I'm looking at the wall.

I am 17 years old and I have taken a sick day. Truth be told, I’m not that sick. I could definitely have muscled though it and gone to school. But, I didn’t. I stayed home. My brother is at school. My parents are at work. And I am alone. At home. It’s around 11 in the morning.  The Today Show is over and The Price is Right (circa Bob Barker and bad wooden dinette sets) is about to come on. I run up to the kitchen for a snack and notice the sun pattern on the hardwoods. I stop. I realize that I can’t remember if I have ever seen 11a.m. weekday sunbeams in the house:

“Look at how motionless everything is; see how the light comes through the drapes like that?”

 I feel excited to be still and watching the living room.

 I think to myself, “When will I see these sunbeams again?”

I feel exhilaration and vindication.

I am justified in being home. How could I have witnessed that moment of stillness if I had been in Mr. DeFeo’s English class?

15 years later, sitting quietly poses a challenge. I am almost always doing something. I am moving. I am chasing my children. Reading a book. Folding laundry. Making dinner. Typing an email. Teaching a class. Going to a class. Going for a walk. Coordinating pickups and drop offs. Breaking up sibling arguments. You get the point. And, if you are a quasi normal human being, you are likely doing the same.

You are busy. Life is busy.

Once, one of my mommy girlfriends shared a secret with me: “Sometimes, when the baby is napping and I have a moment to myself,” she said with a smile, “I sit on the couch and stare at the wall.”

“Ha!” I said, “I do the same thing.”

Of course, this kind of typically guilt ridden quality quiet time has been something I have enjoyed since pre-mommy days. I find that the guilt doesn’t rise up if I am caught up on everything I am supposed to be doing (yeah, right). Guilt makes an appearance as I am carving out silent doing nothing time when, in actuality, I have seven zillion things I should be doing.

And, what’s worse, I am reachable (and therefore accountable) 100% of the time. Information is pouring in in endless ways-like a stock ticker in my brain. Even when I am trying to shut down and breathe, the information is present and, therefore, pulling and nagging at my consciousness. My text alerts are beeping while my email is refreshing as my facebook notifications are scrolling and my tweets are tweeting. And, for me, it’s like the call of a Siren. Goddamnit, try as I might, I can’t turn my back to it.

So, even when I am trying hard to succeed at doing nothing, I am doing something.

In a recent Sunday Times business section article, Phyllis Korkki reasons, “More devices can lead to more multitasking, which, though viewed by many as a virtue, has been shown to interfere with concentration. More devices also harbor more vortexes of distraction, like Facebook, shopping sites and cute animal videos.”

I mean, seriously, how many of us even just watch TV anymore? My husband and I bounce back and forth between conversation and the show on the tube and the updates on our Iphones. Have you seen the new TVs (or do you have one) with the Facebook and Twitter applications? Or is your TV linked directly to your computer? You’re watching. You’re checking. You’re reading.

We are never really alone. Our brains are never truly quiet. And, of course, I feel guilty about that.

This year, I resolve to carve out some time for guilt- free- 11a.m.- sun- drenched- motionless relaxation.

After all, it’s not doing nothing if doing nothing is what you are doing.

How to fix a lazy husband (or how to get in your wife's pants).

Hey men, wanna know what's really sexy?
What turns me on?
What makes me wanna get the kids in bed early, shake my hair out of its sensible ponytail, and get down to crazy-like-we-just-started-dating business?

Leave your wet towel on the floor.
Pretend you don't see the laundry piled up.
Put your dirty dish next to the sink.
Or, for the sure bet, play the game that's always a hit: "I-didn't-hear-the-baby-crying-otherwise-I-totally-would-have-gotten-up".

OK men, I get it. You're tired just like us. You work long hours too. But, last I checked and thanks to the feminist movement, women are working up to a double-even triple-standard.

For you working mothers out there, the expectation is that you put in a full day at the office and then come home, get a meal on the table, spend quality time with the kids, clean up around the house, throw in a few loads of laundry, make lunches for the next day, grade some papers (if you are a teacher), send some emails (if you are anything else) and then, when all of that is done, spend some time lovin' on your husband. Make sure you are in-the-mood and you keep that sex life interesting. Oh! And make sure you look good while doing all of this. Wouldn't want to let yourself go, right?

For you stay-at-home-moms (or SAHMs for those in the know) your job is easy because you only have one: take care of the kids and the house. And do this 24 hours a day. 7 days a week. And be cheerful. And motivated. And stimulated. And fascinated. Oh! And cook three meals a day. Healthy ones. Make sure they look like something out of a magazine. And pick up the dry cleaning and the groceries and the light bulbs at Home Depot and take the dog to the vet and the kids to the doctor. And, if the kids cry during the night, get up and help them because, really, taking care of the kids is your only job. So, if the 9 month old wakes up at 3am and the almost 4 year old wants a drink of water at 5am and then the 9 month old is up for the day at 6am, that's your arena. And make sure you have the coffee made and are showered and looking SAHM sheik. Because, after all, that's your only job.

What's that men? I'm being one of those bitchy women?
I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the cheers coming from the overworked woman sitting next to you.

Today, in a moment of pure rage, I googled "How to fix a Lazy Husband" The embedded link will take you to the 3rd result (the one following countless rants from other frustrated women like me). Ms. Nina Roesner instructs us women to do 4 easy things to fix our men: Be appreciative of what he does do, Be clear and respectful, Schedule time (for him to "do his chores") and, of course, Give him more sex.

Shit! I must have googled "How to get into the head of a teenage boy".
No?
Damnit.

Couples should be a team. Being on a team means carrying your weight. If you don't carry your weight, you'll never score a goal.

So ladies, remind your man about the start of your relationship. How you both began to love one another. If you are married, remind him of his promise to you. Explain that he hasn't been helpful around the house. That, although you don't have a right to be bitchy, he doesn't have the right to behave like a child. Teenage girls are generally moody. Teenage boys are still babies. Tell him that he has no right to behave like an adolescent. Tell him you want a man.

Men, communicate your needs also. Not by leaving stuff everywhere, but by showing your wife that you are willing to work hard, too.

Screw you Nina Roesner, for perpetuating this double standard. I want an equal who is intuitive and kind.
Is that too much to ask?

Pippin

Pssst, I have a confession to make.
I am in love with what I do.
I never thought I would be, and I don't know if this kind of love lasts forever, but I know that right now, I am committed.

I recently finished working on Salem High School's production of Pippin. My colleague asked me to come on as Choreographer and Vocal Director. And, even though I can only read music (can't really play piano), we were able to find a workaround in the form of a program called Rehearscore. This computer program allows me to transpose, edit and insert vamps, adjust tempo, isolate vocal parts-all with a double click or two.

Amazing.

Even more amazing is the fact that I did this work with my two children.  Every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, some form of my little troupe and I would file into SHS with bags and snacks and strollers. I would begin packing for the rehearsal the evening before. I made an attempt to anticipate every need. Zachary had a toy box full of stickers and play dough and cars and books and animals that he kept on site. I made crockpot dinners since arrival home was during witching hour of 5:15 (with two hungry, often exhausted, children). We would arrive at school at 1:45 (45 minutes before rehearsal would begin) so that I could feed Zoe and put her to sleep. She got very used to napping in a auditorium full of voices and music. Zach would run around the stage and await the arrival of his friends (15 and 16 and 17 year olds who adopted him for a few months). He sat on the bare set, opened his lunchbox, and drank sippy cups full of milk while munching apples or cookies or cheese and crackers. He listened for the 2:10 bell, awaiting banging doors and students filing into the dusty auditorium.  At about 2:30, I would hand my little ones off to a sweet student who was willing to babysit on site, and Zachary and Zoe would watch mama and her students dance and sing.

I was so afraid that the arrangement wouldn't work out. I was terrified that the director, my good friend, would resent me for having to divide attention. I was nervous the students wouldn't take me seriously if I occasionally had to teach dance with a 5 month old perched on my hip. I was overwhelmed with the work the choreography involved. The intricacy of the music. The needs I felt I had to meet.

That I wanted to meet.

And then I started and realized that this is the work I am meant to do. Really, the work that I am drawn to do. I love teaching English. I love the feel of the classroom and the nuances of text and the frustration and fascination of students. But teaching theater lights me up. The old 16 year old Sara comes back and I get giggly and energized and inspired. What the students don't know is that no one has changed. Nothing has changed. Facebook and technology and new drugs and new temptations can't change props and stage dust and the feel of working together to create a few moments, a few hours, of magic. It is the same feeling when I was a high school senior in 1997 as it is in 2011. It's heady and it's intoxicating.

Please know that I know I'm not on Broadway. I'm not trying to be anymore. The crazy thing is that I suspect the feeling is no different. When these kids succeed, I am flying. That's why the exhaustion and the planning and the coordinating is worth it. That's why my husband and my mother and my father are so willing to help. They know what this does for me. They know that I genuinely and really and truly want to be with these kids.


This reality differs from my fantasy of over 15 years ago. Once, I was going to sing and dance and act professionally. Once, I was sure it would be my life. But, as all my adult friends know, we can't see dimensionality from the perspective of an adolescent and I didn't know what life would bring, or the challenges I would face. There was a year or so at Emerson where theater wasn't healthy for me and, for a while, I swore off of it all together. Luckily, I've found it again and I'm not letting go.

Now, instead of humming old McDonald as he pushes a toy boat across the kitchen hardwoods, Zachary sings "We've got lyrical plays to play, we've got foibles and fables to portray."
Instead of requesting Raffi on the way to school, he asks for Glory.
 
The students had a show shirt specially made in his size. They taught him to play catch. They took him everywhere with them. Zoe doesn't really know what has been going on the past few months, but Zachary does and I am so happy about that. For a few months he got to watch me do something that electrifies me. He got to watch the students get excited. He watched sweat and work and laughing and joy.

He got to be a part of something.
He thought they were all stars.

Here's the secret-they are.