Tag Archives: childhood

Some Healthy Adult Perspective

When I was in PreK, I said “damn” in class and my teacher, Mrs. Marx, washed my mouth out with soap. It was absolutely traumatizing and I will never forget the taste of those pearly pink generic-brand suds on my tongue.

I gagged. I cried. Pretty sure I puked. But more than anything, I was extremely embarrassed. I despised Mrs. Marx for the rest of the year.

Now that I am older, and have the experience of being both a teacher and a mom, I can look back and see with clear vision what Mrs. Marx was doing. She saw a reckless kid, and, rightfully so, it worried her. Kids need boundaries, and she wanted to create some for me. She knew I would have an easier time in life if I understood the consequences of my actions, took behavioral expectations seriously, and generally tried to fall in line with societal norms. She was trying desperately, in her own way, to help me.

So shout out to Mrs. Marx— now that I have matured and gained the wisdom of perspective, and am raising a PreK child of my own, I see exactly what you were doing, and you know what? IT DIDN’T FUCKING WORK YOU SICK TWISTED CUNT.

We Named Our Daughter After a Mouse

(Note: This post was written while still pregnant, lest you think I just shot a kid out of my baby-cannon and now have any ability to construct a coherent sentence, much less a mini-memoir.)

Yes, a mouse.

But stay with me. We have a rational reason for doing so. Well, maybe not a rational reason (not sure how anyone can expect me to be rational right now, as I am currently in month 9 of having two vaginas), but a reason that will at least provide some context for my desire to name our child after an animal that most people try to kill with strategically placed snap-traps.

Ten years ago, I suffered a deep, terrifying, paralyzing depression. I’ve written about it and referenced it many times on this blog so I won’t re-hash the details in this post, but needles to say, it was my darkest hour. What I haven’t mentioned before is a somewhat interesting (and now extremely relevant) aspect of this terrible time in my life– my obsession with mouse-kid Noisy Nora.

Yes, I’ll explain (because who? And huh?).

In the months I spent depressed living in my parents’ home at age 26, I was unable to do virtually anything. One day, while robotically eating breakfast and staring blankly at the Honey Nut Cheerios box, my mother put a pencil in my hand and suggested I draw something. Not only did I think this was pointless, as EVERYTHING was pointless, but I thought it was extra ridiculous given that, a mild talent for photography aside, I had never at any point in my life shown any kind of visual-arts ability or interest.

But I had nothing to lose (and nothing to do), so I grabbed the pencil and started drawing what I saw on the cereal box in front of me.


Looking at it now, I think “Not a bad little Cheerios bee!” At the time, however, all I could manage was, “Well this drawing sucks.” Because, you know. Everything sucked. But what I did notice was that for the brief time I was immersed in the sketching process, I wasn’t, for once, writhing in despair and wondering how the minutes of life could possibly be ticking by so slowly. I was able to escape my agony for a short, precious time, and that alone was enough reason to keep drawing.

So I did. Basically, I stuck to sketching images that were on the boxes of the food I was eating:


As you can see, I was really into carbs.

Then one day, in a further desperate attempt to pass the interminable minutes, I began sorting through mountains of crap in my parents’ storage room. To my delight (delight is a strong word– I hated everything) I stumbled upon a box of my most beloved childhood books. They were all there: The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Where the Wild Things Are, Doctor De Soto, The Snowy Day and, finally, at the very bottom of the box– Noisy Nora.


GOD how I loved that book as a kid. It’s about a very endearing yet insufferable little mouse-kid who is jealous of the time her parents spend with her siblings, and therefore seeks attention by being a destructive little pain in the ass. I adored her, because I was her. No one could yell, stomp, and slam a door (then open it and re-slam it) for NO GOOD REASON like kid-me (and, ok, teenager-me. Adult-me…).

And for reasons I could not articulate, I suddenly became OBSESSED with drawing Nora. So obsessed, in fact, that I purchased a separate sketch pad solely for Nora drawings, where I could practice sketching her over and over again until I had her every tiny little detail perfected. (Side note: This genius separate-notebook idea backfired, as somewhere in the five times I’ve moved residencies since then, it got misplaced, while my notebook full of meaningless cereal box characters has somehow stood the test of time Face_With_Rolling_Eyes_Emoji_large ).

I sketched these Nora drawings in the privacy of my own bedroom, and kept the special Nora notepad under the bed where no one would find it. Unlike my Cheerios bee and Keebler elves, I was very protective of my Nora sketches and did not want to show them to anyone, even my mother, who was always so delighted and impressed by my cartoon drawings– so impressed, in fact, that she suggested I pursue a career in comic-strip writing (she was pretty desperate to give me purpose. She was also, understandably, drinking a LOT of wine during that time).

Nora was my little secret. I was never really able to articulate or explain to myself why I was so obsessed with her. Sure, I loved the book as a kid, but I loved lots of books and characters and wasn’t obsessing over any of THEM. At the time, the infatuation made no sense. But then again, nothing made sense, so I didn’t spend too much time or energy trying to figure it out.

Eventually, with copious medical interventions and the unwavering support of family and friends, I began to heal in early 2009, and life restarted again. I moved back to NYC, got a teaching job, found my marbles, and was functioning like the human I had forgotten I was capable of being.

And in the process, I let Nora go. Not completely and not forever– after all, she was there with me for those lonely, agonizing months and got me through a truly hopeless time– but now that I was able to participate in life again, the inexplicable obsession subsided and found a cozy spot in the back recesses of my mind, rather than in the fixated forefront.

Fast forward 9 years and I’m pregnant. As soon as we learned we were having a girl, out of (seemingly) nowhere, the name Nora came to my mind. I casually mentioned it to Eric as a name I liked, and he agreed it was nice, but suggested we keep thinking. He liked it but didn’t necessarily LOVE it, and maybe there was something out there we’d both LOVE. That was fine with me– I wasn’t even sure in that moment why I liked it so much, or why it came to me so suddenly, so I agreed to keep thinking. We looked through list after list and flirted with other names, many of which I did really like. But at the end of each day when I put my head to my pillow, I kept coming back to Nora.

And slowly, I began to realize why. Now, bear with me here– I’m not typically a hokey, whimsical or overly-spiritual person. But I am a big believer in things happening for a reason, and I do think “the universe,” however one might define that, plays a role in the direction our lives take. And in that time when I felt I truly had nothing to live for, I feel that maybe, just maybe, the Nora obsession was the universe’s way of saying “Do not give up, Emily. This darkness is temporary, and light awaits. There’s something big coming, and you’re going to want to be around to see it.”

Now I don’t want anyone to interpret this as me thinking that having a child is the only, or the ultimate, thing to live for. It has been 10 years since that depressive episode and my life has been beyond full of reasons to live– from big reasons (family, friends, major accomplishments both personal and professional, fabulous travel, discovery of new talents and interests) to all those little moments that make up a full, meaningful life  (a burst of uncontrolled laughter, hearing Journey’s “Faithfully” and remembering every single lyric to your camp alma mater, a post-run nap in a shaded hammock, the satisfaction of finally killing the pesky fly that’s been occupying your apartment for a week– sorry, that last one just happened like 5 minutes ago and DAMN it felt good! Anyway, we all have our things.)

There are trillions of reasons to live, big and small, but when you’re severely depressed, you can’t access any of them. So I think this Nora obsession, for which I had no explanation at the time, only an intense and seemingly primal NEED to draw her, was the universe desperately trying to shove hope in my face– to tell me that if I could just hold on and get through this time, I would rediscover all the reasons to be here, and come to see that I still have so much important work left to do in this life, including (but certainly not limited to) becoming a mom.

So I kept coming back to the name Nora, and although Eric liked it, he still wasn’t totally sold. I wanted to disclose the reason I was so attached to it, but I also worried he might think I was nuts (not sure why I still occasionally fear this. The guy has witnessed some pretty emotionally ape-shit moments and he’s still here, inexplicably, with bells on). For months, I kept pressing the name on him, with no explanation other than, “I just really like it,” only to get a non-committal, “I like it too, but let’s keep thinking,” in response.

So eventually, on a particularly hormonal day, I explained my reasoning. With tears in my eyes, I cautiously relayed the story of my Noisy Nora fixation, and how in hindsight I think it might have been the universe giving me a reason to hold on.

“Oh,” Eric said. “Well then that’s it. That’s her name. Why didn’t you just tell me that? Of course that’s her name. And now I love it.”

And that is why I married him.

And why we named our daughter after a rodent.


My 21-Year-Old Self Was an Idiot. Here’s Proof.

We are moving apartments tomorrow, so the past week has been a lot of packing and cleaning out old crap. All of which has been done by a constantly sweating yet not ONCE complaining Eric, while I sit on the couch rubbing my belly, drinking ice water, and grumbling that I’m overwhelmed.

Yesterday Eric pulled this huge dusty box out of the depths of the closet and said “Hey, Emily from 1990, here are your files. Maybe go through them and see if this is something we can throw in the garbage, since we now live in the computer age, and have for 20 plus years?”


So I just went through the box and he was right– I do not, in fact, need a paper copy of the 1-year-warranty for the Sony Vaio laptop I bought in college, nor a receipt for a Gap cardigan purchased in January. Of 2004.

It took me over an hour to go through, rip up, and discard all the blatantly irrelevant crap this box possessed, but my hard labor was rewarded when I reached the end of the files and came across THIS little gem, posted below (in the form of a PDF link. Sorry, after a whole 2 seconds of trying, I couldn’t figure out how else to post it).

It is a paper I wrote during my senior year of college, entitled “The (abridged) Autobiography of Emily Lerman,” and it is ABSURD. Absurd because it is exactly the kind of sarcastic, self-deprecating shit I would post on this blog, except I HANDED IT IN TO A PROFESSOR. AT AN IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL. FOR A GRADE. 

Now, granted, I got an A. So my professor was either awesome (don’t remember that being the case) or EXTREMELY bored (more likely). Or maybe she appreciated seeing something “different” come across her desk? Most likely she was just drunk. I don’t know, but there’s no doubt something was amiss, because this shit is less a paper for a college course and more a bad audition for Last Comic Standing that ends with the comic sweat-stuttering offstage to a chorus of “You suck!”

So naturally, I need to share it.

A few parts are redacted to protect the innocent, but otherwise I left it in its purest, this-was-definitely-written-by-a-21-year-old-moron form. It’s not even that the writing is that bad (save for a few blatant grammatical errors), it’s just VERY dramatic. Not sure if that was for comedic effect (important in a paper for HISTORY CLASS) or because I was a CHILD when I wrote it, but I do feel the need to clarify that I probably wasn’t THAT miserable as a kid, and Potomac was not THAT absurd a place to grow up (furthermore, the random unneccesary dig I took at my mom, saying she was a real estate agent “when she felt like working” was completely unfair. I can make that joke NOW, but back then, the woman hustled).

Or maybe I was that miserable and growing up in Potomac was that absurd but I’ve now had 15 more years of distance from the “trauma” (img_7593) and kind of just want to smack my young self across the head and be like, “Lighten up, Sassypants. Your life wasn’t hard. You drove a 4Runner.”

Anyway here it is. Enjoy. ( shrug_1f937)

Yes I wrote this for an academic college course

P.S. Future daughter– if I send you to college and this is the kind of shit you produce on my dime, you’re paying your own way.


Dear Camp Robindel

Dear Camp Robindel,

Sleep-away camp season is upon us, so I’m filling out an application for my daughter. She’s still in my womb. No, I’m not crazy.

It’s for NEXT summer.

She’ll be almost 1 and, much like all the Lermans starting camp far younger than the suggested age, she’ll be fine. But also like all the Lermans starting camp far younger than the suggested age, it won’t REALLY matter if she’s fine or not, the point is more that her mom needs a break. So she’s getting on that plane, goddamnit.

If my kid is anything like her mom, she’ll be a bit confused, under-showered, and questionably lice-infested for the first few weeks, wondering if Ann and Nat are her new parents and if this bunk is just where she lives now.  Or, if she’s like her Uncle Zack over at brother camp Winaukee, she’ll wear one Teva all summer, be covered in weeks-old temporary tattoos, smell like the dubious roped-off section of the lake, and spend all her free time, voluntarily, with the camp nurse.

The adjustment will be slightly jarring, but then the first time she receives a “free” foot-long Charleston Chew at canteen without having to write the required letter home (because is this dirty, gap-toothed, bowl-haircut kid even old enough to write? No one is certain), she’ll smile and be like, “Oh, ok. I got this. I’m going to run this place now.”

She won’t even bother to wipe the chocolate drool from her chin. It will remain there, crusted over, for two months.

So reserve a spot in Hemlock for Summer of ’19, please. Top bunk. Don’t even waste your time with a guard rail. Kid’s gotta learn.

Emily, aka “Lerman”
(9-year camper, 3-year counselor. Owner of 3 CR necklaces— 2 actually earned, and 1 because you forgot you already gave me a gold at 9 years, so you gave me another at 10. I did not correct your mistake. I just quietly pumped my fists and gleefully snatched my third necklace, which would be excusable behavior had I not been 19 years old and in charge of roughly 40 middle schoolers at the time.)


Completely Unfair

When I was in high school, I drove a Toyota 4-Runner. It was fucking enormous, and I was very bad at controlling it. My parents bought it for me with the mentality “Better she hit things than things hit her,” a sentiment I took far too literally and thus proceeded to hit all the things.

The parking situation at my high school was a certifiable shitshow. If you couldn’t wake up in time (so for me– every day, my whole life, always) to get one of the ten parking spots alloted to students, you had to parallel park on the street. You could only do so if you had a street permit claiming you lived in that neighborhood, which I obviously did not. Luckily, my oddly resourceful boyfriend (the kind of guy you could be like “I need a talking komodo dragon that knows karate and is wearing a tutu, stat,” and he’d be like “I know a guy”) was able to procure a fake permit for me, so I was one of the 1500 lucky students who got to illegally vie for a parallel parking spot within a .5 mile radius of the school every morning. It was a battleground.

One day after school I walked up to my car and found a note stuck to my windshield.

“Learn how to park, you fucking bitch. Your car is taking up three spots.” Then, scribbled in pencil at the bottom someone chimed in, “She has a $35,000 car and she doesn’t even think that’s expensive. She’s a spoiled cunt.”

Which is just completely unfair.

I had no idea how much that car cost.


Nanny of the Year

Third graders are the best. Just barely on the cusp of having a clue.

Kid (out of NOWHERE): “Donald Trump is going to die, you know.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Kid: “Because he’s getting us into a war, and then he’s going to go fight in the war and he’ll die on the battlefield.”

Me: cracking-myself-up

Kid: “What’s so funny?”

Me: “The idea of Trump going onto a battlefield and actually being willing to fight in a war he started. Who told you this anyway?”

Kid: “My nanny.”

Me: “Ah.”

Kid: “She’s Mexican.”

Me: “I see.”

(long silence)

Kid: “She’s REALLY excited for him to die.”


Upper East Side Standards

Before my first session with a new client…

Parent (to her kid): “I want you to listen to everything Miss Emily says, because she went to Penn, and if you listen to her, one day you can go to a school like that, too. Wouldn’t that be so great?”

Kid: (blank stare)




Zack’s Full Rehearsal Dinner Speech



I hope everyone’s excited. I’m excited. We’re probably excited for different reasons. You’re probably all excited about the whole wedding thing. I’m just excited that I can finally stop pretending to like all of Em’s boyfriends.

Seriously though, I’m just, it’s exhausting. I mean if I could count, on my hands, the number of people Emily has dated and I pretended to like, I would need a lot of fucking hands.

It makes sense though, right? I mean, Em is not an “easy person.” There’s nothing “easy” about this situation for Eric. Like, I don’t think Eric went into that fourth date and bought Em that 27th bottle of sauvignon blanc and thought, “wow, how easy this is!” Or when he wakes up in the morning and sees that shimmering stream of drool, which is consistent as gravity, might I add, seeping from her mouth, I’m sure he doesn’t think, “Yes! This is what I wanted!”

And I could’ve warned Eric about this whole thing early on, because I actually know Em pretty well. Yeah, there’s the whole “shes-my-sister” thing, but there’s actually more to it than that. You see, Em and I are actually on the same team. When we were growing up, it was kind of Me and Em vs. Steph when it came to teaming up to try to manipulate our parents into giving us whatever we wanted. By the way, there was actually another brother, Jeremy, who was also on Steph’s “team” but nobody knows who he is, or where he lives, or what he does for a living, so I just left him out of the story. But needless to say, I’ve gotten to know Em pretty well over the years, and could’ve helped Eric dodge a bullet or two.

But let’s be honest, as we all know, its really just a matter of memorizing her period schedule. By the way, I know that you’re all thinking, how is this guy really talking about Em’s period at her wedding. And this is where I will remind you that there is literally a thread of entries on Em’s blog that reference Em’s period. Nothin’ new here folks.

So speaking of Eric, let’s talk about him for a second. So, before I get into this, I’d just like to say that Eric is not really someone you “know.” He’s more like someone you “experience.” And I just heard a chuckle or two there but I can see that a lot of you have no idea what I’m talking about, so let me explain a little further.

[Take off shirt to reveal tank top, sunglasses, put on bandana, glow necklace, eat hard boiled egg]. This is the Eric experience.

The first time I met Eric was at sibling dinner at Steph and Andrew’s place on the Upper East Side in Manhattan. I’m pretty sure Eric was meeting all of us for the first time that night, including the Boog. Naturally the first thing Em did when they walked through the door was put Tyler in Eric’s hands, perhaps to test his fatherhood skills early on. And Eric just kind of held him out in front of him like Tyler was just one giant wet poopy diaper. Which he is. But my first thought of course was that this guy has no idea what’s coming and god bless his little soul.

But something happened right then that I didn’t really expect – a new lifelong friendship was born. Relax, no, no, not between me and Eric. That was still a long way off. I’m talking about Eric and Andrew. There was a certain twinkle in Andrew’s eye that evening that I had never seen before. It was cute. Just precious.

I think I finally came around with Eric the first time he came to the Lerman family vacation in the outer banks. As I’m sure you all know the Lerman family goes to the outer banks for a few weeks every year. But when we go, we don’t really “do stuff.” For example, Em’s schedule is about as active as any completely inanimate object you’ve ever seen. She rolls down to the beach at 10:30 for 2-3 hours of some intensive sitting, followed by a 2-3 hour nap, accompanied by the stream of drool that I mentioned a bit ago.

And it was during one of these naps that Eric, obviously bored out of his mind, turned to me and asked, “So what do you wanna do?” I was so dumbfounded by the question…I didn’t really know how to react. “What do you mean ‘do?’ This is it man, we’re doing it! You just sit here, it’s great.” So Eric introduced us to ladderball and polish and other fun games to break up the 8 hours of sitting that we Lermans love so much. And that’s when I really realized how well Em and Eric would complement each other. And sure enough Eric would go on to teach Em the virtues of a midweek concert, or beef jerky, or floor tickets to a phish show. And Em would teach Eric how to just sit the fuck still for a while. All of these things are important.

There is one more thing I want to say about Em. I mentioned earlier that Emily and I were always on the same “team.” And what I meant by that, beyond what I described earlier about taking advantage of our parents, is that she has always been there for me. When I think back to my earliest memories of spending time with Em, it really is the simplest ones that make me the happiest. For instance, when she took me “hunting” for leaves in the front yard so mom could make chocolate leaves during thanksgiving. Or when I’d wake up next to a bag of candy that was secretly delivered in the middle of the night by the “Meister Man.”

And my bond with Emily only got stronger as we got older, and, sure, more complex, like when she helped me navigate the dating world in New York City, recently single after a 4-year relationship and zero fucking clue what I was doing. And despite what I said about me hating all of her boyfriends and all the hands I would need to count them, Em always gave the absolute best advice. If you think I could have navigated the careful game of chess that landed me my amazing girlfriend, who is here tonight by the way, right over there, everyone look at her…if you think I could have done that on my own, you’re all sorely mistaken.

Em’s company, her advice, her wisdom, her courage, and most of all, her quick-witted, dark, and often self-deprecating sense of humor, have had a resounding impact on who I am today. In so many ways, she always has been, and continues to be an incredible role model and source of inspiration in my life, and I can’t tell you how proud I am to have her as my sister.

I’ve said this many times before, but I often think of my brother and sisters as more than just my siblings, they are also my best friends. And on rare occasion, I even value their happiness more than my own. That said, Em and Eric, I can’t tell you how happy it makes me that you two found each other, and to see the smiles on your faces tonight. It is something that I am truly thankful for, and I consider it a privilege to have any part in your new life together.

Now, that is CLEARLY not the note I’m going to end on. Before I go, I have a little piece of advice that I want to share with Eric. Really its more of story from my past that came to me as I started writing this speech that I really felt compelled to share with all of you, and Eric in particular, so here it goes:

When I was 16 I started dating this girl in high school named *Sarah [*name changed to protect the innocent]. One weekend night, pretty early on the relationship, she asks me if I want to check out her favorite ice cream place in Georgetown.

So we make our way to this place called Thomas Sweet on Wisconsin Avenue. When we get there Sarah advises me that the best thing to get is the sugar-free fat-free strawberry ice cream. And obviously that sounds completely fucking disgusting to me, but, you know, I’m not about to blow my chances of seeing my first boob so I figure what the hell.

So we eat the ice cream, the ice cream is actually pretty good, and its a fun night. After ice cream we make our way back to Sarah’s parents’ basement for some “alone time.” We walk downstairs, as soon as I cross into the threshold of that basement, a veeeery curious sensation strikes me in the lower abdominal region.

Now, I was pretty young when this all went down, and abdominal pain wasn’t really something I experienced on a daily basis like I do now…So, I didn’t really know what was happening to me, but I had a pretty good idea about how the next 30 minutes of my life were about to unfold.

So we’re hanging out, I’m trying to ignore the grumbles, and sure enough my intestines start doing the old “whale cry.” You know this one — [EEEEEEEEEE!]. And Sarah looks at me and she goes, “What is THAT?” And I try to coolly play it off like its nothing, right? “Oh I think I’m just still hungry.” And I know what’s happening to me, I know that there’s a category 5 storm brewing in my belly. The sea was angry that day my friends.

So, whether or not Sarah believed my lie at that moment is still a mystery, but confusing the sounds coming from my body for anything other than a volcanic fart would have just been silly. But when you’re in that scenario, you know, it’s a brand new relationship, you really don’t wanna blow it, you lie! Sometimes you gotta lie.

So sure enough within a few minutes I pretty much find myself in a complete state of paralysis. And I am freaking out. So the first thing that pops into my head is, “well this is it, I’m gonna die.” You know how sometimes you get that feeling when you’re on an airplane and there’s a little turbulence and you’re like “welp, this is it!” It was like that but about a thousand times worse. So the second thought I had was “okay, I’m not going to die, but how am I going to explain this when I finally, you know, erupt?” And then finally I think to myself, “how I am I going to get the hell out of here without seeming like a total weirdo.”

And I definitely thought to myself, dude just, come clean. Tell the girl you gotta fart, it’s a normal human bodily function, it fine. But I had already lied, and I was committed to, you know, lying my way through this thing.

So I start planning my escape route, and all of a sudden it hits me, like a line straight outta Shakespeare. So I look at her and I go: “I gotta go home and go to bed.”

So I wander upstairs with Sarah like an overfilled balloon ready to pop. By the way, I’ve never feared sneezing so much in my entire life as I did in that moment.

So Sarah walks me to the door, we say our goodnights, and I CAREFULLY penguin my way down her driveway to my car. By the way you know the game “the ground is lava?” Well this was like a less fun version of that game called “everything is needles.” So I get in to my car, close the door, and immediately sink six inches into my chair, as the trumpet of a great ship’s foghorn sirens out of my ass. The power of the explosion was so great that I nearly ripped a hole in my Abercrombie cargo pants.

And as I sat there in the car, I breathed a deep sigh of relief that the episode was over, and I had survived. And it was at that moment that I realized the important lesson that god was trying to teach me, and the lesson is this:

Never lie to your significant other.


Jeremy’s Full Rehearsal Dinner Speech


For those of you who have known the Lermans for awhile, you know that Em and I are very close. In fact, I like to think of all my siblings as my best friends, which is why I have no qualms letting everyone know that, as close as Em and I are now, our relationship growing up makes the bitter rivalry between the Hatfields and McCoys seem like a mild tiff between two groups of hostile, gossipy Yentas. It’s for this reason that I have no choice but to roast her here tonight – in front of all her family and friends – because, to quote Phil Collins, “I’ve been waiting for this moment for all my life. (Pause) Oh Lord.”

By and large, my childhood can be summarized as follows: Em would constantly kick my ass; Zack would stand by and watch, laughing maniacally. Were I to seek any sort of redress through my Dad, he would defer any and all claims of wrongdoing to my mom—after he was done laughing maniacally; and Mom would continue playing bridge or mah jong with her friends. If I was really lucky, the babysitter was home. To Steph’s credit, she would often try to help me, so long as she wasn’t busy pretending she didn’t actually have any siblings. If Em had me pinned to the ground, Steph would pull her off of me. If Em was being mean to me, Stephanie told her to stop. If Em called me ugly, Steph would say: “Em – that’s not his fault.”

To label this relationship a rivalry is really a misnomer, as it may mislead one to think that I ever actually had the slightest chance of coming out ahead. Whatever the situation, and regardless of who instigated what, Em always got the upper hand. And it’s exactly for this reason that, for many years, my favorite Em story is the time I cut off all of her hair.

It was the middle of the night, and all of a sudden a loud, high-pitched crying fit reverberated throughout the entire house. Because there is absolutely zero possibility of confusing the sound of Em’s powerful, high-decibel wailing with the softer, weaker cries of her fellow siblings, Mom and Dad immediately rushed to Em’s room. By the time they had arrived, all that remained was Em and the third-worst haircut of her entire life. I don’t actually remember any details of the incident, but I basked in it and considered the unwanted trim a crowning victory.

About a decade later, Mom once again told the story, but as soon as she finishes, Em claims to recall the story differently, and says, “Yeah, just so you all know, that’s not what happened.” Everyone looks around at each other, confused but wild with anticipation. Em continues: “What actually happened is that I cut off my own hair, and when I went to look at myself in the mirror, I immediately became so mortified by what I’d done that I began to cry hysterically. When Mom and Dad asked me what happened, I knew they’d be angry at me, so I blamed you.”

I must say, I really can’t help but applaud the sheer boldness and brilliance of Em’s actions, and I maintain that her eventual confession remains one of the greatest long cons ever devised. To this day, I still have yet to decide which part of this entire scheme is most shrewd: is it the fact that 6-year-old Em thinks to blame someone who probably couldn’t have even identified scissors in a lineup? Or is it the fact that, after waiting for a decade, she finally comes clean and takes responsibility for the act which she knows damn well had been the one and only remaining testament of my status as her formidable contender?

Now, most of you know my Dad, a.k.a. Big Steve. He’s a highly-trained lawyer. He graduated at the top of his class from GW Law, and continues to manage his own law firm. And my Mom, Charla. What many people here may not know about my Mom is that prior to her career in real estate she had a very successful career as an investigative journalist after graduating from UNC Chapel Hill. Both my parents have made a good living based on their abilities to ask the hard questions and the right questions; to collect and evaluate evidence; and to discover the truth based on facts.

And yet, somehow, Em managed to conceal her culpability in the haircut incident for ten years. Where were the questions that day, Mom and Dad? One would think that between an experienced journalist and a veteran super-lawyer, three-year old Jeremy might have gotten some due process.

In addition to the fact that Em almost always got away with her absurd behavior, another source of my resentment toward Em while growing up was my feeling that our parents never seemed to treat the two of us fairly. In fact, all the siblings mutually recognize that, in the hierarchy of child favoritism, Em clearly occupied the top position. And my parents clearly recognized that I felt this way growing up, which is why Mom used to read me a children’s book about a family with a brother and sister, both of whom would complain that their parents treated them unfairly. I don’t remember all the details or even the name of the book, but the main lesson I was meant to take away was that my belief that my parents favored Em over me was simply a matter of perspective, and that Em felt the exact same way I did.

And as I’ve gotten older, I have a much greater appreciation for my parents as being very enlightened and smart about the way they went about raising four kids. Which is exactly why, when I reflect back on my time growing up with Em, I occasionally remember that book and think to myself: “Why were my parents feeding me this horseshit propaganda?” My parents will continue to vehemently deny any and all accusations that Em is and always has been the favorite child, but I know it, Em knows it, and more importantly, the American people know it.

But if the favoritism was somewhat infuriating while growing up, at this point I can’t help but find its continuation quite comical. Consider the following e-mail from my Dad, who, along with his army of loyal TEP fraternity brothers, was engaged in a virtuous effort to raise $100,000 in order to fund the Ari Johnson scholarship, established in memory of our good friend Ari. The TEP brothers had thus far come up a bit short of the 100,000-dollar mark, and one of the TEPs suggested that ten more people make pledges of $564 to close the gap. So the Lerman siblings joined forces to collectively donate one of the $564 pledges, not only to honor Ari’s memory, but also to pay tribute to Big Steve, whom all of his children deeply love and admire.

So Em sends the following e-mail to Dad: “Dad: Your offspring and offspring-in-laws will combine efforts to make one of the $564 pledges, in honor of Ari and because we love our Big Steve! We’re so proud of your hard work, generosity, and heart, Dad!” My dad, clearly moved by the gesture, replied: “Thanks Emily. Beyond the call!”

“Ok,” I thought to myself, no acknowledgment of the other children and children-in-law. Really not a big deal, just standard operating procedure, and I genuinely didn’t feel slighted in any way by my Dad’s very minor oversight. Big Steve makes too many sacrifices for his children – especially this very broke graduate student – for me to get upset over something that is really about something much more important than me. And of course, it didn’t take the TEPs long to hit the $100,000 goal, at which point my Dad sent out a second congratulatory e-mail to all involved: “Thanks TEP. Plus Emily…and friends!!”

Dot. Dot. Dot. An ellipsis? Really? Now again, I’m really not one to get bent out of shape over this kind of thing, but at a certain point it almost seems like Big Steve is actually trying to stick it to his other kids. Don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly proud to be a lifetime member of Emily Lerman and her E Street Band, but even Bruce Springsteen had the decency not to insult the band with an ellipsis. And back-to-back no mentions? Even Casey Affleck remembered to thank big brother Ben the second time around.

Even though Em was clearly the favorite, I wouldn’t want to give off the impression that she was able to get away with everything. To be sure, Dad never had the muscle to punish her. She’s been playing that sucker like a fiddle for 35 years. It’s for this reason that, when it comes to the Lerman organizational structure, Mom is necessarily the highest-ranking officer. Do not be misled by this woman’s mere five-foot stature and seemingly calm, quiet reserve. When shit hits the fan, this woman is a force of nature – especially when you fuck with her coffee.

When we were kids, Mom’s most effective weapon in her arsenal was what the Lermans have come to know as: The Count to Three. Em has previously blogged about The Count To Three, but for those not familiar, The Count to Three was Mom’s verbal threat to her children that if they didn’t immediately stop engaging in their idiotic antics and do exactly as she said by the time she finished counting to three, they would surely regret it.

The three count proceeds in two phases. Phase 1 is what I like to call, The Announcement, during which Mom utters the key phrase: “I’m going to count to three, so you better do what I say OR. SO. HELP. ME. GOD!” The Announcement was usually sufficient to instill the fear of God into us, and at this point it was typically game over.

But on the rare occasion when the children were feeling bold enough to tempt fate, they ignored her initial warning shot, at which point Charla proceeded to Phase 2: The Count. “1…2…2 and a half…” The “2 and a half” was Mom’s way of signaling to the kids, “I am showing you mercy, which you mistake for weakness at your own peril.”

Surely many of you are wondering, what happens after 2 and a half? Nobody knows – not even Em. The Lermans had watched enough Disney movies growing up to know that when the Beast tells you never to enter the West Wing, you don’t fucking go in there. If Charla ever gets to three, you’re not where you’re supposed to be.

Even when Em and I were children, it wasn’t as if we were fighting 100% of the time, and even during these years of bitter turmoil we were still very close. After all, an abused puppy still loves his master. But when she wasn’t busy torturing me, Em was always very fun to be around, so long as she was feeling generous enough to let me hang out in the same vicinity as her. Even at that age, I always admired and looked up to my big sister, and that admiration has only grown stronger as we’ve grown older.

And the truth is that, in Emily, I see not only many of the traits and habits I see in myself, but also other traits I wish that I possessed or had more courage to exercise in the way that she does. The people closest to Em are familiar with her razor sharp wit and her unique ability to point out the hilarity of the absurd, the contradictory, and the hypocritical. It isn’t just that Em is incredibly smart, which she clearly is. There is a depth to Em’s intelligence that cannot be attributed merely to commonplace notions of intellect. She possesses a unique and even uncanny ability to sense what people are feeling and to genuinely empathize with their emotions to an extent unparalleled by anyone I’ve ever known. And while she may not know a damn thing about anything I study or about the details of my career, Em understands the core of who I am in the ways that matter most to me, and in a way that I can honestly say that nobody else in the world really does.

The source of these qualities that make Em such an amazing person and sister is often the very source of some of her most difficult struggles, which she has frequently spoken about, openly and honestly, with the kind of courage and determination that is so often lacking in the world around us. But as difficult as it is to see my sister when she’s in pain, what she may not know is just how inspired I am by what she is able to accomplish in spite of the obstacles.

And again, part of this is because, during these struggles, I see so much of myself in her: the perpetual self-doubt, the crippling anxiety, the fear that so often accompanies the continual change that life’s circumstances throw our way, and the sadness that threatens to overwhelm us as we struggle to come to grips with the possibility that so many of the big plans we ever dared to dream are all too often beyond our control. Time becomes more scarce, and the sacrifices we’re forced to make begin to weigh on us. Even with all the beauty and boundless opportunity the world has to offer, particularly for the people in this room, most of us can’t help but feel that reality as we experience it is not always easy, regardless of who you are or whatever your circumstances.

But being able to witness the strength with which Em not only fights her battles but also channels her energy into helping others fight theirs has been one of the greatest sources of inspiration in my life. Her efforts are, in my humble opinion, the very embodiment of heroism. And I think that, for Emily, one of the hardest things for her to deal with is that she never wants to disappoint those she cares about the most or feel like she might possibly be burdening them in any way. She wants to be the one helping and taking care of others – that’s just at the core of who she is.

All the Lermans take pride in bragging about how amazing and special our family is, and we make no apologies for doing so. But the truth is, as much as I make fun of Em for being the family’s center of attention – and believe me, I have no plans of rescinding this conclusion tonight – there comes a point where, as her brother, I feel compelled to admit that, in some of the most important ways, Em is the heart and soul of our family. She’s the one who makes the effort to remember all the stuff that no one else remembers. She makes sure to know what’s going on with everyone else in the family, whether it’s a big thing or something small that no one else can seem to keep track of. To be clear, unlike my parents, I love all my siblings equally. But when the family gets together and Em isn’t there, her absence sucks the air out of the room, and the difference in the family dynamic is palpable.

Despite most of this speech being dedicated entirely to Em, this isn’t just about her. Eric – What can I say, brotha? I can’t help but be very excited to have you join the Lerman clan. As much as I appreciate that Eric is a very funny and genuinely great guy, what’s more important is that he makes Em incredibly happy. No one could deny his love for her when they’re together, but what I also appreciate about Eric is how much he cares about getting to know the entire family and how seemingly effortless it’s been for him to find his own niche in the land of Lerman.

Watching him settle into the family brings me almost as much joy as I gain from witnessing his ability to absorb the torrential flood of shit that Em drops on him like a cascading waterfall, and to do so with the kind of grace and humility that Em will surely take advantage of for the rest of his life.

Don’t get me wrong, Eric is no pushover, and that’s one of the things I most respect about him. But believe me when I say that Eric is bound to run up against some hard limits. Many of you are probably familiar with the story of how Eric proposed to Em, but I’m willing to bet that none of you know the following details of the precise moment when Em and Eric mutually acknowledged that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together.

It was the middle of the night, sometime before the engagement proposal, and Em was having trouble sleeping because she had suddenly come to the realization that she was ready to take the plunge and she was too excited to sleep. So Em gently shook Eric to wake him up. When he didn’t wake up, she shook him violently. When he gained consciousness, Em said to him: “Hey Babe, I think I’m ready.” “Ready?” Eric inquired. “Yeah,” Em said, “I’m ready to get married.” “Oh,” Eric said. Em could sense the hesitation in Eric’s voice, and wasting no time, she closed the deal the only way she knew how: “Eric,” she said. “I’M GOING TO COUNT TO THREE…OR SO. HELP. ME. GOD.” Mazel tov to bride and groom!