It didn’t matter that Kate converted to Judaism.  Converts weren’t real Jews, my mother said.  Abraham, Sarah and Ruth would have been thrown out of the game according to her rulebook.  I was grateful not to be in her presence that day.

My mother could not bear the thought of intermarriage for a multitude of reasons ranging from understandable to highly questionable.  She feared the demise of our people.  She berated those selfish children who stabbed their parents in the heart.  She wondered what kind of example these famous celebrities were setting for our Jewish youth.  She was sure that every non-Jew was inherently anti-Semitic.

Mostly, I ignored her.  I didn’t enjoy a very positive Jewish experience when I was growing up.  I knew a Judaism that was oppressive, rigid and hateful. By the time I went to college, Judaism and I were not friends. But with a name like Deborah Goldstein, it was difficult to completely negate my Jewish self. 

Once out of my childhood house, I met Jews who shared with me their happy memories of ritual and holidays and Jews who found supportive community amongst other Jews.  What I discovered was that our history, culture, traditions and of course our sense of humor connected us all to each other in a very specific way regardless of our concept of God or our degree of religious observation.  I found different flavors of Judaism, and some were quite tasty. 

I don’t believe that people are kinder or more charitable or smarter just because they’ve studied Torah.  But when someone from my tribe does something good, I kvell a little bit.  Just the other day, I felt all warm and fuzzy when local ophthalmologist, Dr. Bernard Spier, became one of the first doctors in New Jersey authorized to recommend medical marijuana to patients.  A nice Jewish boy who went to Brandeis! 

When I met Gabriella, then a non-practicing Catholic, I made it very clear that I would raise my unborn Jewish children in a Jewish home.  She opted in.  When I think about the partners our boys will find – assuming they will find someone special eventually – I catch myself secretly (and now not so secretly) hoping that they find someone Jewish or at least someone who will want to maintain a Jewish home and raise Jewish children. 

It’s not about wanting them to find their own kind or avoid anti-Semitism or fulfill any religious obligation.  It’s a mom-thing.  You know, did I help make memories that were so happy and meaningful that they want to recreate their childhoods in their own homes?  It’s a twisted form of validation, I guess.  Ultimately, I want our sons to be happy and fulfilled in their lives even if Judaism does not factor into the equation.  Of course, they’ll still be expected home for the holidays with whomever they call family.  How could they resist when Gabriella will be cooking?

I don’t care if Mark Zuckerberg believes in God or if he ever sets foot in a synagogue again.  I do hope that Mark is proud of his history and the people who paved the way and provided him with the foundation from which he could excel. I’m certainly proud to claim him as one of our own. 

Mazal Tov, Marscilla!

Doggone it!

Five in the past 4 months.  They fell without a fight like sorority girls at their first frat party.  Some swore they would never, and for others, it was just a matter of time.  I wasn’t prepared. 

I tried to put myself in their shoes – tried to understand and not judge.  It could be that they were bored – children getting older and going off to school full-time – at home talking to themselves in desperate need of love.  Need of purpose.  But no matter how I tried to frame it, I couldn’t help feel like everyone around me had opted into an epidemic.

Dogs.  Suddenly everyone around me has a new dog.  Everyone meaning at least 5 families but all in the past 4 months.

They show up with their puppy or their rescue dog at Tae Kwon Do and the soccer field and at preschool and all the children and moms and dads and au pairs gather around the new members of the family as the proud parent holds tightly to the umbilical cord leash.  There is much squealing as the masses close in around the dog to gently stroke the soft puppy fur and coo in floppy puppy dog ears.

“Who’s a good girl?”  “Aren’t you a pretty puppy?” “You like that right under the chin, don’t you?”  “I had a puppy just like this one when I was growing up.  My neighbor poisoned him, and I found him in the bushes when I got home from school.” 

But mostly the comments are sweet drops of happy drizzled all over a big scoop of affection.

I’ve been avoiding the crowds and mumbling to myself to drown out the bathetic, gurgles.  I find something else to do to refocus.  There must be a text I have to send.  Surely, someone has posted essential news on Facebook.  I must avert my eyes from the plush toys come to life and turn my heart to stone.

The problem is I love dogs. I do.  Even worse, Gabriella and the boys want a dog. 

Levi is obsessed with dogs.  I’m pretty sure that he was a dog in a previous life.  He loves dirt.  He could play in dirt for hours – no exaggeration.  For a good part of his toddlerhood, he ate face-first in his plate without ever acknowledging utensils or appreciating the miracle that is the opposable thumb.  He is the friendliest being I’ve ever known, rolling down the window of the car to greet EVERYONE he sees from our moving vehicle.  Do we still “roll down” windows that operate electronically?  Do we button down windows now?   Levi will run at his fastest pace down the block until thoroughly winded to pet any dog he spots.  Also, it should come as no surprise that Levi was born under the Chinese sign of the dog.

Asher is not so keen but he is not opposed either as long as we had a dog that didn’t bark or lick his face or jump on top of him.  His desire to have a dog ebbs and flows, yet it is because of him that I entertain the thought and because of him I’ve taken the “What kind of dog is right for you” questionnaire.  Twice.  We went and had another kid for Asher’s amusement, but Levi is more boy than dog and is not always available or willing to do Asher’s bidding.  Asher is that kid who would benefit more than any of us from a pet that offers unconditional love all day, every day.  I know this because he is, in so many ways, his mother’s son and needs a sure thing in the uncertain world around him.  I berate myself for denying him an adoring companion.

“Maybe when you’re old enough to take care of a dog,” I tease.  But I know that even if that day comes, I’m still the one taking care of that flippin’ mutt.  I’d rather have another baby than a dog.  Babies grow up and learn to go to the bathroom by themselves and eventually go to school all day and  mow the lawn…I hope. 

And what of the name?  Levi has several stuffed, toy dogs (as opposed to real, mounted and preserved in the taxidermy sense).  They are named Spot 1, Spot 2, Spot 3, etc.  I shan’t have a Spot 11.  Such pressure to find a good name when the possibilities are far greater than they are for a child.  A dog’s name can be literary or mythological or biblical or abstract or nonsensical.  I am overwhelmed at the thought of selecting a dog’s name.

I consider the investment for food and grooming and healthcare that could otherwise go to essentials like new shoes and alcohol.  I consider the hassle in planning a family getaway and the walks in the rain and snow.  I think about picking up dog poo with my hands – only a thin layer of plastic in between my person and steaming shit.    These thoughts always end in an eye-watering series of deep-throat gags, and I am born-again.  Hallelulah, we will have no dog!!

But my heart is softening.  Liquefying even as I consider the greater good.  A boy and his dog.  Two boys and their dog.  How I can I resist?  Maybe we could just get an au pair.  Deborah needs a loving companion, too. If only I could just get pregnant.  That would solve everything!

--------------------------------------

Dedicated to our childhood pet Mitzie (full name Mitzvah Goldstein) who mothered Alef (Allie pron.  AH-lee), Baise and Gimmel (the first 3 letters in the Hebrew alphabet/alef-bet) Living in a small apartment in New York, my parents gave away Baise and Gimmel.  Mitzie and Allie lived with us for 18 happy years and whose memories are a blessing.

Mitzie with 1 month old me.

My thumb and Allie protect me from that sofa!

Allie is the one on the right.

The score on Mothers' Day

The night before Mother’s Day, we went to a party.  Gabriella surprised me with my Mother’s Day gift - a gorgeously funky necklace I had spotted in a friend’s shop.  Gabriella decided to present it to me that night to wear to the party rather than wait until the next morning.   I was ready with my new necklace, my lippy and my good bra.

Alcohol, karaoke, alcohol, nibbles, raffle prizes, alcohol and also some booze.  No sweat, I thought to myself.  It’s Gabriella’s turn to take Asher to Sunday school in the morning, and I’ll be able to sleep in.  And when she leaves in the morning to take our child to Sunday school, she may fetch me a hot beverage and a bagel and set everything on a tray with the New York Times and a single flower and deliver my breakfast to me in bed. 

Before we left, I confirmed our assignments for the next day.

“So you’ll be getting up tomorrow then, right?”

She expelled a grunted affirmation, which was all I needed, and I was ready to PAR-TAY!

The night before Mother’s Day, I was a fool. 

I bargained my Mother’s Day morning away.

When we got home we paid the sitter and got ready for bed.  I should say I paid the sitter.  There are night-out rules.  Gabriella drives home.  If we have to stop for cash for the sitter, I get out of the car and make the withdrawal.  And then, I pay the sitter regardless of my state at the end of a long evening while Gabriella goes directly to bed.  These are our jobs-never to be reassigned. I've tried.  On that night, the night before Mother’s Day, I was giddy and silly and wired.  I didn’t want the night to end, so I made a deal with Gabriella.  Stay up with me, I begged, and I will take Asher in the morning.  We stayed up and … talked.

That morning, I thought to myself, She may not remember our deal.  Or even better, she may remember our deal but allow me to back out given my vulnerable state last night.  She may offer to take Asher to Sunday school because she knows in her heart that it is her turn and because she wants to show me how giving and selfless she can be on Mother’s Day.

That morning, the morning after the night before, I was a fool.

Are you really going to make me get up?  I asked with a whimper.  Yes, she answered.  And, she added, you can pick me up a coffee on your way back.   I did not argue.  I berated my tired, beaten self, made breakfast for the boys and took Asher to Sunday school.

As soon as I got home, I placed a coffee, a bagel and the New York Times Magazine on a tray and brought Gabriella her Mother’s Day breakfast in bed.  No flower.  I do have some limits.

I crawled back into bed and fell half-way asleep and dreaming weird dreams about the apron of our driveway that needs repair and a flat screen television that someone had affixed to our bedroom ceiling – most likely a result of Levi watching television at Senior Citizen Volume in the room next door.

After my failed attempt to sleep, I finally accepted that I had to get up and celebrate Mother’s Day with the boys.  It was their day, after all.  It was their day to give us gifts and receive gushing praise for their efforts and go out to eat at their favorite restaurant – the one that makes the best macaroni and cheese according to them.   

They were busting with pride as they presented their gifts.  Levi made a placemat at school decorated on both sides for each of his mothers.  At Sunday school, Asher created two booklets of coupons for each of us.  See if you can match the booklet to the mother. 

In one:  Good for watching “chopt” (Chopped). Good for playing.  Good for cooking help.  

In the other:  Good for a hug. Good for no complaining.  Good for no “fiting” (fighting). 

Mommy received a beautiful serving platter that Asher selected because it reminded him of Food Network’s Chopped.  He wanted Mommy to have a place to put her culinary creations.  Presentation is everything.   This from a boy who insists on wearing a tie to school every day – except Fridays which I have declared Casual Fridays.

Finally, after keeping our published project under wraps for what seemed like an eternity, we presented Mommy with our Snapfish photo book.  The boys flipped through the book as if they were seeing it for the first time.  Asher read the captions aloud, and Levi pointed to each picture and giggled.  Mommy tried to soak in every page though the boys were too excited to allow her to take her time.  Full disclosure, she knew she would receive a photo book.  I mean, she does read the blog, after all.  But, she did not know which photos we had selected or how we would arrange them or what the boys had to say about Mommy.  As anticipated, she cooed and kvelled and the boys were very pleased with themselves.

On balance, Mother’s Day was in the black.  There was whining and squabbling and yelling…and the boys misbehaved too.  Mostly, there was love and appreciation, and Mom and Mommy scored big on the gifts. 

After a long day preceded by a long night, I was ready for bed – but not before I revisited that balance sheet once more.  My sober self is a far better negotiator than my inebriated self, and I secured the rights to both mornings this coming weekend.   Sometimes, there is justice in the world.

Listen to this mother

Listen To Your Mother has come and gone, and as I continue to read all the recaps and peruse all the photographs, I envy the cast members in the cities waiting anxiously to perform knowing what lies ahead for them.  Break all your legs!!  …or something.

I’d love a do-over.  I’d do it again not because I would have spray blasted that rogue chunk of hair into place so that it wouldn’t hang right down the middle of my forehead like some sort of tribal face painting stripe.  And I wouldn’t do it again because I tripped over my words.  I didn’t.  I’d do it again because it was all over in a flash; too quick to savor. 

I’d do it again because the cast and crew didn’t have the benefit of getting to know each other over the course of countless rehearsals and a season of performances.  We all met twice to run through our pieces and then arrived at the JCC a few hours before show time for a sound check and primping.  After our first run through, there were sparks of forming friendships but most of us skipped out of there as soon as our session ended because we had places to go or children to mind (and I do mean mind in both senses of the word).

Maybe it was the nerves that brought us together like soldiers heading to the front, or maybe it was a product of having free time in a small space to do nothing else but yammer on.  It could be that like an obdurate lid on a jar, we had loosened it enough in our previous rehearsals to successfully twist it wide open on that day.  Whatever it was, we were connecting.  But it seemed as though we were only getting started, and I’d do it again just to get more of them.

I wish I could have been seated in the audience watching everyone laugh or gasp or sob (or gag in the case of my reading).  I couldn’t wait to break it down with my people after the show.  We talked about their favorite pieces and favorite outfits and how blown away they were by the quality of the entire production.  I filled in the gaps providing details about the cast and crew that only made my guests love everyone that much more. 

Gabriella’s two sisters came in from Queens.  Maria and Lina.  These are two women who have become family to me as much as my own siblings.  Gabriella is the youngest of the three, and her older sisters took care of her like mothers. They looked out for her while their parents, Calogero and Rosa, worked full time.  Their parents spoke very little English having emigrated from Sicily in their early 40s with their daughters, aged 11, 8 and 5 at the time.  Maria and Lina became her unofficial guardians, as their parents literally did not have the words to do the job in this English-speaking country.  Gabriella was the first in her family to graduate from college and she’d tell you that she couldn’t have done so without the support of her sisters.  That afternoon they honored me with their loving support.

Gabriella stole the spotlight in the best possible way promoting the event cross-platform, coordinating the caravan of Jersey friends and presenting me with a luscious bouquet of deep pink peonies after the show.  She laughed uproariously even though she’s heard me practice one or two…or seventeen times and recorded my piece, arms stretched up high and without shame (or concern for people behind her).  Maria and Lina sat by her side, and I could hear the three of them laughing the loudest and clapping the longest.  I was thrilled to have them in the audience, and thanks to the gorgeous pieces delivered by our amazing cast, they loved every minute of it.

See them laughing?  WHEW!

“Every time you do something like this, you gotta tell us!  We’re gonna be theyah!!”  they said like kids getting off a roller coaster shouting, “Again!  Again!”  I was so proud of everyone’s performance and proud of all the people who brought the show to life and proud of my friends who are the most loyal, loving people a girl could ever have and I was really proud of me.  Yup.  I won’t pussyfoot around it.  I did a good job, and I’m ready for more.  So, if anyone’s in the neighborhood, I’m keeping my front door open and I’ll be reciting my piece in my living room every hour on the hour.  BYOB.

MEDIA

Renzo worked the camera from the best seat in the house.

Jennifer captured our souls, and our souls looked gooood!!


CAST

Rene (Host & Emcee) bought her sass to the mic and her beautiful realness to the dressing room.  She made us feel at ease on stage, and brought out the best in all of us.  

All I have to say is "cookie jar" to my friends, and they start sniveling.  All I have to do is think of Patty, and I start smiling.  She's good people, and my friends know that when I say that about someone, it's the emmis.  (That's Yiddish for truth.)

Howard is a mensch in every way whose piece about his complicated mother resonated all too well.  (Mensch is the Yiddish way of describing a gentleman - someone you'd take home to meet your mother.)

Ilana made us laugh in the face of sacrifice and reluctantly agree that kids are worth all the tsuris.  (That would be aggravation in ... you guessed it ... Yiddish.)

We could actually smell and taste Kathy's delicious reading, and we all quietly wished for an Italian mother - at least at dinner time.

Estelle put our hopes and dreams for our daughters into a blue Tiffany box and gifted it to all of us.

Abby & Alysia showed us how the pros do it packing an emotional ride into 5 minutes.  Alysia also brought goodies and taught us how to dry our hands efficiently with one sheet of paper towel.

Eve's quiet zingers kept us laughing while she spoke the truth about the challenges of mother/daughter relationships.

Una inspired us to compose our own list of don'ts for our children so that they may never suffer the unfortunate choices we all did.  Our lists, however, were not nearly as hilarious.

Kate struck a chord with all the parents who had let children leave the nest, and we all made a mental note to hug our kids until their eyes popped out when we got home.

Cynthia's reading evoked audible sobs and was so moving that the audience almost didn't notice how hot she is.  Almost.

Kirsten.  Miss Congeniality who endeared herself to anyone with a beating heart.  To see motherhood through her eyes was like parenting on ecstasy...from what I hear.

Jonny's piece was our finale and rightly so as she artfully read the battle cry of all moms whose younger, judgy selves had no idea that this parenting gig could be so good.

BEHIND THE SCENES (and sometimes on stage, too)

Amy (Director & Cast Member).  A professional on and off stage who guided us from page to performance and courageously shared an honest & raw piece that made us all want to get up out of our seats and hug her.  But we didn't because that would have rumpled up her gorgeous dress.

My rogue chunk of hair with Holly(Associate Producer) - my sister from another mister who loves easily and is loved easily in return.

Betsy (Associate Producer).  A mighty force in a wee package who is a creative catalyst and networker extraordinaire.

Varda (Producer & Cast Member) called me with the invitation to perform and listened to me babble on about how nervous I was and grateful and excited and on and on.  Her reading about her aging mother was a gentle reminder to appreciate every day with our families.

Deb (Business Strategist) who brings marketing and creative talent together like magic.  She's the David Blaine of social media.

Ann.  Founder of this Mother-Loving Cult who pours some sweet kool-aid!

HERE is where you can get all of the bios and site links.  Have a look-see, why doncha?