Fingernails In My Pencil Box

And for today’s lesson, we will study, reading, writing and red lipstick.  Class, class, let me have your attention, focus, focus!  Through the rustle of notebook paper and the sweet smell of bubble gum lip-gloss, we look through the window of the class of 2021.  The hallway is now a runway and the classroom is the stage.  The bright lights of the school cafeteria are blinding.

Act 1 – And So Are the Days of My Life

I recall my tween years fondly.  I recall that my poor mother had, well, no fashion sense.  If I wanted to be in style, I was going to have to find a way to support myself.  My mom did not know the difference between Prada and Prego.  Really, she meant well, but it was useless.  I remember when she selected a pair of yellow sweats and presented them to me for gym class!  I gasped!  Where, is the label?  I could not even dare to wear anything that was not labeled.  They are labeled, she said, they are “Wranglers!”  I finally began to save my own money and purchased my first pair of Jordache jeans and I was excited.  That horse on my what I believed to be too large African American back side made me so happy.  Ahh, Jordache!  Then, there was my love affair with handbags, yes, it began early.  My first knock off Gucci handbag, I carried it proudly, everyday until I landed my first real Fendi handbag.  So then, why do the actions of today’s youth surprise me? 

Act II  - Mirror Mirror

Enter Justice, Abercrombie, Teen Vogue, Teen People, and all of the other outside influences that simply did not exist.  Next, let’s bring in Disney gone wrong, Britney, Vanessa, Lyndsey, and lest we forget Hanna Nasty Girl Montanna , A.K.A. Miley Cyrus, you name them and they are not the Mickey Mouse Club that I grew up watching after school.  Now, having said that who are our children watching?  Those images in the magazines, those characters on television, are they setting the bar in regards to beauty and character for our children?  Are they forcing are children, especially, our girls to grow up too fast?  Perhaps they are not only setting the bar, but many of them are quite frankly sitting at the bar and displaying their behavior in a very public forum.

Act III – Everybody Else’s Mom Let’s Them Do It

How long does childhood last?  Trying to protect the child, while allowing the girl to bloom, that is the challenge.  What type of flower am I trying to cultivate?  Even a beautiful rose has its thorns.  The thorns I deal with are on the make-up aisle and the teen clothing aisle of every department store.

Saturday’s journey took me to Salley’s Beauty supply.  Once again, I begin the battle of the press on nails.  Now, mind you, it begins with, “Mom, all my friends get their nails done at the salon.”  “Mom, they all have fake nails, it’s not fair.”  Ok, so what, I have seen some of their friends and yes, they do have acrylic nails at 10 and 11 years old.  Buy why, why can’t 10 and 11 year olds grow their own nails?  Next, come the pleas for make-up, in my mind, I am remembering the episode of the Cosby Show, where Vanessa secretly put on make-up at school and got caught upon arriving at home.  Anyway, there was the time, when my oldest, put on a little colored lip-gloss before her school pictures and no one would be the wiser.  That is, until the pictures arrived and my husband called to me.  “Cassie, Cassie, when did this child’s lips get this color and so shiny?”  Oh my, I must have missed that on my way out the door that morning.  Ok, let’s go back to the make-up aisle.  Did I mention the colored hair?  Oh, Oh, I forgot, what about a tattoo, Mom, can I have a tattoo, or a piercing, like my teacher?  Funny, I just don’t remember any of my teachers having a tattoo or a piercing.  They probably just didn’t display it for the world. 

Act  IV – Dr. Spock Didn’t Write This Chapter

Well, I have read a few parenting books in my time.  One piece of advice I have tried to live up to is to pick my battles.  With that, you try to minimize the amount of times that you say no, to the heavy hitter items.  Ok, so I decided that I would give into the press on nails, not acrylic nails, the press on.  Secretly hoping, that they would be such a bother, that she would not wish to keep them on, or that the glue would be a problem.  But, she picked out her nails and put them on one by one, each one with more pride then the last.  Finally, the nails were on and she just knew she looked Beyoncé Fierce.  She picked out her outfit with care and dressed for school the next morning.  She even shared a nail or two with her sister.  The first day of wear for the nails was Monday and to my surprise, the nails made it through school and cheerleading practice.  Well now, I guess she will prove me wrong.  It is now Tuesday and as I assess the situations, which are the nails on her hands, I notice that a few nails are missing.  I ask, “Where, are the nails?”   “Mom, they are in my pencil box.” 

Silly me, where else would a 5^th grader keep her press on nails?  

Age Before Beauty - Who Came Up with That?

Just how old am I anyway? I promise you, I don't know the answer to that question half of the time that it is asked. Why you ask. Because, on my fortieth birthday, I made a vow to myself, to never, ever calculate, nor acknowledge my chronological age again. Now, sometimes, this causes me problems, like when the doctor says, how old are you and I, look with a completely blank stare and say, I think, well, uh, let me think about it. No, I'm not crazy, I just figure, if I don't acknowledge the number, I cannot do what I am refusing to do. What am  I refusing to do you ask? I am refusing to get old. I just cannot.

Aging has undoubtedly got to be the scariest process I can imagine. The control freak in me is determined to control this process. Everywhere I look, I am reminded that for some reason, I am supposed to be aging, gracefully, nonetheless. I think I own or have tried every anti-aging product that the industry has to offer. I have pealed, steamed, wrapped, you name it. I will not be overtaken by the hands of time, or sands in the hourglass.

Speaking of the hourglass. Do you know what has to happen to maintain that figure that used to be so easily maintained? I remember the freshmen 15. But come on now, must I blow air kisses and eat celery sticks in order to maintain my curves. And now, who knows the name of a good surgeon? I need one. Yes indeed, as my granny would say, I need a little work. There's no shame in my game, nothing a little botox can't fix, a little lift and a little tuck. You see, keep on living and gravity is no ones friend. Mind you, sit-ups and leg lifts, they help, but, the skill of a good surgeon can speed things up just a bit. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and I do not know who is looking back at me. Surely, that person is someone else, what's that, is that a gray hair? Wait, I see a little line underneath my eye. Oh Dear Lord, but wait, "Black don't crack" isn't that how it goes.

Oh, what to wear? I am a self proclaimed fashionista. I love all things fashion. However, at whatever age I am now, I find it difficult to decide what to wear. You see, I tend to have a fascination with clothing in the Juniors section, call me Betsey Johnson. Or, the fashion I like may be a little on the pricey side and thus, not fit to spend time on the factory floor. So, what to wear, what to wear? If I wear the ripped up jeans, that will surely point to me trying to return to my youth. If, I wear the Ralph Lauren blouse with the tailored slacks and my Prada shoes, that's probably overkill. Maybe, Gap or Old Navy, I'll go there, shop in the junior's section and then run over to the adult fitting room, yeah, that's what I usually do! I have actually pretended to be shopping for my daughter and then ran over to the Women's fiting room.  I know, pitiful, just pitiful. 

My daughters just informed me that I am not allowed to have plastic surgery! Did I tell you I borrowed a sports bra from my 11 year old? In their complimentary way, they said, "Mom, you don't look too old." By the way, were t.v. shows in color when you were a kid? 

Tales of a Middle School Mother

Tales from a Middle School Mom

“Oh my God mom, this is 2013, you don’t flippin know what you’re talking about.”  Yes, this is my new life.  I had always heard about the drama of the tween years.  I even thought that I had begun experiencing little glimpses of the drama.  But now, since I clearly know nothing, I understand that I am the mother of a middle school girl, A.K.A., Sybil, sometimes also known as, No, You Didn’t, Middle Name Stop, Last name It, you get the picture. 

Middle school began with the ending of elementary school.  We had the beautiful end of year celebration.  The awards celebration, saying good-bye to friends and hello to summer.  We even got the chance to visit the new school, the Middle School.  Our visit was a two-hour introduction to the rules and overall structure of the school.  The highlight of the overview was the fashion show.  The fashion show was an attempt to show parents and students what the students were not allowed to wear to the new middle school.  Thank you Jesus!  That was my answer to the “Go back upstairs and change that outfit” But oh no, not my sweet child.  She declared, what is this, a school for the Amish?  “I do not want to go to this school.”  “This school is horrible.”  The selected fashion models paraded on the gym floor showing us a variety of outfits, no sleeveless shirts, no holes in clothes, no lace, no see through clothing and our favorite, the FLAMINGO test, All shorts, skirts, etc. must touch your calf when you stand on one leg and lift the other.  Now, mind you, my 5’7” sixth grader may have a little difficulty, but I am willing to take one for the team! 

The summer lingered on.  There were a variety of camps and activities and a testing of boundaries.   I learned new signals, the rolling of the eyes, the huff, the foot stomp and the door slam.  The door slam did not end well.  I cannot say which of us was Sybil that day, but I can say there was one door slam too many.  I geared up, like a soldier going into battle.  I focused on each stair as I went down each stair cautiously.  Next, I opened the door to the garage and began searching in the toolbox.  Next, I made my journey up the stairs and as I reached the last stair, I stared at that door that had been slammed once too often.  I stood on my tiptoes and I did what I had no previous experience in doing before.  I unscrewed every screw that held that door in place and prayed it did not fall on me.  I knew that if that door fell, someone would be singing, “Ding dong, the witch is dead!”  Finally, the last screw out, I drug that door into the hallway and laid it against the landing, the door would not slam again for 7 days!  My point was made.

Now, there would be moments of my sweet child.  We would lay together in my bed, talking about what middle school would be like.  We talked about how exciting this all could be, and then, she found out that her best friend was returning to daycare!  Life was good and she was happy.  Next it was a trip to Gatti Town, where the middle school little person played like the little girl I used to know.  Next there was the incident, where I got a phone call.  A very sad girl was on the other line.  Her American Girl doll was broken and I needed to get it to the hospital.  “What happened, I asked?”  “Mom, there was a string in the back of head and I cut it off.” “When I cut it off, her head fell off.”  “What?”  I informed her that I would call the American Girl Doll hospital and get her a room.  I did just that and called the E.M.T.s better known as U.P.S. to take the doll, A.K.A. Sage to the hospital.  My little girl wanted to know if my insurance was paying for all of this.  “Yes, I said, my insurance is taking care of her injuries.”  Yes, I said to myself, not all grown up yet. 

Vaccinations

"Please mom, please, can I have amnesia for the shots, please?"   "Amnesia, what, do you mean Anesthesia?"   "No, you cannot." " You would have to get a shot for anesthesia too."  And so it began, the pleading, the tears, the attempt to hold back a tween who was having none of the vaccination process.  The nurse looked at me and I at her.  I looked at her as if to say, you chose this profession, I, did not choose to give shots to anxiety filled tweens on the verge of middle school.  As the Turtle man would say, "This is Live Action!"  Well, we made it and down to the car we walked, a little worse for the wear, but we made it.

Next step, Middle School orientation. 

This process is a three -hour process where the parents and children are separated into groups to go through a lifelike simulation of the middle school day.  We learned about tweeting teachers, trips to Greece, Gym class, on-line homework and much more.  My daughter, learned about freedom.  She is now free to make a lot of choices.  She became very excited about Math and Science.  She was very excited about seeing all of her friends again.  There was just so much information. 

Next, the shopping trip.  

This was a six-hour journey into the mall abyss.  I had both tweens with me.  Both girls have completely different styles, neither, which are my styles completely.  I love to shop, but this took my love of shopping to a new level.  It tested my inner fashionista.  For the love of Louis Vuitton and Ralph Lauren.  We returned home with multiple bags from every designer under the mall rooftop.  I mistakenly thought all of those beautiful clothing items would be hung up nicely in the closet and placed neatly in the drawers.  I was incorrect in my assumption.  I spent the next weekend rearranging drawers and closet space, trying to organize closets and drawers and imagining what I would have done, if my back to school shopping trips would have been so elaborate.  I do fondly remember my trips the mall, but mostly it was Target and then home.  I do remember, once I began earning my own money, I was able to purchase a great deal more of the items I so dearly desired. 

In between some of this drama was the bike ride.  This is the child  that declared, “I don’t want to learn to ride a bike!”  And learn to ride, she did not.  Until one day, I looked out my window and saw my youngest saying come on, you can do it, you can do it, and to my surprise, there she was, Ms. Determined, coming down the street, flying on the new 10 speed that my youngest had received for her birthday.  The tween had decided that she wanted to learn to ride a bike that day and ride a bike she did.  She’ll make a great leader one day, determined, stubborn and clear about her goals!  A leader and not a follower, that’s my girl.  If I could just get her to follow my lead a little more. 

The week before school drew near and I mentioned that my tween would be riding the bus with her friends to the new middle school.  This provided me with a reaction I was not expecting.  “You’re not taking me to the first day of school?”  “No, I didn’t think that would be acceptable in middle school, I said. “  Keep in mind; this is the child that would not let me be seen in the halls of her elementary school, once she reached the 4^th grade.  Yes, another sign that childhood still exists.  “Ok, I’ll take you, don’t worry, I will always be there for you, I reassured her.” 

Next, the adventure begins.  

August 6^th came and unexpectedly, the tween decided the bus would be more acceptable, since her friend would be on it.  I waited all day, anxiously waiting to see how things went, what was this new experience. And well, here is what I learned:

1.     She now has a mature relationship, not one of those immature relationships.

2.     I am no longer needed to cook breakfast; she will eat in the cafeteria with her friends.

3.     I was born a long time ago.

4.     She is more responsible then I know.

5.     When she is sixteen, she is getting a jeep.

6.     She can’t understand why my mother isn’t anything like me

Now, I’ve also learned that I must treasure every moment of the little girl I used to know and the young woman that she is trying to become, maybe a little too quickly.  So, every little hug and every little request for help because there’s a noise in her room, I will answer with a little more enthusiasm. 

Now, does that mean that the continuous eye rolling will not send me over the edge from one moment to the next, no, it will just prepare me for the teenage years, for I hear those might be worse.  I just said a prayer. 

Oh, did I tell you, the school just tweeted, this week, the kids learn about sexting - I'm going to need a lot of Jesus this year. 

God Incidents

"I was on holiday in North Yorkshire, with my friend, Joy, a fellow widow. Joy is a steam train fanatic, thus I found myself on a crowded train, travelling back from Whitby to Pickering, on the scenic North Yorkshire Moors Railway.

The seaside town had been crowded with August holidaymakers and this was the last train back that day. The weather had been good, so everyone had stayed as long as possible at the seaside. So as a result, around 2,000 day trippers were waiting impatiently, from one end of the platform to the other, complete with bags, inflatable toy, windbreaks and cool bags.

Joy and I looked anxiously at each other. We would have to move quickly once the train pulled in, to ensure that we got a seat. Both of us suffer from joint problems, and on top of that, I had my dog with us. Neither of us fancied standing for the two-hour journey back to base. There were many small children amongst the hordes. Hopefully, they would sit on their parents’ knees and free up a few seats for the older folk, like my friend and me!

Ten minutes late, the steam engine pulled up at the platform and folk began to surge forward and press to board. I had to lift my dog and carry her as we mounted the footplate. Glancing round, it was apparent that seats were at a premium, and that the thought that Joy and I would be able to sit together was out of the question. At the near end of the carriage was one unoccupied seat, and likewise, at the far end, I spotted a second. I called over my shoulder

“Joy, you take that one and I’ll sit there”.

So it was that I found myself, dog squashed in on the floor, under the table at my feet, sitting opposite a young man, who told me his name was Gary, and child, Rebecca, -about ten, -and what I presumed was his attractive wife. They were talking animatedly; discussing the events of the day and pointing out to the child things that we passed as the train chugged along.

I can’t recall which little country station it was where we spotted him, but it wasn’t far beyond Whitby, and so must have been Grosmont or Goathland, I guess, but there on the platform with a film unit, was Aled Jones. (A well-known singer and TV presenter here in Britain).

“Maybe he’s filming for one of those daytime shows he presents”, I said. “Or maybe for ‘Songs of Praise’”. I added as an afterthought, “I don’t watch daytime TV”.

“No. Me neither”, the lady confessed. “Do you watch ‘Songs of Praise’ then?”

“Oh yes. I never miss it. It’s one o my favourite programmes”.

The couples’ faces broke into wreathes of smiles. “Are you a Christian too?”

And so followed an avid conversation which lasted the whole journey home and made the two hours fly by in a trice. They told me they were from Cromer, on holiday like me. They worshipped at the Parish Church there, and evidently, it was a lively place, with a vicar who was keen to encourage involvement with those often overlooked or reviled in our society. And when I mentioned that I had a particular calling to prisoners, well, Gary could hardly contain himself, and described two visits he’d made to Africa. He’d conducted worship in a prison there, and encountered a 6 year-old boy. Incarcerated with adult men, many of whom were convicted of horrendous, violent crimes Gary was obviously deeply moved by the child’s plight. And all the more so, when age boy appeared to snigger and the guard immediately approached him, threateningly flexing his evil looking whip.

Gary and his family were keen to hear about my life, both as a visitor in English prisons but more particularly, on Death Row in America and we shared many similar experiences and opinions about life behind bars. When the train pulled in to Pickering, its final destination and the end of the line, Gary and his family invited me to drop in to their church and introduce myself to their parish priest, who they assured me would love to meet me, if ever I find myself in Cromer.

As we parted, I marveled that out of the two thousand souls packed onto that train that evening, I should have found myself sharing the journey home with such kindred spirits. And I just know for certain that it was no accident. Some might call it fate. I call it God’s hand at work. And what a privilege to be part of His plan. Wow! What a day out that turned out to be!"

Across the Pond Penny

Monarchy

"You have a choice. You can live in a country ruled by a monarch. Like Britain. You can choose to live in a Republic. Like the USA. Or you can choose a dictatorship. Then again, maybe you can’t choose that. In fact, you don’t have a whole lot of choice about ANYTHING in a dictatorship.

 If you select the first option, you will be ruled over by someone who inherits the job by accident of birth, and not by any merit of his/her own, and is hugely wealthy and privileged. You are a ‘subject’ of that country. You can’t evict them, (except by revolution), but you do get stability and continuity, and modern monarchs have tended to be politically impartial.

On the other hand, in a Republic, you get to elect your leaders every four or five years, and you are ‘citizens’. Because they are voted in, you can boot them out when they do a lousy job, but they are for ever vying for votes and tend to be populist, short-termers and often contentious. Election bandwagons are also expensive to bankroll.

I know most about the monarchy option, having been a ‘subject’ for some 65 years now. It costs all British tax-payers a whole lot of money to maintain, by means of something called ‘The Civil List’, and we don’t just have to finance the Queen, but an ever-increasing royal family. BUT, we do get a lot back in terms of prestige, tourism opportunities and international diplomacy. And nobody does pomp and ceremony like the Brits.Their powers are limited these days. No-one has their heads chopped off any more. And certain things are definitely expected of them.For instance, this week, when the new Prince was born to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, better known as William and Kate.

When my own three daughters were born, I gave their naming a lot of thought. I wanted names which both I and my husband liked, which would grow up with them, wouldn’t cause them embarrassment, and be as appropriate at aged two as at eighty. They must be unusual but not way-out, and they must have a meaning with some significance. So the eldest was named Frances Helen, meaning ‘free’, (a good thing for a child of God), and ‘bright’.The middle girl, Hilary Anne, meaning ‘cheerful’ and ‘God is gracious’. And the youngest, Alison Ruth, whose name translates as ‘noble’ and ‘friend’. These were all my self-imposed limitations.

But I sensed a real struggle for the young royal pair, when choosing a name for their firstborn son…..and future king. Because some names with a royal pedigree would be acceptable, but many would not. Tradition is EVERYTHING when it comes to the monarchy. So many of us suspected that George would be high on the list of possibles.

It would be unimaginable for the future king to be christened Dwayne or Tyrone or Shane. And it would be frowned on to call a princess Candice, Courtney or Nicolette.Names have to be noble, sensible, with gravitas. And history. Consequently, the pool of suitable names is really quite small: - Henry, William, Charles, John, Philip and of course George, and a few others. On top of that, some of those are already spoken for.

And oddly, the more I mused on it, the more sorry I felt for the royals! Because they don’t just have to please themselves, or their family members, but an entire nation; nay a world! For all their money and privilege, in some ways, they have less freedom than me.

There should be at least three names given to the new child. And each name would be analysed by the pundits, and referenced by them, so that George would hark back to the much-loved father of the Queen, who reluctantly found himself the unlikely monarch following his brother’s abdication.

Alexander may have been a more-or-less free choice and sop to Kate, who maybe felt that her arm had been twisted. Then again, one of the Queen’s names is in fact Alexandra, so it may instead be a tribute to the great-gran. And Louis is undoubtedly after Lord Louis Mountbatten, uncle of Prince Philip and second cousin to the Queen, who was murdered by the IRA.

When he’s old enough to be aware of such things, I just hope he doesn’t grow up a crisis of confidence and think that his parents may have preferred a daughter, or have doubts over his own masculinity, when he realises what his initials spell out!"

penny from across the pond

Workcamp 2013

My sister, Susan, her grandchildren, and I had the opportunity to work this past week with the Baltimore County Christian Workcamp. ( http://volunteer.truist.com/baltimore-county/org/6426989.html) It was special because we were helping to build a ramp, paint a side porch and railings and front porch railings at our cousin, Bernice (Bunny), house.

It was my first time volunteering with this workcamp.  My Sister has done it for the past few years.
This year our cousin, Bunny, was a recipient of the workcamp.  One group put down a new kitchen floor for her.  We were representing my sister's church and were assigned the side porch which was completed rusted and the front porch rails.  Susan's granddaughters were also on the porch project.
A ramp was being constructed so that my cousin would be able to get in and out of her house without struggling to get up her steps.

Our day started at 7 am and ended anywhere from 1 - 5:30 pm.  The last day it was 5:30 pm so that we could complete the ramp.  After we finished our porch duties we pitched in on the ramp project.
You could volunteer to work for whatever time you had available during the week.  My sister worked everyday and worked Tuesday through Friday.  At the end of the work day we were all exhausted but it was a good exhaustion knowing we were helping someone in need.

Throughout the week there were about 20 different volunteers.  There were six young people working with us throughout the week ranging in age from 13 to college.  The oldest person was a gentleman who was 83, Yarb.  He is also know as "The Cross Man".  He makes cross necklaces and gives them to everyone he meets even the people a Home Depot.  After presenting you with a cross he hugs you and says "you have now been Yarbisized."  It was a pleasure working with this very talented gentleman.

My sister and I are both A-types.  On this project the two ladies in charge were both A-types but not just A-types they were AAA-types.  Everything had to be discussed and discussed and worked on until everything was perfect.  I think you could call that ramp the "gourmet ramp" of ramps.  They even sanded the edges of the hand rails.  It took all week to build it.
 

On Thursday we were assigned yard clean up for a lady two doors up from my cousins.  We filled 27 contractor size trash bags.  The smile on her face when she came home was worth every aching muscle from cut down small dead trees, trimming bushes and digging out weeds. Even the lady's neighbor came out to thank us for cleaning up the yard.  I am not sure the trash collectors were smiling when they pulled up to her house.




 

Every morning breakfast was provided at one of the participating churches and dinner was provided by various churches at which time work reports were given.  My sister and I attended the dinner on Thursday evening.  On Friday evening there is a slide show all all the work projects, dinner, awards and a communion service.  One of the youngest members of our team was given the Rookie Award, a T-shirt with Rookie 1 on it.

Now I am hooked.  I am looking forward to workcamp 2014.

The Play

All the world is a stage and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts. I believe that Shakespeare was correct. I often wonder which part am I playing. Where is my Academy award? But, there is no confusion for me as to who was the star performer in my house this past week. It all began with a trip to New York City during Spring break in March. My youngest daughter, Keiana expressed to me that she could not wait to go to New York, and so, off we went. I searched and searched for accommodations that would make our trip affordable and memorable at the same time. As I sat at my computer, Expedia, Travolocity, Book It and other sites open, for hours at a time, I watched as rates changed daily. My type “A” personality, making list after list and developing detailed plans for how to make the best itinerary, I finally did it. I found a hotel, “The Paramount, a Broadway like hotel in the heart of Times Square to accommodate our stay. We flew into New Jersey and took an $89.00 cab ride into the heart of NYC! Our location was ideal. We were right smack in the middle of Times Square. Every Broadway show was just inches away from the front door of our hotel. What show would we see, Annie, Wicked, Newsies, or Motown? We had to decide. Fortunately, for us, we had my Uncle, Tour Guide extraordinaire to help us with tickets. We were able to obtain midlevel center seat tickets to Annie. My daughter, Keiana was hooked, she was now, beyond convinced that she was going to live in New York and perform on Broadway. Each day during our stay, we walked on Broadway and reviewed each show. She and I sang every song in Annie, over and over again. We met up with my Uncle and toured more of NYC. We even had a subway adventure. On her journey to become a Broadway star, Keiana knows, that she will have to learn and do other things. She also wants to be a fashion designer, so, we jumped on the subway and ventured to the Fashion Institute. Now, ventured is a word I use loosely. I am not a subway person. As we neared the subway, my uncle described the third rail. He exclaimed, “Be observant of people in subway stations!!” Never, Never, allow anyone to push you and always stay away from the third rail! That third rail he exclaimed will fry you like a piece of bacon! “ Ok, I stated, note to self, stay away. We boarded the subway, we preferred to stand, rather than sit. As we stood, a short, wired young man began running back and forth in our subway car, banging his head on the pole, yelling at the pole. Keiana looked at me and said, “Mommy, do you think he didn’t get into Julliard? Yes, Keiana, that’s probably what happened. I just hoped anxiously that the next stop was ours. Soon, we arrived at our stop. As we exited, we began to smell stale popcorn like smell, but it wasn’t popcorn, it was nastier than that. Then, we heard a sound of running water, but there was no water. And then, there it was, a man, standing in the corner, a stream running down by his feet. Don’t look Keiana, keep moving I said. Oh, the sights and sounds of NYC. I told her, yes, you can live here, but get a driver. We made our way to the Fashion institute, where they had the shoe exhibit. That is where she once again, discovered her love of the shoes with the Red Bottoms, Christian Louboutins! We toured the statue of Liberty, 5th Avenue, The Plaza Hotel, Trump Towers, The Today Show, Rockefeller Center, and more. We have vowed to return many more times. After returning home from NYC, we learned of an opportunity for both Keiana and her sister to audition for a role in the Georgetown Community Theater’s production of Cinderella. One evening, we loaded into our faithful Toyota Sienna and headed for auditions. Big sister decided that this was not an opportunity that she cared to pursue. Well, this made the opportunity even more intriguing for Ms. Keiana. She pursued the roles with vigor. She was cast as a townsperson and an assistant chef in Cinderella. The practices were long and the friendships made were many. A cast of 83 were selected to perform in the local Scott County High School Auditorium to a sold out crowd, during four performances. She was a marvelous townsperson, coming to life on stage, practicing each night from 6-9 and some nights 7-11 P.M. I watched her and filled with pride as any mother would, watching my little girl who had dreamed of performing on Broadway during Spring break, now performing in her first community theater project. There were nights, when she came home and fell asleep in her clothes. But each morning, when I would ask her, do you still enjoy the theater, do you want to continue, she would shake her head yes, and say, mommy, I love it. If all of the world is a stage, Keiana Slaughter owned that stage this weekend in Scott County. She performed her roles with vigor and with great talent. She wasn’t the lead, but she was my lead. She taught me, that we can create our own stage and we can make any role a lead role. I am proud of you Keiana Slaughter. This weekend, you were my leading lady.