Mother’s Day Magnificence

I have flown the coop this weekend to shed my nursing tops and comfy jeans, and transform into a singing Diva, donning floor-length gowns, strappy heels and perhaps a touch of lipstick.  Another “Wicked Divas” concert is on the docket.

It wasn’t until yesterday when I received an “Enjoy Mother’s Day!” text from a friend, that I realized I would be spending the special day without my husband and babies.

Feeling a smidge sorry for myself, I mechanically tossed the usual concert trip items into my suitcase.. minus the ambien. (Laughing at my poor decisions never gets old if you want to have a click).

Once in the car, I opened my printed itinerary to instruct the driver at which airline to drop me.  Upon a closer look, I noticed that although Sunday’s performance is at 3 pm, I am not booked on a flight home until Monday. Annoyed, I made a mental note to contact my agent to see if this could be changed. There must, after all be a plethora of flight options late on a Sunday night out of Little Rock, Arkansas, no?

The 50 seater puddle jumper bumped through turbulent air pockets and made a jarring but successful landing.   Within 20 minutes, my red rolling suitcase and I were gliding through muggy mist to the car that would bring me to my home away from home and a long-awaited good night’s sleep.

On our way to historic downtown Little Rock, I asked the driver if this hotel was a nice one. I often ask this, my impatience making the 10 or 20 minute wait to see for myself simply not an option.

He chuckled.

Uh oh.

I have stayed in hundreds of hotels across the United states throughout the past 13 years of my performing career. Some have been lovely, some just ok, some not suitable for mice. You just never know.  The most luxurious accommodations were at the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas, also courtesy of Wicked.

Pulling up to the glass double doors at the hotel’s entrance, I was greeted by a bellman in a 3 piece suit and a top hat.  Once inside, I felt like Little Orphan Annie laying eyes on Oliver Warbucks’ mansion for the first time.

Chandeliers flickered over pristine marble floors and red velvet couches flanked candle-lit tables scattering throughout the lobby and leading to a sprawling stone staircase that wrapped around both sides of the atrium. I half expected Cinderella to appear in glowing silhouette at the top.

I was personally escorted to my room and given a tour of the suite in which I would be staying. The four cherry posts of the king-sized bed stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, cornered satin sheets and a white down comforter.   Squares of toffee lay atop the bedding.

On either side of a towering armoire stood two-floor to ceiling windows dressed in embroidered drapery.

The bathroom was large enough to be an extra bedroom itself. A jacuzzi tub sparkling in the center of the room bookended by two doors of frosted glass.  One opened to a shower with enough space to do a vigorous yoga practice.   The other, a separate toilet room fully equipped with a phone in case of a hankering for shrimp cocktail whilst relieving yourself on the porcelain throne.

The concierge gestured toward a glass of French Cabernet glowing red through the flame of a tea light resting on the table in the dimmed sitting area. She turned with a warm “Enjoy your stay, Ms. Rozek” and the door closed behind her with a click.

I stood in the center of the room, silent albeit the ache of a cello softly crying through the television speakers set on the classical music station.  I turned in slow circles, panning my surroundings. I glanced from the bathtub, to the shower, to the wine, to the bed….at a loss for which luxury to partake of first.

No longer finding it necessary to make that call to my agent to rush home sooner, I settled in and accepted the unfortunate circumstance of being forced to stay an entire three nights in this shabby shack.

So, respectfully asking Señorita Guilt to check out, I am going to bask in the luxuriousness of this weekend for which I am actually being paid.  Perhaps, although I miss my babies like crazy, spending Mother’s day, every so often, just like this was exactly what Mother Nature herself intended.

P. S.
I would love for all of you to come join me at the Capital Hotel in Little Rock, Arkansas. But as that may not be possible, I invite you to enjoy 20 or 30 minutes in a bath or a quiet candle lit room. All to yourself. You deserve it.

Happy Mother’s Day.

The Jig is Up

Before closing out of this link and joining the afformentioned “I Hate Emily Rozek club, please read to the end.

After the births of both of my children, I dropped my baby weight along with an additional ten pounds in about eight weeks. I had to buy a whole new wardrobe of smaller jeans, and I began ferociously binging on any scraps of food I could get my grabby little hands on…day and night.

I would get the shakes if I didn’t consume massive amount of sour dough bread, 15 inch loaves of French baguettes and mountainous heaps of pasta.  My husband asked a few times (before learning better),

“Really?  You’re going to eat the whole  four cheese pizza and the entire pint of Raspberry truffle Haagen Dazs ?”

He isn’t one to ever question my weight or show concern about my appearance. I think he just would have liked to enjoy a slice or two for himself, or a dollop if the rather pricey ice cream.

“Yup. I’m hungry”, I would answer, diving into a months worth of calories with a fervor.

It was true. I was hungry. All the time. But there was also a sense of giddy mischief like that of sitting at a broken slot machine as it spits out buckets of change before any casino personnel notices.

Why do I share this?  Because I want all mothers to unsubscribe and come egg my house?  No. Clearly there is more to the story.

Now, after nearly 3 and a half years of being pregnant and/or breastfeeding, with my youngest sort of weaning at 16 months, my time is up. The metabolism authorities have finally been notified of the over-indulgent habits to which I have grown accustom and are charging me…with interest.  I have gained ten pounds in one month and have no use whatsoever for a bra other than one suitable for a 13-year-old prepubescent girl.  I am slightly concerned about how much more I owe and how quickly I’ll have to pay it.

Although some may argue that I have been lucky, I must politely disagree.  Perhaps added pounds serve as a healthy reminder to keep us from getting into the unhealthy habit of eating ridiculous amounts of cheese, bread and ice cream. The invisible havoc wreaked on our bodies by junk food is much worse than what the eye can see.  I now have to retrain myself after three years of gluttony!

I believe that this is right around the time some women feel like they have their bodies back and can rip open that pre-pregnancy box of clothes.  I guess it’s the same for me.

Only, my pre-pregnancy clothes are three sizes larger than those bought postpartum.

The Jig is up.

Crap.

P. S.
All those of you who are wickedly snickering and saying “Good!”…..

I can hear you.

Don’t Mess with the Mayans

I must bravely confess that I have developed somewhat of a Facebook obsession. For someone who resisted the social media platform for quite some time, I have certainly become enmeshed it its disturbingly addictive snare.

There are some deeper reasons for this, I believe. I’m quite certain that it stems from the lack of security in our current situation that has driven me to seek out external validation in the form of “she’s adorable” comments on my daughter’s picture or a long list of “likes” above a video of my son, or on a new blog post. Yet, while I am aware of the unhealthy nature of this craving, I’m not quite ready to sober up and journey through the twelve steps. Forgive me for my weakness.

But, something occurred during these past two weeks that forced me into rehab for an excruciating, chill- inducing, and vomitous bout in the detox room. I began to notice that none of my updates were getting any attention at all. Not pictures, videos or most importantly, Motherfog blog entries.

I stated months ago, quite dramatically that I would not continue to link my entries to my page.  Some of you subscribed, most others called my bluff.  I quickly realized that 90 percent of my readers came from Facebook itself and unless I wanted to write into a void, I needed to continue to use Facebook for what it does best and self promote.

Well, normally when I link an entry, my WordPress stats page shows a considerable amount of hits in the first twenty minutes. Not that I’m checking obsessively or anything. I mean, come on. This blog is for me and me alone. It doesn’t matter how many people read and comment or don’t comment.

So naturally, It did not phase me in the slightest when I posted my last few entries and saw only a mere handful of clicks. Whatever. Who cares?  I didn’t spiral into a delusional state of believing there was a massive “event” called “Ban Emily Rozek’s Page” created by an angry mob, tired of my narcissistic Facebook usage of only posting and receiving comments while rarely leaving thoughts on the pages of others. Of course not! Only someone in need of drastic psychological assistance would come to such paranoid conclusions. Sheesh!

I did however investigate. After my breathing slowed to normal and the shaking stopped, I discovered that there has been a Facebook glitch on some accounts that has kept any updates from being fed to the home news feed. My page was among that unfortunate group.  Therefore, all posts were invisible. Well, invisible to those who don’t have post-its on their laptops or smart phones reminding them to visit Emily Rozek’s page.  Which surprisingly, is a large percentage of people.

I read through pages of threads, people’s anger and frustration steaming off the screen. I could practically hear the slamming of fists into walls as they lamented into thin air.  Complaining to Facebook personnel is as futile as posting Facebook updates to a page that is invisible to the news feed.

No one is listening.

I actually chuckled at the most brilliant social experiment I have yet to witness. I can hardly wait to find out the object of the experiment and its conclusion.  Maybe it’s all linked to December 21st, 2012.  That’s it!  The Mayans created Facebook!

I digress. Unlike many others on those threads, my problem was fixed with a reluctant adoption of Facebook’s new Timeline format, which I had been slyly boycotting.

“Ha!  I’ll show them!”, I thought. “They think they can make me switch to a stupid new layout…ha!” I say again!

Hmmmmm.

Well, they can, and they did. New Timeline it is. I need my fix.  And they know it. Don’t mess with the Mayans.

P.S.

All those who “like” or comment are enablers….and I love you.

Hope for the Conscience

I received a Facebook message from an old schoolmate of mine.  We weren’t close. She was a few years ahead of me, but I always admired and looked up to her in a way. She was gorgeous and somewhat mysterious and seemed to keep to her focus on her craft in the way I always envisioned a true artist at work.

I was truly surprised to read her message. It was an apology letter for treating me badly and an admission of insecurity and jealousy that caused such behavior. Her words touched me, and not in the way one might think.

I actually have no recollection of her treating me in any way at all (perhaps that’s what she is speaking about), but while I have always been hypersensitive to the subtle energies of others, even just passersby on the street, I never received any negativity from her. Perhaps I was too wrapped up in my own insecurities and jealousies to notice.

But, the appreciation for her letter remains, however unnecessary it may have seemed.  In a world where true human connection is becoming obsolete and therefore awareness and accountability for how we affect others is evolving out like the tail on our prehistoric predecessors, her message sparked hope in me that there are those who still look within and are convicted enough to make amends.

I tend to go overboard with such baggage, as I carry with me every slight offense for which I have been responsible; a store clerk on the receiving end of an abrupt and impatient tone, a subway passenger who was given a roll of the eyes for not moving over an inch or two, or a telemarketer calling at dinner time who possibly didn’t need to be spoken to with angry disdain while she was simply trying to make a living.  And, I’m still holding guilt over my treatment of that poor Toys R Us gentleman from our infamous beach excursion day!  (Which I might add, was one of the catalysts for the onset of this blog eight months ago.)

So, while I do take this concept entirely too far, I am relieved to know that there are others who take the business of affecting the lives of others seriously. Lately, it seems like it is perfectly acceptable for emails to go unanswered, texts to go misunderstood, and voice mails to remain unheard.

People seem to be much less willing to openly connect, bring messy and shameful feelings to the surface and hash them out.  I don’t know if this is a newly adopted trait of our society as a result of an overstock of various cyber communications, or if it’s a natural progression of weeding out stale relationships as we get older.

I do know that I have always been much more comfortable with confrontation than most.  I have questioned this quality in myself, as there have been times when it has caused more problems than it has fixed.

But, I must stand firm in my modus operandi of confronting issues head on. Often, an hour or two of face to face, honest communication, is all that’s needed to work out differences and misunderstandings and bring the relationship to a stronger place than it was prior to the issue.  That is, IF both parties are open and invested enough to have the pow-pow in the first place.

So, beautiful fellow actor friend of mine, I thank you.  Your message came as a breath of fresh air. And although no forgiveness is necessary, I set you free from your guilt and accept your humble apology!  Also, for what it’s worth, all of us had the same insecurities back then….and most of us still do!

Thank you for caring.

Did you know this?

I am not the best blogger when it comes to enmeshing myself in the blogging community. When I first began writing Motherfog, I hungrily begged for advice from internet strangers on how to get it out there.  Once I learned that it required reading dozens of blogs and leaving comments on them for the sole purpose of dropping my own link, it no longer seemed all that important to me.  I therefore read about three blogs, and only comment if I feel compelled to say something in response to the actual writer.  Perhaps this will keep me from becoming the next top blogger.  Perhaps, that is OK.   I enjoy writing and I enjoy the few blogs I squeeze out the time to read.

I have to share this post from one of these bloggers because it is shocking and upsetting to me.  I may live under a rock, but I was unaware of the discriminating policies of the Boy and Girl Scouts of America.  If you read Steve’s (the blogger) comment thread, he has a good point that the organization offers many positive values.   I agree, as I have many fond memories of my green beret days, but I’m not sure I could turn a blind eye to something so outwardly discriminating.

By the time Zachary and Isabelle are old enough to join, hopefully this issue will be as antiquated to the founders as it is to me.

Brown Road Chronicles

 

Broken Bones and Barging Babies

Last year, as my belly swelled to its 32 week glory with a growing and seemingly impatient Isabelle, my 15 month old Zachary broke his leg.  One of my best friends, who yes, has kept her standing as “best friend” offered to take my son around the corner to the park, giving my irritable uterus a break. This annoyingly frequent contraction scenario was nothing new, nor did it seem to mean my baby girl was about to make her debut in a matter of hours, which would often be the case. Nope. Just a fun little bonus to test my sanity before shaking up our already joyfully insane home with baby number two.

Once I had the house to myself, I quickly relished in the rare ability to get dinner prepared in silence. I had barely gotten through slicing half of a sweet potato when my phone rang, a hysterical best pal on the other line.

“Em. I don’t know what to do. Zachary just hurt his leg, I think. I’m freaking out. He was on my lap going down the slide and I think his leg got caught. He screamed really loud and no one would help me. Oh my god, Em. I can’t even think, how do I find your street?!”

I very calmly told her I would be right there and that I was sure he was fine. He was very dramatic and blood curdling screams were not out of the ordinary. As she searched for the “end call” button on her phone, I heard her sobbing through some sort of “Hail Mary” or “Lord’s Prayer” or some other desperate plea for heavenly intervention.

I found them in five minutes, swept up a whimpering Zachary from his stroller and calmed them both. It was 5:05 in the evening on a Friday, as most events such as this tend to occur. But, I didn’t  have the sense that this was an emergency.  I mean, how easy can it be to break a bone? In my 34 years, not one of my 206 bones have even been fractured.  And I assure you that is not due to a cautious and graceful demeanor.

“He’s fine.” I thought. “I’m hungry, tired, and need to put this kid down because his added 25 pounds is not helping to ease the discomfort of my tightening beach- ball of a stomach, baring down on an overflowing bladder.”

We walked in the door and I put him down to witness what I was certain would be an agile sprint away from me toward his toys. Instead, he cried and crawled into my lap. I had always marveled at other children during library story hour as they seemed to sit contentedly in their parent’s laps. Until this moment, I had never had that experience with my energizer bunny. But I still wasn’t convinced that this needed “after-hours” medical attention.

Crackers. Crackers never failed to change the mood of a somber Zachary.
After handing him two Kashi TLC wheat crisps, I watched as his little knuckles clutched the crackers tightly, one in each hand, but neither trembling fist made its way up to his pouting mouth.

Time to call the doctor.

We were able to get into a highly recommended pediatric urgent care, which happened to be right around the corner, and he was prepped for x-rays within 30 minutes.

My friend was still in a panic as we awaited the results. I remained calm.  All of my energy had been strangled out somewhere between contraction number 4,356 and 5,578.   “How could anything more be added to our plate right now?”
This thought had barely floated from my head before the previously cheerful doctor popped her furrowed eye-brows back into the exam room, and with a quick but surprised voice said,

“He broke it”

“What?!”

Up until that moment, my attitude remained slightly concerned, but rather blasé.  I was almost certain we would leave with an ace bandage and some baby Motrin and be home in time to eat that half of a sweet potato I sliced an hour earlier.

But, nothing snapped me out of my fatigued, third-trimester coma like those words. My eyes snapped past their half-mast position and my voice raised to pitches it hasn’t reached  since flying high in Glinda’s bubble. The doctor, trying to calm me said, “He’s going to be fine. He will heal. The cast will be off in four to six weeks.”

“Six weeks!” I cried through another contraction. “I have to carry him around for six weeks?!”.

Please forgive me for sounding like an uncaring and unsympathetic mother. I still harbor guilt that my initial reaction was not for my precious baby boy and his first broken bone, but for my own  bloated body and how it would bear the additional constant weight of another baby without crumbling in a pathetic, bulging heap to the ground.

Selfish, horrible me. I would try to defend myself, but honestly, if you ask anyone who had the unfortunate pleasure of being in my presence for any amount of time during that trimester, or who am I kidding, that entire pregnancy, they would agree that I was quite horrible. Miserable, cranky, mean and horrible.

But, in actuality, the following four weeks, although awkward, were not as much of a nightmare as I had anticipated. I kept telling myself and my poor, distraught friend that it could have been his neck and not his tibia. This was an enormous inconvenience and annoying as all get out, but that was it. For that I was grateful.

Two weeks later, at 34 weeks pregnant, I was admitted into the maternal fetal care unit, treated for preterm labor and released two days later.  Contractions continued every two to four minutes, 24 hours a day for the next two weeks.  Zachary’s cast (his 3rd of three as they kept slipping down his thigh) was removed hours before my body gave in to his sister’s persistence and answered her perpetual knocking.

Isabelle Ann gloriously barged into the world and officially joined our family at 36 weeks…four weeks early, but a healthy 6 lbs 5 oz and perfect.

Zachary walked proudly on two feet into our room on the Maternity Ward floor to meet his sister, his best friend, for the first time…..

….and then the real fun began!

Why do I tell this story now?

I found it utterly amusing that five different friends forwarded this article to me this week.

DANGER ON THE PLAYGROUND

Chuckling, I responded….

“Um…guys?  I didn’t do it.”

Blogger’s Note:
I love this friend with all of my heart and would still have no qualms about leaving my children in her loving care. Clearly, as this article states, this can happen to anyone and happens more often than we realize.

Days of Remembrance

During a bitter February, not too far from the gates of Fenway Park, I held the hand of my friend while her life was forever changed. We were sophomores in college, and aside from the occasional slashes to our self-esteem, inflicted by drama teachers critiquing our monologues or vocal coaches ranting about our inability to belt high F’s and what that meant for our futures on Broadway, we had yet to experience personal tragedy.  But this evening would burst that bubble with a loud and abrasive pop and toss us rudely into a premature reality.

The shocking news of her mother’s death shook her two bedroom apartment and subsequently all whom attended our Musical Theatre program.  It has been fifteen years, and the date remains burned in my memory.

Each passing February, as the 16th approached, I would send a card or flowers.  After about a decade, I started sending simple “I love you” texts.  And recently, I didn’t acknowledge it at all…at least not outwardly. This wasn’t because she has lost her place in my most dear and special circle of friends. Quite the contrary. She remains one of my best and kindred spirits and ours is a friendship I have never for a millisecond questioned.

My choice to let the day pass without a reminder was a conscious one. She has recently married and is happier than I have ever seen her. Her life is moving in a direction that is overflowing with love, fulfillment and abundance.  The peace that she has found surrounding her mother’s life and untimely death is awe-inspiring and I felt it no longer necessary to send a reminder of that specific tragic day.  I believe I got my cue from her one recent year when she said “Wow. I didn’t even think about it being 16th.”

So, as my own personal tragedies are fresher than those with 15 years distance, I have thought a lot about how to honor these days of which I am still very much aware.

When we are thrown to the floor with shocking news, our clock begins to revolve around that specific incident. If it occurred at 7:00 pm on a Tuesday, on the 18th of April, we take note when the clock strikes 7:00 on the evening of April 19th, and every subsequent Tuesday until May 18th, and every 18th until we reach the first year anniversary.  For the first few years, more or less, everything on that anniversary is ominously colored by the day’s significance. But I believe with each passing year, it becomes easier to memorialize our loved ones with celebration, rejoicing in the time we had with them.  At least, this is what I have witnessed in my friend.

I am not yet at the point where April 18th doesn’t carry with it heavy weight. One of the most influential, loving,  and creative men I have known left us six years ago yesterday. My sisters, my Mom and I all connected with one another in some way throughout the day.  Some of us spoke about the loss of Dad directly, others about menial matters, with just an undercurrent of awareness, but however subtle, all of us sent an energetic squeeze across the miles.  With six of us in our immediate family, that doesn’t often happen all in one day.

At 10:00 pm last night, I ended the day with a phone call to one of my sisters. She read to me an excerpt from her Graduate School Master’s Thesis, written shortly after my father’s death. I had been at a loss for how to honor the day and whether or not to write about it. When I heard this, I realized I couldn’t have said it better.

…”As a middle child of five begins on her journey to find what matters to her most outside of the strong influences of her unique family collage, she imagines many futures, but spends little time in the anticipation that after the trail largely circles it will always magnetically draw her footsteps back to the place she started.

Nothing makes sense on my road, as it brushes round and round, without the coming home, again and again.  In that resting place, there is synchronicity and deep appreciation for a mother and a father who are forever exquisite beings.  This work is in honor of Sandra Rozek, a speech pathologist whose strength, wisdom, and continuous full-time motherhood defines her.  My mother, who is also my friend, continues to make my multi-layered curiosity and caring possible.  Lastly, this work is in loving memory of Kenneth Rozek, an artist and a teacher whose fatherhood always came first and the rest of him was simply magic.  I never dreamed I would finish this compilation without his physical presence.  I know now, more than ever, that without him none of my endeavors would ever be as joyful and meaningful as they are.  He was a dad who never fit any stereotypes and with whom I could laugh, philosophize, talk about God, and share my life’s passion; which I guess, is laughing, philosophizing, talking about God, and, of course, art!  One cannot be more blessed than I am for all that I have through this family of seven.  They taught me how to laugh at myself, a strength I am grateful to have in this humbling work”

Marisa Rozek, 2006, masters thesis dedication