A Different Kind of Champion

I recently returned from the USTA League 40 & Over 4.5+ National Championships in Indian Wells, CA with nine other fantastic women. We reached the finals before getting edged out by Southwest. It was a great run. But I am not going to give you a play-by-play of the weekend. What came out of that weekend was much more than a set of great wins and proof that New England remains a dominant force in tennis in the United States. 

What I am going to offer might surprise you. It begins with something one of my teammates, Kim McCrohon, wrote. She suffered a mild heart attack just prior to our first match at USTA New England Sectionals back in August. She was rushed to a nearby hospital while I was on court. We were devastated. This just doesn’t happen to people like us, we thought. But Kim kept her spirits up – even while in the hospital – and we knew we had to stay focused and keep our eye on the prize. She describes the anticipation of our results from sectionals:

“I kept getting texts from people wondering how I was. I’d respond quickly and then look again to see if I missed any call or another text from one of my teammates. Finally, it came. I picked up the phone. Two words appeared, “We won!” My mouth dropped, and I threw the phone on the bed. “Going to Nationals!” I proclaimed! My husband raised his eyebrows. “I’m going,” I said. “Heart attack, shmart attack, I’m going. Whatever it takes!”

Two weeks later, Kim’s doctor told her he didn’t think she would be cleared to go to Nationals.  He knew the 4.5/5.0 level and thought it would be too strenuous for her just-repaired diagonal artery and its new stent – not to mention her battles with cystic fibrosis and diabetes.  After some convincing, she was able to schedule her required stress test right before the team had to leave for Nationals.

After weeks of strenuous rehabilitation, medication and a strong will to overcome her aliments, Kim passed her stress test and was cleared to play with us at Nationals!

It was unbelievable. Just two months prior, Kim was lying in the hospital after a heart attack and now she was on the plane to Indian Wells with us all. Admittedly, we had been a little worried about her condition, but once she was on that plane with us, we all forgot and were just thankful she could join us. The flight seemed quick. We were all anxious to get there and practice. 

The next day, we had two practice sessions. Everyone played. We all felt good. We were all equals. We were here for a reason and we all knew what it was like to work hard to achieve a goal. Kim inspired us. The title and pride that comes with it were the driving force.   

At 7:30 a.m. on October 25, we played Middle States for our first match and lost a tight one 2-3. Then came Eastern. We knew we had to win to even have a prayer to stay in the running for the Final Four. We pulled that one out 3-2. The next morning, before our first match against Texas, we had a team pow wow. “We need the next two matches, and we need to win them big, 5-0 or 4-1,” our captain said. We also exclaimed, “Believe!” The team rallied and won 4-1. Believe. We then faced Pacific Northwest. Kim got the call to play doubles, and she was more than ready. 

Kim and her partner played phenomenal tennis against one of the strongest doubles teams in the tournament. Although they did not win, the team pulled it out 4-1. Believe! It came down to Middle States and Pac NW that afternoon. New England had 13 individual wins to Pac NW’s 8. If Pac NW swept 5-0, we would be tied in individual wins and would have to look to individual losses or sets lost to determine who would go to the Final Four. We needed Middle States to pull out only one match in order for us to advance by one individual win. New England nervously watched the match. It looked like we had one chance with one of the Middle States singles players, and in fact, she did it. She got that one win, and New England got the berth to the Final Four. 

One Sunday morning, we beat Mid Atlantic in the semis and then lost in the finals to Southwest. We all played great tennis but the other team was better that day.

We arrived home late Sunday night, tired and a little sore, but satisfied on many levels. It was a thrill to represent New England at the national level, some of us for the second year in a row. We appreciated being able to continue to fuel our passion for the game of tennis and make lifelong friends and fantastic memories along the way. 

As for Kim –our inspiration– she writes, “This time of my life will always be embedded in my brain as one story that ended happily even though we didn’t take first prize. I’ve said it before, but I think it’s worth repeating, “Enjoy life, every moment of it.”

Dedicated to the 2013 40+ 4.5/5.0 New England team: Alison Albers, Sue Corey, Davida Dinerman, Pam Holding, Sally Kellogg, Jennifer Lesnick, Wendy McCabe, Kim McCrohon, Hope Pascucci, Deb Simpson, Maureen Sumner, Megan Storing, Nancy van Siclen.

Sentimental

“Sentimental.”

 One definition is:  Of or prompted by feelings of tenderness, sadness or nostalgia.

 Yup that’s me.

One example is of my overnight camp years. Having attended Camp Matoaka for 10 summers as a camper and a counselor, I have accumulated memories and friendships that will last a lifetime. Fortunately, there are many others who are just as eager to relive those days, and it doesn’t take but a photo of a loon on Facebook to trigger a slew of memories.  Now that my children bleed camp (Tel Noar), I can experience the excitement first hand once again.

I am also sentimental when it comes to my children, who are now 15 and 12 years old. They are old enough to have memories of when “they were little,” as they say. We have more than a dozen movies of their childhood which we still love to watch. Although I didn’t keep every bib or blanket, there are a few items which are difficult for me to part with.

 One of those items is books, some of which were mine growing up. I can look at a book, let’s say, “Harry By the Sea,” and remember when I would read that to them. If it is good shape, and most of them are, then I feel we should save it for their own kids, my grandchildren.  School work is another problem area for me, especially for large projects or artwork. I figure they worked so hard on it, how can I just toss it? Maybe I don’t keep every single paper, but I have my fair share of worksheets, drawings and reports.

There is one item which I know I have kept too long. It didn’t really match the décor, and I haven’t used in a many years, but that sentimental value was overpowering.

The item is a white glider rocking chair.

That rocking chair accompanied me through midnight and daily feedings, hours of storytime, giving medicine and cuddling away sadness. I used to sing a song to each of the kids before bed, which recounted what they did during the day.  We took pictures of the kids on that chair. Then they used to climb on it to read a book once in a while too.

Have I sat in said rocking chair in the last two years? Five years? No. But it was there and represented a time in my life which I didn’t want to give up easily. I think Brad would have given it up years ago, but he knows me well enough to even ask. So when I recently told him I wanted to give it to any of the several people in my office who recently had a baby or are going to have one soon, he said calmly, “That would be nice.” What he was really thinking was, “It’s about time.”

When I asked one man in my office, who recently became the father of twins, if he would like the chair, he responded with a resounding “Yes!” almost before I finished asking. Then and there I knew this was the right choice. He picked it up yesterday. 

Why am I now able to give away this sentimental piece of furniture? Although I will never forget the past, and I might even dwell in it too long sometimes, I know there is so much for us in the future.  I am on the verge of aging into a new decade. The kids are growing into amazing adults. I have a terrific husband. We still have both sets of parents and lots in the way of family and friends.  I love my job, and I can still wield a tennis racquet better than the average bear. My present tense is “rockin’.”

There is a void in the corner of my bedroom, and I will think of that rocker for a few more days. But I can also picture my friend feeding his children, reading stories and making wonderful memories, just like I did.

The Call Back

The first challenge for an auditioning actor is to get a callback. That means the directors ask the person to return for another audition to read, improvise and spend time with the director and other decision makers. Getting a callback puts the actor on the short list of people who might be cast for the part. To get one, the actor must do something that marks him or her as a stand-out at the audition, and a possible fit for one of the roles.

But there is one time when you don’t want a callback. I had one on Thursday. Two days prior, my cell phone rang as I was getting into the car with Abby on our way to hit some tennis balls. The conversation went like this:

Caller: “Hello, Mrs. Dinerman. This is [forgot her name} from the Beth Israel Deaconess in Lexington. Your mammogram {here is where my head got fuzzy} showed something different from the prior year’s mammogram { I’m doing my best to keep a straight face. I don’t want Abby to see any change in my expression}. We would like you to come in this week for another scan when the radiologist will be here. Are you available on Thursday?”

Me {as I step away from the car to look at my schedule on my iPhone}: “Thank you for your call. Which one is it?”

Caller: “Let me look here…the right one.” {you can hear empathy in her tone}

Me: “Thursday should be fine. 11 am works.”

Caller: “Ok, I have scheduled you. Best of luck, Mrs. Dinerman, and have a nice day.”

Me: “You too.”

We hang up.

Abby asked, “Mom, who was that?” I said, “It was a client who needed to reschedule a call.” Abby said, “You’re lying.” I said, looking at her straight in the eyes, lying right through my teeth, “No I’m not. Let’s get going if we want to get a court.”

Now, I am sure that wasn’t an easy call to make for that woman, but her tone was very warm and understanding. And the fact that I had Abby with me forced me to nearly dismiss it. But my insides were all jumbled and all I could think of was, 'Thank God I’m going to do something active right now and have a distraction.'

As soon as I had time alone, I called Brad. As I heard myself saying the words, ”They found something different in my mammogram,” his voice dropped, but I know he wanted to be strong and try to allay my fears. He said, “Hmmm. {pause} Well, let’s not get too nervous until we hear what they say. It is probably nothing.” He was right about not getting too nervous.

The next thing I did was probe and groped my right one. I didn’t feel anything unusual. I felt fine. But that’s what they all say. Several of my friends have been through this. In fact, within the past five years, it seems like it hits one of my tennis friends every year. I once said, half jokingly, “Who’s next?” Geez, I didn’t think it would be me. Who does?

According to the National Cancer Institute, "false-positive results are more common for younger women, women who have had previous breast biopsies, women with a family history of breast cancer, and women who are taking estrogen."

Yet, the site also claims that:

"False-negative results occur when mammograms appear normal even though breast cancer is present. Overall, screening mammograms miss up to 20 percent of breast cancers that are present at the time of screening.

The main cause of false-negative results is high breast density. Breasts contain both dense tissue (i.e., glandular tissue and connective tissue, together known as fibroglandular tissue) and fatty tissue. Fatty tissue appears dark on a mammogram, whereas dense tissue and tumors appear as white areas. Because fibroglandular tissue and tumors have similar density, tumors can be harder to detect in women with denser breasts.

False-negative results occur more often among younger women than among older women because younger women are more likely to have dense breasts. As a woman ages, her breasts usually become more fatty, and false-negative results become less likely. False-negative results can lead to delays in treatment and a false sense of security for affected women."

Stay positive

Wednesday came. I stayed busy at work. I let my colleagues know that I have a quick doctor’s appointment the next day and plan to be back within the hour. {Please}

After work, I helped out at Ari’s baseball practice. In those two hours, I completely forgot everything except baseball drills. When I have a moment to myself in the evening, I started to think about it. I talked about it with Brad. I was nervous. He knew that. When will I fit in treatments? What will I tell the kids? My parents? In-laws? Friends? Work? Damn. The respect I have for my friends and family who have fought and won, and fought and not won, was just elevated 1 million times.

Breathe.

Thursday morning came. I kissed Brad good-bye, drove Ari to camp and then got to work. At 10:45 a.m., I drove to the BI in Lexington. The BI in Lexington is a terrific and convenient satellite branch of the hospital in Boston. I checked in, changed from the waist up and took a seat. The technician called me within five minutes. I walked into the darkened room with the mammography machine. She showed me my original scan from Tuesday.

“See that little circle on the bottom," she said, "that’s what’s different from last year’s scan.” {My mind turned to mush, as did my insides. This is what some of my friends have said – it’s pea sized. Focus. Focus on what she is saying so I can relay it to Brad}. “Sometimes the way the machine takes the mammogram, it doesn’t smooth out the breast enough and we see what’s simply a clump of fatty tissue. That is what we’re hoping for here.” {Please, make it that.}

I tossed my right one onto the machine. The technician positioned my body so I felt like I was going to fall over. But I stood as straight as I could and balanced myself so she could get a good scan. “This time,” she said, “I’m not going to start from the top. I’m going to start a little further down and get a clearer look at that bottom part. Ok. Hold there. Don’t breathe. {I can’t anyway}.

“Ok, Mrs. Dinerman. Please have a seat in the waiting area. I will have the radiologist take a look at the scan. I’ll be right back.” {Take your time. No, please hurry!} I sat for a minute and tried to watch the TV that is on. It was showing The View with Whoopie Goldberg, who, I think, was talking about women who wear make-up and those who don’t. Not really sure.

The technician then called me back in. “Mrs. Dinerman, we have good news.” {Exhale}. “In fact it was a small cluster of fatty tissue. We’ll see you again next year.” I thanked the lovely technician. I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t. {I’m clean}. I change and rush to my car to call Brad. We both smiled over the phone, and my eyes started to water, but I didn't cry. Instead, I smiled. {I’m relieved. I’m one of the lucky ones!} I drove back to work and continued my day.

My point: Sure, I had a scare, but that is all it was. I am not asking for pity. I have no right to ask for pity. As I mentioned, I know too many who have fought and won, and many who have fought and didn’t win. Women who are 40 years old, start getting checked each year. Despite the warnings, it's a start. At the risk of sounding political, with healthcare available, do what’s right for yourself and your loved ones. I am very thankful that I am able to get a mammogram and a pap each year to (hopefully) detect something early enough so, if it ever does decide to knock on my knockers, I might have a fighting chance.

Time

by Ari Dinerman

Sometimes you really wish that someone could have told you something would happen in the future. Like if you were going to be sent to the principal’s office, or your relative were going to get sick And if you do know about that before it happens, you could prevent being sent to the principal’s office or you could find a cure for your relative’s sickness. Sometimes time is your best friend or your worst enemy.

Imagine...

by Ari Dinerman, contributing writer

In the perfect town of Learn-a-lot, everything is so peaceful, so calm, so happy. In a town like this, you have learned so much that by the end of your life, you’ve learned too much. Your answer to a question would be as logical as it could be. There are no crimes, nothing. What is the point of living this life if there is no responsibility, and no more lessons to learn.

At the great ballpark

by Ari Dinerman, contributing writer

At the great ballpark, I see the ground balls being hit to all the positions on the field. While hearing all different fans begging for a comeback. In this stadium, you can hear that a lot. I can briefly taste the sand dry cigarette smoke streaming out from one’s filthy mouth. I am touching the armrests of my chair, feeling the rumbles of the stadium in disbelief. This makes me smell the salty French fries being carried by sellers walking up and down the aisles of the stadium, just like pacing back and forth, thinking what to do next.

Not Just Another Number

I realize that there is war and disease and other devastation going on around the world, but I must admit I was sad about something entirely off-beat today. I had to replace my very first license plate, 345 ASA. That was my traveling companion for more than 25 years.

We all are associated with numbers. Our first home phone number, home address, Social Security number, college ID number, first apartment number, first boyfriend’s (or girlfriend’s) phone number, first house with spouse number. The list is endless. As we transition to different parts of our lives, we leave behind one number and take on another. But for some reason, giving up my 345 ASA was harder, as if I were giving up a friend - someone who has been there for me through many of my growing up stages.

Why did I need to turn in my good ‘ole companion? Apparently, its façade became too cracked and the dulled sheen wasn’t able to reflect well in the dark. There’s no escape. I could go a lot of ways with this. When Brad gets older, much older, and he begins to crack and wrinkle, will I replace him with a newer model? Hmm…

In 1986, when I graduated from Dartmouth, this plate held on for dear life to the back of my first car, a Ford Escort. This was a used car which needed oil every other day. In fact, it ran so badly that I had to take the license plate off... the car couldn’t pull that kind of load (ba dum bum). When I went to for grad school in 1990, it then graduated to an early model of a charcoal gray, boxy Toyota Corolla. It later knew the streets of Waltham and Framingham, when I was living in an apartment in Framingham and dating Brad, who lived in Waltham. In 1996-ish, when we were first married and started at the then , it was pleased to be toted on a newer taupe Corolla model. For the past five years, it has logged in more than 118,000 miles on my Toyota Sienna. My children could identify my car among others in a parking lot. 345 ASA has seen all of New England several times over and is intimately familiar with Ashland.

When I was at the Milford RMV, I asked the nice lady behind the counter if I could keep 345 ASA, she looked at me with a surprised and somewhat puzzled look and said, “Oh no!” I actually had to hand my metal pal over to a stranger in order to be (gasp!) recycled. I hope the next owners appreciate it.

So long 345 ASA. Welcome 919 LV5. Enjoy the ride.

My New Tennis Buddy

One of my favorite things to do is to spend time with my family. One of my other favorite things to do is play tennis. When I can put those two favorite things together, I’m in heaven.

Over the summer, my daughter decided she wanted to play tennis. I didn’t push her, but she came to that decision on her own. When she was younger, she had participated in a clinic or two, but it really didn’t seem to stick. She dabbled at camp, but there was no real love there. One of her best friends plays, so that certainly helped move the needle a little bit. I was happy to take them both out to our local school courts and hit the ball. Little by little, Abby could keep the ball in play and have a rally. That motivated her to play more. We’ve moved on to serves and volleys, which really legitimizes her game.

All of the logistical details will fall into place soon enough. But the other side of this is being able to share something I love with my teenage daughter, and have her love it back. Over the years, she has played softball, which I also enjoy. But she put that aside. She enjoys dancing, but even that hasn’t been high on her list. So I was facing two things: getting her involved in something worthwhile, and finding a physical activity to keep her in shape. Checking off both of these items, plus including myself in the mix—priceless.

She not only looks forward to playing, but she looks forward to playing with me. As she moves more deeply into the teenage years (she’ll be 14 in three months), I want to savor these times together – just the two of us. We try to play at least once during the week, usually a Tuesday, and once on the weekend. Before she leaves for school, she might ask, “Can we play tennis today?” Music to my ears. I smile and say, “I’ll call for a court!” Then, after school and work, we both look forward to putting on our tennis clothes and sneakers, grabbing our racquets and hitting the fuzzy yellow ball over the unwavering net as many times as we can.

Today, we played a fun baseline game with another parent and his daughter, and she played very well. This was a huge step for both of us. She can hold her own on the court and has the confidence to face opponents she doesn’t know.

My daughter and I do many things together. She loves going to the mall, an activity which wasn’t always high on my list, but which I can stomach better with her by my side. She enjoys playing board games like Yahtzee! And now I feel fortunate that we share the same passion of tennis. She recently announced to me that she wants to play on the high school tennis team. I smiled and said, “Well, we have some work to do, but I am happy to help you get there.”

I am Davida. And I like Words with Friends

Am I addicted? That’s debatable. I don’t shirk my responsibilities as a wife, mother, daughter, employee, volunteer, tennis partner or any other primary areas of my life. I don’t stay up to play until all hours of the night. I don’t do it at the dinner table. I also don’t play other apps, such as Angry Birds or or Solitaire.
I do like to play when I get a rare free moment during the day, or in the evening when I’m winding down from a hectic day. Does this sound defensive? Maybe a little.

I feel slightly guilty that I am not using my 20 or so minute of free time at night reading a book. I really should read more. But I have always loved Scrabble, and more recently Bananagrams, but we don’t play it very much at home. I have always loved the challenge of putting words together, particularly along a DW (double word) or most especially along TW (triple word) square. And if one of the letters is worth 5 to 10 points, woo hoo!

Right now, I am involved with nine simultaneous games going with a cousin from Florida, who beats me every time, and several friends from Massachusetts, Georgia and Texas. I can even send people little messages – like instant Chat with Friends.
Really, there could be worse things, like drinking, smoking or gambling. I don’t pig out on donuts or drink huge quantities of diet soda. Lately, my kids have wanted some of the Words action. Hey, it’s educational right? They said, we should play Scrabble more. That would be fine with me.

p.s. This week, my iPhone seemed to play possum. I learned how to reboot it, and it was fine. The first thing I thought of was, “Oh no! My games!” Not… “Oh no, my email! “Since they are in a cloud with my account, I really wouldn’t have lost them, but I guess it says something about this new little hobby of mine.

I wanna hold your hand

I do not mind showing affection to my husband in public. I’m not over-the-top with it, but I have no problem giving him a kiss or a hug, holding hands, or putting my arm around him if we’re walking somewhere. Heck, he’s my husband, I love him, and I’ll kiss him if I want to.

I also get the biggest warm-and-fuzzy feeling seeing other people, particularly those of the senior generation, show affection. I was driving in Framingham the other day. The temperature outside was about 75 degrees, so there were many people out walking. I saw two women on their power walk, a couple of teenagers strolling with a purpose, probably meeting another buddy or two, and then a few singles here and there. A normal summer day.

Then I saw a couple, probably in their mid- to late-60s (young by today’s standards, I know), walking at a decent clip and holding hands. They looked like they were involved in a good conversation. I couldn’t help but smile. My mind wandered to how they got to this point. Perhaps they’ve been married for 30 years or more, raised a couple of children and are maybe even enjoying grandchildren. They looked like they were enjoying each other’s company. They are in the empty nest phase of their lives.
Brad and I are in this temporary empty nest time while the kids are at camp.

Although we don’t spend every waking moment together, it’s nice to focus just on us. Typically, our lives and schedules are focused around the children and their activities. But even for a brief time, we can recharge and enjoy each other’s company without guilt. Our children are safe and having a wonderful time as they learn and grow in a community without their parents.

Three words came to mind when I saw the couple holding hands. I hadn’t ever described Brad and my relationship in this way, but I feel we can:

Communicate. Connect. Life partners.

I will wanna hold his hand for a very long time.

Lucky Charms

My son was convinced that when my mother and father, his Nanny and Poppie, attended his baseball games, the team won. It was as simple as that. They were the team’s lucky charm, according to a 10-year-old boy. To be honest, it seemed to be true. Some might think it is crazy to associate the presence of two grandparents to winning baseball, but if you ask my 10-year-old son, their beloved grandson, it was a tried and true fact.

It all began during the spring AAA baseball season, and continued to the summer Sizzler league. During the spring season, the team went something like 5-5. My parents attended at least some of the 5 winning spring league games. Over the summer, they were able to attend the final game of the regular season, when the team pulled out an exciting 3 – 2 win with a walk-off run. So, of course, Ari begged them to attend the first game of the playoffs. Sure enough, the team won another nail biter, 10-9, with a walk off hit by the same player.

Then, things got a little tricky. The weather for the 2nd game of the playoffs was extremely hot, perhaps too hot for my parents. I might add that we were to play the strongest team in the league.. the one which demolished us 23-0 in our first game of the season.

Ari asked my parents many times if they would come, and my mother was torn. She wanted to attend more than anything, but wasn't sure she could bear the heat and humidity. She found a solution and told Ari, “Come to my house and I will give you something of mine. In case I cannot be there, you will at least have something from me.” She gave Ari a silver dollar with a lovely note taped to it, which he promptly taped to the inside of his baseball bag.

My mother started to question me, “Does Ari really think that we make the team win?” I said that it must give him some level of confidence when he sees them there. I couldn’t speak for the rest of the players, but in Ari’s mind, he could conquer the world with Nanny and Poppie looking on.

When do you tell a child that there is no Tooth Fairy, for example? Do you let him play it out and grow into it or do you rip off the band-aid, so to speak, and give it to him straight?

In this case, I saw no harm in letting it go. I didn’t discuss it with him either. I didn’t try to determine if there was any logic involved or simply wishful thinking. My son is a smart boy who can calculate math in his head, but he’s still only 10.

Well, as it turned out, my parents did make that 2nd game of the playoffs. And the team lost, although not as badly as they did in the first game. That was that.

On the way home from the game, I decided to talk with Ari about his belief. Did he really think Nanny and Poppie were his lucky charms? Did they make the team win? He looked at me with his sweet face and replied, “Not really, but it certainly made them feel good.”

I just smiled and realized just how smart my son really is.

Must Love Blogs

My company recently held a fun event called The Schwartzies. It was a cross between the Oscars and the high school senior year superlatives. The Fun Committee sent out a survey asking people to vote for the “most likely to…” on categories such as “Best Bahstahn Accent,” “Best Phone Voice,” “Most Likely to Tweet,” and “Most Likely to Blog.” Well, guess what? I won “Most Likely to Blog.” I was certainly honored and slightly surprised. Then I realized I have had Set Point since March 30, 2008, nearly three years! I also do a fair amount of blog writing for company's blog.

My first Set Point post was titled, “The Grammar Sheriffs are Coming," at the end of which I wrote, “My point…Although I might not go to this length to reform the world of its grammatical flaws, I have been known to offer solicited and unsolicited corrections to just about anything that crosses my desk, home and work.” This continues to be true.

And over the past three years, I have written on a variety of topics for Schwartz, such as healthcare IT, social media, client accomplishments, trade shows and marketing.

The posts which I find easiest to write are those on which subjects I am most familiar, such as tennis, parenting, a place I have visited, psychology. On the other hand, I step out of my comfort zone and write about topics which I need to learn more about (uh oh, I ended a sentence with a preposition).

I might be driving and run a few ideas in my head for my personal blog.. did one of the kids do or say anything particularly interesting which taught a lesson and is worth sharing? Have I experienced a situation which is worth analyzing? At work, I talk with people to map out ideas and then take some on myself and assign others.
It’s not difficult to find a topic, but it is challenging to make it interesting and fun for the masses. I do my best, and hope even a couple of people take a peek and even learn a little something along the way.

My Point: Like everyone out there, my schedule can get busy. We are all bombarded with information. Blogging is a great way to get lost in your thoughts, figure out a problem and practice self-expression. It can be cathartic for the writer and beneficial for the reader. I can’t wait until I figure out what my next topic will be.

Three-Two-One... Contacts

“Mom, I really want to get contacts,” Abby said. We had had this conversation about eight months prior. She was on the fence then, and had heard about the challenges of how contacts fit on eyes with a stigmatism, and putting them in and taking them out, made her shy away from them entirely. Honestly, I cannot imagine sticking my finger in my eye and living to tell about it.

Then, at her recent eye appointment, we happily learned that although her nearsighted eyes haven’t entirely stabilized, they are getting worse at a slower rate. She asked the doctor, “Can I get contacts?” He said, “That is really up to you and your parents.”

Abby looked at me. “Mom, I really want to get contacts.” She proceeded to barrage the doctor with many questions. I know my daughter. When she has her heart set on doing something, she will do it.

She could get away without a new eyeglass prescription, and it was an even better time to consider a slightly upgraded prescription with contacts. That was it: Abby was determined to make this happen. She was tired of wearing glasses, although they look stunning on her. She could wear everyday sunglasses; she wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning her glasses anymore, which she really didn’t do in the first place. She would be free of four eyes.

So, we made the appointment to get fitted for contacts. During the first appointment, the doctor checked out her eyes and determined they were fine for contacts. He put them in and took them out for her. She found them to be comfortable and we realized there was no turning back. During the second appointment, Abby learned how to put them in and take them out on her own. She was a natural. She had no qualms about sticking her finger into her eye. The one challenge she had was pushing her long lashes away enough to get the discs in.

We bought the dailies, which we decided were not only more hygienic but easier to track and take care of, at least for this first round. She would wear a pair a day and throw them out. No hassle of cleaning them or finding them.

The next morning, it took her about 45 minutes to get them in. She was frustrated and cranky. She yelled at anyone who came within two feet of her bedroom. Both Brad and I offered to help, but she would have no part of that. Finally, with the help of my mother cheering her on by phone, she popped them in.

For the first few days, Abby was relegated to wearing them for up to five hours. Then she could keep them in for up to seven hours, and eventually, a full day. We went shopping on that first day, and she felt so grown up. I felt grown up for her. This was a big decision, and she pulled through. Just over a week later, Abby can pop them in as quickly as she can put on her glasses.

Last Tuesday, Abby turned 13. That’s thir-TEEN. She has always been her own person and, even a bit more mature than her age. We can see, this trend will continue. Wearing contacts is only the first step of many more in this next phase of her life. She will continue to make us crazy with the teen ‘tude, and she will continue to make us exceptionally proud. We’ll yell and we’ll hug. As she grows up, so will we. It gets harder to hold on to the past because the present and future bring rich and wonderful challenges and adventures to embrace. Welcome to the teen years! Buckle up and (hopefully) enjoy the ride.

To Our Son on His 10th Birthday

Our son will be turning 10 tomorrow, January 2. I looked back at the speech Brad and I said during his bris on January 10, 2001. There was a snowstorm that morning, but everyone mushed through the snow to our house to celebrate this special occasion with us. Abby was just shy of three years old.

Although this note is a decade old, the messages still ring true. And I have to say, he must have been listening that day because he's off to a terrific start.

Happy birthday, sweet boy. We wish you many, wonderful years of health, happiness, love, challenges and discoveries.

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To our newborn son, Ari Sherman Dinerman. With love, Davida and Bradley Dinerman.
a.k.a. Mom and Dad.

Today is a wonderful and special day that truly signifies a cycle of life. We are in our home with our most important family and friends to celebrate your birth and to continue a tradition that dates back more than 4,000 years in the Jewish faith, the ritual of circumcision. Ari, whose religious name is Rafi Shimon, has already told us that he is very pleased to not only been named for two extraordinary and important people his Great-Grandmother Ruth Dinerman and his Great-Aunt Sarah Cohenbut also to carry on the Sherman name.

Ruth, or Nana Ruth as she was fondly called by her 14 grandchildren and 15 great-grandchildren, was a woman who was always proud of her family and who always gave back to the community. She had a great sense of humor and a smile that was always available.

Sarah Cohen, Aunty Sally, or just Sah by those closest to her, was strong, animated and could bake and cook like no other. We remember her hearty laugh that rang through her kitchen. Sally was sincerely devoted to her family, her religion and tzedakah. We know that both of these wonderful people are looking down proudly right now.

To carry on the Sherman name will be an honorable task. The Shermans that precede you are a hard-working, talented and unique bunch. There’s also a tremendous sense of humor to uphold and pass down. And like Nana Ruth and Aunty Sally, we hope you too will possess a zest for life, family and tradition.

Ari’s name in Hebrew means “Lion of G-d” - strong and prominent. Rafi is one of four archangels and was one of the three messengers who visited Abraham and Sarah to tell them they would have a son. This symbolizes a high level of kindness and caring. Shimon means to hear or be heard. Listening, as well as offering sound advice at the right time, are great skills to develop.

Ari, you have just undergone a ceremony to “take a little off the top.” Please don’t hold this against us. We wish only the very best for you, and it is our promise that as you grow, we will offer you emotional, intellectual and financial support. We will respect your needs and desires, aspire to promote your natural talents, and help you nurture the characteristics your name represents.

We ask the same of you that we’ve asked of your sister Abigail:
• Discover and share the strengths and talents that are uniquely yours.
• Put your best into everything you do and leave each situation better than the way you found it.
• Seek and find that which is good and beautiful and joyous in all people and all things.
• Have a heart full of love, warmth and compassion.
• If you find someone without a smile, be sure to give him/her yours.
• Find peace within yourself and respect others.

To do all of this will take work and time. We are committed to you and to us as a family to make it happen. And please do not beat up your sister too much when she decides to use you to test her new dolly-dress-up kit.

Post Holiday Relief Syndrome (PHReS)

If you celebrate a holiday around this time of year, any holiday, it’s likely you have been crazed since the end of November. Between creating, addressing and mailing holiday cards; planning gifts for teachers, friends, family; Yankee Swaps, making food for parties; hosting parties (whew!), there seems to be so much to do, you think you’re never going to live to tell about it.

I was in the supermarket today and felt a bit of a relief. Many of shelves were empty, and there were very few people shopping. I felt a sigh of relief. A phrase popped into my head - Post Holiday Relief Syndrome (PHReS). You know you have this if you experience one or more of the following:

1. You realize you don’t have to address, buy, cook or wrap anything.
2. You are relieved to know you don’t have to go to a mall (except maybe for the after-Christmas sales or to return something, but that can wait).
3. Work is a little more relaxed for the week, or you might even have the week off, and you can sleep a tad later than usual.
4. If you go into the supermarket or another store, you don’t have to wait 30 minutes to check out.

We do have one more holiday to celebrate, and that is New Year’s Eve. To be honest, Brad and I lay low on that night. If we make it to midnight, great. Most times, we go to sleep, I wake up around midnight, nudge him, kiss him Happy New Year, roll over and fall asleep. We wake up to a new year.

Enjoy your PHRes and may 2011 bring health, happiness, peace and love.

“Let your fingers do the walking…”

“…through the Yellow Pages…” Remember that jingle? I thought of it the other day when I was drafting something for work. But in my case, it's "let my fingers do the writing." It seems I am unable to draft a piece of writing using pen and paper. My brain doesn’t work as well as it does when I apply my fingertips to a keyboard in front of a computer screen.

In addition to shift in the process of writing, my handwriting has gone downhill over the years. I could blame it on the fact that I type more than I write, and I type more quickly than I can write. My theory only goes so far, as my husband is also on the computer all day, and he has nice handwriting.

I took Typing from Mrs. LaVigne at Framingham North High on an electric typewriter. I used a typewriter in high school and in college, but only for final drafts. I wrote drafts by hand. Although Dartmouth College had one of the most innovative and sophisticated computer centers in the country, I still used my Smith Corona. I dabbled on the Mac, but would still think “This is neat, now where’s my typewriter.”

One night during winter finals in senior year (1986), I was happily typing away at a paper, and the power went out. Cries of frustration resonated through the dorm. Mine might have been a little quieter, as I at least still had what I had written. I could touch it. Some students didn’t save their computer files, and lost pages and pages of final exam papers. I was somewhat relieved I hadn’t fallen prey to the beginnings of the computer craze. I certainly wasn’t going to start now.

Fast forward to business school at Babson College in 1990, I owned a PC with WordPerfect and Excel. I even taught myself enough in WordPerfect to launch a newsletter for the business school students. I wrote papers, created graphs and charts for my finance class. I used the VAX email system at school to communicate to other students and some professors. This is when I found out that I could get my thoughts down a lot faster using bits and bytes than a #2 pencil.

It is now 2010. Next year, I will be celebrating my 25th college reunion. I look back at my evolving appreciation for computers and how it can improve my productivity. And boy oh boy, if I had had a little bit of financial savvy, I would have invested in Apple and Microsoft.

When using a computer to write, I can remove entire thoughts without seeing a mess on the page, find synonyms, embed graphics and charts, change fonts. The draft-to-final version takes less time. And I know I don’t use half of what I could be using. I write really fun letters to Abby at Camp Tel Noar, which might include some posts on her Facebook page, photos of us or her cousins in Atlanta and different fonts and colors to spice it up. We have a color printer, so she gets some good material at rest hour.

The other day, Abby and I were playing school. She was the teacher. She is always the teacher. Abby or Miss Jennings, as she called herself, asked me to write a paragraph about my family. She gave me a piece of white lined paper and a pencil. I looked at her. She asked me what was wrong. I shook off my slight panic and said it was nothing. I picked up the pencil and started to write. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I felt liberated!

After “Miss Jennings” corrected my paper, she returned it with a big smiley sticker. She said, “The smiley is because the story is really good. But your handwriting is awful.”

Video killed the radio star. And the word processor killed my penmanship.

Note: This blog post was drafted using Microsoft Word. No pencils or erasers were sharpened or harmed.

An Adventure in Parenting

I want to thank my friend, Cece Doucette, for this post.

One day, Cece told me about the time Adventure Bear came home from preschool with her daughter, Zoe, to sleep over for a few days. One day, Zoe was playing with Mr. Bear in the leaf pile… and forgot… and Daddy mulched him!

I cannot resist sharing this story about the power of love and astounding creativity.

The Real Adventures of Adventure Bear!

December 5, 1998

Today Zoe came home from school with great excitement. She had a little canvas tote bag containing a small teddy bear and a journal. Adventure Bear had come to stay the weekend with us!

Zoe introduced Adventure Bear to her baby sister Julia in the car. Throughout the weekend he helped us with our holiday preparations. He helped put the stamps on our Christmas cards, came with us to pick out a tree, and even wrote a letter to Santa!
(Poor Zoe though, when she and Daddy put the letters in Santa's mailbox at the library, she stepped in dog poop for the first time! They came back into the truck and I asked if someone had bad gas. Neither of them did, so I said, "Someone stepped in dog poop!" Sure enough, it was on the bottom of Zoe's shoes. We took them off and threw them into the back of my truck. Zoe was so mortified she started to cry! But Daddy cleaned them off the next day and I put them through the washing machine. All was well!)

Back to Adventure Bear… Daddy was working out in the yard, and Julia and I went down for a nap. Zoe said she wanted to stay outside with Daddy. She and Adventure Bear played in the yard, and after a while I heard her come into her room for a nap too.
I woke up and got ready to go to the Ashland tree lighting ceremony. I told Daddy it was time to go. He said he'd lost track of time and wanted to mulch some leaves he'd put into a pile up front, before it got dark. He had waited until we woke from our naps so as not to disturb us.

Meanwhile, I went upstairs and woke up Zoe. She got ready too, then in a panic remembered she'd lost Adventure Bear in the pile of leaves. As she's telling me this, I'm hearing the mower mulching leaves out front! I slipped out to the porch, and there on the corner of the deck was part of Adventure Bear's head! The nose was hanging off, ragged stuffing was popping out and both ears were gone!

Daddy just looked at me and said the head flew out of the mower. Well, we had to get going, so I went back into the house. Zoe asked if I'd found Adventure Bear. I told her we needed to leave for the tree lighting ceremony and assured her that I'd find him later.

Meanwhile, Daddy and I were in a panic. Adventure Bear had been mulched! How do you explain that to a three-year-old, and all of her classmates? Not to mention the teachers… However, it looked like most of the pieces came apart at the seams, so perhaps there was some hope for recovery and repair.

At the tree lighting, Daddy confessed that Zoe had asked him to help her find Adventure Bear before her nap. He was caught up in what he was doing and didn't remember to help her look for him… a terrible way to learn a lesson in listening.
After we got Zoe to bed, I asked Daddy to walk me through the scene of the crime. With a flashlight, he showed me where the pile of leaves had been, where the head came flying out, and where he'd dumped several loads of mulched leaves in the backyard. We ran our hands through the mulch and Daddy found a big clump that had been the body. It was in rough shape.

Daddy had to put his tools away and clean up some stuff in the yard, so I continued to search with a flashlight. Fortunately, we were having Indian summer so the air was mild. After much sifting, I recovered one ear, then the other, and the little red ribbon that was around Adventure Bear's neck. The only thing still missing was one arm. Daddy went back out and looked again, three times through the mulch piles, but couldn't find it.

I took a picture of the damage for posterity, then spent the rest of the evening reconstructing Adventure Bear on the couch with a needle and thread. As the damage was pretty extensive, Daddy was afraid Adventure Bear would look like Frankenstein when I was done. First I reattached the nose, then both ears, and stitched up the back of his head. The head actually looked pretty good -- Daddy is lucky to have married a gal who can sew!

The body was another story. There were a number of rips that weren't on the seams. But one by one , I fixed the boo-boos. If we could only find the missing arm!
Daddy came downstairs with two other brown stuffed animals, wondering if we could do a transplant. The furs were different shades of brown, so I suggested we hold off until we look for Adventure Bear's arm in daylight.

Zoe asked for Adventure Bear in the morning and I told her we had to get ready for school. I promised to look for him that afternoon. I said he was playing a really good game of hide-and seek. She thought that sounded fun!

After I brought Zoe to school I grabbed the rake and sifted through the mulch again, to no avail. I finally gave up as Julia was in the truck and I didn't want to leave her alone, and I had to get to my six-week postpartum checkup. I brought Adventure Bear and his journal with me. There was a picture of Adventure Bear and Max in the journal, and I hoped that perhaps I could find an identical bear in a store somewhere. I stopped into 135 Discount and CVS but there were no like bears and none of the other stuffed animals had matching fur.

After I picked Zoe up from school we went to the library. She asked if I'd found Adventure Bear. I said yes, and left it at that. She asked for him again when we got home, and I distracted her. After I put her to bed, I heard her calling me. She wanted to sleep with Adventure Bear! We told her Adventure Bear needed to be cleaned. Then Daddy cuddled with her in bed and pretended to be Adventure Bear.
I needed one more day to see if the Fabric Place had a matching piece of fur from which I could whittle out a little arm. Well, the Fabric Place didn't have what we needed, nor did JoAnne Fabrics or A.C. More. But Toys R' Us had another little teddy with matching fur J.

With Julia in my arms, I did a fur graft from the new teddy bear's back to Adventure Bear's front. I patched in a new piece on his belly and created a right arm. Julia was getting impatient, but I managed to reattach the head to the body. Then I washed and ironed the red ribbon and stitched it back around his neck. By the time I picked Zoe up from school, the reconstructive surgery was complete! She was so happy to see Adventure Bear peer over the seat at her!

Zoe's always asking me to "tell a story from your mouth, Mommy" – as opposed to out of a book. So, that evening, as Daddy was coming in the house, I said, "I've got a story to tell you, Zoe…Once upon a time there was a little girl who brought home from school a little teddy bear and his journal…" I went on to relay the adventure, and her eyes were wide with amazement. As were her Daddy's when he saw Adventure Bear put back together!