Thursday, August 10, 2017

Heaven In Honesdale

My mother was suspicious. “Why is this camp so cheap?” She examined the brochure: “Oh, no pool.”

The dining room table was piled with glossies from Camp Hillel, Massad, and Camp Seneca Lake.

“All my friends are going!”

This wasn’t true, but somehow I managed to finagle myself to Camp Moshava, and I can tell you that back in 1975, there was no pool, no net on the tennis court or under the basketball hoop, no white outlines on the soccer field to indicate where the goals weren’t, no tether on the tetherball pole, and no ball, either. The food was lousy, and all we did was hike.

Best summer of my life.

What Moshava had, that no other camp had, was the “Shmutz.”

The Yiddish word for dirt, the Shmutz was the ultimate camp-out: five days and nights of wilding in the woods.

The minute you got to camp it was all about the Shmutz. When was it coming? (Third week, usually.) How long would the hike be?  (Between 10 and 15 miles) Who would you share your tent with? (Hopefully, boys!) And, in later years—What if I get my period during the Shmutz? (Happened to some girl, always.)

The young, strong and good-looking madrichim, counselors, were all preparing to make Aliyah to Israel the minute they finished college. They wore loose white shirts, big dirty boots and Kabbalistic expressions. Their eyes sparkled, their long hair, tinged with summer sun, swished like fringes of tzitzit, and the girls exuded an irresistible sweaty promise of earnest days of hard field labor, and earthy nights of fleshy, kibbutz kink.

The hikes were excruciating.  Uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill along the dusty roads. We would beg to stop, for a swig from our canteens. 

Laggards would be warned, first in Hebrew, then in English, then kicked in the tuches. Eveyone had to keep singing.

Sof sof, finally, finally, we would arrive at the site in the forest, which, we always found out, was never more than 2 miles from camp. Aargh!

The madrichim immediately set to work building zip-lines, ropes courses and tree houses, that they would never allow children on nowadays. They even created a “toilet” for the banot, girls; a square log-cabin box that you sat on, behind a tree.

If there was one thing in Moshava that saved this Queens girl-- who in her late teens shopped at Bloomingdales and still later moved to Scarsdale-- from spoilage, it was the following: I learned how to make my own tent.

Once you make your own tent, from the clean pink blankets your mother packed you for your bed that you have now spread on the leaves and dirt of the forest floor, buttoned together with stones and rope, draped over sagging twine between two trees, and staked down with sticks—your own tent that gaped and leaked as you slept under it on the damp, root riddled ground with a flat stone for a pillow-- you really can do anything.

And more important, you really can do without anything.

My friends Zimbo and Dov and I decided to use our collective charisma to create a “Super Tent.” We teased and flattered, and soon enough, our spirited friends were building us a five- room tent with a common area in the middle-- for the shul-shul party.

Meantime we three got to work, picking all the blackberries that were growing right on the edge of the forest, and hoarding them secretly in Zimbo’s sweaty baseball cap.

After that, our plooghot, groups, had to make dinner. We were divided into eight groups of six, and given a metal grill, a bag of raw chicken, and a bag of raw potatoes. And three matches.

We were 11.

We built a fire pit of large stones. We foraged in the forest and found dry tinder for the kindling. We built our tinder pile under a teepee of small dry branches.

We ignited the first match down the zippered fly of one of the boys (try it!) and got the tinder going. We packed the raw potatoes into a circle around the flame. We crouched down and blew gently until the small branches caught fire. Then we added larger branches and watched the fire get bigger and bigger. When it died down a bit, we set the grill on top. When the fire turned to coals, we laid the raw chicken on the grill.

We died from anticipation. We ate the chicken, half raw, then we poked into the fire for the potatoes and ate them, half raw, too.

Except for the fires, it was pitch black. You could hear screams from the girls as the boys tried to take a whiz too close to the tents. Or when they fell into the banot toilet.

Our midnight shul-shul party was a smash success, as everyone crowded into the tent to eat the blackberries, and touch each other in the darkness.

Our counselors were too busy in their own tents, coupling up, building a nation.

The next day was shul-shul day, as everyone who had eaten the berries got shul-shul, diarrhea.

Of course Zimbo, Dov and I had not eaten the berries. Heh. Heh. Heh.

I think of this, now, so many, many years later, as my friends kvetch about the summer price tag of their kids’ sleepaway camps.

No wonder; not only are there nets on the tennis courts, there are professional tennis coaches who coach and professional umpires who ump. Even for the 8-year-olds.

There are five story rock walls with safety harnesses. (Actually that’s a good thing.) There are ice skating rinks and bumper car arenas. There is gluten free and peanut free and balsamic.

Even Moshava has a pool now.

A few days ago, my 8-year-old twins were offered to go on a camping trip with their friend’s family, here in Maine.

The Dad showed me his gear:  French Press coffee maker, chairs that come with a cup holder for the pressed coffee, a campfire stove with a rotisserie, a fold out picnic table, a multi-colored hammock with protective mosquito netting, a generator powered fridge, and – wait for it-- a generator powered TV.

Pretty cool glamping, I thought.

Then he showed me the bright yellow kids’ tent from L.L. Bean with push out windows , a gothic style waterproof roof, and a rugged vinyl floor that would fit all three air mattresses.
I looked at my kids, who were jumping up and down.

And I felt sorry for them.

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Love & Hisses

The only thing I really like about New Jersey besides the rest stops on the turnpike, is the Liberty Science Center.

When my son Zachary was 10, I took him there for a bug show.

There was a long line.

I remember the line because that was the year we moved him into Solomon Schechter Westchester from an orthodox day school. A person joined the line right behind us, a young person, and Zachary, who had not spoken one word of the holy tongue in 5 years and 110,000  dollars in tuition, turned to me, and in flawless Hebrew, said, ”Ima, mah aht choshevet? Zeh yeled o yalda?”

My jaw hit the floor. He was asking if I thought the person was a boy or a girl. In Hebrew. Two weeks at Schechter and he was even pronouncing the ‘o’ the Israeli way.

But back to the bugs.

I’m not sure how it happened, but it happened that we were front and center when we finally got to  the mini auditorium which was arrayed like a sunken living room, but with bugs.

There were insects from every continent. Zachary was ecstatic as the entomologist lifted each beetle, millipede, and winged insect into the light and into my coming nightmare.

The people behind us pushed forward.

Look how the mandible forms a piercing stylet! Did you know there are over 42,000 types of plant-sucking bugs? Can you believe that some bugs have been pestering the nebukhdike creatures around them since the Permian Period, 300 million years ago? I believe! I believe!

And then the entomologist looked around and held up his hands. “So,” he said to the hush. “I have some lovely cockroaches here from Madagascar. Who would like to hold one?”

And before he got to the “Adults only please,” Zachary already had my hand up. Meaning that he had looked at me with his sweet dark chocolate eyes full of such deep love and entitled expectation that my hand rose in complicity.

I was cuter back then, too. “What’s YOUR Mom’s name,” the entomologist asked Zachary, unctuously.

There’s a smile you make when you’re in pain. It looks like a smile, because your teeth are bared, but unlike a real smile which usually allows for a space between your top and bottom row of teeth, this smile connects those rows in a gritting down-bite, and the corners of your temples rise up and away in attempted flight.

The entomologist reached into a cloudy tank, crawling with horrifying little things.

He extracted one of the roaches. It was close to 2 inches long, and the color of what comes out of you in prep for a colonoscopy.

He asked me to hold out my arm, which, by the way, had no sleeve, and 1-2-3-4--here’s where I black out—he placed the hissing creatures—yes, they hiss, too—upon it, whereupon they scuttled upwards. Upwards.

I did say hiss, ladies and gentlemen. Apparently, the males ram their antennae into each other during mating season, causing them to exhale air through these unique breathing holes. The louder the hiss the more dominant the male.

I swear I heard, “Ssssssssssso? Whatcha doin’ tonight, Lissssssssssssssssssssa?”

Zachary was dancing next to me in complete delight. “Look at my mom! Look at my mom!”

People crowded around. The cockroaches showed off, hissing and scuttling around on those disgusting little black legs.

I got sympathetic looks from some of the moms and dads, but the entomologist was ebullient.

He poked my arm as he tickled the tushies of the little critters, sending them into turbo mode. “Sssssseeee those little holes? That’s what I’m talking about!” I could smell his pheromones.

Zachary still remembers this afternoon, many years later, and I truly believe it is the basis for his continued respect and indulgence for me and my opinions.

Fast forward to last weekend.

I have another little boy, a little blonder, with ice-blue eyes. He loves me just as hard. I am a very lucky Mommy.

This time we are in Providence, Rhode Island, at the School of Design.

The sketching room has floor to ceiling curio cabinets ungeshtupped with taxidermy, bugs on sticks, seashells, skulls and unborn matter, pickling in jars.

The only live thing is a snake in a corner tank. Of course it’s the only thing Johnny wants.

“Sure, go ahead,” says the curio intern, totally un-unctuously. “It’s a corn snake.”

It’s one thing to take a snake from someone else who is holding it. It’s another thing to DISTURB A PERFECTLY HAPPY SLEEPING SNAKE.

Cue that gritting smile again. My husband smiled back.

“Go on,” he said, standing 4 feet away.

I opened the glass door. The snake, Neetop, was coiled underneath one of those natural bark covers. He wasn’t moving. I thought that was actually scarier.

I leaned my head back and extended my arm and lifted off the bark. I think the leaning back was to protect my—face? Brain? Neck—from constriction?

Johnny was hopping from one foot to the other, ice-blues focused on the snake.

I took a breath. And then, because I am the very best Mommy in the entire world and I want my boys to think that always, I looked to see where the head was and I put my right hand a few inches behind it and my left hand on another scaly part of the body, gripped Neetop’s happily sleeping self and lifted him out of the cage.

Whap. The snake coiled itself around my wrist.

I let out a moan. Not a scream.

Even that tiny point at the tail end is pure muscle. If I weren’t so grossed out, I would have been impressed.

A few years pre-twins, Sruli and I were in Wilmington, NC, which still has the extra wide antebellum doorways to accommodate a southern belle’s dress. It’s a romantic place, and besides having the best glass of wine I ever had, the thing I still talk about most is the Serpentarium.

Apparently, it’s a world famous place. This mishigene herpetologist, Dean Ripa, PERSONALLY CAPTURED the most venomous snakes from all over the world, brought them home and put them in glass cages.

Each cage is carefully marked with a death code: the more skulls drawn on the glass (in black marker) the faster the snake’s venom will kill you.

Rattler? 3 skulls. Eastern Brown Snake which coagulates your blood as it destroys your brain function? 4 skulls. 

And one I had never heard of—the Black Mamba—which doesn’t just lie around Africa, either. It’s fast, aggressive and vicious, and can strike 12 times in a row. You will die for sure in half an hour. A five skuller.

Next to the Mamba was a story, handwritten on the wall. On one of Ripa’s early snake-khopping expeditions, a snake bit him.

Instead of letting his partner administer the antivenin right away, he lay there and dictated what was happening to him for the partner to write it down. “Ok, now my fingers are swelling up like sausages.” “Ok, now I can’t feel my feet.” “Ok, now my throat is closing.”

I, of course, know why he was so crazily brave. 

His little son was probably standing right next to him.

Meantime, my little son is standing next to me, waiting for me to unwrap the snake and hand it to him.

The snake resists this. I can't get him off my wrist.

“Mah at choshevet?” the voice hisses in my ear. “Yessssssss, you are a good mommy. A brave mommy. You can do anything. You will do anything for them. Let them look at you in wonder for just a little while longer. Just a little while longer.”

“You know. Before reality bites.”


Friday, January 20, 2017

Bubby Goes to Washington

Exactly thirty-nine years ago,  my Bubby, Rebbetzin Sarah Weintraub did me a huge favor.

It was January 19th, in the middle of the night.

My mother had gotten tickets for the whole family to Jimmy Carter’s inauguration, and we had flight out of LaGuardia the next morning at 6:30 AM.

And then my father, presciently, came down with a—malaise.

This rarely happened, and when my mother looked at me with worried eyes, I knew it meant we couldn’t go.
 thought of the boast I’d made to Rabbi Brander, the principal at Yeshiva Central Queens. The grand announcement to my entire seventh grade class. In those days, no one in my life did anything remotely political.

Not to go would have been humiliating.

And then, as the clock ticked, I thought of the one person who had slept outside in a war-torn field, as the wolves howled, so she could see her hidden children. A woman who had secretly crossed a raging river into Switzerland with a baby on her shoulders, and a little daughter held fast by the hand, right under the nose of the night watchmen and watchdogs.

A woman who knew the Torah by heart, had written her own meforash, commentary, and who the Rabbis turned to during their sermons, to check their facts. I thought of the Emunah Chapter president, who made her gefilte fish with pepper, the proper Litvishe way.

A woman who now, despite arthritis, bursitis, colitis and phlebitis, was always up  for a movie and Shimon’s pizza on Main Street and would frankly be annoyed if she found out you went without her.

It was midnight. I called, and she answered on the second ring.


“Bubby, it’s me, Lisa. Daddy isn’t feeling well and we have tickets to go to the inauguration tomorrow—will you take Dina and me? We need an adult.”

“Ver are vee going?”

“To Washington D.C.”

There was a slight pause.


“To see the new President, Jimmy Carter and Walter Mondale.”

Another slight pause.

“Valter Mandel,” she repeated.

Suddenly, a Jewish Vice President.  I didn’t dare dissuade her.

My mother drove us to the airport and somehow, my thirteen-year-old self got my nine-year-old sister and Bubby onto the right plane, into a cab and directly to the Capitol Lawn.

The Lawn was cordoned off with red ribbons. Waiting on the periphery were more people than I had ever seen in my life and I grew up in New York City.

I held Dina in one hand and Bubby in the other. Suddenly there was a sound like a horn and the ribbons were cut and there was a stampede. I don’t remember anyone checking our tickets, specially ordered from Congressman Benjamin Rosenthal’s office.

We were pushed along by the crowd—closer and closer to the East Portico. It was 28 degrees, but there were so many people that we jingoistically huddled together for warmth, like penguins in Antarctica.

The energy was exciting too—remember Jimmy Carter smiling that huge smile and promising a “New Spirit?”

There he was, about two hundred feet in front of us, up on the balcony in a blue suit. Roslyn wore turquoise and it was hard to see little Amy.

“Oy, I have to sit down,” said Bubby.

I startled. Sit down? Where?

I spied an ABC-TV cameraman. He had set up a small stage about two feet high and was standing on it with his tripod.

I pushed our way over and looked up at the cameraman. Bubby sat.

This is the best part of the story: Just at that second, just at that VERY SECOND, my mother and father were watching from their bedroom. My mother had just that VERY SECOND said—“Gee—I wonder if they”—and THERE WE WERE ON ABC-TV, BUBBY, DINA and ME, as the cameraman panned around.

My mother told me she plotzed.

I don’t remember Linda Ronstadt singing “Crazy.”  I don’t remember Aretha Franklin’s hat as she sang God Bless America. I don’t remember the United States Marine Band.

I do remember having been told that when Bubby was a young woman, but already a respected Rebbetzin, she went to visit her cousin to France and the cousin bought tickets to the Folies Bergere.

The cousin told me the story. “We sat down and there was a column partially blocking the view. The dancers came out wearing nothing but black lace and feathers and kicking their legs up in their high heels. I remember turning around for some reason, and when I turned back, your Bubby Sarah had disappeared. The first thing I thought was—oh no. She is such a religious woman! She must have been offended and left! Then I heard a yoo hoo. She was waving to me frantically.

“She had found us better seats.”

I looked at Bubby, happy to be among “pipple,” as she called people.  She was sitting and looking around, and she didn’t look “kalt,” in her winter coat and Roslyn- turquoise legwarmers, even thought she confessed she always wanted a “minik” coat, but the pipple might talk.

Later, our wonderful and generous cousins from Silver Spring picked us up, took us to a nice kosher restaurant and drove us back to the airport. Now that I think about it, they are staunch Republicans, and otherwise wouldn’t have been in town.

But I was relieved to have been relieved of being a grown up.

I wonder what Bubby would make of today's inauguration.

She might recognize the authoritarian figure who seems to be consolidating power all around him. 

She might be familiar with the rising anti-semitism, and ugly talk. She would understand what can happen. What can really, really, happen.

I am a Rebbetzin now, too, Bubby. Thank you for putting my baby daddy on your shoulders all those nights ago. Thank you for holding on to little Aunt Jenny in that river even when she told you to go on ahead without her because the water was up to her neck. 

Thank you for the gefilte fish and for teaching me those Yiddish songs and for laughing at me when I was grossed out by your religious sheitl, your wig, when you used to take it off right before Shabbos lunch and stick it on top of the side table lamp. I don’t wear a sheitl.

Thank you for being a testament to the fact that gam zu ya’avor. This too shall pass, and, mercifully we shall all cross the raging river to freedom and sanity.

And thank you for taking me to that inauguration, thirty-nine years ago. Thank God you don’t have to see this one.

Monday, August 15, 2016


Peaches, Tree, Native Peach, Orchard

I am eight years old and I am standing on the front lawn of my house in Queens with my little sister who is four.

We are standing under our favorite tree—a peach tree, a glorious, bursting peach tree, laden and heavy with ripe fuzzy fruit.

Lots of times, my sister and I would play together in the middle V of the two main branches of the tree—the shiny green leaves hiding us from all the neighbors.

But today we are both standing under the tree.

And we are both--crying.

Just a few minutes before, an enormous blue car has driven up to our house.

Out of the car came our Cousin Estee Veissman, who was older even than our mother.

We could never figure out exactly how such an old woman could be a cousin, and not an aunt.

She was at LEAST 40.

She has enormous hair. Enormous teeth.  And ENORMOUS—BAZOOMS.

We have never seen anything like those bazooms.

They stand out a few feet in front of her-- each pointing to a different time zone.

They are their own wonders of the world—cantilevered miracles.

Hello Cousin Estee Veissman and Cousin Estee Veissman.

She does not smile at us. She does not say hello to us.

She just stands on the sidewalk, barely out of the car, and stares at the peach tree.

OUR peach tree.

And then Cousin Estee Veissman does something I will never, ever forget.

he reaches into her pocketbook and pulls out something that looks like a little baggie.

She grips that little baggie in both hands, shakes it violently, and—FA-FOOOOOOOM!

That little baggie turns into the most gigantic, yes, enormous, bag we have ever seen.

And then Cousin Estee Veissman does the other something I will never, ever forget.

She starts to pick peaches off our tree. One, two, three, a hundred.

And my little sister and I are standing, watching it all, watching those peaches disappear into that bag.


Finally we can stand it no longer.

We turn and run into the house—Mommy! MOOOOOMMMMMY!!

We gulp out our story. Cousin Estee Veissman. Here. Bazooms. Fafoom. No more peaches.

My mother puts her arms around us.

Is there a hint of a smile there? A smile, definitely.

“It’s okay,” she says.  “Let her take them and enjoy them.”


“She lives in an apartment in Brooklyn, and it’s exciting for her to pick peaches off a real tree.”

Yeah, ALL of them.

“Next year we’ll have lots of peaches, again.”

Yeah, and next year we’ll have a visitor from Brooklyn, again.

My sister and I don’t learn our lesson in generosity that day.

We sit and glare at Cousin Estee Veissman as she eats the dinner of fried chicken, cole slaw and potato salad that my mother bought from Mauzone on Main Street, and that we had every single Sunday evening, like every single other orthodox family in our neighborhood.

Cousin Estee Veissman’s voice is clipped, her eyes sad. Her bazooms remain, defiantly--upbeat.

Later on, I find out that Cousin Estee has schizophrenia. What we now call severe bipolar disorder.  Depression.  That she’s been in an out of hospitals. That nothing works, nothing brings her out of it. It’s been going on for years and years.

Her three children and her husband, who was actually a pretty jolly guy, don’t talk about it. They are very frum, very religious, so these kinds of things back in those days are a shonda, a bit of a disgrace—and not to be mentioned. “Mama is sick,” they would say. And that was that.

The years went by, with many more Mauzone Sunday night dinners, and although the rest of her family often came, she did not.

The last time I saw her was at her son Abner’s wedding.  Abner was FINALLY getting married—at 45--and to an old High School friend of mine!

It was the first time I ever saw her smile. Just a slight lift of the corners of her upper lip—but a smile, definitely.

Abner was finally getting married and Cousin Estee Veissman was finally getting a little naches from him.

She died about a year after the wedding.

Cousin Estee Veissman—I want you to know that I still think about you and about the all the things I didn’t understand when I was 8 years old and childish with selfishness.

I want you to know that I try really hard to be generous now.

I want you to know that the very first week I moved to Maine, our wonderful congregation gave me a gift certificate to a garden center, and I bought a peach tree and I planted it right in front of my new house.

I want you to know that the crows ate every single one of my peaches last year.

They must’ve flown up from Brooklyn.

But most of all, I want you to know that you have a little more naches. Your son Abner and my High School friend finally had a baby boy.

I wish you could see him. 

He has big blue eyes. He smiles a lot.

And you’d especially love his hair. 

It looks exactly like-- peach fuzz.

Friday, March 11, 2016

Water Torture

Image result for indoor water park

If you want to be a good Mommy and Daddy, I mean a really good Mommy and Daddy, who put their children ahead of their serenity, their germophobia, their acrophobia, and their own sense of financial prudence—have I got a place for you.

Great Wolf Lodge Indoor Water Park.

This is what I heard during the entire two-and-a-half hour ride in the car: Hurry up! Drive faster! Ok, as soon as we get there we go right to the waterpark and change into our bathing suits, no stopping at anything and Mommy, you go park the car and shlep the stuff up to our room so we don’t miss one SECOND of our first night there. Hurry up! Drive faster!

This, from my husband, who likes to maximize our vacation time.

Finally, we are there yet. I drop off Daddy and twins at the front door with their beach bag containing a shark bathing suit (boy twin), sparkly leopard ‘boo-kini’ (girl twin) and a wetsuit (husband gets cold).

I slowly load up the suitcases on the smart carts, leave the stuff with the front desk and slowly, slowly go outside to park the car.
Sticking out of the lodge is a giant growth lit up in the night  like an intergalactic rainbow and shaped like a toilet bowl. It houses a four-story slide that they call—wait for it—the toilet bowl. I sigh.

It is 7PM and there are 2 hours left of water play. There will be 12 hours of water play tomorrow, after breakfast. I sigh.

At least the room is nice. I slowly put everyone’s suitcases in the appropriate corners and slowly get into my bathing suit. I get into the elevator and press down. I sigh again.

The second the doors open, the noise hits. There are other people’s children everywhere. They are wearing fluffy wolf ears and dancing the Macarena. There is a giant stuffed wolf dancing too. His name is Wiley and he is some sort of mascot. He teaches everyone the Great Wolf dance: clap clap, stamp stamp, howl. Catchy.

On the way to the actual water park area, I walk through the hallway of hell.

On one side of the hallway of hell, a gift shop is selling Great Wolf Lodge t-shirts for 25 dollars and wolf paw print mugs for 15. There are light up necklaces and sparkly bathing suits and lots of paw-shaped candy. It is packed with other people’s whiny children.

On the other side of the hallway of hell is something that looks like an ice cream parlor. Everything looks like an ice cream cone, from the mirrors to the cute pink chairs. It is in fact, a kid spa called “Scoops,” where your princess can have an ice-cream themed manicure. For 45 dollars. I don’t even look to see how much the pink fluffy robes or the jewel eyed stuffies, or the glittering tiaras would cost the royal purse-bearer.

Onward. Two more shops that suck(er) you in; one to play the Magic Quest game (sword, 20 dollars) that your little prince can shove into one of the colorfully flashing stations around the lodge for an “epic” adventure, and another faux-natural shop that sells 65 dollar walking sticks, though I’m not sure why because the entire lodge is carpeted.

And then there was the Arcade. Noiseland. It was packed with other people’s shrieking children, wacking moles, cursing the Claw, throwing skee-balls, shooting aliens and riding virtual motorbikes through virtual wolfish terrain. And, over the din, the panicked pleading of change-challenged parents. “Ok, just one more game, Justin, I don’t HAVE any more money!”

And then—the hallway of hell ends at double glass doors. I open them and I am awash in the fumes of a chlorinated paradise. There are giant fountains, sprinklers, and slides. Water is gushing everywhere—from the walls, from the floor.

It is cavernous and it is deafening.

There a zillion things to climb on and on top of each one of these zillion things is a giant red bucket that is being filled up by an insidious hose. When the bucket reaches some mysterious level of fullness it tips over—dousing all the other peoples children with a lake’s worth of water whereupon the children scream with glee and shock, even though they have, of course, positioned themselves precisely in place for that very dousing.

One of the other people’s children, a little boy about 3, is hurrying along in front of me, shivering. Suddenly, he stops, spreads his little legs, and pees right on the edge of the kiddie water area. A gentle wave comes and laps it up.

I sigh.

My kids are in the wave pool, waving at me in desperation. “What TOOK you so long? WE want to go on the Sheer Drop Canyon Slide—NOW!”

My husband looks at me guiltily, then with a smidge of self-righteousness. “I told them you would take them. You know I can’t go on those things.”

“Me first!” Charlie decides. Her beautiful new leopard boo-kini is partially obscured by the mandatory (provided) kiddie life-jacket.
I wrestle a huge yellow floatie from the pile and Charlie runs ahead, her little legs hopping up the four-and-a-half flights of freezing stairs. I lumber up behind her, shlepping and resigned.

The lifeguards around the place are, I swear, twelve. They are local Fitchburg, Massachusetts, high school kids and they work tirelessly, trained in the apparently award-winning Great Wolf safety protocol. They pace back and forth along the edge of the water, and as they pace, their heads move in a jerky choreographed motion: head up, head down, to the right, to the left and up again. The head moves independently from the pacing—you can get dizzy just watching. 

Four times a day, a dummy baby, yclept “Timmy” is thrown into one of the pools and these lifeguards have to rescue him within three seconds. You think YOUR job is pressured.

It is our turn. We plop down on the yellow floatie atop the slide awaiting the signal. Charlie is on my lap. “She shouldn’t sit on your lap,” says the twelve year old. I move her off and she climbs back up. I can only see a few feet into the tunnel. I hold Charlie tighter and tell her to grab the grips. “She shouldn’t sit on your lap,” says the twelve year old again. But POOF! We are pushed.

Within a few terrifying seconds, I realize that Charlie should not have sat on my lap.

That is because we have both fallen off the floatie. We are hurtling down, down, twisiting and turning through the pitch-black tunnel at a crazy speed.

I am flat on my back and Charlie is riding flat on her back on top of my belly. Both my arms hold tight around her as we ricochet from one slimy side of the tunnel to another, the water rushing in my ears.

Desperate to slow down, I stick out my right big toe. I am afraid to let go of Charlie in any way—not one scratch is gonna get on that child—and I feel my toe catch each divot between slide sections. 

We are not slowing down in the least, so I focus on saying stupid things to her like “isn’t this fun?” and “wow, isn’t this fun?” and “whee, this is so much fun!” She does not answer. I can only imagine her beautiful, terrified face.

The water is relentless and the turns are getting sharper, faster, and more twisted. Just when I think my arms or most probably my toe will give out, we are PLOP in the water. We come up disoriented and coughing.

WACK! Something hits me in the head—it’s the yellow floatie.

I grab Charlie who is now bobbing right in front of me, and carry her to the steps. We both try to catch our breaths. “Wasn’t that fun?” asks the twelve year old as she heaves the floatie onto the pile.

Of course I have to do the whole thing again, (sigh) this time with Johnny. We don’t fall out until the very end, and Johnny thinks it’s the greatest thing ever.

The hours pass slowly. My one dream—that at least one twin will sit on my lap as we gently float down the lazy river together, sharing secrets, giggling and cuddling—is dashed. “Boring, Mommy,” they say.

My toe has turned every shade of purple.

What else do we do? Everything More slide. More wave pool. More slide. More buckets. We get them Dippin’ Dots and pizza. More slide. More hot tub. We do not get a manicure or a #$&!! expensive sword.

We stay ‘til the very last moment, of course, then shower, change and make it to the lobby for a fluffy-wolf-eared bedtime story and a clap clap stamp stamp howl.

The twins decide to leave their park-pass bracelets on, even though they are suddenly not comfortable, “to show everybody at school tomorrow.”

I volunteer to go and get the car, load it up and meet everyone by the front door.  Sruli buckles the kids and gets into the passenger seat. “Wasn’t that fun?” he asks me.

I turn around. The kids are already asleep. I am exhausted, still moist, still deaf, and my big purple toe is throbbing. We have a two-and-a-half hour drive home.

I put the car in gear and sigh.

Guess where my sister is taking her daughter and all her friends for an all-day splash party in honor of her Bat Mitzvah?

In a mere two months?

We’re invited of course.

Won’t that be fun?